Fuck. “Right away, sir.”
The echo of his heels tap judgmentally down the hallway. Growling to myself, I grab my purse from the top drawer and book it down to the restrooms, leaving the towel to soak up the rest of the spill. The whole way there, I’m muttering to myself, but stop abruptly when a coworker tapping on a laptop looks up at me with a confused glance.
Special Agent Craig Lafontaine has been my boss since I’ve been at this FBI field office in Cleveland, just a hair short of four years. He’s almost exactly what you’d expect the director of an FBI field office to be like from watching the movies: a man of indeterminate age, well built and in shape without looking like a weight lifter. Hair the color of cardboard, cut short with a side part so straight you could use it as a ruler in a pinch. A face that’s blandly handsome and naturally devoid of expression, which makes him perfectly disconcerting to have a conversation with. It serves him well during interrogations. It’s not so great when you’re working under him, though.
In the time I’ve known Lafontaine, I’ve learned essentially nothing about him as a person. I don’t know anything about his hobbies, private life, or likes and dislikes. I have no idea whether he’s married, or has kids. And I realize that’s by design. Lafontaine is the consummate career FBI guy.
And even though he’s never said it in so many words, I’ve always gotten the distinct feeling that he doesn’t love having a woman working for him.
Four minutes later, I’ve managed to mostly mop myself off and used the hand-dryer on the wettest part of my pant leg. I stand in front of Agent Lafontaine’s closed door and give it three quick taps with my knuckle. I think I hear a murmur, but I’m not quite sure. A couple of seconds later, he barks, “Come in, I said!” Feeling my face flush, I reach for the knob and walk inside.
“Take a seat.”
He’s frowning at his monitor, and doesn’t look at me at first. I do as he says. I sit patiently, taking deep but quiet breaths and doing my best to project self-assuredness. Eventually he raps sharply on a key and turns to me, leaning back in his chair.
“I’ve got a case for you,” he says without preamble.
“Okay.” I’m relieved at the normalcy of his news. But it feels weird. I can’t quite figure out why he acted like I was about to be reprimanded if this was all he wanted to tell me.
Lafontaine glances down at his normally pristine desk, and I notice there’s a manila folder on it. It’s thin for an FBI case folder: barely an eighth of an inch thick. “Take a look,” he says.
I reach forward and slide it toward me. He’s silent as I open it and begin to skim the top sheet. “An HT case?” I ask, glancing at him.
He gives the barest of nods. “We’ve had a tip come in. A town southeast of here, where we don’t have a resident agency.” He shifts slightly in his seat. “I want you to go down and check it out. See if there’s any credibility to it.”
“What’s the town?” I look down at the file again.
“Tanner Springs.”
My eyes freeze on the page. My whole body goes rigid. Every nerve ending is alert.
I try as hard as I can not to let a single flicker of emotion show on my face.
“You grew up there. Right?”
He asks, but it’s not a question. He knows. Of course he knows. The background investigation process to become an FBI agent is incredibly thorough. The agency knows practically everything about me: my family, where I was born, my education, my associates. They know my credit history, my mental and physical health history, whether I’ve ever lived outside of the country, and who I went to my senior prom with.
(Trick question. I didn’t go to my senior prom.)
“Uh-huh,” I murmur, even though it’s not necessary. Inside my head, I can hear the rushing of blood as it pounds through my ears.
“Review the file. You’ll head down to the location, interview the parties concerned, and assess the viability of the situation.”
“What kind of tips have there been?” I manage to croak out. My voice sounds tight in my throat, like I’m not getting enough air. I focus on my breathing, in and out, hoping it will calm my nerves.
“It’s one tip. A shop owner, in particular. Owns a sub shop in a mini-mall in town. Apparently, one of the other businesses in the mall, a laundromat, has a lot of foot traffic lately. Mostly men.” He snorts softly. “The complaint he filed said these men are inside for a long time, but none of them ever come into his shop to grab a sandwich. His business has gone down. He thinks there’s something suspicious going on, and he’s convinced it’s a front for a human trafficking operation.”
