That was fine. I’d rattled her cage. I understood her desire to flee.
I checked my watch; I still had six hours until my next appointment, enough time to catch a nap. I gathered my belongings, just a red and black checkered coat and my hat, and glanced back at the kitchen. She’d left the folded piece of paper, the list of things she liked to do, on the counter. I tucked it into my pocket and left out the back door.
Our next lesson wasn’t for two weeks. Two weeks would give Jennifer plenty of time to marinate on my question and make a decision. Who was she living her life for? Herself or her mother?
Hank Weller was good at two things: making money and fishing.
As the owner of the local strip club, Hank frequently treated customers to fishing excursions on his big boat. I was not a customer. Nevertheless, he did take me fishing from time to time, if I asked. This was because Beau and Hank were close friends and had been since childhood. Beau was my in.
It was a nice morning for fishing. Not too cold. Water vapor rose over the lake, making the surface hazy, like it was covered in gauze. Since it was late September, the lake was surrounded on all sides by trees doing their best impressions of autumn fireworks. Birds were complaining about their breakfast, otherwise the only sound was water lazily lapping against the shore.
I liked nature just fine, yet I didn’t like to fish. But far be it from me to pass up a convenient opportunity to cross a to-do item off my to-do list.
“Long time no see, Cletus.” Catfish lifted his chin in greeting as he boarded Hank’s big boat. “What you been up to?”
Catfish, which was not his Christian name, was a captain in the Iron Wraiths motorcycle club. So not the bottom of the barrel, but not a decision-maker either. He was a good soldier.
“A bit of this and that,” I responded easily.
“How’s that sister of yours?” This question came from Drill, who was the next to board the boat.
“Easy.” Hank came to stand next to me, crossing his arms. “No talk of family. Let’s keep this nice.”
“Just asking.” Drill shrugged his boulder-like shoulders and grinned. The rising sun glinted off his bald head. To my mind he resembled a steroidal version of Mr. Clean, if Mr. Clean wore black leather from head to toe and smelled like lube.
I eyeballed the third person in their party and put my hand on Hank’s shoulder. “No, no. It’s fine. Ash is great, thanks for asking, Drill. Just got her double black belt in Kenjutsu—you know, that’s the martial art where they use those sharp knives? Since she’s a nurse, she knows just where to stab a person. You should see her skin a rabbit. We’re pretty proud.”
This, of course, was complete bullshit—except for the part about her being a nurse and skinning rabbits, because she was real good at skinning rabbits. But Drill widened his eyes, looking a little piqued, and let the subject drop.
“Hey, Twilight,” I welcomed the third member of their party by extending my hand for a shake. He looked at it, then at me, then at my hand again. Finally he shook it.
Isaac Sylvester, AKA Twilight, who also happened to be Jennifer Sylvester’s brother, wasn’t yet a member of the Wraiths. He was what’s called a “prospect.” Jethro had been a prospect about five years ago, but left before he’d been made a full member. Thank God.
“Cletus,” he said, meeting my eye. I inspected his and discovered Isaac’s were plain blue. I frowned.
Where did she get those purple eyes?
“Speaking of sisters,” I adopted as harmless an air as possible and gave Isaac a cheerful grin, “how’s your sister doing?”
His jaw ticked and his plain blue eyes narrowed and darted to the side, like he was wincing and didn’t want me to see.
“I don’t have a sister,” he mumbled, his mouth pinched.
“Sure you do.” I widened my grin, playing the well-meaning buffoon. “She bakes cakes, don’t she?”
“You know how it is, Cletus.” Catfish spoke up, waiting for me to give him my full attention before continuing. “Once a man joins the Wraiths he ain’t got no other family. Twilight has only brothers now.”
I nodded thoughtfully. “Ah, yes. I forgot about that detail.” I moved my eyes back to Twilight, wanting to see his reaction when I added, “Must be hard on the sisters, though.”
Isaac looked out over the lake, but I doubt he saw it. He appeared to be absent, wading through weighty thoughts.
