On a Knife's Edge (27 page)

Newman took Shasta’s elbow. She pulled back. “But what about
my brother? Who’s going to look after him?”

Jarvis slid her gaze to Dell. “That’ll be my job, Mrs.
Dupree. I need to brief him on some new information, so we’re not quite done
here. But he’ll see you in Reno later tonight.”

“Okay…” Shasta stared at Dell as Newman directed her to the
stationhouse entrance. “Bye…”

Her brother raised his hand in farewell and a hand closed
around her throat. She couldn’t remember him ever looking so…worried.

~*~

I
n the Streeter clubhouse,
Lynch sat at the bar watching a tennis match on ESPN, though he didn’t see the
action on the screen. The image of Shasta bursting into the interrogation room
refused to leave his head. Why in the hell had she done that? Yeah, she saved
his ass, but at a price. A very high price.

He tipped the beer bottle to his lips and took a small sip.
He wondered how Shasta’s brother reacted with her. Lynch remembered how the
good sheriff had reacted with him…shit…it still hurt to swallow. But he felt
confident Dell wouldn’t do anything to Shasta. Maybe ground her for eternity.
He scoffed a quiet laugh. Like that was even possible.

“What’s so funny?” Grunge hitched his butt onto the next
stool.

“Nuthin’.” Lynch set his beer down, glanced over his
shoulder then gave the treasurer a sidelong look. “Meeting over?” Talk about
needing his ass saved. The meeting would determine his fate…

“Yup.” Grunge grabbed a fistful of peanuts and motioned to
the bartender. “Gimme a beer, Josie my darling.”

Lynch kept his impatience in check while Grunge took a long
swig from the frosty bottle. “And?”

Grunge set his beer down with a satisfied groan and wiped
his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked at Lynch. “And…we’re not gonna
kill you.”

Suspicion narrowed Lynch’s eyes. “I feel there’s a but
coming.”

“Nope.” Grunge wagged his head. “No buts. Not gonna kill
you. Not gonna disown you. Nuthin’. You’re in the clear, brother.” He gulped
more beer.

Lynch bit the inside of his cheek. This seemed too good to be
true. “What was the vote?”

“Unanimous.”

He jolted upright. “No way.”

Grunge nodded and leaned his elbows on the bar. “Everybody
agreed that if it weren’t for you, we’d still be part of that slave trade.” He
grunted under his breath. “Disgusting business. Under the circumstances, we
figured your betrayal was justified.”

“You’re shitting me…no retribution? At all?”

Grunge gave an exasperated sigh. “Would it make you feel
better if we’d decided to kill you?”

“It’d make a helluva lot more sense. Betrayal, no matter the
reason, is still betrayal.”

“True, and for what it’s worth, Picket wanted to barbeque
your nuts. But what you did…” The treasurer paused to clear his throat as tears
brightened his eyes. “…what Flyer died trying to do…well…maybe betrayal can be
justified.”

Emotions constricted Lynch’s chest and he bowed his head.

Grunge gripped him by the back of his neck with a toothy,
albeit watery, grin. “Just don’t fucking do anything like that again,
understand brother?”

Lynch choked a strangled laugh and wiped the tear slipping
down his cheek. “Understood.”

Grunge winked and got to his feet. “Good.”

Lynch stood as well and pivoted…to see the rest of the
Streeter crew standing in a semicircle a respectable distance away. Each
brother came up and embraced him, even Picket.

Grunge slapped the bar. “Patrón all around, Josie my
darling.”

She smiled. “Coming up.”

Once the tequila was poured, Grunge lifted his glass, his
expression grave. “To Flyer, Rolo and Hez…three of the best goddamn brothers a
man could ever have.”

Glasses clinked together to a solemn, “Hear. Hear.”

Lynch downed the shot, the burn in his throat quickly
matching the burn in his eyes.

As more shots were poured and drunk, the atmosphere turned
reverent as each Streeter recounted a story or two about their fallen comrades.
Soon hearty laughter shook the liquor bottles behind the bar.

Lynch splashed more alcohol into his glass as his cell phone
chimed with an incoming call. The ID read Jarvis. He walked to the quieter side
of the room and before answering. “Everything okay, counselor?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that? What happened between you
and the Streeters?”

He glanced at his brothers smiling and joking. “Things are
fine on this end.”

