Black Sheep

by CJ Lyons

  Why had they kept her alive? No matter how much she prayed, tried to put her faith in God’s plan, that question kept nagging at her. Wouldn’t it be safer for them to kill her, shut her up for good?

  Unless she was the bargaining chip. Being used as leverage against someone else. And that could only be one person: her father.

  “It’s no good,” she yelled. “He doesn’t give a damn about me.”

  There was no sign anyone heard her. No sounds at all beyond her ragged breathing. The silence encouraged her ranting. Trapped alone in the dark, talking to herself, was better than listening for the sounds she didn’t want to hear: footsteps, a pistol being cocked, the nervous laughter of men who’d decided to have some fun before disposing of her corpse.

  “What do you want from me?” She curled up in the corner, hugging her knees to her chest, praying. She stopped, listened hard. A floorboard creaked with a man’s weight. Or was it just her imagination? She held her breath. Please, no. Dear God, please help me.

  The creak came again. She was a woman of faith; it was all she had left. But for the first time in her twenty-six years, Lena Hale wondered if maybe God wasn’t listening after all. Maybe He was a self-centered bastard, with no regard for His children, just like Eli.

  Maybe, just like Eli, He would abandon her, leave her here alone to die.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Dinner consisted of eggplant, tomatoes, and braised beef, served with candlelight, a nice Merlot, and strained small talk.

  She and Paul had an understanding: He didn’t talk about his patients and she didn’t talk about her cases. But this was different. She could tell he wanted to ask, was waiting, expecting her to explain what kind of “work” had her so upset.

  What could she say? That it wasn’t a case but something to do with her father, dead for twenty-six years? Dead because of the man she’d loved as a second father, when she was young and stupid and hadn’t yet mastered the art of guarding her heart?

  Or the girl. Baby Lena. Missing. Or maybe just not interested in talking with her own father. Who knew? If what Whitford thought was true, Lena was in danger—of course he had no facts, only fears.

  After she cleaned the kitchen, Caitlyn used her cell to track down two numbers for Lena, a cell and a residence in Durham. No answer at either. Didn’t mean anything. Law students were allowed to take a night off, not answer their phones. Besides, it was out of Caitlyn’s jurisdiction; she couldn’t drop everything to start asking questions. Real-life law enforcement didn’t work that way.

  Another reason not to explain Whitford’s call to Paul. He’d never understand. Just like Whitford hadn’t. They heard “FBI” and thought she had the keys to some magic kingdom where super computers could spot a face in the crowd at the Super Bowl or trace a smudged fingerprint to anyone in the country in the ten seconds before a commercial break. Damn CSI.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked as they lay together in bed later that night. Distracted dinner conversation had led to distracted sex. Totally Caitlyn’s fault. When she was anxious she tended to turn to sex as a diversion. Tonight it hadn’t worked.

  “Work.” Another lie. Well, to be fair, the same lie repeated.

  “I thought you were glad they hadn’t given you a new assignment.” He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her closer, his fingers brushing against the K-shaped scar on her chest. Souvenir from six months ago when she’d tangled with a psychopath. It tingled beneath his touch. She shifted her weight until his hand came to rest over her breast instead. So much better. As she was relaxing into his embrace, thinking maybe it was time for more diversionary sexual fun and games, he broke the mood by saying, “Who knows where they might send you.”

  His voice held a plaintive tone. She tried to lighten things. “Bismarck, North Dakota.”

  He sat up straight. “Seriously?”

  She managed a smile, although he couldn’t see it in the dark. Bismarck was where the academy instructors threatened to send agents in training who screwed up. “No. Just an old FBI joke.”

  “I don’t think it’s funny.” He lay back, silent, as his thumb traced circles along the curve of her shoulder. Usually his touch was enough to relax her, but tonight it was more of a distraction. One more thing to worry about: leaving him when she was finally reassigned. Hurting him. Being hurt herself.

  This—them—was never supposed to last this long. Way past her usual relationship boundaries, she was lost without a map.

