Reprise

by C. D. Breadner

  “I called the others in, too,” Jayce said as Tiny was closing the doors. “But for now, what’s going on?”

  “Their CSI guy is on site,” Spaz answered. “I can’t believe these guys email on their phones, though.”

  “Spaz!” Jayce tried to get the tech geek on track.

  “They’re saying they’ve got signs of a break in. Forced entry at the back door. They found her in the kitchen. She put up a fight, she was going for the knives. But by the time she got one it was too late. They strangled her.”

  “Fuck,” Tiny muttered, taking his seat like he’d just lost use of his legs.

  “This tryst,” Jayce began. “Was it just a one-time thing or had it been going on a while?”

  “Just the once,” he answered, rubbing his temple. “She just got dumped by a guy.”

  “Maybe he changed his mind. Came back and his efforts weren’t appreciated,” Knuckles suggested.

  Spaz put a hand up. “I can probably find out who the guy was. Faster than Turnbull probably could.”

  “Do it,” Jayce instructed, falling silent when the door opened. Buck, Fritter, and Tank all filed in and took their seats.

  “They know the basics,” Jayce said to Spaz. “Fill in the rest.”

  Spaz brought everyone up to speed and the room fell silent.

  Naturally Jayce broke the quiet. “We all know what Webber meant to the club. She fixed us up and covered our asses. More than a few times. Plus she was local. She knew how this worked. With the way things have been going, it’s hard for me to just say that this was all very sad and not wonder if we somehow brought this down on her.”

  Tiny pressed his hand to the center of his chest. Maybe this wouldn’t be a pain free day after all.

  “Tiny and the good doctor had a little a house call a few days ago. If this becomes known, I think we can pretty much count on Sheriff Turnbull crawling up our asses.”

  “Shit,” Fritter grumbled, running both hands over his head and linking his hands behind his neck.

  “Pretty much,” Jayce agreed. “Spaz will keep monitoring. I’ll call Clark to give him a heads’ up that we’ll need him.”

  “Are we going to try to figure out who did this?” Tank’s voice may have been quiet, but Tiny had known him a long time. That quiet voice only meant the man was furious and about to blow.

  “Yeah, we will,” Jayce said immediately. “No one kills an innocent in this town. We find out who did it and we even the score.”

  A soft knock sounded at the door and Fritter rose to answer. To Tiny’s surprise it was Sheriff Downey. That is...Sharon.

  “Jayce?” she asked, actually sounding unsure if she should intrude.

  “What’s up?”

  “Someone’s here to see you. He’s very insistent.”

  “Did he say his name?”

  “Anthony Guidinger?”

  There were puzzled looks all around the table before the men all stood. Tiny didn’t know why, but the thought of that grease ball around the women made him sick to the stomach.

  Jayce asked Sharon to take all the women into the kitchen. She raised an eyebrow but did as asked. Mal was giving him questioning glances but he kept his face stoic.

  Surrounded by four meathead henchmen, the schmuck wasn’t grinning today. That was enough to cause Tiny’s internal tuner to go nuts.

  “Mister Guidinger,” Jayce greeted their guest without much welcome. “To what do we owe the honor?” Tiny was, as always, impressed with the Prez’s diplomacy.

  “Cut the bullshit,” Guidinger snapped.

  Tiny’s intuition went on high alert. Tank and Fritter stepped to the President’s side. Tiny moved closer to the door, open eye on the thug that was situated there.

  “There a problem?” Jayce’s politeness was gone.

  “That last shipment was supposed to go missing. You idiots saving the day actually made shit worse.”

  “What?” Tank growled. “Sachetti tipped us. Why’d he pay us if we fucked up?”

  “Internal conflicts. His books have to show payments for services rendered. But thanks to you it’s all fucked up.” Guidinger’s finger was dangerously close to Jayce’s face. Any closer and Tiny was breaking it off. “Your job is to follow orders. Do as you’re told.”

  “That order wasn’t from you. It was from a fucking dock worker. We were a bit nervous for good reason.” Jayce shot a look at Tiny. “The supplied truck conveniently blew a tire, right before it was fucking shot up. You telling me you set us up for my driver to get shot?”

