by CJ Lyons
She touched Smokey’s arm. The chimp trembled with fear and shook her off without turning her attention away from the cat. Smokey’s fur stood on end, as if a few extra inches of bristling hair would be enough to convince the cat that the chimp was a threat. The cat yawned, unimpressed, its mouth a gaping abyss of large white teeth. Very sharp teeth.
Lena backed away. The stench of urine and rotting meat gagged her. “C’mon, Smokey. Let’s not bother the pretty kitty. Good kitty, now, shoo.” Her tongue was thick with cold and her words sounded slurred. Crazy trying to talk a mountain lion into leaving its dinner behind anyway.
The light from the door hit the cat as it paced, its head cocked as if it considered Lena’s words. There were markings across its coat. Not a mountain lion. A leopard? What the hell was a leopard doing here?
Question for later. After the leopard was on the other side of the door and she and Smokey were safely locked behind it.
Thankfully, the leopard seemed to be thinking the same thing. It swung its head from Lena and Smokey to the open door, nose high, scenting the air. But then it focused on the prey in front of it once more.
Suddenly a shadow blocked the doorway. A man. A light shot out, blinding Lena as it pierced the darkness. She shielded her eyes, stumbling backward. Her foot slipped on something wet. Losing her balance, she flailed her arms but fell to the floor, the collision stunning her.
The leopard sprang. Not at Lena. At the man aiming the light at it. The cat made a low hrumphing noise, the kind of noise that could be the very last sound its prey heard. It sideswiped the man with its paw, shoved him aside, and bolted for freedom.
Smokey screeched, jumped up and down, swinging her arms to protect Lena from the new threat. The man sagged against the door, dropped the light. It spun across the floor, like a disco ball, illuminating what appeared to be an old hotel registration desk. Lena didn’t know whether to get up or play dead until the man cleared the doorway and gave her room to escape.
He pushed himself to his feet, fumbled something into his coat pocket, and approached with his hands held palms up to his side, trying to convince her he wasn’t a threat. She wasn’t sure she bought it, but her feet were still too numb to try to run past him—hell, last time she’d tried to use them, she’d fallen, so she’d have to come up with a Plan B. Maybe Smokey could create a diversion, buy her time?
“Shh, now, I’m trying to help. Let me just check her, make sure she’s okay.” The man crooned softly to the chimp as he took one step then another toward where Lena lay. Smokey calmed, her posture relaxing.
So much for Plan B. Lena’s mind felt like it was struggling through an avalanche, almost as numb and cold as her body. It was so hard to think clearly, much less convince her freezing body to cooperate.
“You remember me, don’t you, girl?” The man stretched out a hand. Smokey sniffed, then took it, patting her palm up and down his arm and chest as if re-familiarizing herself with him. He stood in place, waiting for her to finish her exploration. Only once she’d accepted him did he dare to crouch beside Lena.
Smokey mimicked the man’s posture, her paws gently nudging Lena. She made a worried keening sound and turned to the man. As if she trusted him to take care of Lena.
Lena didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Because even in the dim light she could make out the stranger’s eyes.
Pale blue with silver flecks. The same eyes as the man who’d kept her prisoner.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Paul had gotten them a regular room on the floor above the atrium. It had a king-sized bed, a small table with two uncomfortable-looking chairs in front of an interior window beside the door. She didn’t like the window, it was a security risk, but Caitlyn felt better for having moved. Not that she’d be letting her guard down, but for tonight this worked.
She’d hauled Eli’s box up from the car. Wasn’t about to let it out of her sight until she had a chance to go through it.
“What the hell was that all about?” Paul asked as soon as she walked in the door and dropped the box onto the table in front of the window. She’d been hoping he’d be asleep. No such luck. “Back at the bar?”
“That was me doing my job. Until you showed up.”
He didn’t look convinced. “Were those bikers really going to shoot us over a stupid little pin?”
“It’s a matter of honor. That pin represents the entire MC.”
“Honor my ass.” Wow, he really was pissed. She’d never seen him like this before. “Bunch of racist hoodlums. And what were you thinking? You could have gotten yourself killed. Going up against a gang like that on your own. Are you crazy?”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“Your mom told me this is about some girl you haven’t even seen for twenty-five years. It’s not your job. Even if it was, shouldn’t you have backup or a team or a plan or something? You don’t just go charging in—”
“Sometimes you do. Shake things loose. I had it covered until you blundered in.”
“Didn’t look that way from where I stood.” He blew out his breath. Had that resigned look he got when he had to play the adult in the relationship. She hated that look. “I admire your loyalty. To your job. Even to friends you haven’t seen in years. But when are you going to start being loyal to yourself? To your family and the folks who love you?” He laid his palms on her shoulders and looked down at her. “Caitlyn, I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you.”
Adrenaline fled, leaving her bones ready to melt. She surrendered to exhaustion and let Paul hold her even though she knew she’d regret her cowardice in the morning. He was so strong, it was tempting to forget everything else and just let him take care of her.
“I hate it when we fight,” he said, his words ruffling her hair. “Hate it even more when I feel like I’m the only one fighting. For us.”
