Black Sheep (20 page)

God, he looked so alive. Like nothing could ever stop him. Her vision blurred and
she had to look away. She missed him so damn much. As much today as she had when she
was a nine-year-old girl, lost without her hero, her daddy.

Her mom had tried hard to fill that void, but with her father’s death something had
broken inside Caitlyn, something had been lost. How could she ever trust, fully give
herself or her heart to anyone—even her mom—after her dad betrayed her the way he
had?

Why had Sean Tierney thrown it all away? Just because he thought Eli Hale had betrayed
him? That was worth leaving her and her mom, ending it all?

Anger knotted her shoulders, and she was tempted to tear the sketch to pieces. Hated
that Eli Hale of all people had been able to capture her father’s essence. No. Hated
that Eli Hale had lived and her father was dead.

The fact that Eli had died before her eyes couldn’t erase decades of rage.

She closed her eyes against tears, tears that even after all these years she refused
to acknowledge. Tears of sorrow over her father’s death, tears of anger over the life
she could have lived, tears for her mother’s sacrifices … she had no idea. All she
knew was they needed to stay hidden, buried inside her. Otherwise … She choked them
down, opened her eyes again.

To hell with otherwise. She had a job to do. Find Lena.

She thought about what Sheriff Markle had said. That Lena was asking about Sean Tierney’s
death. Again the temptation to forget about Lena and focus on her father. But that
way lay madness—besides, Lena hadn’t even gotten the records on her dad yet, had only
requested them. Dead end.

She finished with the papers, returning them all to the box except for the small notebook
she shoved into her coat pocket. If Eli Hale’s cryptic message to the chaplain was
right and all the answers she needed to help Lena were in his papers, then it had
to be in there. She was just too tired to see it right now.

This could still all be a wild-goose chase orchestrated by a paranoid delusional convict.
Which she’d be all too willing to believe if it weren’t for the fact that she’d almost
started a gun battle simply by showing Lena’s photo to the Reapers.

The Reapers. If they were so interested in Lena, could they have had something to
do with Tommy Shadwick’s murder twenty-six years ago? What would an outlaw motorcycle
gang have to do with a Cherokee elder and the man who’d confessed to killing him?

She opened her laptop, pulled up archived accounts of Tommy’s death. The level of
violence certainly fit with an OMG. But where was the motive?

The Reapers. Originally begun in Daytona, they’d spread throughout the Southeast and
up the Atlantic seaboard as far as Maryland. The Carolina Mountain Men chapter had
been established in 1987 by Peter Oren Parker, aka Oren Parker, aka Poppy. She was
surprised to learn that Parker was only sixty-one; he’d appeared older. Years of hard
living.

According to the NCIC he had several arrests, all “dismissed for interest of justice,”
which meant no convictions. Pretty slick—Poppy either had a damn good lawyer on retainer
or a judge in his pocket. Maybe both.

She had no legal names for Weasel or Goose, but guessed their sheets would look about
the same. She tried to find any connection between Poppy and Eli Hale or Tommy Shadwick
but failed. Other than living in the same area at the same time, there was no indication
they knew each other.

As a deputy Dad would have covered the entire county outside the Indian reservation.
If there had been a connection, he would have known. Maybe his old partner, Sheriff
Markle, could help.

The words on the screen fuzzed as she tried and failed to blink away her exhaustion.
She wanted to go through Eli’s papers one last time, promised herself she would in
a minute. But for now she just needed to rest her eyes …

*   *   *

When the man collapsed, Lena bolted for the door. He didn’t move to stop her, just
lay there making an unnerving sighing noise like a tire losing all its air. She glanced
back as she yanked the door open. Blood seeped from under his left arm onto the dingy
linoleum of the kitchenette.

Leopard must have clawed him. Served him right. She ran onto the porch, the night
darker than ever, snow twisting across the floorboards in mini tornadoes. The cold
pricked at her almost as much as her conscience. The man had been hurt trying to protect
her. Shouldn’t she help him? Wasn’t that what a good Christian girl would do?

