Ricky knelt in the damp grass of the small cemetery and stared at his mother’s simple headstone. The soft lights outside the church enabled Ricky to see the angel carved above her name.
SWAIN
Abigail Anne
Beloved wife and mother
“The Lord is my Shepherd.”
February 12, 1965–March 1, 2006
His mother had chosen the epitaph. His father wanted it to be “Vengeance is Mine, sayeth the Lord,” but he had no say because he was in prison and Abigail had a written will.
Vengeance is mine.
Ricky was beginning to understand what vengeance meant.
Jimmy had been angry when Ricky told him about the fire and what happened at the mine, but his uncle was more scared than mad. He’d warned Ricky not to get involved with Reverend Browne, but Ricky hadn’t thought about any of that. All he remembered was the pain and loneliness of losing his mother, then Joe Hendrickson. Reverend Browne had said he’d help get Ricky what he wanted most of all: a way out of Spruce Lake.
Anyway, Jimmy was a hypocrite. Telling Ricky to stay out of the business, but getting in deep himself. So deep that Ricky didn’t believe him when Jimmy said it was to protect Ricky. Protect him from what? The monster? Ricky didn’t believe she’d set foot in Spruce Lake again. If she did, Ricky would kill her himself.
He cringed as he thought of the last words he’d said to his uncle.
“You’re a fucking hypocrite, Uncle Jimmy.”
Ricky knew exactly what was going on in Spruce Lake. The drug trade was alive and well. And Ricky couldn’t care less about it, other than it was his ticket out of here. What people did to themselves was their business; Ricky had no need to give up control of his mind and body to drugs. Maybe it was even his father who’d convinced him of that with all the lectures and warnings, ironic considering how his father made his money.
You’re better than that, Rick.
His father had considered drug users weak and helpless, but he had no problem manufacturing the product that kept them dependent.
Ricky desperately wanted someone to tell him what to do, but he had no one to trust. He wanted to trust Sean Rogan, but why would that guy help him? He had to have an ulterior motive.
“Mom, I don’t know what to do.”
His voice was scratchy and thick. He swallowed and coughed, his head low.
Jimmy was gone. Reverend Browne wasn’t acting himself. Something was happening, and it was the first time since his mother had died that Ricky didn’t know everything that was going on in Spruce Lake.
He was scared and angry and there was only one person who might be able to help him, but Jimmy had told Ricky to go to him only in an emergency. Well, this was a fucking emergency! Jimmy was dead, and something big was going down on Sunday.
Headlights cut down the road as three cars turned toward the church. Ricky lay flat on the ground, partly shielded by his mother’s grave marker. He didn’t think they saw him. They were going into the church, eight or nine of them. Ricky knew all of them. The reverend. Andy Knolls, the weird guy at the Gas-n-Go who used to give only the girls free candy, until he touched Lisa Thompson’s twelve-year-old breasts and her father beat him nearly to death. The creepy guy Andy hung around with, Gary Clarke. He wasn’t from Spruce Lake; he hadn’t shown up until Ricky’s father went to prison. Some of the other regulars.
A fourth car drove up. It was a luxury rental, sleek and black. A blond guy got out. Ricky could read City Boy in his crisp jeans and black button-down shirt. And who wore trench coats in Spruce Lake? He looked mean, and Ricky might have been scared, but then he saw who got out of the passenger’s seat and he was terrified.
The monster is back.
Even through his fear, Ricky had one thought.
Vengeance is mine.
The monster had killed his mother. She’d stolen the money that his dad had hidden before he went to prison. The money to pay for his mother’s chemotherapy and surgery.
His mother had had a good chance of surviving if she’d had the necessary treatment.
And Bobbie had even known that when she took the money.
TWENTY-THREE
Sean drove Tim to his house and, after getting directions to the Callahans’ place, he asked Tim to check in on Lucy. Sean had already warned her about the note he’d found in the truck. He didn’t want to leave her longer than he had to, but he had questions he was certain Henry Callahan could answer.