“That’s all?” I’m perplexed. It doesn’t seem like enough to go on for Lafontaine to want to follow up on it.
He frowns. “This not a big enough case for you, Agent Brentano?” There’s an edge in his voice.
“No, no, not at all,” I stammer.
“Orders from on high,” he barks. “The agency has been dinged one too many times recently for not following up on tips that ended up having merit. Until further notice, the protocol is to follow up on all tips of certain types, no matter their source.”
Ah. I get it.
Cover your ass.
I’m just going out there to show that Lafontaine did his due diligence.
“Wouldn’t it possibly be sufficient to interview the person who left the tip by phone?” I suggest, hoping against hope.
As soon as Lafontaine’s hard stare meets mine, I know that’s the wrong answer.
“What’s the matter, Brentano?” he snaps. “Are you too important for this job? Who knows, maybe you’ll crack open a major case, and Philadelphia will snap you up.”
Oh, shit.
I think I know why Lafontaine is giving me this case. It’s punishment. He knows I’ve been angling for a transfer to Philly.
And as much as he doesn’t love having me around, I’m guessing he’d like it even less if I got what would amount to a promotion.
My stomach sours at the thought that he knows exactly what he’s sending me out for. He can’t know all of it, though — there’s no way even the bureau’s background check process could dig that deep into my past. So I have to assume that he just thinks he’s sending me on a fool’s errand to a podunk town that I just happen to have grown up in.
And goddamnit, as much as I don’t want to go, I’m not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing just how much I don’t want to take this assignment. I will shut my trap, suck this up, and do my damn job. No matter how much I am dreading it.
“Not at all, sir. I’ll get right on it.”
“Take the file. You’ll leave tomorrow.” Lafontaine swivels in his chair and turns back toward his computer monitor. The message is clear: we’re done here.
“Thank you,” I say. I scoop up the file and rise to leave. Back out in the hallway, I let out the breath I realize I’ve been holding and stare down at the folder.
Son of a bitch.
That night — after stopping at the dry cleaner on the way home for a rush job on my navy pants — I sit on my couch in my dingy one-bedroom apartment and stare at the pages of the file. A glass of wine sits on the low table in front of me. Next to me on the other cushion, my guinea pig Walter grapples with a half-carrot I’ve given him, making soft wheek wheek sounds of contentment.
There’s not much more information in here than I already knew when I left Lafontaine’s office. For the dozenth time, I tell myself he’s sending me on a wild goose chase. But that’s irrelevant. I still have a job to do.
“This is bullshit, Walter,” I tell him. “You know that?”
But Walter doesn’t answer, mesmerized as he is by the carrot.
I sigh and haul myself up to my feet. I’m going to have to pack my bag tonight if I want to head out of town tomorrow morning. But first, I have to get Walter a pig-sitter.
I flip the deadbolt lock to my apartment, then wander outside and knock on a door at the end of the hall. A few minutes later, a pint-sized twelve
year-old answers.
“Lily,” I say. “Can you do me a favor and take care of Walter for a few days?”
Lily breaks into a wide, gap-toothed grin. The braces she recently had put on will take care of that eventually, and to tell the truth, it will break my heart. “Sure!” she cries excitedly. “I’m sure my mom won’t mind. Mo-o-om!”
Lily races inside her apartment, and then a few moments later races back. “Mom says it’s okay!”
“Thanks, Gretchen!” I call out. “I owe you one!”
“Don’t mention it!” a voice calls back.
“Come on,” I say to Lily, holding open the door for her to come out. “I’m leaving early tomorrow, so let’s bring him over now.”
Lily follows me back to my place, helps me corral Walter, and listens patiently as I go over instructions she’s heard already from previous pig-sitting gigs. Together we carry his cage and food back to her place, get him set up in her bedroom, and I tell her I’ll see her when I get back. I thank Gretchen again, and walk back to my apartment, noticing as I always do how strangely quiet it seems without Walter around.
