River Bodies (Northampton County #1)(82)

Instead, he left the bike where it was and walked into the barn, setting the rifle down inside the door. He removed the sheath that held the hunting knife from his belt and dropped it onto the workbench. He went to the cabinet and pulled out one of his father’s clean white cloths and began wiping down the chopper. He took his time, polishing the chrome, removing all evidence of having ridden the bike in the last few days. While he worked, he mentally checked off a list of the things he had to do, losing himself in the preparation of chores, not allowing his thoughts to venture too far ahead or, more to the point, not allowing his mind to wander back.

When he finished polishing the chopper, he rolled it to the corner of the barn where it had sat after his father had passed. He covered it with the same drop cloths, careful not to let the dust and dirt get in. It was then he thought of his own motorcycle, wishing he’d ridden it one more time before tossing the keys to the prospect. In hindsight, he’d known he’d never see the bike again. Somewhere in his furthest thoughts, he’d known before he’d really known what action he would take, what he’d intended all along, how he wouldn’t be able to harm Becca after all. If only he’d come to the realization sooner. He hated himself for putting her through it.

He hated himself for what he’d done to Hap.

John picked up the rifle and slung it on his shoulder as he made his way back to the house. He set it down inside the door, pausing to look around. The place felt strange and wrong, as though he were a trespasser in his own home. The air had a peculiar energy, thick and uninviting. He listened for any sound, but there was nothing but the ghosts he’d been living with, the ones he’d carried for most of his adult life.

He made his way to the living room and picked up one of the few pictures he had of Beth. She’d been sitting on the porch of Sweeney’s Bar, her feet propped on the railing, reading a book, the same position he’d found her in when he’d first laid eyes on her. It was one of his favorite pictures of her, the serenity on her face as she gave herself over to the words on the page, the fearlessness of sitting outside a biker bar with something other than a drink or cigarette in her hand. What he liked most about the photo was how natural she’d looked, as opposed to the falseness often found in posed shots; how she’d been captured unaware that the picture had been taken at all. He wasn’t sure who had taken the photo, but it was Hap who had given it to him. “Which of these things doesn’t belong?” he’d asked John, referring to the book in Beth’s hands.

Now, John wondered if he was the one who didn’t belong, if he’d ever belonged to the club his father had loved above all else. But in the end, like it or not, it was all John had known.

He set Beth’s picture down and removed his leather cut, laid it on the table. He traced the patches with his fingertip, the symbols and colors signifying who and what he was. In one swift movement, he ripped them from the leather, feeling as though he were tearing out pieces of his own heart. He howled, the sound deep, primal, like an animal in pain. He tossed the torn patches next to the jacket.

John picked up the rifle and left the house then, walked outside a free man, wearing only a T-shirt and jeans. The crisp air felt cool on his skin, the sun’s rays unable to touch the chill of autumn. He lit a fire in the fire pit and watched the flames flicker, the smoke staining the air black.

All around him the trees sprinkled a rainbow of leaves on the ground, the colors of autumn clear and sharp and beautiful. He took a deep breath of air and held it, storing it, wondered if there would ever come a time when his bones would become at once old and brittle and his mind soft, or if he’d remain forever unchanged. But whatever was waiting for him on the other side, he hoped he’d be able to remember what the mountain air had tasted like, the freshness of morning dew, the earthiness on his tongue, the scent of leaves. He tried to stow it away along with the images of the changing seasons—the new-leaf green of spring, the darker greens of summer, the vibrant colors of autumn, and the stark cold of winter.

How he loved them all.

He continued watching the fire burn. Somewhere behind him patrol cars surrounded his yard, car doors slammed, police officers swarmed his house. He strained to hear beyond the storm of law enforcement, listening hard for the sound of the river, yearning for the rapids to drown the noise in his mind. But it was as if the river itself had refused to grant his last wish, punishing him for what he’d done for having soiled her with his own hands, drowning him in her silence because of it.

He sat with his back against the barn, put the butt of the rifle on the ground between his legs. He thought of Becca again. He thought of her as a child, the one who had stepped into his barn, wide-eyed and trusting, frightened for her little dog’s life. And he thought about the woman she’d become, smart and kind and good, the same qualities he’d loved in his late wife, Beth.

But also, he was ashamed to admit, there was a second when she crossed his mind that he felt something close to rage, wanting nothing more than to return to the river with his rifle aimed at her chest, to blame her for all that had happened, to do what Hap had asked him to do.

But the anger was fleeting, disappearing as quickly as it had come. Becca was the one, the only one, who had been innocent in all that had taken place. She had been the one to save him.

He ignored the detective who had started shouting for him to put the gun down, his voice nothing but white noise.