by Cara McKenna
Miah blew out a mighty breath. “Goddamn, I could use a drink just about now. This is so completely fucked.” He sat on the ground, forearms on his knees.
“Agreed.” And Duncan was humble enough to be grateful he wasn’t alone in it all. “I appreciate your—”
Miah waved his words away like a nasty smell. “I’m not here for you. And I’m not here because it’s what Raina would want me to do, or Vince. I’m here for Alex, you got that?”
Duncan nodded.
“Good. So don’t waste your breath thanking me.”
“Noted.”
Miah called his dog to where he sat.
After a pause, Duncan said, “You’re working awfully late.”
“We’ve found evidence of some drug dealing happening out here lately. I’ve taken to making the odd sweep after dark, see if I can’t catch the fuckers.”
Casey’s addled words echoed in Duncan’s memory. A fire on a starless night. The rarest of conditions out here, no doubt. And a fire, set by whom? By a drug dealer? Duncan wondered for a split second. He set the ridiculous thought aside. He was reading mysteries into everything in this state.
Miah kept his attention on his dog, scratching its neck. “I heard Raina’s got a thing tonight. How come you’re not there?”
Duncan shrugged, mood souring. “I stopped by.”
Miah smiled, neither cruel nor kind. “Lemme guess—not a big fan of her hanging out with a load of men she’s seen half-naked, right?”
“Something not unlike that.”
Miah nodded. “Been there. I used to tell her it was don’t ask, don’t tell, with me.”
“It’s a bit more complicated when you can hear the buzzing coming from the next room. At any rate, I’m sorry for ruining your night. I couldn’t have blamed you for calling the authorities. Or beating me senseless.”
Miah just shrugged.
Silence descended for ten minutes or more, until vehicles appeared down the road.
“King, load up.” At once, the dog ran and leaped into the bed of the truck and Miah stood.
Flores’s silver SUV and a BCSD cruiser approached and parked. Two male deputies appeared, and Flores and his sometimes partner exited the SUV, and the four of them came marching across the dirt toward Duncan and Miah with duffels and bins in tow—crime scene accoutrements, presumably.
“Where?” Flores demanded.
Duncan pointed and kept his mouth shut and his feet planted, watching as spotlights were assembled and switched on, illuminating the cemetery.
Flores crouched, not speaking for nearly a minute. Then, “No way. No fucking way.”
And the authorities got busy. Duncan and Miah were ordered to stay put, and in time another cruiser appeared, then another. A wide area was cordoned off with tape, all the way from the graves to the road.
It was easily forty minutes before Flores broke from the group to approach Duncan and Miah. By then they’d already told their story to two other agents. Flores dusted his shins with latex-gloved hands, a limp halting his gait after all that time kneeling.
“It’s them, isn’t it?” Miah asked him. “Those goddamn bones Alex got killed over.”
“They’re bones, yes.”
“Burned?” Miah asked, but Flores ignored him.
He stopped before Duncan and stared him dead in the eye. “You got any idea how bad this looks? How fucking suspicious you look?”
Duncan’s stomach turned. “That’s not lost on me.”
“You just . . . found these. Out here, miles from any place.”
“That’s accurate. ‘Miles from any place’ seemed a good place to start looking, considering what I was after.”
“How, Welch? If you didn’t know how they wound up here to begin with, how? On private land? Based on what?”
Based on that fucking hunger bullshit. Instinct had muted logic . . . or perhaps enhanced it. But intuition wasn’t proof, and Duncan needed very badly to sound as rational as possible just now.
He forced a calm breath, tired deep down in his own bones. “I tried to imagine what Tremblay would have done with them. Put them somewhere hastily, somewhere he stood a chance at finding them again, when he had the luxury of destroying them properly, perhaps. Trust me, it’s no coincidence I wound up out here. I’ve ridden every mile of passable road in this town, looking for a place that screamed both discretion and distinction. I saw the crows here, this morning, and thought little of it. Then coyotes tonight, and that toppled headstone . . .”
Miah nodded. “That’s true—he didn’t just find them. He’s been riding around since Monday.”
