Forty-Eight
A thin fog hugged the turf, early sunlight catching in all the tiny dew droplets clinging to the grass. Voices echoed off the stadium seating as sellers set up their tents and unpacked boxes of sale items. Maggie worked side by side with Jackie, arranging their smaller offerings on black-draped folding tables. The larger items – furniture and old bicycles, Mina’s baby gear – were set up at the back of their tent, where they’d be out of the way of the foot traffic.
Maggie didn’t know what to think about Jackie, so she’d decided, for the moment, not to think about her at all. She was here, she was helping, she was acting more like her normal self, so Maggie was shelving the tension until it was a better time to deal with it.
“Where do you want these to go, Mrs. T?” Leah asked, popping up on the other side of the table with a baggie full of hand-labeled price tags.
“It should say on each tag,” Maggie said. “Here’s the ribbons that you can use to tie them on.” She handed over a second baggie. “If there’s no label on one, come get me.”
Leah took the baggie and whisked away. “Sure thing.”
“Her family’s not operating a booth today?” Jackie asked when she was gone.
“Her mother’s a bit of a pack rat. I don’t guess they had anything to donate.”
“Do they know she’s here with us?”
“My guess?” Maggie made a face. “No. The Cooks were always good to Ava, but I don’t think their MC tolerance would stretch this far. No way would they want Leah here with us after what happened two days ago.”
“I figured as much.”
Harry and Carter returned from the truck with the Lean Dogs MC banner held between them.
Harry wrinkled his nose, a move that scrunched up his freckles and made the resemblance to his namesake even stronger. “You sure you want us to hang this?”
Maggie glanced across the tent-packed football field, the milling Knoxville residents unloading boxes and handcarts. “Yeah. Put it up. That’s kind of the point of this whole thing.”
Her hands stilled on the collection of holiday cheese knives she was laying out, attention fully on the black and white banner as the two boys climbed up on folding chairs and tacked each end to the front of their tent. The running black dog seemed to be leaping off the canvas as the breeze caught the banner and rippled it.
Two women at the tent across from them glanced up, first casually, and then doing double-takes as they processed the banner. One, a plump, gray-haired grandmotherly thing, let her eyes fall to Maggie’s face, her mouth slightly open with shock. She wondered the same thing that everyone on this field was going to wonder: How could any of them show themselves at a public function after two people had died on their doorstep?
Olivia came around with her clipboard, signing tent-runners in, at seven-fifteen. Maggie was convinced the woman had burned every pair of jeans she owned the day the ink dried on the divorce papers. Casual was not a word in her repertoire.
This morning, she wore white twill pants and a salmon-colored turtleneck sweater that could only have been real cashmere. Her gold brooch, some sort of long-necked bird, a swan maybe, was studded with rubies mirrored in her earrings. Her severe haircut was, as usual, softened with the entire Estée Lauder collection, carefully applied. Her black flats left wet scuff marks on the grass.
She pulled up in front of the table without taking her eyes from her clipboard, an obvious snub.
“No, you’re not dreaming,” Maggie said with false brightness. “We showed up.”
Olivia glanced up slowly, lips pursed. “I can see that.”
“And who knows,” Maggie said, “maybe the lucky bastard who buys that old cabinet will find the brick of cocaine I forgot was taped to the bottom.”
For a second, Olivia looked like she almost smiled. Then she clicked out her pen and scribbled on her board. “You have to be broken down and cleared out by four,” she instructed. “Leave your tent abandoned at any point, and it will be taken down for you, and you will be unable to continue selling.”
Maggie gave her a mock salute as she moved on to the next table.
Beside her, Jackie said, “It’d take a talented surgeon to retrieve the stick up her ass. It must have worked its way up to her throat by now.”
Maggie snorted and bumped her shoulder into Jackie’s in silent thanks.
“I’ve decided Ava owes me,” Leah announced. She sat in a folding chair, clinking two of the holiday cheese knives together absently, tiny chin propped on one tiny upraised fist. “She’s off on a New Orleans honeymoon while I sell her old kid shoes to people who won’t even look at us.”
She sat up straight and clapped her hand over her mouth, turning to give Maggie a wide-eyed look over her shoulder.
“It’s okay.” Maggie laughed. “She told me they got married.”
“Oh, thank God.” Leah sagged back into her slump. “I didn’t want to be the bean-spiller.”
