by Cara McKenna
The three others pulled into the BCSD’s forecourt a minute later, Raina riding behind Miah, just like the old days, her hair whipping behind in a dark, tangled banner. Vince could swear he caught Welch’s brows draw tight with disapproval, but in a blink that face was steely once more.
Now that was one fucked-up triangle, right there.
“You’re sure about this?” Miah asked the second he’d dismounted and was close enough for his lowered voice to be heard. “Tremblay?”
Vince nodded. “Kim saw him on the news. Knew immediately he was one of the cocksuckers she overheard. She recognized his face and voice. He knew about the bones, and he said something about Alex getting shut up. If he didn’t have something to do with the murder itself, he was a part of the cover-up.”
Miah shook his head, cheeks ruddy, black eyes wild. Vince knew he could count on his friend to stow that anger in its appropriate place by the time they walked inside—more than he could say for himself. Raina had crossed her arms over her chest and she had a tendon taut along her throat, telling Vince her jaw was clenched. A rare tell. The girl was usually cool as the beer she served. She hadn’t said a word, either, and she only went silent when she was seething.
“No weapons,” Vince said quietly. Casey nodded his compliance, and Miah never carried, not aside from the rifle he wore when he was patrolling the pastures for predators—the animal kind. Raina hid a shotgun under the bar and owned a .22—Vince knew because he’d given her the thing six years ago, after the incident. She was too smart to have brought it, though, so no worries there.
“Welch phoned the feds, but who knows how long it’ll take for them to show. We march inside and I’ll call Tremblay out,” Vince said. “Welch, you jump in the second you think I’m about to lose my rag and fuck everything up.”
A stoic nod.
“Everybody else, you’re just here to make it known this is serious as fuck. And maybe to hold me back if I get heated and try to assault Tremblay. Got it?”
They all nodded.
“And Case.” Vince looked to his brother. “I’m only gonna say this once—shut the fuck up.”
“Noted.”
“And if I get my ass incarcerated over this, you promise me you’ll stick around and look after Mom till I’m out.”
Casey swallowed. “Sure.”
Vince took a deep breath, dying for a cigarette. Or ten. And about six drinks. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
He led the way, relieved by the noise of all those footsteps at his back. God knew if he’d come by himself, he would’ve for sure lost his ever-loving shit, and gotten himself arrested or shot. Now at least he had a chance. He hauled the front door open, and the world went into slow motion.
Never had his heart beaten this hard. Not when he’d gotten the news about Alex. Not the first time he’d been led inside a prison. Not the first time he shot a gun or fucked a girl or threw a punch or started a bike, or when he’d smelled that charred flesh the night before. The only thing that came close was imagining Kim at the mercy of Tremblay or Levins, and that alone propelled him across the checkerboard linoleum.
“Vince,” said Laura Dupree, the young female assistant behind the desk. Then her eyes took in the posse behind him. “And company. What’s going on?”
Several uniformed personnel were in the area, and from across the way, the detention officer waved. “Heya, Vince. Long time no see.”
“Here to see Tremblay,” Vince told Laura, loud enough for the entire room to hear. He wouldn’t dignify the shit with his title today.
Laura eyed her phone. “His line’s active, so he’s on a call—”
“Don’t care. Get him out here.”
She looked deeply unimpressed at Vince’s tone, but the fire in his stare had her rising and walking to Tremblay’s closed office door. She knocked, listened. Cracked it and said, “Vince Grossier wants to see you, sir. Something’s up.”
From beyond the door, “He outside?”
“Yeah. Him and some . . . associates. He wants to see you out in the lobby.”
A pause, then came the muffled sound of Tremblay ending his phone call. Laura returned to her desk, giving Vince a wary look.
Vince’s palms were sweaty, his breathing shallow, jaw clenched and aching.
Finally, Tremblay emerged in his head-to-toe khaki, looking annoyed. He stopped dead center in the open space and tucked his thumbs behind his belt, such a dick move in itself that Vince wanted to rush him.
“You think you’re too important to call ahead?” Tremblay asked. He glanced at the other four, then blinked in surprise. “That you, Casey?”
