Maggie paced deeper into the house, heels echoing against the laminate floor of the entryway. “Jackie, hon, don’t take this the wrong way–”
“What?”
“ – but you’re gonna have to get a helluva lot smoother if you’re going to fool me.”
Jackie glared at her. “I changed my mind. No, we can’t talk right now.”
Maggie didn’t budge. “Collier’s missing. Ghost is looking for Collier. And you’re standing here lying. Do you think I don’t know all that?”
Silence.
“I have no idea what’s going on between the boys. But you know, don’t you? Because you’re nervous as a cat right now. You’re hiding something. How do you think that’s going to work out for you?”
Jackie took a trembling breath and then clamped her lips together.
“What happens, do you think, when whatever all this is blows up, and you’ve been keeping secrets? How does that go over with the rest of us?”
Another breath, and Jackie said, “I’m his old lady. I don’t have to tell anyone shit about him.”
Inwardly, Maggie approved. Damn straight – it was nobody’s business what a husband told his wife under veil of night, in the bed they shared together. But outwardly, she was a woman who didn’t tolerate anyone giving her own husband grief. “I don’t know what Collier’s up to,” she said, softly, “but this is your one and only chance to come clean. For the club.”
“Don’t gimme that ‘for the club’ bullshit,” Jackie sneered. “You standing here right now – that’s about Ghost, and you know it. Nothing you do is for the club; it’s for your family.” Her chin kicked up. “Collier’s my only family. I’ll go to hell before I betray him.”
Maggie gave her one last silent opportunity, then nodded. “Okay.” And saw herself out.
The door slammed behind her, locks clicking back into place.
As she passed Littlejohn in the driveway, she said, “Call Ghost if Collier shows up.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That punkass?” Aidan made a face and blew an obnoxious cloud of smoke straight at Agent Grey. “I hope he fell off the damn planet.”
Grey – homecoming king turned top of his training class – gave him a stern look, though they were probably about the same age. “That’s a violent sentiment.”
“Not really. I mean, I didn’t say I wanted to push him off, just that I wanted him to fall. See the difference?”
Scowl in response.
Aidan bit back a grin and leaned his shoulders against the closed roll-top door behind him. “What does the FBI want with Robbie anyway?”
“Ronnie.”
“Did he kill somebody?”
“Ooh, you know what,” Tango said beside him, “I bet he’s one of those handsome serial killers. Like Ted Bundy.”
Aidan nodded.
Grey looked like he wanted to punch both of them. “I just want to talk to him is all.”
“Afraid we’re corrupting him?” Aidan asked.
Tight, humorless smile. “I’m sure you save the corrupting for Catholic schoolgirls.” He produced a card. “I have some questions for him and your sister. If you see either of them, call me.”
Aidan grinned. “Sure. But he steers clear of here. Maybe you oughta check with his family, see if they’ve seen him.”
Grey’s face blanked over.
“You know – Mayor Stephens. I’d check with him.”
That hit a nerve. This douchebag had expected them to still be clueless. Little Ronnie, their secret weapon. Sleeping with the worms beside a broken septic tank.
“Yeah,” Grey said, his sharp frown returning. “I’ll do that.” He lingered until Aidan took the card and pocketed it, then he struck off across the parking lot toward his black SUV with one of those weight-lifter walks, shoulders jacked and ass cheeks clenched together.
“Tool,” Aidan said. He glanced over at Tango. “How long you figure we got before it all blows up?”
Tango was staring toward the street, the ever-expanding line of protesters, with their signs and posters. Someone had a bullhorn, and had taken up a chant of “Lean Dogs get out.” How inspired. “How many bikes came in today to get worked on?”
“None.”
Tango nodded. “It’s already blown up.”
“Aidan!” Ghost’s voice reached them as Grey was backing out of his parking space in front of the bike shop. The president had a walk of his own going, his impatient and threatening, loose-limbed with the easy confidence of a man who’d been beating the shit out of guys his whole life, and knew he could do it whenever he wanted.
