He had a terrible thought.
What if his old man picked up the rifle and aimed it at Clint? John wouldn’t let him. He wouldn’t allow his father to kill his own stepbrother. And then something much, much worse crossed his mind. What if his father was waiting for Becca to come outside? He never should’ve told him what she’d seen in the barn. She was just a kid.
He started to shake, a small tremble deep inside his bones. “Steady,” he whispered and raised his rifle, peering through the scope, a direct shot at his father’s right shoulder. Please, Dad, don’t do it, he pleaded silently. Don’t make me shoot you. Tears blurred his vision. He wiped his eyes on his upper arm, keeping the rifle raised the entire time.
The sound of the lawn mower stopped suddenly. The silence was deafening. Clint had spotted Russell leaning against the tree at the edge of the woods. He climbed off the mower, leaving it sitting in the middle of the yard, and made his way over to John’s father. If Russell was going to take his shot, it would be now, but he left the rifle at his side. He smoothed his long beard and watched Clint as he approached.
John kept his rifle pointed at his father, but he looked away from the scope and stared at the two men.
“What’s this about?” Clint asked, glancing at the rifle by Russell’s side.
“We’ve got ourselves a situation,” Russell said.
“How’s that?”
Russell stroked his beard again. “I’m going to need you to bury some evidence for me.”
“Is this about that body we pulled from the river?” Clint asked.
“Maybe.”
“I don’t think this is a conversation we should be having,” Clint said and turned to walk away.
“You’re going to want to hear me out, Clint.” Russell was calm, his voice sounding as though he was nothing but a reasonable man.
John removed the last drop cloth that was covering his old man’s chopper. It had been years since he’d last seen the bike. It had sat in the corner of the barn, untouched, next to several bales of hay ever since Russell had dropped over of a heart attack at only fifty-five years old.
John hadn’t been able to sell the bike after he’d lost his father, but he hadn’t been able to ride it either. Instead, he’d wrapped it in several layers of cloth to preserve the black paint and chrome and stashed it away.
He rolled the bike to the open space near his workbench to get a better look at the engine. Any gas in the tank was sure to have turned to pine tar. He tried to start it. The engine sputtered and coughed. The bike wasn’t happy with the neglect, and it was letting John know, whining the way an old lady would if she wasn’t getting the proper attention.
He grabbed the tools he would need to take off the spark plugs, lube them, check the oil filter. He worked for the next hour, going through the steps to get the engine up and running. He didn’t think too hard about the reason he’d suddenly pulled Russell’s chopper from storage. But seeing the bike, working on it, made him feel close to his old man, and he needed to feel close to him for reasons he wasn’t ready to accept.
John had always looked to his father to guide him and help him make the hard decisions he’d had to make.
He removed the gas tank to check for rust. He didn’t find any, which was a good sign. He drained what was left in the tank into another container. While he waited for the fluids to bleed, the sound of tires on gravel drifted into the barn. His body stiffened. It felt as though his blood had stopped flowing through his veins. If it had been a motorcycle, he would’ve heard it coming from a good distance away. He might’ve even been happy for the company. But a car, the engine of a cruiser, could only mean one thing.
A door slammed. He waited for the second car door to close. They wouldn’t send just one cop to arrest him. He strained to listen for the sound of more tires, more police cruisers.
He stood and waited, wiping his greasy hands on a towel. Toby walked into the barn, his chief’s hat in his hands. John blew out a slow breath.
“Chief,” he said and bent over the gas tank, fiddling with the line where the fluid dripped. “What brings you by?” His blood started flowing again, although he was pretty sure it had never stopped but rather paused, waiting for whatever would happen next.
Toby leaned against the workbench, hat in hands, his sidearm jutting from his hip. “That report we talked about,” he said. “It seems your name is on it after all.”
John glanced at him. Toby’s lips were pulled tight, his fat neck red and bulging under the collar of his uniform. John crouched next to the bike. “It makes sense, seeing I was arrested with the others that night.”
Toby slipped his finger under his collar, loosened the shirt pinching his skin. “I don’t know what kind of deal you or your old man struck with Clint, or how long it’s been going on, and I don’t care. I told him I’d do this one time for his sake and one time only. Am I making myself clear?”
“What kind of deal do you think I have with Clint, Chief?”
Toby tossed up his hands. “I don’t want any trouble with the Scions, John. We’ve coexisted in this town for a long time. Even peacefully, if you ask me. You keep to your business, and you stay out of ours. Hell, I think it’s been good having you here. It’s kept out most of the other riffraff and whatnot that other small towns have to deal with. We’re lucky we don’t have that here, and I suspect it’s because of you and your friends.”
“I’m touched you feel that way.”
“Don’t be.” Toby pointed a finger at him. “I’m a decent man trying to make a decent living. I care about the people in this town.” He lowered his voice. “I can’t be a part of anything illegal.”
John wiped his hands on the towel again, staining the cloth black with more grease. “You’re getting all worked up over nothing.”
“Am I?” Toby asked. “They dragged that damned river today.” He leaned in close, lowering his voice again. “They’re looking for the murder weapon, John. And they’re coming back tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that. They’re not going to let this one go.”
