Forty
The doorbell chimed at seven-fifty-three. Maggie was ready, sitting at the table in jeans, white silk shirt, and her favorite slip-on around-the-house shoes, little leather clogs Ghost told her were too ugly to be seen out of doors. She took one last swallow of her coffee, stood, and made her way through the house toward the front door.
Harry sat on the sofa, watching the morning news, and was half-out of his seat. “You want me to get that?”
“No, just sit tight,” she told him. She didn’t doubt, at this point, that he’d come running if she yelled.
It had been a tense twenty-four hours since she’d waved Ava and Mercy down the street yesterday morning. It was one thing to send her little girl off to college; quite another to send her off to hide in the swamp while the disappearances of two rich boys blew over. She kept waiting for the phone to ring, the bell to chime, some imaginary bomb to go off. Her first thought, as she’d listened to the doorbell, had been Thank God. Waiting was terrible. She’d rather face interrogation than sit on her hands and wait for something to happen.
The man on the front step looked like he was Aidan’s age; close-cut hair and a broad face that didn’t lend itself well to expression. He was dressed in jeans and a sport coat, sneakers. She didn’t miss the shiny flash of a badge at his belt.
Maggie put a benign smile on her face and opened the door by a third, so she filled the threshold. “Can I help you?”
His eyes did an up-down sweep of her before landing on her face. She knew what he was looking for: visible tattoos, tits hanging out, lit cigarette and a bad dye job on her hair. All the old clichés. She took satisfaction in the veiled surprise in his gaze. Her tats were nobody’s business but Ghost’s, and she’d be damned if she walked around looking like a hot mess.
“Margaret Teague?” he asked.
“Maggie,” she corrected, wrinkling her nose.
“Margaret is such a grandmother name.” Which, given the state of things with Mercy and Ava, she’d earn that title at some point in the near future.
He lifted his brows.
“Yeah, that’s me. And you are?”
“Agent Grey, ma’am, FBI.” He brushed his coat away from his waist so she could see the badge better. “I’d like to have a word with your daughter. Ava.”
So this was Ronnie’s handler. Maggie kept her face carefully blank.
When she was sixteen, a cop had come to the door of Ghost’s apartment once, wanting to have a look around, trying to make an unwarranted search. She’d told him no – she knew the law – but she’d been quivering and chewing at her lip, knees shaking. When Ghost got home, she’d thrown herself into his arms. “I was so scared,” she’d admitted, tears streaming down her face. “Is he going to arrest you?”
“No, baby,” Ghost had assured. “He’s just being a pain in the ass. Don’t ever be afraid to tell somebody like that to get the fuck out.”
She’d never done that – she prided herself on having more grace than her man – but over the years, she’d learned to go Teflon-faced and let all these boys in brass just slide right off her. She should play poker, she reflected. Nobody could crack her.
She let her smile widen at the corners, a move he hadn’t expected, judging by his responding frown. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you missed her. She just left for school ten minutes ago.”
“Where? At UT? Can I find here there now?”
“You probably could.” She propped her shoulder in the doorjamb, casual, relaxed. “But I have no idea what her schedule is or which building she’s in.”
His frown deepened. “What about after school?”
“Sometimes she comes by my office, sometimes she comes home, visits with her friends.” She shrugged. “You know how kids are; they get grown and you can’t ever pin them down anymore. But if you have a card to leave, I can have her call you.”
He shoved both hands in his pockets, clearly pissed off at this point. Not so elegant, this agent. “I’m also looking for Ava’s boyfriend, Ronnie Archer. I understand he came to Tennessee with her.”
“Ronnie.” Maggie smiled. “Sweet kid, really. Not ever what I expected her to bring home, what with growing up with these biker boys and all.” She chuckled. “And here comes clean-cut Ronnie with his real Polo and his hair gel. He’s adorable.”
“Yeah,” Grey said, flatly. “I’ve heard. But where is he?”
“Out somewhere buying a Porsche or something, I guess. I dunno. I have no idea what he does while Ava’s at school. As you can imagine, he doesn’t exactly” – she dropped her voice – “fit in around my house. He and my hubby avoid one another when they can.”