Vince didn’t waste any time. “Tell us about the bones, Tremblay.”
He was silent for a long breath; then Tremblay’s eyes narrowed. “Come again?”
“Tell us. About. The bones.”
“Again with this shit, Vince?”
The fucking nerve—
Welch stepped up just in time to keep Vince from losing his temper. His voice was cool. Smooth. Litigious. “He’s referring to the remains of the human body that was incinerated within the bounds of the northernmost construction site. The bones Alex Dunn saw, and that you didn’t want him talking about.”
Curious murmurs passed between a few of the deputies, and Laura asked, “The what now?”
Tremblay’s face went a touch white, and Vince knew what he was feeling. Same icy dread he’d felt himself, when he’d first heard about Alex.
“What the fuck’re you talkin’ about?” Tremblay looked between Welch and Vince, seeming unsure of who was leading this interrogation.
“The bones Alex saw,” Vince said, “the day of his accident. The ones left over after somebody torched a body in the abandoned entrance to one of the old mines.” The more facts he could imply, the better—let Tremblay think they had more evidence than they did. He took a chance. “The ones you and Levins didn’t want anybody to know about.” He prayed it worked. Prayed Tremblay might think he’d already been ratted out.
“Vince,” said Laura, sounding alarmed. “What on earth are you saying?”
“You’ve got a nerve,” added an officer. “That’s the sheriff you’re talking to.”
Tremblay snapped out of his stupor, his posture going overly candid at once, a switch flipped. He waved a dismissive hand and chuckled, as if Vince were a loony raving from the drunk tank. “That’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard, son.”
“Don’t you fucking call me son.” Vince had advanced without realizing, but he halted when Miah caught him by the shoulder. He calmed. Spoke slowly. “We know what went on out—”
Welch interrupted. “The younger Mr. Grossier and I went to the site early this morning, when I discovered you’d given us false information about which area Dunn had visited last. It was trespassing, admittedly,” he said, being smart enough not to implicate Vince in the offense, “but we documented evidence of a fire.”
“Organic materials,” Casey said. “Accelerated with diesel, approximately two weeks ago.”
Tremblay huffed a pompous laugh. “What, you called in a freelance forensics team or something?”
“Metal barrel,” Casey went on, then spread his hands a couple feet apart, as if describing an object he’d actually seen. “Your standard fifty-five-gallon. Rock’s all but marinated in evidence, Sheriff.” Leave it to the professional gambler to know how to bluff. His confident tone had Tremblay’s cocky act crumbling, unmistakable panic in his blue eyes. The assorted officers were chattering among themselves, seeming at a loss.
“The federal authorities have been contacted,” Welch said. “I suggest we all stay put until they arrive.”
“You don’t tell me what to do in my own goddamn department.” The sheriff was struggling with the cool act, his face pink as he said, “I’m goin’ to my car, and I’m gettin’ my cell—”
“The fuck you are,” Vince cut in. No phones—he could too easily call Levins and tip him off.
“I a
m not a criminal,” Tremblay boomed. “I’m a free and innocent man. And the highest law in this county. And I’m goin’ to my goddamn car, and gettin’ my goddamn phone, and findin’ myself a goddamn lawyer. I suggest you do the same,” he said, blazing eyes jumping between Vince and Welch, “because I’ll be suin’ you both for slander.” He aimed himself at the exit, and Vince followed. More footsteps joined in behind them—officers and accusers alike.
“Stay on him,” Vince said to the nearest officer. The guy looked about twenty, and deeply confused.
“You do not give orders to my deputies,” Tremblay shouted over his shoulder as he stepped off the curb. “This entire accusation is ridiculous.”
“Then you won’t mind humoring us until the feds arrive,” Welch said easily, jogging to flank Tremblay. Vince fell back, letting the cooler head do the handling. “These charming residents are highly excitable, as I’m sure you know. But all speculation aside, what Casey Grossier and I saw at the site this morning warrants investigation.”
Tremblay looked mildly vindicated but shot a glare over his shoulder at Vince.
