River Bodies (Northampton County #1)(43)

John continued following his father, trekking farther and farther away from the path, closing in on the edge of the woods that backed up to a yard. It didn’t take him long to figure out Russell’s plan was to confront Clint. But Russell didn’t walk up the lawn to where Clint was riding on his John Deere lawn mower, making neat little rows in the grass, mulching the autumn leaves, bagging them. Instead, he lingered by a large oak tree, leaning his shoulder against it, his rifle by his side.

John inched his way closer until he was about twenty yards from where his father stood. He hid in the shadows of the sweeping limbs of a hemlock, keeping out of sight. The air was filled with the scent of pine. He stepped closer to the tree, peering at his father through the opening of the branches. The needles poked the exposed area of his skin around his neck and wrists. Despite the crisp autumn air, moisture gathered underneath his arms. A bead of sweat dripped down his back. A surge of adrenaline pulsed through his veins. The lawn mower’s engine continued to hum.

He had a terrible thought.

What if his old man picked up the rifle and aimed it at Clint? John wouldn’t let him. He wouldn’t allow his father to kill his own stepbrother. And then something much, much worse crossed his mind. What if his father was waiting for Becca to come outside? He never should’ve told him what she’d seen in the barn. She was just a kid.

He started to shake, a small tremble deep inside his bones. “Steady,” he whispered and raised his rifle, peering through the scope, a direct shot at his father’s right shoulder. Please, Dad, don’t do it, he pleaded silently. Don’t make me shoot you. Tears blurred his vision. He wiped his eyes on his upper arm, keeping the rifle raised the entire time.

The sound of the lawn mower stopped suddenly. The silence was deafening. Clint had spotted Russell leaning against the tree at the edge of the woods. He climbed off the mower, leaving it sitting in the middle of the yard, and made his way over to John’s father. If Russell was going to take his shot, it would be now, but he left the rifle at his side. He smoothed his long beard and watched Clint as he approached.

John kept his rifle pointed at his father, but he looked away from the scope and stared at the two men.

“What’s this about?” Clint asked, glancing at the rifle by Russell’s side.

“We’ve got ourselves a situation,” Russell said.

“How’s that?”

Russell stroked his beard again. “I’m going to need you to bury some evidence for me.”

“Is this about that body we pulled from the river?” Clint asked.

“Maybe.”

“I don’t think this is a conversation we should be having,” Clint said and turned to walk away.

“You’re going to want to hear me out, Clint.” Russell was calm, his voice sounding as though he was nothing but a reasonable man.



John removed the last drop cloth that was covering his old man’s chopper. It had been years since he’d last seen the bike. It had sat in the corner of the barn, untouched, next to several bales of hay ever since Russell had dropped over of a heart attack at only fifty-five years old.

John hadn’t been able to sell the bike after he’d lost his father, but he hadn’t been able to ride it either. Instead, he’d wrapped it in several layers of cloth to preserve the black paint and chrome and stashed it away.

He rolled the bike to the open space near his workbench to get a better look at the engine. Any gas in the tank was sure to have turned to pine tar. He tried to start it. The engine sputtered and coughed. The bike wasn’t happy with the neglect, and it was letting John know, whining the way an old lady would if she wasn’t getting the proper attention.

He grabbed the tools he would need to take off the spark plugs, lube them, check the oil filter. He worked for the next hour, going through the steps to get the engine up and running. He didn’t think too hard about the reason he’d suddenly pulled Russell’s chopper from storage. But seeing the bike, working on it, made him feel close to his old man, and he needed to feel close to him for reasons he wasn’t ready to accept.

John had always looked to his father to guide him and help him make the hard decisions he’d had to make.

He removed the gas tank to check for rust. He didn’t find any, which was a good sign. He drained what was left in the tank into another container. While he waited for the fluids to bleed, the sound of tires on gravel drifted into the barn. His body stiffened. It felt as though his blood had stopped flowing through his veins. If it had been a motorcycle, he would’ve heard it coming from a good distance away. He might’ve even been happy for the company. But a car, the engine of a cruiser, could only mean one thing.

A door slammed. He waited for the second car door to close. They wouldn’t send just one cop to arrest him. He strained to listen for the sound of more tires, more police cruisers.

He stood and waited, wiping his greasy hands on a towel. Toby walked into the barn, his chief’s hat in his hands. John blew out a slow breath.

“Chief,” he said and bent over the gas tank, fiddling with the line where the fluid dripped. “What brings you by?” His blood started flowing again, although he was pretty sure it had never stopped but rather paused, waiting for whatever would happen next.

Toby leaned against the workbench, hat in hands, his sidearm jutting from his hip. “That report we talked about,” he said. “It seems your name is on it after all.”