“I can imagine.”
“But like I said, leave your card, and I’ll have them both call you. What did you say your name was?”
“Grey.” His right hand withdrew from his pocket, and in it, a business card. “It’s imperative that I speak with both of them as soon as possible.”
Maggie gave him a little mock salute with the card. “I’ll tell them.”
Then she shut the door in his face and turned the deadbolt. As she walked back into the living room, she took a photo of the card with her phone and texted it to Ghost. The fed, she said in her message. For Ratchet. Then she deleted the text, and fired one off to Ava.
How r u this morning?
Layla, not knowing what they would prefer, had packed a mix of peanut butter, roast beef, and turkey sandwiches. They decided to save the peanut butter for later, since it wouldn’t spoil, and they each took half a turkey and have a roast beef, so they could mix it up. They ate on the grass median strip in front of a Texaco somewhere outside Montgomery, Alabama, cross-legged amid the empty drive-through cups and cigarette butts that littered the short turf. The sun was warm, and Ava shed her jacket, enjoying the heat on her skin as she chewed and watched the activity of the gas station from behind the lenses of her shades.
Mercy had eaten, as always, like a hungry dog gulping its food, and had stretched out on his back, hands behind his head, his giant dirty boots in her lap.
“Do you think my old place is still available?” he asked without any real concern, entranced by the cloud patterns above them.
“It might be. You want Mom to go by and see? Maybe we could wire a deposit check from New Orleans. It’d be waiting on us when we got back.” Waiting on us…because they were a unit now. Ghost could be as angry as he wanted; Mercy was her husband, and she’d be living with him. The idea sent a thrill through her.
“I dunno.” He sighed and his great chest lifted and then dropped again. “Maybe.” His head turned toward her. “Or maybe you want a real house. Somewhere bigger. That doesn’t smell like bread all the time.”
“You married me,” she said with a snort. “If the place doesn’t smell like bread, it’s gonna smell like burnt toast.”
He grinned. “Nah. You can at least make toast.”
“Oh, you think? Unwrapping a candy bar is a culinary feat for me.”
His face moved like he was rolling his eyes behind his sunglasses. “Well, grad student, you could learn.”
“That hasn’t proved very effective in the past.”
“That’s ‘cause every time you screwed something up, your mom stepped in. How’s it go – you gotta crack a few eggs?”
“I don’t think that has anything to do with cooking. Or eggs.”
“I’ll teach you,” he offered. “The things I know how to make, anyway.”
She grinned and lifted her brows. “You’ll teach me?”
“Hey, I’m French, baby. I can cook.”
“I thought you were only a quarter French.”
“A quarter’s all you need,” he said smugly.
Ava let her head fall back, face sun-warmed, her laughter breathy and happy. “Will you do the Julia Child accent? I think that would really accelerate my learning.”
He opened his mouth, and for a second, she thought he meant to do it, then he chuckled and pressed his head back on the grass. Most of his hair had come loose and fanned around his face, black silk in the sunlight. “God, you’re a brat.”
“A brat that you married.”
“Don’t remind me.”
She crumpled up her tin foil, set it aside, and slapped at his boots. “Sit up. I need to check your shoulder.” There was that twinge of guilt again. “I should have done that before.”
He waved her away. “It’s fine. You worry too much.”
She crooked her finger. “Nope. Up you go.”
With an overdramatic groan, he sat and pulled his legs in, so he mirrored her pose, facing her. “Happy?”
“Radiantly.”
“Show off.”
She got up on her knees so their faces were even, and eased his flannel shirt off his shoulder. She passed a hand over the bandage, frowning. “Did you get it wet in the shower last night?”
“Nah. I didn’t wash my hair.”
She sat back. “I’ll redo it again tonight, when we stop.” She realized she had no idea how much farther it was to New Orleans and glanced at his face. “If we’re stopping.”
His expression was sympathetic. “We’ve only got about four hours left. We’ll ride in this evening.”