Her mother had had very strict ideas about what good Christian girls did and didn’t
do. She would have been heartbroken to see Lena’s last argument with her dad, when
she told Eli she wasn’t coming back anymore. And to leave an injured person without
helping him …

Lena shook off her guilt and raced down the creaky steps. She’d send help for the
man as soon as she reached a phone. Her feet burned with pain when she hit the snow-covered
grass. There was only an inch or two, but that didn’t make it any less cold.

Where was she going to go? The only light came from the cabin behind her; the moon
was now totally obscured by clouds. The closest building was the lodge where the leopard
had been—who knew what horrors lay behind the doors of the other cabins?

Movement caught her attention. Not coming from the cabin she’d fled from, but from
the nearest one to her right. The clouds parted long enough for a stray moonbeam to
silhouette the leopard as it paced along the porch roof. It froze, its eyes glinting
in the moonlight—at least Lena imagined she could see them—fixing on her.

No way she could outrun it, especially not with two half-frozen feet. No way she could
fight it. And nowhere to go—except back inside the cabin she’d just escaped from.

The leopard took flight, soaring through the night with such grace Lena’s heart froze
as she watched. Every primal instinct told her to run, but she fought them, instead
retracing her steps backward, her gaze never leaving the leopard on the grass twenty
feet away. Her hip struck the porch railing, and she reached behind her to grab it
as a guide.

Instead she found a man’s hand. He pulled her up the stairs, putting himself between
her and the leopard for the second time tonight, although he leaned heavily against
the railing. She spotted the large pistol in his hand and realized if he meant her
harm he could have killed her at any time.

“Get inside,” he said, steadying his aim with both hands. The leopard crouched down,
ready to pounce.

“You come, too,” she said, yanking at his leather vest. It had silver patches sewed
onto it; one was of a Grim Reaper, the other said
PROSPECT
.

He hesitated, and she knew he didn’t want to kill the beautiful animal. “I wish I
had a tranquilizer gun,” he muttered as he drew in a breath and took aim.

The leopard seemed to read his mind because instead of rushing them, it scurried away
in the opposite direction, disappearing into the woods.

“Come inside before it comes back,” Lena said.

He followed her inside but didn’t shut the door. In fact, he moved so that he didn’t
block her escape.

“I know you must be scared,” he said. He stretched his arm toward her, handing her
the pistol, grip first. “I’m just trying to help. Really.”

She took the gun. It was heavy. Deadly at close range. You didn’t have to know anything
about guns to know that. She weighed it in her palm for a long moment, looked at him
swaying, barely staying on his feet, blood dripping from his arm, then slid the gun
into her coat pocket, her decision made. God had a plan for her, all she had to do
was follow it.

“You’re not going to be much help if you pass out again,” she told him. “How about
if you sit down and let me take a look at that arm?”

Her mother would have approved.

*   *   *

Despite the snow—or maybe because of it—Goose decided to take his Harley instead of
his truck. He needed to clear his head. Navigating treacherous curves with the wind
blowing in his face was the fastest way.

He drove into Cherokee but instead of heading through it to the edge of the reservation
where the VistaView was located, he stopped at a small family-run motel, parked his
bike out of sight, and went to a room in the back.

A woman answered the door. She wore a black leather vest, jeans, and tattoos. One
of them said:
PROPERTY OF WILSON
. “You’re late.”

Goose didn’t reply, merely walked past her to where Wilson sat at a small table holding
a cold can of beer against a black eye that was swelling fast. Wilson looked suspiciously
like a young Jimmy Buffett. Except instead of a Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops he wore
a Harley Davidson T-shirt and steel-toed boots heavy enough to crack ribs.

“Nice timing on starting the fight.” Goose took the beer Karlee handed him, touched
cans with Wilson in a salute, and popped the tab.

“Hope it was worth it. Did it buy you enough time to search the vans?”

“Got to the support van from Georgia and the one from Daytona. The cash isn’t there.”

“There’s no way in hell they’re hiding three million in a bunch of saddlebags.” Wilson
gave up on the eye and cracked his own beer open.