Flores raised a snarky eyebrow. “I’d love that statement from a character witness who’s not also a part of your little motorcycle gang. What do you all call yourselves? The Dirt Dogs or something?” Duncan knew Flores’s style well enough to guess the gaffe was intentional.
Miah made a gruff sound at that, like a rankled bull. “Look, this pompous dick is sleeping with my ex. Trust me, I wouldn’t lie to protect him.”
“Three days of looking,” Flores said, turning to Duncan, “against the sheer square acreage of Fortuity’s badlands, with the help of some woodland friends. Fuck of a lucky break, Welch, that’s all I’m saying.”
Duncan’s temper was fraying. He needed a Klonopin. With the blind drive of his mission suddenly gone, all the anxiety and uncertainty he’d been ignoring was exposed, bright and raw as an open wound. He wanted to go home to Raina. He wanted her arms around him, his face tucked against her throat. He wanted her warm sheets and body, and her voice telling him everything was going to turn out okay. Wanted warm recognition in her eyes, not the passing, indifferent glance he’d been offered at the bar.
He didn’t know anymore if this past week’s insanity was a good or bad thing. Only that it had changed him, that he’d never been laid so bare before—never been laid so intensely in his life. He only knew he really didn’t care what anyone thought of his car anymore, or his clothes, or even his innocence. He only cared that he got to see that fire in a woman’s eyes when she took him to bed. Only cared that he got to feel wanted for a few hot moments at a time, wanted on a level he’d never felt before—not as a lover or a man or a human being.
Christ, he was so fucking fed up.
“I called you, you know,” he said to Flores. “I called you. If I had anything to do with Tremblay and Levins’s cover-ups, why the fuck would I produce these bones and help your investigation?”
“Plenty of reasons.”
“I’m innocent.” Duncan nodded toward the crime scene, lit up like a tiny stadium. Press had begun to show up, kept at bay by BCSD officers. “Dental records or missing persons leads are going to identify this body,” Duncan said, “and Levins’s lie is going to unravel—you know as well as I do that he’s full of shit. Fingers are going to get pointed, and none of them will be aimed at me.”
“Don’t tell me what I know, Welch.”
“I assumed I was merely giving your intellect due credit,” Duncan said sharply, fevery from anger. Behind them, camera flashes strobed as the exhumation continued. “The bottom line is, it doesn’t matter how suspicious I look. I won’t be disbarred, because I won’t be found guilty of anything. But if Sunnyside rescinds my termination tomorrow, fuck them. Not even an obscenely generous bonus is going to keep me in this terrible town a single day longer than need be.” He pictured Raina then, and wondered how true that statement might actually be. “I can be found innocent tonight, and I’m still basically ruined.”
“You already planning your defamation case?”
Duncan took a deep, ragged breath, struggling to muster some semblance of calm. “I don’t even bloody know. I just want this to be over, Mr. Flores. I want permission to get on with my life. I want answers. That’s why I found these bones for you. And I’m not even asking for a thank-you
card.”
“The both of you are going downtown,” Flores said to Duncan and Miah.
“For fuck’s sake,” Miah said. “He just did your goddamn job for you.”
Flores whistled and called a couple of patrol officers over. “These two need to be detained and questioned. Somebody get them into separate cars. Church can go to a holding cell, Welch in my office.”
Miah tossed his hands up, exasperated. “Wow. You’re welcome.” As he was escorted to the road, Duncan heard him say, “I gotta drop my dog off.”
Before Duncan could be led away, he turned to Flores. “Wait. One phone call first. One fucking minute.”
“Later. At the station.”
“Now, please. No privacy required—I just want to tell Raina why I’m not coming home tonight, all right? One minuscule little favor, after the tremendous break I’ve just given you. Please.”
Flores eyed him, expression hard.
“One minute,” Duncan repeated. “Even criminals get a phone call.”
“Later.”
“It’s far more modest a prize than the posted reward for leads to do with those godforsaken bones.”
“Later,” Flores repeated.
