Chapter Ten

 

Milo

 

I pull to a stop outside Timmy's office – or rather, the burned-out husk that used to be his office. I used the address on the coroner's report to find it, since it isn't one of the bourbon company's offices. A large building sits across the lake from where the office was. That must the resort the desk clerk at the hotel mentioned.

The lake itself is enormous – it takes a bit of a winding route for a couple of miles and is fed by several different rivers. It's always been the perfect place for people to picnic or go swimming and whatnot. There are some cliffs a little further to the north we used to jump off for shits and giggles. Probably not the smartest thing to do, but then again, we weren't the smartest kids around.

I remember when it was Folson Lake – not Lake Sheridan – and there was no fancy resort on it. No cabanas. No cabins. No country club atmosphere. It had just been a lake where we'd go spend some time and cut loose, where we’d hang out.

But hey, progress.

Chain-link fencing has been erected around the building and yellow crime scene tape still flaps in the breeze. I look at the charred pile of rubble and feel that familiar stab of pain shoot through my heart.

I get out of the car and can smell the burned timber in the air. A chain with an open lock dangles loosely on one of the sections of fencing. I pull the fence open and step inside. Walking towards what's left of the building, I stand before it and look at the charred pile.

The fire had been thorough, burning almost everything. And the thought that my little brother died in that flaming heap of shit breaks my heart. I walk around the debris, uncertain of what I'm looking for. Honestly, I’m not sure that I’m looking for anything, really. I guess I'm trying to satisfy my own curiosity and quiet the warning bells sounding off in my head. Damn Marine instincts.

Part of me thinks that I might be grasping at straws here and looking for a deeper meaning where there isn’t any. Back in Afghanistan, I knew that death came with the job. As grim and morbid as it may seem, every day in that shit could be your last. You know this going in, however, and as a result, it made a certain amount of sense.

But this – this isn't a warzone. There are no IEDs. No smart bombs. No terrorists with guns and grenades looking to end your life. This was a guy sitting in an office, doing his job. It makes no sense to me that my instincts are in overdrive. It doesn't make one goddamn bit of sense.

Yeah. Maybe I'm trying to make sense of something entirely senseless. This is my baggage and I'm going to have to sort through it in my own way. At least, that’s what I’m trying to do.

Kicking pieces of debris out of the way, I spot the frame of what I assume used to be the front doors of the place. They are charred beyond belief and when I kick at them, crumble to ash immediately. I squat down and carefully clear a little bit of the other debris out of the way. I uncover enough of it to see the handles on the doors. My eyes widen, and a yawning chasm opens in the pit of my stomach.

“Son of a bitch,” I whisper.

I pull out my phone and snap some pictures, making sure to they are in-focus and detailed. The skin on the back of my neck starts to prickle and goosebumps raise across my flesh. I stand up and look around, knowing this feeling all too well. I'm being watched. Straining my eyes, I search every shadow, copse of trees, and thicket of bushes around, looking for whoever it is that has eyes on me.

I don't see a soul. Which means that either they are pretty good at hiding, or I'm being extremely paranoid. But, like I said earlier, my instincts have been kicking in ever since I stepped into town – and they've never led me astray before. Someone is out there. I know it. I can feel it. But, this is a town – hell, a state – filled with hunters. And any experienced hunter knows how to remain camouflaged.

Continuing to scan my surroundings, I quickly pull up the list of contacts on my phone. I find the name I need and punch the button, pressing the phone to my ear. The call is picked up after the third ring.

“Riggs,” comes a deep, gruff voice.

“Tony Riggs,” I say. “Milo Sheridan.”

“Well damn, boy,” he says. “I ain't heard from you in ages.”

“I keep asking you to come work for me.”

“Got a job,” he says. “Not that I don't appreciate the offer.”

I chuckle. “Yeah well, if you ever get tired of it, you know I'll always have a place for you.”

“Appreciate that, brother.”

