WINTER KILL

FBI MYSTERY THRILLER

DEAN BLACKWOOD

BOOK 5

SAM JONES

Copyright © 2024 by Sam Jones

This novel is a creation of the author’s imagination, crafted with care to deliver a unique story experience. The characters, events, and settings depicted are fictional, and any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or to real-life incidents or locales, is purely coincidental.

Unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this book, in whole or in part, by any means—physical, electronic, or otherwise—is strictly prohibited without the express written permission of the author. If you wish to quote or reference any part of this work, please reach out to the author at info@authorsamjones.com.

Thank you for respecting the hard work that went into creating this story.

INTRODUCTION

Winter is coming…  

And it’s bringing death to small-town USA.

Two teens have been murdered.  

Cops are telling lies.  

And I’m not buying any of it.

When the grieving mother of one of the slain teens reaches out to me, I’m on the next flight to Somerset, Illinois—a snow-covered oasis straight out of a Hallmark movie.

Beneath the charming holiday façade, something sinister lurks in this Christmas-themed town.

This time, I’ve got a little extra help: the motormouth nephew of an old friend—a rule-breaker I’ve reluctantly started calling my “sidekick.”

Kids are dying, and the townsfolk are hiding secrets.  

Whoever’s behind this Christmas cover-up is getting a stocking full of lead.

PROLOGUE

SOMERSET, ILLINOIS

December 15th

Sean Patterson stared at the dried blood on his hands. The dark red, almost brown, color didn’t look real. Part of him thought he might be dreaming.

It’s not a dream, Sean thought. You saw them.

You touched the bodies.

His hands trembled.

They’re gone.

His heart drummed inside his chest.

Holy shit.

A hot tear rolled down his cheek.

Both of my friends are dead!

As Sean’s breathing turned into shallow, razor-thin wheezes, Sheriff Curtis, seated across from him in the interrogation room, reached over and squeezed the boy’s wrist.

“It’s alright, Seany,” Curtis said, the tall, dark-skinned man towering over the seventeen year old. “Just breathe.”

“My dad,” Sean whimpered. “Where is he?”

“He’s on his way back from your aunt’s place in Aurora. It’s going to take him a couple hours to get back. He’ll be here soon.” Curtis motioned to the ceramic mug glazed with the

Somerset Sheriff’s Dept. seal. “Drink that water for me. I need you to try and walk me through what happened.”

“Shannon,” Sean said as he reached his trembling hand toward the mug. “Where is she?”

“She's in the next room.”

“Is she in trouble?” Sean’s eyes widened. “Are we in trouble?”

“Not at all.” Curtis shook his head. “I’m just glad that the two of you are okay.” He leaned over the table. “But I need you to tell me what happened, Sean, everything that happened, as best as you can remember it. You saw them. You saw Luke and Daria’s bodies.”

Sean placed his bloodstained hands in his lap so that he didn’t have to look at them.

“You saw what happened to them. And I need to know what happened before we found them,” Curtis said. “I need to know what you kids were doing in your dad’s house before you found the bodies.”

A few moments ticked by.

Sean played back the memory.

His stomach twisted into a knot.

“We were…” Sean squeezed his eyelids shut. “Shit.” He hung his head. “My dad is going to kill me. I was supposed to be home alone. None of us were supposed to be there. He’s going to flip out when he finds out I brought my friends over to drink.”

“Just walk me through what happened,” Curtis said. “I promise, I swear to you that you’re not going to get in any trouble. You have my word.”

Sean fidgeted.

Took a sip of water.

A few deep breaths later, he managed to calm his nerves.

“Shannon, Luke, and Daria came over to my house,” Sean said. “We were just hanging out. We were listening to music and making some drinks.” Dad is going to fucking kill me. “After we ran out of beer, Shannon and I left to go to Eric’s.”

“Eric Hughes?” Curtis said. “Or Eric Walters?”

“Eric Hughes,” Sean said. “He always has a couple of sixers in his fridge, so we went to snag one from him. Shannon and I went to Eric’s, hung out for like twenty minutes, got one of his sixers, and then we walked back to my house.” Sean’s shoulders dropped. “When I started walking toward my front door, I saw that the bay window was broken. There were bits of glass all over the porch.”

“Okay,” Curtis said. “What happened next? What did you do?”

“Shannon stayed outside on the porch.” Sean balled his bloodied hands into fists as he played back the memory of the night’s events with crystal-clear resolution. “I told her to call the cops. Then I pushed open the door⁠—”

“The door was already open?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you leave it open before the two of you left to go to Eric’s?”

“No.” Sean squinted. “I mean, I don’t think so.”

“Okay,” Curtis said. “So after you went inside, what did you do next?”

“I went into the living room,” Sean said. “It was pretty trashed. Someone had knocked over the Christmas tree and threw a bunch of stuff around.” Sean motioned to his left, imagining himself back in his living room. “I grabbed a poker from the stand by the fireplace,” he said. “Then I went into the kitchen. Shannon was yelling at me to come back outside, but I was worried about Luke and Daria. I kept calling out their names, but they wouldn’t answer me.”

“Alright,” Curtis said, mentally jotting down the details of Sean’s story. “So, after you grabbed the poker, you said you went into the kitchen.”

“Yeah.” Sean nodded. “It looked like someone had torn that room apart too. There was crap everywhere. I could tell that stuff was missing.”

“Stuff was missing?”

“Some of my dad’s booze,” Sean said. “His expensive stuff. There was also some stuff missing from the living room too: the TV, the stereo. When I went into my dad’s study after I went into the kitchen, I saw that his laptop and some of his collectibles from his shelf were gone.” He winced. “I’m trying to remember what else was missing.”

“Some of the deputies are walking through your dad’s house right now,” Curtis explained. “They’re taking inventory of everything that was stolen, so you don’t need to worry about remembering all of that right now. I just need to know what happened when you went downstairs into the basement.”

“Okay.” Sean took a deep breath, terrified to tell the next part of the story. “After I went into the study, I walked back out into the hallway and saw that the basement door was open—it’s never open. My dad says I’m not supposed to go down there. He stores a bunch of his expensive wine bottles on the shelves.” Sean huffed. “I guess he’s worried I’m going to steal it or something.”

“What happened after that, Sean?” Curtis shrugged. “Tell me what you saw.”

The memory, burning brightly in Sean’s mind, was one that he knew, no matter how long he lived, he would never forget.

“I walked downstairs into the basement,” Sean said, his vocal chords clenched. “I went over to the furnace.” His hands shook. “Then I…” His entire body vibrated. “I saw Luke and Daria. They were lying on the ground. They were…” Sean dropped his head into his dirty hands, sobbing uncontrollably, his words shooting out at a rapid-fire pace. “I knew they were dead. They had blood all over them. I could see where the bullets hit them.” Sean flicked up his reddened eyes toward the sheriff. “I touched them. I know you’re supposed to check for a pulse or something, so that’s what I did, but they were…”

Sean, panting, shot up from the table, moved to the corner of the room, and buried his face into it. “I’m so sorry!” he screamed. “Oh, God.” He slid down to the floor and curled into a ball. “Shannon and I shouldn’t have left; we should have stayed home. If I hadn’t told everyone to come over, none of this would have happened!”

“It’s okay, Sean.” Curtis walked over and placed his arm around Sean’s shoulder. “Everything’s going to be alright.”

“They’re dead,” Sean whimpered. “Both of my friends are gone!”

After consoling Sean for close to twenty minutes, Curtis escorted him into his office, told him to lay down on the couch. As soon as Sean closed his eyes, he was out cold.

Curtis wrapped his department-issued windbreaker around Sean like a blanket.

Slipped out of the room.

Closed the door.

Then he instructed the rookie deputy working the switchboard—Purvis—to hold down the fort, returned to Michael Patterson’s house three blocks away, and oversaw the collection of Luke DeFeo’s and Daria Brennan’s bodies. A short twenty minutes after Curtis watched the van drive away and head east toward the funeral home, he was in Angie Brennan’s home informing her that her daughter had been killed in the midst of a home invasion.

Angie Brennan felt nothing seconds after Curtis told her that Daria was dead. She just stared at the feather flock wallpaper in the kitchen, her body and mind free of any sensation, as though her spirit had evacuated her body.

This can’t be real, she thought. It can’t.

This is just a bad dream.

Angie closed her eyes.

Wake up.

Snap out of it.

Maybe if you wish hard enough, you can undo this.

For the first twenty-four hours, Angie felt like a zombie; she didn’t eat, sleep, or leave the house. She couldn’t even bring herself to call her sister to let her know that Daria was dead, much less go to the funeral home to identify the body. Eventually, two days after Curtis broke the news, Angie did go to the funeral home, and when she saw her baby girl’s body on the cold metal slab, she broke down in tears and hyperventilated to the point that Curtis had to drive her to Somerset General where they jabbed her with a sedative.

Angie, still shaking off the sedation, returned home and spent another full day in bed. She called her sister. Started making arrangements for the funeral. Kept calling the sheriff for an update, but he just kept telling her the same thing over and over.

“It’s a home invasion,” Curtis said. “We’re looking for the culprits. We don’t know if we’ll find them. I need you to stay patient.”

So Angie waited; three more days went by.

No progress in the investigation was made.

Her grief turned into anger.

She wanted answers, and she knew that no one in the Somerset Sheriff’s Department was going to give it to her—then Angie remembered her friend, Erika Quint, her old roommate from college who called her six months prior explaining how she had gotten divorced after the private investigator she hired had uncovered her (now ex) husband’s affair.

Maybe I should call, Angie thought. Maybe the man who helped Erika might be able to help me.

So Angie called Erika. She explained that the Somerset Sheriff’s Department was making no headway in the case, that there were no arrests being made in regard to her daughter’s death—murder.

“I think I need to outsource some assistance with this,” Angie explained. “I know this town. I know what the sheriff is like. If I don’t ask someone else to look into this, whoever did this is going to get away with it.”

“I’ll give you the number of the private investigator that helped me,” Erika said. “He’s a good man. He even called some friends of his who helped with the divorce proceedings. When it was over, he wouldn’t even take payment from me; he just said that he was glad that he could help, that it was ‘the right thing to do.’”

“His name,” Angie said as she grabbed a pen and notepad from her kitchen. “What is it?”

“His name’s Blackwood,” Erika said. “Dean Blackwood.”

1

SHERMAN OAKS, CALIFORNIA DECEMBER 19TH

The kid with the light-up reindeer ears on top of his head clanged the bell in his hand and bid the woman who put fifty cents in the red kettle beside him a “Merry Christmas.”

The woman flashed the young man a smile.

The kid checked the time on his phone and saw that he had one hour left before his shift ended.

A second later, the display window to the shoe store across from him shattered into pieces.

The kid shuddered.

Someone screamed.

Then a guy with long, greasy hair dashed out of the broken display window, stumbled, and then hightailed it for the parking lot fifty yards to his left—and hot on his heels was a guy in a leather jacket with a grimace on his face who reminded the kid with the reindeer ears of the Master Chief guy from the Halo show.

Dean Blackwood gritted his teeth as he dashed through the mall in pursuit of the man thirty meters ahead of him. Happy Holidays, Blackwood, he thought as he pulled out his cell phone and dialed. Jingle all the friggin’ way.

Dean, his phone on speaker, pulled air deep into his lungs as he raced toward the staircase, his eyes fixed to the man he was pursuing who climbed down two flights of stairs before making his way into the level marked “P2.”

“Freddy,” Dean shouted into his phone. “You there?”

“Yo, boss man,” the voice of a younger kid replied. “What’s good?”

“Get the car. He’s headed your way.”

“No, problem,” the kid said with a snicker. “Ten steps ahead of you, boss…”

Dean chortled out a laugh, pocketed his phone, and dashed down the last few steps before he arrived at the P2 level. He saw his target—the child-support payment dodging Nick Newman—snaking his way through parked cars and shoving people out of his way, shoppers in the nearby vicinity hollering and watching the scene unfold with terrified expressions.

“Stop,” Dean shouted at Newman, thirty yards ahead of him. “I’m not in the mood for this today, man. Seriously.”

Newman flashed Dean the middle finger over his shoulder, skidded to his left, and scampered down the ramp that led to the bottom level.

Thanks to the throbbing in Dean’s left knee, he had trouble closing the distance, and part of him worried that if the pain got any worse, Newman would slip right through his fingers.

Come on, Freddy.

Dean did a scan of the parking structure.

Where the hell are you?

Dean pumped his arms and clenched his teeth; his knee felt like it was swelling to the size of a small balloon. Twenty yards ahead of him, as Newman hooked a right and arrived on P1, a car coming up the ramp swerved around him before it collided grill first into the rear end of a Fiat.

In an all-out sprint, his lungs on fire, head pounding, and anger welling, Dean hugged the turn, arrived at level P1, and saw Newman dashing toward the first level entrance of the garage.

Then Dean heard the faint throb of music behind him.

The squeal of tires followed.

When he threw a glance over his shoulder, he saw his Plymouth Road Runner hugging the turn so sharply that the car was on the verge of drifting.

Dean cut a glance at—his assistant, temp, protégé, he wasn’t really sure what to call him—Freddy Bazz behind the wheel of the Plymouth, the kid grinning and wearing the same shirt with the words “What are you looking at, dicknose?” printed on the front that Dean told him three times to leave at home.

Freddy blared his horn as he rolled the driver’s side window, Elvis Presley’s “Blue Christmas” blasting out of the vehicle’s speakers as he waved, throttled the engine, and then sped on by.

“I got him, boss,” Freddy shouted as the Plymouth zipped past. “Hold tight!”

Dean’s eyes widened as he waved Freddy off, the Pontiac dipping to the right and closing in to the left of Newman.

“Freddy,” Dean hollered. “Don’t do it!”

The Plymouth barrelled toward Newman.

Newman threw a look over his shoulder.

Freddy then kicked open the driver’s side door, struck it against Newman’s back, and knocked the guy hard on his face against the pavement.

Dean skidded to a stop as the Plymouth screeched to a halt. He watched Newman, on the ground, pawing at his back, whimpering, and struggling to draw air into his lungs.

“Told you I got him,” Freddy said as he slipped out of the Plymouth, clapped his hands, and then held them high in the air. “Ten points!”

A grim-faced Dean approached Newman, the man floundering along the pavement as Dean took the handcuffs stored in his jacket pocket, twirled them, and then proceeded to secure Newman's wrists behind his back.

Freddy grinned from ear to ear.

Dean shook his head.

A moment later, the police arrived and Dean spent the next hour trying to explain himself.

2

GLENDALE, CALIFORNIA

Dean, seated at his desk, caught the ice pack that Freddy threw to him with one hand. “What part about ‘get the car,’” he said as he pressed the ice pack against his knee, “did you interpret it as ‘run the guy over’?”

A stone-faced Freddy popped a stick of gum in his mouth as he paced the floors of Dean’s PI office, a barren and unassuming rental that a passerby might’ve mistaken for a paper supplier had it not been for the “Blackwood Private Investigations” sign out front.

“Technically,” Freddy said as he held up a finger to emphasize his point, “I didn’t run him over—I hit him with a car door.”

“You think that’s funny?”

“Somewhat amusing, maybe.”

“Freddy,” Dean flattened the back of his hand against his forehead. “I just spent the last hour and a half smoothing things out with the cops. On top of that, I now have to shell out just shy of a grand to the shoe store to replace the front window that got smashed just so everyone didn’t get their knickers in a wad.”

“Knickers?”

“Underwear.”

“Got it.” Freddy huffed his disapproval. “And that’s a load of crap about the window, boss. Also, why did Newman flip out and break the window? I thought you had him.”

“It just went south.” Dean shrugged. “When I tried to hand him his court summons, he flipped out and ran.”

“Was he on something?”

“The cheap gin on his breath was a dead giveaway.” Dean waved his hand through the air. “But that’s beside the point. Paying for the window got the people at the mall off our back.” He pointed a finger at Freddy “And I don’t like the fact that I had to lie to the cops about that little stunt you pulled with the car. You’d be lounging in a cell right now if I didn’t.”

“Well,” Freddy slipped down into the seat across from Dean’s, “it’s not the first time you went to the mat for me, boss man. And just like before,” he clapped his hands together and nodded like he was praying, “it is greatly appreciated.”

The sarcasm oozing out of the kid made the vein in Dean’s neck jut out, his anger swelling to the point that he thought steam might literally sputter out of his ears.

“What we just did,” Dean said, “reflects incredibly poorly on the reputation of this firm. We were hired to track down and serve papers to a support payment-ducking lowlife, and we ended up turning the whole thing into an episode of S.W.A.T.”

The kid furrowed his brow. “The original or the remake?”

“Freddy.”

“Okay, I’m sorry.” Freddy held up his hands. “I’m hearing you.”

“Are you?” Dean shrugged. “Because if we’re counting, which I am, this is the third time I’ve had to cover for you and make apologies to the cops.”

“When was the last time?”

“When you got caught flashing a phony LAPD badge at that records office six weeks ago, wonderboy.”

Freddy’s lips quirked up into a shit-eating grin.

“Our job,” Dean went on, “is to keep things as simple as possible, but simple is not a word you seem to have in your vocabulary.”

Freddy leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms behind his head. “What was I supposed to do, man? The guy we were there to talk to freaked out, broke a window, and then started knocking down people on his way out the door. That old lady he ran into in the parking lot has a crack in her hip now.”

“Point being?”

“That he had it coming,” the kid said as he perched forward in his chair. “Guys like Newman shouldn’t get a pass. People who hurt other people deserve what’s coming to them; it’s as simple as that. Besides, if I didn’t hit him with the car⁠—”

“I’m not looking forward to whatever I’ll have to pay to get my door fixed, by the way.”

