River Bodies (Northampton County #1)(44)

John glanced at him. Toby’s lips were pulled tight, his fat neck red and bulging under the collar of his uniform. John crouched next to the bike. “It makes sense, seeing I was arrested with the others that night.”

Toby slipped his finger under his collar, loosened the shirt pinching his skin. “I don’t know what kind of deal you or your old man struck with Clint, or how long it’s been going on, and I don’t care. I told him I’d do this one time for his sake and one time only. Am I making myself clear?”

“What kind of deal do you think I have with Clint, Chief?”

Toby tossed up his hands. “I don’t want any trouble with the Scions, John. We’ve coexisted in this town for a long time. Even peacefully, if you ask me. You keep to your business, and you stay out of ours. Hell, I think it’s been good having you here. It’s kept out most of the other riffraff and whatnot that other small towns have to deal with. We’re lucky we don’t have that here, and I suspect it’s because of you and your friends.”

“I’m touched you feel that way.”

“Don’t be.” Toby pointed a finger at him. “I’m a decent man trying to make a decent living. I care about the people in this town.” He lowered his voice. “I can’t be a part of anything illegal.”

John wiped his hands on the towel again, staining the cloth black with more grease. “You’re getting all worked up over nothing.”

“Am I?” Toby asked. “They dragged that damned river today.” He leaned in close, lowering his voice again. “They’re looking for the murder weapon, John. And they’re coming back tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that. They’re not going to let this one go.”

John concentrated hard on keeping his face neutral. He looked down at the greasy towel in his hand, stared at the black stain as though he were transfixed by the filth while he tried to wrap his mind around Toby’s news. He was determined to keep his voice even when he asked, “And what does any of this have to do with me?”

“I hope nothing,” Toby said. “I hope it doesn’t have anything to do with you at all.” He put his hat on and walked out of the barn.

John didn’t move as he listened to the sound of the police cruiser’s engine, the rumble fading as it drove farther down the road. When he was sure that Toby had gone, he searched his workstation, pulling open drawers he hadn’t touched in decades, finding screwdrivers, pliers, wrenches, and tweezers. He rummaged through each one, knocking the contents onto the floor in his haste.

When he couldn’t find what he was looking for, he slammed each drawer shut with all the strength he could muster, nearly knocking the workbench on its side. He swept his arm across the top of the desk, sending a lantern, a notebook, pencils, and a small toolbox careening to the floor. He focused on breathing in an attempt to harness his temper to keep from making another mess he would only have to clean later. He clenched and unclenched his hands, spying the cabinet where his father used to keep the white cotton cloths.

Slowly, he pulled open the top drawer, bringing his anger under control. Inside the drawer was a pile of pristine white cotton cloths folded with an exactness bordering on obsessive compulsion. He filled a bucket with dish detergent that he got from the house and set out to clean Russell’s chopper. He was meticulous about his job, taking care not to rub any dirt into the paint or chrome for fear of leaving scratches. The bike wasn’t as dirty as one would expect after it had sat in a dusty barn, because John had covered it thoroughly, protected it with care and attention, the same focus he gave to the job now with gentleness and affection.

As he worked, his thoughts returned to Becca. There was no getting around the fact that she was the weak link in an otherwise airtight job. The cops could drag the river all day every day for all John cared. Let them find the rifle or the knife or both. It didn’t make a damn bit of difference. They’d never be able to trace either weapon back to him.

But Becca was a different kind of threat. She was a witness, an innocent, unknowing bystander.

When the paint sparkled and the chrome glistened, John filled the gas tank from the pump outside the barn, the one he paid to have filled every few months. He was self-sufficient, and the less he mingled with the locals, even those at the occasional gas pumps, the better.

He slid onto his old man’s chopper, fired it up, turned onto the open road. The roar of the engine between his legs, his hands gripping the handlebars where his father’s hands had been, made him miss his old man in ways that he hadn’t in a long time.

He rode past Clint’s house. Becca’s dog was lying in the front yard. It lifted its head as John passed by.

He accelerated, revving the engine. He didn’t slow down until he reached the edge of town and pulled into the alley, parking the chopper outside of Sweeney’s.

The place stank of testosterone and alcohol and strippers. It was a familiar, comforting smell. He felt himself relax. The guys surrounded the bar. They were in a good mood, slapping each other on the back, laughing, toasting each other with shots. John sat at the other end of the bar and away from the celebration. Lou, the bartender, poured him a shot and a beer and set them down in front of him.

“There he is,” Hap said, making his way over to John. He placed a hand on John’s shoulder. “The man of the hour.”