River Bodies (Northampton County #1)(3)

“Don’t be mad,” Matt said.

When she didn’t reply, he said, “Please.”

She’d waited up all night for him to come home, checking her phone for messages, worried something horrible had happened, worried nothing had happened. Any other woman might’ve yelled, fought, clawed, demanded an explanation. But not Becca. Compliant Becca stayed silent, playing her part so well it had become instinctive.

Matt sat next to her, close but not touching. His skin smelled clean and shower fresh. It took everything she had not to give herself over to him, to tell him she wasn’t mad. She was glad he was okay and nothing terrible, awful, had happened to him. But on some level, she also understood it was her distance, her ability to turn him away, that kept him coming back.

Although at times, like now, it was a struggle to keep a part of her separate, aloof, when all she wanted was to succumb to his every desire. He was so beautiful, his jet-black hair and ice-blue eyes, his sculpted body and lean waist. Maybe she was selfish to want to keep him for herself, locked inside their condominium and away from the temptations that seemed to be waiting around every corner whenever he walked out the door.

“I lost track of time. You know how it can be after a big win. We took our clients out to celebrate.” He hesitated. “It really was a big win.” He was quiet, waiting for her to congratulate him, tell him she forgave him. But she wouldn’t let him off that easy.

He added, “I know I should’ve called. I’m sorry. I promise it won’t happen again.”

At the very least you could’ve texted, she thought but didn’t say. She didn’t want to sound needy. Instead, she gave a terse nod. It wasn’t the first time he’d stayed out all night without phoning or the first time she’d given him the cold shoulder the morning after. It wasn’t the first time he’d showered off the scent of another woman.





CHAPTER TWO

John Jackson looked at the body on the ground, the .30-06 rifle warm in his calloused hand. There’d been a second, a slight hesitation before he’d pulled the trigger, when a small voice in the back of his mind had told him not to do it. He’d never survive inside the walls of a six-by-eight-foot cell. The stale air alone would kill him if something or someone else didn’t. He was a man who lived his life outdoors, his home an old farmhouse near the woods at the base of the Blue Ridge Mountains not far from the Delaware River.

As he stood over the body, he tried to sort his feelings, wondered if he felt anything at all. What was done was done. And the hesitation, well, it was something only he would know about, something that would claw at his conscience for the rest of his days.

He leaned the rifle against a nearby tree. His other rifle, a .22 caliber and a decoy on this occasion, he propped against a different tree, one he would pass on his way toward home. It was still October, and deer season was another month away, but it wasn’t unheard of for hunters to be in the woods, tracking their prey, building their deer stands with hopes of scoring a trophy buck. If John happened to pass one of these fellows who dreamed of a twelve-point deer mount hanging in his man cave, well, he wanted to make sure he was armed.

The sun started its ascent on the mountain, casting long shadows on the ground amid the blood and autumn leaves. He was running out of time.

He tossed his camouflage jacket and the leather cut he wore underneath to the side and rolled up his sleeves. After pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves, he crouched between the animal’s legs, because that was how he chose to see the man—as an animal, a deer, a young buck—the one with a bullet hole in his chest, a barbed wire tattoo around his bicep, a piercing above his left eyebrow. He tried not to think about how young this buck was.

He stripped the body of its clothes, his mind tricking him into believing it was just another skinning. It wasn’t, of course, and he felt the truth of it deep inside his bones. But he wasn’t willing to let the guys in the club down. He’d given them his word. He’d do what they’d asked of him, what they needed from him, a brutality even they had feared.

More and more lately, John was finding it harder and harder to live up to this false younger version of himself. Age had a way of softening him. The things he’d been interested in at one time, macho things like motorcycles, barroom fights, and strippers, now seemed like nothing but a waste of time. He’d even lost interest in much of the club’s business. They’d been dealing in arms for so long, at least two decades, it had become routine, hiding weapons in haylofts and underground root cellars on the farms in and around Portland. Besides, the younger club members ran most of the shipments nowadays. And just recently, John had entertained the idea of going nomad, not being tied to one club but a member free to come and go at will.

Until the animal in front of him had done the one thing John couldn’t forgive, the one thing that had cost the young buck his life.

It should’ve put his mind at ease, securing his commitment to the club and its members, pushing away any doubts he was having about his place, his chosen way of life. But it didn’t. Maybe he really was too old for this shit. He pulled the hunting knife from its sheath.

He hesitated again. Dammit. It was just another field dressing. He’d done a hundred of them on deer and rabbits and, once in Montana, elk and moose. Maybe he’d take another trip out West, take his motorcycle on the open road, visit old friends in the Montana chapter. A few weeks of hunting, a change of scenery, was just the thing he needed. He’d spent his whole life in this small town, secure in his ways. His problem was that he was too comfortable here. And a comfortable man let his guard down, making him vulnerable, making him weak.