Black Sheep (19 page)

“Maybe. But what are you going to be doing in the meantime?”

“You know how hard it is for me to read on the computer.” God, she was a slug, using
her traumatic brain injury and the resultant migraines to get him to do her work.
But if that work kept him safe and sound huddled over a computer, it was worth it.
“It would be a huge help.”

“Okay. I’ll do it. In the morning. After we get some sleep.” He stood and pulled down
the duvet. “But on one condition.”

Conditions. She hated conditions. “What?”

“You don’t go anywhere near those bikers again. And you keep me in the loop.”

That was two conditions. Didn’t matter. There was no way in hell she’d be able to
honor either. A civilian was not going to dictate her investigation. She didn’t answer,
instead pretended to be busy searching for her toothbrush, trying to decide whether
to lie to Paul or not.

No matter what she told Paul, she was going to find Lena. She owed Eli Hale that much.

Especially since she was beginning to think her dad might have been right all along.
There was damn little evidence except Eli’s confession to tie him to Tommy Shadwick’s
murder. And even less motive.

What if Eli Hale was innocent?

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Goose lay back on the steel bench outside the holding cells, his handcuffs rattling
against the railing they were attached to. Not exactly the comfortable bed he’d hoped
for tonight. At least he wasn’t inside one of the two small cells, crowded with drunks,
at least one of whom had already tossed their cookies.

Once they’d spied his top rocker labeling him a Reaper officer, the deputies had allowed
him to stay outside the holding cells. The only other casualty of tonight’s ruckus
that they’d shown equal deference to was one of the guys from the home chapter.

It wasn’t out of respect, that much was clear. It was because the sheriff knew how
to best keep peace around here. With the population of Reapers in his territory increased
tenfold for the weekend, he wasn’t going to risk igniting a war. Not when a little
common courtesy could keep things quiet.

Smart man, the sheriff. Almost as smart as the fed, Caitlyn. She’d really gotten under
Poppy’s skin. Goose smiled at the memory of her flicking that photo of Lena Hale onto
the pool table like she was turning up the ace in a royal flush. And waltzing into
the clubhouse wearing that Reaper pin? Most men wouldn’t have the balls to do something
like that.

Her poor boyfriend was gonna get a new one ripped, wrecking her power play like he
had. What kind of idiot was he, crowding in on her plan like that?

He considered that. Then again, maybe she wasn’t so smart, hanging out with a guy
that clueless. Maybe she should be hanging out with someone who knew how to play the
game, someone like Goose.

The thought made him smile. As soon as he was out of here, he planned on finding out
everything he could about the pretty fed. Best way to save her ass now that she’d
given the Reapers a reason to target her for real.

“Get up.” The deputy nudged him before Goose’s fantasy could take him any farther.
“You’ve made bail.”

The deputy uncuffed him. Goose stretched, taking his time, luxuriating in the freedom.
He followed the deputy out to the front office where Poppy waited, collected his personal
belongings—knife, cell phone, Browning Hi Power 9mm plus magazine, wallet, and keys—then
followed Poppy out to the Reapers’ van. Weasel sat behind the wheel, but otherwise
the van was empty. They must have already run the guy from Daytona back.

“The fed’s at the VistaView,” Poppy said as he climbed into the front passenger seat,
leaving the backseat to Goose. “We need to know what she’s doing.”

“She had a box of shit with her,” Weasel put in. “Papers. You should grab those.”

“Do you care how?” Goose asked.

Poppy considered it. Goose knew he didn’t want to make waves, not with the national
president, Caruso, coming in for the poker run tomorrow. “Under the radar would be
best. Keep her off balance.”

“You know she’s not down here on official business.” Goose leaned back, waiting for
their response.

“How would you know?” Weasel whipped his head around to aim a glare at Goose.

“Easy. No FBI agent on a real case would bring their boyfriend with her. And when
I saw her and her uncle together at the casino, it looked like a family reunion. He
said something about her mother as well—I mean, come on, who’s gonna risk their mom
working a job?”

“He’s got a point,” Poppy said.

“Besides, feds don’t work alone, right? So where was her backup when she needed them?”