Tony was my team's demolition expert back in Force Recon. The man knew his explosives inside and out. I'd seen him do some unbelievable shit over there. He's a good man, one of the best I know. Once he rotated out of service, he took a job in Los Angeles, working for the fire department as an arson investigator. He seems to be happy, which is always a good thing.

“How's the wife, Riggs?”

“Keepin' me in line as usual,” he says.

“Somebody has to,” I reply.

“True enough, brother,” he says. “Listen, I'm about to go out on a call and I don't mean to rush this along, but what's up?”

“I was wondering if you had a couple days worth of vacation or anything on the books?” I ask. “Hoping, actually.”

“I can probably swing something,” he says. “Why, what's going on?”

“I need somebody a little smarter than me –”

“Boy, you need somebody a lot smarter than you.”

I laugh and nod. “True enough,” I say. “I need somebody out here in Georgia. A fire expert to look at something for me. I'll pay you.”

“Damn right you will,” he says. “If I'm gonna take some time off and go all the way to Georgia, I'm gonna need to buy the wife something nice.”

I laugh again, the teasing in his voice obvious.

“What is it I'm gonna be looking at?” he asks.

I let out a long breath. “The building my brother died in,” I say. “The coroner says it's accidental. Electrical fire. I'm not convinced.”

He's silent for a moment and when he finally does speak again, his voice is softer. “Damn,” he says. “I'm real sorry to hear about your brother.”

“Yeah, me too,” I say. “I need a pair of expert eyes, that’s all. I might be barking up the wrong tree here. It's probably nothing. I just want to set my mind at ease. That's all.”

“I can do that,” he says. “For you, anything.”

“Appreciate that, Riggs,” I say. “More than you know.”

“It's nothin', man,” he says. “I'll do whatever I can to help put your mind right.”

“I'll get a plane ticket in your name,” I say. “I'll text you with the details.”

“Sounds good.”

“Thank you, Riggs,” I say.

“Anything for my brother.”

~ooo000ooo~

It's going to be a couple of days before Riggs can make it out here, which means I'm going to be extending my stay a little bit. I’m not going anywhere until I have a definitive answer about Timmy’s death.

Plus, there's part of me hoping that I can set things right with Bree before I go. Or at least, as right as they can be.

I head down the long road that leads to the Sheridan family estate. Large, neatly trimmed willow trees line either side of the road, their branches dropping low to the ground. The lengthy road leads me to the large circular driveway of the estate. A statue of a horseman – a Civil War figure – sits atop a fountain in the middle of the circular drive.

It's a large, sprawling, Southern plantation-style estate. Pristine and white, the main house is enormous. Tall, thick columns line a large front porch that's dominated by the two ten-foot front doors. There are a number of outbuildings besides the notorious clubhouse that belongs to the Sheridan boys, as well as some tennis courts, gardens, a pool, and a stable filled with horses. Every structure was built in the same plantation style as the main house.

The estate was built off the fortune our ancestors made in the bourbon business and has been in the family for generations of Sheridans.

I pull to a stop and shut off the engine. I sit and look at the house for a long moment, debating the merits of driving away without going inside. But then the front door opens, and my mother is standing there, watching me, a huge smile on her face.

Yeah, I can’t drive off now.

I quickly get out of the car and cross the driveway, climbing up the four steps to the porch. As I do, my mom almost knocks me down the stairs as she throws herself against me, wrapping me in a tight embrace. I hold her close and feel her body begin to tremble as she cries out and sobs against my chest.

“You’re finally home,” she says, her voice muffled by my t-shirt.

“I'm here,” I reply.

She looks up at me with red, bloodshot eyes, tears streaming down her face, but her smile wider than ever.

“I've missed you, Milo.”

“I missed you too, mom.”

Her hair is grayer, and there are a few new lines around her eyes, but my mom is still as beautiful as ever. Her pale skin is flawless, her blue eyes still sparkle with life, and her mostly honey blonde hair is twisted into a perfect bun. Not a single hair is out of place. As always, the picture of domestic perfection.