“If I didn’t hit him with the car,” Freddy went on, “he would've gotten away.”

Dean shook his head. “You don’t know that for sure.”

“Well,” the kid huffed, “you looked like you were slowing down a little bit on that last few yards there, old man.”

“I want you to listen to me,” Dean groaned as he stood up from his desk, “and I want you to listen well—if you can’t follow orders or take anything that I say without firing back with some kind of smart aleck remark, your career here is going to be short-lived. You follow me?”

Freddy’s shoulders dropped into a sluggish posture similar to that of a child being scolded by a guidance counselor.

“Answer me,” Dean said. “And make sure your reply is limited to the words ‘yes’ and ‘sir.’”

The kid puffed his chest.

Rose from his chair.

Then he turned around, looked Dean square in the eye, and nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

Dean kept his unblinking eyes pinned to his protégé—testing him, piercing him with a scornful gaze, waiting to see if the kid would mouth off, but he didn’t.

“Subway has these killer sandwiches right now,” Dean said. “They’ve got this Philly cheesesteak thing I’ve become pretty fond of. Do me a favor and fetch me two from the one downstairs. Provolone cheese. Hold the bell peppers.”

“Two of them?”

“Freddy,” Dean held up two fingers, “gimme two.”

Freddy waited for his boss to fork over the cheddar for the tab; instead, Dean turned his back on his employee, said nothing, and hoped that the kid would clue into the fact that he was going to pay for the meal out of his own pocket—and he did.

The kid huffed.

Walked out the door and said nothing on his way out.

“Christ,” Dean whispered to himself as he watched the kid leave. “Kid is a damned carbon copy of his uncle.”

Freddy had been on Dean’s payroll for all of eight months ever since he stopped in, announced that he was Cliff Bazz’s nephew, and asked Dean to take him under his wing. Any other jackalope that pulled the kind of stunts that Freddy did would’ve gotten him shit-canned so fast his head would spin—but Freddy was Cliff Bazz’s nephew, Dean’s friend until the end. It was an end that had come eight months before when Dean cradled a dying Bazz in his arms, so Dean felt like he owed it to Bazz to look after a kid who had nothing and no one besides this job and a boss who was finding himself at the tailend of his patience every single day.

He’s a chip off the old block, Bazz, Dean thought. Not sure if you’d be proud or pissed.

The buzz of Dean’s cell phone inside of his pocket stirred him out of his train of thought. When he pulled out the device and spotted Layla’s name flashing on the display, his worries about Freddy quickly subsided.

“Hey there,” Dean greeted. “How’s it going?”

“Not bad,” Layla said. “You?”

“Just working.” Dean cut a glance toward the empty seat across from him and the depression in the cushion that Freddy had made. “Every day has its challenges.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Could be worse.”

At least I didn’t get shot at today.

“Listen,” Layla said, her tone ticking up an octave, “I have a couple of free hours. I’m just running around doing errands and I’ve got Grace with me. I’m going to Pasadena to pick up some wrapping paper and a few other things. If you’re free, maybe you can come meet us.”

Take the time when you can get it, Dean thought. Layla’s still keeping you at a distance after what happened.

Dean winced as he thought about the time he traded shots with a former CIA agent in his home, the incident that prompted Layla to move out with Grace.

You brought this on yourself, Blackwood.

Now you gotta fix it.

“I’d love to,” Dean said, the prospect of him holding his daughter Grace in his arms triggering a grin. “I’ll head out now.”

“Great,” Layla said. “I’ll see you soon then.”

“See you soon,” Dean replied before he hung up, grabbed his jacket, left, and dashed down the stairwell to the parking lot where Freddy intercepted him.

“Yo,” Freddy said as he held up the plastic bag that contained a pair of footlongs. “I’ve got your grub.”

“I’m headed out for a couple of hours,” Dean said as fixed the collar of his leather jacket. “Put it in the fridge and hang tight until I get back.”

A slack-jawed Freddy shrugged. “What am I supposed to do until you get back?”

“Nothing,” Dean said. “Not a damn thing.” He stopped, turned around, and looked his protégé square in his eyes. “And if I rifle through the internet history when I get back and find you renting movies from Amazon again on the company card, it’s coming out of your paycheck.”

As Dean slipped into his Plymouth and drove away, Freddy batted his eyelids, probed the inside of his cheek with his tongue, and huffed. “It was one time,” he whispered. “Well, four, technically.”

3

PASADENA, CALIFORNIA

“Who’s Miss Rachel?” Dean said as he held his one-year-old daughter in his arms, the dull drum of Wham’s “Last Christmas” flowing out of the store speakers above his head.

“It’s a YouTube show,” Layla said as she pushed the shopping cart down the produce aisle. “Miss Rachel has a bunch of videos and songs on her page that help with language development.” She wrinkled her nose, reached out, and tickled Grace’s cheek. “She loves it.”

“Not that Grace needs any help,” Dean said. “She talks in more complete sentences than Freddy does.”

“Oh, yeah?” Layla snickered. “And how are things working out with that new sidekick of yours?”

“He’s not my sidekick.”

“What would you call him?”

“An underpaid apprentice. Maybe a glorified errand boy.” Dean shrugged. “Whatever he is, I don’t know what to do with this kid, Lay. He’s got all the best and worst parts of Cliff Bazz wrapped up into one. Every time I tell him to do something it’s as useless as a chocolate teapot.”

“Yikes.” Layla grabbed a can of cranberries from the shelf. “Keeping track of this kid sounds like a chore.”

“Day in and day out,” Dean said. “He’s also on the cusp of becoming the worst roommate I’ve ever had in my life, and I used to live with a heroin addict.”

“He’s living with you?”

“He’s sleeping on the couch until he finds his own place.” Dean huffed. “Taking into account his shitty credit score and inability to keep things clean, it might take a while. Honestly, there’s nowhere else he can really go, anyway. The kid’s got no friends and no real family to speak of.”

“I know that he’s Cliff’s nephew and everything,” Layla said, “but there’s plenty of other places that he can go. With the connections you have, it wouldn’t be too hard to find him a job somewhere.”

“I’m not too sure about that,” Dean said. “That kid would be locked in a cage right now if I wasn’t keeping an eye on him. He’s a troublemaker. But he’s also smart as hell. If the kid could just focus and apply himself, all sorts of doors would be wide open for him.”

“Speaking of troublemakers,” Layla said as she took a can of cranberry sauce from one of the shelves, “have you talked to Jeremy lately?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, smirking upon hearing his son’s name. “I spent some time at Claire’s last week with him and Geoff for a little bit. Looks like Jeremy’s developed a flair for algebra.”

“Really?”

“Must’ve skipped a generation. I still have to count on my hands when I’m filing my end-of-year tax stuff.” Dean laughed. “If Jeremy keeps up the pace, he’ll be working for NASA in the next five years.”

“Algebra.” Layla shook her head amusedly. “Claire never mentioned anything.”

“Crazy, no?”

“Very much so. Jeremy was slacking off last I heard.”

“Not anymore,” Dean said. “He’s turned a corner.” He thought back to a few years prior when Jeremy had gotten taken hostage by the same man who killed Dean’s brother. “Didn’t think he would, honestly, and I don’t blame him.”

“Claire didn’t mention that the last time I saw her,” Layla said. “To be fair, it has been a minute.”

“You two were hanging out practically every day.”

“Not as much as we used to. I’ve been hopping around on planes so much lately that I haven’t been in LA for more than a week or two at a time.”

“What for?”

“It’s my mom,” Layla said, her tone and expression strained. “All this stuff with the chemo treatments has kind of taken a toll on her. I go when I can.”

“Is she alright?” Dean said. “I mean, I knew she was diagnosed, but…” his mind drifted to thoughts about the fact that his family no longer lived with him. “I’ve missed out on the daily briefs, if you know what I mean.”

“Mom’s doing alright,” Layla said, “but the cost of the care is expensive as hell.”

“You’re not covering all of this yourself, are you?”

“I have to,” Layla said. “My sister’s living paycheck to paycheck, and my mom’s siblings aren’t lifting a finger to help out. Considering the history, I guess that’s no surprise.”

Dean averted his gaze. “Unreal…”

“It’s starting to add up,” Layla said. “At this rate, I’ll blow through my savings.”

“All of it?” Dean furrowed his brow. “All that money you made from the book deal?”

“Almost.”

“Damn.” Dean shook his head; one-point-five million dollars apparently didn’t stretch as far as it used to. “I had no idea.”

“I was going to tell you.”

“I’m happy to help.”

“I might need it.” Layla gestured to the items in the shopping cart. “Every penny counts at the moment.” She flicked a look toward the frosted, dime-sized scar on Dean’s left hand, a souvenir he took with him after shooting a guy dead in the home that the two of them—at one point—had shared. “How’s your hand, by the way?” she asked.

“I’ve got full mobility back,” Dean said. “Gave the doctors a run for their money. They told me to expect to lose some sensation in my thumb and index finger, but so far I’m aces.”

“Good for you.” Layla perused the grocery list item she had drafted on her phone. “What about Dr. Rance?”

“What about him?”

“Are you still going?”

Shit.

Dean winced.

I haven’t checked in with a shrink in months.

“I guess I lost touch,” Dean said. “With everything that’s been going on…” He shrugged.

“You think that’s a good idea?” Layla wrinkled her brow. “I mean, taking into account everything that’s been going on, maybe it’s a good idea that you start having a few sessions again.”

“I’m not losing my mind, Layla.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Layla pinned a heated gaze to Dean. “I’m just saying that having a shootout with a guy in our house on your last go-around is enough grounds to have a sit down or two with a clinician.”

“Lay—”

“Dean,” Layla cut in, “with all you’ve been through, with everything we’ve all been put through, maybe you should consider the fact that…” Her tone softened. “Look, all I’m saying is that your life hasn’t been the textbook definition of normal; maybe ever. I know I’m not a therapist, but maybe it’s possible there’s some unresolved stuff that you need to sort out.”

Maybe.

Dean nodded.

It’s more than possible.

“You try hard,” Layla said. “You do. Still, the fact that you attract as much trouble as you do, that you’ve been through one high-stakes situation after another with brief moments of ceasefire in-between means that you’ve still got some things that you need to figure out.” Layla traced her finger along Grace’s cheek. “For everyone’s sake.”

Dean knew that Layla was downright pissed by what happened eight months before. He couldn’t blame her. More than once—every few months, it seemed—he was ducking stray bullets or dodging knife attacks or pissing off some serial killer with a vendetta.

She’s right, Dean thought. None if this is normal.

“I’m sorry to ask this, but…” Dean said as he adjusted Grace in his arms, “how much longer?”

“Not long.” Layla glanced at the shopping list on her phone. “Just a few more things, and I should be set.”

“No.” Dean stepped closer to the mother of his child. “I meant how much longer until you guys come back home.”

The question made Layla’s back bolt upright.

She sighed.

Then she turned around and looked at Dean, her eyes glossed over with apprehension and uncertainty.

“I can’t answer that right now,” Layla said. “Not yet.”

“When can you?”

“I just need more time.”

“Is this an open-ended timeline,” Dean said, “or something I can set my watch to?”

“Before you came here,” Layla said, “when you were out and about today, what did you do?”

Dean squinted. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” Layla motioned with her chin toward the knee he was favoring since he arrived. “You practically hobbled in here. What happened?”

Dean decided to not tell Layla about the fiasco at the mall or chasing down the guy or Freddy running him over with his car—but the pregnant pause he took managed to tell Layla everything she needed to know.

“I’m okay,” Dean said, not knowing what else to say. “Just a little flare up.”

“Dean,” Layla braced her weight against the shopping cart, “I don’t know what you want me to tell you.”

Patience was something that had been key for Dean in the past few months. He understood that waiting until Layla made the decision to return home was solely on her and her alone—but each day that passed, every moment where Dean missed out on some milestone moment with Grace or Jeremy was time lost; cherished moments that he could never get back.

Time is luck, Dean thought. And mine is running out quickly.

“What do I have to do?” he said as Grace tugged on the zipper of his jacket. “How can I make this right?”

A tight-lipped Layla pushed her cart down the aisle. “You keep asking the same questions over and over again,” she said, “and they’re questions you already have the answers to.”

“Look,” Dean said, “I know that you’re calling the shots here, but I don’t want to wait until Grace is walking down across a stage with a diploma in her hand for you to tell me that you’re going to come back home.”

A beat passed.

Layla stopped pushing her cart.

Then she turned around, took a small step toward Dean, and slid her hand around his waist.

“I’ll never leave you,” Layla said. “Grace and I aren’t going anywhere. We’ll always be a family.”

“I know,” Dean said, his throat tightening. “You’ve said that before. But I’m tired of waking up every night to a cold spot on the bed. Plus, Freddy’s been couch surfing for the past three months until he finds an apartment; I’d love an excuse to kick his ass out.”

As the music over the store’s speakers cross-faded into “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” (the Sinatra rendition), Layla rested her head against Dean’s chest—and in turn, his heart started to beat a little faster.

During that moment, the three of them were a tight-knit, unbreakable unit.

“You’re working out more,” Layla said as she flattened her palm against Dean’s chest. “I can tell.”

“Well,” Dean shrugged, “I’ve got the time.”

The two said nothing as Grace giggled and buried her head in-between her parents' necks. How much time ticked by, Dean didn’t count it, but he logged every moment of it away to memory.

“I can’t come back,” Layla said as tremors snaked her voice, “until I know that we’re safe, that you’re free and clear of every deranged asshole on the planet who’s got some kind of grudge against you.”

It was a promise that Dean couldn’t make, one that he had tried for years to live up to—and failed—despite his best intentions.

“I’m trying,” Dean said softly. “I really am.”

“I know.” Layla looked him in the eye. “You know, Claire asked me if we would consider being under one roof for Christmas this year.” She smirked. “You should come.”

“Are you asking me to spend Christmas with you?”

“I am.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.” Layla shrugged. “We’re still family, all distance and problems aside. We should still spend the holidays together. We can call it a first step toward, I don’t know, something.”

Dean said nothing; he just smiled, nodded, and thought, I’ll take it.

4

GLENDALE, CALIFORNIA

As Dean threw open the door to his office, he shot a look at Freddy, flexed his brow, and whistled the last four bars of the theme song to The Partridge Family.

“You’re looking good, bro—is that almost a smile?” Freddy said, seated behind Dean’s desk with his feet propped up, scrolling social media on his phone. “What happened? You win some money on a scratch ticket?”

Dean approached his desk, slapped Freddy’s booted feet, and gestured for him to split by forking his thumb over his shoulder. After Freddy evacuated the chair, Dean plopped down into it, sighed, and started rifling through the stack of paperwork on his desk.

“No man,” Freddy said as he dawdled his way around the office, “should be this happy on Christmas.”

“Cheer up, Freddy,” Dean said. “Might as well lean into the season.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Freddy took the seat across from Dean’s. “My mom just called and asked me if I wanted to spend Christmas in Vegas with whatever new boy-toy flavor-of-the-week loser she’s hanging out with lately.”

“You gonna go?”

“And watch Ma chainsmoke cigarettes and play the slots until her fingers are numb?” Freddy rolled his eyes. “Pass.”

Dean put his focus on the kid for a brief second. Now that Cliff was gone, the only family that Freddy had left was his mother, and from what Freddy had said about her—and the stuff that Dean had gathered on Clarice Bazz’s background check—the woman was slowly killing herself with booze and pills and forgot half the time that Freddy was even her son.

“If you don’t go to Vegas,” Dean said, “what are you gonna do?”

Freddy thought about it and pouted his lip. “Chill at yours, I guess. Figured we could rip through a Christmas action movie marathon or something. We could watch Bad Santa and get blitzed.”

“I don’t drink.”

“I know.” Freddy threw up his hands. “And you never told me why.”

The long history Dean had with booze—and the voice in his head, Woody, that had developed as a result, though the prick hadn’t shown up for some time—was a story Dean wasn’t ready to tell his protégé.

“Bad Santa,” Dean said. “That’s the one where Billy Bob is all crotchety and talks shit to a little kid, right?”

“Yeah.” Freddy laughed. “It’s funny as hell, man. What do you say? You up for it?”

Dean knew he would have to break the news to Freddy soon that the kid would be riding solo for Christmas—but before he could, his protégé told him that someone had called the firm four times in the past hour.

“The same woman keeps blowing up the office line over and over again,” Freddy explained. “I kept hitting up your phone to let you know, but I guess you put it on silent or something.”

“I did,” Dean said as he pulled out his phone and took it off DND mode. “I was with my family.” He glanced down at the screen and saw that he had four missed calls from Freddy and three texts that read: Sup? What’s good? Where you at, big doggy?

“The person who called,” Dean said, “did you get a name?”

A slacked-jawed Freddy ogled his boss like someone just asked him for the square root of something.

“Freddy…” Dean hung his head. “Someone calls a bunch of times and you can’t even jot down a message?”

“I didn’t have a pen.”

“Good God almighty.” Dean palmed the work phone on his desk, scrolled through the recent calls list and spotted the six-three-zero area code that made three calls to the phone. “Next time, take a name.”

“Next time, don’t put your phone on silent when I’m trying to⁠—”

Dean held up his hand as he called back the six-three-zero number and heard it ring twice before the line picked up.

“Hello?” a woman greeted, her tone low and guarded as though she were hiding from something—or someone.

“This is Dean Blackwood,” Dean said. “Blackwood Private Investigations.”

“Thank God,” the woman replied. “I wasn’t sure I had the right number. Some kid kept answering and I thought I had reached a surf shop or something.”

