If I Should Die (23 page)

Frustrated and desperate, Sean said, “Did you know she was an FBI agent? Did she find out what Jon was doing—”

Henry cut him off. “You have to leave. If they’re watching me you may have just signed my death warrant, Mr. Rogan. Leave now. I’m not asking again.”

“Dammit, Henry!”

“Don’t swear at me, young man!” Henry rose from the stool. He still looked old, but he had fire in him. “You came to town three days ago and think you can solve generations’s worth of problems? Spruce Lake has been on the wrong side of the law for more than a century, starting with Paul’s great-grandfather, one of the original moonshiners in the county. Smuggling into Canada is as old as sin for our town. Alcohol, cigarettes, meth, marijuana—what’s next? I don’t know, but we’ll be in the middle of it, and nothing you or I can do will stop it. These folks have killed for far less. And now that Bobbie Swain is in town—so help us God, she’ll slash and burn on a whim if it strikes her fancy. I’m telling you to get out now, before you’re not able to.”

“Please, I need—”

Henry put up his hand. “Go, before Jon comes home. Last year, he would have agreed to help you. Now, I don’t think he has a soul. Bobbie destroyed it. I can’t do anything. I’m sorry.”

Sean wanted to argue, but Henry was right—he couldn’t be here when Jon Callahan returned. If only to protect Henry and Emily. Yet, Henry didn’t seem to fear his nephew.

He handed Henry his card. “Call me. I’ll drop everything to help.”

Henry stared at Sean, tears in his eyes. “Leave Spruce Lake tonight, Sean. Take your pretty lady with you. And never come back.”

Sean shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere until I stop that woman.”

“You don’t know Bobbie. She’s a monster.”

Sean had heard it before. “I’ve slain dragons before. I’m not going to be scared away by Bobbie Swain.” He walked out the way he came. Mrs. Callahan smiled at him. “Nice to see you again.”

Sean understood Henry’s fear. He was protecting his wife from a monster. Sean looked around the comfortable, simply furnished home. The handmade blankets. The clean, worn furniture. The older-model television. Stitchery on the walls, a framed hand-stitched ornate cross embroidered with the words
I am the vine, you are the branches
.

Simple home, simple people. If Jon Callahan was making a fortune in the drug business, he wasn’t sharing it with his family.

He looked at Henry one last time before leaving. “Remember what I said.”

On his way back to the lodge, Sean called Patrick. “I need to change the plans for tomorrow.” He told his partner about the possible threat to Lucy. “Lucy’s the only one who saw the body in the mine, and right now no one knows we’ve already identified the victim.” He doubted Henry would say anything.

“So what are we doing to keep her safe?” Patrick asked.

“I need Noah to come with you on the commuter flight tomorrow morning.” As much as he disliked Noah, the Fed was a former Air Force Raven and a good cop. Sean didn’t particularly like the plan he’d come up with, but it was the best way to make sure nothing happened to Lucy on her way to Albany.

TWENTY-FOUR

Coming home is always bittersweet
.

Ian and I finished inspecting the barns, the pleasing, sweet smell of drying cannabis making me proud of what I’d accomplished. This was the end of an era; I was ushering in the future. On Sunday, I would lead my men down a richer path
.

“Are you ready to go?” Ian asked
.

“A minute,” I said. I told Ian to run through the plan again with the others. Though he was irritated, he agreed, leaving me alone
.

I enjoyed Ian, but he was becoming clingy. On our return trip from Potsdam, we had to pull over for a fast screw. It was fun, but not as exciting as in the past. I appreciated Ian’s attention, but he was too subservient when I wanted him to take charge
.

I sighed and walked around the side of the barn farthest from the house, looking out into the dark valley spread all around. A coyote called, followed by another. I heard the flapping of wings—bats, I figured, this time of night. A perfect, crisp quarter moon sliced the sky, surrounded by a field of stars
.

My empire
.

As a child, Spruce Lake was truly my kingdom. I was the princess, my father the king, my brothers the two princes, the townsfolk our servants. Daddy taught us the power of fear. He’d never expected that it would be his daughter who learned the lesson best
.

