A Dirty Shame (22 page)

“Jack—I’m”

“You didn’t,” he said in that uncanny way he had of knowing what I was going to say. I’d been about to apologize for letting him down when he pulled my little Beretta out of his pocket and handed it to me. “We left in a hurry this morning and you left it by the nightstand. There’s no one I’d rather have watching my back.”

I grabbed the front of his shirt and jerked him down for a short kiss. “I love you,” I said.

“I know. But it’s nice to hear you say it first for a change.”

Jack removed the padlock and stuck it in his jacket pocket, and then he pulled out the wooden slat that had been shoved through the handles to keep the doors closed. The wood was warped and swollen from the recent rain, and he had to jiggle it to get it loose. But once he got it out, the doors fell open with an ominous creak to display the dark cavern inside.

The smell assaulted me—death. It washed over my body in thick waves, and the flies seemed to thicken around us as if we were drenched in honey instead of decay. I’d smelled worse things, but not many.

“Jesus,” Jack said, his face set in harsh lines as we stepped inside. We both breathed with shallow pants—the kind of breathing technique only people who’d been around the dead had perfected.

The inside of the barn had been gutted so the stalls were gone, and the rectangular discoloration on floors was the only reminder they’d existed. It was darker inside, but light streamed through the door behind us enough that we could see we’d found what we were looking for. Jack pulled his Maglite from his belt and turned it on. On second glance, the barn was in better shape than it looked on the outside. The windows had been boarded up, and the walls were patched so no one could see in or out.

The floors were wooden and covered in remnants of hay and dust, but some of the boards had been pulled up in certain areas so only the dark earth was visible beneath. It was easier to let blood flow into the ground than try to wash it off a solid surface.

Thick wooden beams were lined three on each side as supports and rafters were spaced evenly above, so the hayloft was reinforced. A hose was attached to the faucet on the wall, and the
drip, drip, drip
of water splashed against a metal bucket beneath it. Ropes and pulleys were attached at different intervals, and it was all too easy to imagine the atrocities that had taken place inside.

“Jesus,” I whispered as chills broke out over my skin. I’d never seen anything like it. And I’d seen
a lot
of terrible things in my career.

“Everything’s still here,” Jack said.

He picked up the leather belt on the floor and held it up. Tied to the end was a rusted piece of scrap metal crusted with blood. They’d beaten Daniel Oglesby and Julie Lawrence with that tool as they’d hung from one of the rafters, probably praying for death to come soon.

A wooden ladder was propped against the wall, and it led up to the hole that had been crudely cut out to enter the hayloft. I swiped at the flies and headed towards the ladder, slinging my bag across my body as I went. Jack followed behind me and kept his gun in his hand. The ladder was rough against my gloves, and sharp slivers of wood pierced through the latex.

The smell grew stronger the higher I climbed, and it was hot as hell, so by the time I reached the top it was like going into a thick cloud of steaming death. The flies swarmed like mad and sweat coated my skin.

I pulled myself through the little hole and into the hayloft. It wasn’t a big space—maybe twelve feet on each side. The floor was particleboard that had been nailed into the rafters below. Railroad ties were nailed into the wall, and old tools hung from them.

It was hard to miss the remains of Doc Randall. He’d just been a little old man who’d made a bad decision. And this is how he’d ended up, crumpled in a heap like garbage in the corner.

“It’s him,” I said as Jack’s head popped through the hole behind me and he climbed up.

I took off my bag and dumped my jacket on the ground before stripping off the outer sweater I wore. Jack stripped off his flannel shirt so he was down to his shirtsleeves.

I dug around in my bag and came out with a couple of surgical masks. Jack declined the one I held out for him, but I went ahead and put mine on. There was nothing like having flies that had been feasting on a rotting corpse tickle at your nostrils and mouth.

I kneeled beside Doc Randall and had just started to examine the body when all hell broke loose. I heard a gunshot in the distance at the same time I felt the rafters shake below. The barn doors slammed shut, and Jack pointed his gun to the ceiling and stayed to the edges of the room as he tried to look out the broken hayloft door. A crack of gunfire sounded, and splinters of wood exploded around his face just as he dropped to the ground.

“Jack,” I yelled, staying low as I crawled over to him.