John concentrated hard on keeping his face neutral. He looked down at the greasy towel in his hand, stared at the black stain as though he were transfixed by the filth while he tried to wrap his mind around Toby’s news. He was determined to keep his voice even when he asked, “And what does any of this have to do with me?”
“I hope nothing,” Toby said. “I hope it doesn’t have anything to do with you at all.” He put his hat on and walked out of the barn.
John didn’t move as he listened to the sound of the police cruiser’s engine, the rumble fading as it drove farther down the road. When he was sure that Toby had gone, he searched his workstation, pulling open drawers he hadn’t touched in decades, finding screwdrivers, pliers, wrenches, and tweezers. He rummaged through each one, knocking the contents onto the floor in his haste.
When he couldn’t find what he was looking for, he slammed each drawer shut with all the strength he could muster, nearly knocking the workbench on its side. He swept his arm across the top of the desk, sending a lantern, a notebook, pencils, and a small toolbox careening to the floor. He focused on breathing in an attempt to harness his temper to keep from making another mess he would only have to clean later. He clenched and unclenched his hands, spying the cabinet where his father used to keep the white cotton cloths.
Slowly, he pulled open the top drawer, bringing his anger under control. Inside the drawer was a pile of pristine white cotton cloths folded with an exactness bordering on obsessive compulsion. He filled a bucket with dish detergent that he got from the house and set out to clean Russell’s chopper. He was meticulous about his job, taking care not to rub any dirt into the paint or chrome for fear of leaving scratches. The bike wasn’t as dirty as one would expect after it had sat in a dusty barn, because John had covered it thoroughly, protected it with care and attention, the same focus he gave to the job now with gentleness and affection.
As he worke
d, his thoughts returned to Becca. There was no getting around the fact that she was the weak link in an otherwise airtight job. The cops could drag the river all day every day for all John cared. Let them find the rifle or the knife or both. It didn’t make a damn bit of difference. They’d never be able to trace either weapon back to him.
But Becca was a different kind of threat. She was a witness, an innocent, unknowing bystander.
When the paint sparkled and the chrome glistened, John filled the gas tank from the pump outside the barn, the one he paid to have filled every few months. He was self-sufficient, and the less he mingled with the locals, even those at the occasional gas pumps, the better.
He slid onto his old man’s chopper, fired it up, turned onto the open road. The roar of the engine between his legs, his hands gripping the handlebars where his father’s hands had been, made him miss his old man in ways that he hadn’t in a long time.
He rode past Clint’s house. Becca’s dog was lying in the front yard. It lifted its head as John passed by.
He accelerated, revving the engine. He didn’t slow down until he reached the edge of town and pulled into the alley, parking the chopper outside of Sweeney’s.
The place stank of testosterone and alcohol and strippers. It was a familiar, comforting smell. He felt himself relax. The guys surrounded the bar. They were in a good mood, slapping each other on the back, laughing, toasting each other with shots. John sat at the other end of the bar and away from the celebration. Lou, the bartender, poured him a shot and a beer and set them down in front of him.
“There he is,” Hap said, making his way over to John. He placed a hand on John’s shoulder. “The man of the hour.”
The guys raised their shot glasses to him, then tossed the whiskey back.
Hap lowered his voice. “The shipment went off without a hitch. It was the easiest transaction we’ve had in months, now that our little problem was removed, thanks to you.” He laid a stack of bills two inches thick on the table. He put John’s hand on top of the pile. “You earned it.” He slapped him on the shoulder and made his way back to the guys at the other end of the bar, joining them in another round.
John squeezed the wad of bills in his hand. He thought he might be sick.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The sparse patches of hair that had stuck up on Becca’s father’s head had fallen out. Pieces lay on the pillow. A few strands sprinkled the tops of his shoulders. His eyebrows, once dark and fierce, were thin and gray. The five-o’clock shadow, the scruff that most women had found attractive, according to her mother, had vanished completely. His skin was dry and blotchy and paper-thin. The crevices around his mouth and eyes made him appear to be a much older man of seventy or eighty rather than a man of sixty.
His hand, bent and misshapen, resting at his side, twitched. His fingers and wrist were nothing but bone. When she’d been a little girl, she’d feared his hands, big and strong, gripping her upper arms, scolding her for sneaking into the basement and playing with his fishing lures, fearing she could’ve been injured by their sharp hooks.
“Dad,” she said.
He opened his eyes for a second and closed them again.
The phone rang. She thought about answering it, but after two rings it stopped. Jackie must’ve picked it up, not wanting to disturb them.
“Dad,” she whispered. “I need to talk with you.”
He turned his head away. Jackie opened the door.
“Becca,” she said. “You have a phone call.”
The last person to call her here had been Parker. “I’ll be back,” she said to her father and rose from the chair to take the call on the kitchen phone, thinking maybe Parker could answer some of her questions. But she would have to be careful not to say too much to him, not to appear too interested. She wasn’t ready to divulge what she had seen by the river, not until she was sure she understood it herself.
“God, it’s good to hear your voice,” Matt said.