“Interesting,” Dean said as he fastened a heated gaze to Freddy. “When he answered, what did he say?”

“He said ‘Blackwood’s office, what’s good?’”

A red-faced Dean shook his head.

Freddy smirked.

Dean decided to discuss bedside manner with the kid after the call was wrapped up.

“Well, how can I help you,” Dean said, “Miss…?”

“Brennan,” the woman said. “Angie Brennan. You were recommended by a friend to me, Erika Quint. I’m not sure if you remember her.”

“I do,” Dean said, able to recall all the memories in his life vividly without any real effort. “How is she?”

“Better since she left her husband,” Angie said. “She, uh…she mentioned that you were good at your job. She said that you might be able to help me with something.”

“I’m happy to hear that Erika recommended me.” Dean looked at the phone briefly and saw the six-three-zero area code. “It does look like your town is a little out of my jurisdiction though; I’m only licensed here in California.”

“I had a feeling that might be the case,” Angie said. “But…” Her voice trembled. “I have a problem, Mr. Blackwood. I need your help. Quite honestly, I’m desperate.”

“Okay,” Dean said. “Well, if there’s a way that I can help, I’ll try my best.”

A long pregnant pause was held on Angie’s end of the line; during that time, Dean could sense that she was holding back tears.

“My daughter,” Angie said, “was killed a few nights ago, Mr. Blackwood. She was murdered, and I don’t think that the police are doing anything to solve it.”

5

When Dean heard Angie Brennan announce that her daughter had been killed, he switched gears and slipped into “consolation mode,” a way of speaking and treating someone in the midst of a crisis, a skill that he had spent years refining back when he still worked for the FBI.

“I’m so sorry, Ms. Brennan,” Dean said. “As a parent, I can only imagine what you must be going through. Can you elaborate a little more for me on how this happened?”

“My daughter and this friend of hers were shot,” Angie explained. “I guess my daughter and a few of her friends were partying at someone’s house, and when a pair of them stepped out for more drinks and came back, they found my daughter and another boy in the basement.”

“What are the police saying?”

“That it was a break-in,” Angie said. “The sheriff seems all but sure that it was a home invasion gone wrong.”

“Do they have any suspects?” Dean said. “Any persons of interest that they’re looking into?”

“That’s the problem,” Angie replied. “Anytime I ask for an update, I get stonewalled. I know that these things take time, but the police haven’t said or done anything since the murders happened. That’s why I called. I know that people are thinking I’m acting impatient, but I know this town. I know the people. Trying to get anything in the way of a clear or coherent answer or anything close to a solution is virtually nonexistent.”

“Where are you located?” Dean asked.

“Somerset, Illinois,” the grieving mother replied. “It’s about one-hundred miles west of Chicago.”

Dean covered the mouthpiece of the cell phone with his palm, looked at Freddy, and whispered for him to pull up everything he could in the town of Somerset, Illinois. An energized Freddy flew out of his seat before Dean finished speaking, took out his phone, and tapped away on the screen.

“When did this happen, exactly?” Dean asked Angie. “How long has it been?”

“Two days,” she replied. “It’ll be three tonight.”

“When was the last time you spoke to the sheriff?”

“About twenty minutes ago,” Angie said. “The sheriff told me that I needed to just sit tight, that they were handling it and would give me something in the way of an answer before too long. Right before I left though, he said that I should anticipate that whoever did this might be long gone by now.”

The lines in Dean’s face screwed into a grimace.

The police actually said that?

What the hell is wrong with them?

“Mr. Blackwood,” Angie said, strain slipping into her tone, “I’m worried that the sheriff isn't willing or even able to figure out who killed my daughter. I believe him when he says it was a break-in, but he’s doing nothing in the way of trying to make any headway on this. You have to believe me.”

Dean nodded. “I do, Miss Brennan. I’ve had my fair share of run-ins with small town cops before. They tend to lack the resources or thinking of the bigger metropolitan police forces.”

“Resources such as yours, apparently,” Angie said. “My friend Erika told me all about you, that you used to work for the FBI. I actually tried to get the sheriff to call the FBI, but he said it was a local matter.” She huffed. “The FBI said the same thing to me when I called them directly, too.”

Freddy handed over his phone; Dean took it and perused a Wikipedia page that showed that Somerset, Illinois was a town of 30,797 people with frigid wintertime temperatures, a small sheriff’s department, and median home-value prices listed at $300,000.

“Mr. Blackwood,” Angie said, “it’s clear that the police here aren’t doing anything in the way of trying to solve this. I need your help to find the people that murdered my daughter. I’ll do whatever I have to do to get you out here, even if I have to take out a second mortgage on my home.”

Dead kids, Dean thought. I don’t like that.

I don’t like that at all.

But then he remembered his own children, Grace and Jeremy, and the fact that was going to spend Christmas with them in just a few days' time.

There’s no time.

Maybe you can consult and look at some files, but there’s no way you can solve it before Santa makes his way down the chimney.

“Ms. Brennan,” Dean said, “I wish I could help, but⁠—”

“Please, Mr. Blackwood,” Angie said. “I have no one else to turn to. I’ll pay double your rate. Whatever it takes.”

As the subject of money was mentioned, Dean thought about what Layla had said about covering the cost of her mother’s cancer treatments—and the fact that the money she was using was slowly, but surely, running out.

You could use the payday, Dean thought.

You could make some good money and put it to some use.

You need it.

Your family needs it.

“My rate is fairly lofty, Miss Brennan,” Dean said. “I’d have to bill you for the tickets and per diem⁠—”

“That won’t be an issue,” Angie interjected. “Again, I’ll do whatever it takes to get you out here. Erika said that you were the best at what you do, that you’re someone who can get results. I need that—I need you, and I don’t care what the cost of that is going to be.”

Dean sifted through his choices.

He thought about his family.

Then he told Angie Brennan that he’d be on the first flight out, relishing the idea of taking down a killer and paying to put food on his family’s plates in the process.

6

“Wait, wait, wait,” Freddy said as he held up his hands. “You’re actually going to splurge on plane tickets? The cheapest flight you’ll be able to get out to Illinois is like north of eight hundred, not to mention the fact that we’re not licensed out in that part of the states.”

Dean, as he pulled up the airline app on his phone, glanced up at his protégé. “I’m not licensed out there,” he said. “You don’t have a license at all. And just so you know, if anyone did find out you were working for me, I’d probably get fined for it by now, maybe worse.”

“What are you going to do since you don’t have a license out there?” Freddy asked. “I mean, if someone starts buzzing you up about it, what are you going to tell them?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Dean said. “But I’ve been in tighter spots before and managed to wiggle my way out of it. This is going to be routinely straightforward—questioning witnesses, looking at evidence, things of that nature.”

Freddy lipped his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “So, you’re really going to do it?” he said. “You’re really going to go out there to help this lady?”

“I am,” Dean said. “I’ve dealt with sheriff’s departments of this caliber before. They’re borderline incompetent most of the time. Plus, they don’t possess the kind of resources or know-how to deal with crimes like this. Whoever’s leading the charge there is going to write this off as a home invasion, put out an APB with little-to-no description of the suspects, and by the time anyone of any real authority gets involved, the window will be closed, and whoever did this will be either dead or long gone.”

“Wow.” Freddy flexed his brow. “You just spoke that last sentence without taking a breath. Your lung capacity must be insane. What is that? Breathing exercises or something?”

“I’m going to Somerset,” Dean said as he used his company’s credit card to complete his purchase for a round-trip ticket to Chicago. “I’m going to suss this thing out and give this woman something in the way of answers. I help her, help the police in snagging whoever killed a pair of teenagers, and cash the check before I kick back for the holidays.”

“You think you can solve it that quickly?” Freddy said. “Clear this whole thing up right before Christmas?”

“I didn’t say I was going to solve it,” Dean said. “What I can do is try and light a fire under the police department’s ass out there and maybe use the connections that I have to get some people with some know-how involved in figuring this thing out. I ask some questions, I gather some intel, and if I ruffle enough feathers, maybe that’ll get the ball rolling on this investigation properly.”

“Okay, but…” Freddy shrugged, “what about me?”

Dean paused, his finger hovering the “Confirm Purchase” button on his phone. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” Freddy said. “I mean, maybe I could come with you. Shit, I’ll just be standing around here with my thumb up my butt until you get back. Maybe it’s good if I shadow you and learn some new stuff from you or something.”

He’s right, Dean thought. Kid will just be sitting around raiding your fridge until you get back.

Take him with you.

No harm in it.

Maybe.

“I don’t know,” Dean said. “It’s gonna cost close to a couple grand here to book you a ticket.”

“You can take it out of my paycheck,” Freddy said. “Seriously, I’ll work for free if I have to.”

“You still owe me two hundred for the repairs to my car door, bud.”

“I’ll pay you back.”

“You also owe me around twenty bucks,” Dean said, “because you rented Wild Things four times on Prime Video.” He threw up his hands. “First of all, why are you watching that? And second, why didn’t you just purchase it?”

“Because I’d feel weird owning it.”

“You should feel weird renting it.”

“Please, boss,” Freddy said. “Let me go with you. I don’t want to stick around here waiting for you to come back. I can help you. I mean it. I’ll do whatever you say.”

Dean sighed.

The kid flashed an eager pair of puppy dog eyes.

Damn it, Dean thought.

He looks just like my kid when he does that.

Hell, he is a kid.

“If you go with me,” Dean said, “if I decide to let you ride along with this, we need to get some things straight first.”

The whites of Freddy’s eyes broadened. “Name it,” he said. “Anything you want. I’ll do whatever you ask, boss. You have my word.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Dean said. “Because this way of operating that you’ve been abiding by is not going to fly this time. Actually, the way I see it,” Dean inched closer to his protégé, “this little stopover in Somerset is going to serve as kind of a probationary period.”

Freddy narrowed his eyes. “How so?”

“You’ve given me a lot of grief the past few months, Freddy,” Dean said. “Taking you on board was something I agreed to do…” he thought about Cliff’s headstone, “well, for obvious reasons. Nevertheless, you’ve made it your mission during that time to see how many of my buttons you could press.”

“Boss—”

“Don’t talk.” Dean held up his hand. “Just listen. If you come along with me, you’re going to do exactly what I say, exactly when I say it. You know that old saying of when a drill sergeant asks you to jump?”

“I do.”

“Well, when a drill sergeant says ‘jump,’ what are you supposed to say in reply?”

Freddy shrugged. “Aight, bet?”

Dean sighed. “You’re following my lead on this,” he said. “There’s going to be no slack for smart-aleck remarks, no leeway for stupidity, and no room—and I repeat, no room—for mistakes. You tracking me so far?”

“Yes, sir,” the kid said “Without question.”

“I’m serious, Freddy.” Dean straightened his index finger, and pressed it into the kid’s sternum. “You screw this up, you’re gone, and you’ll be sent your final paycheck in the mail—minus the two bills for the door you dented in.”

With a straight face and pressed-back shoulders, Freddy nodded at his boss. “I understand,” he said. “You have my word.”

“Alright,” Dean said before he took a beat and ogled the kid from head to toe. “Our flight leaves in two hours out of Burbank. We’ll be in Somerset for three days max, and after that, rain or shine, solutions are not, we’ll come back home.”

“What’s the pay rate on this?” Freddy asked. “What are we charging this lady?”

“Let me worry about that.” Dean grabbed his jacket. “Just get your bags packed. And make sure you bring winter clothing. According to the page you pulled up, this place gets colder than a polar bear’s toenails.”

“Will do, boss man.” Freddy threw open the door. “Also, what’s the uh…the drink ticket situation on this flight? Is this like a pay for your own stuff kind of situation, or do I get a freebie on the company dime?”

Dean—many years sober—squinted, raised a finger, and pointed it toward the parking lot. His protégé took the hint and hustled out the door to get the Plymouth as Dean went about making the final travel arrangements.

Should I tell Layla?

No, don’t do that.

Not yet, at least.

This is just a three-day stint.

If she calls, then I’ll tell her. I just need to get to Somerset, get a few answers, and then hop on the plane back home.

After Dean shut down the computers and turned off the lights, he took one last glance around the office to make sure it was secure, glanced at the photo of him and Grace and his son Jeremy on the desk, and felt his heart swell with pride.

Make some money for your family, Deano.

You’ll be with them soon enough.

He closed the door and locked it.

Every single one ‘em.

7

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS - O’HARE INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

It became clear to Dean the moment he padded his way through the jetway and was struck in the face by hints of a bleak winter breeze that whatever clothing he packed for the trip was unsuitable.

You’re a spoiled SoCal native. Dean flicked up the collar of his leather jacket to ward off the brisk winter chill. What’d you expect?

Dean—Freddy following beside him—threaded through the terminal and made his way to the baggage claim area. After twenty minutes of waiting, his and Freddy’s luggage slid down from the chute onto the carousel, and just as Dean palmed the handle for his suitcase, he felt the phone in his pocket buzz.

“Hello?” Dean greeted.

“It’s me,” Angie Brennan said. “I uh…well, after you gave me your flight information, I thought I would take the liberty of picking you up from the airport. It seemed the least I could do since you came here on such short notice.”

“You’re here?” Dean flicked his gaze toward the exits that led out to the sidewalk. “At O’Hare?”

“I hope that’s alright. Somerset’s an hour and some change away. I figured I could spend the money on gas to pick you up instead of you wasting God only knows how much on a Lyft or an Uber.”

“That really wasn’t necessary, Ms. Brennan,” Dean said. “Still, since you’re here, I guess we’ll take you up on your offer.”

“Sounds good,” she said. “I’m pulling up to the sidewalk here shortly. I’m in a Volvo. It’s green with blue trim. I shouldn’t be hard to find. What, uh…what do you look like, so I know I’m picking up the right person?”

Freddy—somehow overhearing the conversation—stepped in and said, “He looks like Master Chief,” as he slung his green duffel bag over his shoulder, and then smoothed the wrinkles in his Kellog’s Apple Jacks t-shirt.

Dean glared at Freddy.

The kid shrugged.

Moments later, they were waiting on the sidewalk outside the terminal, their bodies rigid due to the thirty-degree weather, but they only waited on the curb for just a little over two minutes by the time Dean saw the Volvo that Angie had described over the phone.

Dean waved.

The vehicle pulled to the curb.

Then a woman with red and inflamed cheeks slipped out of the driver’s seat. She was in her late forties—Dean’s best guess—dressed in a peacoat with her sandy blonde hair tied back into a ponytail.

“Mr. Blackwood?” Angie said.

Dean nodded and offered his hand. Before he had a chance to shoot down Angie’s offer to load up their bags, she swiftly scooped them up and placed them in the back. Seconds later, the three of them piled into the car, Dean in the passenger’s seat and Freddy in the back as Angie got behind the wheel, signaled, and eased her way back into the flow of traffic.

“How was the flight?” Angie asked.

“Decent,” Dean said. “Any landing you can walk away from is a good one.”

“I’m Freddy, by the way,” the kid said as he poked his head through the opening between Angie’s and Dean’s headrests. “Freddy Bazz.”

Angie’s face tightened into a confused expression. “Are you…?” She looked at Dean. “Is he your son?”

Dean shook his head with a chuckle. “He’s my assistant.”

“PI in training,” Freddy clarified. “I handle all the paperwork, the food runs. Basically, I’m a gopher. If you need something,” he snapped his fingers, “I’m on it.”

To remind him of their previous conversation and the promises that Freddy had made, Dean shot the kid a look, flexed his brow, and in reply, Freddy nodded, sat back in his seat, and mime-zipped his lips shut.

“Thank you for picking us up,” Dean said to Angie as the Volvo cruised left toward the road that led out of the airport. “I’m sorry you had to drive all of this way.”

“It’s alright,” Angie replied. “To be honest, it was a good distraction. Not to be too much of a burden with my personal life right now, but occupying my time with anything other than thinking is more than welcome.”

“I understand.” Dean put his eyes on the woman and nodded reassuringly. “There’s no need to explain yourself. I’m here to assist you in any way that I can, even if it means you venting just to relieve a bit of pressure.”

A single tear slid down Angie’s cheek that she quickly wiped away with the back of her sleeve. “It feels like a dream. Every minute since…” she blinked her eyelids slowly, “since it happened. The hours just sort of turn into an amorphous blob of time, if you get what I mean.”

“For whatever it’s worth,” Dean said, “you have my sincerest and deepest condolences for the position that you’ve been put in, Ms. Brennan.”

“Call me Angie,” she said. “Now that I’m cutting your checks, I think it warrants us being on a first-name basis.”

“Call me Dean, then.”

She nodded. “I will.”

A few minutes of silence held sway in the car as it threaded its way out of the airport and onto I-290 West. Ten minutes into their trek to Somerset, Angie cranked the heater to full blast.

Dean scanned the terrain outside of his windows. Due to the darkness that shrouded it, he made out nothing but the occasional outline of a building or pair of headlamps that swept past them on the opposite end of the freeway. Dean had traveled enough times in his life, thanks to his tenure with the FBI, that he’d seen forty of the fifty states, but he figured he’d been in LA for long enough that everything around him felt so foreign and alien that he might as well have been on Mars.

“How long,” Dean said to Angie, “have you lived in Somerset?”

The bleary-eyed woman squinted. “Eight years,” she said. “Going on nine in February.”

“What can you tell me about the town?”

“Um…” Angie’s mouth remained open, but no words came out. After a few seconds, she rubbed her eyes, glanced over at Dean, and looked at him with a drained expression.

“You okay?” Dean said. “You want me to drive?”