“You sure you heard right?” Karlee asked, leaning against the wall behind Wilson.
Her tone implied that not only didn’t she trust Goose, but she seriously questioned
his competence as well.

Goose didn’t bother wasting a glare on her. Instead he focused on Wilson. “Poppy said
over three million was coming in this weekend and that the poker run was the perfect
cover.”

Ordinary citizens had no idea the Reapers operated a huge money-laundering business,
servicing most of the drug, gunrunning, and prostitution operations in the Southeast.
Not only was it how the Reapers stayed in business, it posed a lot less risk than
actively participating in dealing drugs or guns themselves—crimes that often attracted
unwanted federal attention, not to mention biker-on-biker violence.

It had taken Goose over a year to get the inside scoop on the Reapers’ cash operation.
All he needed was for everything to go right this weekend and he’d be home free by
Monday morning.

“Maybe Caruso’s bringing the cash himself?” Wilson asked.

The national president would be traveling with his own entourage, including a support
vehicle. “Maybe. Seems risky, though.”

“Risky, but smart. Only people near it would be handpicked by him.”

“When is he getting here?” Karlee asked.

“He’s due in this morning. Supposed to lead Church tomorrow night after the run, followed
by a big party.”

Karlee pushed off the wall, bouncing with anticipation. “So, problem solved. You find
the cash and we go in for the score.”

Goose finished his beer and stood to leave. They made it all sound so easy. Conveniently
forgot it was his ass on the line if the Reapers ever suspected he was betraying them.

“Is Caitlyn Tierney going to be a problem?” Wilson asked. “If so, we can do something
about her.”

Goose hesitated. Remembered the way Caitlyn had strode into the clubhouse, fearless.
Reckless. Last thing he needed was to be worrying about her sweet ass in addition
to his own. “Yeah, that might be a good idea.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Lena watched Bernie sleep. She’d stopped the bleeding and cleaned the gashes as best
she could. He’d fainted again—not from blood loss, just from the sight of it. Made
her wonder if she was mistaken and he wasn’t the man who took her. After all, twice
already he’d stood between her and danger, saved her life.

He fell asleep in the kitchen chair, obviously exhausted. Fine with her, it gave her
a chance to search the cabin, see if he was who he said he was. Her mom and roommate
always said she was too trusting; this seemed a good time to be a bit skeptical.

She found nothing to make her suspicious of him. Besides pieces of the stripped motorcycle,
Bernie’s decor reminded her of her own room in Durham: books, books, and more books.
His were all classic pulp science fiction and mystery, dog-eared dime store copies.
And comics. Boxes and boxes of
Avengers
and
X-Men
and others she’d never heard of. He had a TV/VCR but it got no reception, which explained
the stacks of videos that looked like they’d been collected from garage sales, most
missing their cases. Classic movies and TV shows, none newer than the last century.

He snuffled in his sleep, a raspy noise that made her wonder if he was coming down
with something. Poor guy didn’t seem like much slumped in the chair asleep. The only
threatening thing about him was the Grim Reaper tattoo across the back of his neck
and scalp. She bet that hurt, getting a tattoo there.

A thud came from the roof followed by the sound of heavy footsteps. The leopard back
again, letting them know it was watching, waiting. Lena shuddered. She didn’t like
being at the bottom of the food chain.

There’d been no sign of the chimps but there also wasn’t anything she could do to
help them if the leopard was stalking them. Just like there was nothing left she could
do to help Bernie. Funny. Things weren’t really much better, but she wasn’t scared
anymore. As if last night and almost dying had burned it out of her. Or maybe it was
something about Bernie. Maybe God had sent him to her in answer to her prayers—or
maybe He’d sent Lena to Bernie to save him? Who knew? She ate peanut butter smeared
on a banana, drank some of his milk, sat by the window, and waited for the sun to
rise.

Whatever it was that God had in store for her, at least now she had someone to share
the burden with. A man brave enough to stand between her and danger.

She didn’t understand the danger, had no idea what she’d stumbled into. But for the
first time in days—no, years, since her mom and Vonnie died—Lena felt like she wasn’t
fighting alone.

*   *   *