  “Tire wasn’t my fault. They were supposed to just force him off the road.”

  “What the fuck?” Tank bellowed. The four goons stood up straighter but stayed put. “Let us in on the fucking plan! It doesn’t have to be so convoluted. It’s not a fucking Bond movie!”

  “Yeah, well, it had to look right.”

  Jayce made a sound of disbelief.

  “First misstep, McClune. But it’s still going to cost you. Your club enjoyed a bit of an inside advantage with the medical system, I noticed. Doctor Webber a friend of yours?”

  “Son of a fucking bitch.” Tiny only saw red as he surged towards Guidinger, but the goon by the door caught him. He was built enough like a wall that Tiny didn’t get far.

  “Yes, we noticed you spent a little time at her house as well.” Guidinger’s anger was gone. He was smiling at Jayce now. “She should really have kept better company.”

  Jayce’s face ran red with fury. “You fucking prick. She’s a civilian.”

  “She was,” Guidinger corrected. “Like I’d kill one of your biker whores. What would be the lesson there?”

  Tiny’s head was back to spinning. Webber snuffed out so this prick could throw his weight around? How the fuck was this possible?

  “Keep going behind my back, the pile of bodies gets higher. I promise you that. You’re paid to do as you’re told. Stop the bullshit.” Then he turned to Knuckles. “You. I got another job. Walk with me outside.”

  Without another word Guidinger made for the door and his thugs followed without a backward glance. Their association with Sachetti was the only thing that let them walk out of there still breathing. Knuckles went along after a nod from Jayce.

  “A fucking set up,” Tank growled. “What the fuck do we do?”

  Suddenly, it was all right there. Pieces tumbled and fell into place. Not only a punishment, this killing. Tiny was being set up to take the fall for this.

  “They’re going to come for me,” he said quietly. “They’ll think I did it. That’s why they picked her.”

  Jayce nodded. “Yeah, but there’s no evidence.”

  “That might mean a hassle, no actual conviction,” Fritter offered a lame bit of hope.

  “Even without a conviction, Markham will condemn me. And probably the club.”

  “An added benefit.” Tank sounded almost as miserable as Tiny felt.

  “It’s smart. And such a prick move.” Jayce sighed, sinking onto a bar stool. “We need to call Clark.”

  “I will,” Spaz said, heading for the phone.

  Tiny was fully numb, toes to fingertips. They’d arrest him, he’d be taken into custody, held without bail, and he was more than certain he’d die waiting for his trial. That was coming. It was the predictable end of a movie plot.

  “What’ll they find there?” Fritter asked.

  Tiny knew what he was asking. “I don’t know. Maybe hair. Condom was flushed.”

  “Skin under her nails?”

  “Not likely. Doctors wash their hands obsessively.” His answer was like an automated response.

  Fuck. Motherfucking fuck.

  Not now.

  He didn’t want to go out now that he’d found his happiness. He had Mal and—

  His breath stole away from him and he had to sit down. He couldn’t get enough air. The lights were brighter. His head was reeling.

  “Hey, hey. Big guy. Deep breaths.” Knuckles was rubbing his back. Oddly, that hel
ped. It grounded him. That’s when he realized Knuckles was back from his chat with Guidinger. He assumed it was another hit his buddy had to do, but he couldn’t find the energy to ask about it.

  So that was his first panic attack. He could have lived a great life without knowing what those were like.

  “I’ll go get Mal.”

  He grabbed Knuckles’ arm. “Not yet. Fuck, I’m fucking shaking.”

  This was his reckoning. Cancer was heading him off early anyway, but this made it tangible. Not even making it long enough to die of cancer, when he’d only been given a few months to begin with.

  “Get a glass of water,” Knuckles instructed, then crouched in front of him. “Just breathe deep. You’re good. No way they can put this one on you.”

  The room was quiet as his brothers milled around, all showing their discomfort by rubbing the backs of their necks or running hands through their hair. Buck had to go, something about Gertie’s family being in town. Jayce nodded but other than that everyone else stayed put.