“I’m not hit,” he said. His temple bled profusely where a piece of wood had cut him, and I tried to staunch the bleeding, but he pushed my hand away. “There’s no time. Let’s get out of here.”

“But Doc Randall—”

“He’s dead, Jaye. We’ll come back for him later. If we’re alive.”

I hurried down the steps as fast as I could go, stumbling into darkness, and Jack dropped down beside me almost before my feet had touched the ground.

“I can’t see,” I yelled, panic starting to close in on me.

“Look there. You can see the light coming from under the doors. Run. Now.”

We ran for the barn doors, and Jack rammed his shoulder against them—
once
—
twice
—but they didn’t budge.

“They’ve got the doors jammed,” he said. My breath was heaving in and out of my lungs, but I couldn’t hear anything from Jack. If I hadn’t felt him brush against me, I wouldn’t have known he was there at all.

Little whispers of sound surrounded us, and the noise grew in intensity until it became angry hisses. Smoke started to fill the barn from all directions and the heat became overwhelming.

“Back upstairs,” Jack yelled over the flames.

I could only see his outline with the barn doors closed, and if we waited too much longer we’d never be able to find the ladder again. More splinters jabbed through my gloves and into my fingers as I crawled quickly back up to the hayloft, and Jack pushed at me from below.

The air was a little easier to breathe once we got to the loft, and we could see for the moment, but the black smoke billowed up from the ground and past the hayloft door, sneaking inside little by little.

“Strip off your clothes.”

Jack had his shirt off and was down to his boxer briefs before I could get the command wrapped around my brain. He was already fashioning a rope out of his clothes and the jacket and sweater I’d left on the ground. He swiped at the blood running into his eyes with the back of his hand, but he stayed focused. I did as he asked until I was down to my bra and panties, unsure what I could do to help.

Jack pulled a knife and ran over to Doc Randall, efficiently slicing down the back of his blood soaked shirt and slacks.

I had no idea what was happening outside. The gunfire had stopped, and I didn’t know if Carver was dead or alive—whether the good guys would be waiting for us outside or the bad guys. I tried to move closer to the hayloft doors, but the flames from below had started to lick their way up until they almost reached the hayloft door. We couldn’t jump out the window without catching fire. There was no way down.

The floor grew hot beneath my bare skin, and Jack continued to work with the clothes rope. It was getting harder to see, and all I could do to help was hold the flashlight steady so he could see what he was doing. I knew Jack was trying, but I didn’t see hope for our escape.

“Give me your gun,” Jack said. He immediately went into a coughing fit, and we both huddled closer to the ground, breathing in as much air as possible.

I handed it over to him without question. He grabbed my hand and we crawled on hands and knees away from where the flames were starting to encroach on our space. Jack pulled my head close and said, “Hold on to my leg. Don’t let go.” He kissed me hard once, and I stopped him, my eyes blind with tears and smoke.

“I won’t let go,” I promised him. “In this life or the next.” And then I held on to his leg, waiting for the flames and smoke to take us both.

I jerked against his body as I felt the recoil of my gun. He fired every round into the outside wall and then did the same thing with his own weapon. He dropped the guns and grabbed onto my hands, holding me tight as he started kicking against the weakened wall. I tried to help him, my bare feet hitting the wood, but the smoke was starting to get to me.

Bright light hit my eyes, and I thought,
This is it. There’s the white light at the end of the tunnel
. But a great whoosh of air sucked at the smoke and I realized it was daylight. We both stuck our heads out of the makeshift hole and breathed in, coughing as our lungs seized.

I looked down, and that one brief moment of hope left me again when I saw we’d never survive a jump from that high.

“We don’t have long,” Jack said. “The fire will reach this side in a couple of minutes,” Boards creaked and moaned all around us, and great crashes sounded from below. “If the building doesn’t collapse first,” he added.

He tied the makeshift rope to one of the thick iron railroad spikes sticking out from the wall and let the rope of clothes unfurl. It was too short. By a lot. But we had a better chance with it than without.

“I’ll go first,” Jack said. “I’ll catch you. Trust me.”

I looked at him and nodded. “With my life.”

