The Word of a Liar (29 page)

“Oh, my God!” I groaned into the harsh silence, collapsing to my knees. “What’s happened?”

I sobbed, scooping her cold, limp body into my arms. I wove my fingers into her tangled hair, and that’s when my fingertips fell into a hole of soft matter. A deep, throaty moan tore through my soul. It wrenched itself free and then floated ominously throughout the stagnant room. I rocked her in my arms. The sticky feel of her blood on my hands and the faint smell of gunpowder clinging to her skin smothered me. I threw back my head and howled like a wolf caught in a trap. My tortured sounds of grief and agony collided with the sobs catching in my throat.

I don’t remember how long I held her before I called 911, but from then on the true nightmare began. Nothing had been stolen from the bar, so someone had wanted my wife dead. I, being her husband, was considered by the police as a man with a motive. Having to face my wife’s death, my children’s shock and sadness, and then being held responsible completely overwhelmed me. Little by little, I drowned myself in a whiskey bottle.

If it hadn’t been for Rambo and Sons of Thunder, I wouldn’t have made it. They watched over me and fed my children when I could barely get out of bed. They dragged my ass to work every day and stood up to the relentless reporters who questioned me about my wife, our relationship, and my membership in the club.

A few months after the funeral, when Sean had left to go to college, I asked my sister-in-law to take the girls. I thought they needed to get away from all of the commotion and turmoil surrounding our lives, but without them my loneliness intensified. Every night I’d go to the Ritz and relive the horror in a bottle of Jack Daniels. Being in the place I’d last held her offered me some perverted sense of comfort. Instinct told me that I would learn who’d killed my wife in that bar, and I was right.

Mad Dog glanced at the clock. 2:00 am. The girls, cuddled on either side, slept soundly. He needed to get up and move. He freed his legs from the blankets and then slid to the foot of the bed. The girls turned but didn’t wake. With great stealth, he rose, retrieved his jeans from the chair, put them on, and then went downstairs.

In the kitchen, he turned on the coffee maker and sat at the table.  One long agonizing week had passed since he had overheard Muck Eye. On impulse, he had wanted to go for Jack that night, but he’d waited and formulated a plan for his revenge. There could be no mistakes. He’d arranged for the girls to spend the weekend with their aunt in Chicago. When they woke, he’d surprise them, calling it a “Christmas shopping trip.”  Having been to their aunt’s for Thanksgiving, they might be suspicious, but he’d deal with that. He wanted them gone and safe in case something went wrong. After he put the girls on the train, he’d phone Jack and set up the showdown he’d worked out.  The small warehouse he owned in the industrial park would be a perfect meeting place. Sunday right before dawn, it would be deserted. There would be no witnesses when he shot Jack down, exactly as Jack had done to Gina.

There was, however, a glitch in Mad Dog’s plans that he needed to fix before Sunday. If, God forbid, he ended up in the hereafter, or if Jack’s associates found him out and retaliated, he’d need someone to protect his kids—the girls particularly. He could think of only one person who was tough enough and fearless enough. The question was: would he be willing to take on such a risky proposition.

CHAPTER twenty-seven

Mason walked into Fortunate Sons’ Auto Dealership as apprehensive as a man with an IED strapped to his chest and the time running down. He wasn’t surprised that Jack had called and demanded to see him immediately. He must have heard about Muck Eye’s little slip of the tongue, and Jack would want to eradicate any witnesses. Mason fell into that category.

Going down the corridor to Jack’s office, Mason ran through his mental check list: Glock stowed in shoulder holster; boot knife tucked in sheath of right boot; Taurus 92 stuffed in waistband; and brass knuckles in jacket pocket.  That night he might be bunking with the devil, but Jack would be in the next room.

Mason stood at the office door, took a deep breath, and then exhaled. A calm-looking exterior, his physiology betrayed him with the perspiration that trickled down the back of his neck and the dryness in his throat. He rapped on the door and then walked in.

At once, Mason spotted Doc Khoury, president of the Long Riders, standing near the window facing Park Street. Mason swallowed. Jack rose from behind his large desk and smiled his familiar slick smile.

“I believe you two already know each other,” Jack said as he swept out his hand.

“Yeah, we do.” Mason’s even tone hid his surprise. He offered his hand to Doc. “I didn’t know you knew Jack.”

Doc eyed Mason. “Jack and I go way back.”

Snubbing Mason’s offered hand, Doc pulled a pack of Camels from his vest pocket and lit one.

Mason grinned and then made himself comfortable in one of the big leather chairs.

“What’s going on, Jack? Why the urgency?”

Jack sat down and folded his hands in front of him. He reminded Mason of a politician who got caught with his hands in the cookie jar and was asking to be forgiven. 

“It’s come to my attention, Rambo, that a few nights ago when you and Muck Eye were at the Ritz, Muck Eye was overheard spreading malicious gossip. A hang around for the Long Riders happened to be in the bar and heard Muck Eye tell you about a murder that took place there. Is that true?”

