As if an Escalade wasn’t blazing right behind him, a dead woman inside.
She hadn’t talked to him, hadn’t let one word cross her lips. At first, this had been because she was in shock. Lena had been sitting on the bleachers on the football field, her mind reeling, but not with the things that she would’ve expected. She was remembering football games, pep rallies. In school, Lena had always hung out with the bad kids and they never sat in the front row of the bleachers. They were always in the top row, hidden by the crowd so they could heckle the cheerleaders or, better yet, drop down to the ground and sneak away.
But, that night, she sat in the front row, her foot propped up on the gas can, as she watched the Escalade burn. The heat was intense, like nothing she’d ever felt before. Even sitting a hundred feet away from it, her skin prickled as if from a sunburn. Her throat hurt as if she’d swallowed acid, and when Jake Valentine had stood in front of her, trying to draw her out, she hadn’t been able to make words.
“What’d he do to you?” Valentine asked, and Lena didn’t know what he meant, so she just kept quiet.
He’d sat beside her on the bench, watched the car burn. “I see you’ve been hit. You don’t get bruised like that from falling down.”
Lena had stared at the flames, watched them dance along the roof of the car. The gas tank had exploded a while ago and though she could hear the man’s voice, she couldn’t quite process his words.
The sheriff said, “Whatever he did to you, you gotta let me know. If it was self-defense—”
Lena had looked at him, her head snapping around in surprise. She opened her mouth, felt the air hit the back of her throat, the heat from the burning SUV quickly drying the saliva.
She closed her mouth and stared at the fire.
To his credit, Jake Valentine had not handcuffed her then. Lena was thankful for that at least. Ethan had liked her handcuffs, liked sneaking up on her, wrapping his hand around her mouth and scaring the shit out of her. He had loved hitting her even more, and Lena found herself considering the irony as Jake Valentine helped her into the back of one of the squad cars on scene—the sheriff thinking Lena was an abused woman who had snapped instead of a devil who brought death to everyone around her.
Jeffrey. She had to get him out of this town before he ruined everything.
Down at the abandoned warehouse, a Harley-Davidson motorcycle pulled up, the muffler popping and roaring like an angry dragon. Lena put her eye to the camera. She had turned off the digital screen because of the light and the need to save the battery. It was hard to find a place to charge things when you didn’t know where you’d be spending your nights.
She cringed as lightning illuminated the night sky. From early afternoon, the air had been heavy with the threat of rain. Lena wasn’t worried so much about getting drenched as being found. These were not the kind of people who took kindly to being spied on.
The Harley revved a few times, then the engine was cut. The rider was one of the few people who went into the building but didn’t come out immediately with a bag of dope. Despite the bike, he didn’t dress like a Hells Angel. Of course, the bike wasn’t really his—it belonged to Deacon Simms. Lena recognized the Harley the moment she saw it. The rider was around Lena’s age, clean-cut, his hair neatly shaved in a military style. He wore faded jeans, but a dress shirt was usually under his leather jacket. He always left his helmet on the seat of the bike. On more than one occasion, she had seen him check his reflection in the mirror mounted on the handlebars before going inside.
She’d nicknamed him Harley for the obvious reason, but she knew he had a name and that his name probably caused fear in a lot of people. There was something about the way the others steered clear of him that made her think he was a colonel rather than a foot soldier.
Harley was Lena’s suspect zero, the rat who had led her back to the nest. The first thing she’d done when she got back to Reese two days ago was look for Hank. The drive from Florida had been a long one. It was the middle of the night by the time she got into town. Lena had parked the Mercedes three streets from Hank’s house and made the trek on foot. She’d nearly vomited from the smell when she first walked in through the back door. Her initial thought was that Deacon Simms, still tucked up in the attic, was the source of the odor, but a quick look in the bathroom had proven otherwise. The toilet had been shattered. The house was empty. There was no sign of anything except misery and ruin.