“Glad to hear that…I think. Wanted to let you know two teams
have been assigned to watch your clubhouse for the next forty-eight to
seventy-two hours.”

His blood pressure spiked. “What the hell for? Are we under
house arrest?”

“No. Everyone’s free to come and go as they please. But if
anyone does leave, they should expect…company.”

“Then I ask again, what the hell is this for?”

“Protection.”

Lynch laughed. “You’re kidding right?”

Jarvis sighed. “I’m not trying to offend your male pride,
but I've got an icky sensation things are about to get very real very soon.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And the last time I felt this, we lost Olson.”

Worry squeezed Lynch’s body. “What about Shasta? And her
husband, son and brother,” he added in a rush.

“All taken care of.” Amusement tinged the agent’s voice.
“They’re on the way to a Reno safe house as we speak.”

His muscles relaxed. “Thank God for that.”

“Anyway, promise you’ll stay put until I get back.”

 “Get back? Where you going?”

“I've been requested in Portland to help debrief the girls
as well as interrogate the remaining suspects. I leave tonight and should be
back in a week. If you need anything, Sam’s in charge. And…Callan…” Jarvis’s
tone turned serious. “…be careful.”

“Still worried about me, counselor?”

She snorted. “Asshole.”

Lynch laughed. “You got that right.” He sobered. “But I
promise to be careful.”

“Good. I’ll contact you when I’m back.”

He disconnected the phone and rejoined his brothers. He
detested the idea of hiding—especially from a shitbag like Blackwell—but given
the situation maybe it
would
be best to let the feds handle Blackwell.
Besides, he thought as he tossed back his shot and Josie poured him another
with a flirty wink, he had other things to occupy his time.

His phone rang again, this time with a text…from a blocked
call. An attachment. With a knot forming in his gut, he opened it.

And his vision zeroed down to nothing.

The picture was of a young boy, sleeping on what appeared to
be a tattered sofa.

He instantly recognized the child—Shasta’s son.

On the heels of the first text came a second one.

Behind the Grab-n-go on 314. Twenty minutes. Come alone
or the kid dies.

Lynch’s knees weakened and he had difficulty catching his
breath. A cold sweat beaded on his forehead and he feared the tequila he’d just
swallowed was about to make a return trip.

“Hey, brother.”

Lynch forced his gaze to Grunge’s.

“Everything okay? You look like you’re about to hurl.”

Lynch glanced at the partying Streeters then pulled the
treasurer to the end of the bar. “No. Things are not okay.” He showed Grunge
the picture and subsequent message.

“I know that kid,” Grunge said. “Ain’t he related to the
sheriff?”

“His nephew.”

“You gonna go?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Grunge scratched his chin. “You could be walking into a
trap.”

“What’s your point?”

The older man shrugged. “Guess I don’t got one. Want me to
come with? Someone should have your back.”

Lynch shook his head. “I’ll be okay, but I do have a favor…”
He quickly explained about the FBI agents watching the MC. “How ‘bout you and
few of the brothers head out…in opposite directions.”

“Leaving you clear to skedaddle?”

“Something like that.”

Grunge blew out a heavy sigh. “I gotta be honest, I don’t
like this, not one goddamn bit.”

“I won’t risk the kid’s life. And this is…personal…between
me and Blackwell. Ever since he tried to kidnap my mom. I’ll need a bike,
though. Mine’s still at Ma’s house.”

“All right…if I can’t talk you outta this, here.” Grunge dug
in his jean pocket and extracted a key. “Take my ride. Tiny’ll stay here to
keep an eye on things while we’re gone. I’ll take his.”

Lynch took the ring. “Thank you, brother.” Lynch gave him a
quick hug and a thump on the back. “And let’s not tell anyone else about this,
okay?”

Grunge pursed his lips with a reluctant nod. “Just hope you
know what you’re doing.”

Yeah…so did Lynch.

~*~

L
eaning against the Dumpster
at the back of the Grab-n-Go, Lynch checked his watch. Fourteen minutes had
passed since he’d gotten the texts at the clubhouse. Six to go…

He resisted the impulse to look around because he knew he
couldn’t see anything. Given that the sun had set, the lengthening shadows,
Ponderosa pines and thick underbrush blocked his view.

He crossed his arms and ankles, his right palm resting on
the grip of the nine mil Grunge insisted he take. The relaxed stance belied the
ratcheting tension in his muscles. Ready to spring into action.