As soon as he drove away from the Hendricksons’, his cell phone rang. It was his brother, Duke, calling from California.
“Confirmed,” Duke said. “Roberta Swain Molina, a.k.a. Bobbie Swain.”
“That was fast.” Sean had sent the picture less than thirty minutes ago. “She’s married?”
“Widowed. Her husband, a known drug smuggler, was murdered in his bed and Bobbie left for dead in what the police believe was a retaliation killing. A killer for a rival cartel came in through a window, slit Herve Molina’s throat, and attacked Bobbie. She fought back, but nearly died from blood loss. Their safe was emptied.”
“It’s not like those guys to leave a witness.”
“She fingered him, but also told her husband’s security chief who did it, and Molina’s people got to him first. Tortured and killed him. His knife was found in the bushes outside the window with both Molina’s and Swain’s blood on it.”
“That must have been hell to live through. Could have changed anyone.”
“Don’t lose sleep over what happened to Bobbie Swain,” Duke said. “According to both Molina’s cartel and others, she was just as ruthless as her husband. Kane heard the same thing, plus a nasty rumor.”
“You called Kane?”
Their brother Kane Rogan knew near everything about the international drug trade.
“You said you needed the information fast. Molina’s murder started a drug war. And Bobbie Swain walked away.”
“Drug lords don’t usually let people leave the business,” Sean commented.
“Kane’s theory was that she and Julio Gomez worked together to kill her husband, then Gomez turned on her, not wanting a witness. It’s all about access—logistically, Gomez needed an inside accomplice to access her husband’s safe.”
“But Bobbie managed to survive and fingered Gomez.”
“Molina’s people never thought she was involved, and she walked away. It was a bloody fight between Molina’s people and Gomez’s. In the end, a third player rose to the top of the food chain. Someone named Theo Corbin, an American who is affiliated with some nasty people in Colombia.”
Sean nearly missed the narrow, rutted driveway that marked the Callahan property. He made a sharp left turn and his truck barely cleared the old posts. A single light on the right illuminated a weatherworn metal sign:
H & E RANCH
MR. & MRS. HENRY CALLAHAN
SPRUCE LAKE, NEW YORK
Sean wondered how Jon Callahan felt living out here with his uncle. Unmarried, commuting three hours to Montreal several times a month. Unless he had something else going on—something illegal and lucrative. Agent Victoria Sheffield had been investigating white-collar crimes that crossed the border. Sean could see all the pieces of the puzzle, but he didn’t know how they fit together—yet.
“Did you hear me?” Duke asked.
“Sorry, almost missed my turn.”
“Kane speculated that Bobbie Swain had planned for Corbin to take over.”
Sean’s truck bounced over the potholes and he had to slow even more. “You mean she started the war between Molina and Gomez in order for a dark horse to come in and take over?”
“Bingo.”
“Do you have any evidence? That’s pretty damn cold-blooded.”
“It is. There’s no proof and little talk. But Corbin knows certain information that only Molina had—Molina and his wife.”
“When did this happen?”
“Six years ago.”
“Around the same time Pa
ul Swain was sent to prison. Could that be a coincidence?”
“You tell me.”
The driveway turned sharply to the left, then a well-lit house came into view. He turned off his headlights, drove past the house, and parked on the far side of the garage. The sudden silence was broken only by the tick of his cooling engine.
“I’m talking to Paul Swain tomorrow.”
“Watch out for him.”
“Kane have intel on him, too?”
“No, he doesn’t track the domestic drug trade. Never heard of Spruce Lake or Paul Swain, and Bobbie Swain dropped off his radar when she left Miami. He’s going to ask around, but doubts he’ll find out anything in the next day or two.”
“Meaning he’s not going to try.” Sean knew his brother well, better than Duke thought he did. Kane’s priorities were always at the top of the list. He had quiet disdain for small-time drug action. The low-level players were easy to take out, but another asshole always popped up.
