“Wouldn’t it be ‘house mice’? Plural,” North asks.
Lock rolls his eyes. “What are you, the grammar police?”
North shrugs. “House mouses or house mice. I think it’s a good question.”
I slam the gavel. “Let’s stay on topic. If a woman knew, a man told her. Only members of this club know where Jackal is now.”
Havoc leans back in his chair and stretches to rest his hands on the top of his head. The guy’s biceps are bigger than Reaper’s head. “Makes me sick to think some fuck ran to a woman with the intel. It’s causing distrust among the men.”
And that’s the very worst part of it. The idea that everyone is looking at one another a little squirrely, wondering if they could have been the one who almost caused the death of Shade and the woman he and Jackal had brought into their relationship.
“For the record,” I say, placing my elbows on the smooth surface of the table and templing my fingers, “there isn’t a bone in my body that thinks it was any of you. I’ve spoken to you all privately and trust each of you implicitly. The tough part is, I’ve got no clue who I trust out there, when I should be trusting themall.” I point beyond the walls of church to where the rest of the club is hanging out. “I know some of you are struggling with it. I’ve overheard some of the questions you’ve asked each other. Can tell there’s underlying frustration. But you’ve got to trust your brother. We can figure this out together.”
North shifts in his seat. “We got our heads together last week and made a bit of a log of comings and goings of members, just in case any guilty folks have dropped off or slowed down coming to the clubhouse, but no one has. Whoever it is, they know that the best thing to do, for now, is to behave normally and not alter routine.”
Ridge clears his throat. “If it wasn’t a wife or a dancer or something, maybe it was someone within earshot. Maybe someone was talking about Jackal being in Colorado near someone either not related to the club or so loosely related that we haven’t considered who it could be. Like, maybe one of the bars in town, or the burger joint or the liquor store.”
Reaper nods. “I’m starting to feel like that tracks. The club is built on loyalty. Knox has been prez for as long as he has because people trust him, but because they also know he won’t take any shit from anyone.”
“Then we’ve been asking the wrong questions,” I say. “Go back through everyone. Tell ‘em we don’t think what happened was deliberate. Ask them where they might have talked about Jackal or Paltrow. Then, let’s take a look at those places. Let’s not do anything that puts us in the path of Sheriff Caldwell and the other goons in the police squad. Ask the questions, but don’t threaten. If it was a civilian, I feel less inclined to kill them and more to remind them that what they see and hear when it comes to the club is confidential. If it’s one of our own, they’ll be stripped of their patches and barred from the club.”
“You don’t want to kill them?” Vandal asks.
“Yeah. I fucking do, because they should know better.” The steady ache of frustration builds behind my temples. “But I want to make it look like an accident or disappearance, to avoid any fingers pointing back at us.”
“I find out who almost killed Jackal’s family, I’ll want to rip their head off,” Havoc says.
“Don’t disagree,” I say. “But it also doesn’t help us that Caldwell is breathing down our neck, like always.”
Caldwell is a caricature of a built and officious police officer. He believes he’s the king of the town, the keeper of peace, the rational voice of law enforcement. And he’s a fan of police militarization.
Problem is, he lives in Gator Flats, Florida. Population 897. My guess is that he wants to be the big dog on campus but doesn’t have the balls to go somewhere bigger than here because he doesn’t think he’ll make it. He’s got some weird kind of Napoleon complex with severe imposter syndrome. The two shouldn’t coexist, but Caldwell manages it.
And he killed Drew, known as Riggs to the club, but remembered mostly as Drew.
Caldwell was investigated but cleared of wrongdoing.
Drew had a weapon, which in an open carry state shouldn’t be a problem. The body cam footage doesn’t show him raising it, but it does show one on the ground next to him after he was shot dead with four bullets.
Testing showed my brother’s fingerprints on it.
Except, I know for sure my brother didn’t have a weapon on him that night. We’d been out on a run, and Drew killed some fucking gangbanger trying to make meth on the outskirts of town.
Drew’s weapon was thrown into the swamp on the ride home. I asked him if he wanted to take the spare I carried on my bike, as he didn’t have another weapon on him. He said he’dbe fine and that he was heading straight home and would get another from his supply once there.
I knew it was planted on him after the fact. But I couldn’t testify to that at the trial, could I?
It’s hard to kill a cop and get away with it. Even harder to kill a cop when the world already suspects you’d be the one to do it.
Havoc has offered to do it for me.
So has Vandal.
Both of them would face the death penalty, if caught.
I refuse to let them fall on their swords for me.
One day, I’ll do it.