“I just need some coffee,” Angie said. “There’s a diner about three miles out that we can go to. I can take the coffee to go.”

Asking the woman—the grieving mother—if she should continue staying awake for so long was a question Dean decided was one that was best left unsaid. Instead, he told her that he could use a meal, and twenty minutes later, he was seated across from Angie at a diner inside a place called “Donner’s Stop ‘N Fuel” with Freddy beside him chowing down on a slice of apple pie.

Angie, after she took the third swig of her second cup of coffee, placed the ceramic mug down on the table. “Thank you,” she said. “I felt like I was going to pass out behind the wheel there for a moment.”

“It’s no problem,” Dean said as he nodded to the three-quarters depleted omelet on the plate in front of him. “I skipped lunch today, so this was a good call.” He motioned to Freddy. “Do me a favor, ace and go get the car heated up. I want to talk to Miss Brennan here for a moment.”

Freddy’s lips parted. Dean sensed that the kid was about to fire back one of his usual retorts, but he seemed to catch himself because he nodded, pushed his plate aside, and made his way toward the exit.

“Now,” Dean said as he rested his hands in his lap and put his focus on Angie, “I want to ask you a few questions, if that’s alright. I just want to get a better, more thorough sense of what happened to your daughter.”

“Daria,” Angie replied. “Her name was Daria.”

“Right.” Dean nodded. “Daria.”

“I named her after my older sister,” Angie said. “She passed away in a car accident when I was seven. Daria was ten years older than I was. She had, uh…” Angie put her gaze on the snow falling outside, the glowing tubes of the neon “Merry Christmas” sign in the window illuminating half of her face with a shade of emerald. “My sister Daria was driving home after work one night when a drunk driver plowed into her at eight miles per hour going the wrong way. I named my daughter after her because I thought it would be a nice way to honor her memory.”

“It is.” Dean smiled sincerely. “It’s a great way to honor her memory.”

Angie ripped her eyes off of the parking lot and put them on the mug of coffee in front of her. “Most people would say in moments like these,” she said, “that they take comfort in a loved one who has passed being reunited with another one in heaven or something. Unfortunately, I don’t believe in that sort of a thing.” She picked up the mug and brought it to her lips. “Sorry if that happens to conflict with any religious inclinations you may have.”

“You have to have them,” Dean said, “to be offended.”

“So you’re an atheist?”

He shook his head. “I wouldn’t go that far. I guess I’m trying to say that I’m working on trying to better define what I believe. I think I’ve just seen and heard and experienced one too many things in my lifetime to be convinced one way or another.”

“Erikia mentioned something about that,” Angie said as she placed her mug down and cupped it in both hands. “She said you were good at what you do, that you used to be in the FBI. When I did a Google search for you, I…” she bit her lip, “well, I found a few stories. Something about taking down a corrupt ring of cops in LA and some mob members they were connected to.”

Dean cocked an eyebrow. “That was a lifetime ago.” A repressed image of his son Jeremy with a man holding a gun to his head popped into his mind. “But I still remember it like it was yesterday.”

Angie looked over her shoulder, put her focus on the table, and then leaned over it like she was readying herself to whisper a secret. “Was it true about your son?” she said. “About him being kidnapped?”

“Yeah.” Dean nodded his head slowly. “It’s true.”

“And you killed the men that took him?”

The memory played back in Dean’s mind at high speed. “Some of them,” he said. “The rest are locked up for the duration of their natural lives.”

“That’s good.” A look of relief washed over Angie. “I ask you that because I’m hoping that you can find whoever killed my daughter. There’s a lot that I don’t know, a lot of things that the sheriff does that he doesn’t want to tell me, for one reason or another. And if the stories I heard about you are true, then you’re the man that can find the person or people that took my baby girl from me. I’m not asking for vengeance, Dean—I’m asking for justice.”

“And I’ll do what I can to help you get it,” Dean said. “And I believed we agreed to continue this arrangement of ours on a first-name basis.”

For the first time since they first crossed paths, Angie’s lips parted and turned up into a genuine smirk.

“This sheriff,” Dean said as he adjusted the sleeves of his leather jacket and got down to the pressing topic on hand. “Who is he?”

“Sheriff Harlan Curtis,” Angie replied. “He’s been in charge of the whole department for, gosh, well over fifteen years. Long before I moved to Somerset.”

“What circumstances brought you there?”

“Work,” Angie said. “I’m a real estate agent. The prices of the homes in Somerset tend to fetch a pretty penny.”

“I noticed that.” Dean raised his coffee mug like he was toasting. “You must be doing well for yourself.”

Angie shrugged. “Well enough. Most people that live in the town are there for the long haul. No one really leaves. I got the job by chance because I knew a friend there. After I divorced my husband, I uprooted Daria and we moved from Madison.”

“Where’s your ex now?”

“Deceased,” Angie spoke that one word as if she were happy that was the case. “He died of lung cancer. He was a big chain-smoker. Frankly, I thought his other vices would have killed him first, but things have a peculiar way of working themselves out.”

Dean chose to not offer anything in the way of condolences.

“Anyway,” Angie said as she swiped her hand across the table as though she were brushing her late ex-husband’s name away. “After I left my ex, Daria and I came to Somerset. Didn’t take long for us to acclimate to the town. Daria was young enough that she was able to make the friends that she still has now. Plus, the teachers were great. The schools in Somerset were better than the ones we had in Madison by a long shot.” She flexed her brow. “At least they used to be.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Used to be?”

Angie pulled in the oxygen to tell, what seemed to be, a long-winded story. “There’s been a bit of a drug problem in the past few years,” she said. “Meth, specifically. No one’s really sure where it’s coming from. A few kids have overdosed. One nearly died last Spring. The sheriff’s been working, at least he claims to be, to try and find out where it’s coming from.”

Dean tapped his finger lightly on his coffee mug.

Drugs.

Very interesting….

“Daria steered clear of all of that,” Angie said. “Same with her friends. After what happened with her father passing away, I think she was too nervous to go near needles or spoons or anything like that, if you catch my drift.”

“This boy that was killed alongside her,” Dean said. “You said his name was⁠—”

“Lukas Defeo.” Angie nodded. “He went by Luke.”

“What was he like?”

“He was a nice kid,” Angie said. “I’m pretty sure he had a crush on Daria. He was good friends with Sean and Shannon. All four of them were a pretty tight-knit unit.” The light in her eyes at the memories dissolved. “Sean’s house, his father’s house, was the one they were found in.”

“Sean and Shannon were the ones who found the bodies, correct?”

“Yeah.” Angie looked down and picked at her palms, her voice low. “They found them in the basement.”

Dean had many questions, but it was clear he should get the more nitty-gritty details of the crime from the sheriff. He needed to spare Angie from reliving the memory for the time being until he absolutely needed to know some vital piece of information that only she had the answer to.

“So,” Angie said, “what are you going to do first?”

“Talk to the sheriff,” Dean replied. “Find out what he knows. If I can throw my weight around enough, hopefully I can get access to everything he has on hand.” He scooted forward on his seat. “And you seem fairly certain the sheriff’s claims about this being a home invasion gone wrong are well off the mark.”

Angie shook her head, her lips pressing together as her eyes burned with fury. “Try pure unbridled horseshit.” She curled her fingers into a fist. “I know I’m not a cop, but there’s something wrong with all of this. Something just doesn’t add up. I know I’m chalking that up to a gut feeling, but it’s one I can’t ignore.”

The periods of time in Dean’s life where he played a hunch—or like Angie had stated it, listened to his gut—to decide on whether he’d go through door A or B were well chronicled in his vault of memories. They were the moments that defined him, that made him the man that he was: a (former) hard-drinking undercover agent turned PI with a litany of closed cases and a pair of kids he rarely saw and a woman he loved who was on the fence about letting him back into her life.

“Gut instincts will take you a long way,” Dean said to Angie as he reached out and rested his hand on top of hers. “And we’ll figure this out. You have my word.”

“Thank you, Dean.” Angie took a breath and relaxed her posture. “This means everything. If you hadn't come here, frankly, I don’t know what I would have done.”

“Thank me later,” Dean said. “For now, let’s just find the people who did this.”

The server approached with the bill; Dean paid it, and moments later he followed Angie outside where he caught Freddy, eyes closed, swaying left to right to “Human Nature” playing at full blast over the car’s radio.

Good God, Dean thought. This is gonna be a long couple of days.

8

SOMERSET, ILLINOIS

It occurred to Dean that Angie Brennan possessed an ability for remembering details at a level on par with his own. As she cruised the vehicle past the “WELCOME TO SOMERSET” sign two miles on the outskirts of the town, she rattled off one trivia fact after another about the town, something that Dean figured she was doing not just to bring him up to speed but also to keep her mind off of her grief.

According to Angie, Somerset was a town over one hundred miles northwest of Chicago. The township was built up in the early 1800s because of its dairy exports.

“The dairy farms are still the big money makers around here,” Angie said as the vehicle cruised down Shanewood Avenue. “Milk, butter. That kind of thing.” She laughed absently. “I guess I’m stating the obvious, though.”

Fifteen minutes of drive time ticked by before Shanewood turned into Main Street. By that point, as the car eased down a dip in the road, Dean made out the twinkling lights of the city two miles off in the distance. The township was blanketed with powder. The buildings congregated like headstones, and the few lights that were still on twinkled brightly as the snow fell in thick sheets. The whole thing conjured up images of Norman Rockwell paintings in Dean’s mind.

“Where are you staying?” Angie asked him. “Did you book a room anywhere?”

The task was one Dean had assigned to Freddy as they were packing their bags back at Dean’s place in Eagle Rock—but when Dean heard Freddy mumble from the back seat in reply, he knew the kid had failed at the one task he had been assigned.

“No,” Dean grumbled. “I guess we were so caught up in getting the flight that we forgot.”

Angie waved him off. “There’re a few places in town you can stay. They’re not the Chateau Marmont, but the water works and the sheets are clean.”

“Four walls and a roof are all we need.” Dean put his eyes on Angie for a brief moment. “Dealer’s choice.”

The decision came in the form of the Stoney Brook Inn; a two-story, E-shaped building that looked like every other run-of-the-mill cheap motel. The lodge was on the northeast side of town, close to both city hall and the sheriff’s station.

“This’ll work fine,” Dean said as Angie eased the vehicle to a stop in front of the main office. “We’ll get started first thing in the morning.”

A timid-looking Angie nodded her head in reply. “I know you can’t offer anything in the way of solid timelines or anything, but…”

“I’ll update you throughout the process,” Dean said. “I know that the sheriff has tested your patience, but I’ll need you to save a little bit more for me.”

“That won’t be a problem.” Angie hung her head. “I’m still in the process of burying my daughter. I guess I’m trying to say that I have plenty of things to keep me occupied for the next few days.”

Dean felt his heart skip a beat. If he were in Angie’s position, if—God forbid—the same fate that had befallen her daughter ever happened to Grace or Jeremy, he knew he’d crawl back into a bottle and live there until his heart gave out.

“Is there anything I can do?” Dean said. “Anything in the way of assisting you with the final arrangements?”

“No,” Angie said as she offered Dean a weak smile. “Thank you. Everything is pretty much taken care of.”

“When’s the funeral?”

“The day after next. And if you’re offering to come,” Angie’s hands trembled, “I think it’s best if you don’t.”

Dean wrinkled his brow. “Why is that?”

“I don’t want anyone to know I hired you,” Angie said. “For a number of reasons. Besides, I’m keeping the funeral intimate. It was just Daria and me for so long that I’d prefer if it were just her and me and a few of her close friends. It sounds silly, I know, but it’s how I want it to be.”

“I understand,” Dean said. “And if there’s anything else you need in the meantime, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Just find who did this, detective.” Angie looked at Dean eagerly. “Please.”

Dean squeezed Angie’s hand, shot a look at Freddy in the rear-view mirror, slipped out of the car, and retrieved his bags with Freddy. Dean kept his focus on the vehicle as it drove off into the night, the crimson haze of the brake lights flaring in the snowfall. Once Angie was well out of sight, Dean headed inside the main office with Freddy, secured a room from the older woman with coke bottle eyeglasses, and minutes later, they strolled through the doorway of room 203 on the second floor.

“Home sweet home,” Freddy announced as he dropped the bags to the floor, appraised the pair of twin-sized beds, and dived toward the one closest to the window.

“No,” Dean said. “Take the other one.” He jutted his chin to the door. “I want a clear line of sight on the parking lot and the door.”

Like a martyr, Freddy peeled himself off the bed, did as he was told, and then looked at Dean with a kid in a candy shop gaze as his boss took out the Sig Sauer P220 Elite from his bag and proceeded to thumb-check the rounds.

“When the heck,” Freddy said, “are you going to finally take me to a shooting range, boss man?”

“I’ll take you,” Dean racked the SIG’s slide back; the click-clack of a round being chambered slicing through the room, “when you can grow more than just those three splotchy patches of hair on your face, bub.”

“How’d you get that on the plane, by the way?” Freddy shrugged. “Don’t you need, like, clearances and paperwork and all of that stuff?”

“You absolutely do.” Dean winked at the kid. “But having friends in high places tends to help a bit with that.”

Thanks again, Willy.

Dean pulled up a memory of him shaking hands with his old FBI handler.

You’re one in a million.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Dean said as he slipped off his jacket and felt the weight of jet lag bearing down on him. “We’re going to get some sleep. In the morning, we’ll get up, grab some grub, and then you’re going to do a walk around the town.”

“Sweet.” Freddy, on his bed, slipped his hands behind his head. “So, what’s my job exactly?”

“To get a layout of the town,” Dean said. “Where things are, stuff like that. While you’re busy doing that, I’m going to have a chat with the sheriff and get a full picture of what happened the night that these kids were killed. We’ll rendezvous back here at the room no later than noon.”

Freddy shot a thumbs up. “Got it.”

“Good.” Dean slid down onto the foot off his bed, groaned, and kneaded the muscles in the back of his neck. “Now get some rest.”

“Can I watch some TV?”

“Yeah, just keep it down.”

As Dean kicked off his boots and Freddy surfed the channels, he saw that the kid had landed on It’s A Wonderful Life halfway through playing.

Dean, lying on his side, closed his eyes, and tried to sleep—but he couldn’t. As he watched Jimmy Stewart hug his make-believe family on the television, he became fixated on what would happen if he suffered the same fate that Angie Brennan did.

I’d kill them, Dean thought. Every last one of them.

He closed his eyes.

Focus, now.

Sleep.

You’re here to do a job, do it right, and get paid.

Two hours later, the room was dark, Freddy was sound asleep, and Dean was on his back with his gaze pinned to the ceiling. After two minutes of deep breathing, his eyelids fluttered, and the sleep Dean craved slowly washed over him like water in a warm tub—but when he made out a silhouette that slipped into view in front of the closed curtains of the window, the Army Ranger DNA that was a part of his makeup took over and jostled him awake.

Dean sat up.

Fetched the SIG from his nightstand.

Then after he slid his bare feet off of the bed, he crept his way toward the specter positioned in the window, side-stepped his way to the door, and slid his thumb across the safety of the Sig with a soft metallic click.

Dean waited.

The silhouette didn’t move.

After a few seconds, it slunk away and disappeared from sight.

Convinced that it was just the woman running the desk or some drunk idiot meandering his way back to his room, Dean toggled the safety on his weapon, placed the chain lock into position on the door, and slid his gun under his pillow.

He rolled onto his side.

Kept his eyes on the windows.

A few moments later, Dean allowed his eyelids to close, trusted that his squirrelly little sixth sense would awaken him if the lookie-loo came by again, and drifted off to sleep.

9

DECEMBER 20TH

The last rays of dawn swept across the town of Somerset like paint strokes; rich pink colors much denser than the ones that Dean was used to back in LA. Being a Southern California native meant that Dean tended to take his home town’s consistent sunshine and temperate climate for granted. There was never any guessing, no real wonder as to what the day would hold for him—weather-wise, at least—so a place like Somerset instilled him with a sense of admiration.

It was thirty minutes past eight in the morning when Dean found himself strolling down Main Street with a hot cup of to-go coffee in hand, his neck warmed to an appropriate level thanks to the scarf he wrapped around his neck, the one that Layla gave him the previous holiday year. Dean never thought it would come in handy, and Somerset was the first time he was able to put the thing to good use.

Dean, picking up on the lingering scent of Layla on the fabric, grinned.

You’ll be home soon.

Just do what you came here to do.

Freddy—if he was doing what Dean instructed him to—was taking a walk through the other side of town to get acquainted with the terrain.

He’s doing good so far.

Dean rolled his eyes.

He’s had a few moments where I thought he might slip into typical “Freddy” mode, but he’s doing alright.

Dean, as he took a swig of his coffee, surveyed his surroundings. Both sides of him were flanked with an array of businesses: a bookstore, a pharmacy, a coffee shop, an auto-repair joint, and something that resembled an apothecary. From the little bit Dean knew about architecture—Layla had left a few books on the coffee table back at their home—most of the older buildings were false-front styles that included vertical facades and square tops that concealed gable roofs, and the buildings that looked fairly new resembled something closer to that of art deco. Nothing in the designs Dean saw were modern in the slightest; everything looked older than his father, but they were pristine and well-manicured and made him feel like he was looking at a postcard come to life.

A half-mile of walking later, Dean arrived at the steps leading up to the sheriff’s station, a two-story gothic architecture building with closed shades, climbed the steps, and tugged on the front door handle—locked.

Dean lingered for a few minutes, hoping that someone in a uniform would open up or come outside or round the corner, spot him, and let him in, but ten minutes of loitering proved fruitless, so he climbed down the steps, flicked his gaze toward Main Street, and chose to head into River Rock Financial to ask its employees about Sheriff Harlan Curtis's whereabouts.