His words brought more guilt with them. She should love this man—what woman in her right mind wouldn’t? He was sweet and thoughtful and honest and handsome and tonight had proved his courage. She was attracted to him, enjoyed being with him … maybe that was love? Maybe she’d been waiting to feel something that didn’t even exist? How the hell was she supposed to know?
The silence lengthened but he relented, not pushing her for a commitment. Add kind and patient to his good qualities. She hoped he never tried to make a similar list about her. It’d be damn short.
“This case,” he said, his face still buried in her hair. “It’s not official business, right?”
She pulled away, looked at him suspiciously. If he was going to ask her to give up—
“So, that means you can tell me about it and maybe I can help,” he finished. He sat down on the edge of the bed. “Start at the beginning.”
She wasn’t about to let a civilian get involved—especially not Paul. He’d almost gotten himself and her killed tonight trying to help. But talking this tangle out might clear her head, give her a direction to go in. She sank down onto the chair, pulled her knees up to sit cross-legged, and propped one elbow on the table, resting her chin in her palm.
“The beginning? I’m not even sure where that is. I thought it was with the murder Lena’s father committed twenty-six years ago, but now I’m not sure.”
“Her dad killed someone?”
“A Cherokee tribal elder named Tommy Shadwick. Beat the guy to death with a hammer then torched the body and his house to cover it up.”
Paul’s eyes went wide. So typical of a civilian. Give them blood and gore and suddenly they got interested. “Really? Why?”
“I was just a kid at the time. But when I read about it later the only motive mentioned was that Tommy opposed Hale’s efforts to have his family placed on the tribal rolls. There was a big case started in Oklahoma about former African slaves of the Cherokees being given full tribal status. I guess with the new Indian gaming law passed back then, Hale thought his family should get a piece of the action.”
“The casino was the reason he killed a ma
n? Just to get a share of the profits?” Paul seemed dismayed; he’d been expecting something more dramatic, less ordinary than greed.
“The casino wasn’t built then—I don’t think it was even approved until after Tommy’s death. Uncle Jimmy’s company didn’t get the contract to develop it until after my dad died and we’d moved.”
“This guy beat a man to death and burned down his house just in case the casino got built and his family might make some money off it?” Paul’s frown mirrored her own. “Eli Hale must have been pretty nuts to do that. Was he violent with his family? Did he ever hurt you? Is that why your mom is so against you helping his daughter?”
Caitlyn pushed her chair back and stood. Wished the room had more space to move in. “He was never violent. He was best friends with my dad. The best dad I knew—second to mine, of course. He worked hard but he laughed hard, always put his family first. He was—fun.”
“But he bludgeoned a man to death? You were just a kid. Maybe there was more going on you didn’t know about. He was bipolar or something.”
“No. Lena would have used something like that for an appeal.” It took her six steps to pass the bed and reach the bathroom. Another six back. “He confessed. Never changed his story. All the evidence pointed to him. Except my father couldn’t believe Eli was guilty.”
“Did your father have proof?”
She shook her head, straining to piece together the fragments of memory, newspaper articles she’d read once she was old enough to find them on her own, and the transcript of Eli’s sentencing. “No. He was with Eli that night but there was still a window of opportunity so it didn’t hold up as an alibi.” Another six steps. And six steps back. She stopped in front of Paul. “But there should be a better motive. A crime like that is personal, intimate.”
“Is that what Lena was here to research? Her dad’s case?”
“No. Lena researched her dad’s case already. Found no evidence of his innocence and nothing to base an appeal on. Plus, he maintained his guilt right up until he died—they had a huge fight at Butner a few weeks ago and she told him she finally realized he was guilty and she wasn’t going to keep wasting her life on him. That was about the time she started researching Eastern Band Cherokee tribal archives from the eighteen hundreds.”
“Wait. You lost me. Eli Hale is guilty—he says it and everyone believes him, including his own daughter. So what do Indian archives from over a century ago have to do with anything?”
“I’m not sure. Her roommate said it was research for a law review article. Tied in to a Supreme Court ruling about the freedmen in Oklahoma.”
“The same case everyone thinks got the tribal elder killed back in 1988?”
“It finally made its way through the court system.” She had no clue what a case about an Indian tribe in another state had to do with Lena’s disappearance. And no good ideas about where to start looking. “Maybe you could help me with that? Do some online research about what Lena was researching and see who she might be visiting here?”
“Maybe. But what are you going to be doing in the meantime?”
“You know how hard it is for me to read on the computer.” God, she was a slug, using her traumatic brain injury and the resultant migraines to get him to do her work. But if that work kept him safe and sound huddled over a computer, it was worth it. “It would be a huge help.”
“Okay. I’ll do it. In the morning. After we get some sleep.” He stood and pulled down the duvet. “But on one condition.”
Conditions. She hated conditions. “What?”
“You don’t go anywhere near those bikers again. And you keep me in the loop.”
That was two conditions. Didn’t matter. There was no way in hell she’d be able to honor either. A civilian was not going to dictate her investigation. She didn’t answer, instead pretended to be busy searching for her toothbrush, trying to decide whether to lie to Paul or not.
