“Just leaving town, bro.” After a pause, he went on. “Found a dermatologist here who’ll take care of these tats. Boss wants me to lay low? Fine. I’ll goddamn disappear. Go so far off the grid it’ll be like I never existed.”
“But you’re coming back for court, right?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Clay heard a female voice in the background and could picture Tyler’s wife, Jayda, asking him something or calling him in to lunch. Man, things had changed since they’d gotten married and had kids. Different, but good for Tyler. Probably. Family life just didn’t hold much appeal for Clay: the house and mess and all the other stuff.
“Any word from Bread?” he asked, knowing Breadthwaite had opted to go into witness protection, rather than hunker down on his own. Yeah, well, Bread didn’t have three bullet holes in his hide, so their trust issues might not be exactly on par.
“He’s gone. Flew out yesterday with a couple of marshals and a bunch of fucking suits from Justice,” Tyler said, and Clay gave a sigh of relief.
“Jesus. But good. Good.” Bread was one of those dudes you just had to like. A hippy in real life who’d done a kick-ass job of passing as a biker—a good man to have on your team. The best.
Clay eyed the slow-moving beach traffic nervously.
“Get yourself into protection, like Bread, ma—”
“You think they don’t have rats at DOJ, Ty? I gotta go.”
“Right, well, enjoy it for me. Laid out next to the water, drink in hand. On your own. Man, that sounds like the life. Maybe I’ll come find you, bring the boat, and we can—”
“Jayda’d cut off your balls,” Clay said, picturing the throw down between Tyler and his wife. “Then she’d come after me.”
“Yeah,” Tyler said, only it didn’t sound quite as light as it was probably meant to. Clay didn’t want to know about whatever trouble was in Tyler’s paradise right now.
“I gotta go, man. Give my love to Jayda and the kids.”
“Will do, Clay. Will do,” Tyler said, then quickly followed up. “But keep me—”
“Thanks, Ty,” he said, ending the call and placing another.
“McGovern,” came his boss’s gravelly response. Always on, nights and weekends, holidays. He’d never heard her be anything but curt and professional.
“Navarro here, ma’am.”
“Navarro.” In typical McGovern fashion, she gave nothing. Not an extra word.
“Just checking in.”
“Good. From where?”
“I’d…” He paused, unsure how to go about saying it. How did you tell your boss you didn’t trust anyone, not even her? “I’d prefer not to say.”
“Wh—Hold on.” He heard a muffled sound, then voices, followed by what was probably the door closing. Probably at home with family on this sunny Fourth of July, like everyone else in the whole goddamn nation. “Where are you, Navarro?”
“With all due respect, ma’am, I’d rather not—”
“Cut the crap. I told you to take time off, lay low for a while, not to drop off the face of the earth. What am I supposed to say to DOJ when they need you to—”
“I’ll check in every week or two. This case matters to me, you know that. But my life matters even more.”
“That’s not gonna—” She paused, cleared her throat, and appeared to change tacks. “You checking in with the shrink?”
“I’ll be fine, Boss.”
“Don’t mess around with PTSD, Navarro. Dr. Levitz said you need meds, therapy, and—”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re a—” She gave a harrumph, then a resigned sigh. “I understand it’s been rough, Navarro. Recovery and trying to get back into the swing of things. But you’re not undercover anymore. You’ve got to stop acting like one of those bikers and be an agent again. Just tell me where you are, and I’ll—”
“Sorry, Boss,” Clay said before ending the call and pulling the battery out of his phone.
There, ties cut. Clean slate.
Sort of.
* * *
George took in a big, fat breath, pasted a smile on her face, and dropped the knocker on the door. The sound was full and warm, like the woman who welcomed her with a smile.
“You came!” Uma Crane said, throwing her arms around George in a way George both loved and didn’t quite feel comfortable with.
