River Bodies (Northampton County Book 1)

by Karen Katchur

  John had watched Becca and her dog dart through the crowd in a hurry to follow the detective. He’d recognized the detective from the television news broadcast back when the young buck’s body had been discovered, the same cop she’d gone to visit at Benny’s Bar and at the cabin along the river. Of course, John had known the detective prior to his joining the state police. He’d known him back when he’d been a teenager, constantly hanging around her, joined at her hip. But once Clint had shipped her off to boarding school and then later college, John hadn’t known whether the two had stayed in touch, or at least not until a few days ago.

  This concerned him.

  He parked his father’s chopper on the side of the road near the wagon full of pumpkins where Becca and the detective had been talking. It wasn’t a parking space, but no one was going to say anything about it. Toby was two blocks away, mingling with the crowd. He was wearing his uniform, but it wasn’t likely he’d be writing parking tickets today. The idea was to welcome tourists to the market and help local businesses thrive. Handing out parking tickets at such an event wouldn’t help the community in their efforts to make a buck.

  Farther down the street at the edge of the crowd, several of the club members had gathered. Their motorcycles were parked along the street in a row. The guys were hanging around the bikes, trying not to look bored, while their old ladies shopped at the stands. They were all playing their part, their women purchasing fruit and vegetables, chatting with the wives of the locals, announcing their place in the community, making their presence known. They were congenial, respectful, as though they were telling the town to pay no attention to the body law enforcement had pulled from the river.

  John spotted Chitter and the prospect standing in front of the soup stand. Chitter was carrying a jug of apple cider. John approached them slowly, weaving his way down the sidewalk. Chitter greeted him with a nod. The lady in the stand handed John a free sample of what smelled like an awful lot of cinnamon in some kind of pumpkin soup.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He motioned for Chitter to follow him.

  The prospect tagged along but lagged behind the two full-patch members, giving them space to talk.

  “What’s up?” Chitter asked, looked at the people around them while shoveling the plastic spoon full of soup into his mouth.

  “I have a situation,” John said, nodding to a woman who walked by pushing a baby stroller.

  “Okay.” Chitter squinted his eyes. “Do we need a sit-down?”

  “Not for this.” John tasted the soup, coughed. He hated cinnamon. “I’ll need another rifle. Clean.” He kept his voice low.

  “Doing a little hunting?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Did you clear it with Hap?”

  “Not yet, but I will.” His shirt was wet and stuck to his back. He could smell his own body odor underneath the leather cut. Nerves, for Christ’s sake. “How soon can you get it to me?”

  “How soon do you need it?”

  “Yesterday,” he said.

  “I’ll have it to you this afternoon.”

  John nodded and walked away, the sweat dripping down the sides of his face. He tossed the sample of pumpkin soup into the overflowing trash can on the way to his father’s chopper. He got on the bike and rode through town as though he were Moses and the people the sea, parting the crowd with the sound of the motorcycle’s engine, the patch on his leather cut identifying his allegiance, who he was, a Scion, the enforcer.

  What John didn’t know was that seconds after he’d left the market, Rick Smith stepped from behind one of the displays. He pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves and plucked the discarded cup and spoon from the top of the pile of trash. To Rick’s good fortune, all of the soup had not only leaked out but also hadn’t stained the sides, leaving any fingerprints intact. Rick dropped the evidence into a plastic bag. Then he removed the nitrile gloves and tossed them into the trash, whistling as he made his way down the street.

  John parked his father’s chopper in the garage, his hand clutching the smooth leather seat for support. His heart sped up, then slowed down, then sped up again. The dirt floor tilted beneath his boots. He stepped away from the bike. If he was going down, he didn’t want to take the bike down with him. He wouldn’t damage his father’s chopper over some kind of anxiety attack, if that was what this was. Plus, he was sure the insurance on his father’s bike had lapsed after his death. John carried the same insurance on his motorcycle as the other club members carried on their bikes too. It wasn’t something they talked about openly, but just because they were on the fringe of the law more often than not didn’t mean they were stupid. They paid for insurance like everyone else.