10

Ablast of heated air struck Dean in the face when he entered the bank, soft Christmas jazz music pumping subtly through the speakers above his head. To the left of him were a pair of tellers positioned behind their stations, something that prompted Dean to furrow his brow because, unlike most places, they weren’t shielded by bulletproof glass. The tellers—both of them in their mid-twenties, Dean figured—smiled, waved, and bid Dean a Merry Christmas before the one with red hair asked Dean how she could assist him and went so far as to abandon her post so she could greet him on the floor.

“Odd question,” Dean said as he traded his focus between the red-haired teller and her companion. “But do either of you two know where the sheriff might be?”

“Um…” the red-haired teller wrung her fingers, “if he’s not at his office, I’m not quite sure⁠—”

“Good morning!” a booming voice greeted from Dean’s right.

Dean glanced to the right and saw a trio of empty desks, and beyond them, cordoned off by corrugated glass set into highly-polished wood was an office where a thick-set man in a Brooks Brothers suit hustled his way onto the floor.

“Lloyd Collins,” the man said as he offered his meaty hand. “How are ya?”

Dean forced himself to smile and shook Lloyd’s hand. “You’re the manager, I’m assuming.”

“Indeed, I am.” Lloyd clasped his hands in front of him like he spent some time behind a concierge’s desk. “How can I help you, Mr…?”

“Blackwood,” Dean said. “And I was just curious if anyone here would know how I could get a hold of Sheriff Curtis.”

“Goodness.” A look of shock lit up the bank manager’s face. “Is there a problem?”

“No, not at all,” Dean said. “I’m just in town for work, and that work entails me stopping in to discuss a few things with the sheriff.”

“What, uh…” Lloyd crossed his arms. “What line of work are you in, Mr. Blackwood?”

The way the guy asked what Dean did, the way he crossed his arms and took on a somewhat defensive tone triggered Dean’s curiosity.

“I’m a PI,” Dean said. “I’m doing some work in regard to,” Don’t mention Angie, “well, I’m sure, based on what happened a few days ago, you know what matter I’m referring to.”

The bank manager’s expression paled. “Goodness, yes.” He put his focus on the carpeted floors. “It’s just terrible what happened to those kids. Somerset is a quiet, family-friendly town. Something like that, the fact that it happened…” He looked up at Dean. “Well, it was just unfathomable.”

“That it is.”

“What are you doing for the Brennan family?” Lloyd held up his hands. “I mean, if you’re in the position to answer those kinds of questions.”

“Insurance,” Dean lied through his teeth. “I was hired by one of the family’s carriers to get an official report in-person of what happened. Needless to say, the circumstances are a bit out of the norm, so they’re requiring some boots on the ground here to sort everything out.”

The bank manager narrowed his eyes. “Wouldn’t the insurance company send one of their own people?”

Dean had his dishonest reply ready. “They contract out to firms like me in special cases like this one.”

“Right,” Lloyd said. “I suppose that makes sense.” He flashed a forced grin. “And you need to speak to the sheriff to get the ball rolling on that.”

Dean nodded. “It would help.”

“Well, if he’s not at the station,” Lloyd clapped his hand on Dean’s shoulder and steered him toward the exit, “he’s most likely at home.” He motioned to the doors. “His place is just a few blocks from here. 2217 Windsor Drive. It’s hard to miss.”

“Thank you kindly.” Dean offered his hand. “I appreciate it.”

After the two men shook hands, Lloyd hustled over to the doors, held one open, and motioned with his chin toward the street, the gesture prompting Dean to contemplate why the bank manager was trying so hard to act overly kind while also making it a point to shoo him off as quickly as possible.

“Sorry to just barge in on you like this,” Dean said. “You do seem to be in a bit of a rush this morning, Mr. Collins.”

“My apologies, Mr. Blackwood.” Lloyd gestured to his tellers. “We’re just in the midst of evaluations here today and getting ready for the holiday rush. We’re a small town, and it appears that anything more than business as usual around here tends to play hell on our delicate little ecosystem. It’s just me and Miss Crawford and Miss Filmore holding down the fort.”

“I see.” Dean did a quick scan of Lloyd—all the while wondering how the hell a guy on his salary could afford a Brooks Brothers suit—and then nodded politely to the tellers. “Thank you again.”

“No problem at all,” Lloyd said. “And have a Merry Christmas!”

“Yeah.” Dean turned up the collar of his jacket and angled his body away. “Merry Christmas.”

Dean turned on his heel.

Lloyd closed the door.

The first thing Dean muttered under his breath as soon as he was out of earshot was a single word. “Weird.”

11

As Dean made his way down Windsor Drive, he started to consider that not a single home or business or building in Somerset wasn’t in pristine condition. Like Main Street, the houses on Windsor were immaculate and arresting; not one shingle or leaf on a hedge was out of place. Even the snow that carpeted the lawn appeared polished, and the holiday decor on the lawns and roofs didn’t possess one single burnt-out bulb or ornament that didn’t look like it was placed there by some anal-retentive stager.

Surveying the mailboxes, Dean saw the number 2217 on his left, the name “Curtis” stenciled into the mailbox, and terminated his stride. He turned his gaze up to the house, his eyes probing the three-story tudor painted cobalt blue and the hobby room being built on top of the garage.

“Good God,” Dean whispered. “The sheriff’s salary is better than an ambulance chaser.” He shook his head. “I’m in the wrong line of work.”

Dean nudged open the wrought-iron gate, he stuck his hand in his pockets, climbed onto the porch, and knocked twice on the door.

A handful of seconds ticked by.

The door opened.

Then Dean put his eyes on a six-foot tall gentleman with dark skin and a thin but toned body that looked like regular exercise was this man’s norm.

“Morning,” Dean greeted. “You Sheriff Curtis?”

The man—Dean knew without a doubt it was Curtis based on the bleary-eyed cop look on his face—squinted and looked over Dean’s shoulder. “Who’s asking?”

“I am,” Dean said. “The manager at the bank, Lloyd Collins, told me I could find you here.”

“Is that so?” Curtis puffed his chest defensively. “And who the hell are you?”

“Dean Blackwood.”

“Is that name supposed to mean something to me?”

“It’s Scottish,” Dean said. “And it doesn’t mean a damn thing. It does to the person who contracted me for my services though, the person who asked me to come down here and ask a few questions about the night Daria Brennan and Luke DeFeo were killed.”

Curtis's shoulder dropped. “You’re a private investigator,” he grumbled. “Aren’t you?”

Dean nodded. “That I am.”

“Well, PI,” the sheriff stepped out onto the porch, “if you’re looking for some level of cooperation from me, you’ll have an easier time trying to keep a pair of white shoes clean in a mudslide.”

“What’s your bet,” Dean held up a finger, “that not only can I get your help but also get a walkthrough of the crime scene as well?”

The sheriff flashed an amused grin. “Try me.”

“I don’t need to try anything,” Dean said. “I just need to put a few calls into my old SAC’s office over at the FBI field office in LA. The two of us are still on pretty good terms, so if I tell him that some small-town sheriff is stonewalling me on a basic inquiry, he'll get some of his Bureau chums to come down here and take over the case for me. In turn, they’ll pull you around on a leash for days on end and force you to pull God only knows how much overtime, and me,” he shrugged, “well, I still get to cash the check.”

Curtis clenched his molars to the point Dean could hear them creak.

“So,” Dean said, “how about we blow past the ‘get out of my town’ shtick and take a ride to where this crime took place. What do you say?”

A beat passed.

The sheriff reached behind him.

He grabbed his coat on the rack beside the door, stepped out, and locked the door behind him.

12

Dean tried to tally how long it would take Curtis to light up a cigarette after he took note of the yellow stain between the index and middle finger on the man’s right hand; three minutes after he piled into the sheriff’s rig—one minute shy of what Dean figured—Curtis reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a pack of Pall Mall, and held them up.

“You mind?” Curtis said

Dean shook his head and prayed that Curtis would roll down his window, which he did. As the sheriff proceeded to pop a cigarette in his mouth and light it, Dean chewed up the time scanning the street—Mulberry Road—through the windshield. Like everything in Somerset, the homes and corners and streets signs looked like something off a polished suburban stretch on a movie backlot.

“Sorry for giving you a hard time back there,” Curtis said as he took a drag of his cigarette and tapped the ash out the window, the sliver of a chill that slipped inside licking at Dean’s cheeks. “Past few days, everything that’s happened…” he cut a bleary glance at Dean, “I’m a bit on edge.”

“I’ve had my fair share of late nights myself, Sheriff,” Dean said. “No offense taken. And just so we’re on the same page here, I’m just here to piece together a narrative of what happened.”

The small-town cop took a long hard drag of his cigarette. “Who hired you, by the way?”

“That’s confidential.” Dean shrugged. “You understand.”

“Don’t give me that shit.” Curtis tossed his cigarette butt in the stale cup of coffee nestled in the cup holder. “You want me to be on the level, then be on the level with me. Was it Luke DeFeo’s family? Angie Brennan?” He cleared his throat. “Someone from a different agency?”

Dean hid a smirk.

He’s nervous.

He thinks the Feds are looking into this.

He’s a guy looking after his bottom-line with a nice house and a nice lawn, just like everyone else in this town.

“No one’s here to rock the boat, Sheriff,” Dean assured him. “Interested parties are looking for something in the way of answers; that’s all.”

“And what qualifies you?” Curtis asked. “Look, I want to know a little more about the guy knocking on my door asking questions. Hell you haven’t even shown me anything in the way of a badge for chrissakes.”

Dean reached into his pocket, pulled out the private investigator shield in his pocket, and slapped it on the dash. The sheriff leaned forward and ogled it with a pinched expression, and after he was done verifying the credentials, he sat back, turned the cruiser east and drove onto another street.

“Los Angeles,” Curtis said as though it triggered a sour taste in his mouth. “You’re not even licensed to work out here. I’ve got half a mind to turn this puppy around and drive you straight to the airport.”

“When we’re done taking a walk through the crime scene,” Dean replied, “and you’ve done a background check on me, you’ll see that my claim of having friends in high places is true.”

“Why? Were you a Fed or something?”

“Ten years.” Dean put his eyes on the sheriff. “Give or take.”

Curtis flexed his hand on the steering wheel, and took a bit of the salt out of his town. “What happened,” he said, “is pretty straight-forward. Four teenagers were drinking and hanging out, two of them stepped out to make a beer run, and when they came back, the place had been ransacked and the two kids that were still in the house had been shot.”

“What was taken?” Dean angled his body toward the sheriff. “You’re cashing all your chips in on this being a home invasion, so tell me why you think that is.”

“A big-screen TV was taken,” Curtis held up a finger, “ten grand in vintage vinyls,” another finger, “a five-thousand-dollar bottle of Pappy Van Winkle, and about six-thousand dollars in stereo equipment.” He fixed a stone-faced glare on Dean. “That’s a robbery.”

Dean whistled. “Twenty-one-thousand bucks in total,” he said. “Maybe you’re right.” He shrugged. “Who was robbed?”

“Michael Patterson. His son Sean was one of the two kids who discovered the bodies in the basement.”

“What does his old man do?” Dean smirked. “Pappy Van Winkle isn’t exactly a brand of whiskey you pick up at Vons.”

“He owns and operates Mel’s,” Curtis said. “It’s the local car shop.”

Dean furrowed his brow. “Patterson must be gouging his customers to be able to afford top-shelf whiskey and six grand in stereo speakers.”

The sheriff shook his head, the expression on his face similar to that of a professor when a student isn’t able to answer an obvious question. “Somerset is a thriving town,” he said. “Everyone here does well for themselves, and the cost of living is low. The economy here has been booming for some time. Patterson does well and charges high prices because everyone does well. Hell,” the sheriff’s lips twitched into a hint of smirk, “I’m drawing a nice little salary myself; way better than back in when I was in Ohio.”

Dean’s face became a study of skepticism. “So people do well around here because of the dairy and butter exports? If Patterson is living the way he does, the people working the farms must have their own private space shuttles.”

“Patterson was loaded before he opened that shop,” Curtis snapped. “You want to know the truth? He inherited a pretty penny from some rich aunt of his in Dallas.”

“Sounds legit.”

“It is.”

“If you say so.”

“Look here, man.” Curtis slowed the cruiser, pulled off to the side of the road, and put it in park. “Let me be real with you…”

Curtis's hand drifted toward his sidearm.

Dean’s hand crept toward the SIG stuffed in his hip holster.

13

Curtis, his eyes pinned to Dean, said nothing for several moments as he tapped his finger against the weapon in his holster.

Please don’t, Dean thought. It’s way too early in the morning for gunshots.

“Look,” Curtis said, “I’m a cop in a small midwestern town. The last murder that happened here was back in 2002. A wife put three slugs in her husband because he was raising his hand to her. Until then, the extent of my troubles have been bouncing drunks out of bars and keeping tabs on the kids around here to make sure they don’t get behind the wheel after they throw a few back.”

Dean said nothing, his focus on the sheriff as he rested one hand in his lap and kept the other two inches away from his SIG.

“What happened,” Curtis went on, “is by far the single most heinous thing I’ve ever had to deal with.” He angled his body toward Dean. “But I’m not an idiot. Sheriff of a podunk town or not, I know a break-in when I see one.”

“You think it has anything to do with the drug problem I’ve heard about?” Dean said. “I’ve overhead there’s been a meth problem plaguing Somerset in recent memory.”

“It’s possible,” Curtis said. “Honestly, I was worried something like this might happen. We’ve had a handful of overdoses in the past year. I also caught two kids from the high school with about six grams of the stuff last September.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “You must have something in the way of a lead, something you’re doing to pinpoint who’s pushing⁠—”

“It’s a small town, Mr. Blackwood,” the sheriff cut in. “I’ve got ten deputies on my payroll and one detective; we’re short-staffed and under-equipped, but I’m sure you already had a sense of that. And to answer your question on how I’m trying to get ahead of this drug problem, I’ve put a few feelers out to the DEA to try and get something in the way of answers.”

“What did they say?”

“Same bullshit they always do.” Curtis winced. “They always tell me ‘we’re working on it.’ Look, I’m not ruling out that this was a drug-fueled incident, and if there’s a possibility that you can help me figure out what happened to those kids, I welcome it.” He cleared his throat. “And I apologize for being as standoffish as I was with you when you first knocked on my door. Again, I’ve just been at a loss the past few days trying to figure out what happened.”

The sheriff’s hand drifted away from his holster.

Dean did the same with his SIG.

“I understand,” Dean said. “Like I told you before, I’ve been in your position plenty of times; more than I can count. Again, once you run a background check on me, you’ll see that for yourself.”

Curtis took a beat. “Good,” he finally said. “Then consider me at your disposal. My department included. But I do ask that you exercise some discretion while we go about investigating this. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

Curtis nodded, put the cruiser into drive, and pulled away from the curb. Minutes later, almost as if God himself were trying to remind the sheriff about the drug problem that Somerset faced, they cruised past a vagrant on a bench. The man twitched, foam dribbling out of his face as his eyes rolled back in his head.

Curtis pulled over.

He called for an ambulance.

Dean stood by and watched the homeless man overdose for six straight minutes until it rolled in. When the EMTs arrived, they quickly gave the man a dose of Narcan, and as the vagrant’s vitals stabilized, Dean surveyed the scenic homes on the block and wondered how much of this very same thing was going on behind closed doors.

14

After EMTs stabilized the homeless man and took him away to Somerset General, Dean and Curtis got back in the car, drove three blocks, and pulled up to a three-story, coffee-colored Colonial Revival nestled in the center of the block.

“Michael and his son,” Curtis said as he slid out of the driver’s seat, “are staying at the Ramada at the moment until we’ve cleaned the place up. Someone’s coming around four to give everything a polish. They should be home by tonight.”

“Is it just the two of them?” Dean said.

“Luke’s mother passed away from cervical cancer when he was about two,” Curtis explained. I was around at the time. Sean took it pretty hard. Any kid would, but he’s kept his nose clean. He’s never been a bother to anyone. Folks like him.”

“Good kid, huh?”

“As stand up as they get. Same with his father Michael. Guy’s pretty salty; he’s got a bit of an edge on him, but no one really has a bad word to say about him.”

“So, no bad blood?” Dean said. “No enemies that Luke or Michael might’ve had that you know of?”

“No, not that I know of,” Curtis said. “Michael and Sean are good people, as far as I know.”

Dean, following behind Curtis as they stepped on the walkway that cut jaggedly through the lawn, surveyed the block as he made his way toward the porch steps.

“Watch your step when we go in there,” Curtis said as he climbed the porch with Dean. “There’s, uh…still some stains and whatnot.”

Dean lingered on the porch as the sheriff produced a pair of keys and proceeded to unfasten the locks, his curiosity piqued when he spotted the bay window to the left of the front door that had been smashed inward.

Someone might’ve come in that way.

He glanced over his shoulder at the neighbors’ homes.

Ask him about witnesses here in a second.

Once the locks had been unfastened and the sheriff pushed the door open, Dean tailed him into the vestibule, and—just like he had with so many crime scenes before—picked up on the lingering scent of death that clung to places where people had been killed like a curse.

Dean, hands in his pockets, stepped into the foyer. On his left was the living room, the Christmas tree beside the fireplace overturned, several of the ornaments that were on it busted to bits along the floor. On his right, Dean saw the dining area where a large chestnut cupboard and matching sideboard had been smashed with what looked like a metal pipe.

Drawers had been pulled out.

Dishware had been chucked on the floor and demolished.