  * * *

  When Caitlyn finally drifted to sleep, her dreams were filled with fragments of images, colliding as she tried to piece them together into a coherent whole. Lena, laughing, toddling away from Vonnie, who chased after her with a clean diaper … Dad and Eli Hale siting on the porch but instead of relaxing, rocking their chairs as they sipped their beers, their heads leaned together in earnest conversation. It was always funny to see them together like that: pale, carrot-topped Sean Tierney, thin and wiry, head-to-head with a man almost twice his size, dark chestnut skin, shaved head.

  “You girls go play,” her dad had snapped when she and Vonnie bounded up the steps. “Go on now, leave us be.”

  Eli said nothing, just gave Vonnie a sharp look that made her eyes go wide as she tugged at Caitlyn’s arm, pulling her back down the porch steps. It was a bad time—Eli was in some kind of trouble and Sean Tierney was the only person who could help him.

  That’s what her dad did, he helped folks. Best job in the world, he said.

  Caitlyn wanted to be just like him. She led Vonnie around to the side of the porch where they slid through a gap in the latticework and crouched immediately below their dads. How could they help if they didn’t know what was going on?

  “It’s the truth,” Sean Tierney was saying, his voice raised rather than the calm, even tone that Caitlyn usually found so comforting. “Why should I stop saying it?”

  “Stop being so mule-headed. Everything they have says I did it. I killed that man. Best thing for all is if I say it, too.” Eli sounded sad, like someone had died or something.

  “That’s crazy! You can’t do that—”

  “You let me decide what I can and can’t do,” Eli answered in a grim voice. “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep my family safe.”

  A man’s boots thudded so hard above them dirt rained down on where Vonnie and Caitlyn crouched. “I’m not going to lie. Especially not if it means sending an innocent man to prison.”

  “Then don’t say anything. You need to shut up and just mind your own business about it. Hear me?”

  “Eli, I can’t—”

  “Not asking if you can or can’t, Sean. I’m telling you. This is the way it’s gotta be.” His voice dropped. “Don’t make me beg, man. I will. But don’t make me do it.”

  A woman’s scream drowned out Sean Tierney’s reply. Caitlyn sat up in bed, still half asleep. Was it a dream?

  A thud shook the wall behind her. Paul moaned and rolled over, reaching for her. She moved his arm away and slipped out of bed, grabbing her service weapon.

  “Don’t!” the woman screamed again. The sound of a slap cut her off.

  “Caitlyn, where are you going?” Paul whispered as he climbed out of bed and came to her.

  “I need to see what’s happening, help her.”

  He grabbed her arm. “Stop. There’s no one to save. They go through this every few weeks. Get drunk, bust up the place, then make up again.”

  “Get the phone, call nine-one-one.”

  “I’m telling you there’s no need. Seriously.” He pivoted her to face him. “She’s fine. First few times I went over myself just to make sure. They’ll break a lot of glass—” Another thud against the wall punctuated his words. “Scream at each other, but believe me, there’s nothing you need to involve yourself with. Besides, she gives as good as she gets.”

  She stared at him. Who was he to make that judgment? Did he have any idea how many women were killed inside their own homes by the men they loved?

 
“I know why you do it, why you rush in,” he continued. Paul always needed to analyze everything, just like he did with his X-rays and MRIs.

  “I’m not rushing into anything. I’m a trained federal law enforcement officer. This is my job.”

  “It’s survivor’s guilt.”

  That got her attention. Divided it between what was going on next door and her plan of approach. Never good to have your attention torn when dealing with a domestic, but he couldn’t know that. “What?”

  “You feel guilty about that guy dying and you living.” He was talking about her last case, right before they met. She’d never told him the details, although it had been in the news. Not all of the facts, but enough for him to fill in the blanks. “It wasn’t your fault, Caitlyn. You think you owe him something, like somehow you can pay him back if you go out and save the world. But you don’t owe anyone anything.”

  She froze. Caught between Paul and the exit. No cover. Just like her agent in training earlier today. The sounds from the apartment next door vanished. The pistol in her hand felt heavy, holding her in place like an anchor.