  “They just need me held,” Tiny whispered, the most volume he could manage. “They’ll have someone inside, ready to take me out.”

  No one tried to assure him otherwise, and he didn’t expect them to.

  “How should we play this?” he finally asked, motioning to the kitchen where the women were.

  Jayce blew out his air. “Your call. You know they won’t believe you did it.”

  Oddly, he hadn’t thought they would.

  A glass of water was waved in front of him. He took it and drank the whole thing down at once.

  “Don’t tell them anything,” he eventually answered. “I don’t want them worried. Not before there’s anything wrong.”

  “You telling Mal?” Knuckles asked quietly.

  He shook his head. “Same goes for her. She’ll worry. Just...just let me enjoy everything until then.”

  “They might not want you for this.” Optimism was not a comfortable concept for Knuckles, and it was obvious in his voice.

  “They will. That’s the plan.” Tiny set the glass down and leaned back. The numbness was wearing off. Now there was an uncomfortable lump in his gut, the ability to see the future like this.

  “Let’s see what Clark says,” Tank suggested. “He might have ideas how we can approach this.”

  It was as good an idea as any.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The black peep-toe pumps weren’t even hers. She’d borrowed them from her mother, and they pinched. Obviously Mal’s mother’s feet were much thinner than her own.

  The air had a sharp, bitter chill to it, but the ground wasn’t frozen yet. She needed her wool winter jacket, and a skirt wasn’t happening. She dressed herself in black slacks she’d purchased for a long ago waitressing job. She paired them up with a black, fitted, scoop-neck sweater and her grandmother’s pearls. Overall she felt like she was dressing older than her twenty-one years, but she felt ancient so it was completely appropriate.

  Angelina had died five days before. They were putting her in the ground in two hours’ time.

  When she was dressed, Mal sat on her parent’s sofa. The house was completely silent, save for the mantel clock ticking away the seconds. She stared at her reflection in the screen of the sleeping television set.

  Normally she was fair-skinned, but she looked pale as death itself, to her own eyes anyway. For the past four nights there had been no sleeping. Just a catatonic state that gave her no ease.

  After the death, it was another two days until she saw Harlon again. He came by the house, where she’d been waiting for him, and informed her he’s listed the house for sale. Then he’d turned and left. He hadn’t even left the foyer or removed his flannel jacket.

  She packed her clothes and personal items, then went home.

  Her mother was as distraught as Mal. They’d just look at each other at any time and burst into tears. Her father was surprisingly kind to her now. Always ready with a sympathetic hug, head nod. It appeared as though her little angel had broken through her father’s icy shell.

  “You ready, sweetheart?”

  She jumped. It had been so quiet that the mantel clock was enough to mask the sound of her father’s footsteps.

  Her dad was wearing the only suit he owned; the same one that came out for family weddings, christenings, and—as it was today—funerals.

  His face had become so lined the last while. It was hard not to feel like it was entirely her fault. He didn’t seem so mean, intimidating and big anymore. He was hurting, too.

  “Daddy,” she said, about to stand but instead her voice cracked and she stayed where she was, hands covering her face.

  “Oh, sweetheart.” His voice was soft, like she remembered from when she was sick as a child.

  The couch depressed as he sat, sloping her into him. It was perfect. She let him tuck her shoulder under his arm, and he stroked her hair, saying sweet nothings that would never fix anything but they felt good.

  When she stilled her father cupped her head in both hands, attempting to smile. “If I could, I’d kill him. I’d rip his throat out with my bare hands.”

  She gave a startled gasp, which started a fresh round of sobbing. “I know. But he’s hurting, too.”

  “I thought I was wrong about him. I was even happy to be wrong.”

  “Dad,” she whispered, pushing at his hands.

  “This isn’t I told you so,” he assured her. “I’m just saying I was ready to see him as my son in law. And I’m so pissed off.”

  “Me too.”

  “A man’s any kind of man, he’s with the woman he loves when she needs him. I know he loves you, sweetheart. He’s an idiot.”