The same conditions applied to the kitchen where all of the cabinets and drawers had been strewn along the floor.

“They took some silverware,” Curtis said. “The expensive stuff.” He flexed his brow as Dean did a walk-through of the kitchen. “Michael Patterson blew his top to the point I almost thought the guy was going to have an aneurysm for a moment.”

Dean logged away mental snapshots for later reference. Everything, like the sheriff had said, indicated a break-in to the point that it was almost excessive. Once Dean was finished with his assessment of the kitchen, Curtis led him to Michael Patterson’s study which, just like the rest of the house, had been ransacked and torn apart and left to look like someone lobbed a few grenades into the room.

“Downstairs,” the sheriff said in a dire tone, “is where we found them…”

Dean followed Curtis to the door that led to the basement, the sheriff’s shoulders hunched up as he opened the door and inched his way down the staircase—and the scent that Dean picked up in the vestibule grew more pungent as they arrived at the bottom of the staircase.

“That there,” Curtis said as he gestured to the boiler, “is where Sean Patterson discovered the bodies.”

The sheriff hung out by the bottom of the staircase as Dean inched his way toward the furnace. In front of the furnace a series of yellow evidence markers peppered the ground, six chalk outlines the size of AA batteries—shell casing outlines—and two large puddles of blood that had darkened to the point that they appeared black.

Dean crouched down by the puddles; his heart dropped into his stomach as he envisioned Luke DeFeo’s and Daria Brennan’s lifeless bodies sprawled out on the floor.

“They were shot three times each,” Curtis said. “Luke DeFeo was shot once in the sternum and twice in his head. Daria Brennan was shot once in her hip, once in her sternum, and once in the head.”

“Caliber weapon?”

“9mm.” The sheriff gestured to the chalk outlines of the shell casings. “We had to send the casings to a lab in Chicago to have it analyzed. I’m working on pulling records of gun owners in Somerset who have the same caliber of weapon.”

Dean huffed. “It’s probably more than a few.”

The sheriff flexed his brow. “Nearly half…”

“When you found the bodies,” Dean said, “how were they positioned?”

“On their sides,” the sheriff said. “Daria was on her left side, Luke was laying on his right. I have photos you can look at for reference.”

Moments later, Dean found himself staring at the screen of the sheriff’s phone where a photo of the bodies of Luke DeFeo and Daria Brennan was displayed.

“He was a big kid,” Dean said as his eyes probed the snapshot of Luke DeFeo’s body. “Could’ve been an offensive lineman if he wanted to.”

“Six-two, two-hundred pounds,” Curtis said, sounding glum. “My guess is he put up a fight, based on those defensive wounds on his hands there.”

After he zoomed in on the image, Dean saw—as Curtis pointed out—scratches on Luke DeFeo’s right hand. Swiping left on the phone, he saw no injuries on Daria Brennan other than the gunshot wound just below her left clavicle; the one in her left hip; and the shot that killed her two inches to the left on her forehead.

“They were shot standing up,” Dean said, his stomach tensing into a knot as he pulled his gaze off of the photo.

“Correct.”

“These shell casings,” Dean gestured to the outlines on the floor, in groupings of three, spaced six feet apart from one another, “the way the shots were fired, the area where the casings landed, would indicate that two shooters were responsible.”

“I agree.” Curtis motioned to the staircase. “My theory is that Luke and Daria were upstairs fooling around when our prowlers broke in through the front. The kids got spooked, the prowlers pulled their weapons, then they brought them down here and shot them in an effort to cut down on the noise.”

“Interesting.”

“How so?”

“Two people break into the home,” Dean said. “They come here to knock it over. Then they saw a pair of kids inside, and instead of fleeing, they killed them.”

“I don’t understand,” Curtis said. “What’s the problem with that?”

“It’s pretty aggressive, is all. If the people who broke into the house were that committed to ransacking it, if they had no problem killing a pair of kids, then the people we’re looking for have a proclivity for a high-level of violence.”

“And that,” Curtis said, “is why we need to find the sons of bitches who did this and make sure that they rot in a prison cell for the rest of their lives.”

“What we need,” Dean said, “what we should consider, is getting the FBI involved in this. I used to work there. I can pull some strings and make it happen.”

“I’m going to find them, Blackwood.” Curtis held his head high. “This is my town. These people are my responsibility, and I need to show them that the law here in Somerset doesn’t play games when it comes to everyone’s safety.”

Foolish, Dean thought. More than a little arrogant.

But it wouldn’t be the first time that something like that has happened.

Dean put his focus on the wooden floorboards above his head. “I hope you’ve got something in the way of a witness,” he said. “Maybe one of the neighbors?”

“Just one,” Curtis said. “Rance Wilkes. He lives across the street.”

“Just one witness?”

“Half the block was gone the night it happened. Some of the younger couples who live on the block left about a week ago; visiting family for the holidays and things like that. Wilkes was the only one close by who heard everything. The other two neighbors that were around at the time didn’t hear or see anything.”

“Well,” Dean turned and made his way toward the staircase, “one witness is better than none.”

“Sure,” Curtis said. “But there’s a slight issue with that.”

“Meaning what?”

The sheriff stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Remember when I said Rance Wilkes heard what happened?”

Dean nodded.

“Well he that’s because only heard what happened,” Curtis repeated. “Not saw. Wilkes is blind in both eyes.” He flexed his brow. “Literally.”

15

When Rance Wilkes opened his door, Dean saw that his irises were tinted with a milky-white mist. Wilkes was also older—late 70s, early 80s, Dean guessed—based on the thin, film-like quality of the man’s skin combined with the liver spots and the slight tremble in Wilke’s posture.

“Sheriff,” Wilkes said, his voice weak, and the same went for the smile he had on display. “Figured that was you.”

“Morning, Rance,” Curtis said. “Got a friend with me.”

Wikles nodded. “Uh-huh.” He huffed. “Heard you boys scuffling this way while I was eating.”

Dean scraped his boot across the welcome mat. “I’m Dean Blackwood, Mr. Wilkes. I’m a private investigator.”

Wilkes smashed together his wild and bushy eyebrows. “Private dick, huh?” He nodded at Curtis. “What’s wrong, Sheriff? Your department outsourcing nowadays?”

“Mr. Blackwood here,” Curtis said, “was hired by a third party to look into the incident that happened a few nights ago. Being that you were the only one who heard anything, he’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“I’ve got the time.” Wilkes shrugged. “Got nothing on the docket today except waiting for my hip to break.” He stood aside. “Just brewed a fresh pot of coffee. Help yourselves.” He turned and shuffled his slipper-clad feet into the living room. “I’d offer to pour it for you but I can’t see worth spit, apparently.”

Dean smirked as he stepped over the threshold and ambled his way into Wilkes's living room; the scent, as he expected, was stale and coated with a lingering aroma of Bengay.

“So,” Wilkes said as he slipped down with a grunt into a crimson-colored high-back chair, “where are you hailing from, PI man?”

“Los Angeles,” Dean said as he stood politely at attention with his hands clasped in front of him. “City of Angels.”

The old man’s face puckered into a grimace. “Went there a handful of times back when I was still working for Allstate. Didn’t care much for it. A little preppy. People are full of themselves out there. I’d say ‘no offense,’ but I don’t like apologizing for how I feel about certain things.”

Dean’s lips bowed up into a grin. “I share the sentiment, Mr. Wilkes.” He glanced to his left, his interests tickled by the dusty curio cabinet with the Marine Corps paraphernalia stored inside. “Korea?” he asked. “Vietnam?”

Wilkes’s lips tightened into a razor-thin line. “Ia Drang Valley,” he said. “First battle of the war. Took some shrapnel to the back on the second day from a stick grenade. Couldn’t walk right after that. Still managed to serve another full tour before I left.” He raised his hand and brushed it over his face. “Glaucoma took my eyes back in ‘95.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’m not big on sympathy, PI man.” Wilkes dropped his hands to the armrests. “I am big on my peace and quiet though, so if you don’t mind, I’d like you to ask your questions and get a move on as soon as you can.”

“Fair enough,” Dean said as he paced the shag-carpeted floors, the whole house appearing unchanged since somewhere in the late 1980s. “I’m sure you know all about what happened to those kids across the street a few nights ago.”

The old man shook his head. “They shouldn’t have been drinking, kids that young. Still, they did in my day, and they’ll continue to do so long after I’m gone. That being said, it still wasn’t right what happened to them.”

“No,” Dean said as he slipped down onto the couch across from Wilkes. “It wasn’t. And I’m curious to know if you heard something out of the ordinary.”

“Like gunshots?” Wilkes laughed. “I’ve heard my fair share, but in a neighborhood like this, it definitely sounded out of the norm.”

Curtis jutted his chin. “Wilkes here was the one who called the police.”

“I was getting to that,” the old man said. “And I called you boys after I snagged my Colt from the safe. Wanted to make sure whatever was happening didn’t spill onto my side of the street. Blind or not, I can still put a bullet where it needs to go if the moment is pressed on me.”

Dean pouted his lip. “Blind guy at a shooting range is something I’d pay at least a few bucks to see.”

Wilkes flared his nostrils. “Ah…” He crooked a finger. “A PI with a mouth on him, I see.”

“A PI with limited patience and an insistence that we cut through the cantankerous old man bit,” Dean said. “From one veteran to another, Mr. Wilkes, time is of the essence, and as much as I would love to shoot the breeze with you, I just don’t have the time. Two people are dead—kids—so I’m sure you can understand the gravity of the situation.”

An amused countenance came over the old man. “Iraq?” he said. “Afghanistan? You sound like a younger man.”

“Afghanistan,” Dean said. “75th Ranger Regiment.” He could see Curtis through his peripherals looking at him inquisitively. “Folded my knee back about ninety-degrees in the wrong direction.”

“Ouch.”

“I said something to a similar effect when it happened.” Dean laughed. “Plus or minus an expletive.”

“Same went for me when I saw that grenade land beside me before it went off,” Wilkes said. “Screamed louder than I ever have or ever did again when it happened.” He blew out a chuckle. “And in terms of the night of those murders, I didn’t hear much, but I’m happy to tell you what I told the sheriff here.”

“Anything will help,” Dean said. “Whatever you heard, no matter how innocuous it may have been.”

“It was late,” the old man began. “I stay up until around one in the morning nowadays.” He waved his hand through the air. “It’s hard for me to catch anything in the way of consistent sleep. Anyways, I was sitting right here where I am now when I heard a pair of kids passing by the front of my house—two of them, a boy and a girl. I’m sure that was the case because my other senses had to compensate for the pair that I lost.”

“Do you remember what time that was?”

“Must’ve been around eleven or eleven-thirty,” Wilkes said. “I gotta go by my internal clock now to judge the time. I heard them walk past, then maybe twenty or thirty minutes after that, I heard a car pull into the Patterson home.”

“After that,” Wilkes went on, “that car that parked at Patterson’s home shut off the engine. Then I heard two pairs of footsteps shuffle to the house. After that, it was quiet for about ten minutes until I made out some glass breaking.”

The bay window, Dean thought.

“After that happened,” Wilkes said, “I heard some scuffling. Things being knocked over, stuff like that. When I heard the window break, I didn’t think much of it. I heard those kids partying in the house beforehand—music, laughing, that kind of thing. I figured one of them must’ve gotten drunk, done something stupid, and broke a window in the process. Then I heard shots: six shots total, three a piece.”

“How far apart were the shots?” Dean said. “How much time passed between each shot, I mean.”

“Two, maybe three seconds,” Wilkes said. “Got a feeling it was one man taking three separate shots.”

Dean flicked his gaze at Curtis.

The sheriff said nothing.

“After that,” Wilkes blinked his eyes and threw up his hands, “I heard the front door open, and one person moving back to that big old car.”

“Just one?” Dean said.

“Just one,” Wilkes said. “After that, whoever it was, they fired up the engine, tore ass out of here, and by that point I was calling Curtis with the phone in one hand and my gun in the other.”

One man, Dean thought as he logged away Wilkes’s statement to memory. One shooter. “Anything else?” he said to Wilkes. “Anything you think might help?”

“That was pretty much it,” Wilkes said. “About ten minutes after I made the call, the sheriff and his boys came rolling through here. It was all sirens and voices after that.”

“There were only two more houses on the block that were occupied at the time,” Curtis said. “We questioned the folks that were home, but they were asleep. The gunshots woke them up. By the time they poked their heads out to take a look, our shooters were gone.”

“From the way Wilkes makes it out,” Dean said, “there was just one shooter.”

“Pretty sure it was two,” Curtis said, “but we’ll look into it.”

Dean smirked.

Met the sheriff’s gaze. He didn’t feel right about the way Curtis was trying his best to remain expressionless.

Wilkes shook his head. “You know,” he said, “Somerset is a quiet town. That’s why I moved here. Nothing much happened before the night those kids got killed. But I tell you,” he raised a withered finger and waved it in Curtis's direction, “and no offense to you, Sheriff, but a guy with no eyesight like me can still sense when a place like this is starting to go from quaint to disagreeable. It’s got a scent like the one you probably picked up on when you walked into that house, Detective.”

Dean said nothing as he stared deep into the old man’s frosted, unblinking eyes.

16

Dean, seated in Curtis's office at the Somerset Sheriff’s Station, took the manila folder that Curtis handed him that contained all the facts and evidence the sheriff had on hand.

“Thank you.” Dean held up the file. “I’ll make copies of this and bring it back to you ASAP.”

“There’s not much in there that you already didn’t hear from me or Wilkes,” Curtis said as he slipped down behind his desk. “Like I said, we’re still waiting on most of the lab stuff from the forensics people in Chicago. I was given a seventy-two hour window of which,” he checked his watch, “we’re currently twenty-six hours into.”

“Something about what Wilkes said is nagging me,” Dean said as he sifted through the file. “This whole ‘one shooter versus two’ scenario.”

“Again, it’s possible,” Curtis said, “but Wilkes is an old man with shit eyesight.”

“He’s got ears like a bat though.”

“Is that a commentary on his ability to pick up on things or the fact that he’s got a bunch of hair sticking out?”

“Both.” Dean laughed. “All I’m saying is that we should entertain the idea that this might’ve been just one shooter.”

The desk phone on Curtis's desk chirped to life, the sheriff giving Dean the “one minute” gesture as he answered and placed it on speakerphone.

“Go ahead.”

“Sean and Michael Patterson are here,” one of Curtis's deputies said. “I put them in the conference room. They’re waiting there now.”

“We’ll be right there.” Curtis hung up the call and motioned to Dean. “I’ll give you about twenty minutes with the two of them. I’m not trying to stonewall you or anything like that. These two have just been through the ringer, and quite frankly,” he arched an eyebrow, “Michael Patterson is a bit of a hard case. It was hard enough trying to get him to agree to come down here in the first place.”

Dean tucked the manila folder under his arm. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to talk with someone who was bullheaded, Sheriff,” he said. “I’ll try to keep it brief.”

Moments later, Dean walked with Curtis down a narrow hallway, a trio of cells on his left and a plexiglass window on his right that looked into the bullpen of the sheriff’s station where cops in creme-colored uniforms answered calls, loitered at their desks, or congregated in small groups to chat. As Dean rounded a corner with the sheriff, he saw a series of three rooms and was led to the door in the middle where he peeked into through the wire-mesh glass in the door and saw two people, a teenager and a man well into his 70s, seated quietly behind a metal desk in the center of the room.

Dean eyeballed the teenager—Sean Patterson—a kid with a strong jawline, raven-colored hair, and blue eyes that he was sure made the girls at his school take a second glance. The man beside him—his father Michael—thickly-muscled despite his age, stared at the floor, clenched his jaw, and crossed his arms defensively.

17

As Dean stepped into the interrogation room, Sean looked up at him with reddened eyes as his father Michael continued to gaze obstinately at the floor.

“Sean, Michael,” Dean greeted. “How are you guys?”

Sean nodded.

Michael said nothing.

“I’m Dean Blackwood,” Dean said as he pulled out a chair, placed the file down on the table, and sat. “I’m a private investigator here to look into the incident that took place at your house. I just want to ask you a few questions. It shouldn’t take long. I’ll have you out of here before you know it.”

Michael Patterson lifted up his head. “Curtis,” he said, his voice booming and cutting through the room like a gunshot, “when am I getting my house back?”

“Few hours,” the sheriff said as he leaned against a wall. “Cleaning crew is showing up soon to take care of everything. We’ve got everything we need. If you want to wait, I can arrange for you and Sean to stay longer at the⁠—”

“I just want my goddamn house back,” Michael grumbled. “I’ve been sleeping on stiff sheets and a sagging mattress for three days now.”

“I understand.” Curtis nodded his understanding. “And I’m sorry for⁠—”

“I don’t want apologies, Sheriff.” Michael pivoted his focus to Dean. “And I don’t like me and my boy sitting here answering the same questions over and over again. I want to know who stole my shit, where they are, and an estimate on how much time you’ll allow me to spend in a locked room with them.”

Curtis said nothing.

Dean sat back and took over the reins of the conversation. “Mr. Patterson,” he said, “I just need a quick rundown from Sean of what happened.”

Michael shrugged. “You have his statement.” He glared at his son. “The one where he told you that he was drinking and partying and having people traipse around my house like some kind of degenerate punk who’s lost his goddamn mind.”

