“We’re revisiting.”
“Oh.” I shake my head. “Thanks, but don’t you dare put up the cash.”
“Why? You planning on cutting out on me?”
“Not unless they say I can’t leave town. I mean it, though. Don’t.” FBI agents are not wealthy, and Mike’s putting himself in debt for this already. “Gwen and the kids. They’re okay?”
He changes position, and I’m immediately on guard; the dread sets in when he speaks, because he’s changed tone too. He now sounds professionally comforting. “They’re fine, man. Listen, there was a problem, but they’re okay, I want to say that up front.”
I stand up. It isn’t voluntary; I need to be on my feet. “What happened?”
“Someone came after them on the road,” he says. “The car’s shot to shit, but they’re not hurt.”
“Who?” My knuckles hurt, and I realize I’ve balled my hands into fists. “Who the fuck—”
He’s held up his hands to fend off the anger. “Don’t know yet,” he says. “We’ve got a description of a truck, and a guy dead on the road. She didn’t kill him; he got thrown out of the truck when it spun out. We’ll find the driver soon enough and ask some questions.”
“Who’s we?”
“Me, for a start. Plus, there’s a pretty decent TBI investigator.”
“Fairweather?”
“Yeah. Got a good rep. We’ll add people when we find decent ones. Not that we’re likely to find many in Wolfhunter proper. Rot spreads, and this town smells like it’s got it in the bones.”
Mike’s getting almost lyrical about it, but I don’t doubt his instincts. Not for a hot second. “Tell me again that they’re okay.”
“Yeah, man. They’re okay. They’re at the county sheriff’s substation, about half an hour out to the west. They’ll be there all night, most likely. Soon as I know more, you’ll know.”
I slowly sink back down on the bed. It doesn’t feel any better, but I stretch out anyway. “They need protection.”
“Fairweather’s on that. I asked.”
“You should go.”
“Ain’t going nowhere until you are.”
I sigh. Feel it deep, like the exhaustion. “Thanks, Mike.”
“Yeah, remember me at bonus time.”
“Like I’m ever going to be able to afford you.”
“Another charity asshole.” He digs a phone out of his pocket, and a pair of earbuds. “Here. Listen.”
I send him a look and put the earbuds in, not sure what the hell he’s doing, and then he plays Gwen’s message. I close my eyes, listening, hearing, the real emotion in her voice, and when she says I love you, my eyes open and I stare at the dark ceiling. The ghostly light of the phone throws everything into sharp relief.
She doesn’t know how much I don’t deserve that. And how much I needed to hear it.
I strip off the earbuds and hand back the phone. “Don’t delete it,” I tell him. “Send it to me.”
He doesn’t ask why. Proving, once again, I can pick good friends when I try.
We make up a chess set out of spare change and random junk, and play until the guard comes back to unlock the door. “Judge is ready,” he says. “Let’s go.”
“I’ve got him,” Mike says, and takes my arm. To be fair to the guard, it looks like he’s capable of ripping the arm off, which is probably why I don’t get shackles like I did earlier; it makes walking easier, at least. “Try to look pitiful. Oh, wait, you nailed it already.”
“Shut up.”
He walks me through the gates.
The ride to the courthouse is about two minutes. I wonder if Mike’s as alert as I am, because it’s a chilly predawn now, mist rising up from the ground like escaping ghosts . . . and we’re alone in a police car with two of Wolfhunter’s Finest, neither of whom look friendly. We could disappear, end up dead on the banks of Wolfhunter River like the woman Connor and I found. Or never be found at all. Still, making a prominent FBI agent disappear is probably too big a magic trick for this town to pull off.
Hopefully.
The only cars on the street this time of morning are three police cruisers . . . and a surprising number of black SUVs. I point at one that’s parked near the courthouse. “That yours?”
Mike nods. “Why?”
“You bring company?”
He gets it in the next second as he takes in the other, similar vehicles. “No,” he says. “They don’t look too local.”
“They don’t,” I agree. “I count three of them in view right now.”
“That’s a lot of strangers.”
“You’re sure they’re not FBI? TBI?”