Meanwhile, I felt sorry for Jennifer Sylvester all over again. She’d lost her brother; at least he was lost to her. I considered how it might’ve been for us if Jethro had disowned us in favor of the Wraiths. The thought was not a nice one. I quickly banished it.
“Are we waiting for anybody?” Catfish grabbed a beer from the cooler and took one of the cushioned seats on the big deck.
“Just Beau,” I said, glancing at my phone. He didn’t like to be late, but I’d instructed Beau to be late. I needed the delay. In return I’d promised I would make sausage for dinner on my assigned night this coming week. Unsurprisingly, my sausage was his favorite. “Let me call him and see where he’s at.”
I stepped off the boat and strolled the length of the dock, up to Hank’s cabin and beyond, to where Catfish had parked their truck. I knew this truck. Five years ago I’d installed traps in this truck.
Traps are secret compartments used to traffic drugs and the like in order to evade police detection. I’d installed them at the time in order to help Jethro extract himself from the Wraiths.
Using the traps now—as a means to bring the entire Iron Wraiths organization down—was a happy bonus.
Contrary to popular belief, installing traps is perfectly legal. It’s legal just as long as the engineer responsible informs local law enforcement about the installation. I’d informed local law enforcement. And then I’d made certain the certified letter never saw the light of day. It was buried in their evidence storage, misfiled. But I knew where it was and would make certain the letter became found on Sheriff James’s desk when the time was right.
Slipping on gloves from my pocket, I opened the truck’s door—which wasn’t locked, because these guys obviously considered themselves to be untouchable—and released the trap under the driver’s seat. I pulled the evidence I’d taken two weeks ago out of my coveralls, evidence handed over to the sheriff by the King brothers, and placed it in the bottom of the trap along with a bogus list of dates and places.
By “bogus”, I meant real. The only thing bogus about the list was that I’d drafted it after the fact, after watching Wraith activity for the last eight months. The list of dates, names, and places just made their inefficient chaos appear more organized.
And organization was the point. The appearance of pre-meditation and planning was my goal, and this list achieved it.
Seeing everything set to rights, I closed the door just as Beau pulled up in his red 1967 Pontiac GTO.
I admired the line of the hood. It was a pretty car, but too flashy for me. As Drew had noted yesterday, I preferred hiding in plain sight.
It was my talent.
CHAPTER 8
“Life has its own hidden forces which you can only discover by living.”
Søren Kierkegaard
~Jennifer~
Are you always going to do everything your mother likes?
I was making pie.
I didn’t usually make pie, but I was waiting for the bread to rise so I could knead it again. I’d woken up with a thirst for violence. Cutting the butter into the flour for pie crust was almost as good as kneading bread.
Are you always going to do everything your mother likes?
I set my teeth, stabbing the frozen butter, while Cletus’s question looped in my head. The question had been on repeat because I didn’t know the answer.
Are you always going to do everything your mother likes?
The last seven days had been wearisome, made even more so because of Cletus’s question bouncing around my brain.
My momma had scheduled us a flight to New York in November to meet with Jacqueline Freeman and the Food Network folks. As such, she’d put me on a diet.
“I don’t want you to be thick for the cameras,” she’d said.
The hotel investment group my momma had been frantic about for the last several months were visiting our lodge this week. They were staying for two days. Usually, I was in charge of the bakery menu. It was my job to finalize the list of weekly offerings.
The morning after my “lesson” with Cletus, she’d handed me two sheets of paper. “This is what you’ll be baking this week and next,” she’d said. “And I’ve left out the clothes I want you to wear and written out instructions for your hair and makeup.”
I stared at her lists, unable to find my voice. I didn’t realize how much I’d enjoyed planning the menu, this small amount of autonomy, until it had been taken away.
I thought things couldn’t get any worse. I was wrong.
As soon as the investors arrived I’d been paraded out like a show pony. One would think I’d be used to it by now, but I wasn’t. And with Cletus’s question running through my mind, their eyes made my skin crawl. Especially the youngest of the bunch, a crispily tanned investor from Las Vegas by the name of Allen Northumberland.