“I came!” she couldn’t help but blurt out with a laugh. Uma was… She pulled back, admiring the woman’s smile, her face round and glowing and so clearly happy. Her arms, nearly clear of ink, were pale for midsummer. “Thanks for inviting me.”
“I was sure you wouldn’t come.”
“It’s not like you gave me a choice this time, Uma,” George said, smiling.
“No. Three times, you’ve refused me. No way you were getting away with this one.”
“Yeah. I kind of got that.”
From the back of the house, a child’s voice whooped and someone laughed. Down the hall, a large figure emerged, massive and intimidating, and George’s breath caught in her throat—until she recognized the man. Ive. Ive Shifflett, Uma’s boyfriend.
Not Andrew Blane, her new project. George wasn’t sure if the big breath she expelled was relief or disappointment, although it felt more like the latter.
“You remember Ive, right?”
“Yes, of course. Hi there. Good to see you again,” she said, letting her hand be engulfed in the big man’s.
“Doc.”
“It’s George. Please call me George.”
“Right. George.”
“Come on in.” Uma grabbed her arm. “Let’s get you set up with a drink and introduce you around.”
She followed the couple into the house, taking it all in and girding herself. A party. So very different from the way she managed to deal with people at work. Social situations did her in. The constant smiling, the small talk, the personal side of things was exhausting. She was so painfully bad at it. When Tom had been alive, he’d been her buffer, the social one, the guy who knew how to charm, but now…
After a quick round of introductions, George settled into a corner of the kitchen, bottle of beer in hand, and watched.
As they prepared things for the barbecue, her eyes kept returning to Uma and her man. Ive Shifflett smiled at his girlfriend, and anything that may have seemed scary in him disappeared, leaving George to gape for just a second at this man’s surprisingly sweet, handsome boyishness. He slid one big arm around Uma’s shoulder. She leaned into him, looking… Oh, what a transformation. The woman looked content. Unlike the first time she’d come into George’s office, almost a year ago, when she’d been so…hunted.
Hunted and frightened and clearly in the throes of something terrible. What chilled George now, as she recalled it, was the uncanny similarity to Andrew Blane’s demeanor yesterday. That was it, wasn’t it? That was why, when it came down to it, George hadn’t kicked him out or run screaming from his presence.
Right. She was fixating on him because he’d looked hunted. Not at all because of how he’d affected her.
My God, she had to stop thinking about him. All morning, she’d dwelled on the man. What was wrong with her?
A woman sidled up, beer in hand, and leaned against the wall beside George. “Don’t they just make you sick?” she said quietly.
“Hmm?” George said, eyeing the scattered freckles over the newcomer’s sun-browned nose. She’d have to watch that.
The woman smiled and lifted her chin at Uma and Ive canoodling on the other side of the room.
“Oh. Yes.”
“I’m Jessie Shifflett, sister to Ive, the massive lovesick puppy over there. I hear you’re the woman with the magic wand.”
“Magic wa… Oh. The laser.” The description surprised a chuckle out of George, who reache
d out and shook Jessie’s hand. “George Hadley. Good to meet you.”
“Well, George Hadley, you’re a miracle worker. Also hear you do a ridiculous amount of pro bono work for people around here.”
“Oh, I’m…” She wasn’t quite sure how to handle a comment like that. Praise wasn’t really her thing. “Thank you?”
Jessie laughed, the sound easy, casual in a way George admired. “Seriously, though. I hear you’re just about the nicest person on the planet. I should be thanking you.” The woman indicated the couple again, and her smile softened. “For that.”
“Not sure I can take credit for what’s happening over there. But…” George narrowed her eyes at the other woman. “I feel like we’ve met before.”
“We have. I work out right next to your office. At the MMA school. Teach there too. Monday nights.” Of course. George recognized her now. She’d seen her arrive at the gym in the evenings, usually around the time she was closing up the clinic. “You should drop in sometime. Check out my women’s self-defense class.”