“I’m sure,” Mike says. “How many people you think it would take to secure this town?”
“The whole town?” I think he’s kidding for a second. He isn’t. “Uh . . . one main road in and out, so . . . couple of cars ought to do it. If you mean locking down resistance, you’d want to hit the police station first. Right?”
“Right,” he says.
“But that hasn’t happened.”
“Not yet.”
He doesn’t say anything else. We’re not close enough to read license plates in this dim light, or I’m sure he’d be jotting them down or taking a picture.
Mike’s got a theory, I think. He’s just not telling me what it is.
Once we’re out of the car and inside the courthouse, I breathe a little easier. The judge is a grumpy old man from out of town. He’s made all the more angry by the hour, and the fact he must have been rousted out of bed by someone at the highest state levels to get this done. He gestures to the yawning court clerk, who calls the case, and I realize my lawyer isn’t here. Well, shit. It doesn’t seem to matter; the judge just makes a pronouncement that seems like he’s reading it from a card.
“Based on my review of additional evidence, I’m amending the earlier decision and granting bail to the defendant in the amount of two hundred fifty thousand dollars. Usual conditions apply.”
That must be shorthand, because the court clerk keeps typing as if more’s been said, and for quite a while. The judge waits until she stops, then bangs the gavel and rushes out. He’s still got on pajamas under the robe, looks like. I can’t imagine his next defendant is going to have a very good time of it.
“Two hundred fifty thousand?” I say to Mike when he comes to claim me. “Yeah, don’t bother to tell me you haven’t got it handy.”
“Man, I don’t got it at all. But you’re in luck. Someone does.”
It’s not Gwen. She does have some cash socked away, but definitely not that much. Mike walks me out, and I don’t know what I’m expecting when we hit the sidewalk, but I balk when I recognize the car. It’s a rented Buick.
Mike opens the door and gestures me in to sit beside Miranda Tidewell.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I ask him. “Mike. Come on.”
“Just get in. You needed an angel.”
“She’s the opposite.”
Miranda leans out and says, “Sam, don’t make me regret my investment in you. Please. Get in. Listen to what we have to say.”
I look at her, then at Mike Lustig. “So it’s we now.” I feel doors shutting inside me. Ties being cut. I’ve counted on Mike and his friendship for a long time, longer than I knew Miranda; I never thought anything could shake that trust, or break it.
But I feel that chain coming apart now, link by link.
“Get in, man,” he tells me again. I could walk away, but fact is, where would I go? Gwen isn’t here. And she’s dealing with worse than this.
I get into the car. Mike climbs in on the passenger side up front, and the entire sedan groans and settles a little. “Well,” I say to Miranda, “at least you didn’t make him your chauffeur. Even for you, maybe that’s a bridge too far.”
“Fuck you,” Mike says. “You think I did this for money?”
“I don’t know, Mike, why don’t you tell me why else you colluded with a woman you know I hate?”
“Mr. Lustig has your best interests at heart, Sam,” Miranda says. She pulls the car out from the curb and starts driving. I don’t know where we’re going. And I don’t like it. “Someone needed to help save you from yourself. If Mike and I colluded, I promise it’s because we both still care.”
“Oh, you care now.” I say it flatly, and I hope she can feel the slap. She sinks back into her seat and stares straight ahead.
“Yes,” she says, “I do. Somehow. Even with everything you’ve done to push me away.” I remember that tone, that voice. Low and with a faint rasp to it, like a cat’s tongue. It’s like falling back into the past, and it scares the hell out of me.
Miranda doesn’t look quite like herself. Her hair’s down, spilling in smooth waves over her shoulders; she’s wearing a plain black shirt and blue jeans. Expensive, of course; she wouldn’t be caught dead in some regular store brand. But she’s as casual as I’ve ever seen her when not under the influence . . . and then I realize she’s drunk. Not wildly drunk, like she used to get. But enough. “What did you do?” I ask her. My voice sounds tight now.
“I saw Gina,” she tells me. “Don’t worry. I didn’t spill your secrets. I just wanted to . . . to test her a little.”
