by Joe DeRouen
Holding two bottles of water by their necks in one hand, Alex wedged between them, forcing the clerk to release Marisa’s hand. “I remember my father talking about this place,” Alex said. “He never came here, because he didn’t agree with your moonshiner family’s lawless ways.”
“Poss,” Marisa said, realization dawning. “Your brother is Possum Belly, Poss for short. He was in my and Alex’s class, while you were in my younger brother Mosely’s class. I think Poss’ nickname came from Possum Belly fishing equipment. I’m pretty sure that business went under years ago.”
“That’s right,” agreed Alex. “We moved early in the freshman year, but I remember Possum Belly Conkler. He was tall and chunky, and you were small and thin. You and your brother were bussed from here, the very edge of the county, to the only high school within a sixty-mile radius.”
“Poss and I inherited the family business.” Not even a shadow of grief touched his thin features. “I’ve kept it exactly as it was during my mother’s time.”
“Except for the Happy Hookers tow truck business. What would your mother have thought of it?” Alex tucked Marisa’s cold hand into the warm folds of his sweater.
Tommy’s eyes burned like hot candles in a Halloween skull. “My brother threatened to force a sale of the property, unless I agreed to the Happy Hookers service line.” He growled when Marisa giggled. “My brother is a barbarian, simple and brutal. But he possesses an unexpected streak of low cunning.”
Alex gestured to the front of the store with the bottles of water. “I’ll pay for these, and we’ll get on the road.” Keeping Marisa’s hand, he pulled her along with him.
“You must be going to the wake, Marisa. There’s nothing else beyond the store, except the serpentine loop of the Ohio River bordering this side of the county.” He turned to include Alex as the other man placed two large bottles of water on the counter. “You might want to use the facilities before you go. The club is pretty primitive. Although there’s a generator and running water, they still use the outhouse in the back.”
“What do you mean? What wake?” Marisa was mystified.
“Ummm…” Alex looked uncomfortable. “Errr…”
“You said you were taking me to a Halloween party, Alex. What’s going on?”
When Alex didn’t answer, Tommy spoke. “Scrapper had been a member of the motorcycle club since it started twenty years ago. They’re having his wake there tonight. It’ll be insane, with club members roaring in from all over the state.” He avidly stared from one to the other, his dark eyes eager for dissension.
Marisa swallowed her indignation. She refused to give the odd little man the satisfaction of quarrelling with Alex in front of him.
“I’m not attending as a mourner,” Tommy continued, his thin dark brows lowering in disappointment when Marisa remained silent. “Since all of his friends and family will be there, I want to see if I can pick out his murderer.”
Marisa gasped. “His murderer?”
Satisfied with her response, he smiled. “Someone sneaked into his garage while he was replacing an engine in a hoisted up Ford 350 pickup truck. The killer lowered the truck on his chest, crushing him. They say he lived for a time, groaning and gasping for breath. When the sheriff arrived, he was barely alive. He demanded to be buried with his gun.”
“His gun?” Marisa was puzzled.
“Scrapper loved his weapons, and he was an excellent shot. He won blue ribbons for marksmanship every year at the county fair.”
“If he was still alive, why didn’t he name his murderer?” Marisa asked.
“Marisa,” Alex cautioned, “don’t meddle.”
“He gasped that it was his own fault. He may not have known who killed him. He was under the truck, remember. He couldn’t see the hoist control.” Tommy shrugged, the sharp angles of his shoulders moving under his shabby jacket like bones in a burlap bag. “Regardless, the sheriff’s office has run out of leads. I’m good at ferreting out facts, using my intuition, and making connections. I may succeed where law enforcement failed.”
“If this were a movie, then you’d be the next victim,” Alex warned.
“I’m not going alone. My brother took the tow truck to pick up his girlfriend. He’ll pick me up on his way back through, since my Corvette is in the shop. With all of the drinking and carousing, he’s hoping for a chance to use the tow truck. He can fit half a dozen bikes on the flatbed.”
Alex touched the water bottles and raised his eyebrows.
Tommy leaned on the scarred wooden counter. He pulled a yellow pencil from his inside jacket pocket, and scribbled in an ancient receipt book. He tore out the pink copy. “That will be five dollars.”