  Paul stepped forward, placed his hands on her shoulders. For once his touch didn’t bring comfort with it. She shrugged his hands away. “Caitlyn.” His voice was colored by the slightest hint of irritation—which only pushed her farther from him. “Come back to bed.”

  Suddenly, shivering in the dark, straining to hear if a woman on the other side of the wall was still alive, clarity lanced through her as sharp as a blade and she knew what Paul really wanted. “You want me to quit.”

  He didn’t even flinch. “You’ve paid your dues, almost got killed yourself. Twice. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you.” He reached for her once more, wrapping his arms around her from behind, his lips brushing the top of her head. His scent was intoxicating and she almost relented, almost surrendered.

  Sounds of a bed squeaking and a woman’s laughter came from the apartment next door. Not dead. Just loud foreplay. Paul was right. About one thing.

  Caitlyn stepped away from his embrace and re-holstered her weapon before turning to face him. “You’re serious. About me quitting.”

  He looked surprised. “You’re so smart, Caitlyn. You could do anything you want. Why stay in a dead-end job with no chance of advancement when your bosses don’t want you there anyway?”

  At that moment he sounded exactly like her mother, constantly disappointed that Caitlyn hadn’t done more with her life, that she’d chosen to follow in her father’s footsteps. Exactly like the voice in her head every time her boss called to tell her that OPR had a few more questions or that her fit rep was delayed again or that the Bureau was searching for the “right” position for her and it might take a while before she received another active-duty assignment.

  The brass at the FBI didn’t want her there, so why stay? Why wait for them to find a reason to fire her? Why not just leave?

  She wished she had an answer.

  Wished even more that she could ignore the resentment smoldering in her, lit by Paul’s suggestion that she quit. He’d said “we” as if it was his decision as much as hers. As if it was his life.

  Well, hell. At least she was back on familiar territory as far as relationships went. She knew where this was headed.

  He smiled and reached for her when she sat on the bed. She leaned forward, avoiding his hand, and grabbed her jeans from where she’d hung them on the footboard.

  “What are you doing?” Wounded pride undercut his smooth baritone.

  “I have to go.”

  “At this time of night? Where?”

  “North Carolina.” She didn’t bother with her bra, slid her fleece V-neck over her tank top. Her hair came out flyaway static, red strands shimmering in the dim light from the window.

  “I thought we weren’t going to Charlotte until next month.”

  Right. The dreaded trip to see her mom, then on to his folks in Atlanta. “Not Charlotte. A federal penitentiary outside Raleigh. I have to meet a prisoner.”

  Five minutes later she was on the other side of his front door trying to deny the wave of relief that swamped her. He was a good man, didn’t deserve this shit. Her shit.

  She missed him already.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  He was most worried about the leopard.

  The others had taken to their new homes just fine, like it was meant to be. Well, except the chimps. They’d outsmarted him that first night. Bernie had locked the cabin doors but they’d busted out through a window instead. Hadn’t left, though—they seemed to enjoy playing hide-and-seek, leaping down on him when he was feeding or changing the straw he’d put down for the others, chattering away at him from rooftops and trees, scampering from cabin to cabin, exploring. Right at home. Just like the others.

  Sure, the three-toed sloth kept gouging at the walls of the cabin it shared with the lemurs, but as soon as he moved a stack of firewood and some downed tree branches in there, it was as happy as a trout gulping mayflies. Even the lion, old and weary and moth-eaten as it was, had settled into its new quarters just fine. Gave a rumble and a toothless smile every time Bernie opened the cabin door to deliver it fresh ground venison.

  Bernie was beginning to think that maybe, if he could figure out a way to keep the Reapers from finding out that he was the one who had stolen the animals, maybe he could actually keep them here with him. Probably not. But it turned out it wasn’t as easy as he’d imagined, giving stolen wild animals away to a good home. The zoos he’d called all wanted documents, health records, stuff like that.