Anticipation quivered through his blood. He always felt this
way right before a fight. And he couldn’t wait to get his hands on Blackwell…

But, he reminded himself, the kid came first. Then
Blackwell.

A rustling sound snapped his head to the left. He eased from
the building, peering into the dense foliage, his senses on high alert. But he
didn’t see any movement.

After a slow count to fifty, Lynch inhaled a breath, his
muscles relaxing a notch—then pain splintered through his skull.

And everything went black.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

OUTSIDE
THE STATIONHOUSE
, dread crawled over Shasta’s skin like fire ants. The
sun had set behind the western mountains as Newman marched her to a black
sedan, its lights blinking in the process. The agent held the passenger door
for her then jogged to the driver’s side. In less than three minutes, he pulled
to a stop in her driveway.

“Wait,” Agent Newman commanded when she pulled the door
handle.

He came around, helped her out and walked beside her up the
porch steps, his gaze combing the area. She fought her shaking hands to unlock
the door. All this paranoia only amped up her panic.

Newman followed her into Graham’s room then up the stairs to
hers and Wyatt’s rooms. In a trance, she tossed random articles of clothing
into a suitcase. After adding a few toiletries and Wyatt’s Game Boy, Newman
escorted her back to the car.

He handed over his cell. “Maybe you should call your husband
and tell him we’re coming.”

She shook her head and slipped into the passenger seat.
“There’s no service out that far.”

With a sigh, the agent re-pocketed his phone, got behind the
wheel and turned the key. Shasta gave him directions to the county road which
led to the single-lane, paved road which then led to the sixty acres of Dupree
land, and Graham’s cabin. Not that it in any way resembled the rustic version
of a log domicile. Quite the contrary. The circa 1940s one bedroom, one
bathroom bungalow had been enlarged and modernized to include three bedrooms,
two baths, along with lovely hardwood floors and a state-of-the-art kitchen.
Add that the cabin sat on the shore of a small lake stocked with trout and it
was, in a word, idyllic.

Shasta loved the pastoral setting, but only went when
invited…a number she could count on one hand. The cabin was Graham’s
retreat…his sanctuary away from everything. And she respected his need for
solitude. Thankfully, as the only structure on the road, it was impossible to
miss, even with her fuzzy memory and the dusky evening sky.

The car headlights streaked across the single-story house
and icy foreboding settled at the base of Shasta’s spine.

Gnarled branches from the nearby oaks swept across the
exterior on a gust of wind. All the windows were dark, save for the single
light coming from the small hurricane lamp in the front one. The normally
welcoming home looked like the set from a bad horror film.

She shivered. The sooner her family got out of here and to
the safe house in Reno, the better.

Newman halted the car and scrutinized the vicinity. “You
should stay in the car.”

She opened her door. “I’m going.”

The agent grunted a response as he too climbed out. He left
the headlights on because the quarter moon did nothing to enhance visibility.
Shasta hurried to the house, the gravel crunching under her shoes. Newman
grabbed her before she reached the wraparound veranda.

She jerked away. “Let go of me.”

The agent tightened his grip. “You smell that?”

She took a deep inhale, and her brows knitted. “Gasoline?”

He nodded and kept one hand secured on her arm, while
extracting his gun with the other.

Her jaw dropped. “A gun? My husband and son are inside.”

“I know that, ma’am.”

“Then what are you doing?” she hissed.

“Being careful,” he answered.

Newman warily ascended the stairs, Shasta in tow, and walked
her across the wooden planks. He situated her to one side of the door with a
stern look then released her arm. He gripped the knob, turned it and slowly
opened the door.

Frustration and fear clawed at her throat. She wanted to
burst into the house. Shout for Graham and Wyatt. Make sure they were all
right.

As the interior crawled into the view, the first thing she
saw was the outline of the roughcast wood mantle of the fireplace on the far
wall, and the Dupree family portrait that hung over it. Two sets of adults and
two boys. Graham and his parents as well as his father’s sister, her husband
and their son—Graham’s cousin—Ian. All of whom were deceased.

Like frozen molasses, Newman advanced into the room, his
weapon at the ready. He swerved sharply to his left to check behind the door.
Shasta crowded him, unable to get past his massive body, frantically trying to
see beyond his hulky frame.

Finally Newman allowed her access. With air scraping her
throat, she dashed inside, barely noticing the increase stench of gas.