“What makes you such an expert on how feds work?” Weasel snapped.

“When’s the last time you saw anyone in law enforcement walk into our clubhouse without
backup?”

“Yeah. Okay. But then why’s she looking for the girl?”

Ah. It was the girl they really wanted. So much for Weasel’s story about giving her
directions and sending her on her way. “Who cares why? We let Tierney lead us right
to her.”

Poppy was silent a moment, then nodded his blessing. “Okay. But no one touches Tierney
without my say-so. She’s still a fed, and we don’t need that kind of hassle.”

Weasel looked surprised at that, giving Poppy a look Goose couldn’t interpret. Goose
had thought once he was a club officer he’d learn more about how the MC actually got
the money to keep its members—mostly unemployed drifters like Goose—fed, housed, and
supplied with all the booze, dope, and women they could ask for. A few of the guys
had even had the MC buy out the notes on their houses so they wouldn’t lose them to
the bank. Taking care of their own—one of the reasons why the Reapers would remain
loyal “till Death us do part,” as their initiation oath required.

“What about the guys from Daytona?” Weasel said. “Caruso’s gonna be asking questions.”

“You let me handle Caruso. All we need is for him to keep his boys focused on the
poker run. While we’re taking care of business.”

Goose leaned back, hiding his face in shadows, waiting for them to say more. But they
pulled up to the clubhouse and parked, leaving him without answers. Were they going
to ask him to TCB, take care of business?

He climbed out of the back of the van, weighed his options, and decided to keep silent
and wait to see what they wanted of him. Weasel already had a
TCB
patch on his cut—the only Mountain Man besides Poppy who had earned the right to
wear it.

The snow had coated the bikes and trucks in the lot with a frosty layer of white,
made them look like something out of a fairy tale. Or a nightmare.

Goose wanted to get out of there, get far away as fast as his ‘05 Softail Springer
would take him. Before Poppy and Weasel asked him to do something he just couldn’t
do. He wasn’t naive; he knew “taking care of business” meant more than breaking the
law.

He’d had a lot of fun with the Reapers; after a year of living with them, considered
them more than friends. But there was a line he wouldn’t cross.

Only question was: How could he stop them from killing the fed or the girl, Lena,
without the Reapers turning on him? The only thing the Reapers hated more than feds
interfering with their business was a traitor.

And the penalty for betraying the Reaper Code? Death.

*   *   *

It took everything Bernie had to stay on his feet long enough to calm the chimp and
check on Lena. Was she dead? Had he been too late?

His left arm burned with pain and hung uselessly at his side. Trickles of what he
feared was blood gathered at the crook of his elbow, caught by the folds of his sweatshirt.
All he could taste was acid and bile and fear. Tears pricked at his eyes, but he didn’t
give in to them. Long practice at the hands of his father.

Lena’s eyes blinked open. She was alive! He helped her up with his good arm. “Are
you okay? Can you walk?”

She said nothing, staring at him, white showing all around her eyes. “It’s okay,”
he tried to reassure her. “I’m here to help.”

Still she remained silent. But she allowed him to haul her up. The effort made his
head swim and stomach lurch, but he took a few deep breaths and his vision cleared.
“It’s not far to my cabin.” He needed a deep breath to stay on his feet. Had to stay
strong—for Lena. “We’ll go out the back.”

He’d dreamed of showing her how nice he’d fixed up the guest cabin he’d originally
put her in. He’d washed an old crazy quilt that was mainly shades of pink and purple
calico, put new sheets just bought from the Kmart in Sevierville on her bed for her,
had even left a vase with dried sunflowers on the dresser.

Last thing he’d wanted was for her to see his place. The small cabin was mostly taken
up with the 1992 Super Glide FXR he was in the process of rebuilding. Parts strewn
about, soaking in pans of degreaser or lined up on newspaper, waiting for him to clean
them. His clothes were piled on the bed—he usually slept in the old recliner anyway.
There was a radio that played cassette tapes but got no reception other than an AM
Bible-thumping station, no cable TV or Internet, and nothing to eat except cans of
soup and tuna fish. Maybe some peanut butter, although he’d run out of bread and jam,
hadn’t had time to pick more up.

