Allison Brennan - If I Should Die

A bald, middle-aged man worked behind the bar, and the lone waitress-a skinny blonde in her midthirties who wore too-bright makeup and too-tight jeans-approached the table with a warm smile that didn’t quite reach her tired eyes.

“Adam Hendrickson! You haven’t been by in forever. And you brought friends.” She appraised Sean as if he were a Playgirl centerfold and she the lucky photographer.

Adam introduced Sean and Lucy. “They’re friends visiting before the resort opens.” He looked over at them. “Trina was always nice to me when I visited in the summers.”

“Your arrival was always exciting! City boy visiting us hicks for two whole months. A cutie, too. Anything to liven up this town.” She then did a double take on Sean. “You’re the one Doc Woody was talking about!” Trina looked at Sean’s lap. “Twelve stitches, huh? Did it hurt?”

Sean gave Trina a self-deprecating nod and dimpled half-smile. Lucy had seen him turn on the charm like a faucet, and it never failed-whether the women were young or old, attached or single.

“Not much,” he said modestly.

While they talked about the “excitement,” as Trina called it, a sprinkling of pinpricks crawled up Lucy’s spine. They were being closely watched. She discreetly assessed the room. Many patrons were glancing over at them every now and again, but no one seemed unduly focused.

It would seem odd to most people that Lucy had a vivid physical reaction to being watched. In the past, she’d blamed her discomfort-and occasional panic-as remnants of her attack seven years ago. And, in the past, her reaction was psychosomatic; she’d felt as though she was being observed even when she wasn’t.

It had taken her years, but she’d learned to distinguish the difference between the psychological tension when she was in a large crowd and the real tension caused by undue attention. Sean had taught her to trust her instincts. Just because she couldn’t tell who was watching their table didn’t mean there wasn’t someone watching. And here? They were the strangers. She tried to dismiss her feelings, but she couldn’t stop the sensation crawling down her spine.

Adam said, “Trina, I know I’m getting the ribs, but could you bring a couple menus for my guests?”

“Sure! Can I get y’all some drinks first? We’re running a special on Miller in the bottle. Jon got a deal from the distributor.” She winked and walked off without waiting for them to agree to her recommendation.

Adam smiled. “Don’t tell her anything you don’t want the world to know.”

“She might come in handy,” Sean said.

“She hasn’t changed. No one has, really,” Adam said.

“Do you know most of the people in here tonight?” Sean asked.

Adam looked around, none too discreetly. “I recognize most everybody, though not all by name.” He smiled broadly and waved at an older, clean-cut man who walked in to the chime of two bells over the door. “It’s Mr. Callahan.”

Henry Callahan smiled broadly at Adam, who stood to shake his hand. “Adam! Good to see you, son,” Henry said.

“Thank you for meeting us,” Adam said, sliding over so Henry could sit.

Lucy wished they’d met in private, though she’d understood Sean’s reasons for making the meeting public. She didn’t know how forthcoming anyone would be in such a public venue. The bartender was watching their table, his face expressionless.

Adam introduced the group. “I haven’t been in here in months,” Henry said with a long sigh. “I’m getting old.”

“But you own the Lock amp; Barrel,” Adam said.

“Not anymore, I gave it to my nephew a couple years ago. Jon had already been running the place for years, and with Emma doing poorly, I don’t like being out of the house as much.”

“I’m sorry to hear Mrs. Callahan isn’t well.”

“Growing old wears you out.” But he smiled. “I’m glad you called, Adam. We’ve only talked a few times since Joe’s funeral.”

“Tim and I have been busy.”

“Joe would be happy that you and Tim are here, working together.”

“Not everyone is,” Sean said.

Henry shook his head. “I heard about the fire. Al Getty said it destroyed the kitchen?”

“Yes. We salvaged all that we could, and Tim is working out a plan to see if we can make the repairs in time for the grand opening.”

“When is that?”

“Memorial Day weekend.”

“Adam said you and his dad were close friends,” Sean said, steering the conversation toward their goal.

Henry smiled. “We grew up together. My dad was the foreman at the mine, worked for Joe’s in-laws, the Kelleys. Faced changes, the mine closure, the town dying. Births, deaths. Change hasn’t been kind to Spruce Lake.”

“Tim and I think the resort will be a good change,” Adam said. “But someone has been vandalizing our equipment for months. And with the arson-we don’t know if we’re going to be able to pull it off.”

“People get set in their ways, and change scares them.”

“The town is dying,” Adam repeated. “The resort will create jobs and industry. It’s a good thing!”

“I agree, son, I do, but after everything that happened with the Swain family, people don’t exactly like the idea of strangers around. That left a sour taste.”

Lucy said, “Who are the Swains?”

“Satan’s spawn,” Henry said, the words sounding odd coming out of the mouth of such a soft-spoken man. “Six years ago, Paul Swain finally went to prison. Followed in his father’s footsteps, that’s for sure.”

“What were they convicted for?”

“Lawson Swain, Paul’s dad, was a couple years older than Joe and me. A big bully. Went to prison for killing his girlfriend. And everyone knows he killed his wife-the mother of his kids-though no one could prove it.”

“Where is he now?” Sean asked.

“Lawson is dead. Rumor has it he led a prison riot, and was stabbed to death by a fellow inmate with a knife made from a tube of toothpaste. But Paul was already ten times shrewder than his dad. Paul was the one and only drug dealer in Spruce Lake. Hooked a whole generation of kids, but not just here. He was selling everywhere. What did they call it? Distributing? Had a house where they made that chemical drug.”

“Methamphetamine?” Lucy prompted.

“That’s it, I think. Well, there was a big sting, and Paul and a dozen others were arrested. The press-state and national-were here, reporters from television to newspapers to radio. We all had short tempers then. The way the media depicted our little town was nothing short of slander. As if we were all drug dealers. They didn’t understand that anyone who stood up to the Swains were dead. We just did what we had to do to survive. And that’s why most of us don’t cotton to strangers.”

“You mean you knew what was going on?” Adam asked.

“We didn’t know , not as fact, but Joe and I suspected Paul was doing something illegal. It was easier to ignore it. Safer.” He shook his head. “Your dad only had you two months out of the year. He only showed you the good side of Spruce Lake.”

Adam seemed distraught, and Lucy said, “What happened after Paul Swain went to prison? Did things improve?”

“That’s a matter of perspective.”

“Perspective?”

“The devil you know …” Henry’s voice faded away.

“Henry,” Adam began, but then Henry smiled meekly and waved his hand.

“Ignore me. I’m just feeling old today.”

Lucy glanced at Sean. He was thinking the same thing she was-something secret was going on and Henry Callahan knew what it was. But he was scared or too intimidated to talk.

Sean said, “What do you think about the vandalism at the Hendricksons’? Is it simply someone who doesn’t want change or someone who doesn’t want growth?”