Lena had given up then. Hank was gone. Charlotte was dead. Lena was a fugitive. Two days ago, a couple of men had argued in the hospital corridor about whether or not to kill her, and Ethan…who knew how Ethan was involved?
Lena went outside to think. She was sitting on one of the boxes stacked on the back porch when she heard the motorcycle. The pipes must have woken up everyone on the street, but no one threw open their windows to complain. She followed the rumble as the bike came up the drive, parked in front of Hank’s house. It was Deacon’s bike, she knew it by sound, just like she knew there was no way Deacon was riding it.
As quietly as she could, Lena made her way toward the old Chevy in the backyard. She slid underneath, the rusted floor of the cab scraping her back as the gate creaked open.
The motion light on the side of the house tripped on. Harley blinked up at the light, clearly annoyed. Clint came behind him, closing the gate.
“He wouldn’t come back here,” Clint said, nervous. “Just let the dope do its work. He’s not gonna go far off the needle.”
Harley spoke with the clipped, nasally accent of a New Englander. “That should kill him rather too painlessly, don’t you think?”
Clint was obviously nervous. “Let’s just go, man. There’s nothing in the house.”
“I would love to talk to him, see what exactly he thought he might accomplish.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“I don’t think you were brought into this organization to think.” Clint was much stronger than Harley, but he flinched as the younger man grabbed him by the shoulder. “You’ve known Mr. Norton for a while.”
Clint shook his head, obviously seeing where this was going. “I did my job. I did exactly what you told me to do.”
“You’ve had a close connection to the family over the years.”
“No, sir. That don’t matter. I don’t play favorites.”
“Then why is Hank Norton’s niece still alive?”
“You told us not to kill any cops.” Clint spoke carefully. “You issued a standing order.”
“And now we’ve got two cops to deal with: one on the run and the other rather curious as to why.”
“I’m sorry. It was my call.”
“It’s good of you to accept the blame, Clint, but your lack of initiative explains your lack of progress in the organization.” Harley turned back to Hank’s house. “Let’s go see if you at least did this correctly.”
“I can’t be responsible if—”
Harley didn’t say anything, but his expression must have spoken volumes.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Clint repeated, fearful, respectful. “We can go in through the back door.”
Both men went into Hank’s house. Lena could hear furniture being knocked over, glass breaking, as they moved through the rooms. There was an old cliché that said there were two types of people: leaders and followers. Harley was a leader, but so was Ethan. There was no way the two of them could be working together. Neither man would take orders. Neither would put up with each other’s attitude. Put them in the same room, and you might as well sit back for the most violent cock-fight of your life.
The kitchen door opened. Harley came out of the house and walked down the stairs with a spring in his step.
For his part, Clint was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as if he had been sick.
“Find the cops,” Harley tossed over his shoulder. “Both of them. Find out what they know, and if they give the right answers, find a way to persuade them to go on their merr
y way.”
“And if they give the wrong answers?”
“Initiative, Clint.” Harley clapped him on the shoulder again, bowed his head as if in prayer. “‘O, God of vengeance, let your glorious justice be seen’!”
Clint seemed uneasy, but he stood there quietly until Harley raised his head. Still, he waited a few more seconds before leading Harley back toward the gate.
As soon as they were gone, Lena slid out from under the truck. She ran so fast out of the backyard that her heart felt like it was going to explode. She found the Mercedes and rolled down all four windows, listening for the motorcycle’s pipes as she drove, having to backtrack a few times before she was able to find Harley stopped at a red light outside the library. A white sedan was in front of the bike, and she assumed that Clint was behind the wheel.
The light turned green and the sedan went to the left. Harley went straight, and she followed the bike. The Mercedes’ headlights were off, and Lena slowed, hanging back so Harley wouldn’t see her. Ideally, two cars were used in a tail, but Lena was hardly in a position to have such luxury. She just kept back as far as she could and hoped Harley wasn’t the kind of driver who was constantly checking his rearview mirror. She sure as hell was checking hers. Clint could have all too easily have looped around to see if Harley was being followed.