Becca was surprised to find Matt on the other end of the line. She plopped onto one of the kitchen chairs and dropped her head in her hand. She’d been hoping to speak with Parker, and not just because she wanted to ask Parker questions about his case, but because she just wanted it to be Parker.
“Why are you calling me on this number? Why didn’t you call my cell phone?” she asked, not meaning to sound surly. Romy trotted into the kitchen, pushed her nose against Becca’s leg. She reached down to pet her. Romy lay on the floor at Becca’s feet.
“I was afraid if I called your cell phone you wouldn’t have answered it.” He continued before she could reply. “Look, whatever you think I’m guilty of, you’re wrong. But whatever it is, I’m sorry. I’m sorry a thousand times. Please give me a chance to explain, to make it right. Please, come home.”
Becca covered her eyes. It was much more complicated than her simply going back to New Jersey and picking up her life where she’d left off. She’d seen John by the river. She was involved in something here. But how could she explain it to Matt when she wasn’t sure she understood it herself?
“I have to stay with my dad. I have to see this through,” she said and realized she meant it.
“Okay,” Matt said. “I get it. You need to be there with him.” His voice was soft, soothing. “Maybe I could come to you. I want to support you. I want to help you through this.”
A part of her wanted to say yes, come. She could use his strong arms around her. But in the end, his presence was just too big, his personality too consuming. He’d suck all the air out of the room with his smile, usurping all the oxygen, claiming whatever space she had left to breathe for himself. She’d wither under the weight of his beautiful eyes. She understood these things about him, these things she loved and hated equally.
“I need some time,” she said. “But I promise to call you and keep you updated on how things are going here. Because you’re right, we need to talk. And we will. Just let me get through this with him.”
“But you’re coming home, right? When this is over?”
“I’ll call you.” This was the longest she’d kept her distance from him, kept herself closed off from his pleas of forgiveness.
There was desperation in his voice she hadn’t heard before when he said, “I miss you. I miss you so much.”
“I’ll be in touch.” Becca hung up the phone. She turned and jumped, surprised at finding Jackie standing behind her. Romy had gotten to her feet, nudged Jackie’s hand until she petted her.
“Everything okay?” Jackie asked.
“Everything’s fine,” she said. “How’s Dad? Is he awake?”
“He’s knocked out. I’m betting he’ll sleep for a few hours.”
Becca nodded.
“It’s good he’s sleeping, you know,” Jackie said. “He’s resting, and that’s more than he’s been able to do in a very long time. The treatments.” She paused. “The chemo was killing him. He couldn’t sleep. He was sick all of the time. His feet and hands were covered in an itchy, painful rash. His mouth was full of blisters. He couldn’t eat or swallow.”
They were quiet. Jackie was the first to break the silence.
“Well, anyway. It’s good he’s sleeping soundly,” she said and walked out of the room.
Becca wasn’t about to wake up her father, not after what Jackie had said. She grabbed her car keys from the kitchen counter. Romy pranced, believing they were going for a ride.
“I can’t take you with me,” she said and kissed her on the nose. “They don’t allow dogs where I’m going.”
Romy looked dejected. She barked when Becca left without her, and Becca felt bad. She promised to make it up to the dog with a new toy or extra playtime.
She hopped in her Jeep and raced down the road.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Parker sat on a stool in the pub not two miles from the station. It was a favorite hangout for the guys in his troop. The pub was a place for them to meet, shake off the job before they went home to the
ir families. Parker didn’t drink, nor did he have family to go home to, but he often dropped by for a club soda to show he was one of them. He was a team player.
Tonight was different, however. He’d gotten a call from a retired detective, a Rick Smith, who had handled the first river body case, the name the case had been given long before Parker had joined the force. He was sitting at the bar listening to an old Hank Williams Jr. song about a tear in his beer. He ordered a second club soda when Rick Smith slid onto the stool next to him. Rick wasn’t wearing the standard dark suit and bland tie that Parker and the other detectives donned, but he still looked the part in jeans and sweatshirt. There was a look about cops, detectives, an air of confidence, craftiness, a complete lack of emotion on their faces that was expected on the job. Parker believed he’d mastered these skills, aware of the shift in his personality, the toughness the job required settling deep inside his bones, taking up permanent residence. It was only when he’d been alone with Becca that he’d felt the mask slip away, felt himself slide into the old Parker of his youth, free and easygoing. The moment hadn’t lasted long, and he’d recovered, but it had been there. He’d felt it when he’d been sitting next to her, along with other emotions he wished he hadn’t.
“Thanks for meeting me.” Rick signaled Benny, the bartender, for a beer.
“What’s this about?” Parker asked. Detectives were often protective of their cases, holding them close, keeping outsiders and intruders from telling them how to do their job. But Parker was willing to hear Rick out. It was Parker’s first big case, and he had a bad feeling about it.
“Tell me what you know about the case, and I’ll tell you what’s not in the file,” Rick said.
Benny placed a mug of whatever was on draft in front of Rick, interrupting their conversation. “Good to see you,” Benny said. The two shook hands. “How’s retirement treating you?”
River Bodies (Northampton County Book 1) Page 14
