Hangman (Jason Trapp: Origin Story Book 1)

by Jack Slater

  “Come now, Ron. The boy’s been cooped up here for three days, and he hasn’t put a foot out of place. No, more than that, he’s been a downright angel. Look at my cupboards,” she said, pointing. “They haven’t been that clean in years!”

  “Okay,” the sheriff finally sighed. “Five miles from the limit, and you don’t touch a drop of drink, is that understood? And helmets, both of you.”

  “Sir, I wasn’t planning on it,” Trapp said, his face stinging like he’d been challenged to a duel. “Tell the truth, I wasn’t planning on going anywhere today.”

  Sheriff Grayson shook his head, the tension now gone and replaced with the beginnings of a wry smile. “Oh, I know that, son.”

  “What was that all about?” Shea muttered as she fastened the strap of the helmet underneath her chin. She was wearing a faded leather jacket that was more than a few sizes too big. She looked like a cheerleader wearing her boyfriend’s varsity jacket, and just as cute.

  The jacket must have been her dad’s, Trapp thought. The outline of a cloth patch had been unpicked on the left arm, leaving behind a section of darker leather, not yet bleached as light by the sun. It had probably been part of his uniform when he was a much younger man. The shoulders were just as broad, but he guessed that zipped up, it wouldn’t contain the sheriff’s more recently unearthed belly.

  Trapp kept his mouth shut, but then, that wasn’t much of a shift from his ordinary practice. He studied Shea in the light streaming through the garage’s open door. Her face was gently freckled, he noticed. He hadn’t seen it before. They were barely visible, and probably disappeared through the winter.

  If they even have winter down here.

  “Hey!” Shea said, picking up his helmet from where it sat on the leather seat of his Harley and tossing it against his chest. “You daydreaming again?”

  He kept the amusement off his face. “Your dad’s just trying to protect you.”

  “From what?”

  “He caught me speeding, remember?” Trapp replied, reasonably enough.

  “Only once…”

  “Yeah, but it was the first time we met. Breaking a hundred leaves an impression, you know?”

  Shea made a noise in reply that was halfway between a grunt and a squeak. Her irritation with her father was palpable. It amused Trapp. She didn’t seem like a spoiled kid, her present reaction notwithstanding. From what he’d seen so far, her head was fairly screwed on. He’d met more than a few boot privates fresh from basic training, who were clearly waited on hand and foot at home. It wasn’t like that in the Grayson house. She did her bit without needing to be asked, and not just as a formality, either. Whatever tasks she chose, from cleaning to cooking, she did with pride and an attention to detail that any drill instructor would struggle to find fault with.

  But not fail, he thought.

  “Where are we going, anyway?” Trapp asked, mainly to distract her.

  “The bar,” she replied.

  His eyes widened with alarm. “But the sheriff—”

  “Okay, boy scout.” She grinned, and there was that wicked look in her eyes again. “Don’t worry; we won’t be drinking.”

  Then why are we going to a bar? Trapp’s face asked. Instead of voicing the question, he simply shrugged and said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  After all, he was used to following orders. And the crazier they were, the more he felt at home.

  He climbed onto the bike, and Shea hopped on the back. She placed her arms around him, linking one around his belly, and the hand of the other clutched against his left pectoral. Clutched onto it, anyway, since her slender fingers didn’t quite reach its sides.

  Shea started to say something, but whatever it was was lost in the roar of the bike’s engine. The sound startled a small flock of birds that had been roosting overhead, some in the eaves of the house, some in heavy green branches of a tree that cast a little shade over the driveway. For a second, Trapp’s eyes followed their escape, and then they were gone.

  That would be a thing, wouldn’t it? To soar like they did, without any care for the troubles and stresses of the world. Any problems they had they could just leave behind.

  And you’re a philosopher now, too.

  The thought left the smile on Trapp’s lips as he fed a little gas into the engine. He was careful not to rev it up too high, and equally restrained with his speed. He had a feeling that one of Grayson’s deputies—assuming this county was big enough to justify more than a one-man band—might be lurking on the road somewhere, just to double-check the old man’s daughter was safe and sound.