No matter what she told Paul, she was going to find Lena. She owed Eli Hale that much.
Especially since she was beginning to think her dad might have been right all along. There was damn little evidence except Eli’s confession to tie him to Tommy Shadwick’s murder. And even less motive.
What if Eli Hale was innocent?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Goose lay back on the steel bench outside the holding cells, his handcuffs rattling against the railing they were attached to. Not exactly the comfortable bed he’d hoped for tonight. At least he wasn’t inside one of the two small cells, crowded with drunks, at least one of whom had already tossed their cookies.
Once they’d spied his top rocker labeling him a Reaper officer, the deputies had allowed him to stay outside the holding cells. The only other casualty of tonight’s ruckus that they’d shown equal deference to was one of the guys from the home chapter.
It wasn’t out of respect, that much was clear. It was because the sheriff knew how to best keep peace around here. With the population of Reapers in his territory increased tenfold for the weekend, he wasn’t going to risk igniting a war. Not when a little common courtesy could keep things quiet.
Smart man, the sheriff. Almost as smart as the fed, Caitlyn. She’d really gotten under Poppy’s skin. Goose smiled at the memory of her flicking that photo of Lena Hale onto the pool table like she was turning up the ace in a royal flush. And waltzing into the clubhouse wearing that Reaper pin? Most men wouldn’t have the balls to do something like that.
Her poor boyfriend was gonna get a new one ripped, wrecking her power play like he had. What kind of idiot was he, crowding in on her plan like that?
He considered that. Then again, maybe she wasn’t so smart, hanging out with a guy that clueless. Maybe she should be hanging out with someone who knew how to play the game, someone like Goose.
The thought made him smile. As soon as he was out of here, he planned on finding out everything he could about the pretty fed. Best way to save her ass now that she’d given the Reapers a reason to target her for real.
“Get up.” The deputy nudged him before Goose’s fantasy could take him any farther. “You’ve made bail.”
The deputy uncuffed him. Goose stretched, taking his time, luxuriating in the freedom. He followed the deputy out to the front office where Poppy waited, collected his personal belongings—knife, cell phone, Browning Hi Power 9mm plus magazine, wallet, and keys—then followed Poppy out to the Reapers’ van. Weasel sat behind the wheel, but otherwise the van was empty. They must have already run the guy from Daytona back.
“The fed’s at the VistaView,” Poppy said as he climbed into the front passenger seat, leaving the backseat to Goose. “We need to know what she’s doing.”
“She had a box of shit with her,” Weasel put in. “Papers. You should grab those.”
“Do you care how?” Goose asked.
Poppy considered it. Goose knew he didn’t want to make waves, not with the national president, Caruso, coming in for the poker run tomorrow. “Under the radar would be best. Keep her off balance.”
“You know she’s not down here on official business.” Goose leaned back, waiting for their response.
“How would you know?” Weasel whipped his head around to aim a glare at Goose.
“Easy. No FBI agent on a real case would bring their boyfriend with her. And when I saw her and her uncle together at the casino, it looked like a family reunion. He said something about her mother as well—I mean, come on, who’s gonna risk their mom working a job?”
“He’s got a point,” Poppy said.
“Besides, feds don’t work alone, right? So where was her backup when she needed them?”
“What makes you such an expert on how feds work?” Weasel snapped.
“When’s the last time you saw anyone in law enforcement walk into our clubhouse without backup?”
“Yeah. Okay. But then why’s she looking for the girl?”
Ah. It was the girl they really wanted. So much for Weasel’s story about giving her di
rections and sending her on her way. “Who cares why? We let Tierney lead us right to her.”
Poppy was silent a moment, then nodded his blessing. “Okay. But no one touches Tierney without my say-so. She’s still a fed, and we don’t need that kind of hassle.”
Weasel looked surprised at that, giving Poppy a look Goose couldn’t interpret. Goose had thought once he was a club officer he’d learn more about how the MC actually got the money to keep its members—mostly unemployed drifters like Goose—fed, housed, and supplied with all the booze, dope, and women they could ask for. A few of the guys had even had the MC buy out the notes on their houses so they wouldn’t lose them to the bank. Taking care of their own—one of the reasons why the Reapers would remain loyal “till Death us do part,” as their initiation oath required.
“What about the guys from Daytona?” Weasel said. “Caruso’s gonna be asking questions.”
“You let me handle Caruso. All we need is for him to keep his boys focused on the poker run. While we’re taking care of business.”
Goose leaned back, hiding his face in shadows, waiting for them to say more. But they pulled up to the clubhouse and parked, leaving him without answers. Were they going to ask him to TCB, take care of business?
He climbed out of the back of the van, weighed his options, and decided to keep silent and wait to see what they wanted of him. Weasel already had a TCB patch on his cut—the only Mountain Man besides Poppy who had earned the right to wear it.
The snow had coated the bikes and trucks in the lot with a frosty layer of white, made them look like something out of a fairy tale. Or a nightmare.
Goose wanted to get out of there, get far away as fast as his ‘05 Softail Springer would take him. Before Poppy and Weasel asked him to do something he just couldn’t do. He wasn’t naive; he knew “taking care of business” meant more than breaking the law.