Maggie didn’t miss the way Carter looked over at them sharply from his place propped against a tent pole.
“They got married?”
She nodded.
His expression wasn’t a smile, but it wasn’t a frown either. “Good,” he said. “He should have stepped up a long time ago.”
Maggie smiled. “You think so?”
“Don’t you?”
“Well yes, but it’s established that I’m a bad mother.”
Leah and Carter rolled their eyes as a unit, with identical “ugh” sounds.
“Excuse me,” an unfamiliar voice said.
Maggie almost fell off her chair when she saw a potential customer standing at their front table, examining Mina’s collection of old baby clothes. She jumped up to her feet with too much enthusiasm and said, “Yes, can I help you?”
The woman was young, probably Ava’s age, dressed in a faded blue sweater and jeans, very thin save the small baby bump filling out the sweater in front. She was pale, dark-haired, and had frightened eyes, when she lifted them to Maggie’s face. “How much are these outfits?” she asked in a timid voice.
Maggie had the feeling her meekness was natural, and not a reaction to the banner overhead. She felt a softening for this young mother-to-be, reminded of her own daughter, wondering if Ava would come back from the swamp with a tiny burden of her own.
“Tell you what,” she said, “how ‘bout five bucks for the whole lot of them.”
The girl’s pale eyes widened in shock. “But…”
There had to be at least twenty little outfits laid out, complete with matching shoes.
“Five bucks,” Maggie said, smiling, “and I’ll know they went to a good home.”
The girl nodded, reaching into her purse for a crumpled five as Maggie and Leah bagged the clothes.
“My name’s Maggie,” she said, as she handed the bags over to the girl. “Maggie Teague. My husband’s the president of the Lean Dogs MC. If you ever need any help, you feel free to give me a call.” And in one slick move, passed a business card into the girl’s hand.
The girl nodded, a faint smile touching the corners of her mouth. “Thank you so much.”
When she was gone, Maggie sank back down onto her chair. “It’s not much, but it’s a start in the goodwill department.”
The boys showed up around nine-thirty. Maggie left the tent to meet Ghost. As she leaned in to kiss him, she whispered, “You look scary as hell, which, I’m guessing, isn’t the vibe you were going for.”
He scowled as he pulled back, which only furthered the effect of his all-black and shades and perma-frown.
“What’s wrong with the way I look?”
“I just told you; you look scary.”
He pushed his shades up into his hair and she bit back a laugh. His eyes were more intimidating than the glasses had been.
“Hi, boys,” she greeted the rest of the crew.
The responding hellos were tired and half-hearted.
Maggie lowered her voice, the laughter bleeding out of her. “Have you heard from Aidan today?”
He nodded. They’d talk about the particulars later.
Ghost turned his attention to the tent. “Sold anything yet?”
“A little, not a lot.” She nodded toward the surrounding tents, and the looks the people in them were shooting the knot of Dogs. “More stares than anything.”
He made a disgruntled sound. “Yeah, well…we’re gonna stroll. See if we can’t be seen being…”
“Less threatening than you are right now?” she supplied helpfully.
“Something like that.”
She kissed him again, before they walked off. “Watch out for Olivia. She’s circling through like a shark in cashmere.”
He gave a dramatic shudder. As they moved off, Maggie surveyed their tent full of unsold items, poor bored Leah and Carter, playing catch with a rolled up ball of masking tape, Harry napping in a sunny patch. Jackie had gone to the concession stand for coffee, but wasn’t back yet.
“I’m gonna stretch my legs. I’ll be right back in a few minutes,” she told Leah. “Then you guys can go walk around if you want. It’s gonna be a long day; we might as well not all be stuck here the whole time.”
Leah nodded. “That’ll be good.”
“Back in a few.” She tapped Harry on the knee as she passed. “Watch the kids, honey.”
“Yes’m,” he murmured sleepily.
“Don’t I just love the sight of a man in uniform.” That’s what Mercy would have said. The words popped into Ghost’s mind as he approached Vince Fielding, and he almost smiled. Mercy was his ice breaker, his Jolly Cajun Giant, who could get away with saying whatever he damned wanted because no one wanted to climb up on a stepladder and stop him.