I settle back in on the couch to finish my wine and mentally go over what I need to pack with me. I might be gone for a week or more, so I’d better err on the side of having enough clothing to go that long without doing laundry. As I’m going through my pack list in my head, I realize I haven’t made a hotel reservation in Tanner Springs yet. I grab my laptop and start the process of booking a room for myself with my government credit card. It’s unlikely places would be full up in a town that size, but still, I’m a planner. I’d rather have my sleeping arrangements taken care of before I get there.
I pull up a search for “hotels Tanner Springs.” The first hit is for a chain hotel I don’t remember being there the last time I was in town. I click on it and look at the address, trying to imagine in my mind’s eye where the hotel must be. There used to be a city park there, I think.
My stomach starts to feel a little unsettled as it hits me that I’m really going back. This time tomorrow, I’ll be in the town where I grew up, for the first time since the day I turned eighteen years old.
Suddenly, I’m a little afraid I’m going to throw up.
Stop it, I tell myself crossly. This isn’t high school anymore. You’re not the same person. You’re just doing your job. You’ll get in and get out, and that will be it. You don’t want to do it, but you’ll be fine.
And it will be fine. It has to be.
For better or for worse, I’m going to Tanner Springs. I’ve got a job to do. And I’m damn well going to do it.
3
Beast
Hannah’s still preoccupying me as I ride toward downtown. I’m half a block away from the Lion’s Tap when I see a thin, unsteady figure shambling around in front of the bar.
“Christ,” I mutter, but the word’s drowned out by the noise of my engine. Pulling into an empty parking space in front of the bar, I cut the motor and call out a name. “Lemmy!”
After a second, the figure slows and turns around to peer at me.
Lemmy’s not his real name. I’m not sure most people in Tanner Springs even know his real name anymore. Except for family, of which he has little. Once upon a time, he bore a fair resemblance to Lemmy Kilmister, the front man for Motörhead. He played up the similarity, letting his hair grow long like the rocker’s, and the nickname stuck. These days, about the only thing that’s left of that resemblance are the wispy gray muttonchops he still sports on his sunken cheeks.
I climb off the bike and stride toward him. I haven’t seen Lemmy in a while, but he looks even worse than usual. His eyes are bloodshot as hell, and a blood vessel has burst in one of them. His mud-colored T-shirt hasn’t been washed in several days, and he smells like whiskey and piss. He’s emaciated to the point of starvation. Inwardly, I wince.
“What?” Lemmy barks in confusion. “I just came out here for a smoke,” he slurs, pointing a gnarled finger toward the bar. “Have a smoke with me, Beast. Then come on inside and have a drink.”
“A little early for me, Lem.”
“Naaaahhh!” he wheezes, waving his hand in front of him to swat away the ridiculous idea. A haze of alcohol breath wafts toward me, and I take a step back. “Isss five a’clock, somewheres!” He starts to cackle uproariously at his own joke.
The door to the bar opens and Zeb comes out. “Hey, Beast. Gunner call you?”
“Yeah.” I watch as Zeb flashes Lemmy an irritated look. “How long’s he been here?” I ask.
“Long enough,” Zeb answers wryly.
The door’s opening seems to have made Lemmy forget about having a smoke. He lurches forward to catch it while it’s still open. “C’mon,” he wheezes. “Less have a drink. On me.”
Zeb snorts. “You ran out of money half an hour ago, old man.”
“Come on, Lemmy,” I say, catching him by the arm. “I got a better idea. Let’s go get something to eat. Sop up some of that alcohol.”
“Nawww…” he protests. Luckily, as bad a drunk as Lemmy is, he’s not a mean one, so he doesn’t get mad or try to take a swing at me. The last thing I want to do is hurt the poor fucker.
“Yeah. Come on. There’s plenty of time to get a drink later.” I tighten the grip on his skinny bicep and start to lead him away. “See ya, Zeb.”
“Thanks, Beast.” Zeb casts a glance at Lemmy that’s both sympathetic and exasperated. “Appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
I pull Lemmy down the street, barely listening to his drunken murmurs of objection. I’m on my bike, so I can’t drive him anywhere. He’s far too drunk to be able to balance on the back of it. I manage to keep him talking and take him in the direction of the Downtown Diner, just down the block.