  John made it as far as the workbench, picked up the towel he’d used to wipe the grease from his hands, and mopped his face. He groped around, searching for someplace to sit, finding the old wooden stool, the one he’d been sitting on when Becca had been just a little girl and had walked in on him in the barn. He plopped down on the hard seat. His heart did the racing, slowing thing again. He attributed it to stress and, if he was honest, nervousness. He waited, hunched over, while his heartbeat sought its normal rhythm. When he felt calm, stable, he grabbed the .22 he kept in the barn and headed into the woods.

  The autumn leaves blanketed the ground, crackling underneath his heavy boots. Dried sweat clung to his skin, sending shivers up and down his arms and legs. He welcomed the cool mountain air into his lungs. A light breeze carried the scent of the river, earthy and clean. The sights and sounds and smells settled inside of him, calming him. He could never give this up, he thought, trekking through the woods, breathing the open air.

  After thirty minutes of walking, he climbed into a deer stand he’d built with his old man in a hundred-year-old maple tree. He laid the rifle across his lap, his thoughts on Beth and how much he wished she were there beside him. She used to shiver in the cold early mornings on the days she’d joined him, waiting for a deer or rabbit to happen by. He’d lay his rifle to the side, with no intention of using it unless he had to. He hadn’t killed the animals in front of Beth. She hadn’t had the stomach for it. And yet she’d never complained about digging in once the meat had been cooked and served on a plate.

  When she’d been in the woods with him, they would watch the birds and squirrels and rabbits. They would listen to the sounds of the wildlife surrounding them. Sometimes, if they were real quiet and the animals had stilled, they could hear the whisper of the river. Beth would press her body against his for warmth, and in return, he’d wrap his arms around her, pulling her close. During her final days, when she’d been too weak to walk, the cancer having taken all of her strength, John had carried her, sitting her on the ground at the base of the trunk of what he would forever think of as their tree.

  He closed his eyes. He could almost feel her body next to his, smell the soap on her skin, the touch of her strawberry hair brushing his cheek. What he remembered now, sitting in the deer stand alone, was the first time Beth had seen a doe pass underneath the old maple tree. She’d squeezed his arm, her breath quick and short, her eyes wide. “She’s so big,” she’d said. “And so beautiful.”

  The doe had stopped and listened, hearing the whisper of Beth’s voice, picking up their scent. It had darted through the trees, graceful and swift, disappearing behind the hemlocks.

  “How could you kill such a beautiful creature?” she’d asked.

  He’d looked her in the eyes. “I only kill what I need to survive.”

  “Does that include the club’s survival, John? Would you kill for them if they asked you to?”

  “I would do whatever I have to do to protect my family,” he’d said.

  She’d kissed him then softly, tenderly, whispering into his mouth as she did, “You’re a good man.”

  Beth had never asked him the question again.

  A large rabbit hopped from underneath a hemlock. John raised the rifle. It took two more hops before landing in a perfect spot for J
ohn to take his shot. The gun fired with a bang. The rabbit leaped into the air, took several more hops out of pure adrenaline, and dropped to its side.

  He slung the rifle over his shoulder by its strap and climbed down the tree, landing with a grunt, his hips protesting the jarring motion. Kneeling next to the rabbit, he pulled a hunting knife from its sheath and began the ritual of a field dressing. It was quick work. The rabbit was large for its kind but small by comparison to a deer—Or a man, his old man’s voice said somewhere in the back of his mind. He tossed the guts to the side for the wolves. All the while he pretended his stomach wasn’t twisting and turning. He was sweating again. He swallowed the saliva in the back of his throat.