He hadn’t, though, at least as far as Lena could see. The road behind her remained clear. When she saw the bike turn into what looked like an abandoned warehouse, she kept on going, steering the car up the hill and finding a spot where she could view what was going on below without being spotted.
She had spent two nights watching the warehouse, grabbing some sleep at the school before making the long journey back to the motel in Florida to regroup during the day. The second night back, she’d brought the camera. Through the lens, she’d been able to better see who was going in and out of the building—the usual suspects, plus a few surprises. It was the surprises that made her start to see her way out of this for the first time since she’d arrived in Reese. Lena just needed to get Jeffrey and Sara out of harm’s way, then she would make her move.
Between the motel, the digital camera, and gas for the car, Lena had blown eleven hundred dollars of Hank’s emergency cash. She figured she could find a twenty-four-hour Kinko’s somewhere and make copies of the camera’s flashcard. Photocopies were cheap, and her log of the comings and goings at the abandoned warehouse were meticulous.
Hank had obviously found out something about these guys and their operation. Harley had said as much that first time she had seen him at the house. He’d spoke about Hank’s downward spiral in terms of vengeance, and you did not seek revenge on somebody unless they struck at you first. Hank must have tried to play the mother of all poker hands and got caught in a bluff—either that, or they had attacked him at his weakest point, his addiction. He must have fought them at first, but once he got hooked back on the dope again, the struggle was over.
Lena didn’t share her uncle’s weaknesses, at least not where drugs were concerned. All she wanted out of this was freedom—not justice, not money, not vengeance, though God knew Charlotte and Deacon deserved retribution. Lena couldn’t think about either of them now because it was the living she had to protect. Charlotte still had a family. There was still Hank, Sara, and Jeffrey to think about. Lena couldn’t afford to bluff. Whether Ethan was behind this or someone else, it didn’t matter. First thing in the morning, she was going to lay all her cards on the table.
With the right hand, she might be able to win back some lives. If she lost her own in the process, so be it.
FRIDAY
CHAPTER 23
JEFFREY HAD FORGOTTEN what it felt like to wake up feeling like a human being. While he was under no illusion that the Holiday Inn of Beaulah, Georgia, was a pantheon of hygienic bliss, all he cared about was that the place looked clean. The sheets were crisp white, the pillows fluffed and inviting. The carpet showed tracks from the rigorous vacuuming and didn’t stick to the bottom of his feet when he walked across the floor. Room service came hot and fresh. The staff seemed happy to be there—at least none of the maids had cursed at him. Best of all, the bathroom was as close to heaven as he’d been in a while: the shower had been strong enough to take the hide off an ox and the toilet flushed without an ominous gurgle.
Sara must have felt the same way. She slept so soundly he had actually woken her up to make sure she was okay. And then, since she was awake, he’d persuaded her to stay that way a little longer. Then a little longer still. By the time the sun peeked in between the gap in the curtains, she lay spent, her leg thrown over his, her head resting on his chest. Jeffrey stroked her arm, his mind unable to stay distracted without Sara’s help. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something had changed about her lately. Sex had turned much more intense, and at one point this morning he’d felt like she was holding on to him out of fear rather than passion.
The explosion at Hank’s bar had scared her. Hell, it had scared him. Jeffrey kept thinking about what Jake Valentine had told him, that his wife refused to have a child until she was certain her husband would be around to help raise it. When he was Valentine’s age, Jeffrey would have laughed if someone had told him he’d be adopting a kid one day. He had always assumed that he would end up with Sara, but never that they would have a family together. Somehow, it made him feel even closer to her, like there was something greater in their lives now than just going to work during the week and staying in bed all weekend. Was that how Hank Norton had felt when he’d taken in Lena and Sibyl? Had blood made him feel an even deeper connection?