You know it’s true, you cowardly piece of shit!
Mason ranted inwardly with an impassive exterior. If Mason could get away with it, he’d kill the bastard right then, but he’d wait.

“I remember Muck Eye being pretty high that night,” Mason said, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. “If Muck Eye did mention something about a murder, I’m sure anyone who heard would consider it bullshit.”

“On the contrary, Rambo, your good friend Mad Dog took it quite seriously. Right before I summoned you, he called. I’m supposed to meet him at his warehouse. He was quite explicit. I’m to be there Sunday morning right before dawn.”

Jack slumped back and steepled his fingers. His cold dark eyes drilled Mason. “He assured me he wouldn’t contact the police.”

Mason crossed his legs for easy access to his boot knife before answering.

“No biker worth his salt would involve the police in personal business, especially Mad Dog. Not after what he went through.  He’s going to take care of this on his own. Mad Dog’s honest. When the two of you meet, he’ll be alone.”

Mason leaned forward.

“So what’s this got to do with me, Jack? You want me to call Mad Dog off?”

“No, Rambo.”

Jack picked up a pen. He clicked the end on a pad of paper; his dark eyes narrowed. 

“I want you to go with me and take out Mad Dog. You see, Doc doesn’t entirely trust you.”

Jack looked over at the window then back to Mason.

“Doc sent a hang around to the Ritz to keep an eye on you. He heard a nasty rumor that you’ve been voted bad out from Sons of Thunder because you’re a snitch.”

Mason glanced at Doc, who leaned against the window sill smoking another cigarette. The grisly man glared back and then lifted his head and blew smoke.

“If the rumor is true—’’

Mason turned his attention to Jack.

“If you’ve had a falling out with the brothers…. ” Jack said, relaxing into the chair, clasping his hands behind his head. His eyebrows rose. “A man like you believes
an eye for eye
…. I’m providing you the perfect opportunity to even the score, and I’ll sweeten the pot with five hundred thousand for a job well done.”

Jack leaned forward, rested his elbows on the desk, and waited.

Mason’s heart beat so furiously that he thought Jack and Doc could hear it. He dropped his right leg and wiped his clammy palms over his thighs.

“Five hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money,” Mason said.

“Yes, it is, Rambo. And if you do accept and take care of this unpleasant business, Doc’s willing to offer you a place in the Long Riders. Isn’t that right?”

Jack looked over at Doc.

Mason followed his gaze.

Doc nodded.

The room fell silent. Mason relaxed into the chair, rubbing his right fist into his left palm. He looked hard into Jack’s deceitful face. If he refused the offer, Mason was quite sure Doc would be escorting him out. He probably had some of the boys on standby, and they’d take Mason somewhere where nobody would find his body for a long, long time, if at all. Muck Eye’s haunting words about knowing too much roared through his consciousness. He wondered if Jack had already disposed of Muck Eye. Sweat wet his neck.  Mason leaned forward.

“I want half now and half when the job is done.”

Jack smiled, got up, and then walked over to a large painting on the opposite wall. He pulled it back, revealing a safe. He worked the combination and then swung open the safe’s door. Pulling out a manila envelope, Jack tossed it on the desk.

“There you are, Rambo. Two hundred and fifty grand.”

Mason struggled to keep his hands from trembling as he opened the heinous bribe. He stared at the large amount of bills and then folded the envelope into the inner pocket of his jacket.

“Aren’t you going to count it?” Jack asked, closing the safe and replacing the picture.

“Why?” Mason grinned, rising from the chair. “If it’s not all there, Mad Dog will be the least of your worries.”

Jack cocked his head.

Mason sauntered over to the window and stood before Doc. With the swiftness of an attacker slitting his victim’s throat, Mason slammed his fist into Doc’s neck. The man fell back, gasping for air. Mason snatched the Taurus from Doc’s waistband and rammed the barrel into Doc’s gaping mouth.

“The next time you accuse me of being a snitch, my friend, I’m going to rip your fucking tongue out of your ugly face,” Mason snarled. “Understand, mother fucker?”

Doc nodded. Sweat dribbled down his bushy sideburns.

“Good.”

Mason stuffed the gun back in Doc’s waistband. He heard Jack laugh. Bewildered, Mason turned in Jack’s direction. Sitting at his desk, Jack’s demented grin reminded Mason of the iconic Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland. He speculated on the degree of Jack’s insanity and then turned away. Mason walked to the door and then turned to face the men. Doc’s stunned expression made Mason confident. “Sunday then… I’ll be there.”

He walked out.

Climbing into his truck, he took a deep breath to slow down his racing pulse and quell his nausea. He patted the envelope of money in his jacket. Mad Dog had made his move. It was all coming together, but not the way he’d anticipated.