  But his caution wasn’t just a result of some kind of fear of getting caught. He respected the Graysons and whatever precisely it was that they were doing for him too much to hurl it back in their face. They’d trusted him to take care of their daughter, even if not in so many words, and dammit, he was going to do just that.

  It wasn’t far to the small town of Goodmorning. And it wasn’t much of a town, either. A couple of bars, maybe, a grocery store or two. No brand names that he recognized, which was nice, but also indicated that the big guys didn’t think there was much money to be made down here.

  Hell, they were probably right.

  “This one,” Shea called out, raising her voice to be heard over the loud, if slow, chugging of the thirsty engine. She pinched his stomach, just to make sure that he’d heard.

  “Ow,” he grunted, though the bike noise canceled him out. He shook his head and guided it alongside an old Yamaha with dust on its wheels.

  “You plan on telling me what we’re doing here?” Trapp asked once the bike was quiet and his helmet was off. He caught a glance of himself in the mirror and ran his fingers through his dark hair to tidy it up. He saw that Shea didn’t bother, and to tell the truth she looked just as beautiful as before she put it on.

  Shea winked, then hung her helmet on one of the handlebars. “I’m going to get you a job.”

  The response was about the last thing that Trapp had expected. “Who says I’m looking for one?”

  “Who says you got a choice?” came the reply.

  Trapp kept his head back as she walked into the bar, closed his eyes, and mumbled a little prayer. “Lord protect me from women with ideas.”

  He caught up with her a second later and gently grabbed her arm, forcing her to stop. “Seriously, what are we doing here?”

  She looked at him like he was an idiot. “Like I told you, getting you a job!”

  She was serious, Trapp saw. And it didn’t look like he had much of a choice in it. Still, he tried one last time. “I don’t get it.”

  “You’re a project, Jason. You think this is the first time that Mom and Dad have taken in someone like you?”

  Trapp hadn’t really thought about it. “I guess not…”

  “They like a stray, and you know something, Jason?”

  “What?”

  Shea smiled, and her face positively gleamed. “So do I.”

  How the hell was he supposed to say no to a face like that, Trapp wondered. The Graysons’ daughter was near enough his perfect woman. Tall enough, at about 5 foot seven, to match up to his 6 foot frame without looking out of place. Lithe, energetic, and a hell of a sense of humor.

  And brass-plated self-confidence, that was for damn sure.

  “Who says I’m going to stick around?” he finally asked.

  Shea shrugged. “Do or don’t, Jason. I don’t much care either way. I like having you around, but believe me, I won’t shed a tear if you get on that bike and fade away. You understand?”

  You can’t say fairer than that, Trapp thought.

  “Yeah, I guess I do.”

  12

  The job offer came easily enough, as Shea had known it would. Lenny behind the bar owned the joint, and he had a bum knee. It had been playing up for a few weeks, and heaving the kegs around the basement sure ain’t what the doctor ordered.

  “You know how beer lines work?” Lenny asked.

  “No
sir.”

  “You ever even worked in a bar before?” came the second question, accompanied with a skeptical raised eyebrow, which he flashed in her direction. It said: Why am I looking at this kid?

  “No sir. I was Army. Nothing much before that. But I’m a quick learner.”

  So he wants the job, Shea thought. He wants something, anyway.

  “I’m not sure…” Lenny grunted, playing hardball.

  Shea decided it was time to jump in. “Come on, Len. Independence Day weekend’s coming up, remember. Got that delivery coming in a few days from now. You planning on putting it away yourself—with that knee?”

  “Heavy stuff I can handle, sir,” Trapp said quietly. “The rest I can figure out.”

  “Hmmmm.”

  “Go show him the ropes, old man,” Shea giggled, picking up a rag from behind the bar and throwing it in Lenny’s direction. “Before he changes his mind.”