Alex reached for his wallet. “But if the water is $1.50 each and with 6% Kentucky sales tax…”
“Sorry, even numbers only.” The small man gleefully pointed to a fly-speckled, ragged sheet of paper, nailed to the wall behind the counter. “It was my father’s policy, and I continue it today. He always said math was not his strong suit. He was a lover, not an adder.” He frowned. “My mother hated it when he said it. She put on a good face in public, even laughed with the customers, but in private, she gave him hell.”
Gave him hell. Marisa stared into the thin face, taut with anger. The world shifted under her feet. “Tommy Conkler.”
“Yes, I told you that earlier. Did you suffer a recent head injury? You are a few years older. Perhaps it’s early-onset dementia interfering with your short-term memory.”
Alex frowned at Marisa. “What’s wrong—” Realization dawned. “Tommy, Possum Belly’s brother.” His tone was accusing. He leaned across the counter, his stiff face near the smiling one.
“Were you both in the same accident? Or is Alzheimer’s disease communicable? That’ll set the Centers for Disease Control on its head.”
A kaleidoscope of images tumbled through Marisa’s mind. Her mother, pregnant with her fourth child. As a five-year-old, Marisa had watched in horror as her father had beaten her mother. In his drunken rage, her father had smashed his fist into her mother’s face and into her stomach. He hadn’t loved, or wanted, the children he already had. He didn’t want to add ‘another whining brat to the brood,’ he’d shouted.
A few months later, Mosely had been born, his feet and ankles horribly deformed. The little boy had endured years of surgeries. He’d suffered through casts, and then metal braces on his legs. With their dirty, torn clothes, and scarecrow thin bodies, Marisa and her brothers had all been targets for bullies. With his disability, Mosely had been the easiest target of all.
Without conscious thought, Marisa vaulted over the counter. The little man squeaked in alarm. “You bullied my brother, Mosely. He was born club-footed. You especially loved knocking his crutches out from under him.”
Alex’s protest was mild. “Now, Marisa, don’t hurt the little man.”
Marisa grasped the storekeeper’s shoulders. With years of pent-up anger, she shook him. “You called him Brace Boy.” Tommy’s head flew forward and backward as Marisa shook him. “You made his life a living hell—”
Although he didn’t hurry, Alex pulled Marisa off the shaking little man. He threw a ten-dollar bill on the counter. “Come on, Marisa, let’s go.” He pushed her toward the door.
“But I wasn’t finished—”
He dragged her across the uneven plank floor. He hesitated at the door. “Marisa, I have an idea,” he whispered. “Just go along with me.”
Marisa stopped struggling. “What are you up to?”
Alex turned to Tommy. “Let us make it up to you. We’re going to the wake. You need a ride. Come with us.”
Clenching her fists, Marisa slowly swiveled, the pressure building up in her head. “You’re offering him a ride? After what he did? Not to mention he’s a creepy little—”
Alex patted the air. “Trust me.” Once he had Marisa’s reluctant nod of agreement, he turned back to Tommy. “You said Possum Belly took the tow truck to pick up his girl
friend.”
Tommy was suspicious. He narrowed his eyes. “Poss thought the tow truck says, ‘I am full of testosterone. I don’t have erectile dysfunction problems. I’ve never been to a psychiatrist or in a court-ordered drug program—’”
“Stop talking,” Alex ordered.
“Thank you, Alex. He tormented my brother, leaving deep scars on his psyche that never healed—”
“You too, Marisa. Quiet.”
Marisa was so angry spit flew. “Alex, what do you think you’re—”
“Both of you, just be quiet.” Holding the struggling Marisa with one hand, Alex passed the other one over his short hair. He closed his eyes, and then opened them.
Tommy cocked his head on one side, like an emaciated prisoner hanging from an invisible noose. “Are you offering me a ride so you can kill me, and hide my body in the woods?”
“Of course not. You investigated us online. We’re respected executives.” Alex looked nonthreatening and calm. “We’re going to the same place. Ride with us.”
“No!” Marisa protested. “Have you lost your mind?”
