Black Sheep (25 page)

Jessalyn’s posture went rigid, pulling back from Caitlyn. “You mean you won’t. Stubborn,
stubborn child. That’s what you are. Can’t look past yourself to see the way you’re
hurting the people who love you most.”

Sharp words. With an added edge since Jessalyn spoke the truth. Caitlyn blinked back
her pain. “I’m sorry. I’m not quitting.”

Her mother stepped away, her face twisted with rage and regret. “I’m sorry, too, Caitlyn.
Believe me, I’m sorry, too.”

She walked out, not even bothering to slam the door on her daughter.

*   *   *

While the regular club members headed off on the run to Gatlinburg, Poppy and Caruso
sat smoking cigars by the fire in the huge stone fireplace that filled one wall of
the farmhouse’s living room. Goose and the national club enforcer, a guy named Hopper
who said nothing, stood guard at the door.

It was meant to be an honor, standing there in the presence of Reaper greatness, but
Goose had too many things on his mind to stay still and the conversation between the
two presidents was boring. Stuff about enrollment and what to do about members not
paying their dues because they were out of work. Caruso talked the way he looked:
like he was some kind of CEO of a Fortune 500 company instead of running a bunch of
outlaw bikers. It was funny watching Poppy try to mimic the national president’s cultured
manners, but Goose was itching with a need to get out of there and back to work.

“So you don’t want me to keep following Tierney?” he asked during a break while Poppy
and Caruso refilled their bourbon glasses. They were drinking the good stuff: Maker’s
46.

“Not for now.” Poppy and Caruso exchanged glances. “If Weasel isn’t back soon, we
might have another job for you. Can you handle it?”

“Sure. Whatever you need.” It was the only right answer with the chapter president
and national president staring you down. “Where is Weasel?”

Goose hoped the club VP was doing something with the cash the Daytona crew brought
up with them. Wilson was tailing Weasel in the hope that he’d lead them to the money.
They had to find it before the Reapers transferred it to the casino, where it’d be
lost forever.

“None of your business,” Poppy snapped. Goose returned to leaning against the wall,
keeping in the shadows. Waited for Poppy and Caruso to decide what the hell they wanted
him to do. Hopper slanted a glare at him with an eye roll that said,
Amateur
.

It’d be great if they put him back on Tierney. Following her gave him the freedom
to search for the money. They didn’t realize that he could keep perfect tabs on her
from his phone and laptop. Of course, watching her in person was more fun, but business
before pleasure. He smiled at the memory of how she’d handled the situation earlier,
almost reducing Tiny to tears. All without a drop of blood shed.

“He has a point,” Caruso said, his words emerging slow as if he’d thought long and
hard about the topic. “What are we going to do about your Agent Tierney?”

Poppy jerked, covered the movement by reaching for his glass. “Nothing. There’s nothing
to worry about.”

“You should have told me a fed was snooping around.” Caruso’s tone was undercut with
disapproval.

“You don’t need to worry about her. I have leverage if we need to turn her.” That
made Goose perk up. What kind of leverage could Poppy have over an FBI agent? “And
it might be good for business to have a fed in our pocket.”

Caruso snorted. “That one isn’t about to sit in anyone’s pocket. The girl’s a firecracker
waiting to be lit.”

Silence. Poppy fiddled with his cigar, relighting it, then took another swallow of
bourbon. Caruso lounged in his chair, feet stretched out, crossed at the ankle, and
watched the older man.

Finally Poppy spoke. He didn’t look at Caruso, instead stared into the bottom of his
glass. “What do you want me to do?”

“Get rid of her. Now. Before we move the money.”

Goose tried to act casual, hide his excitement. They hadn’t moved the money to the
casino yet. There was still time for him to find it.

Poppy nodded, set his empty glass aside. “Let me make a few calls. She won’t be a
problem.”

“No. I don’t mean send her away.” Caruso glared at Poppy as if suspecting Poppy of
treason. It was clear Poppy had deliberately misunderstood the national president’s
order. “I mean take care of business. Today.”

Shit. Was Caruso nuts? He’d just ordered a hit on a federal agent.

Poppy’s face blanked. He nodded. “Of course.”

The front door burst open and Weasel stomped inside. “Son-of-a-bitch. I told you that
kid was a liability.” He stopped short when he noticed Caruso. “Oh, sorry.”