  Trapp looked in her direction with an expression that was just a couple steps removed from outright horror. He really was a boy scout, she thought. Must be the Army’s claws, still dug deep inside him. Her dad was the same way, and he was three decades clean now.

  “Okay, okay,” Lenny sighed, smiling slightly despite himself. “If it gets you off my back.”

  “That’s the spirit,” she replied. Once his back was turned, she winked slowly in Trapp’s direction.

  You stay with me, kid, you’ll do all right.

  The dishwasher beeped a couple of seconds later, but by that point the two men were already out of sight. Shea busied herself unloading it, careful to replace the glasses on the shelf with the new—and steaming hot—ones at the very back. There was nothing worse than receiving an ice cold beer in a red-hot glass, she knew from experience. And though she had never really thought about it, maybe it was those little extra touches she brought to his establishment that gave Lenny such trust in her.

  The bell over the main entrance tinkled as her back was turned, but she ignored it. She grabbed the second crate of fresh glasses and placed it on the floor, kneeling beside it as she resumed stacking.

  “You the manager?”

  The voice came from right overhead. She didn’t look up. “Who’s asking?”

  “I’m looking for a guy. His bike’s parked outside.”

  That got Shea’s attention. She stopped what she was doing, wiped her hands on the rag threaded through her belt, and stood to survey the new arrival. He wasn’t quite Trapp’s height, she thought, but then few men would be. His hair was a dirty blond, and his face was coldly impassive.

  He had a tattoo, too, though she couldn’t see much of it. Just what peeked out of his shirtsleeves.

  That was the other thing. He was wearing a suit. It wasn’t particularly well tailored, but it didn’t have to be to signal that he didn’t fit in a town like Goodmorning. The simple fact that he was wearing it, with a tie, no less, screamed that he wasn’t from around here.

  Shea picked her words carefully before replying, not for any particular reason, only that people from small towns were usually protective of their own. And for now at least, Jason had her personal stamp of approval. There was something about this man’s eyes, too. They were dark, but they were also cold, and constantly roving.

  Jason’s do that, too, she thought. Like he’s constantly searching for some danger that I don’t see.

  But Trapp’s eyes, strange as they were, with their differently colored irises, weren’t like this man’s. His weren’t cold, they were just sad. And they could be warm, too, given the right opportunity.

  “Who did you say you were?” Shea asked.

  “I didn’t.” The man grinned, reaching into his breast pocket and fishing out a business card. He handed it over to her, but she didn’t look down. “Name’s Mike Lee. I’m an investigator with Atlanta Life.”

  His smile didn’t reach his eyes, Shea realized, finally looking down at the card in her fingers. The details matched what the man said, but he stank of deceit. “An investigator?”

  “Yeah, figures you haven’t heard of us,” Mike Lee said, shaking his head with false amusement. “We’re a life insurance outfit. Mainly serve active duty and vets, though we’re branching out. If you’re looking for a policy—?”

  “I’m not,” Shea said firmly. “Who did you say you were looking for?”

  Mike Lee of Atlanta Life made a show of reaching down to a briefcase that was apparently by his feet. He knelt beside it, shuffling through a sheaf of papers. He pulled one out and set it in front of her on the bar. “His name’s—Trapp. Jason Trapp.”

  Shea glanced down and saw some kind of insurance form. It looked like it had been copied and then recopied; the detail was fuzzy, but the writing was clear enough. “You’re telling me you drove all this way and you forgot his name?”

  Mike grimaced, a tic on his jaw a fair signpost of his growing irritation. “Listen, lady—”

  She smiled sweetly. “It’s Shea.”

  She watched closely, wondering if he would snap back at her. He seemed like the type. Yet somehow, he mastered a semblance of control. “Shea, then. I’m sorry. Listen, Shea, I’m not even supposed to be on this case, all right?”

  “Oh?”

  Shea listened, with the ear of both a bartender and a cop’s daughter. People who work behind bars hear all kinds of stories, and they quickly learn to differentiate between those that have the ring of truth and those that don’t.