Godforsaken. That word echoed, and Duncan cast his gaze on the crime scene. But not completely forsaken. Whoever those bones had once been, whatever they’d done to inspire another person to murder, those things would be known. It could be shocking how easy it was for people to be forgotten. Discarded. Deemed inconvenient and shut away in a hole or a box or an institution and left to rot. But this man or woman or child wasn’t slipping so quietly out of public consciousness.
No. He or she would be front-page news by the time the sun rose.
Chapter 24
Hooded bulbs illuminated the pool table—and the gigantic biker sitting on its felt in a sleeveless vest, gripping a bottle of beer between his legs. His leather-clad wife, Juliette, was standing a few feet away, angling a white reflector thing that looked to Raina like a miniature trampoline.
“That’s great, Bill,” Kim said from behind her camera. “No need to be a statue—feel free to take a drink or whatever, talk to people.” The camera clicked madly on its tripod, the lens focused on Bill’s spectacular half sleeve—a shoulder-to-elbow full-color of the Virgin Mary. Raina’s specialty wasn’t portraiture; she much preferred text and line work. But Bill’s piece—like the imitation Tiffany billiard lamp—had a stained glass look, and she was damn proud of how it had come out, and how it had held up.
“That’s a wrap,” Kim announced, standing up straight and freeing her camera. “Want to see?”
Bill eased himself off the table, and Raina joined him and Juliette, gathering at Kim’s shoulders. She cycled through the dozens of photos she’d taken, and they were stunning. The green of the table and the bright primary colors of the pool balls under that bright light, the colors of the tattoo and of the lamp . . .
“Fuck me,” Raina said. “You are good.”
“No doubt,” came Vince’s voice, and he snuck up from behind to wrap his arms around his girlfriend’s waist and admire the shots. She’d taken ones of Vince before anyone else—to warm up, she’d said. They were gorgeous, too. Striking. They’d look amazing in black and white, especially next to vivid shots like these ones of Bill. Raina hadn’t cared about a Web site last week, but now she couldn’t wait to display these pictures. They made her feel undeniably proud, and legitimate. The real deal. A real artist. So much more than a beer dispenser.
And as she glanced around the bar, she reveled in what was the most enjoyable night she’d spent down here in recent history . . . It was enjoyable because she finally felt recognized, for what she wanted to be. In a breath it became clear; the time had come. Time to give herself permission to put her own hopes ahead of her dead father’s.
She knew in that moment, she’d be selling this place in the next year.
Raina hit PAUSE on that bittersweet thought, turning back to Kim.
“I know you haven’t billed me yet, but based on your quote, I’m not paying you enough.”
“I’m surprised she didn’t pay you,” Vince teased, letting Kim go. “She’s been peeing her pants all day, waiting for tonight.”
Kim smacked his arm. “Gross. But guilty,” she admitted, gaze lingering on her screen. “Who’s next?”
“Melissa. Long black hair,” Raina said, pointing across the barroom. “Halter top. She’s got a huge back piece.”
“And a fascinating profile,” Kim said, eyeing her subject and thinking aloud. “Think I’ll get her from behind, sitting at the bar, head turned to take a drink . . .” And she walked off with the tripod and shade to get the next shot strategized. Vince watched her go, predictably.
Casey wandered over with spent longnecks speared on his fingers, looking like Edward Bottlehands. “Happy so far?” he asked Raina.
“That’s a ridiculous understatement.”
“I’m feeling kinda left out.”
“Only yourself to blame, Case. You never gave me the chance.”
“I left, like, three years before you even got licensed.”
Raina sighed, faking sorrow. “You didn’t call, you didn’t write . . .”
“Yeah, yeah. Gimme a few weeks, maybe I’ll think up something worthy of gracing my dewy porcelain complexion.”
“Porcelain doesn’t break out in freckles by mid-May.” Though yeah, it was a shame none of his tattoos were Raina’s doing. She’d begun seeing everyone through Kim’s lens, reduced to colors and shadows. The red hair and beard and the blue eyes would’ve looked great.