“I’ll see what I can find out. Be careful, Sean. This woman sounds like a dangerous piece of work.”
“I know exactly what she is,” Sean said. “She’s a monster.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll talk to you later.” He hung up. Abigail Swain’s letter to her son made complete sense now.
Paul Swain had something on his sister, some piece of information that was so big that it would get him killed in prison. It might put her in jail for life, or possibly even get her killed. If it was so big that it had kept Bobbie out of Spruce Lake and away from Ricky Swain, it was likely connected to Herve Molina’s murder.
Bobbie Swain sounded ruthless, at least the way Kane portrayed her. But his oldest brother didn’t sugarcoat anything. A spade was a spade. A killer, a killer. No excuses, no explanations.
More than once Sean had threatened Duke that he’d head south and join Kane’s team of mercenaries. It was the surest way to get easygoing Duke riled up. Duke had spent three months in Central America with Kane’s team and returned a changed man. But Sean had never done it, and he’d always felt when he was younger that Duke thought he was too weak or too spoiled or too comfortable.
Sean saw the allure of fighting for something bigger than himself, fighting to save people from a fate worse than death. Rescuing young boys from the battlefield and giving them back to their mothers. Burning coca fields before harvest. Storming brothels where girls and women were held as sex slaves and bringing them to safety. Killing their captors because in some countries, there was no other justice.
But Sean feared that in such violent scenarios he might well lose his humanity. He could be trained to do what Kane did, but wouldn’t emerge unscathed. He sometimes wondered if his brother was superhuman, because no one could do what he did with his soul intact.
Sitting in the truck, Sean considered another theory about the sniper. Someone in town knew precisely what was going on and wanted Sean and Lucy out of the way before one or both of them was killed. The sniper hadn’t tried to kill him, true to his note. He thought he was doing them a favor.
Sean didn’t like the game, and he wasn’t leaving until he found out what had happened to Victoria Sheffield and Jimmy Benson. And he certainly wasn’t leaving until he had Ricky Swain in his custody. The kid was a wild card, potentially dangerous and also in danger. He could get himself killed if he confronted the wrong people. Someone who would kill a federal agent could just as easily kill a teenager seeking vengeance for his uncle’s death.
Sean quietly got out of the truck and pulled on a jacket. He walked up to the front door, acutely aware of the surrounding silence, marred only by occasional sounds of wildlife.
He knocked on the door, but it took a full minute before Henry Callahan answered. He stepped back, surprised by the visit. “Mr. Rogan.”
“Is your nephew Jon here?”
“No, he’s at the bar. Do you want to speak to him?”
“I actually came to talk to you. Do you have a minute?”
A flash of fear crossed the older man’s face. He glanced over his shoulder, as if someone were there. Sean whispered, “Are you alone?”
Henry motioned for Sean to enter, then closed the door. “My wife, Emily.”
She sat in a chair, white-haired and beautiful, but with eyes that were too bright, a handmade afghan on her lap, gently rocking her chair back and forth. A small, well-read Bible sat open on the blanket, the print so small Sean didn’t think she’d easily be able to read it. Comfort, possibly.
“She had a stroke last year. She’s in pain.”
She looked stoned to Sean, but if she was in pain he wasn’t going to criticize a septuagenarian for smoking a little pot, though he didn’t smell the telltale signs.
“Henry?” Emily questioned. She looked toward them, but didn’t seem to see them.
“Right here, dear.” He walked over and moved the thick glasses that were on a string around her neck to her face.
She focused on Henry and smiled. “Dear. We had a lovely drive today, didn’t we?”
“Yes, we did.”
“Who is your friend?”
“He’s a friend of Joe Hendrickson’s. You remember Joe?”
“Yes, of course I remember Joe. Why doesn’t he visit more often?”
“He died last year, honey. We went to his funeral.”
Her smile faltered. “I remember.” It was clear by her expression that she didn’t.