“Oh, right. Uma mentioned it. I keep meaning to stop by.” Which was a lie. George didn’t need self-defense. She wasn’t scared of people. No, the dangers in life were invisible, microscopic things that snuck up on you before you knew it, killing indiscriminately.
“You should,” Jessie went on. “Come on Monday. Lots of great gals.” George tried to picture it—herself in a room full of women—and couldn’t manage. Jessie leaned in, smiling, and said, “If you’re really good, we let you beat up on a couple of guys. Including my brother and…hmm. Where’s Steve?” She looked around, apparently didn’t see the man she was looking for, and grabbed George by the arm. “Come on outside. I’ll introduce you to the others. You should know Steve, after all. He owns the MMA school. Good neighbor to have, actually. Never have to worry about anyone bugging you as long as he’s in business right there.”
Outside, less than a dozen people hung around the grill, drinking, chatting, and playing badminton. George eyed them warily, wishing she could leave, itching to head back to the office. She usually stuck out like a sore thumb at things like this—the stiff, pale-skinned woman who had no clue how to mingle.
Jessie, it turned out, was the perfect icebreaker, if somewhat embarrassing.
“You single, Doc?” she asked over her shoulder as they went down the back porch steps.
“Uh…yes?”
They approached a group of adults, and Jessie’s smile turned mischievous. “Excellent. Someone to take the pressure off.”
“What are you—”
“Hey, everybody. Meet George Hadley. Owns the skin clinic over on Main Street.” Hands reached out, names were given, and George shook blindly. “She’s single too, so you can set your friends up with her now instead of harassing me all the time.”
“Oh, I’m not—”
Cutting her off with a wave, Jessie winked and led her a bit farther away, to where a black man with salt-and-pepper hair led a couple of kids in a game of badminton.
“Steve! Want you to meet your neighbor.”
The man looked up and smiled with a wave before whacking the birdie hard at the biggest of the kids. “I’ve seen you. You’re the doc next door.”
“Yes. George Hadley. And you’re the sheriff.”
“Yes, indeed. Good to meet you, ma’am,” he said, and George got the strangest twinge of déjà vu. First Andrew Blane and now this man, making her feel so official.
“Please call me George.”
“Well, please call me Steve,” he said, finally leaving the game long enough to come over and shake her hand. “Glad to finally meet you. We’ve been wondering when you’d come over and see us.”
They had? “Oh. Business is—”
“He’s just bugging you,” said Jessie, who must have felt George’s discomfort.
“You got that big place on Jason Lane, right?”
“Um…” How did he know that?
Jessie leaned in again. “Cops. They know everything.”
George breathed again. “Yes. That’s my house.”
“I just rented a place on Jason Lane,” Jessie went on happily.
“Yeah?”
“End of the cul-de-sac.”
“Oh. I’m in the farmhouse.”
“Hey! Right down the road! Awesome!”
“Like Dr. Doolittle over there,” Steve said. “One hell of a setup you got. Like a jungle.”
“Um. Thank you?”
“Yes, you should take it as a compliment,” said Jessie, leaning in to swat the man on the shoulder. “Right, Steve?”
“Definitely. Compliment. Being a widower means you can say whatever you want.”
Funny how being a widow had never brought that out in her.
Jessie shot Steve a look. “Shouldn’t you be working tonight? Independence Day and all?”
“Yep. Down a couple of deputies right now and can’t find a replacement to save my life,” replied Steve with a weary sigh and a glance at his watch. “Gotta take off.”
After the sheriff left, George’s eyes swept around the party, the people laughing and playing, lazing around and talking so naturally. First Uma and Ive’s closeness, so intimate she’d felt almost dirty watching, and now these uncomplicated-seeming relationships, people looking so companionable and natural together. A chest-squeezing burst of envy surprised her with its strength. This, exactly this, was why she never went anywhere. She’d forgotten, after so long, how very much it hurt to see so much happiness in one place.