Ghost drew up beside them and braced a hand on the wall. “Where’s your little friend?”
“With RJ.”
He nodded. “And Rottie’s still out?”
“No word yet,” Tango said. “He’s still looking for Collier.”
“That was the fed that stopped to see Mags this morning?”
Aidan nodded. “Grey. Has to be Ronnie’s handler.”
“Yeah.” Ghost’s eyes tracked the Tahoe as it left the lot, forced to lay on the horn to urge protesters out of the way. “We’ve got to get rid of him.”
This wasn’t the sort of conversation Vince wanted to have in an IHOP parking lot. He reached to lay a hand on Mason Stephens’ arm. “Why don’t we sit in my cruiser–”
“Don’t you fucking interrupt me when I’m talking,” Stephens growled. He jerked his arm away, before Vince could make contact.
The mayor of Knoxville was in a…regrettable…state. He’d jerked his tie loose and ruined his carefully brushed hair passing his hands through it countless times. A vein stood out in his forehead, his cheeks flushed.
“I just don’t think,” Vince said, “this is something you want to talk about out in the open.”
“Fuck you,” he fumed. “This isn’t a discussion. This is an order. You find my son and his cousin. You find them, or I’ll have your damn badge.”
Vince took a steadying breath. “Sir, I understand that you’re upset and worried.” Before he could get interrupted again, he said, “But it’s like I already told you. I can’t file a missing persons report for them until they’ve been missing for three days.”
“You can if I order you to.”
“Mr. Stephens, you have to understand that young men in their twenties go off and do stupid shit. They get wasted and shack up with strange girls, and they make spur-of-the-moment trips to Vegas. I’m sure Mason and Ronnie will turn up.”
Stephens started to explode again, and then gathered himself, with visible effort. He pressed both hands over his face a moment, breathing through his fingers.
Elderly patrons moved in and out of the restaurant, coupons for free pancakes clenched in gnarled hands. A knot of stay-at-home mothers wheeled strollers up to the door, all of them chattering about the latest episode of The Bachelor.
Stephens lowered his hands and said, “I trust Agent Grey told you that my cousin Ronnie was a confidential informant for the FBI.”
Vince felt his brows go up. He’d suspected Mason, not the meek, well-groomed boy he’d met at Dartmoor the other day. It made sense, though, now that he thought about it. He was frowning before he could understand his emotional reaction to the news. “He wasn’t really the girl’s boyfriend. He was a plant, to feed information to the FBI.”
Stephens nodded and made a dismissive gesture.
“Even if you hate the Dogs, that girl Ava’s never done anything to anybody. She’s an innocent.”
“Innocent? Was she innocent when she put my boy in the hospital?”
“Ava Teague got beat to hell that night. If she’d been my daughter, I would have congratulated her for what happened to Mason.”
Stephens closed the distance between them with two vicious strides, face flushing a deep red. “That little bitch is one of them. She almost killed Mason, and now he and Ronnie are missing? That’s the Dogs, and you know it is. They found out, somehow, that Ronnie was repo
rting on her. And…” He trailed off, face anguished as he considered the very real possibility that Mason and Ronnie were already dead. “You find those boys,” he whispered, pleading now. “You find them, and I’ll hang all those fucking bikers from the lampposts down Main Street when you do.”
As Stephens turned away, Vince said, “I can’t arrest anyone just because you have a gut feeling.”
The look Stephens threw over his shoulder was murderous. “Don’t get comfy in that office of yours. You won’t have it long.”
Handmade signs sunk in the grass on wooden stakes flanked the streets of downtown Knoxville. Anti-Dog, all of them, demands that the club pull out of town, be sent to jail; one even depicted stick figures in cuts being shoved off a sheer cliff by a bulldozer. When Ghost stopped at a red light, and a woman pushing a stroller across the intersection passed in front of him, she shot him the bird. Classy broad.
He felt the city’s fear, censure, even contempt, all the way through downtown.