Miah hadn’t come tonight—he was always busy with work, but more to the point, he didn’t have a speck of ink on his body, not by Raina’s hand or anybody else’s. She’d tried to talk him into one countless times over the years, and though he didn’t have anything against tattoos, he’d never once seemed tempted. It’d take a wife or a child or the passing of a parent to inspire such a commitment, she’d bet. Always family first, with that man. The only person less likely to get one was Duncan.
Duncan. She scanned the crowd, not spotting him. She hadn’t seen him in a couple of hours, and apparently he’d lingered just long enough for her to see he’d made good on his promise to show. And of course he hadn’t stuck around—no doubt he hated tattoos. Probably wasn’t too fond of the sorts of people who commissioned them, either. Still, she wanted him here. Wanted him to see who she was, what she did, whether he liked it or not. Her pride had never hinged on others’ approval; she just wanted him here, to be present for it, whether he fit in or not. And she wanted a photo of him. Duncan, in the bar . . . while those two entities were still a part of her life.
She remembered the first time he’d walked through that door, the night of Casey’s welcome-home party. Her initial impression? Fucking gorgeous. Followed swiftly by Holy Christ, what a smarmy dick.
She smiled at the memory, wishing she could go back in time a couple of months, take herself aside, and tell that woman, “Just wait till you meet him for real.”
At nine, impatience got the better of her. With Kim well in control of the shoot, she snuck out back and up to the apartment, ready to tug Duncan physically downstairs by the hand, if need be. But the only soul she found was Astrid—a very, very annoyed Astrid, meowing loudly and pacing back and forth in front of her bowls.
“Sorry, kid. Where’d your wrangler get to?” She gave Astrid half a can of her gourmet food, then opened the window and leaned out, and saw no bike in the back lot. “Weird.” Very unlike Mr. Safety to go out well after dark.
She tried calling, but it went to voice mail after five rings. He might simply be out of range. . . . Or maybe Flores had called him in for questioning again? It seemed late for that. Her stomach dropped into her shoes, her gut not buying the excuses.
Images flashed—of Duncan hurt or uncon
scious, crashed way out in the middle of nowhere, or struck by a car, or confronted by belligerent rednecks over the bribery scandal. And the kicker was, even if he strolled in ten minutes from now, every hair in place . . . Even then, she didn’t get to scold him. That was a right reserved for girlfriends. For a woman with the balls to admit she cared for a man, to his face. She hadn’t earned that privilege. Not yet.
“Fuck.” There was nothing she could do for now. The badlands were massive—impossible to search until daylight, and even then it’d be daunting. She knew you couldn’t file a missing person report for something like twenty-four hours, and in fairness, Duncan wasn’t even technically late. He’d not told her where he’d gone or when he planned to be back.
With nothing to be done, she went back downstairs. But now her smiles felt forced, small talk grating. Kim showed her the latest photos on the camera’s screen, but she couldn’t manage to focus. She made empty noises of approval, hoping they passed for enthusiasm.
“Just one model left to shoot,” Kim said, sliding a fresh memory-stick-thing into her camera.
“Who?”
Kim shot her a goofy look, and Casey said, “You, genius.”
“Oh. Right.” Damn. She’d look like a dazed deer in the photos if she couldn’t pull herself together. “Just tell me where you want me.”
Kim wound up taking hundreds of pictures, sticking Raina behind the bar, in front of the bar, on the bar; framed in the front door, lit by Vince’s headlight; back inside, standing before the jukebox . . . Raina didn’t have to fake a smile, at least—Kim told her to smirk instead. “Look unimpressed,” she directed.
“Is that my brand?”
“Pretty much,” Casey said, chiming in. “Look at the camera like you think it’s a complete douche. That’s your default look.”
“Yeah, just pretend you’re looking at Case,” Vince said.
“Fuck you.”
Raina tuned them out, just wanting to get through this. Wanting to rush out back and check for Duncan’s bike, try his phone again. Hell—climb onto her own bike and go out looking for him. Totally futile, no doubt, but fruitless searching beat passive waiting any day of the week. Horrible thoughts tugged at her, thoughts of Duncan crashed, or jumped, of a brick finding his skull instead of a window. God, that last one . . .