She turned to Jessie. “I…I’ve got to go.”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for showing me around. Would you mind giving the uh…the lovebirds my regards? Or regrets or whatever?”
“Regards. Sure.”
George extricated herself from the party and headed back into town, to the clinic. To escape, get some work done, maybe some research. She wouldn’t admit to herself that what drove her was an unhealthy curiosity about a six-foot-something man whose sordid story was etched into his skin.
* * *
Clay noticed the tail as soon as he pulled back into town. He couldn’t believe it, actually, had been so sure his new old truck would offer him a sort of force field in a community like this one. Virginia plates and all.
Apparently he’d been wrong, because as soon as he hit Blackwood city limits, he acquired a police escort.
There was nothing wrong with the truck. He’d made sure of that before taking it off the dude’s hands. And there shouldn’t have been anything wrong with his credentials, but that was something he hadn’t wanted to risk—a bumbling country cop plugging him into the system was the last thing he needed at this point. Fuck. The sooner he got rid of Ape’s goddamned gift, the better. He glanced in the mirror, wondering if he wouldn’t have been better off in some anonymous urban setting like Richmond or DC, after all.
No, they knew him there.
As if on cue, the blue lights went on behind him, and the siren bleeped once, twice. Okay, good, at least they were keeping it subtle. He hadn’t thought about the possibility of this happening, hadn’t considered how he’d play it, but he’d been around law enforcement long enough to know how to avoid setting off the worst alarm bells, so he pulled over, rolled down the window, got out his wallet, and waited.
“Afternoon.” The man approached cautiously from behind, kept his distance, clearly eyeing him through his mirrored sunglasses—precisely the same ones Clay wore, although this man was small, wiry, and African American.
“Afternoon, sir.” Well, Clay knew how to play the game too, if he had to. He didn’t want to antagonize, but neither was he going to give the cop the upper hand. He kept his aviators on, wishing he’d asked the doctor for some kind of bandaging. Now would be a great time to hide the 5–0 on his eyes and the DEAD MAN on his knuckles, with their sick
ly smiling skull.
“License and registration, please.”
Clay lifted his wallet slowly, keeping both hands in sight—palms up in an effort to hide the ink—pulled out Andrew Blane’s license, handed it to the man, and reached for the newly signed title.
“You got insurance for this vehicle?”
“Yes, sir.”
As Clay handed it all over, he pretended not to see the man examining the back of his cab.
“Didn’t you have a different vehicle yesterday, son?”
Son? Jesus, I’m not in Kansas anymore, am I?
“Yes indeed.” He craned his neck just enough to read the name tag pinned to the man’s uniform. “Sheriff Mullen.”
“You just purchased this truck, Mr.…Blane?”
“Just today, Sheriff.”
“Any reason you decided to trade the old one in?”
“It was a rental, sir.”
“What’s your business here in Blackwood?”
“My business?”
“Yes. How long do you plan on staying in our town?”
What was this, the fucking Wild West? “I’m not entirely sure about that, Sheriff. Might be a few months, I suppose.” He looked over his shoulder, then back at the cop. “What was it you pulled me over for, exactly?”
“Flickering taillight.” The man backed up a step, looked the truck over, and returned to the window, looking cocky for such a small guy. This must be the kind of bullshit they used to rid their town of undesirable visitors such as himself.
“Could you remove your sunglasses, please, sir?”
Fuck.
Forcing himself not to hesitate, Clay pulled the shades down, baring his ink to the lawman and sitting through his slow perusal.
“Hmm. You hold tight. Be a few minutes.”
He kept a wary eye on the rearview as the man disappeared behind him and slid into his cruiser.
Hopefully, the ID would check out, and everything would be fine. If it didn’t…no point worrying until the worst happened. And nobody knew about the Andrew Blane identity. Not his boss or Tyler. Nobody.
A few minutes later, the sheriff returned and handed everything back to Clay.
“Check out?”
By Her Touch Page 5