“Did you hurt her?” I don’t realize how angry I am until I hear the sound of my voice. Mike’s hand clamps down on my shoulder; he recognizes that tone. The way I’ve shifted forward, ready to lunge. “Don’t, Mike. Did you hurt her?”
“No,” Miranda finally says. “She’s fine. And so are the children, apparently; I didn’t see them.”
That’s something. It lets me step back from a very long drop. “Why would you do that?”
“She’s dragging you right down with her,” Miranda says. “That doesn’t have to happen. I don’t want that to happen, Sam. I never did. I care too much to watch you . . . debase yourself like this.”
“Then don’t watch. Go back to KC and leave us alone,” I tell her. “Let it go.”
Her face flushes, little hard dots of red in her cheeks and forehead. She can’t keep herself quite as icily calm when she’s drunk. “You’re not a mother. I had a child I carried in my body, and she was absolutely destroyed. Someone has to pay for that.”
“Someone did,” I say. “Melvin Royal got a bullet in his head.”
“You of all people knew she was guilty too. And now you’re letting her get away with it.”
“Yeah, I was angry and deluded. I got better; you should try it.”
“The documentary will be made,” she says. “Your lives will still fall apart, because Gina coming out of the shadows was the beginning of the end for whatever you think your relationship was. You ought to be smart enough to realize that.” She reaches into her pocket and brings out a folded piece of paper. She hands it to me.
It’s a printed article from the internet. In it, someone is earnestly talking about Gwen Proctor as a full partner in her husband’s crimes. It’s not from five years ago. It’s brand-new.
“I didn’t print the comments section,” she says. “But I can promise you there are thousands posting, and they’re just as full of rage as they ever were, if not more so. No one believes in her innocence. No one but you. And once the documentary is out, no one ever will again. She’ll have no peace from now on. But we will have some measure of justice.”
Jesus. The monster in this equation isn’t Gwen. It’s sitting next to me, and I helped create it. “Call them off.”
“You started it, Sam. You’re the one who founded the Lost Angels. The one who made up the wanted posters with her picture we used around the neighborhoods every time we found her. You pushed us to follow her every move, track her aliases, keep showing up and driving her away. The one who came up with the idea to prove, once and for all, just how guilty she really is by moving in next door to her at Stillhouse Lake. Why would I call them off? I trusted you to finish this for all of us. And instead, you fell in love with her.”
The edge sharpens on the last of that. Ah, God, no. Don’t tell me that’s what this is really about. I see the red rims of her eyes, the barely controlled grief and rage. This is about how she feels about me as much as her loss. I’d fooled myself into believing that we were just allies, but for her it was always more. It was a relationship.
I just never saw it that way. She was a means to an end. And she used me in the same measure.
I turn to stare in disbelief at Mike. “And you’re in this with her.” He’s got his stone face on, but I know he’s feeling guilty behind that. He has to be.
“Look, man . . . I like Gwen. I do. But I have to put my brother first, and Gwen is never going to shake her past. It’s just too heavy. I don’t want you going down with her.”
“So you’re okay with her being harassed, stalked, maybe killed. And the kids along with her.”
“No,” he says, “I’m not. But I’m also not okay with you being collateral damage. Hear this woman out. That’s all I’m asking.”
“You don’t know her,” I tell him. “Jesus, Miranda, don’t you get it? I never loved you. I barely liked you. We had our losses in common. And now it’s over.”
She doesn’t answer immediately; she’s slowing the car, and now she’s making a turn into a familiar parking lot. The Motel 6. “I’m giving you a choice, Sam. You have a job offer in Florida, a chance to start over and do something positive with your life. Just . . . take it.”
I get it then. Finally. And it sucks. “Mike didn’t recommend me for the job, did he? You twisted some corporate arms. Got me a nice, cushy position far away from Gwen.”
“I did recommend you,” Mike says. “I want you alive, man. And I don’t see that happening if you stay on this path.” He sounds genuinely unhappy about this. I think he really is. He never liked Miranda and her crusade; he never liked who I was when I was part of it, though he never gave up on me either. I understand why he’s done this now.