  Heck, he couldn’t even get the leopard to eat. Bernie had taken extra care with its home, placing it in the sturdy log cabin main lodge instead of the more flimsy guest cabins scattered around the grounds. After Bernie boarded up the windows and it couldn’t claw its way through the lodge’s walls, it tore through the plaster ceiling and holed up in the rafters. Every time Bernie came near the lodge it made a noise like it was sick to its stomach, a soft keening that made Bernie’s own stomach clench, his every instinct warning him to flee.

  He couldn’t abandon the poor thing. Not after everything it’d been through, first with that asshole with the exotic petting “zoo” over in Pigeon Forge, and then after the Reapers had taken the animals when their keeper defaulted on his loan. The motorcycle club figured they’d make money with the exotic beasts, so lost and far from the homes they’d been snatched from. Planned to sell hunters a chance of a lifetime.

  So what’d they do once they had the things in cages on the back of a flatbed? Started shooting. Training them for the chase, Poppy said, using an empty Jack Daniel’s bottle on the ground below the truck as a target, laughing when the glass flew into the chimps’ cage, sending them screeching and flying up the chain link to the farthest corner.

  Bernie loved Poppy, loved all the guys in the motorcycle club. The MC was his family. But just like his real family, sometimes they could be total assholes.

  Maybe the leopard was still in shock. Maybe that was why it wouldn’t eat or come down from its perch, just lay up there making those noises that rattled his fillings and made his hair stand upright.

  He parked his truck in front of the large two-story log cabin. The Teddy Roosevelt Lodge had seen better days. Built back in the 1930s in the hope that the new Smoky Mountains National Park the CCC and WPA were carving out of the mountains would attract families, it sported fourteen separate cabins spread out along the perimeter backing the woods as well as the central two-story main building. The land was rugged, the lodge so high it spent most of the day shrouded in either fog or shadow. It was situated adjacent to the far northeastern corner of the Cherokee Reservation’s Qualla Boundary, sandwiched between it and the national park with no room for further development.

  The original owner was optimistic the privacy and spectacular view would make building halfway up the side of a mountain a gamble that would pay off despite the only access being a treacherous road that would challen
ge most vehicles.

  He’d been wrong. And so the property had languished, turned over a dozen times to equally enthusiastic developers, until finally Bernie’s dad took it on while making a bigger deal, and gave it to Bernie, saying, “Even you can’t screw it up any more than it already is.”

  Best thing Dad ever did for his son. Bernie loved the lodge. There were no neighbors or visitors; no one wanted to drive up the narrow, twisted single-lane road going nowhere. When life with the Reapers got too rowdy and overwhelming, he could come here and think and dream.

  He imagined the lodge turned into a real home, he and a girl settling down, raising a bunch of kids who’d grow up with the animals, learning to live together in harmony with nature. Most of his dream came from movies and TV shows he’d watched as a kid, old ones from back when his folks were young themselves, like Gilligan’s Island, Tarzan, Swiss Family Robinson, Doctor Dolittle …

  Now he had a chance to live his dreams. First, God had sent him the animals to rescue and care for.

  Then, last night, He’d sent the girl. She was perfect: smart and pretty and a woman of faith. A few times he’d leaned against the door and just stood there, listening to her praying, tears slipping down his face. He couldn’t say why he wept; guess he finally knew what folks meant when they said the Spirit moved them. She moved him like no one else ever had.

  Dad would never approve.

  The law would lock him up for good.

  If the Reapers ever found out they’d kill him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Caitlyn drove past the yellow-and-neon glow of slumbering bedroom communities that dotted Route 28, not worrying about speed limits or flashing amber stoplights. Her phone rang. Paul. She put it on speaker, although usually she hated to talk while driving.

  “Baby,” he drawled in his best Barry White impression, “I miss you. Come on home before your side of the bed gets cold.”

  She laughed. Paul was the first man she’d ever been with who could always make her laugh. She was crazy, even thinking of leaving him. But she also couldn’t envision a life with him—at least not on his terms. Doubt left her feeling unbalanced. She resorted to a weak attempt at humor. “I told you what I’d do to you if you ever called me ‘baby’ again.”