A pale-faced Sean’s mouth dropped open. “Dad⁠—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Sean!” Michael slapped the table hard, to the point that it left a minor indentation. “I leave town for the first time in years trusting that you,” he pointed a finger at his son, “would exercise something in the way of responsibility. And what do you do? You have your friends over to drink my booze and mess up my carpets and two of them,” he held up the corresponding fingers, “two of them end up getting shot in my basement. They’re dead, Sean, all because you couldn’t⁠—”

“I know what happened!” Sean shot up from the table, tears streaming down his cheeks. “They were my friends, Dad. Daria and Luke are dead and you’re acting like⁠—”

Michael stood and balled up a pair of fists. “Sit your ass down…”

“Why can’t you act like this isn’t killing me?”

“Sit down right now, boy!”

As Dean watched father and son close in on one another, the two of them circling each other like dogs on the verge of tearing at each other’s throats, he stood up, raised his voice, and shouted, “Enough.”

Michael Patterson turned away from his son and directed his fury at Dean. “Who the hell are you to tell me what to do?” he said. “I’ve had to suffer through⁠—”

“You’ll suffer through an official FBI inquiry and a shitload of other troubles that’ll chew up the next six years of your life if you don’t calm down,” Dean said coolly. “Try me if you think I’m bluffing.” He nodded toward the sheriff. “Curtis here will tell you all about it.”

Michael looked at Curtis.

The sheriff—who had pulled up Dean’s background and learned who he was an hour before—nodded confirmation.

“Now sit down,” Dean grumbled. “The both of you.”

A beat ticked by.

Michael sat down.

Sean proceeded to do the same.

Dean, waiting to be the last man standing, took a seat at the table, and then continued on with his inquiry. “Now, Sean.” He put his eyes on the kid. “Tell me what happened the night that Luke and Daria were killed.”

The kid gave him the full scoop: he threw a party, stepped out with Shannon to get more booze, came back, and found his two friends murdered in the basement. Once he was finished, Dean turned to Michael and asked him his side of the story.

“I got a call from Curtis,” Michael said, his face screwed into a sneer, but his tone was calm and even. “He told me what happened, so I hopped in the car, and drove straight here from my sister’s place. Broke the speed limit God knows how many times getting back home. I checked that Sean was alright, then Curtis sent me and him to the hotel to stay put until he sorted it out.”

“Your sister,” Dean said. “What’s her name?”

“Linda.”

“Where does she live exactly?”

“Aurora,” Michael said. “I was just stopping by to visit her. She’s been moping around her house all by herself since her husband died last year.” He shook his head. “No loss to humanity when that guy kicked it, believe me. I was supposed to be with her for a few days, but I drove straight here the second Curtis called and told me what happened. Goddamn miracle I didn’t crash.”

Dean recorded everything—without the assistance of a pen or paper—because his brain did all the work for him. “Curtis believes this was a home invasion,” he said. “But the question has to be asked if you had anything in the way of enemies, people that might have a grudge against you or Sean.”

“No.” Michael shook his head. “Nothing like that. Ever.”

“You’re sure?”

Michael’s eyelids narrowed into slits. “I’m sure.”

“What about you?” Dean said as he swept his gaze toward Sean. “Any enemies at school? Bad blood? Stuff like that?”

“No, sir,” Sean said as he stifled a whimper. “I’ve never had problems with anyone. Neither did Luke or Daria.” Tears glazed his eyes. “It’s fucking messed up what happened to them.”

One question after another, Michael and Sean stuck to their stories. Dean had no sense that either of them were being deceptive; they were combative and a bit rattled, but their narratives lined up.

“I think I’ve got everything I need at the moment,” Dean said as he rapped his knuckles on the table, stood, and made his way to the door. “If I have any follow-up questions, I’ll talk to the sheriff here first before I reach out to either of you.”

“I just want things to go back to the way they were, detective,” Michael said. “I’ve got a full plate right now dealing with this stupid son of a bitch right here.” He nudged Sean with his elbow. “The second we’re allowed back in our home, he’s gonna be placed under lock and key until the second coming of Christ.”

As a professional, Dean couldn’t get involved in personal, interfamilial matters; it wasn’t his place to say or do anything—but as a parent of two children, he couldn’t stand idly by and listen in to some short-tempered midwesterner verbally thwacking his own child over and over again.

“Mr. Patterson,” Dean said, his expression pinched, his eyebrow twitching. “How would you feel if you were in Sean’s position?”

Michael’s face creased, his reaction similar to that of a guy sucking on a lemon. “I am in his position, Detective.”

“No.” Dean shook his head. “I mean, how would you feel if you just lost two of your friends and were forced to live through what might be the most defining moments of Sean’s life? What would be going through your head if you were looking up to your father for something in the way of guidance and he was calling you a ‘son of a bitch’?”

“You telling me how to parent my kid now?”

“I’m telling you to cool it,” Dean said. “Your son needs a father right now, not a drill sergeant. And if I have the slightest inkling that you’re raising your hand to this boy, mark my words, I’ll make it my mission to not only find out who killed these kids but to see to it that you spend as much time as humanly possible locked up for child endangerment.”

Michael flashed a crooked smile.

Dean puffed his chest.

The temperature in the room felt like it ticked up five whole degrees.

“Sean,” Michael said, his tone cool but still glazed with a hint of intensity. “Let’s go and grab something to eat.” He looked at Curtis. “You let me know when I can go back to my house, Sheriff. The sooner the better.” He put his eyes back on Dean. “And I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around, Mr. Blackwood. If you need anything, just stop by my shop.” He shrugged. “If you’d like a private sidebar, I can close up early for you.”

Not deterred or intimidated in the slightest, Dean nodded, smiled, and said, “Will do, Michael. You can count it.”

Michael and Sean left the room.

Dean turned and faced Curtis.

The sheriff said something but Dean was too fixated on Michael Patterson, who he was, and what made a guy like him tick.

18

“How much does a Brooks Brothers suit go for?” Dean asked.

Freddy shot Dean a puzzled look, pulled out his phone, did a quick search, and came up with a few options. “Low end is around three to four hundred,” he said. “The higher end stuff will set you back a little over a grand.”

“Do me a favor,” Dean said, seated by the nightstand next to his bed as he cleaned and oiled his SIG. “Find me the nearest retailer around here.”

“You looking to upgrade your wardrobe, boss?”

“I’ve never been big on suits; the fabric is too itchy.”

“You got plaque psoriasis or something?”

“Just look up the nearest place someone could get their hands on a Brooks Brothers ensemble around here and quote me some prices.”

Under a minute of searching was all it took for Freddy to pinpoint a warehouse fifty miles outside of Somerset that housed a collection of Brooks Brothers apparel. At a minimum, Freddy explained, it would cost a guy around twelve-hundred to buy before tailoring and adjustments, something that Dean was certain the bank manager he shook hands with had made with the three-piece he was wearing when Dean stopped by to ask for directions.

“I don’t get it,” Freddy said as he put his phone in his pocket. “Why are you so fixated on the suit?”

“I’m fixated,” Dean said as he slapped the magazine into the SIG’s mag well, “on why so many of the citizens in Somerset are able to afford such nice things around here.”

The kid shrugged. “Cost of living is cheaper out here than back in LA, boss.” He held up a finger, “Gas,” another finger, “food,” he threw up his hands. “Everything around here is going to cost way less than it would back home.”

“Still,” Dean said, “something feels off. Unless people are maxing out credit cards around here, I get the feeling that they’re doing well for themselves—maybe a bit too well.”

“Meaning what?”

“I don’t know. Not yet, at least. I need to do a little more probing before I can come up with an answer that I like.”

“Speaking of probing⁠—”

“If you’re about to crack some off-color joke, Freddy…”

“I’m not.” Freddy plopped down onto his bed. “I was just going to ask how your line of inquiry has been going.”

Dean smirked.

Line of inquiry.

The kid’s starting to pick up on the lingo.

“I’ve met a bit of resistance as expected,” Dean said. “But I’ve gotten a few of my questions answered.” He went on to tell the kid about his day thus far: meeting the bank manager, stopping by the sheriff's house, riding with him to the crime scene, walking through it, the blind witness, and the sit down he had with Sean and Michael Patterson, not a single detail spared including the somewhat abusive relationship Sean and Michael Patterson had.

“Yeesh,” Freddy said. “Makes me kind of glad my old man’s liver crapped out before I could remember him.”

Freddy’s background check popped into Dean’s brain, specifically the part about the kid’s father, Travis Beem, who keeled over when Freddy was eight months old.

Kid has had a rough go of it, Dean thought as he glanced at his protégé. He could’ve turned out worse, all things considered.

“I also spoke to Luke DeFeo’s parents for about an hour,” Dean said. “Like every other family in this town, they’re cleaner than the Cleavers. I did background checks on both the DeFeo’s as well as Angie Brennan on her daughter on our PI databases. Everyone checks out. Other than Luke DeFeo’s father owing a few grand on his taxes last year, which he’s slowly paying off, it looks like everyone here is on the up-and-up.”

“What about the Pattersons?” Freddy said. “Anything unusual on them?”

“As far as I can tell, no,” Dean said. “Curtis gave me the full rundown of the Patterson family. Michael Patterson is a bit of an asshole, but that’s not illegal.” He shifted his weight. “What about you? What did you learn during your little walkabout today?”

Freddy flexed his brow, stood, and clasped his hands behind his back, calm and composed like a kid presenting a book report. “Somerset is a sweet town,” he said. “Self-contained. Everything you need here is within walking distance. And it’s nice, like you mentioned. Everything is in great shape. Not a single thing looks out of place.”

“What about the kids?” Dean asked. “The teenagers? The kids who go to high school? Did you cross paths with any of them?”

“I didn’t get much face time with them,” Freddy said, “if that’s what you’re asking. The few that I did see looked a little strung out.”

“How so?”

“Did you go to any parties in high school? Big blowouts? Things like that?”

Dean shook his head. “Wasn’t really my scene.”

“Well,” Freddy winked, “I did. There was this one kid, Greg. He used to throw two big parties a year at his parents’ house on the lake. The party would go from like five to around two in the morning or until the cops broke it up. Killer house, by the way. I made out with this girl Lauren Shipley one night.” Freddy smirked hardcore. “She was really sweet, but she had this crooked tooth⁠—”

“Freddy,” Dean waved the kid off. “Get to the point.”

“Right.” Freddy cleared his throat. “Anyway, the next day after Greg’s get together, everyone that was there, which was like half the school, were hungover during first period. They were walking around like zombies. The reason I’m telling you this is because half the kids I saw while I was around town looked like the kids I knew the day after one of Greg’s parties.”

Dean squinted, his attention fixated on the conversation he had with Sheriff Curtis about the drug problem that plagued Somerset.

Is it that rampant?

Are most of the kids around here doped up?

Could it really be that bad?

“So,” Freddy said, “what happens now?”

“What happens now,” Dean replied as he holstered his SIG, grabbed his jacket, and moved toward the door, “is me questioning Sean Patterson’s girlfriend. She was with him when Sean discovered the bodies.”

“Sweet.” The kid scooped up his denim jacket from the bed. “Where are we going?”

“This is a situation that won’t be a ‘we,’ Freddy.” Dean twirled the room key on his index finger. “I’m going to do this solo.”

“Yeah.” Freddy groaned as he tossed his jacket on the bed. “I kind of had a feeling.”

“Just stay put until I get back,” Dean said. “I won’t be long. Once I’m finished, I’ll be back to assess what we’ve got on hand and go from there.”

“What should I do?”

Dean palmed the door handle. “Read a book.” He motioned to the TV. “You watch too much of that stuff anyway.”

“What are you?” Freddy said as he slipped down onto his bed. “My school guidance counselor?”

“If I was, I would have shipped you off to boarding school by now.”

“You sound like a 60s sitcom dad.”

“We are living in a 60s sitcom, Freddy,” Dean said as he opened the door. “It’s like My Three Sons, except in this situation I prefer to call it My Insolent Subordinate.”

“Lame.” Freddy rolled his eyes and kicked up his feet. “You’ve had snappier one-liners before, boss.”

“I know.” Dean proceeded to close the door. “I blame it on the jet lag.”

Once Dean stepped out of the room, he closed the door and zipped up his jacket, and as he went down the steps toward the ground level he could make out Freddy whistling the theme song to I Dream of Jeannie at a pitch high enough for him to hear.

19

Dean stood behind Rachel Traven as she opened the door to her daughter’s bedroom. He could see her daughter Shannon lying on her side in a bed. The window shades were closed. A musky aroma of sweat clung to the air. Even though the room was dark, Dean could still make out Shannon’s groggy expression and the reddened glaze in her eyes; the look of someone who took more than the recommended dose of the nighttime decongestant.

“Shannon, baby,” Rachel cooed from the door. “There’s a man here that wants to see you.” She motioned to Dean. “He’s a detective.”

A weakly Shannon blinked her eyes once, mumbled, turned over on her other side, and said nothing.

“Shannon,” Rachel said as stepped into the room. “He needs to talk to you, sweetheart. Just for a few minutes.”

“No,” Shannon said. “I don’t want to.”

“Honey, it’s important⁠—”

“I said no.” Shannon swiped out her hand and knocked over the vintage, 1980s style digital alarm clock off her nightstand. “Just leave me alone.”

Rachel turned her gaze up to Dean, her expression equally as depleted as her daughter’s. “I’m sorry, Mr. Blackwood,” she whispered. “She’s been inconsolable ever since…”

Dean replied with a faint smile. “It’s okay. I can come back another time. There’s no rush.”

“I’ve already answered every question the cops asked me,” Shannon grunted. “How many more times can I answer the same thing over and over again?”

Dean slipped his hands into his pockets. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can only imagine how unfair this has all been to you.”

“You don’t know.” Shannon shot up, punched her fist into the pillow beneath her to fluff it, and then pinned her glossy eyes to Dean. “You’ve never seen your friends get killed before.”

“I have,” Dean said. “More than once, actually. It’s something that you can never get over. You keep replaying it in your head over and over again. After a few days of that, you start to feel like you’re going crazy.”

Shannon said nothing.

She sat up.

Then she drew a pillow toward her chest as though it were a riot shield. “You’re a cop?”

“Private detective,” Dean clarified. “A friend of a friend hired me.”

“Who?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.” Dean stepped into the room. “What I can tell you is that I’m trying my hardest to find the people that hurt your friends.”

Shannon tapered her eyes. “What are you going to do when you find them?”

With a smirk and a flex of his brow, Dean replied, “I’m not at liberty to say.”

Shannon traded off looking at her mother and then Dean, her demeanor more relaxed as she swung the bed comforter off her legs. “I can tell you what happened,” she finally said. “You probably heard it all already though.”

“There might be something you could tell me that would help,” Dean said. “That’s why I came by. But you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. I understand. I’ve spent my fair share of days and nights confined to my bedroom too. I get it.”

Shannon shook her head. “It’s fine.”

Dean looked at Rachel, nodded, and then inched his way further into the room as Rachel told Dean she would be in the kitchen and then stepped out.

“How are you feeling?” Dean asked.

“Shitty,” Shannon said. “Thanks for asking.”

“That’s expected.” Dean noticed the Duran Duran poster above the bed. “I didn’t think kids your age were into bands like that.”

Shannon glanced over her shoulder at the poster. “They’re better than most of the stuff that’s out there today. Lot of people are into Taylor Swift.” She grimaced. “I’m not one of them.”

“I hear you. I prefer the oldies myself.”

“Like Def Leppard?”

Dean laughed. “Not exactly. I’m into the older catalog stuff. Think more along the lines of Martha and the Vandellas, The Supremes. Stuff like that.”

“Never heard of them.”

“Try them out,” Dean said. “You might like them. Puts me in a chipper mood during the days I feel like swiping a clock off of my nightstand.”

“I’m sorry.” Shannon reached down and picked up the clock radio from the floor and replaced it on the nightstand. “I’m not one of those people that throws and hits stuff. I just don’t know how to describe how I’m feeling right now.”

“You’ve got a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions running through you,” Dean explained. “Too many to process. Anyone in your position is entitled to a fit or two. You’ve got a few get out of jail free cards right now after what you’ve been through.”

Tears flowed freely from Shannon's eyes as she squeezed the pillow pressed against her chest. “Why would someone hurt them?” she said. “They never did anything! Luke and Daria were the nicest people I ever knew.” She threw the pillow aside and held her head in her hands. “This is so wrong.”

Dean nodded. “It is,” he said. “And I promise you that I’m trying my best to find the people that did this. I just need to know what you know. I want you to take me through that night step-by-step, but only if you’re willing to. If you want to stop at any point and tell me to leave, I’ll be out of here in a flash.”

After she wiped her tears, Shannon pulled air deep into her lungs, and then proceeded to tell Dean the story: Shannon stepped out for a beer run with Sean, came back, and then Sean discovered Luke and Daria’s bodies in the basement of his father’s home. Every detail of Shannon’s version of events was the same as Sean’s; it all lined up.

“Have you talked to Sean?” Shannon said. “What did he have to say?”

“Same thing you did,” Dean said. “Both of you were very thorough with your stories.”

“How is he?”

“Haven’t you talked with him?”

“No.” Shannon gazed out the window that looked out to the snow-paved street. “I haven’t talked to Sean in two days. I just…” she closed her eyes, “I just can’t. Sean’s tried to call me, but I can’t bring myself to talk to him. We’ve texted a couple of times but that’s pretty much it. I hope he’s not mad at me.”

“I didn’t get the impression that he is,” Sean said. “He’s having trouble dealing with all of this, same as you. It’s just going to take some time to find a way to deal with it.”

“I love him.” Shannon’s twitched into a hint of smirk. “I do. I just feel like sleeping all day. Part of me thinks that if I just sleep long enough I’ll eventually feel better.” She winced. “Does that make sense?”

“It does,” Dean said. “There’s been a handful of times in my life where I tried to use sleep as a kind of time machine, if that makes sense.”