But he’s completely fucking wrong.
I listen to the engine idle. I count pulse beats because it keeps me calm when I want to rip this car to pieces.
“You have a choice to change your life,” Miranda says. “I’m driving Mike back to the Nashville airport. If you say yes, I have a private jet ready there to fly you to Florida. Mike and I will get these charges dropped against you, because it’s obvious you’re not a murderer; you were defending yourself, and the state police’s investigation will fully bear that out. You take that job. You find someone else. You heal from what she’s done to you. And you never, ever come back.”
“Or?” I ask tightly.
“Or you get out of the car and wait for Gina. I swear to God if you make that choice, I will make it my personal mission to destroy you both,” she says. “I will make you and Gina Royal so toxic, so poisonous, that everyone that touches you is destroyed by association.”
Scorched earth. She means it. I hear Mike protest that, but I’m not listening; he might not have realized what she intended, but he bought into this, and he stays in for the full ride.
“You can’t do that,” I tell her. I even manage to be gentle about it. “You can’t punish innocent kids like that.”
“I look forward to the day someone destroys those children the way Melvin destroyed mine. Then I can rest, because the last trace of Melvin Royal will be gone from this earth.”
It’s horrific, but she means it. I know this woman. I cared for her, once. And seeing the fanaticism, the cruelty . . . it’s like looking into a mirror and seeing myself two years ago.
“You’re insane,” I say. I’m actually sorry for her. And frightened of her. “You’d go that far.”
“I would go to hell to punish Gina Royal,” she said. “And if you get out of this car, Sam . . . that’s where you’re going too.”
I look from her to Mike. He looks nakedly appalled now. He didn’t know she’d do this, or take it this far. I feel sorry for him for a tiny second, before I remember that he’s trying to pull me away from the people I lov
e.
“See you both in hell, then,” I tell them, and I open the door and get out.
I watch the car drive away. Dawn’s showing on the eastern horizon, but the morning is oddly cold for the season. Ghosts escaping the ground.
I sit down against the wall of the Motel 6, and I wait for whatever will come for me now. If it’s the Wolfhunter PD, I’ll be dead before I see the sun.
But if it’s a choice between watching Gwen suffer, or suffering with her . . . I’ll be with her, every time.
I’m sitting there half an hour before they show up. Three men, not here to mind their own business because they look around, see me and head right over. The one in the middle of the trio is a lanky red-haired man with a thick, unkempt beard; the other two are shorter, both with dark hair and beards. Under all the hair I see a resemblance. I don’t know them. And they damn sure shouldn’t know me.
“Fellas,” I say. I don’t get up. I’m tired. “We really have to do this right now?”
I expect them to lead with the obvious, the killing of their local hero Travis, but they surprise me. The big redheaded one says, “Where is she?”
“Gwen?” I shrug. “Why?”
“We got a date,” he says, and laughs the way a donkey brays. “Bitch is gonna suck my dick, I hear.” He stops laughing, because he sees it’s not working. I really don’t want to do this. I really don’t. I feel sick and lost and utterly not in the mood. Until he says, “Not the mother, I wouldn’t do her with a thousand condoms. I’m talkin’ about that fine daughter.”
Everything else stops. The exhaustion. The depression. The fear that I can’t quite suppress. I stand up. “You mean my daughter.” Because she is. And I’m not letting this asshole get away with it. “Nice mouth you got. You kiss your brother with that?”
Not surprisingly, they come for me. They were only waiting for the excuse.
It’s not like the damn movies, where two wait politely while the first one has a go at you; they rush me in a jumbled, stumbling group, and two of them keep my right arm pinned back while the third—the big one—slams a fist the size of a coffee can into my stomach so hard I feel it up my spine. I take it, because I’m trying to spot their weaknesses, other than lack of discipline. The big one’s ungainly, and listing his weight to the right. Easy fix. I gag back the pain of his punch, raise my work boot, and slam it into the side of his right knee. I feel the crunch of tearing cartilage, and his high-pitched scream echoes off the concrete bricks of the motel court.
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