She nodded and took a deep breath, wondering how much worse the soreness would be by then. “There’s a reason women don’t ride bikes,” she said. “Because only a moron would subject himself to that torture.”
He smiled. “Mama always said I was awful stupid.”
Ava froze, her hands still on his shirt as she straightened it, searching his face with her eyes. He never mentioned his mother.
“What?” he asked. “You know I’m stupid.”
“No, you’re not. Did your mom really tell you that?”
She saw the shutters close over his eyes, the way he locked everything away tight. He shrugged, his face smooth and humorless. “Yeah. Whatever.”
Ava sucked her lower lip between her teeth and debated the wisdom of what she was about to ask. But they were married now. She had a right to her curiosity. “Merc…”
His brows flicked up.
“What’s the thing you won’t tell me about your family? What happened there?”
His smile was slow and grim. “Whatever it was, it happened a long time ago.” He patted the top of her head, like she was still a little girl. “Don’t worry about it.”
She took a breath and turned his words of yesterday back around on him. “That’s one of the perks of being married: I get to worry.”
He shook his head. “Not about this.” He stood and extended a hand for her, his body blocking out the sunlight above her.
“Mercy,” she persisted, as he pulled her up. “You can tell me.”
“Can tell you; won’t tell you.” He bent to pick up her jacket and handed it to her, his expression telling her that he was done with this line of questioning.
“Now who’s being the brat?” she asked.
“You.” He slung his arm around her waist as they started back for the bike. “Always you.”
The answer to the question of Littlejohn’s whereabouts was answered when Maggie pulled into the Hershels’ driveway. The other prospect was parked beside Jackie’s Buick, having a smoke. He nodded to her in greeting as she climbed out of her car. “Ma’am.” And he traded a smooth sliding of palm-against-palm with Harry.
“Jackie’s here alone?” Maggie asked, as she headed up the front walk.
Littlejohn said, “Yes, ma’am.”
Maggie frowned. Something was definitely off. She’d pestered Ghost about it last night, but he’d refused to say anything, shoveling in his dinner and telling her not to worry. Was he kidding? All she could do right now was worry. Her daughter was on the lam and there was an ever-increasing crowd of protesters outside Dartmoor.
Collier and Jackie lived in a modest blue split-level about two miles from downtown, the yard edged with a tangling of jasmine, honeysuckle, and wisteria. There was a flag mounted on the siding above the garage. A pair of wellies beside the welcome mat at the front door.
Maggie rang the bell and Jackie’s face appeared in the sidelight after a long moment of waiting. She looked pale, washed-out, her eyes prominent and her freckles bright by contrast.
Maggie waved through the window. “Can we talk?”
Jackie watched her with an obvious caution, more of that strange expression from outside the flower shop a few days before. Then she nodded and the locks disengaged with a click, door swinging inward.
Jackie had a rumpled look about her, like she hadn’t showered yet; she was dressed in baggy sweats that made her arms look thin and pale. The house was shadowed, like the blinds weren’t open all the way. The air was cold, and it stirred against Maggie’s face as she entered, like she was the first thing to pass through it all day.
Wrong. The word hit her right between the eyes. Something wasn’t just off, it was wrong.
“Are you okay?” she asked, deciding not to beat around the bush.
Jackie left the door standing wide and held onto the knob, leaning against its edge with her shoulder. “Fine.” Her voice was too thin.
Maggie surveyed what she could see from here: the living room and the squishy blue sofas, recliner with the footrest kicked out, magazine open over the arm, kitchen cold and empty. “Is Collier here?”
“No.”
Maggie finally pinned her gaze to her friend, pushing her shades up into her hair. “Where is he?”
Jackie glanced away. “At Dartmoor, I guess. He left early this morning.”
“Did he? Or did he even come home last night?”
Jackie’s eyes snapped back, expression sharpening. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Maggie kept her voice gentle. “No one’s seen him around the clubhouse since early yesterday morning. Ghost has been looking for him.”
Jackie shrugged. “What do you want me to tell you? I’m his wife, not his warden. He was here last night.”
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 reporting 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.”