Jack launched himself out the hole we’d made in the wall and was at the end of the rope much too soon. The clothes strained against the nail they’d been secured to, and just when I could see Jack gather his resolve to drop the rest of the way to the ground, a police cruiser sped towards us and slammed to a stop beneath us. Carver got out to help, but Jack gauged the jump and let go, landing on top of his cruiser.

My hands were damp with sweat as I crawled through the hole, much less gracefully then Jack had managed to make it look. I knew it was stupid but all I could think was that I was going to die in my underwear while everyone watched. I almost laughed from the hysteria of it, but I started coughing instead.

Jack stayed on top of the cruiser, and then suddenly I was in his arms and I never wanted to let go. We held on to each other, our breaths heaving and blood and tears soaking our faces.

“I don’t think I’ve ever told you this,” I said. “But I’m really glad you were in the military.”

“At least you’ll never be able to say our life is boring.” He kissed the top of my head and wiped at my tears with his thumb.

“I could maybe deal with a little boredom in my life.”

“I’ll make sure our honeymoon doesn’t require anything more stressful than asking the beach waiters for drinks with umbrellas, or having slow, lazy sex in the surf.”

I stared up at him. His face was black with soot, and blood covered one side of his face. “Sounds like heaven,” I said.

“Good. Now let’s go put these assholes away.”

“Maybe I could get dressed first,” I said, noticing the crowd of cops gathering around us. “I think Martinez is taking pictures.”

With the excitement of the FBI swarming over the county, it was easy to forget that four people were dead—six if you counted Julie Lawrence and Ronnie Campbell—maybe more we didn’t know about. But Greg Vance—not William—was behind bars, which had been a surprise to all of us after the warrant had gone through and we’d gotten a copy of the membership roster of the Aryan Nation. Gregory Vance Sr. joined his son in a cell for conspiracy to murder.

Jack had been right. It had all come down to the money.

Greg Vance had been taking over the reins of the Aryan Nation for the past several years—about the same time the FBI started their file on the Blood Brothers. The crazy thing about people like Greg Vance is they never think they’ll get caught. They’re always smarter or above the law.

His car dealerships had been the perfect cover for drug running. He’d enveloped George’s garage and six others all over the state into his rotation. The drugs would go into the cars at the auto shop at his Richmond dealership, and then the reformed Booth Wilkins would drive the car out to a remote location with the drugs. Someone would trade out the drugs for a fat wad of money, and then George would tow the car and the money back to the shop. The FBI and DEA were both having a field day with Greg Vance.

Reverend Oglesby’s death hadn’t been a result of his sexual orientation as they’d wanted us to believe. Daniel had simply seen something he shouldn’t have. And they’d muddied the waters with his death by having Lorna let it slip that he was gay.

Julie Lawrence had died because Ronnie Campbell had decided to make a plea deal and had told Julie everything he knew about the operation. Greg Vance had eyes and ears everywhere, in a lot of powerful places, so he knew as soon as Ronnie opened his mouth to spill his guts. Julie and Ronnie had been casualties of war.

Doc Randall’s death had been to clean up loose ends. Just like George’s death. They’d both fulfilled their usefulness. Greg Vance still hadn’t cracked under the pressure of interrogation, but all his cohorts were throwing him under the bus, trying to save themselves. Except for Lorna.

Lorna had been easily seduced by Greg. A small-town mouse of a woman, whose repressed sexuality made her hunger and hate at the same time. Her grandfather had filled her head with lies and self-loathing, and he’d made sure she knew she was always to stand for the organization if they needed her. He’d made it clear her only usefulness in life was to serve for the higher calling of the Aryan Nation.

Greg had told her everything she’d needed to hear, sweetening the pot with the affection she’d been denied as a child, so in the end she’d have done
anything
for him. He’d told her the “cleansing” the organization did was what God and the church wanted. She’d believed him. The DA is going to push for diminished capacity and a lighter sentence because of her upbringing, but she still won’t see the light of day for a while.

Greg wasn’t talking. Not yet, anyway. But like Jack said, the money didn’t lie. The Aryan Nation had accounts worldwide, and the FBI had found the withdrawals used to lure Doc Randall, under a false account using Jesse Fife’s name. The FBI was rounding up dozens of people involved in the mess, but Jack had gotten what he’d been after. George, Doc Randall and Daniel Oglesby had been ours. And we took care of our own.