Paul was Daddy’s pride and joy. Paul could do no wrong. I hated him because Daddy loved him best. As if being born with a penis gave him the right to the keys of the kingdom
.

Paul became the king when Daddy died, even though Daddy promised to hand the reins to
me.
Paul banished me when he saw I was a threat. That I was smarter than him, more ruthless, more focused
.

My brother lost his focus when he fell for a woman
.

He was in l-o-v-e. I was eager to see how long that would last when I told the little lady just how our family made our money
.

Sweet dumb little Abigail deserved to know who she had married. That Paul killed for Daddy. That he ran drugs up to Canada with the oh-so-proper Jon Callahan. That he’d screwed half the women in Spruce Lake. He especially liked to screw them from behind like dogs, and I had a few tapes to prove it
.

When Paul was sixteen, he’d been pulled over for speeding by a cop Daddy didn’t have in his pocket. A payload of pseudoephedrine was in his truck, and he could have been hauled in if the cop had an ounce more brainpower. I watched Daddy beat the shit out of Paul. It had been quite thrilling. I hated Paul, the Golden Child
.

The day I turned eighteen, Paul stared at me for a long time. He said, “I want to kill you, but you’re family.”
I stared back. He turned around and walked to Daddy’s desk
.

“Ten thousand and I never want to see you again.”

“Fifty thousand,” I countered
.

“Fuck you.”

“Sick pervert. Like I’d really screw my own brother?”

He wanted to hit me, and I wanted him to try
.

Unfortunately, he didn’t. And though he gave me the fifty thousand, I regretted not killing him that day
.

It took years to build my own empire. Though banished, I cultivated my own people in Spruce Lake. I learned about the drug business from the best and brightest. It took time, and what I had to suffer …

The night I killed my husband was the culmination of all that I had learned. I risked everything because I trusted no one. I had set it up all on my own. It was the only way I could ensure I would never be a suspect, by the police or Herve’s people. All because of one small misstep, and Herve’s suspicions, I knew my days were numbered. He’d started pulling away from me, and if I didn’t act first, I knew that one night there’d be a bullet in my head
.

I crushed a couple Viagra tablets into his preferred drink. I wanted him horny. I came to his bed wearing his favorite of my nighties, a white satin sheath. I apologized for talking to the wrong person, for damaging his reputation. No tears, because he’d know I was faking. Just a simple apology. Told him I didn’t want to leave, that I loved him, but if he wanted me to go I’d go quietly. I was contrite the entire speech
,
even though inside my heart raced with anticipation and danger
.

He said he didn’t know if he could trust me anymore. That’s when I showed a little emotion, just a hint of deep remorse. He patted the bed beside him
.

When I sat on the silk sheets and Herve squeezed my breast, when I felt his erection against my thigh and saw the sweat bead on his forehead from his drug-induced excitement, there was no turning back. I didn’t want to die, but nothing worth having means anything if there isn’t a risk. Daddy always told me I had to take risks, be bold, be smart. And that night, I was all that
.

Herve had always liked my sexual energy. My red hair and translucent skin. My voice when I moaned and gasped his name. I loved the theatrics of sex and the way I turned men into desperate, lustful creatures. I let Herve fuck me hard and made sure he enjoyed it. Never had I peaked so high, so long, so intensely as the night I last made love to Herve, knowing he would soon be dead
.

After his first orgasm he was still hard, thanks to the drugs. I rolled him over so I was on top and grabbed the headboard to steady myself. Then I rode him hard, playing into his fantasy of a wild woman who couldn’t get enough of her man
.

Earlier, I’d taped a knife to the backside of the headboard—after Herve’s security goon swept the room with a metal detector. I’d stolen the blade from an associate of Herve’s he had been suspicious about, and set it up so the schmuck had no alibi
.

I gripped the handle as I arched my back so Herve could get a face full of my breasts. He licked greedily
,
slobbering. It would have been a turn-off if I wasn’t so jazzed about my plans
.

