The Sinner
Jo shook her head. “Anyway, so you said your cousin got you into the military? What branch? Or was it, like, Special Forces?”
“Yes, something like covert ops. We fought for… years over in the Old Country. Then the focus of the conflict changed course and I came to America with the leader of my squadron. After some… reorientation… we fell in line with the powerful male I work for the now. And that brings us up to date.”
Jo thought of the flash of attraction she had felt when she had seen him in all that leather, with all those weapons on his body. He had seemed so thrilling and mysterious. Now, she confronted the reality of what the guns and knives were used for. What they did. What his body had done to other bodies.
“What would you be doing with your life if the war hadn’t happened?”
There was a pause. “I would have been a farmer.” He shifted in his seat. “I would have liked to have a plot of land I could cultivate. Some animals to care for—horses to ride, cows to graze and milk. I would have liked… to be one with the earth.”
As Syn seemed to become steeped in sorrow, he lifted his palms and stared down at them, and she imagined he was picturing his hands in good topsoil, or traveling down the flank of a healthy horse, or cradling a newborn calf.
“A farmer,” she said softly.
“Aye.” He put his palms down on his thighs. “But that is not how things went.”
They were silent for a while. Then she felt compelled to say, “I believe you. Everything you said, I believe.”
He leaned to the side and rooted around inside his leather jacket. Taking out a slim wallet, he presented her with a laminated card.
“Here’s my driver’s license.” When she shook her head, he put it up in front of her. “No, let’s do it all. That’s who I am, but the address is an old flophouse where I stayed with my brothers.”
She glanced at what he held out. The name listed was Sylvester Neste. And the street was like “Maple Court,” or something equally all-American.
He took the license back. “As I said, I’m living with the male—man, I mean, and his family. I’ve got no wife, no kids, and never will. So you know everything about my current status.”
Jo opened her mouth to say something, but he cut her off. “And here’s my telephone number.”
He recited seven digits. Twice. “You want me to write it down for you? There’s a pen right here.”
Taking her Bic out of the drink cup holder, he bent down and fished around the Slim Jim wrappers at his feet. Wrote his number on the back of a Hershey’s wrapper. Tucked the number into the drink cup holder and put the pen back where it had been.
“Any questions for me?” he said evenly as he tucked his wallet away.
Jo looked over at him. “I’m not going to pretend to be comfortable with some of the things you stated. But it’s… they’re the reason I think you’re being honest, though.”
“I withheld nothing.”
“I feel like I should apologize for forcing you to talk.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’m a stranger and this is a dangerous time. There’s nothing wrong with taking care of yourself.” He brushed the top of his Mohawk. “Also, I have no Facebook page. No social media anything. Who gives a shit about all that. I also do not have an email address, and I do not put money into the banking system.”
“At all? So how are you paid?”
“In cash, and I will not apologize for being off the grid. No one should trust the government.”
She laughed dryly. “I don’t judge you on that.”
“It is what it is—and feel free to verify everything. I’ll give you my Social Security number if you want? But I’ll tell you that it’s one that was bought and paid for on the black market. I don’t really exist in the records of the world you live in.”
“Syn.” She briefly shut her eyes. “I didn’t mean to turn this into an inquest.”
“Do you want my Social Security number?”
“No. I don’t.”
As they came up to a four-lane byway, she braked at a red light and took a right. She didn’t expect him to say anything. Ever again.
“I’m not a hero, Jo.” He put his elbow on his window’s jamb and propped his hard chin on his knuckles. “I have no future, and a past I don’t waste time thinking about. I’ve got this moment here and now, and even when it comes to that, I’m only halfway present. You spoke the truth. I’m a joke.”
“I didn’t mean that,” she said sharply.
“Yes, you did. And I’m not hurt by the truth. Why should I be hurt by the reflection of myself in the mirror of your eyes?”
“Syn…”
Jo looked over at his profile. With his Mohawk and his hooded eyes focused on the road ahead, he looked like exactly what he’d told her he was. A military man who had seen the very worst of humanity, been at the mercy of governments and greedy politicians, and learned that trust was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
“I’d like to tell you I’m sorry,” she said.
“No sympathy, remember?”
“I didn’t express any.” She briefly took both hands off the wheel and held them up. “I only said I wanted to tell you that. I also wish I could tell you that you’re anything but a joke, and that I’m grateful you talked with me. Somehow, I don’t think you talk much about yourself and I can see why. I’m very sad about your past.” As he opened his mouth, she shook her head and cut him off. “I didn’t say any of that, though. I’m just expressing what I wish I could say.”
His mouth twitched on one side, like he was trying not to smile. “You’re exploiting a loophole.”
“Next time define your terms better, then.”
“Aye.” He looked over at her. “I shall do that.”
After a moment, he reached over and gave her a little squeeze on the knee. When his hand stayed put, she covered the back of it with her own.
“I’m truly sorry,” she whispered softly.
Syn pulled his arm back, removing the contact, and then he cleared his throat.
“So where are we going?” he asked brusquely, as if he were closing a door.
And throwing a dead bolt on the thing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Outside of the Brotherhood’s downtown garage, Butch grabbed onto his dead sister’s friend’s arm to keep her from collapsing onto the dirty sidewalk. Mel McCarthy was badly beaten, in a way no woman ever should be.
“What the hell happened to you?”
Mel grabbed onto the lapels of his leather jacket with torn-up hands. “Oh, God, Butch…”
As she looked up at him, blood dropped out of her nose and landed on the bodice of her pale pink bustier, widening the bright red stain that had formed over her left breast. There was also a nasty abrasion on the side of her face that was likewise leaking, and around her throat, ligature marks were a ruddy band in her pale skin. And the injuries continued from there. A dull scratch ran from her collarbone into her cleavage, and below the waist her black skirt was off-kilter and her black fishnet stockings were ripped, more blood running down the bare skin of her thighs from cuts and scrapes.