Damn it, he did love the monster, as one of his most-valued brothers. Maggie was right. Wasn’t she always? He was going to have to get right with the idea of Mercy and Ava together. Both were necessary fixtures in his life. And, because Maggie was right yet again, it eliminated a whole slew of uncomfortable moments between himself and some yuppie son-in-law he despised. There would be nothing but Dogs at his table come Thanksgiving, and that was a good thing.
He refocused.
“I feel so safe, knowing the good sergeant’s here to keep a lid on things,” he said, as his brothers spread out, ranging beside him in the aisle between the tents, forming a loose half-circle around the sergeant. “Don’t you boys agree?”
“Completely,” Walsh said in a bored voice.
“I feel safe as shit,” Dublin said.
Fielding turned to face them with an expression that reminded Ghost of his long-dead grandmother: sour enough to curdle milk. “What are you guys doing here? Trying to incite a riot?”
“We’ve got a booth,” Ghost said, mildly, hands settling on his hips. “You’re not suggesting I be denied my right to contribute to the city’s charitable functions, are you?”
“I’m suggesting someone might take a pop at you, given what’s been happening.”
They were drawing curious glances from passersby and the sellers manning tents. Most of those looks were tinged with open hostility. Even hatred, in the flat features of a few soccer moms.
Ghost lifted his brows. “Worried about us?”
“Hardly.”
“Since you brought up ‘what’s been happening,’ have you talked to the drive-by shooter yet?”
Fielding’s face became guarded. Ah, so he’d realized all the Carpathians were MIA. “I don’t have an ID.”
“Shame. Here’s hoping whoever it was just kept on driving. He’s probably not even in town anymore.”
Fielding’s lips compressed, jaw clenching. “Probably not.”
With a gesture, the Dogs moved on at a casual pace, eyeing the yard sale wares, trying to look as innocuous as possible.
Ghost leaned in close to Fielding before he followed them, his voice just audible between the two of them. “Just a heads up, Vince. What you’re doing to my club? It’s not going to be a smart move for you in the long run.”
When he joined his crew again, he did a fast headcount. Collier was missing.
**
Shade was hard to come by out on the football field. It was only ten, but the sun was at a hard slant and climbing, and without a screen of clouds, it poured relentless across the open stretch of tent-studded grass. Maggie regretted her waffle weave shirt and denim jacket in a big way.
She bought a cold bottle of water at the concession stand and leaned against the chain link fence as she sipped it, watching the bustle of the sale. Olivia had been right. It was a big event, and it was drawing a sizable crowd. She watched shoppers pick through piles of secondhand goods and new handmade art pieces. Local artisans had taken advantage of the turnout, and were selling knitted scarves, hand-tooled leather purses; someone had used old barn wood to make decorative signs. Then there was the usual assortment of clothes, old shoes, kids’ toys and unwanted furniture. Items were moving, people backing trucks and minivans up to the field’s entrance to load their purchases.
She sighed. Had the state of affairs with the club and the city been different, she would have unloaded all of her crap by now.
Through the crowd, she caught a glimpse of salmon and turned away. “Shit.” She didn’t want Olivia gloating in her face about what a miserable show of goodwill this had turned out to be.
There was a line of blue porta-potties on the other side of the gate, and she bypassed them with a muttered “yeah right.” They were discouraging yard salers from entering the school, but like hell did she need to pee badly enough to go into one of those blue boxes. She’d risk getting chastised by some errant PE coach.
She entered the nearest set of double doors and stepped into a long cool hallway that smelled like locker rooms. She spied the signs up high along the ceiling, marking just that, and kept walking, heels clipping over the white tile. She’d just walk a little farther, find a restroom deeper in the school.
Behind her, she heard one of the heavy metal doors grate open. The light swelled around her. And then it closed with a sharp slam.
She turned and saw a man haloed in the incoming light from the windows. He’d taken four steps toward her before she recognized him.
“Jace?”
He came closer, and his face became more clear to her, as the sunlight faded behind him. He looked like hell. His eyes were runny and red, the lids puffy. His lips were chapped and his hair dirty and greasy. His pupils, she noticed, were too large, and they hadn’t reacted to the change in light.
“Mags,” he said, taking still another step. He was shaking all over, his hand unsteady as he pushed it through his hair. “Mags, you gotta help me. You gotta talk to Ghost and make him understand.”
“Understand what?” She frowned. “How’d you know I was in here? What did you take, Jace? You’re high out of your mind.”