Kenny Laubach and Booth Wilkins had easily rolled over on Greg Vance and a few others as participating in Oglesby’s murder. But Kenny had also given up Lorna. She’d been the one to give Oglesby the drug. Her prints matched the ones we’d found at the scene, and she’d been the one who’d pulled the trigger on Doc Randall. We’d been right. She’d panicked after she’d shot him. He’d been her first.

Carver was sure the DNA from the cigarettes we’d found at the crime scene would belong to Greg. He hadn’t quit smoking soon enough. Kenny had fessed up to owning the bandana and setting the barn on fire while we’d been trapped inside. One of Jack’s officers had shot Kenny in the leg while he tried to escape back to his car, and it had been difficult for Kenny to plead innocence with the matches and lighter fluid he’d had in his hands as the bullet took him down.

As far as how I was dealing with the upheaval—I was taking it a day at a time. I’d buried Mrs. Perry, George, and Reverend Oglesby. The Virginia State Medical Examiner had allowed me to assist with Doc Randall’s charred remains, and I’d had a moment of pride when he’d told me I did good work. It was really all I needed. No one else’s opinions mattered. Except Jack’s.

Also, I’d somehow gotten engaged. Life or death situations made for crazy decision-making. But I wasn’t nearly as panicked about it as I should have been. We loved each other. It had just taken us a long time to get to that place, and now it was as if nothing had ever been any different. We’d just been waiting for the right time.

So two weeks later, when the initial frenzy died down and life was slowly getting back to normal, I came out of the funeral home to find Jack waiting for me in the driveway. I couldn’t help but smile when I saw him. I felt happier than I ever had. More at peace with myself and the decisions I’d made in my life. I still had my parents’ crimes to deal with and things to discover there, but I knew it would all be okay as long as Jack was beside me.

I got in the cruiser and fastened my seatbelt, cracking my knuckles in nervousness. “I think it’s time.”

“Now’s not good for me,” he said, putting the car in reverse and backing out. “This car technically belongs to the county, and it’s against the law to engage in sexual acts in a car provided by the taxpayers. I’d have to arrest myself.”

“Good grief. Don’t you ever think about anything else?”

He was quiet for a minute and then said, “Nah, not really. All I can think about is getting you back on my desk. That moment pretty much defined my life.”

“Which, speaking of,” I said. “Also the taxpayers’ money.”

“Hmm.” He drove down Queen Mary and stopped at the crossroads, his blinker flashing to turn right towards the house where we’d spend the rest of our lives. But I put my hand on his wrist and he let the car idle there for a minute.

“I’m ready to go back to the house,” I said softly. “There are things I want to pack up and bring with me so I can start my life with you. I’ve come to realize that there are a few memories from there that aren’t so bad. Those are the ones I want to bring to you. Thank you for loving me. I’ve never been given a greater gift than that.”

I leaned in and our mouths touched. His thumb brushed across my cheek and wiped away a tear.

“I’ll go with you,” he said.

“No,” I told him. “I can do it. I’m strong enough to face it now. And it’s something I need to do on my own. Can you understand?”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Stubborn brat. But I don’t have to like it. I’ll drop you off, and then I’ll bring the truck back once you’re ready to start hauling things out.”

I squeezed his hand in thanks and he turned the car left, heading down the rutted lane to the home I’d grown up in. The realtor was going to get a For Sale sign in the yard by the weekend, and then I’d be free.

Jack came to a stop, and I dug in my bag for my keys.

“I’ll be back in an hour,” he said. “And then you’re going to give me something sinfully erotic.” His voice dropped to a husky whisper and I felt myself giving in one last time to the temptation of his lips. He kissed me once. “Something outrageously decadent.” He kissed me again. “It should probably involve chocolate syrup.”

I nipped at his bottom lip and then opened the car door to get out. “I’ll take you to Cracker Barrel tonight for dinner. Sounds like you’re just hungry.”

He barked out a laugh, and then I waved bye and turned to face my past. I walked up the cracked sidewalk to the front porch as I listened to Jack drive away. The porch steps were fixed, and they didn’t make so much as a creak as I stepped up to the door. I took a deep breath and stuck the key in the lock. I could do this. I
had
to do this.