The James house sat on its quiet corner, tidy and colorful. There was a company taking care of the lawn these days, with James’s hip such a problem. If times were less hectic with the club, Ghost would have been sending prospects to mow the yard and trim the hedges.
Bonita answered the doorbell like she’d been expecting him, nodding to herself and urging him into the house with a wave as she led the way. “Si, he is wondering why all this hatred in town.” She threw him a look over her shoulder as they walked. “I am wondering too, Ghost. This is not right.”
Ghost sighed. “Yeah, well…” She wasn’t getting anything more out of him than that.
She tossed her hair in a way that told him she was quietly angry when they reached the threshold of the three-season porch. “There,” she said. “Something to drink?”
“No, thanks. I won’t be here long.”
Her heels clacked loudly across the tile as she retreated.
James was cozied up in a wide arm chair, a blanket across his lap even though it was almost seventy degrees. He looked thin, veined, wrinkled. He looked old, decades older than he had the last time he’d worn his cut.
Ghost felt instant guilt. It was the club that had been keeping him going. Without it, he was going to slowly waste away in this chair, watching The Price is Right and eating Fritos.
“El presidente,” James greeted with a smile. “How’re you liking the view from the head of the table?”
Ghost dropped into the matching chair beside his. “It sucks, most of the time. Well, all the time, really.”
James laughed. “You hooked on antacids yet?”
“Getting there.”
The TV was set on ESPN and James turned the volume down with the remote, his face seeming to age more as it plucked with concern. “Don’t pay any mind to Bonita. She’s just pissed she couldn’t get her nails done this morning without having to see those signs they’ve got set out along Main.” He snorted. “I love my wife, but be glad yours isn’t so goddamn vain as mine. She’s gonna shop and hair-dye us outta house and home.”
Ghost shook his head. “It’s not that.” He rubbed at the corduroy fabric of the chair arm and felt, for a moment, very young and a little bit hopeless. He didn’t slow down often enough to allow himself to feel that way, but right now, he was reminded that he wasn’t the ultimate patriarch yet. He still needed advice. “It’s…” He didn’t want to say it. He looked at James and said, “I’ve got this witness who said he saw Collier kill Andre the night of your retirement party.”
James pressed his head back against the chair, but his expression remained calm. “Collier loved Andre like a son.”
“Exactly.”
“But you believe this witness, or you wouldn’t be here talking to me about it.” Lift of one knowing eyebrow.
“I can’t find Collier.”
James sighed. “And innocent men don’t run away.”
Ghost nodded and sighed, slumping down into the chair. It was comfy as hell. “I just don’t understand why, though. Killing a brother like that…and lying about it…it doesn’t add up.”
“Pieces are missing,” James said. “Pieces you need to fill in before you rush to judgment.”
“Judgment? If he really did kill Andre, then he’s let us go two weeks thinking it was the Carpathians. I sent guys into that clubhouse. Mercy coulda got killed. And all because Collier was lying.” It made him so angry he couldn’t see straight, but James was shaking his head.
“A man doesn’t kill somebody he loves lightly or without reason. There’s a reason. Find it before you make any decisions. Collier’s your club brother; you owe him a chance to explain himself.”
“That’ll have to be some fucking explanation.”
“Hiya, Greg.” Aidan dropped down onto the couch beside his former classmate and shot RJ a look of thanks.
“Catcha later, Greg,” RJ said, standing, taking his beer down the back hall.
“Yeah. See ya.” Greg looked more relaxed now, all settled on the sofa with a beer and two empties on the table beside his socked feet. But he was still nervous. He had been taken into enemy territory with kindness, and he was smart enough to be suspicious of that. “What’s up?” he asked Aidan.
Aidan shrugged and propped his boots up on the table, hands behind his head. “Nothing. And I mean, actually nothing. All those protesters are scaring business away.”
“Dude, that sucks.”
“Yeah. My resume’s not good enough to get me a job anywhere else,” Aidan joked, not feeling it.
Greg gave a hollow laugh. Then quieted. “Hey, Aidan?”
