River Bodies (Northampton County #1)(21)

Becca’s father’s police cruiser was parked out front. She looked through the window, catching him whispering into the ear of a young waitress, touching her, his hand lingering by her waist. The waitress leaned into him, smiling at whatever Becca’s father had said.

Becca looked away, turning her back on the diner and her father. She was about to tell Parker to take her home, to take her home this instant, when Chad, one of Parker’s buddies, pulled up next to them. Parker leaned into the passenger-side window.

“You up for a game of football? All we need is one more to make it four on four.” Chad waved to Becca. “Hey, Bec.”

Parker turned to her. “Want to come?”

“No, but you go. I can walk home.”

“I can drive you,” Parker said. “Unless you still want to get something inside.”

“I’m not hungry. You go ahead with Chad. I’ll walk,” she said, insisting.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“I’m sure. I’ll catch you later.”

Parker shrugged and hopped into Chad’s pickup. Becca was left alone on the street. Sometimes she really hated living here. She couldn’t go anywhere without bumping into someone she knew, without running into her father. She kicked a pebble as she walked. The hot sun burned the tops of her shoulders.

She continued walking down the block, when she heard yelling, glass breaking. It was coming from the alley near Sweeney’s Bar. The hollering grew louder. People came out of the shops along the street to see what was going on. Becca followed the crowd. She stopped next to Mr. Dave, the butcher. Harley-Davidsons lined the alleyway. In front of Sweeney’s Bar, two Scions circled each other like boxers in a ring. The smaller, younger-looking Scion had a gash above his brow. Blood dripped down the side of his face. The larger man threw a punch. They both were swinging; some hits landed on their faces, some missed. There was something in the big man’s hand.

Becca stood, frozen, her heart like a bird’s wings flapping inside her chest. She should’ve been frightened, and she was, but she couldn’t look away. She’d never seen this side of human nature, so raw, violent.

Becca’s father parted the crowd. He was hard to miss. He was tall and broad shouldered and carried his presence as though he were ten men. The two Scions stopped fighting when they saw him. The large man dropped a broken beer bottle from his hand. Blood dripped from his fingers.

“What seems to be the problem?” her father asked. His hand rested on his gun belt, his chief’s hat pulled low on his forehead.

The door to the bar swung open. Russell and John stepped out. John had shaved the beard he often grew during the winter months, and he looked as though he’d had a recent haircut. He wore the leather cut that identified him as a member.

“There’s no problem here,” Russell said and leaned against the bar’s porch railing. He lit a cigarette, took his time blowing the smoke from his lips. “Just a couple of boys working out their differences. You remember those days, don’t you, Clint? Raising your fists to me, trying to be the bigger man.”

There was a moment when the crowd collectively held its breath as Russell and Becca’s father stared each other down. Becca could feel her father’s anger toward his stepbrother as though it were a living, breathing thing.

Captain Toby Bryant came running down the alley. “What’s going on, Chief?” he asked, stopped next to Clint.

“I am the bigger man,” Clint said to Russell, turned away from him. “Take him to see Doc Reed,” he said to Toby about the Scion with the cut above his brow. “He’s going to need stitches.”

The crowd dispersed then, bumping into Becca as they passed by her. Russell continued smoking his cigarette, an amused smile on his lips. John caught sight of Becca. She couldn’t read his face. Becca’s father grabbed hold of her arm, led her down the alley and away from the bar.





CHAPTER TWELVE

John and the full-patch members were seated around the table in the back room of Sweeney’s. Hap was at the head of the table, drumming his fingers on the wood. It wasn’t typical to hold church on Saturday, or even Sunday for that matter, not their kind of church anyway. Most club meetings were held on Wednesday nights. It was a club tradition. But Hap thought it was important to have a sit-down tonight. He was troubled by what he’d seen on the news, surprised the state police had come on the scene so quickly. Hap figured the local police would’ve handled the body, at least initially.

“It would’ve been better if it had washed up on the Jersey side of the river,” Chitter added. “It would’ve taken some of the heat off us.”

“You mean off me,” John said. “I own this one. The club doesn’t have to worry. I’m prepared to take the fall.” He said what the other members needed to hear.

Hap shook his head. “We took steps to make sure you were covered.”

John wanted to ask what steps, but maybe it was best he didn’t know.

“The problem is”—Hap leaned forward—“the chief was tossed out at the scene. There’s no way he can bury evidence if he wasn’t there to collect it.”

John kept still. It wouldn’t serve him to show any emotion one way or the other. He’d done what he’d had to do for the club and for Beth, for Beth’s goddamn niece. The young buck hadn’t known what he was getting into. Was that supposed to be John’s fault? Sweat dripped by his temple, but he’d be damned if he’d be caught wiping it away and allow the guys to see him nervous or scared. And he was scared. Old man Russell wasn’t around to protect him. And although John loved Hap like a father, he wasn’t up for the job. John could see it all over Hap’s pale face, the way he touched his chest as though it hurt like hell. It wasn’t Hap’s heart that was the problem but more his liver, shot to hell from years of drinking.