Sorry?
Hell, even Weasel was intimidated by Caruso. So far the national president hadn’t
impressed Goose as anything other than a politician with his fake smiles and handshakes,
but there must be something he was missing given the way the other Reapers deferred
to the man. Caruso didn’t even have a
TCB
patch on his cut, although it was obvious he had no trouble giving the order to have
someone killed. Typical manager. Didn’t get his hands dirty.

“Excuse me a moment,” Poppy said, rising.

“Anything I need to know about?” Caruso’s tone was relaxed but not his gaze. Goose
had a feeling the national president knew everything going on with the Mountain Men
and wasn’t too happy with Poppy’s leadership.

“No. Just one of our prospects slacking off.”

“Can’t have that. You should make an example out of him.” Caruso puffed on his cigar.

Poppy’s shoulders went rigid. “You’re right. We will.” Poppy joined Goose and Weasel,
motioned them across the hall to the dining room. “What’d you find?” he asked Weasel.

“Bernie was a no-show so I went by his place. Didn’t make it but two steps into the
lodge when I found part of a dead deer—”

“
Inside
the lodge?”

“Yeah. Parked there like it was a freaking all-you-can-eat buffet. It gets better.
There was a leopard chewing on it. The kid stole our freaking leopard!”

Poppy waved that aside. “What about the girl? Any sign of her?”

“I ran out of there and was heading around to see what was in the other cabins, if
he had our other animals, when I found her car. He has her. But you know that place.
The way it’s spread out. They see us coming, they’d be off into the woods or they
could get the drop on us.”

“Drop on us?” Goose said. “That doesn’t sound like Bernie.” Kid was so gentle-hearted
that when he cleaned the clubhouse, he routinely scooped up spiders and ants and took
them outside rather than killing them.

“I’m telling you, he’s got the girl up there with those animals. Kid’s gone off his
rocker.”

“What do you want to do?” Poppy asked.

“I slashed the tires on the girl’s car and Bernie’s truck, so they’re not going anywhere
anytime soon. Let me get a few of the boys together and we’ll go on our own hunting
trip. We’ll nail them both and problem solved.”

They were talking about killing Bernie—one of their own—and the girl. For no good
reason. At least none that made sense to Goose. But he knew better than to argue;
it’d only make things worse. Maybe he could get away and call Wilson, have him go
find Bernie and the girl, get them away. Warn Caitlyn as well. Wilson would be pissed,
the money was his priority, but still—this was murder. Of two innocent kids and a
fed. Goose couldn’t let that happen.

“Not quite all our problems,” Poppy said, glancing over his shoulder into the living
room where Caruso waited. “Bernie and the girl can wait. The fed paid us another visit.
Embarrassed us in front of Caruso.”

Weasel touched the knife on his belt. “Bitch. I’ll deal with her.”

Poppy shook his head. “Goose says she’s been searching the Cherokee archives online.”

Goose didn’t correct Poppy, tell him he suspected it was Tierney’s boyfriend doing
the Internet searches. No reason to add one more innocent to the club’s hit list.

“Think Lena talked to her?”

“Or maybe Eli Hale somehow got a message to her. Either way, she needs to be dealt
with, before she puts the pieces together.”

They were serious. No way. He hadn’t signed up for this.

They both stared at Goose, assessing him. “What do you say, Goose? Up to taking care
of business?”

Despite the chill pouring through his veins, Goose forced his best poker face and
nodded. “Whatever the club needs. How do you want it done?”

Poppy clapped him on the shoulder. “Knew you had it in you. Make it look like an accident.
Last thing we need is the feds looking our way.”

“I’m on it.”

“I’m trusting you and Weasel to finish this. Today.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Caitlyn stared after her mother. Jessalyn always had to have the last word. On everything.
But this was different. This felt … permanent.

Her mom had worked all her life to make sure Caitlyn was strong enough to face anything.
Why couldn’t she trust her daughter now?

Caitlyn stood, not noticing the sun playing off the scudding clouds, reshaping the
mountains before her eyes. Family first. Jessalyn’s creed. How was Caitlyn betraying
that by staying loyal to a job she loved?

Confusion warred with resentment. She just wanted to do her job, damn it. But no one,
not Jessalyn, not Paul, not the freaking FBI seemed to understand that.

Hell with them. She was going to find Lena Hale. Then she’d figure out the rest.