Proving her point, he gripped both sides of his head and grimaced, like her rapid-fire questions caused him pain. “I…I need to talk to you. I knew I couldn’t go to Ghost. He wouldn’t understand. He…Christ, look what happened to Andre! Ghost thinks I’m a rat, too. You’ve got to explain it to him.”
His hand shot out, faster than she expected, and locked onto her forearm, squeezing until she felt the bones grind together.
She tried to wrench away. “Are you a rat, Jace?”
“No,” he snarled with sudden violence. Then he softened. “Please, Mags–”
“Let go!” She managed to twist free and took a step back. Her heart leapt hard against her breastbone. All the warning sirens were going off in her head, telling her to get away as fast as she could.
She lifted her chin. “I don’t know where you’ve been, or what you’ve done. Take it up with Ghost. It’s not my problem.”
He grimaced again and made another reach for her that she dodged. “Please, Maggie! You have to help me!”
Run, her conscience shouted. Run, run, run!
“Go outside and get some coffee,” she said. “And do your explaining to your brothers. They’ll listen to you, whatever you have to say.”
He shook his head furiously. “No they won’t. They won’t! I told Fielding – I told the cops. Oh, Christ, I did a bad thing. Very bad.” He ducked his chin and knotted his hands together and looked like a child who wanted to throw himself down and weep.
“What did you tell Fielding?” Maggie asked carefully, edging another step back.
“Everything,” he whispered, anguished. “The mayor wanted…and Fielding said…”
God, he’d ratted all of them out. All that nosing around Fielding had done at Dartmoor, asking about old crimes, stirring up records that had nothing to do with the Carpathians. The mayor wanted the Dogs behind bars, and he was taking no chances. If the Carpathians didn’t get them, and the feds didn’t have enough to make a RICO case, then he’d pick them off one by one, fed by the confessions of rats.
Maggie took another step. She didn’t think she could get around him and to the door. She didn’t know if he’d be able to catch her as intoxicated as he was.
“You have to help me,” he burst out, head lifting suddenly, unfocused eyes pinning to her face. “You have to–” He saw her foot shift back, and his lips skinned back off his teeth. “Don’t walk away from me!”
She bolted.
Maggie took off at a sprint toward the opposite end of the hall, chucking the water bottle over her head, not knowing if it hit him, not daring to slow down and check. His boots thundered after her and she wished running was still part of her workout routine. She concentrated on her calves and thighs, willing the muscles to stretch and work. Jace panted behind her, gaining ground it sounded like. Her heart jackhammered and her lungs burned. She wouldn’t allow herself to think about what would happen if he caught her.
The hall ended in a T and Maggie swung left, making an empty grab at the wall for balance as she skidded around the corner. She tripped, staggered. Gasped. “God!” She landed on one knee and the impact rattled up through her spine, hitting her in the teeth and the base of the skull, knocking the breath from her.
She tossed a frantic look over her shoulder as she climbed to her feet.
Jace wasn’t looking at her. He’d ground to a halt, back at the intersection of the halls, staring back the way they’d come, toward the doors.
His mouth opened as if to speak –
And a gunshot blasted through the cinderblock hall, a blast like dynamite in the close confines.
Maggie watched, frozen, as Jace caught the round in the chest and glanced down in disbelief at the red stain spreading across his shirt. Like a toy running out of battery power, he sank back in slow motion, legs finally going to rubber, and slumped back against the wall. His head lolled onto his chest. Dead.
Maggie heard the heavy tread of boots coming toward her and began to shiver, gathering herself for another run.
It was Collier who stepped into view, his gun in hand, not a trace of sympathy on his face as he looked down at his slain brother.
He glanced over at Maggie. “You okay?”
She nodded.
Then there was the sound of the doors flying open with screeching sounds. A tumble of voices, footfalls, moving toward them.
“Hands up!” someone shouted. “Drop your weapon and put your hands behind your head!”
Collier complied without hesitation, turning to face the stampeding noise of the police.
Fielding stepped into view, face a thunderhead. He forced Collier down onto his knees and cuffed him as two officers went to Jace, and a third came toward her, saying, “Ma’am, come with me please.”
“I killed Jace Bagwell,” Collier said, calmly. “And Andre Preston. And Mason Stephens Jr. and Ronnie Archer. I killed all of them.”