“So, the prodigal son finally returns.”

At the sound of Zach’s voice, my mom stands up straight and dabs at her eyes. She steps away from me and quickly composes herself. As Zach crosses the porch, she morphs from my loving mom into the perfect Southern lady. Detached. Cool. Composed.

The transformation is fast, but I've seen it so many times, that it is natural to me now.

Zach is dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt, with the sleeves rolled up. It's his casual look. He eyes me in my jeans, boots, and black polo shirt with my company logo, disapproval of my attire written plainly on his face.

My mom normally isn't one to show much emotion, especially around the old man, who has no tolerance for emotional outbursts. Given her reaction to Zach's sudden appearance, I have to assume that he's truly become his father's son. Not that I'm all that surprised.

When Zach extends his hand, his face is expressionless, but his eyes burn with something that I can't quite put my finger on. I take his hand and shake it.

“Good to see you, Zach.”

“Is it?”

I roll my eyes and drop his hand. “How's the booze business?”

“Growing and expanding everyday,” he says.

“Good to hear.”

“Yes,” he says. “It is.”

My mother, her eyes fixed on the porch, says nothing. She's clearly uncomfortable around Zach, which I find disturbing. As domineering as my father can be, she's never acted like a whipped dog around him. My father can be a prick, but he's never shown my mother, his wife, anything but respect. That’s at least one thing that I can thank him for.

Zach, however, seems to be a different story. One that I’m going to have to hear and that I don't think I'm going to like. Not one bit.

“Come inside, dear,” my mom finally says. “Let me get you something to drink.”

I let my mom lead me inside, leaving Zach standing on the porch. I hear him follow in after us, closing the door behind him, his heavy footsteps echoing across the hardwood flooring of the foyer. The interior is almost exactly the same as when I’d left. The house is tastefully decorated with family pictures and classic paintings adorning the walls.

My mom leads me into the kitchen where Alvita is busy preparing food. She’s worked for the family since I was a child and smiles brightly when I step through the doorway.

“Mr. Milo,” she says, smiling brightly. “It's nice to see you again. It's been too long.”

I smile at her in return. “It's nice to see you too, Alvita,” I say. “How is Hector?”

She rolls her eyes but smiles warmly. It's easy to see she's still in love with him. Hector is the groundskeeper and her husband. They've been together as long as I can remember.

“A pain in the rear, as always,” she says, dismissing my question with a wave of her hand. “Anyway, look at you. You've grown into such a big and strong man.”

“And woolly,” my mom adds and grins. “That beard makes you look more bear than man.”

I smooth down my beard with my hand and smile. “Yeah well, I think it makes me look distinguished.”

“It makes you look like a ruffian,” Zach says as he steps into the kitchen.

And, just like that, it’s as if the temperature in the room drops twenty degrees. Both my mom and Alvita tense up and their faces drop. It's like the Grim Reaper himself walked into the room. I really don’t like the vibe I’m picking up whenever Zach is around. The air feels heavier and filled with tension. It's like a summer thunderstorm has rolled in and everyone is holding their breath, waiting for the deluge to start.

I shrug. “Is it me? Or have you turned into a bigger asshole while I've been away?”

Zach gives me a cocky little smirk. “No, I've simply turned into the responsible business owner you were supposed to become,” he says. “At least, before you ran away.”

“And here I thought serving one's country was an honorable profession.”

“It is,” he replies. “It's also a convenient place to hide from your responsibilities to your family.”

I chuckle and shake my head. Zach is looking at me with narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw. He's pissed about something. I can tell he's deliberately trying to get under my skin and provoke me. He's trying to push my buttons and incite a reaction from me. The question is – why?

“Anyway,” Zach says. “As much as I hate to break up this little reunion, our father would like to see you.”

Our father. Not the old man, like we used to call him. Damn, how things have changed.

“He can wait a minute,” I say. “I'm going to have a drink with mom and catch up a bit.”