Jeffrey’s cell phone was on the bedside table. He checked it again to make sure all the bars showed the strongest signal and that the battery was fully charged. It had rained all night, a hard, heavy rain that had tapped on their window like a witch trying to get in. Through the heavy curtains, he could see the sun shining. He hoped that the new day would bring some clarity. He had a decision to make: whether to go forward trying to help Lena or to take his wife and go home.
Sara had told him the details of Lena’s call as they’d driven to the hotel last night. She had tried to downplay it, but the fact that Lena had cut her close to the bone was obvious. Jeffrey hadn’t known about Lena’s abortion. That Lena would rub it in Sara’s face was enough for him to turn his back on her forever. Oddly, it was Sara who told him to see past the other woman’s words. She was used to dealing with children, and she thought that Lena’s hurtful words were an obvious ploy to get them to leave town. One of the last things she’d said on the subject was that maybe it would be wise to listen to Lena for a change.
Neither one of them could get over the possibility that Hank Norton might be Lena’s real father. Growing up in central Alabama, Jeffrey knew several jokes that called for the phrase, “uncle-daddy,” but there was nothing to laugh about now. What would Lena do if she found out? Or, did she already know? Is that why she had been mute when Valentine found her on the football field? Did the death of Charlotte Warren somehow tie into Lena’s questionable parentage?
Larry Gibson had provided some background information on his wife’s connection to Lena. Charlotte had been friends with Sibyl, Lena’s sister, when all three girls were in high school. Like most school-time attachments, they had lost touch over the years, but they had obviously reestablished contact, otherwise there was no reason for Lena to be on that football field.
Jeffrey stared up at the shadows on the ceiling, listening to Sara breathe. His arm was going to sleep, so he slid out from under her and got out of bed. The clock read seven-sixteen, but Jeffrey felt as if he’d slept ten hours. They had asked for the highest floor in the hotel, both of them thinking but not saying it’d be nice to know that a body couldn’t be thrown up to the tenth-story window. The only thing available was a small suite—a luxury, to be sure, but one that Jeffrey was willing to splurge on.
The suite wasn’t the sort of lavish affair you saw on television. It was
really just two hotel rooms with a connecting door. Instead of a bed in the adjacent room, there was a couch with two chairs and a television. Jeffrey turned on the TV and muted the sound. ESPN showed two talking heads who’d been on a football field for maybe ten minutes before running for the sports desk and packing on sixty pounds. He flipped the channel, watching the ticker scroll on CNN for a few minutes, then switched to MSNBC and watched the ticker there. They were both pretty much the same, so he flipped again, scrolling through all the stations until he stopped on the Discovery Channel, where a man had his arm stuck shoulder deep up a cow’s ass.
Jeffrey didn’t want to tie up his cell phone so he picked up the receiver by the couch and used his calling card to check their messages at home. No one had called, so he hung up and dialed the station. He entered the code and accessed his work voice mail. There were six calls, three from the mayor, who wanted to know why Jeffrey hadn’t cracked down on the teenage hooligans who were kicking over trashcans up and down his street. The next two were from the county lawyer, asking details on various cases that were about to come to trial. The last call was from Frank Wallace, telling Jeffrey he’d already listened to all the messages and taken care of everything, including arresting a group of boys for kicking over trashcans up and down the mayor’s street. Frank wanted his boss to know that the lead hooligan had been none other than the mayor’s teenage son. Jeffrey smiled as he returned the phone to the cradle.
“Hey.” Sara stood in the doorway. She had thrown on his shirt but hadn’t buttoned it, and he could see just about every favorite part of her where the material fell to the side.
He made a halfhearted effort to stop the appreciative sound in his throat from coming out.
She smiled and pulled the shirt closed as she walked toward him. “You should be sleeping.”
“So should you.”
She sat beside him, tucking the shirt underneath her, wrinkling her nose at the television. “What is this, some kind of animal pornography?”