I get him in the door, and settle him in at one of the faded leatherette booths. Once I’m sure he’s not gonna tip over, I go grab one of the waitresses, a middle-aged woman named Penny.
“Hey, Lemmy could use a good meal,” I tell her. I reach into my pocket and pull out a bill. “Grab him something with a shitload of carbs, and a pot of hot coffee, will ya?”
“You’re a good egg, Beast.”
“Don’t let it get around. I got my reputation to protect.”
She snorts. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”
I wait with Lemmy until Penny’s got a pot of joe in front of him. Then I go outside to call Gunner and let him know I’ve got his uncle in hand. He tells me he’ll be on his way over with a car to take Lemmy home just as soon as Alix’s appointment with the doc is finished.
When I come back into the diner, the owner, a fat fuck of a man named Dick Dawson, waddles toward me with anger in his beady, squinty little eyes.
“What in God’s name are you doing bringing a drunk in here?” he wheezes self-importantly. I flick my eyes over to Penny, who’s looking at me apologetically. I’m guessing she got an earful from this tub of shit about letting Lemmy sit down.
No good deed goes unpunished, I think to myself. For fuck’s sake.
I raise myself up to my full six feet and seven inches. “Would you care to repeat that?” I rumble.
Dickless blanches but doesn’t back down. “This is a private establishment,” he stammers. He tries to stand taller, too, but all it does is cause his gut to hang out further over his belt buckle. “As the owner, I reserve the right to refuse service to anyone I choose.”
“Fair enough,” I say easily. A couple of the other customers have turned to watch our conversation. “And as Lemmy’s friend and temporary guardian, I reserve the right to beat the shit out of anyone who denies him some fucking coffee and lunch.”
“I’ll have the cops called on you,” Dickless chokes out. All the color is draining from his fat face, but I have to give him points for trying.
I shrug. “Not fast enough. By the time they get here, you’ll already be picking your teeth up off the floor.”
“Let him have some goddamn coffee, Dick!”
one of the other customers calls out.
“Nah! I wanna see a fight!” someone else replies.
“Not gonna be much of a fight, I don’t think,” a third one says. A wave of laughter flows through the diner.
“He may be right, Dick,” I murmur, taking a step forward. He instantly moves back, instinctively crossing his arms in front of him. “Not sure you’re gonna last very long against me. What’s it gonna be?”
Dickless purses his lips and shoots a quick glance toward Lemmy’s booth. “Just… make sure he doesn’t cause any trouble.” He turns on his heel and walks away, past Penny and into the kitchen. A chorus of hoots and catcalls follows him.
I walk up to Penny and hand her another bill. “This is for having to deal with that asshole,” I mutter.
She rolls her eyes. “You don’t know the half of it. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure Lemmy gets the works. Country omelet, bacon, and enough toast to sop up the sauce in his stomach.”
I nod. “Thanks. Bring me another cup for some coffee, will ya?”
Sliding into the booth seat facing Lemmy, I lean back and give him a look. He’s obediently conveying his steaming cup from the table to his mouth and back again. His eyes are unfocused, but when I say his name he does his best to look at me, squinting through his drunken haze.
“Zeb said you were causing a disturbance in the Lion’s Tap, Lem. What’s up with that?”
“Wasn’t causin’ no disturbance,” he mumbles. “I’se just talkin’, is all. Can’t a guy talk anymore?”
“What about?”
“Can’t remember…” he stares down into his cup. “Oh yeah! About how Zeb wouldn’t serve me no more.”
I let out a snort. “Is that all?”
“Yuh.” He takes another gulp. “Is that any way to treat a reg’lar?”
Just then, Penny comes up with Lemmy’s food, so I’m spared having to reply. Just as I’m pulling out my phone to text Gunner, it rings with an incoming call from Hawk.
“Where the fuck are you?” he barks without preamble. “I need you down here at the shop.”
BEAST: Lords of Carnage MC Page 2