“Jack will be back in an hour,” I said aloud. “No big deal.”

I pushed open the door, and I expected the smell of blood and death to greet me as it had the last time I was here. But there was nothing but the faint smell of fresh paint and lemons. I walked in and shut the door behind me, looking up the stairs and into the kitchen before I looked at the spot I’d almost met my death.

A creak of the floorboards had me spinning towards the den, my heart pounding in my chest. I couldn’t see anyone, but I knew I wasn’t alone.

"So you've decided to move in with Jack, huh?” A voice called out. “I wondered how long it would take the two of you to stop dancing and get down to business. I always did like that boy.”

I tripped over my feet and slammed back against the door. Mewling whimpers escaped from my throat as my sweaty hand fumbled for the doorknob. But then the familiarity of that voice caught up to my brain and my knees turned to jelly.

"What's wrong, Jaye? Aren't you going to say hello?"

"Dad?" I whispered, just before I crumpled to the ground.

DIRTY ROTTEN SCOUNDREL: A J.J. GRAVES MYSTERY ~ Coming Soon!

About the author:

Liliana Hart is the pseudonym for an author of more than fifteen books. She lives in Texas with her husband and cats, and loves to be contacted by readers.

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Here’s an excerpt of SHADOWS AND SILK, the newest offering in the MACKENZIE FAMILY series by Liliana Hart.

Available 12/25/12!

MacKenzies were nothing but trouble.

Brant had known that for almost fifteen years—ever since Cade MacKenzie had dragged him to his home in Montana for Thanksgiving one year and shoved him into the freezing cold pond behind their farmhouse. They’d been as close as brothers ever since, and he considered the MacKenzies to be his second family, especially since his sister, Bayleigh, was now married to Cade.

But sometimes families were a pain in the ass, and this was one of those times.

He weaved in and out of the late night Georgetown traffic—the Harley rumbling beneath him—as a cool mist fell and collected in fine droplets on his riding leathers. Every instinct he had was telling him to turn around and go the opposite direction.

Unfortunately, he didn’t have much of a choice when it came to this latest summons. The call from Declan MacKenzie had come early that morning—there was to be a meeting between all team leaders involved in the investigation of the del Fuego drug cartel. All agencies had been working together for the past four years to put an end to the cartel’s reign of terror, and since Brant was the special agent in charge for Homeland Security, he had no choice but to be at the meeting.

He slowed and turned onto M Street, cursing the inaccuracy of the weatherman as a loud crack of thunder rent the air and the soft mist turned into a downpour. Headlights glared off the wet streets and impatient drivers blared their horns as this latest inconvenience kept them from their social obligations. He veered around a florist van to pull into the underground parking garage across the street from O’Malley’s Pub.

With his helmet stuck under his arm, he sprinted across the street and into the warmth and familiarity of the long time hangout used by a mixed bag of federal agents. The smell of beer and the polish they used to wipe down the seats of the bar stools and booths hung heavy in the air. The floors were scarred and the wood paneling on the walls darkened with age. Music thumped steadily from the speakers, but not so loud you couldn’t hear the person next to you. O’Malley’s was a place to talk shop, let off steam, or sweet talk pretty waitresses—though not necessarily in that order

Brant ran a hand through his hair, dripping water onto the mat on the floor, and wiped his feet.

“Agent Scott,” Jimmy O’Malley said from behind the bar. “Haven’t seen you in here in a while. What’ll it be?”

O’Malley was a former FBI agent and had opened the pub after a bullet shattered his knee and he’d been taken out of the field. He always said he’d rather serve whiskey than start drinking it because he was bored out of his mind sitting behind a desk. Brant couldn’t say he blamed him.

“The usual. And put it on Declan’s tab,” Brant said, causing O’Malley to laugh.

“I’ll have Lily bring it to you. Your friends are upstairs.” O’Malley jerked his thumb at the curved staircase that led up to the private room he sometimes rented out for parties or wakes, and Brant nodded his thanks and moved toward the back of the bar. He acknowledged a few of the familiar faces he passed on his way, and headed up the stairs.