“Yeah?”
“Um…what’s gonna happen to me?”
That was the million dollar question. Aidan shrugged. “You can probably stay on as a hangaround, if you want. We’ve got a new one of those, wants to prospect. Maybe you could do that too.”
Obvious relief in Greg’s eyes. “Really? You think?”
“Play your cards right.”
Footfalls behind them on the floorboards. Aidan turned and saw his dad, and felt something like dread.
“Greg,” Ghost said. “Carter’s out back wrestling the beer kegs off the truck. Go see if he needs help.”
Greg was on his feet, stepping into his boots straight away. “Yes, sir. Sure thing.”
When he was gone, Aidan said, “Collier?”
Ghost shook his head. “Nothing yet. Mags went by and saw Jackie, said she was definitely covering for him, but couldn’t get a word out of her.”
“Protecting her man,” Aidan said. “She’s got a right to do that.”
“She does,” Ghost sighed. “But it pisses me off.” His gaze came to Aidan’s face. “Wherever he is, whatever the truth is, you know what has to happen to Greg, don’t you?”
Aidan swallowed, a lump getting caught in his throat. “Yeah…I do.”
Forty-One
New Orleans. Rising up out of the steaming swamps of Louisiana. Riding into the city was like bursting inside a flowered wedding cake, all structure, confection, decoration and sugar. It was an overheated, proud city, that didn’t shrink from its history and culture like so many paved-over suburban Southern cities. Tropical blossoms, flaking loud paint, iron railings and all that water-smell, it folded over her like hot dough as they crossed its limits. Stop, she wanted to tell him. She wanted to stand in the street and turn circles, absorbing it through her eyes and her pores.
Ava was exhausted and so sore, but they didn’t go straight to the clubhouse as she’d expected. After five minutes, she realized what Mercy was doing: he was giving her a silent tour, slowing the bike to a crawl when they passed something he knew would set her imagination roaring.
He took her through the French Quarter, with its three-tiered facades crawling with ornate iron curlicues, the upper galleries bursting with Boston ferns. The brick walks and the old iron lampposts. The street-level cafes and the striped awnings. The jazz and the Dixieland bands, playing on the corners for the tourists.
It was a blur, all of it, as the bike rolled down narrow streets, stopped to wait for the horse-drawn carriages toting tourists down Bourbon Street.
Ava felt the heat work its way into her exhausted joints. The magical myriad houses marched past her in pastel flashes interspersed with green breaks, flowers bobbing in the breeze. Her soreness faded, the exhaustion shoving down beneath the wonder.
How could Mercy hate this place?
Eventually, they moved away from the glamor, hitting a two-lane that led out of the tumbled-down outskirts of the city, and out through a stretch of scrub forest. The grass was blue and shiny with the water that hid between the blades. The oaks here were untended and bowed toward the ground, their gnarled branches heavy with Spanish moss.
With nothing to look at, she pulled back inside herself, the hurts coming back to the surface. She closed her eyes and knotted her fingers in the front of Mercy’s shirt, her arms quivering from the prolonged effort of holding onto him. When this trip was over, she didn’t want to see the bitch seat of a motorcycle again, not ever.
She didn’t know how much time had passed before they turned off the main road, and then turned again, and the trees closed overhead, laced fingers that bathed them in shadow. She could smell the water stronger here: a ripe, dark smell, water full of plant and animal life. The pavement fell away, and they drove on a powdery white dirt; she could taste it against her lips as a cloud of it rolled up over them. And then the road simply ended, right at the doorstep of a ramshackle tar paper building with a high, peaked roof and a scattering of old pickups out front.
Mercy parked, and she gritted her teeth as she climbed off the bike like a crippled, arthritic woman. “Oh, God.” She bent at the waist and stretched her back, staring at the pale dirt under her dusty boots.
Mercy’s hand landed between her shoulder blades. “Poor fillette. Not used to this much riding, huh?” He sounded like he was trying not to laugh.
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