  By the time he walked out of the woods, rifle slung over his shoulder, the rabbit hanging by its feet in his hand, the calm he’d felt tucked safely inside the tree had been eradicated. Sweat poured from his hairline. The front and back of his shirt were soaked, his legs unsteady as he made his way to the rusty pickup truck parked alongside the barn. The prospect was leaning against the passenger’s-side door, smoking a cigarette. Chitter stepped out of the house, picking at his teeth. He made his way across the yard when he saw John emerge from the woods.

  “Dinner?” Chitter asked and followed John inside the barn.

  “You’re welcome to stick around if you have a taste for it,” John said, hanging the rabbit on a hook. Not everybody liked rabbit. It had a gamey taste that took getting used to. “The prospect can stay too,” he added.

  The prospect walked in behind them, made a face. “I’ll pass.”

  “Do you have what I need?” John reached for the old towel to wipe his hands and face.

  “It’s in the back of the truck,” Chitter said.

  He followed him to the pickup.

  “You don’t look so good,” Chitter said. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Yup.” He opened the duffel bag and pulled out the .30-06 rifle.

  “It’s clean.”

  John nodded. “I’m going to need you to round up the guys and take them on a run for the night. Make it some kind of a special event with booze and girls. And make sure everyone is there. I don’t want anyone at Sweeney’s. Close the place down. Hell, call it a minivacation if you want. The prospect here is going to take my bike with him.”

  “Seriously?” The prospect smiled.

  “Are you sure about that, John?” Chitter asked.

  “Yes. And if anyone asks, you tell them I was with you the entire trip. I was there. My bike was there. Tell everybody they saw me. Do you understand?”

  “What’s going on, John?” Chitter stopped picking his teeth, stared at him.

  “I’m taking care of a loose end. That’s all you need to know.”

  “You talked to Hap?”

  John turned to face Chitter, the rifle gripped in his hand at his side. “Are you questioning me?” He heard his father’s voice coming from his mouth. When had he started sounding so much like his old man? When had he started behaving like him?

  Chitter put up both hands. “No. I just think someone should know what the hell is going on, even if it’s not me.”

  “Hap will know.”

  “Okay,” Chitter said. “You’re calling the shots.” He handed John a flip phone. “It can’t be traced if you decide to use it. But whatever you decide, destroy it when you’re done.”

  John took the phone.

  Chitter put his hand on John’s shoulder. “I’m not questioning you, man. I’m just trying to look out for you.”

  John covered Chitter’s hand with his own. “I know,” he said. “Now get the guys out of here. By the time you get back, everything will have been taken care of.” He tossed the keys to the prospect. “Don’t fuck up my bike.”

  John was sitting behind the barn watching the leaves burn in the fire pit. He’d eaten some time ago, and the meat lay in his stomach like a rock. His throat was dry. He couldn’t spit. The flames rose and fell in flashes of yellow and orange, the black embers falling to the ground by his feet.

  He took out the disposable flip phone. Hap picked up on the first ring. In the background, John heard the guys hooting and hollering; then it grew quiet.

  Hap must’ve stepped away from the noise. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Is everybody there?” John asked. “The whole crew?”

  “Yes,” Hap said. “Everyone but you.”

  “You tell everyone I’m there too.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “I’m cleaning up a loose end. It’s best you and the club don’t know any more than that.”

  Hap was silent. Eventually, he said, “Okay. Do what you have to.”

  John hung up the phone, tossed it into the fire.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Ten-year-old Becca was skipping rope in the driveway not long after she’d watched her father talking with Russell at the edge of the yard. Sheba was chasing the rope, tripping her up.

  “Stop it,” she said to Sheba and patted the dog’s head. “How do you expect me to reach one hundred if you keep biting the rope?”

  Her father finished mowing the lawn, parked the John Deere in the garage, and strode to where Becca was petting the dog. He knelt on the ground and grabbed her by the arms, pulled her close so that their faces were inches apart.

  “What were you doing in their barn?” he asked. His breath was hot and smelled like cigarettes.

  “I wasn’t in their barn,” she said.