“I’m going to take Joe’s friend to the kitchen for a beer. Is that all right with you?”
“I’d like a beer, too.”
“You don’t like beer.”
“I think I might.”
“How about a martini? Extra vermouth and three olives?”
“That sounds lovely.”
Sean followed Henry through a large formal dining room that didn’t look as though it had been used for some time. One of the most famous reproductions of The Last Supper had a prominent position on one wall. Henry glanced at the picture, sadness in his eyes. He didn’t stop until they were in the back of the house, where a country-style kitchen looked far more lived in.
He cleared his throat. “Excuse me.”
His eyes were bright, not from pain or drugs, but emotion. “Usually, I’m okay with her forgetfulness, but it’s been a hard week.” He looked pointedly at Sean. “I think you know why.”
“I need answers, Henry. What’s going on in Spruce Lake?”
Henry sighed and pulled two bottles of beer from the refrigerator. He handed one to Sean and opened the other for himself. “I didn’t tell Emily your name so she won’t repeat that you were here. I don’t want to put you in more danger than you’re already in.”
“Explain.”
Henry shook his head and sat on a barstool, resting his elbows on the table.
Sean slammed his unopened beer bottle down on the kitchen counter. “I can bring in the cavalry—just say the word.”
“And tell them what? You bring in the police, they’ll find nothing, because your people need warrants. The bastards in charge will know before the ink is dry and destroy the evidence, then punish whoever they think turned them in. The devil you know …”
“I need your help,” Sean said.
“Paul Swain was a ruthless bastard, but he took care of this town. As long as you were on his side, he took care of you. Someone turned on him.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. When he went to prison and the cops left, some of the players changed.”
Sean was getting frustrated. He didn’t have time for a history lesson, and he wished Henry would just spit it out.
“I know a lot more than you think I do.” The pieces were beginning to take form and Sean could see part of the bigger picture. “Before Paul Swain went to prison, someone undermined him. I don’t know how—by threat, bribery, sex—but when she got enough people over to her side, she turned her own brother in to the cops. Though Swain was in prison, he had something on her—something that woul
d get her killed or imprisoned—so she stayed away.” As he spoke, Sean saw Henry’s expression grow darker. He knew Sean was talking about Bobbie Swain.
“Bobbie Swain couldn’t gloat or run the business the way she wanted, relying on people like your nephew Jon to keep it in line,” Sean continued. “But something changed, and Bobbie’s come back.”
“Dear God, you saw her?” A look of terror crossed Henry’s face.
“She was bartending tonight.”
Henry’s whole body sagged. Sean didn’t actually know everything that he’d just told Henry, but he’d been working on the theory after hearing what Duke told him about Miami. If Bobbie Swain was cold-blooded enough to kill her husband and frame another drug dealer, she was certainly cold-blooded enough to turn in her brother Paul.
“Jon heard she was coming back,” said Henry. “She called him, told him to convince Tim and Adam to postpone the resort. But you don’t understand—Jon’s not what you think he is. All he wants is to help people keep food on their table and a roof over their head. Protect them from Bobbie and her people.”
“So that’s why he bought up all the land? Put everyone into indentured servitude as a form of protection?”
“You should leave.”
“I’m not leaving without answers.”
“You won’t find them here.”
Sean turned away from Henry, frustrated but knowing that being a hard-ass with the old man wasn’t going to get him the answers he needed. Henry was more than a little scared—for himself and his ailing wife.
He glanced around the spacious kitchen, circa late fifties. The brown appliances, though old, fit with the colorful tiles and collection of spoons on the wall above the gas stove. It was homey and comfortable. The dishes had been hand-washed and were drying in a rack on the counter. On the refrigerator were a variety of magnets from local businesses holding up faded pictures of Henry and Emily, some showing a younger, happier couple. Jon Callahan was in many of them. There were also snapshots from important events—his college graduation stood out.
If I Should Die Page 17