Gone(15)

It wasn’t the first time he’d thought that for someone whose brother — and his entire family — were missing for three days, she was quite cavalier. On the other hand, everyone coped with trouble differently. She’d been defensive at times in his office earlier that day. She was divorced, she ran a business, had people counting on her. Maybe it just wasn’t her style to show she was upset. Or to even allow herself to get upset in the first place. He could relate to that, too.

“I want to look at it anyway,” he said, going for his wallet.

She held out a hand to stop him, pulling out a billfold. “I got it,” she said.

“Mine’s a tax write-off,” he said.

When the waitress came, Rondeau paid the bill. Fifteen minutes later, he was standing outside her hotel room, waiting for her to copy over the footage to a flash drive. She came out of the room, handed it to him, and he wished her goodnight.

He didn’t glance back, but he felt sure she stood watching him all the way until he got into his car. Though when he got behind the wheel and looked through the windshield, her door was closed.





CHAPTER TEN / Bar fight

The blow came out of nowhere to Peter King’s jaw. It was hard enough that he saw stars, stumbled back a step, and blinked. Here he was again, another fight, and this time he was in the middle of it.

He grabbed John Hayes again and dragged him backwards out of the bar. He realized what had hit him was Hayes’ elbow, inadvertently — Hayes was trying to ward off an attack from another man, Brad Rafferty, who was Terry’s younger brother.

Trooper Ski hadn’t arrested either man that morning. Hayes was still getting into trouble, and Peter felt responsible.

Brad Rafferty advanced on Hayes, his fists up, his face red. Hayes had pissed him off that much — as only Hayes could seem to do when it came to the Rafferty brothers. The rest of the bar customers looked on, eager to watch the fight play out.

“You’re a commie pussy,” Brad spat. He glowered at Hayes, still following as Peter hauled him away towards the door.

“Get back, sir, stand back,” Peter ordered.

Brad stopped and seemed to realize for the first time there was a sheriff’s deputy standing there in the bar. Holding onto Hayes, in fact.

“Let him go, let me have him,” Brad said. “He’s a traitor. Stay out of it, King.”

Peter had been on his way home. Aletha was waiting up for him — they even had a date night planned. But he’d gotten the call from the bar, Men on Horses, or, Moh’s to the locals. It seemed Hayes couldn’t leave well enough alone when it came to the Rafferty brothers. Peter almost wished he hadn’t taken the call. Maybe Brad was right. Maybe Hayes needed to be left to the mercy of the mob. But Peter had already passed the buck once.

And Brad didn’t seem to be the only one Hayes had upset. Moh’s had a dozen customers, mostly male, either curled around the bar or standing in the back by the pool table, and they had that same venom in their eyes. What did you do now, Hayes? What the hell did you say to these people?

Brad lunged forward. His fists were up again. There was no time to react, to get Hayes out of harm’s way. Brad landed a blow smack in the middle of Hayes’ nose. Peter had a tight grip on Hayes, but the impact from the punch was still enough to snap the man’s head back and into Peter’s face. The deputy stumbled and fell against the door, knocking it ajar. Hayes crashed against him and they landed in a heap.

Lying there, momentarily stunned, he could feel the cool night air rushing in. Janis Joplin was crooning in the background.

Come on, come on, come on, come on and take it! Take another little piece of my heart now baby . . .

He shoved Hayes aside. He scrambled to his feet and went for his gun.

He stopped when he saw Brad’s expression. In that split second Peter made an assessment: he’s carrying, too.

Brad had a concealed weapon. In New York you could get a conceal-and-carry permit for your handgun, and they were becoming more popular. School shootings and street violence fueled the vigilantes — arm yourself or be a victim. Apprehension about the government was another justification.

Brad had the stance: feet planted wide, arms hanging. Ready to draw.

You’ve got to be kidding me. It was like some scene from the Wild West. Only this wasn’t the dusty streets of a border town, it was here, now, a mile outside of Hazelton.

Hayes groaned at his feet, still flat on his back in the doorway.

Peter kept his hand on his weapon but didn’t pull it. He raised his other hand in a gesture of peace. He held Brad’s eye.

“Brad,” came a voice. “Brad, that’s enough.”

The bartender’s name was Betty. She’d been working there for twenty years, and the one who’d called the cops.

“Alright,” Peter said. “Okay . . . Brad, you’ve made your point. Stand down.”

Brad was unperturbed. “You stand down, cop.”

Come on, come on, come on and take it! Janis wailed.

Peter didn’t budge. If he took a step, made a move, Brad was going to pull.

The seconds rolled by. Janis continued to screech and howl, but her voice was fading. A new song took over; he recognized the opening guitar chords and cymbal crashes of Radar Love.

“You’re a civil servant,” Brad spat. “I pay your salary.”