  “Don’t lie to me, Becca.” He squeezed her arms, pinching the skin. “You forget whatever it was you saw. Do you hear me?” He shook her.

  Tears stung her eyes. She wanted to tell him that he was hurting her. She wanted to tell him about John and the knife and the dog attacking Sheba, because she wasn’t sleeping, because she was scared. “I did see something, Daddy,” she whispered. “There was a knife and a blue sweatshirt covered in . . .”

  “No.” He cut her off. “You’re not allowed to tell me.”

  “But why?”

  “Because, that’s why. You have to forget all about it, do you hear? You’re never to tell anyone. Not me. Not your mother. No one. Ever.” He shook her again. “Do you hear?”

  She nodded, a sob caught in her throat.

  “It never happened,” he said, giving her arms a tighter squeeze. “And you’re never to talk about it again. Do you understand?”

  She nodded.

  “Say it. Say you understand you’re never to talk about it. You’ll forget it ever happened. Say it. Promise me.” She heard the fear in his tone, felt it in the grip of his hands on her arms, and it terrified her.

  “I promise, Daddy,” she said, tears streaming down her face.

  He hugged her then. “That’s my girl,” he said. “It will be our little secret.”

  She didn’t hug him back. Her arms stung and hung at her sides. After another minute, he released her and stood. She looked up at him through watery eyes.

  “Now go and wash up,” he said and wiped his own cheeks dry. “This never happened.”

  She did as she was told and went straight to the powder room in the downstairs hall. She washed her face and hands and examined her arms in the mirror. Red welts appeared on her skin where her father had clutched her. He had never raised a hand to her or squeezed her arms so hard, and she was confused and ashamed by what he’d done to her now.

  She raced to her bedroom and pulled on a long-sleeve shirt. Sheba followed her, jumped on Becca’s bed, and lay down. Becca buried her face in the dog’s fur. She would never tell anyone what had happened in the barn with John and the dogs. She’d bury it, force herself to forget all about the bloody knife and the soiled sweatshirt at John’s feet.

  Becca stepped into the kitchen to find Jackie hanging up the phone. Romy went straight to her water dish. Jackie kept her back to Becca, as though she were trying to gain some composure before turning around to face her.

  In that moment Becca wondered if she’d arriv
ed home too late and whatever had happened had happened in her absence. The last few days, the entire week, living in this house under the same roof with her father, picking at the scars of old wounds had been for nothing. She hadn’t accomplished a thing. She should’ve opened her mouth and talked with him sooner. She should’ve found a way.

  Jackie turned around. Her face was puffy and tired. She hadn’t slept more than a few hours the night before, and still she managed a smile.

  “I just got off the phone with your mother,” she said. “She’s going to catch the next flight out.”

  “Oh.” It was all Becca could say. Her mind tried to catch up to the ache inside her heart. “Oh,” she said again. She wanted her mother to come. She wanted her here.

  “He doesn’t have much time left.” Jackie was struggling. Her face showed how hard she was trying to hold back her emotions. “You should probably go up and be with him.”

  “I’m not too late,” she said with such relief that she wrapped her arms around Jackie and hugged her. She’d never offered any kind of affection to any of her father’s lady friends, but the woman in front of her was so much more. She wondered if her father knew how lucky he was to have not only Becca’s mother but also Jackie, two good women in his life.

  “You better go,” Jackie said. “Spend this time with him.” She held Becca’s hands. “And if there’s anything you have to say, you say it to him now. Don’t wait. You may not get a second chance.”

  “Okay.” She turned to go, paused, then turned back around. “How do you know?” she asked. “How do you know it’s the end?” She thought of her father’s behavior since she’d arrived: one day he was strong and lucid, the next weak and confused. Perhaps the better days had been more of an effort for him than she’d realized, his strong will coming and going in flashes, offering glimpses of the father she’d remembered from childhood.

  “Oh, honey,” Jackie said. “The signs have been there all along. You should know that. I would imagine it’s the same with the animals you treat.”