River Bodies (Northampton County #1)(70)

John had watched Becca and her dog dart through the crowd in a hurry to follow the detective. He’d recognized the detective from the television news broadcast back when the young buck’s body had been discovered, the same cop she’d gone to visit at Benny’s Bar and at the cabin along the river. Of course, John had known the detective prior to his joining the state police. He’d known him back when he’d been a teenager, constantly hanging around her, joined at her hip. But once Clint had shipped her off to boarding school and then later college, John hadn’t known whether the two had stayed in touch, or at least not until a few days ago.

This concerned him.

He parked his father’s chopper on the side of the road near the wagon full of pumpkins where Becca and the detective had been talking. It wasn’t a parking space, but no one was going to say anything about it. Toby was two blocks away, mingling with the crowd. He was wearing his uniform, but it wasn’t likely he’d be writing parking tickets today. The idea was to welcome tourists to the market and help local businesses thrive. Handing out parking tickets at such an event wouldn’t help the community in their efforts to make a buck.

Farther down the street at the edge of the crowd, several of the club members had gathered. Their motorcycles were parked along the street in a row. The guys were hanging around the bikes, trying not to look bored, while their old ladies shopped at the stands. They were all playing their part, their women purchasing fruit and vegetables, chatting with the wives of the locals, announcing their place in the community, making their presence known. They were congenial, respectful, as though they were telling the town to pay no attention to the body law enforcement had pulled from the river.

John spotted Chitter and the prospect standing in front of the soup stand. Chitter was carrying a jug of apple cider. John approached them slowly, weaving his way down the sidewalk. Chitter greeted him with a nod. The lady in the stand handed John a free sample of what smelled like an awful lot of cinnamon in some kind of pumpkin soup.

“Thank you, ma’am.” He motioned for Chitter to follow him.

The prospect tagged along but lagged behind the two full-patch members, giving them space to talk.

“What’s up?” Chitter asked, looked at the people around them while shoveling the plastic spoon full of soup into his mouth.

“I have a situation,” John said, nodding to a woman who walked by pushing a baby stroller.

“Okay.” Chitter squinted his eyes. “Do we need a sit-down?”

“Not for this.” John tasted the soup, coughed. He hated cinnamon. “I’ll need another rifle. Clean.” He kept his voice low.

“Doing a little hunting?”

“Something like that.”

“Did you clear it with Hap?”

“Not yet, but I will.” His shirt was wet and stuck to his back. He could smell his own body odor underneath the leather cut. Nerves, for Christ’s sake. “How soon can you get it to me?”

“How soon do you need it?”

“Yesterday,” he said.

“I’ll have it to you this afternoon.”

John nodded and walked away, the sweat dripping down the sides of his face. He tossed the sample of pumpkin soup into the overflowing trash can on the way to his father’s chopper. He got on the bike and rode through town as though he were Moses and the people the sea, parting the crowd with the sound of the motorcycle’s engine, the patch on his leather cut identifying his allegiance, who he was, a Scion, the enforcer.



What John didn’t know was that seconds after he’d left the market, Rick Smith stepped from behind one of the displays. He pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves and plucked the discarded cup and spoon from the top of the pile of trash. To Rick’s good fortune, all of the soup had not only leaked out but also hadn’t stained the sides, leaving any fingerprints intact. Rick dropped the evidence into a plastic bag. Then he removed the nitrile gloves and tossed them into the trash, whistling as he made his way down the street.



John parked his father’s chopper in the garage, his hand clutching the smooth leather seat for support. His heart sped up, then slowed down, then sped up again. The dirt floor tilted beneath his boots. He stepped away from the bike. If he was going down, he didn’t want to take the bike down with him. He wouldn’t damage his father’s chopper over some kind of anxiety attack, if that was what this was. Plus, he was sure the insurance on his father’s bike had lapsed after his death. John carried the same insurance on his motorcycle as the other club members carried on their bikes too. It wasn’t something they talked about openly, but just because they were on the fringe of the law more often than not didn’t mean they were stupid. They paid for insurance like everyone else.

John made it as far as the workbench, picked up the towel he’d used to wipe the grease from his hands, and mopped his face. He groped around, searching for someplace to sit, finding the old wooden stool, the one he’d been sitting on when Becca had been just a little girl and had walked in on him in the barn. He plopped down on the hard seat. His heart did the racing, slowing thing again. He attributed it to stress and, if he was honest, nervousness. He waited, hunched over, while his heartbeat sought its normal rhythm. When he felt calm, stable, he grabbed the .22 he kept in the barn and headed into the woods.

The autumn leaves blanketed the ground, crackling underneath his heavy boots. Dried sweat clung to his skin, sending shivers up and down his arms and legs. He welcomed the cool mountain air into his lungs. A light breeze carried the scent of the river, earthy and clean. The sights and sounds and smells settled inside of him, calming him. He could never give this up, he thought, trekking through the woods, breathing the open air.