“What should we do, sir?” asked the young deputy, stepping forward.
“Fetch me my address book, son. Top desk drawer on the right. Need to call a lawyer friend of mine.”
“Yes, sir.” The kid hurried back into the building, leaving Tremblay and Welch standing beside the cruiser, everyone else hanging behind a dozen paces or more.
Tremblay shot Vince a hateful glare as he opened the driver’s-side door. “You’re goin’ in for this, Grossier. For the rest of your natural life, if I have anything to do with it.”
“Think we’ll let the big boys and their forensics team decide who’s fucked,” Vince returned. If he wasn’t mistaken, Tremblay went a touch white at that prospect.
A ring tone cut through the air, and Welch slid his phone from his pocket. “Duncan Welch. Yes, thank you. I’m still at the Sheriff’s Department in Fortuity.” He eyed Tremblay. “He is. My efforts to contain the situation weren’t particularly successful.”
Vince turned to scan for the deputy Tremblay had sent after his address book. Either the kid was taking his sweet time, or—
A whack, a gasp, and a clatter, and Vince whipped around to find Welch on his knees, holding his mouth, his phone several feet away. Someone said, “Holy shit.” Tremblay’s door slammed and his engine roared, and as Vince began running, the cruiser shot out of its space with a squeal of tires. It barely missed Welch, whose cupped palm dripped blood onto the asphalt. Vince sprinted for his bike, but the cruiser exited the lot at forty miles an hour, fifty, hitting sixty as Tremblay raced away on Railroad, heading north.
“Fuck!” Vince stomped his kick-starter, no clue what was happening behind him. He chanced a glance, relieved to find only Casey mounting up; Raina was crouched next to Welch, Miah standing by. Officers were getting into cars, lights and sirens blazing to life.
The sheriff was way out of sight by the time Vince’s tires hit the two-lane, but Tremblay could only be going one way—Railroad became a rural route in a half mile, then met up with the highway after winding along the foothills, with no other roads between here and there. There was no way Vince’s bike could catch the cruiser, sticking to the street—it was modified for off-road, not speed. But he tore off to the right into the badlands, thinking maybe the shorter, direct route could get him close enough to see which way Tremblay took, once he hit civilization.
Their best chance was for the highway patrol deputies to get word and block the way. Vince hoped that was exactly what was in motion, back at headquarters.
Tearing through the dirt and dust, bike bucking and rattling, he felt a hysterical laugh rising in his chest. Tremblay had fled. Confession enough. Behind him, sirens rose, then faded, sticking to Railroad.
He prayed someone was being sent to detain Levins as well. And he figured if he was smart enough to think of it, Welch would be making the demand the second he recovered from whatever Tremblay had hit him with—probably his pistol. Vince hoped the poor prick hadn’t gotten any of his perfect teeth broken. He owed him a hell of a stiff drink for this.
The terrain juddered his body and the bike, and he felt dust sting his eyes, scrub brush and rocks streaming by all around and beneath his feet. Crows took off into the sky at the roar of his throttle, carrion abandoned, and Vince tucked in low to speed the bike toward the highway. Vengeance pounded through his veins, the lust of pure hate. He pictured Alex, tried to tell himself that maybe, just maybe, unfair as it was, the man’s death had been a mercy. Tremblay’d had no right to take his life from him, but neither had the bottle.
I can’t ever make that right, he imagined telling his friend. But I’ll see him pay for it. See him ruined before the eyes of every person he lied to through his teeth, swearing to protect and serve.
He’d see justice done, even if he had to do the job himself.
• • •
Vince didn’t return for hours, and every minute spent staring out the Grossiers’ kitchen window made Kim go a little crazier with impatience.
He’d called, at least. A quick “We’re all fine, but Tremblay took off” and reassurances he’d be back once he wasn’t needed at the Sheriff’s Department. That had come at about one o’clock. Kim looked to the microwave. It was nearly four now.
