Karin Slaughter - Skin Privilege

'Does Clint work for you?' Lena asked, trying to distract him.

Valentine scooted up onto the counter, wincing as the cut in his side pulled. 'Lots of people work for me.'

Harley, Lena thought. Nobody worked for Harley. When she had confronted Clint at the warehouse this morning, the photos of Harley were the ones that sent him over the edge. All of the color had drained from his face, and his hand had shook as he picked up the phone, dialed the number. His voice had gone quiet as he'd explained to whoever was on the other end of the line that Lena was willing to trade the pictures and the logs for their lives. That was all she wanted – not money, not drugs, not anything but their lives. She would hold the originals for safekeeping and the swastika boys could go on their merry way.

Clint hadn't said much on the phone. Mostly, he'd nodded, his eyes locked on Lena 's, his fear palpable in the empty warehouse. He'd hung up the phone and told Lena to turn herself in, that the judge was on their payroll and would let her go with a slap on the wrists. Lena had assumed that Clint had called Harley. Had he talked to Jake Valentine instead? Had the sheriff actually been pulling the strings this entire time?

'Hell, I need some aspirin.' Valentine slid down from the counter and started opening the cabinets around him.

Lena knew there were all kinds of painkillers in the first-aid kit, but she wasn't about to clue him in. He had his back to them both, and out of the corner of her eye, Lena saw Sara put her hand on the metal box, move it closer.

Lena asked, 'What did you mean on the phone -something to take the edge off?'

He checked the last cabinet. 'You'll find out soon enough, darlin'.'

Sara seemed to have the box where she wanted it. She told Valentine, 'Your bandage is coming off.'

He looked at her handiwork, sighed. 'Fix it,' he demanded, walking over to her. She lifted her hands but he stopped her, pressing the gun to her head. Til hold this right here so you don't feel the need to grab that metal box and hit me upside the head.'

Sara taped the bandage back into place. 'Jeffrey will kill you.' She said the words matter-of-factly, as if it was a foregone conclusion rather than a threat.

Valentine waited until Sara was finished, then took the box, pushed open the swinging door with his foot, and tossed it into the hallway.

He leaned against the counter, asking Lena, 'How'd you guess it? How'd you know about the tattoo?' She finally realized with this one question that Ethan was not involved in anything that had happened – Hank was back on dope for his own dark reasons. Charlotte and Deacon were casualties from another war. What was happening in this house right now was all about Jake Valentine and the millions of dollars worth of methamphetamine rolling through his county.

For Sara's benefit, Lena explained, 'Hitler's Waffen SS had their blood types tattooed in the same spot. It means Jake is high up the ranks.'

'As high as you can get,' he bragged.

'It's rare to just see one,' Lena commented. 'Usually, they mark themselves up with swastikas and anything else they can think of.' She turned to the woman, willing her to go along. 'Have you ever seen a skinhead – I mean, really seen one, studied their tattoos?'

Sara's eyes locked onto hers. They both knew she had examined Ethan. 'No.'

Lena asked the sheriff, 'Why do you have just one tattoo?'

He chuckled. 'You kidding me? Myra would kill me if I came home painted up like some freak out of a carnival.' He tapped his chest. 'What matters is what's in here.'

'Your wife knows?' Sara asked, her voice going up in surprise.

Valentine leveled her with a gaze, but he didn't answer. Instead, he addressed his words to Lena. 'You were this close to getting away. You know that? And then you had to go and screw up everything. You got the wrong people mad at you, little darlin'. You should've just kept yourself to yourself.'

Lena fought the urge to spit in his face. 'Why did Charlotte have to die?'

'To let you know what happens to people who talk.'

'She didn't say anything.'

'In my experience, addicts tend to be unreliable.'

'She wasn't an addict.'

'Then what was she doing toking up in a meth den with your uncle last weekend?'

Lena lowered her head down so Valentine couldn't see her expression. Charlotte… poor Charlotte.

Sara asked, 'What does Hank have to do with any of this?'

'He looked out his window when he shouldn't have,' Valentine admitted. 'Some associates and I were transacting a little business at the motel. Him and that stupid bartender of his started asking questions, thought they could ride in on their white horses and clean up this town.' He shrugged. 'Guess it runs in the family, not being able to take a warning.'

'Al Pfeiffer,' Sara continued. 'Is that why he left town? Did you throw that firebomb through his window?'

Valentine just shrugged. 'Things happen.'

Lena asked, 'Is Cook in on this, too?'

'Don?' he snorted. 'Don doesn't know jack. He's just holding down that desk until his retirement kicks in.'

Sara asked, 'Is that why he ran for sheriff?'

Valentine smirked. 'Wouldn't do for me to run unopposed, would it?' He grinned. 'Poor old Cookie let it go to his head – actually thought he could win.' There was a knock at the back door. Valentine called, 'Who is it?'

'Me,' a voice called back.

Valentine pushed away from the counter and opened the door, all the while keeping his gun trained on Sara and Lena. Clint stood at the door holding a large cardboard box.

He saw Lena and shook his head. 'You're worse than your fucking uncle, you know that? Can't keep your goddamn nose out of anything.'

'We had a deal.'

'Yeah,' Clint agreed, reaching into the cardboard box. There was a FedEx pack on top. He tossed it toward Lena. She saw her own handwriting, Frank Wallace's address at the Grant County police station. She had sent the packet to Frank from Kinko's the night before, thinking that if things went bad, Frank would have enough evidence to take down the operation. The original photos and logs were tucked up under the front seat of Hank's Mercedes. Her insurance was gone.

Clint told her, 'We've been following you since you got into town. You think it's just coincidence we happened to have Charlotte with us the night we ran your car off the road?'

Lena felt her mouth open, but nothing would come out.

'You could've gone peacefully a couple of weeks from now. Needle in your arm, suicide note talking about how sad you were that your uncle was dead.' He glanced at Sara, shook his head, sad. 'You almost made it, too.'

Valentine snapped, 'Stop wasting time and get started.'

Clint put the box on the counter and walked over to the stove. He pushed Hank's pamphlets off the burners and tried the knobs. None of the burners would come on, probably because Hank hadn't used the stove in twenty years. Still, Clint didn't give up. He turned one of the knobs and leaned down, sniffing for gas. Satisfied, he took out a box of matches and struck one. The flame whooshed as the gas caught. He turned off the burner and tried each one in turn. Two lighted as easily as the first, but he had to take off the grate and use his thumbnail to clean the fourth before enough gas came out of the valve to catch flame.

Sara asked Valentine, 'What are you doing?'

He didn't answer as he took various items out of the box Clint had brought and lined them up on the counter. Acetone, rubbing alcohol, ammonia, lye.

'Shit,' Lena hissed. 'Meth. They're going to cook meth.'

'Don't worry,' Valentine told her, opening and closing cabinets until he found Hank's coffee mugs. They were old, handmade in Mexico – so fragile that Hank only used them on special occasions. He held up one of the cups, smiled. 'It won't cook for very long.'