“I would like to get there early so I’ll have plenty of time to observe and listen—er, talk—to people. You can’t get away with anything. I have video cameras mounted within and outside the store, with the feed going straight to the security company.” Tommy disappeared in the shelves. “I’ll lock up,” he called.
“He might have video cameras in the bathrooms, but not the store and parking lot. His mother never had them, so neither would he.” Marisa turned on Alex. “What are you up to?”
“Just wait, Marisa.” Alex smiled.
In the parking lot, Alex slammed the back car door.
“Oh, my God!”
Smiling, Alex ignored the distressed exclamation from the backseat. He happily slid into the driver’s seat.
“Did you kill a freaking skunk in this car?” Tommy hid his face in his suit jacket. He fumbled for the door handle. “I’ll wait for my brother, thank you.”
Alex engaged the child locks, which prevented the backseat passenger from opening the back doors from the inside. With the air of a job well done, he turned to Marisa. The planes of his face were hawk-sharp in the dim light. “You were right. That skunk did spray the car for a reason.”
Chapter Three
The motorcycle club was a primitive cabin at the end of a muddy road in the isolated woods. The immediate area around the rough log structure was cleared of trees and brush, allowing bumpy parking for the bikes. The motorcycles stood in even rows, impervious to the cold wind and slanting onslaught of the wintery sleet. The bikes ran the gamut from simple crotch rockets to a handful of hideously expensive Honda Goldwings. Next to the forbidding forest, a gleaming black tow truck loomed like a vulture, waiting for the chance to pounce on a dying iron horse.
Marisa watched as Tommy moved through the crowded, paneled great room, past men and women in jeans, chaps, and leather jackets. People turned away as he reached them, suddenly engrossed in conversation. Marisa felt a pang of sympathy for the socially awkward storekeeper. Tommy stopped when he reached the tallest man in the room. With a start, Marisa recognized the other man as Possum Belly.
Dressed in boot-cut jeans, steel-toed shoes, and a long-sleeved t-shirt proclaiming Happy Hookers—The Best Hookers in Town, the muscular Poss towered over his younger brother. He had one thickly muscled arm around a thin, bored woman in skinny jeans, straining at the seams, and a crop top, more crop than top. She was flipping her bright magenta curls, and gesturing at Tommy with a beer she didn’t look old enough to drink. Poss was stiff with anger, his handsome face distorted under his long blonde hair. As his brother talked and waved his hands, Poss jerked angrily away. Tommy stopped him with a word.
Alex moved closer to Marisa. “In his dark suit, Tommy looks like a lion tamer. He’s smaller than his beastlike brother, but he cracks the whip with a flourish of showmanship. He has the upper hand. Poss is the lion. His hair is a tangled mane, tumbling down his back, the golden strands intertwined with the dazzling rays of the African sun. Wild under his majestic beauty, the lion resents the attempts to tame him. The lion yearns for freedom on the hot savannah. Yet, he can’t escape the upper hand of the master.”
Marisa turned to Alex in surprise. “Sometimes I forget how perceptive you are.”
“That’s an unusual talent in this primitive cabin.” The tall man standing next to them turned. His long, dark hair was pulled back in a tidy braid. He smiled, bringing warmth to his smooth face above the white tank top. Although the cabin was chilly, the man didn’t appear to be cold. “Perhaps it’s best to keep your light shadowed. It may attract the wrong attention.” His serpentine tattoos seemed to move with a life of their own as he extended a hand to Alex.
“Jason! I haven’t seen you in weeks.” Marisa happily threw her arms around his neck.
He staggered back a step. “And whose fault is that?” He held Marisa at arm’s length, smiling down into her upturned face.
“Mine.” Marisa looked around to see if anyone was listening. Although people jostled her and her friends, Marisa thought no one was paying any attention to them. Regardless, she lowered her voice. “I haven’t been to an addiction support group meeting in some time.”
“I’ve missed you both.” With his arms covered in tattoos, his sturdy legs encased in leather biker chaps, and his body hung with enough chains to secure a junkyard, he appeared tough and intimidating to anyone who failed to look beyond his exterior.