My mom lays a hand on my arm and gives me a small smile. “We can catch up later, sweetheart,” she says. “You shouldn't keep your father waiting.”

“It's not like he hasn't been waiting for eight years or anything,” Zach quips.

“Well, another few minutes won’t hurt then,” I say. “Should it?”

“Your funeral.”

My mom and Alvita's faces both blanch at his terrible choice in words. Zach continues to glare at me, hatred burning deeply in his eyes. If he realizes the poor joke he made, he doesn't show it. Or, maybe, he doesn't care.

He and Timmy were never that close. He couldn't control Timmy the way he did with Q and Dalton. Those two apparently do his bidding like loyal lapdogs. My mom looks at me, her eyes imploring me to not keep the old man waiting.

“Fine,” I say. “Let's go.”

I follow Zach out of the kitchen and down the long, dark wood paneled hallway. Statues and paintings adorn the walls, along with plants and tall vases with flowers. All very elegant and classy, and not overly ostentatious. That is one thing I will say about my family – they are tasteful and understated, not believing that gold plated toilets or walls are necessary to showcase their wealth.

He leads me to the familiar door that leads to the old man's study. I remember as a kid, this room was strictly off-limits. Under no circumstances were we allowed inside without an invitation. It is also the room he used to dole out our punishments in. The old man took the whole, “spare the rod, spoil the child,” thing to heart. Growing up, I got more switchings than I can count.

Zach knocks, and we wait in silence, both of us content to not speak to one another. A moment later, the old man's muffled voice comes through the thick, oak door.

“Come,” he calls.

“Have fun,” Zach says and turns on his heel, stomping off down the hallway.

I open the door and step inside, closing it behind me. The old man is seated behind his massive mahogany desk – easily the largest piece of furniture in the room. The wall behind him is covered in floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the back gardens. The wall to my right is dominated by a large fireplace. A sofa and two oversized chairs sit across from each other in the center of the room, a mahogany coffee table between them.

The wall to my left is nothing but one massive floor to ceiling bookcase that's stuffed with hundreds and hundreds of titles – all of them read many times over. The old man is an avid reader. He often sits in here at night, sipping on bourbon and reading until the small hours of the night.

“Milo,” he says, giving me a nod.

“Sir,” I reply.

I cringe inwardly at hearing myself slip back into that old mannerism so easily, without conscious thought. Sir. That's how we were taught to address him when we were kids. He said it was a sign of respect for one's elders. As I got older, however, I thought of it more as just another way he tried to control us.

“Glad to see you had the courtesy to make yourself – presentable,” he says, sarcasm dripping from his every word.

I look down at my outfit and shrug. “I wasn't aware this was a black-tie affair.”

“Don't get smart, boy,” he snaps. “Have a seat.”

I take a seat in one of the large, overstuffed chairs that sit in front of his desk. I lean back and fold my hands in my lap, observing my old man. He keeps the small fringe of hair remaining on his head shorn close to the skull. The lines on his face have grown deeper and more numerous. A few age spots have also appeared. He looks significantly older than the last time I saw him, but his vibrant eyes still sparkle with life.

His body may be aging but I can tell that his mind is still as sharp as a razor. I can tell that he's still a formidable intellect.

“So, how is retired life suiting you, sir?”

“Fine. Just fine,” he says. “I'm keeping myself plenty busy.”

“I have no doubt,” I reply. “You've never been one for idle hands.”

“No, I have not,” he says.

There's a tense moment of silence between us, a million unspoken words floating in the air as we stare one another down. It's an old tactic my father used on my brothers and I growing up – the silent battle of wills. It's a contest to see who looks away and backs down first. Who will submit. Growing up, I always broke eye contact first. He never failed to intimidate me or bend me to his will.

Now, however, I'm a grown man. Things are different. I'm not as easily intimidated. And I bend to no will other than my own.

Perhaps, sensing that, a small grin appears at the corners of my father's mouth and he nods, almost approvingly.