  “He’ll get right with this. In his own time.”

  “Okay, sweetheart.” He didn’t believe her, it was obvious. But he’d leave her these delusions for the moment.

  “Are we ready?”

  They both turned to the hallway where her mother, stood, wearing similar duds to Mal with the exception of jewelry. Her mother didn’t go for much embellishment.

  Mal nodded and wiped her eyes. Maybe she should have put on some make up, but she couldn’t find the energy to care how she looked.

  It was familiar and comforting to walk between her parents down the steps and to their car.

  Mal rode in the back, in the center, like she had her entire life. The world was filtered and surreal. She’d been in her parent’s care for most of her life, and living with Harlon for over a year. This was familiar and very different at the same time. Her months away had been enough to feel like the new normal.

  Kind of like how it felt to sleep in her childhood bed again.

  The funeral home’s chapel has reserved parking at the front, two sedans with blacked-out windows stood at the ready behind the hearse. Just seeing that made her eyes burn again.

  They were well past stinging by now.

  Her parents parked just around the corner. Only a few other cars were around, but it was still very early.

  Like bodyguards, Matthew and Anabelle Beck flanked her as they strode into the sitting room, which was empty. Her father took both women’s coats and hung them up on a wardrobe rack that was in waiting beside the door.

  Her mother led her into the room and again she was seated in the center of a sofa, less comfortable than the one at home, while her mother fixed her a cup of tea from a service set up on an antique trolley table.

  All the furniture was antique, which made the room seem the slightest bit unwelcoming.

  Her father sat next to her, taking her hand and resting it on the seat cushion between them.

  One of the funeral staff came but to greet them in professional, soft tones. Mal let her father answer all the questions, and then her mother when she’d brought the tea over.

  It was in a real bone china cup with matching saucer. She wondered how many people had ignored the rose of Sharon design with gold trim. It had a chip in the handle.

  There was a hint of sug
ar in the tea, just how she always took it.

  Again the room was silent, no clock here. Just her parent’s silent support and the sound of that tea cup tapping against its saucer.

  Ten minutes before the service was set to start Angelina and Harlon Senior arrived. Seeing Harlon’s mother was the worst. Seeing his father hurt like hell, too. The second she spotted them, Mrs. Gray was in tears, and Harlon Senior had her wrapped in a hug so fast she couldn’t remember what happened to the tea cup or how she came to be standing.

  “My boy’s being an ass,” he said roughly, voice thick with emotion, close to her ear. “If he never sees that, he doesn’t deserve you. Please hear that. If he doesn’t come around, he doesn’t deserve you, beautiful.”

  She held him tighter for that, and he returned the pressure.

  Harlon, her Harlon, showed just as they were to be led to the front family pew. Mallory couldn’t look at him. She took the hands of both parents and they led the way.

  Mostly, the gathering attracted her parent’s friends. A few of her girlfriends had shown, and she felt guilty for that. Once she’d been with Harlon, her friends had been side-lined.

  The funeral director said some nice words about the unfair and mysterious nature of life, seguing into the tragedy of a life taken far too soon. From meeting with Mal and her parents he had a few stories about the personality that had been emerging. And how Angie’s parents had found such joy with their daughter.

  That was when she heard it, at the far end of their sparsely-filled pew. Harlon was leaning forward, elbows on knees to support his head as he wept.

  Mal had never heard that sound. She’d witnessed him tearing up while studying their daughter at sleep, or the first time she’d smiled at him. But never this. This was the sound of pain and loss, and it gutted her with its helplessness.

  His mother put an arm around his shoulders, and he turned into the tiny woman’s supporting embrace.

  Her father put his arm around her, and comforted her in much the same way. That’s when she realized fresh tears were flooding down her cheeks.

  They were starting to feel chapped.

  There was no eulogy. The tiny coffin was carried out by two of Harlon Gray Senior’s brothers and two of Mal’s uncles. After the very brief service they rose to gather their coats and head out to waiting cars. The Grays and Becks rode in separate sedans to the graveside, following the hearse.