  Plus, there are two types of cops: those that leave their work at the door and those who teach their kids about the things that you need to fear in this world, knowing that those things aren’t nearly so scary if you’re careful.

  Sheriff Ron Grayson was firmly in the latter camp. Which meant so was his daughter.

  “I was at a conference in Austin, all right? We’ve been looking for this guy”—he glanced down at the form on the bar—“Trapp for months, I guess. That’s what my boss said on the phone, anyway. He told me to haul my ass down here and find him before we lose him again. He’s due some kind of payout. A big one, so we’re not supposed to keep it on our books. Some accounting thing, I think.”

  “So how’d you find him?” Shea asked.

  “His credit card pinged not far away from here. We pay a firm for that kind of data. I’ve been driving around for three days looking for his damn bike.”

  “Which is outside,” Shea said.

  “Exactly.” Mike grinned with white lips. “You think you can help me out?”

  Shea calculated her answer quickly, mainly because the decision was already made. She didn’t trust the man standing in front of her a bit. It wasn’t just that she could tell he was feeding her a crock of shit, or his cold, dead eyes, it was both—and then some.

  She pushed the form back across the bar. “Tall guy, right? I think I’ve seen him around.”

  The man’s eyes flared with interest, and though he tried to hide it, he wasn’t quick enough. “Oh yeah? If you can point me in his direction, it’d be a big help, Shea. And trust me, he won’t be sore about it. Not with what he’s got coming to him.”

  “Can I keep your card, Mike?”

  His eyes flicked down, then back up to her own, but not before grazing her chest with interest. “Of course.”

  Pervert.

  She gave no sign that she had noticed the illicit glance and replied coolly, “Thanks. What did you say his name was again?”

  “Trapp. First name Jason.”

  The reply came too quickly and showed a little too much interest for Mike’s story to check out. He wanted Jason bad, that much was apparent. She reflected that there was the slightest possibility that he was just hungry, and that whatever commission he’d make from tracking Jason down really was what he was so interested in.

  But she didn’t really believe it. Something about the guy gave her the creeps. And she was a country girl with a couple of years working behind the bar under her belt. In that time she’d learned to trust her instincts.

 
So she smiled. “Great. When I see him around, I’ll give him the card.”

  The corners of Mike’s lips kinked up with satisfaction. “Maybe you could call me,” he said. “In my experience, vets don’t always like collecting on these payouts. It’ll be a buddy who died out there and left his name on the form. Feels like blood money, I guess. But it’s theirs. And they deserve it, whether they think so or not.”

  You sleazy bastard, Shea thought without showing her distaste. You’ll say anything, won’t you?

  She made a show of studying the business card, as though committing the phone number to memory, even half-closing one eye and biting her lip. “Yeah, I can see that,” she said. “My dad served. And he don’t like to talk about it. Don’t worry, when I see him, I’ll call you right away.”

  “Thanks, sweetie,” Mike replied, a dark, ravenous look in his eyes. She wondered whether he understood that he had as little chance of touching her as a whale swimming in the Sahara. She decided he probably didn’t. Men like that were always too beguiled by their own glitter to go searching for their flaws.

  She said nothing but shot him a smile that lingered just long enough to be misconstrued as flirtatious by a man like Mike. It worked, and his chest puffed out, and she watched his ass follow it back out to the street, her mind working at double-time long after he was gone.

  What the heck was that all about?

  Shea had known that there was more to Jason Trapp then he was letting on the first time she’d set eyes on him. There was something about those eyes of his, one an endless battle of light and dark, the other glittering gray, that had sucked her in the moment their gaze met.

  In a different way from Mike, she wondered whether Jason knew what kind of effect he had on women. Perhaps. He wasn’t so innocent, after all. He’d been out and seen the world. But she guessed that he didn’t know why women treated him the way they did. It wasn’t just his looks, or his frame. Assets like those weren’t exactly a dime a dozen, but they were common enough not to merit much more than a second glance.

  No, there was a hurt in those lines. A story that he carried with him, perhaps more than one. Would he tell it to her?