Allison Brennan - If I Should Die

“What was that about?” Tim asked.

“One sec,” Sean said as he finished typing his message and sent it. “More work for my brother,” he said with a grin.

He unlocked his truck. On the driver’s seat was a torn slip of paper. Unlike the first warning this morning, this was scrawled in small, hurried block letters, but Sean knew it was from the same person.

Sean looked around, his hand on his gun. He didn’t see anyone. He carefully picked up the paper, using the tips of his fingers to hold it by the corners.

I TOLD YOU TO GO HOME. NOW YOU CAN’T.

THEY HAVE YOUR GIRL’S FLIGHT SCHEDULE.

Ricky parked at the abandoned farm behind Skyline Bible Church, then trudged through the fallow fields until he reached church property. He’d driven the back roads for hours, thinking about running away. But how could he? He had nothing. Finally, at sundown, he returned to town. He’d waited in the pine trees on the edge of the church parking lot for an hour until Reverend Browne finally left. He sat completely still, not thinking or feeling anything because he didn’t want to cry. It was dark when Ricky slipped from his hiding place and ran across the street to the dimly-lit cemetery where he visited his mother at least once a week. Where soon he would visit his uncle Jimmy.

His grandfather, Lawson Swain, was buried here, but Ricky hadn’t known him. He’d been convicted of murder when Ricky was three, and all he remembered was that Lawson had smelled of tobacco, rarely spoke, and when he did his voice was deep and scary and Ricky didn’t know why his mother would squeeze him tight whenever they were in the same room as his grandfather. Ricky didn’t remember anything about the trial and had never seen his grandfather again, until he was buried in this cemetery when Ricky was nine. That was two years before his father went to prison. Three years before he returned to bury his mother.

Ricky knelt in the damp grass of the small cemetery and stared at his mother’s simple headstone. The soft lights outside the church enabled Ricky to see the angel carved above her name.

SWAIN

Abigail Anne

Beloved wife and mother

“The Lord is my Shepherd.”

February 12, 1965-March 1, 2006

His mother had chosen the epitaph. His father wanted it to be “Vengeance is Mine, sayeth the Lord,” but he had no say because he was in prison and Abigail had a written will.

Vengeance is mine .

Ricky was beginning to understand what vengeance meant.

Jimmy had been angry when Ricky told him about the fire and what happened at the mine, but his uncle was more scared than mad. He’d warned Ricky not to get involved with Reverend Browne, but Ricky hadn’t thought about any of that. All he remembered was the pain and loneliness of losing his mother, then Joe Hendrickson. Reverend Browne had said he’d help get Ricky what he wanted most of all: a way out of Spruce Lake.

Anyway, Jimmy was a hypocrite. Telling Ricky to stay out of the business, but getting in deep himself. So deep that Ricky didn’t believe him when Jimmy said it was to protect Ricky. Protect him from what? The monster? Ricky didn’t believe she’d set foot in Spruce Lake again. If she did, Ricky would kill her himself.

He cringed as he thought of the last words he’d said to his uncle.

“You’re a fucking hypocrite, Uncle Jimmy.”

Ricky knew exactly what was going on in Spruce Lake. The drug trade was alive and well. And Ricky couldn’t care less about it, other than it was his ticket out of here. What people did to themselves was their business; Ricky had no need to give up control of his mind and body to drugs. Maybe it was even his father who’d convinced him of that with all the lectures and warnings, ironic considering how his father made his money.

You’re better than that, Rick .

His father had considered drug users weak and helpless, but he had no problem manufacturing the product that kept them dependent.

Ricky desperately wanted someone to tell him what to do, but he had no one to trust. He wanted to trust Sean Rogan, but why would that guy help him? He had to have an ulterior motive.

“Mom, I don’t know what to do.”

His voice was scratchy and thick. He swallowed and coughed, his head low.

Jimmy was gone. Reverend Browne wasn’t acting himself. Something was happening, and it was the first time since his mother had died that Ricky didn’t know everything that was going on in Spruce Lake.

He was scared and angry and there was only one person who might be able to help him, but Jimmy had told Ricky to go to him only in an emergency. Well, this was a fucking emergency! Jimmy was dead, and something big was going down on Sunday.

Headlights cut down the road as three cars turned toward the church. Ricky lay flat on the ground, partly shielded by his mother’s grave marker. He didn’t think they saw him. They were going into the church, eight or nine of them. Ricky knew all of them. The reverend. Andy Knolls, the weird guy at the Gas-n-Go who used to give only the girls free candy, until he touched Lisa Thompson’s twelve-year-old breasts and her father beat him nearly to death. The creepy guy Andy hung around with, Gary Clarke. He wasn’t from Spruce Lake; he hadn’t shown up until Ricky’s father went to prison. Some of the other regulars.

A fourth car drove up. It was a luxury rental, sleek and black. A blond guy got out. Ricky could read City Boy in his crisp jeans and black button-down shirt. And who wore trench coats in Spruce Lake? He looked mean, and Ricky might have been scared, but then he saw who got out of the passenger’s seat and he was terrified.

The monster is back .

Even through his fear, Ricky had one thought.

Vengeance is mine .

The monster had killed his mother. She’d stolen the money that his dad had hidden before he went to prison. The money to pay for his mother’s chemotherapy and surgery.

His mother had had a good chance of surviving if she’d had the necessary treatment.

And Bobbie had even known that when she took the money.

Sean drove Tim to his house and, after getting directions to the Callahans’ place, he asked Tim to check in on Lucy. Sean had already warned her about the note he’d found in the truck. He didn’t want to leave her longer than he had to, but he had questions he was certain Henry Callahan could answer.

As soon as he drove away from the Hendricksons’, his cell phone rang. It was his brother, Duke, calling from California.

“Confirmed,” Duke said. “Roberta Swain Molina, a.k.a. Bobbie Swain.”

“That was fast.” Sean had sent the picture less than thirty minutes ago. “She’s married?”

“Widowed. Her husband, a known drug smuggler, was murdered in his bed and Bobbie left for dead in what the police believe was a retaliation killing. A killer for a rival cartel came in through a window, slit Herve Molina’s throat, and attacked Bobbie. She fought back, but nearly died from blood loss. Their safe was emptied.”

“It’s not like those guys to leave a witness.”

“She fingered him, but also told her husband’s security chief who did it, and Molina’s people got to him first. Tortured and killed him. His knife was found in the bushes outside the window with both Molina’s and Swain’s blood on it.”

“That must have been hell to live through. Could have changed anyone.”

“Don’t lose sleep over what happened to Bobbie Swain,” Duke said. “According to both Molina’s cartel and others, she was just as ruthless as her husband. Kane heard the same thing, plus a nasty rumor.”

“You called Kane?”

Their brother Kane Rogan knew near everything about the international drug trade.