Back to the window, to scan the street for danger, or the relief of Vince’s return. Horrible images ran through her head: images of shoot-outs, of Vince getting arrested over this, of a spill on the highway if he tried to play vigilante on the manhunt. But through the visions rose his words—too buoyant to keep down.
I think maybe I’m in love with you.
“And I know I am, with you,” she murmured, eyes locked on the road.
“Come away from there,” Nita called from the threshold of the den. “Watching won’t help, trust me. Come sit down and play cards with me and Dee.”
Kim did, feeling out of body as she fumbled through her first canasta lesson. The game seemed to keep Dee cheerful and engaged, if oblivious, though neither Kim nor Nita was really into it. Their faces jerked toward the TV every time a news bulletin interrupted the court shows. The updates were sparse and uninformative—Tremblay was still missing, end of story. Kim’s stomach was knotted so tight, she couldn’t seem to feel anything else.
The second a rumble sounded outside, she tossed down her cards, clambered over the coffee table, and sprinted for the front of the house.
“Your turn,” Dee called after her, sounding spacey.
Her hands flew to her heart in relief to see both Vince and Casey tugging off their helmets at the edge of the road. “It’s them,” she shouted to Nita. “They’re okay.”
She hurried out the door, running to where the brothers were striding up the lawn and setting the crows shrieking. Vince caught her, his still-gloved hand clasping her hair, and his rough cheek pressed to her soft one, smooshing her glasses.
“Hey . . .” His fingers rubbed at her scalp. “Hey there.”
She didn’t even care what was happening anymore. All she wanted was to feel his body against hers and know he was safe.
Behind them the screen door creaked and Nita spoke. “What on earth’s going on?”
Vince let Kim go at that, but kept his hand on her back.
“They got him,” Casey told Nita.
“The sheriff?”
He nodded. “Highway patrol caught him way out toward the Utah border, hiding at a weigh station.”
“They lost track of Levins, though,” Vince said. “Tremblay must have called him during his little getaway attempt. Guy up and disappeared from the site without a word to anybody.”
“Oh shit.” Kim ran shaky fingers through her hair. “I never got a chance to identify him.”
“Well, he sure as shit looks guilty at the moment,” Casey said.
“He won’t stay gone for long,” Vince promised her. “Nobody does, in this day and age. And he’d be a fool to come back
, looking for you—only power you had was to say what you overheard, cast some suspicion. And now Tremblay’s done that ten times over.”
True . . . though it didn’t stop her heart from racing.
“Tremblay clocked Welch in the mouth with his pistol,” Vince added.
“Good God, is he okay?”
“Split lip and a broken tooth, Raina said. Nothing that’s stopping him from talking with the feds, at least.”
“Jesus.”
“I need a fucking drink,” Casey announced, and he marched inside the house behind Nita.
After him Vince called, “Take it easy. No doubt they’ll want to talk to us again before the night’s over.”
He turned back to Kim, taking her hands. “You okay?”
“I have no idea . . . but you are, so yes. Yes, I think I probably am.”
He smiled. “Told you I would be.”
She stepped close to rest her body against his, comforted by the palms running up and down her back. “Tell me everything’s going to be okay. That they’ll catch Levins, and there’ll be enough evidence to keep them both in custody, and you won’t get arrested yourself, for trespassing or any other thing . . .”
“Can’t predict the future,” he said. “Don’t take after my mom that way. But I think we’ll be fine, sweetheart.”
She pulled away, stared up into those hazel eyes. “You said you love me. Maybe.”
He licked his lips, cheeks growing round with a smile. “I do love you, maybe.”
“I’m not totally sure what to do with that.”
Vince shrugged. “Me neither. But it feels pretty fucking nice.”
She laughed, flustered. “I think maybe I love you back.”
“Probably the stress talking.”
She smacked his arm. “I’m trying to have a romantic moment. So shut up before you ruin it.”
His grin faded and he cupped her jaw, brought his face down, and pressed their foreheads together for a long, sweet moment. She gripped his old jacket, not wanting to ever let go.
He spoke quietly, his words the only sound in the universe for as long as they took to say. “I love you.” His fingertips stroked her cheeks. “No more maybes.”