Alex fidgeted, stared up at the ceiling, and then met Jason’s calm gaze. “Actually, I accidentally attended a support group meeting. I had a misunderstanding with one of Marisa’s other friends. He thought I was an addict. I thought he was inviting me to a party to watch a game—”
Jason raised a hand as large as a dinner plate to stop him. “You’ll know when you’re ready to admit you’re an addict.” He turned to Marisa. “I’m going to grab a soft drink. Do you and Alex want one?”
Alex watched Jason cross the room to the crowded, rough-hewn bar to fill their drink orders. Agitated, he passed a hand over his short hair. “When I say I’m not an addict, people think I’m in denial. I’ll be branded as an addict forever.” His eyes widened as he realized what he’d said. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
Marisa touched his arm. “Don’t worry about it.”
Alex sagged in relief. “I thought you’d blow up at me.”
“Of course not. I never blow up at people.” At his look of sardonic disbelief, she raised her hands in surrender. “Just people like Tommy.”
Alex stared over Marisa’s shoulder. “Jason’s on his way back. Did you know he’s in love with you?”
Marisa sputtered. “No way. He’s just a friend.”
“When you hugged him, he put his face in your hair. He inhaled, like he was breathing in an otherworldly, irresistible scent.”
“You’re wrong about Jason.” Marisa touched her long brown hair, the naturally wavy locks falling past her shoulders. She normally wore it in a smooth, professional braid, but wanted a more carefree look for the Halloween party. Or what she thought was a party. She frowned and opened her mouth.
Alex rushed into speech. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the wake. Scrapper was as tall as a Georgia pine, with rough edges and a sweet, gooey center. He also had a magic touch. It was as if he had an affinity with machines, both with vehicles and weapons. He was able to coax them in line with his will. He’s the only person I allowed to touch my motorcycle. I felt I needed to be here with him, but I was afraid you’d say no if I gave you a choice. It wasn’t fair, and I apologize.” His dark blue eyes were rueful, the skin around them engagingly crinkled.
Marisa’s anger melted. “No, it wasn’t fair. On the other hand, I can remember times I wasn’t exactly upfront with you. Hey, what do you mean, ‘be here with him’?”
Jostling three full Mason jars, Jason returned. He passed two to Alex and Marisa, keeping on
e. “I see one of my students over there. I’ll catch you later.”
“One of his students?” Alex raised a brow.
“Jason is a law professor at the university. He’s building an international reputation.” Marisa smiled when Alex’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “Appearances can be deceiving, Alex. Don’t you forget it.”
Like a hunted animal at bay, Jason backpedaled to Marisa and Alex.
She shot a perplexed glance at Alex. He shrugged.
“Why are you running away? I love a man with big, muscular arms.” The woman with magenta hair, just moments before in Poss’ embrace, flirtatiously gazed up at Jason, her eyes the same exotic color of her hair.
Jason slung an arm over Marisa’s shoulders, ignoring her gasp of surprise. “I’m with someone, Brittany.” He craned his neck. “So are you. And he’s on his way over here.”
She shrugged. “I can handle Poss. Just rub his belly, and he rolls over like a big cat.” Her gaze fell on Marisa. Her eyes widened in shock. “You’re choosing her over me? She’s old enough to be your mother.”
“I like older women.” Jason hugged Marisa closer. Squeezing her shoulders, he smiled. He ignored her squeak of pain.
Brittany indicated Marisa’s clothes with circular motions of her open palms, as if to erase them. “Don’t you mean way older? She dresses like your grandmother, with a schoolteacher sweater hanging down to her knees, a social worker blouse with ruffles and a hideous purple and green pattern, and baggy jeans. How can you prefer her to me?”
Marisa hissed, “My jeans fit me. And I’m thirty-nine, only a few years older than Jason.” Alex squeezed her in warning. She frowned at him as he moved to Jason’s other side.
“Marisa is loyal, faithful, and kind,” Jason answered quietly. “How can I not prefer her?”
Alex slid his arm around Jason’s waist. “We’re all together.”
Brittany smiled. “Any openings?”
“Openings!” Marisa was furious. “I hope you’re speaking figuratively, and not literally.”