CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Since when did they start locking the damn doors?

Fred tried truck after truck with no luck. He tucked his hands beneath his armpits to warm them. He needed gloves. A coat. Shoes. Damn, tramping had turned into a chore. He sat on the ground against the front tire of his favorite truck to think, shivering.

He’d run through the sixty dollars McBride had given him quicker than usual. Shouldn’t have used that ten on food. The whiskey went quicker and quicker these days, and donations had fallen off to practically nothing. In exchange for a hot meal, churches wanted a tearful confession and his immortal soul, two things Fred couldn’t give for the one thing he didn’t really want. Too bad Stillwater didn’t have a Catholic church so he could steal the wine. Just a bunch of teetotaling Baptists and closet drinking Methodists, neither of which would give money to a remorseless drunk. McBride was the only revenue stream Fred had left. Fred needed whiskey, food, and a coat. To get those, he needed information which, looking around at the deserted yard, wasn’t going to happen on this cold Saturday night.

He stood and walked through the maze of closely parked trucks to the back of the nearest building. He paused, hand on the door knob. He’d never tried the buildings before. He didn’t hold out much hope this tiny office would be more comfortable than the cab of an empty truck. The only chair he saw was plastic. Still, it looked warm. He tried the knob. It didn’t budge. He spent the next fifteen minutes trying every one of Doyle Industries’ buildings with no luck. He collapsed at the back of the last building from exhaustion, the long, cold night stretched in front of him. Thirty wasted years stretched behind.

He supposed it was time to come to Jesus.

Luckily, it was about to be Sunday, if it wasn’t already. Fred had to make it until 8 a.m., when he knew Brother Dobson would get to the church. A few hours. He could do it. He closed his eyes and, with teeth chattering from the cold, started practicing his confession.

“I’ve seen the error in my ways, Brother Dobson.”

The rumble of a Mack truck and the squeal and whoosh of air brakes engaging broke his concentration. The rattle of chain link fence, the truck moving through the gate, the rattle of the gate closing told Fred he wasn’t alone anymore. He tucked his knees close to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, for warmth and to make himself as small as possible. He felt reasonably good about his hiding place between an AC unit and an electrical box at the back of the furthest building in the lot, but he didn’t want to take any chances. His stomach flipped over in fear when he felt the vibrations from the front bay opening. The rumble of the engine echoed throughout the large building, through the wall, and burrowed deep into Fred’s chest. His heart hammered in his throat. He stared at Doyle Industries’ back fence. Of course his hole was at the opposite end.

Sit here. Don’t move. They won’t open the back bay door. It’s too cold. There’s no reason for them to come back here at all. You’re fine. Sit tight. Plan your confession. Think warm thoughts.

“I’ve seen the error in my ways, Brother Dobson …”

The crunch of gravel, the sound of a car door closing distracted him. Christ. Fred squeezed his eyes closed. Footsteps. Voices inside. The sound of another car. More footsteps.

“I’ve seen the error in my ways, Brother Dobson …”

Talking. Tools clanging. Laughter.

Fred’s eyes opened. Then again, maybe he should sneak around the side and listen in. The rest of his body might be breaking down from abuse, but his hearing was better than ever. His invisibility to the upright citizens of Stillwater and his good hearing had been keeping him alive for thirty years. McBride wasn’t the only chief who had paid him to be his spy, but he was the only one too stupid to make the connection between Muldoon and Pollard.

Fred let his head fall against the metal building and smiled. Bingo. He didn’t have to risk his neck by eavesdropping. He’d tell McBride about his deal with Pollard. Fred had some major shit on that old asshole. No telling how much it’d be worth. Fred smiled and thought about the pool of whiskey he’d be swimming in soon, which was why he didn’t hear the new truck drive into the yard. But he did hear the yelling.

“Drugs, Michelle? Are you kidding me?”

The clanging stopped.

“Matt. Let’s go somewhere to talk.”

“Eddie? You’re in on this, too? Jesus.”

“Matt, out here. Now.”

Fred used the wall to help himself stand. He inched over to the corner of the building and peeked around. This little drama would set him up for a while. He could keep the Pollard dirt in his back pocket.

“Calm down, Matt,” Michelle said.

“Calm down? You’re running drugs through our father’s company and you want me to calm down?”

“God, you’re such an idiot.”

“Oh, really? I’m not the one breaking the law.”

“Yes, you are. You just don’t know it.”

“What?”

“Why do you think we brought you on, huh? When you came to us with the idea, I knew it would be the perfect cover with you being such a goody-two shoes. You think we give two shits about your organic produce?”

“You mean dad knows about this?”

Michelle laughed. “Who do you think started the business?”

Matt turned and walked away a few feet, running his hands through his hair. “For how long?”

“Thirty years.”

Matt’s mouth gaped, then he laughed in disbelief. “Thirty years.”

“You might not remember when he lost everything back in the eighties, but I do. Dad has always shielded his precious golden boy from the big bad world. It was either drugs or destitution. Like it or not, drugs have bankrolled your entire life. Even now.”

“I can’t believe this.”

“Look. You don’t have to worry about it. No one would ever think you’re involved.”

“You just said—”

“We’ve set it up so nothing will blow back on you. That’s the only way Dad would bring you on, as long as you could remain blissfully ignorant. You’re safe. Just keep your mouth shut and look the other way. If you don’t, I will take you down with us.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“You’re goddamn right I’m threatening you. Do you really think I would let my pussy brother ruin everything I’ve built?”

“You said Dad built it.”

Michelle laughed bitterly. “His operation was chicken feed when he brought me on. I’m the one who built it up into what it is. We’re so fucking big, the Pedrozas want in on it. Dad takes all the credit while I take all the risks. So, if you think there’s any way in hell I’m going to let your guilty conscience ruin what I’ve created, you’re out of your goddamn mind.”

Matt stepped back slightly. “You wouldn’t hurt me.”

“Just fucking try me.”

A hand clamped down on Fred’s shoulder. He jumped, turned his head to the side, saw the outline of an elaborate tattoo on the forearm of his assailant, and pissed himself.