Not exactly an auspicious first impression. But it was the closest cabin and with
the leopard out there on the prowl and him leaking blood and her so very weak with
the cold, he couldn’t risk their being exposed for long.

The chimp didn’t help matters, circling around them as he and Lena stumbled through
the empty lodge, avoiding leopard scat and rotten venison, to the rear door. He had
to let go of her while he fumbled it open. For a second he thought she might run,
but she just leaned against the door, staring at him like he was the hunter who’d
shot Bambi’s mom.

“It’ll be okay,” he tried to reassure her. “You’ll be safe. I promise.”

The night wind blew a bushel of snow at them as they crossed outside. He wished he’d
been able to hang on to the light. Not that it would have helped against the leopard—the
.44 in his coat pocket was the only thing with any hope of doing that—but the snow
had brought a fog that clung to them like ghosts fresh sprung from the grave.

He shuddered. The chimp must have also been spooked, because it bounded into the mist.
Bernie believed in ghosts—his gram had the Sight, and he knew better than to poke
his nose into the business of the dead. He pulled Lena tighter against him, she was
shivering so hard she nearly knocked him off his feet, and together they crossed the
empty stretch of grass between the rear of the lodge and his cabin. He tripped on
the steps but she kept him upright. The door didn’t have a lock—Bernie had nothing
worth stealing—and it slammed open with a twist of the knob and the help of a gust
of wind.

He flicked the lights on, threw his weight against the door and the wind to shut it,
and turned to Lena.

“Sorry about the mess” was the best he could come up with.

She stood, trembling, hugging herself, lips pressed so tight she wouldn’t be able
to talk if she did have anything to say.

Way to go, Romeo,
he thought. He ignored the pain lancing through his arm to grab a fleece blanket
from the recliner and offer it to her. She hesitated then took it. “Tea?” Shit, no.
He didn’t have any tea. “Or coffee? It’s instant, but—” He almost tripped over a saucepan
filled with machine screws from the Super Glide. Had to catch himself on the bureau,
red spots dancing before his eyes. Still, Lena was silent. Idiot, of course she was
silent—he hadn’t even told her his name. “Um. I’m Bernie. Bernie McSwain.”

That got a reaction. She jerked up, her expression confused. “Bernard McSwain?”

“Yep. That’s me.” He reached for the coffee, forgot and used his hurt left arm, releasing
an explosion of pain. Not to mention the oh-gee-that’s-really-bright-red blood seeping
from beneath his cuff.

“But you—you’re the one I came to find. Why—how—”

Her words tumbled through Bernie’s mind like raindrops bouncing off the river as he
stared at the blood on his hand. Right before everything went black.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Caitlyn woke a few hours later. Paul was turned away from her, the space between them
a DMZ without the razor wire. He’d been upset when she wouldn’t agree to his conditions.
Had used that to start a conversation about their relationship. Her response had been
to duck into the bathroom for a shower. No wonder he’d moved apart from her in his
sleep. He wanted to talk; all she wanted to do was run. Classic Caitlyn.

But this time she had a good reason. She wasn’t running away from Paul, she was running
out of time to save a girl. Surely that counted for something?

She slipped out of bed, grabbed a fleece top and the coverlet to keep her warm, curled
up in one of the chairs, and began going through Eli’s box. At least the window was
good for something: It allowed her to crack the drapes enough that she didn’t have
to turn the room light on to see.

She hoped to find something mentioning her father or some clue as to why “they” were
after Lena—or even what Lena was after herself. But there was nothing except pages
and pages of drawings. No written words except in the address book and a few legal
briefs. Not only that, all of the drawings were famous architectural wonders except
for the sketches in a pocket-sized spiral notebook: images of every corner of the
house Eli Hale had built for his family, sketches of his family, a few of Caitlyn
playing with Vonnie—she wasn’t quite sure how she felt about that, a killer sketching
her as she appeared twenty-six years ago, back when she’d been an innocent kid and
neither of them had blood on their hands—and one line drawing of her dad fishing,
caught in the process of casting, his head high, body stretched long as if the rod
were an extension of him.