Herve wasn’t stupid, so I didn’t hesitate. As soon as I had the knife in hand, I pressed my thighs down and tightened my body around him, knowing it was the best way to get him off. He closed his eyes, his mouth open and drooling, his face flushed. He called my name
.

I slit his throat
.

I had killed before, but never in such a raw, primal way. I cut him deep, without hesitation, because I knew I’d have only one chance
.

He grabbed my hand, but had little control. I jumped off his body and watched as he died. There was so much blood—more than I expected
.

But I could work with that
.

I used the sheet that had fallen to the floor during sex and wiped the handle of the knife. I then cut my arms as if I were holding them up to my face to protect me. They might scar, but I didn’t care—they would remind me of victory
.

I cut one breast, my stomach, the back of my legs. My heart was racing, and I felt light-headed and wondered if I was losing too much blood. I tossed the knife out of the window, made sure there was blood on the windowsill, and screamed so loud my head ached. Then I hit myself with one of Herve’s blue-and-white Chinese vases he said he bought for a hundred thousand dollars. Ridiculous to pay so much for something so impractical
.

Blood flowed down my face into my eyes. I fell to my knees and crawled toward the bed. I was dizzy, and I looked down and saw that the cut in my stomach
was still bleeding. I hadn’t realized I had cut so deep. I found the sheet again and pressed it to my stomach as my vision faded. I grabbed the phone and dialed for help, but didn’t know if the call went through. Everything was a blur
.

I heard people rush in. Shouts. And then nothing
.

I woke hours later in the hospital, and the police detective told me Herve had been murdered and I was lucky to be alive. The two uniformed officers at my door asked me if I saw who attacked us
.

I cried when I said yes, and begged them to protect me
.

Herve’s right-hand man heard me, and by the time the police found Julio Gomez, he was dead
.

The war had begun, and I walked away scot free
.

That was six years ago. I followed that victory with another. I knocked Paul off his high horse and put his ass in prison
.

And now I was the Royal Queen
.

I heard someone say my name, and remembered where I was
.

“It’s fucking cold out here, Bobbie,” Ian said. He actually sounded irritated with me
.

I turned to face him. He was huddled in a thick coat, the collar turned up past his ears, his hands stuffed deep in the pockets. I hadn’t realized, until we’d arrived in Spruce Lake, that Ian was somewhat of a wimp
.

“I was just admiring my kingdom,” I said. “And remembering how hard I worked for it.”

TWENTY-FIVE

Ricky Swain waited in the Callahans’ garage for two hours before Jon Callahan returned from the bar. He’d parked by the lake so no one would see his car, then trekked through the back of Joe Hendrickson’s property until he reached the Callahans’. At midnight, all but the porch light went off in the house. He huddled in his coat, pacing to keep warm, and hoped he wasn’t making a fatal mistake.

But he had no other ideas. Asking Jon Callahan for help was his last hope to get out of this mess.

At nearly two in the morning, Ricky saw headlights turn onto the drive, pass the house, and stop in front of the detached garage. Jon didn’t open the door, but started toward the house.

Ricky ran out of the garage. “Mr. Callahan!”

Jon jumped and reached into his pocket. Ricky put up his hands. “It’s me, Rick Swain.”

At first Jon looked confused, then angry. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“I have no place to go.” Ricky’s teeth were chattering and he bounced on his feet.

“You can’t be here.” Jon glanced around, as if worried someone was watching.

“I walked around. There’s no one here. The lights went off at midnight.” Ricky bit his lip. “Can I come in?”

Jon hesitated, then nodded and walked briskly toward the house. Ricky followed him through the back door into a toasty warm kitchen. Ricky’s skin tingled in the heat.

“Thank—”

“Shh. Wait here.”

Jon left the room and Ricky heard him close doors, then walk around upstairs. Ricky walked closer to the fireplace where wood still smoldered in the stove inset. By the time Jon returned, Ricky almost felt normal.

“Why are you here?” Jon asked.

“Before my mother died, she told me you were the only person I could trust in an emergency.”