***

Sitting at her kitchen table, Ellen sipped her tea. She should get back outside and finish shoveling the driveway now that she’d finally made the call to the clinic. She and JD had only gotten half of the shoveling done when he started whining about being hungry. After fixing lunch, she’d made the appointment. In a few days, she would no longer be carrying Mason Hackett’s offspring.

Ellen reached over and picked up the photograph of Mason that Sam had given her on Thanksgiving. That night, when everyone had gone to bed, Ellen had confided in her baby sister about the pregnancy. Sam had adamantly advised Ellen to tell Mason, but Ellen had known she’d never be strong enough to do it.  If she told him, it might spark hope within her that this life they created out of their passion—their love—could fill the void that had erupted the second she had walked away from him. Tears, a constant companion, welled and then dripped down her cheeks. She stared at the photo. For Mason’s part, it hadn’t been love at all. Maybe lust, but not love.

The sound of a shovel scraping concrete prompted Ellen to get up and look out the dining room window. She shook her head, not believing the apparition. Bent over, her shovel in his hands, Mason scooped a load of snow. JD appeared at the window, next to her.  Pounding on the glass, he squealed.

“Mommy, Mason’s back! Look! He’s back.”

Ellen ducked behind the curtain, but not before she caught Mason look up and smile at her son.

JD darted out of the room. Ellen stood against the wall, her emotions reeling, too afraid to take another peek. JD returned with his winter gear, and she busied herself helping him put it on. Dressed like the Michelin Man, the boy bounded out the door.

Ellen watched him run to Mason. He flapped his mittened hands and hopped around Mason, never getting close, never making eye contact. For the first time, it occurred to Ellen that JD missed Mason. Consumed with her own self-pity, she hadn’t considered her son’s attachment to the man. JD had a picture in his room of Mason on his motorcycle. A couple of times he had brought it to her and repeated verbatim everything Mason had told him about the bike. Ellen had taken it as another of JD’s obsessions, like knights and smoke, but now she realized it had been his way of telling her how much he missed Mason.

Mason spoke to the boy and then looked up again. His unrelenting gaze immobilized her. She closed her eyes and turned away from the window.  She went to the kitchen where she dressed to go outside.  Standing at the foyer door, she took a deep breath and then opened it. The frigid air stung her exposed cheeks. She flung the end of her scarf across her neck and then marched down the steps to confront the interloper.

“Mason, what are you doing here?” Ellen asked, standing in front of him. “JD and I can shovel the driveway.”

Mason picked up a load of snow and tossed it on the bank. Ellen straightened her shoulders. A wave of heat traveled up her body. 

“Didn’t you hear me? You don’t have to do this.” 

“I know I don’t,” he huffed, lifting more snow.

“Then why?”

“I need something physical to do.”

“People go to gyms for that.”

Mason stopped. Gripping the orange handle on the shovel, chest heaving from exertion, he breathed through slightly parted lips.

Ellen watched his breath crystalize.

“I’ve never been much of a gym goer and this suits me.” He tapped the snow from the shovel. “Besides, growing up, my parents taught me to help your neighbor.”

Ellen mulled over Mason’s flimsy motive while studying the flakes melting on his Carhartt jacket and Green Bay Packers chook. With the small blue shovel in his hand, JD leapt nearly knocking Ellen to the ground.

“Mommy and me don’t have school.  It’s a snow day.”

JD licked a clump of snow from his mitten.

“I remember liking snow days when I was your age.” Mason smiled. “You been having any more trouble with Miss Lucas, JD?”

“She’s a bully,” the boy replied without emotion. “Is this a snow day for you? Is that why you came to shovel?”

JD scampered over to the snow bank, scooped up some snow and then flung it into the air. Clumps fell on the cleared pavement, but a spattering of metallic flakes drifted down around the boy. Head tilted toward the sky, eyes closed and tongue flat against his chin, JD anticipated the clash of cold crystals on warm skin.

Watching her son, Ellen wished she could follow his lead. She pictured herself looking upward, arms outstretched, and the anger and hurt choking her heart melting away. JD dropped the shovel and then climbed up on the pile.

“Mommy cries a lot when you’re not here,” JD confessed in his flat, monotone voice.

“Does she?”

Ellen turned to Mason. The intensity of his eyes disarmed her. She stood motionless like the snow had frozen her to the spot.

“What does Mommy cry about?” Mason kept his gaze directed at Ellen.

JD didn’t answer. He’d jumped down from the snow bank, retrieved his small shovel, and then scraped it over the pavement Mason had already cleared, chattering to himself.

Ellen cocked her head. Her exposed vulnerability enflamed her indignation.

“Nothing that concerns you,” she said through clenched teeth. “Now, will you please get the hell out of my driveway?”

Mason’s eyes narrowed. “No!”

Ellen’s hands went to her hips. “What do you mean ‘no’?”

“I’m shoveling your damn driveway, so move!”

He backed her up to the steps until she had no choice but to sit or fall into his arms: she sat.