Shadows dominated most of what she saw, but Shasta
recognized the various pieces of antique furniture. The solid walnut hutch with
the curved glass that stood on one side of the hallway leading to the bedrooms,
opposite the fireplace. The 18th century sideboard buffet next to the archway
at the back of the living room. Through the portal, she discerned the small
dining room table and three chairs. And the knockoff Louis XVI sofa still
resided in the middle of the floor rug…with a small body on it.

Wyatt
.

She rushed to her son, falling to her knees beside him.
“Wyatt?” She stroked his hair. “Wyatt, honey, wake  up.” Terror seized her
chest. “Oh, God…why isn’t he waking up?”

Newman lightly placed two fingers to her son’s neck for a
moment then lifted one of Wyatt’s eyelids. “I think he’s been drugged.”

“Drugged? Who would do such a thing?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t like this.” Newman holstered his
weapon. “We need to get out of here. Now.”

She stood. “What about Graham?”

A groan from behind zoomed her heart into her throat. The
agent instantly had his firearm back in hand.

Newman motioned for her to stay with Wyatt as he prowled
into a murky corner. She sank to the floor, her arm wrapped protectively around
her son’s head.

Tense seconds ticked by. Her pulse thrashed in her ears.
Finally the floor boards creaked, and Newman pushed a wheelchair into the faint
pool of lamp light.

Graham.

Had she not already been kneeling, Shasta would’ve crumbled
into a puddle or relief. But…why was there a bag over her husband’s bowed head?
And even more disturbing, why were his wrists tied to his chair?

The answers came when Newman removed the bag…not Graham.

Lynch.

But what was he doing here?

The agent checked the Streeter like he had Wyatt.

“Is he all right?” Her voice sounded tinny.

 “Seems to be,” Newman answered. “He’s got a nasty bump on
the back of his head, though.” He extracted a knife and cut the ropes binding
Lynch’s wrists to the armrests. He then peered at something on the floor behind
the couch. “What the hell…?” He moved closer.

Shasta stood and peeked over the sofa. “What is it?”

Newman knelt beside an unmoving body. “Adam Murphy. And he’s
dead.”

She plopped onto the cushion next to Wyatt. “Oh…my…God…”

Bile burned her throat. What in the world was going on? Adam
dead? Why was Lynch here? How did he even know about the cabin? And where was
Graham?

Newman pulled out his phone and swiped the screen. The
device chirped once. “Shit.” He stuffed the cell back into his pocket then came
around the sofa and none-too-gently elbowed Shasta into standing. He scooped
Wyatt into his arms.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“Getting you and your son out of here.” The agent turned to
the door. “I’ll come back for Callan.”

Panic swelled in Shasta’s chest. “We can’t go. What about
Graham? He doesn’t have his wheelchair. He could in one of the bedrooms,
unconscious and hurt.”

Newman flattened his mouth. “You smell the gas. This place
could catch fire any second. I won’t risk your safety.” He jerked his chin to
the door. “Now let’s go.”

She headed for the hallway. “Take Wyatt outside. I’ll just
be a minute checking the rooms.”

“Goddamn it…wait.”

She stopped and looked over her shoulder. Newman carefully
deposited her son back on the couch and came up beside her. He flipped on the
hallway light switch, but nothing happened.

After another colorful expletive, the agent propped his foot
on the wall and unstrapped a handgun from its ankle holster. He held it out to
Shasta. “You know how to shoot?”

She shrank back slightly. “Why do I need a gun?”

“Is that a yes or no?”

“Yes, I can shoot.”

“Good.” He chambered a round and pressed the weapon into her
hand. “The safety’s off. Stay here and try not to shoot me when I come back.”

Shasta watched him move stealthily down the dark corridor
until blackness enveloped him. Lynch moaned and she dashed to his side. “Hey…”

His eyelids fluttered as he lifted his head. “Shaly?” It
sounded like the word hurt his throat.

She gripped his hand. “Yes…it’s me.”

He blinked, his focus unclear. “Go. Get outta here…now.”

“We will once Agent Newman finds Graham.”

Lynch shook his head then groaned. “You…don’t understand.
Danger…you’re in…” His eyes rolled back. “…dan…ger…” His head sagged down to
his chest.

Shasta carefully jostled his shoulder. “Lynch?”