“With my retirement, your brother has been running the company for me in your absence,” he says.

“And from what I gather, he's been doing a fine job.”

“But, now that you're back –”

“I'm not back,” I say. “I'm here for Timothy's funeral. Nothing more.”

A shadow crosses his face, his eyes narrow, and he gives me that ever-so-familiar frown of disapproval. And then it hits me – he still wants me to come back and work for the company.

“Your place is at the head of this company,” he says.

“Seems to be running just fine without me.”

“Zach has done well,” he says smoothly. “But, there are a great many things that can be done better.”

I stand and walk to the sideboard against the wall, the old man's eyes never leaving me. Without asking for permission, I pour a couple of shots of bourbon into two glasses. Bringing them back, I hand him one and take my seat across from him once again. I raise my glass and take a sip, relishing the warmth as it slides down my throat and spreads throughout my belly.

“Know what I'd like to do?” I ask.

“Enlighten me.”

“I'd like to pay my respects to my brother,” I say. “You do remember Timmy, don't you? Your youngest son?”

“Of course, I remember,” he snaps. “Don't be absurd. But, as unfortunate as Timothy's passing is, there is still business to take care of.”

That's the old man – never takes a day off, even in the face of unspeakable tragedy. He expects us all to be the same way. And given what I've seen from Zach in the last few hours, I'd say he's succeeding.

“Of course, there is,” I say. “There's always business to attend to.”

His eyes flash dangerously. “And it's that business that afforded you such a comfortable upbringing.”

I nod. “You're right,” I say. “And I'll forever be appreciative for that. I learned a great many things from you, sir.”

And not all of those things were good. In fact, the one thing I could never learn from my father was how to be a decent human being. A good and shrewd businessman, to be sure. But, not a decent human being. I would never say that to his face, though. No point in it. To him, being a shrewd businessman takes precedence over civility.

“Then you know, you owe it to this family –”

“I have a life out west, sir,” I say. “I have my own company. I'm making my own way.”

“Yes, I've heard,” he says. “Some paramilitary organization?”

I clear my throat, trying to stem the tide of anger flowing through me. The old man has no idea what I do, nor the quality of the men I work with. He’s never served. The closest he ever came to a battle is a heated debate in the company boardroom. He doesn't know the first thing about honor or loyalty. And he sure as hell doesn't know jack-shit about the service we provide to people around the world. We protect people and save lives.

But, he won’t ever understand it, and I'm not here to explain it to him.

I drain the last of my drink and set the empty glass on the corner of his desk, knowing how much it will annoy him. I stand up, glowering down at him. The old man looks up at me, unblinking, completely unfazed. If anything, he looks determined. As if he thinks that somehow, he's going to be able to convince me to stay in town and take control of the company. He seems to think that he can wear me down and it will only be a matter of time before I give in.

Yeah. Fuck that. He's got another thing coming if he truly believes that.

“I'm done here,” I say. “I'm going to talk to my mother.”

“Good, good,” he says. “That's a fine idea. She's missed you. We can talk more business later.”

Without another word, I turn and walk out of his office, shutting the door behind me with a little more force than necessary. I'm disgusted – beyond disgusted, actually. Timmy is not even in the ground yet, and the old man is already talking business, wheeling and dealing. Just another day at the office. Out of sight, out of mind, apparently.

Not for me though. Not for me.

I look down to the end of the long hallway and see Zach standing there, arms folded over his chest, just watching me. Glaring at me. His eyes are practically burning holes through me. Zach's hostility makes sense now, though. He is probably aware that the old man wants me in the big chair instead of him, and it pisses him off.

It pisses Zach off because he knows, once again, that he is number two to me.

I can't blame him for being pissed, but I don't have to put up with his bullshit, either. It’s not my fault he's second best at everything. I turn and walk the other way, heading back to the kitchen to talk to Alvita and hopefully find my mom. We have some catching up to do.