She left to find Paul waiting for her in the foyer in front of the elevators. “Figured
you might be hungry.” He handed her a bagel turned into a sandwich, ham and a fried
egg shoved between the two halves.

“Thanks.” She devoured the starchy concoction without really tasting it before something
else could happen to keep her from eating. They took the elevator downstairs.

“Where to?” he asked.

She was grateful he didn’t mention Jessalyn or the fiasco known as family brunch.
Appreciated that he didn’t ask questions. But hell if she was about to adopt him as
a partner in this investigation. “You keep working on the research. I’ll go talk to
the librarian at the archives. What was his name?”

He smiled. One thing about Paul, when he wanted to, he could charm a snake out of
its skin. Even without resorting to his Barry White impression. “You mean the name
of the guy waiting to talk to
me
? C’mon. I’ll drive.”

“I’m driving.” That way she could ditch him there among the dusty papers and books.
Safest place for him and he’d love it. She’d figure out some special assignment to
make him feel important, something esoteric that would take him all day to ferret
out, even with the help of the librarian. While she’d hit the streets. Best way to
let her do her job and keep him safe. Although Paul probably wouldn’t agree if she
stopped to discuss it with him.

The archives were one of a row of tribal offices in a modern single-story whitewashed
cement-block building with a metal roof. Other than Caitlyn’s Subaru the lot was empty.

Turned out the librarian wasn’t a librarian at all. He was an archivist. Name of Judas
Bearmeat.

“You’ll find Bearmeats on the rolls as far back as you can go,” he said proudly as
he escorted them past an empty reception area and behind a counter. “Including my
namesake on the Hester Roll of 1884.”

They passed shelves filled with stacks of microfiche, well-tended ledgers, stacks
of newspapers, and library card catalog files. In the rear of the building sat a small
conference table stacked with books. The corner behind it had been turned into an
office without a door or walls. A metal desk sat diagonally across the corner with
horizontal file cabinets on either side, one with a tea set and coffeemaker on top,
and two metal chairs in front of it, although Caitlyn doubted Bearmeat entertained
company very often. He was late fifties, early sixties, with the rapid-fire speech
of someone who spent way too much time alone and couldn’t shut up when he finally
had the opportunity to talk with another human.

“What did Lena ask you to help her with?” Caitlyn cut to the chase while Bearmeat
fiddled with coffee for Paul and tea for himself after she declined.

He took his time in answering. It was obvious he would have rathered it was Paul doing
the talking—they spoke the same language. Academics. Fine with her. It would keep
Paul entertained after she left.

“As I told Dr. Franklin”—Bearmeat nodded to Paul and handed him a cup of coffee in
a porcelain cup with the Eastern Band crest on it—“Ms. Hale and I had any number of
discussions. She was a delightful lady with a spirited mind. Would have made a fine
researcher.”

“She’s not dead. Only missing,” she reminded him. Six minutes in his company and she
was already irritated by his pedantic speech. “The last time you spoke with her. What
was the topic?”

“As you may know, Ms. Hale was researching Eastern Band rolls and trying to locate
other freedmen families in addition to her own. She was curious about how recent court
rulings on Oklahoma Cherokee freedmen tribal membership might impact our own freedmen
descendants.”

“Right, I know. Law review, Supreme Court. But something got her interested in my
father’s death. What does restoring her family and the other freedmen to Cherokee
rolls have to do with my father?”

Bearmeat sat down with his tea and crossed his legs. He placed a napkin over one knee
of his chinos before resting his cup and saucer on it. “And who might your father
be?”

“Sean Tierney. He was a Balsam County deputy. Died twenty-six years ago.” Bearmeat
didn’t need to know Sean had killed himself. Or why.

“Tierney. Oh yes, I remember. Lena wasn’t so much interested in his death as she was
in the Freedmen Pact.”

“What’s a Freedmen Pact?” Caitlyn asked, about ready to turn Bearmeat into his namesake.

Paul answered. “You know about the Trail of Tears, right? In 1839, when most of the
Cherokees were forced off their land and moved to Oklahoma. But a number stayed behind,
and many returned to North Carolina. They couldn’t own land, but a white man adopted
by the tribe, Will Thomas, began buying the land in the Qualla Boundary with his own
money for his fellow tribe members. Then came the Civil War. Thomas gathered a company
of Cherokees from this area to fight for the Confederacy.”