A loud thump from the bedrooms jolted her heart. She
hastened to her feet. Adjusting her sweaty hold on Newman’s gun, she tiptoed
toward the unlit hallway. Slow, steady footsteps approached.

“Agent Newman?”

No answer. But the footfalls grew nearer.

She retreated as an indistinguishable figure gradually
walked forward. She knew it was a man, but she also realized it wasn’t Agent
Newman. This man was taller and not as broad in the shoulders.

The first thing she saw were his shoes. Even in the weak
illumination, she could tell they were expensive, with a polished shine. Next
came slacks with crisp, tight creases. Newman wore a unkempt suit.

“Agent…Newman?” She hated that her voice quaked.

“No, sweetheart. Not Agent Newman.”

Shasta recoiled at the familiar baritone voice. “Gr…Graham?”

He stepped fully into the living room. “Not Graham either.”

Shasta stumbled into the sofa, the gun dropping from her
limp hold next to Wyatt’s feet.

This wasn’t possible. Simply. Wasn’t. Possible.

Her husband…
walking
?

Yet he was, strolling like it was an afternoon in the park.
Dressed in dark pants and a black turtleneck that emphasized his trim waist, he
looked as athletic as he did before his accident.

The accident…

Her body temperature spiked and perspiration beaded on her
upper lip. Her muscles weakened. “How…” She shook her head. “How is it that
you’re…walking?”

Graham beamed a grin. “Been doing it for years now,
sweetheart.”

His cavalier dismissal of something so radical and
unbelievable obliterated her shock. She straightened. “Just what the hell is
going on, Graham?”

A fierce scowl replaced his smile. “I said I’m
not
Graham.”

“Then…who are you?”

His expression instantly became buoyant again. “Ian
Blackwell.” He clicked his heels and bowed slightly. “At your service.”

She shook her head. “Ian’s your cousin and he died—”

“No.” His sharp tone hurt her ears. “
I’m
Ian.”

“But Graham—”

He grasped her upper arm in a vice-like grip, hauling her
against his hard chest. “I told you I’m
not
Graham. I’m not that insipid
weakling, understand?” He flung her away and she fell against the couch arm.

She whipped her head up to stare at him. Talons of fear sank
into her heart. Graham believed he was Ian? How? Why? What the hell was wrong
with her husband?

She licked her dry lips and stood. She cast a nervous look
down the hallway. “Where’s Agent Newman?”

 Graham waved his hand. “Back there.” He brushed imaginary
lint from his sweater. “He’ll have quite the headache when he wakes. That is if
he wakes up.”

Shasta inched backward, but tripped and glanced down. Her
stomach heaved. Adam Murphy. She scuttled from the inert DA. “What…what
happened to Adam?” she stammered.

Graham swiped his finger along the sideboard then flicked
off the dust. “He was getting close. Too close.”

“Close to what?”

“To discovering my secret. I had no choice, sweetheart.”

“So…you…killed him?”

He scrunched his features with a scoff. “No.
I
didn’t
kill him.” His smile reminded her of a crocodile. “I have people for that kind
of thing.”

People for that kind of thing?

Shasta now knew, without a doubt, what was wrong with her
husband…

He was mad. Insane. Totally and completely. There could be
no other explanation.

Thoughts whirled through her head. What was she going to do?
How was she going to save him?
Could
she save him? And what about Wyatt,
and Lynch, and Agent Newman? She edged her way around to the front of the sofa,
hoping to use the furniture as a barricade.

Graham closed the distanced in measured steps. “I hadn’t
wanted it to be like this.”

“Hadn’t wanted what to be like this?” she repeated. Maybe if
she kept him talking, he’d snap out of whatever delusion had gripped his mind.

“This.” He threw his arms in an emphatic arc. “It was
suppose to be uncomplicated. Simple. Without all this…god-awful drama.” He
wagged his head. “It’s been tough, all these years, watching you from afar. Not
being able to tell you the truth. Not being with you.” He swept his gaze over
her, and bile rose in her throat. “The worst part was having you think that…”
He visibly shuddered. “…invalid was your husband. But all will be well very
shortly.”

“It will?” Shasta kept her voice as composed as possible.
“How’s that?” She swallowed. “Ian?”

Joy lit up his face and he caressed her cheek. She struggled
not to pull back. “Because we’ll finally be together. It’s our destiny, you
know. To be together.” He frowned. “Despite what your father said.”