“I just keep thinking that the more time I put between myself and that night the more the memory will fade,” Shannon said. “I’m curious if it works. You said so yourself that you tried it before.”

What to tell a grieving victim—much less a kid—was a situation Dean had found himself in more times that he’d like to count. No matter how much textbook training or in the field experience he had though, every time felt like the first.

“Bad things like what happened to Luke and Daria,” Dean said, “will always stay with you, Shannon. I hate having to tell you that, but it’s the truth. The trick is to try and use that pain, to channel it into something.” He shot his chin toward the alarm clock. “You knocking that thing off your nightstand is a perfect example.”

Shannon furrowed her brow. “How so?”

“You channeled your anger at that moment,” Dean explained. “You looked for a way to displace the emotions that you were feeling, and you fell back on one of the oldest tricks from the Book of Being Human—anger as a way of coping. As someone who knows that particular trick more than well, I can also speak to its downsides.”

Shannon’s eyes shimmered with anticipation.

“It ends up controlling you,” Dean told her. “The more you give in to anger, the more you tumble deeper down that rabbit hole. It becomes untenable after a while. You end up becoming a bitter, revenge-seeking drone.”

“Is that what happened to you?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “It did. But then a man came along, a good friend of mine who offered me a choice.”

Shannon scooted forward on her bed. “What choice?”

The memory of Dean’s old mentor and friend Kent Wilson played back in his mind. “To have a badge and a gun and all the training one needs to track down people who hurt other people,” he said. “To have the ability to use the anger and remorse I felt over losing someone I cared about for something good—so I did.”

“You became a cop?”

“An FBI agent, actually.”

Shannon’s eyes widened. “You’re in the FBI?”

“Was,” Dean clarified. “I’m in the private sector now. I take the cases that I want, cases like this one, and try my hardest to see to it that people like your friends Luke and Daria are given the justice they deserve.”

“You’re a lot better at talking to people than the sheriff is.” Shannon rolled her eyes. “He was treating me like I was involved somehow, like I had something to do with it, which I didn’t.”

“I believe you. Cross my heart.” Dean cocked his head to the side. “But that makes me curious.”

“Curious how?”

“Curious about the people who did have something to do with this.”

Shannon shrugged. “I wish I knew,” she said. “The sheriff keeps saying it was a home invasion or whatever.” She squinted at Dean. “Do you think it was?”

“I’m not sure,” Dean said. “What I am sure of is that you and Sean didn’t have anything to do with this, which means that there’s someone out there who did have something to do with this that we need to find.” He pointed a finger. “That’s where you come in.”

“How?” Shannon said. “I told you everything that I know.”

“Not everything. You see, we know what happened and how it happened—the question we have to ask now is why it happened.”

“A motive.”

“Exactly.” Dean said. “So why would someone want to hurt Luke and Daria? Who would have the motive to do what they did to them?”

Shannon took a beat.

She squinted.

Then she said, “Rory Parker.” She closed her eyes and lowered her voice to a hush. “Rory fucking Parker.”

20

Dean logged the name “Rory Parker” away to memory. “Who is he?” he asked Shannon. “And how do you know him?”

“Everyone knows Rory,” the teenager replied with a scowl. “If you look up ‘dickhead’ in the dictionary⁠—”

“There’s a picture of Rory in it?”

“Bingo,” Shannon said. “Anyway, Rory used to be in our class but he got expelled last semester. His brother owns the bar near the hardware store. It’s called ‘The High Card.’”

“And from the sounds of it,” Dean said, “Rory has some beef with someone in your group.”

“Rory has beef with everyone in town,” Shannon said. “But with our group,” she turned down her eyes, “Sean is definitely at the top of his shit list.”

“How come?”

“I’m not sure,” Shannon said. “I never got the whole story. Whatever it was, it happened right before Rory was expelled. I always had a feeling that Sean had something to do with that, but whenever I asked him about it, he wouldn’t tell me.”

“Do you guys tell each other everything?”

“Pretty much.”

“Would you say that it was odd,” Dean said, “that Sean didn’t tell you what his problem with Rory was then?”

“A little,” Shannon said. “But I didn’t think it was that big of a deal, so I didn’t really press Sean about it. Still, whatever happened between Rory and Sean, it was enough of an issue that Rory messed with Sean’s house a few times.”

Dean squinted. “What do you mean?”

“After Rory got expelled,” Shannon explained, “he egged Sean’s house a few times. A week later, he drove his car across Sean’s dad’s lawn and tore up the grass. A few days after that, Rory threw a rock through Sean’s bedroom window. After that, Sean’s dad complained to the sheriff. Rory pretty much backed off after that.”

As Dean soaked in the information and let his brain sort it out, he sat back, ran his palm across the stubble on his chin, and entertained the scenario of some high-school punk killing two of his fellow students out of spite.

Is it enough of a motive though, slick? he thought.

You can’t really say for sure until you look into the kid’s background a little more…

“If I were you,” Shannon said, “I would definitely ask Rory a few questions. Even if he didn’t have something to do with what happened to Luke and Daria, he’s probably up to something else that he’s trying to hide from the police.”

“Really?” Dean said. “How so?”

Shannon’s skin paled as she leaned in toward Dean and started speaking at a library-appropriate volume. “There’s like…” she said as she threw a glance toward the door, “a really bad drug problem here. Everyone knows about it. A lot of it comes through our high school, at least that’s the rumor. Not that anyone would care about what I have to say, but when Daria and Luke were…” she choked on her next words, “killed, I couldn’t help but think maybe the stuff that’s been going on at the high school had something to do with it.”

Dean squinted.

Two dead kids.

A steady stream of drugs.

He flicked his gaze out the window toward the light-up Santa on Shannon’s front lawn.

And a partridge in a pear tree.

21

DECEMBER 21ST

Somerset High School—according to what Freddy had pulled up for Dean on Google—occupied ten square acres of land. It was west of city hall, which placed it, based on the Google Earth image, more or less smack-dab in the middle of Somerset.

Dean, as he surveyed the Georgian-style campus, was reminded of his old stomping grounds in Pasadena.

Good ole days. Dean thought back to the years of torment and pain and anguish that were cornerstones of his high school years. For some.

A wave of heated air washed over Dean as he stepped into the admin offices, an unassuming layout; a pair of desks were on his right, two of cordoned-off offices on his left, and a large office in the back where the title “DR. FELICIA CRAVEN” had been printed into corrugated glass above the door handle.

Dean glanced at the two women seated at the desks to his right, one of them sporting what Dean couldn’t help but think was a “Karen-esque” haircut who offered him a tight-lipped grin before putting her attention back on the desk phone pressed to her ear.

Dean made a beeline for the office in the back, a sickly sensation settling in the pit of his stomach as he recalled the dozens of times he had been called down to see the vice principal or some guidance counselor or a figure of equal authority back when he was a kid. In all of an instant, he was like he was sixteen years old all over again being marched into a firing squad for mooning kids on the running track, a story equally as juvenile as it was true.

“Relax,” Dean whispered as he arrived at the back office and rapped his knuckles on the door. “No one’s going to suspend you…”

A beat ticked by after Dean knocked on a door before a subdued yet imposing voice beckoned for him to enter.

Dean twisted the handle. Nudged the door open. Laid eyes on a dark-skinned woman dressed in a slate-hued business suit shuffling papers across a standing desk.

“Good morning,” the woman greeted as she looked up briefly from her paperwork at Dean. “The, uh,” she snapped her fingers to seemingly jog loose the word stuck in her head, “boiler is building C. I just sent the custodian over there to let you up to the roof when you’re ready. My apologies in advance for the expletives one of our students scribbled on the tank. I’m not sure what I’m more disappointed in—the curse word or the fact that whoever did it couldn’t spell it correctly.”

“I see,” Dean said as he stood at attention. “What does it say?”

“‘Somerset High Sux Dix,’” the woman said. “They subbed out the ‘C’ and ‘K’ for Xs.” She let out a sarcastic groan. “Clever, no?”

“Ten gets one you have an idea who did it.”

“I know for a fact who did it,” the woman said. “Luckily he was expelled last semester. All that’s left is literally scrubbing the remnants of his legacy from the handful of places he decided to lift his leg up to mark it.”

Dean’s eyebrows met in the middle. “I don’t suppose his name is Rory Parker, is it?”

The woman turned up and narrowed her gaze. “You’re not here to fix the boiler,” she said. “Are you?”

“I’m afraid not.” Dean stepped closer to the desk. “I have a hard time resetting the circuit breaker at my house most of the time.” He offered his hand. “And I assume you’re Doctor Craven.”

“I am.” Craven reached across the desk and shook Dean’s hand. “And you are…?”

“Dean Blackwood.” Dean took out his PI credentials in his jacket pocket and presented them. “I’m a private detective.”

“Ah, yes.” Craven nodded. “I know why you’re here.”

“Your ears must’ve been burning.”

“It’s as easy as putting two and two together, Detective. You’re here about,” Craven tapped a finger on the desk before she continued, “well, about what happened at the Patterson house a few days ago.”

“I’m afraid so,” Dean said. “And it looks like the trajectory of my investigation has steered me here to Somerset High.”

“And what does the nature of your visit today entail exactly, Mr. Blackwood?”

“I spoke to Shannon Traven a little under an hour ago.”

“Poor thing.” Craven crossed her arms. “How is she?”

“As well as anyone would expect given the circumstances.” Dean glanced over his shoulder at the pair of women in the main office, their heads poking up curiously above their desks. “When I spoke with her, she mentioned someone who had, as she referred to it as, ‘beef’ with Sean Patterson.”

“Rory Parker,” Craven grumbled. “To be fair, I don’t think there’s a single student under my supervision that hasn’t had some kind of run-in with that kid. If Somerset is the OK Corral, Rory Parker is our Johnny Ringo.”

“Good movie.”

“It’s on my husband’s top five list.” Craven flashed a smile. “Some of the trivia and quotes from it have rubbed off on me despite my best intentions.”

Dean matched the administrator’s smile. “I’m just here to probe around a little bit, if that’s alright.”

“Does the sheriff know you’re here?”

“He does.”

“You know,” Craven said, “I was actually one of the first he spoke to after Luke and Daria were murdered.”

“Really?” Dean said. “And what did he ask you?”

“What I assume you’re about to ask me, Detective Blackwood,” Craven said. “If Luke or Sean or Shannon or Daria had any problems with anyone at the school.”

“What’s your PhD in, Dr. Craven?”

“Clinical Psychology.”

“Well,” Dean smirked, “it was money well spent, Doctor.”

Craven flashed a weak smile. “Muttering out loud that Luke and Daria were murdered still doesn’t make it feel real, to be honest with you.”

“How are the students handling it? Somerset has a low crime rate, so something like this must have caused quite an upheaval.”

Craven nodded, made her way to the classic wooden desk in the back of the spacious room and sat, Dean taking it as a cue to slip down into one of the two chairs across from hers.

“It has caused an upheaval,” Craven said. “There’s been this air of apprehension lingering around not just the school but the entire town since it happened. You must have sensed it.”

“I have,” Dean said. “Everyone has a certain level of unease about them.”

“Where are you from, Mr. Blackwood?” Craven asked, her tone pitched up an octave as she scanned Dean’s face. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Los Angeles.”

“And who hired you?”

“My client prefers to remain anonymous during the course of this investigation.”

“Why is that?”

Dean shrugged. “It’s just their preference, Doctor Craven.” He straightened his back. “But I get the sense that they’re worried about ruffling the wrong feathers, maybe even triggering something in the way of reprisals.”

“Interesting.”

“How so?”

“Oh, nothing,” Craven said. “Let’s just say that I’ve seen my fair share of intimidation practices being implemented around here during my tenure.”

The statement tickled Dean’s curiosity. “Could you expand on that a bit?” he said. “If you don’t mind.”

The administrator breathed deeply, biding her time as she peeled her eyes off Dean and put it on the framed credentials near the door. “Rory Parker was well known for bullying a good number of students around here,” she said. “Bullies are ingrained into any high school campus, but with Rory, it was a little different.”

“How so?”

“How much do you know about the drug issue here in Somerset?”

“Bits and pieces,” Dean said. “And I imagine as a school administrator, you’ve encountered the blowback from some of this.”

“I worked in Chicago before I came here.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Craven said, “that in a city as ripe with violence and drugs as a place like Chicago is, the frequency of it is almost second to that of Somerset. It’s something that I’ve had a hard time wrapping my head around when taking into account this town, its citizens, and the fact that people move here to be free of the kind of inner-city turmoil that you would normally find in major metropolitan cities.”

“So,” Dean shrugged, “how does Rory Parker tie into all of this?”

Craven surrendered her hands like she was being cross-examined on a witness stand. “I can’t state anything definitively, Detective.”

“Nothing about this conversation is on the record, Doctor.”

The administrator tapped her finger on the table. “I had a feeling,” she said, “though I could never find proof of it, that Rory Parker was dealing drugs in this school. All I had to go on were a handful of student and faculty statements to attest to this; one or two, really. Most everyone on this campus prefers not to get involved.”

“No one wants to be a rat.”

“No one wants to be collateral damage,” Craven clarified. “Perhaps that’s why whoever hired you is preferring to remain anonymous.”

“Shannon Traven,” Dean said, “was inclined to think that it was possible what happened to Luke and Daria might have had something to do with Rory.”

“Do you?”

“I’m not sure,” Dean said. “At this point, Rory is just a person of interest.”

“Well, if he were still enrolled in this school,” Craven said, “I’d have called him down here so that you could ask him yourself.”

“Why was he expelled?”

“I caught him pummeling a kid with a chair,” Craven said. “I had been wanting to kick Parker to the curb like I did his older brother four years ago. The two of them are lackluster students with zero respect for proper authority. Until they committed physical acts against other students, I didn’t have anything concrete to cite for either of their dismissals. We have a zero-violence policy here at this school, you see.”

“That’s good,” Dean said. “Kids back in my day could beat someone to a pulp and get off with nothing more than a formal reprimand.”

“Well, that’s not how I operate,” Craven said. “I pride myself in making Somerset High the institution that it is—well, was. Until the local PD can pinpoint where this drug problem is flowing from, it feels like this institute is slowly but surely falling by the wayside.”

A few moments went by as Craven stood up, rounded the desk once again, and sat on the edge of it, her eyes wide and brimming with concern.

“Detective Blackwood,” Craven said, “I think that it’s possible Shannon Traven was correct in bringing up Rory Parker’s name. While I have no clue what being an investigator entails, I do know that this young man has been involved in some…well, let’s call it ‘seedy activity’ in this town. That may or may not have something to do with these murders, but a big part of me believes that it has a lot to do with why our once sterling town has developed a rind on it recently. What I am asking,” she sighed, “what I’m imploring you to do is what the Somerset Sheriff’s Department has seemingly failed to do time and time again.”

Dean shrugged. “Which is?”

Craven leaned in close and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Question that little son of a bitch, find out what he’s been up to, and ring him by his scrawny little neck.”

22

The trio of teenage girls that Dean spotted at their lockers as he made his way toward the street conjured up thoughts of home, of his own children and where they were and what they were doing at that very moment. He pulled out his cell phone, plugged in Layla’s number, and heard her voice answer after two rings.

“Good morning,” Layla said.

“Same to you.” Dean checked his watch; it occurred to him that Somerset was two hours ahead of West Coast time. “I guess it’s still morning on my end.”

“Where are you?”

“Oh, just a cozy little town a hundred miles outside of Chicago.”

“Last minute Christmas shopping?”

“Not exactly.” Dean glanced to his left, pulled up his mental map of Somerset, and made his way west toward the heart of town. “I’m just in the middle of sifting through something.”

“Work?”

“I got hired to do a little snooping out here,” Dean said as he arrived at an intersection, turned left, and made out the domed, snow-capped rooftop of City Hall two miles in the distance. “Freddy’s with me.”

“Will you be home in time for Christmas?” Layla asked. “Everyone’s asking if you’re going to make an appearance.”

Dean nodded. “I’ll be there. I was going to ring up Claire at some point today to see if it was alright if I crashed at hers for the holidays.”

“I’m sure she’d be fine with it.”

“It’s still good if I ask.” Dean quickly played back the memory of him engaging in hand-to-hand combat with the assassin in his home months prior. “I think I lost the ability to pull a Kramer and just let myself in through everyone’s front door for a while, if you know what I mean.”

Layla said nothing; she didn’t need to.

The hint of a whimper that Dean picked up over her end of the line said everything.

“Is Grace with you?” Dean asked.

“Yeah,” Layla said. “She’s here.”

“Can I talk to her?”

“Absolutely.”

A moment later, Dean’s daughter came over the line, the brisk and rigid breeze that swept through the town and turned his skin to ice was warmed over the moment he heard her voice.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Dean said as he felt his cheeks become sore from the size of his grin. “What are you up to?”

“Talk to Daddy,” Layla said. “Tell him about your morning.”

Grace rattled off a string of mumbles, her words nonsensical but brimming with enthusiasm.

“She’s getting there,” Dean said. “Give her another few months and she’ll be talking in full sentences.”

“I know,” Layla said warmly. “The doctor said her speech patterns are developing quickly. Pretty soon we’ll have a motormouth on our hands.”

The “we” that Layla said instilled Dean with a sense of hope; he wanted nothing more than to be a cohesive unit with his family again, to face the world together instead of loitering in purgatory like he had been for the past few protracted months that felt like years.

“I gotta go,” Layla said, whisking Dean out of his train of thought. “I’ve got to pack our bags before we head out to Claire’s.”

“Same,” Dean replied. “But I’ll call you before I hop on the plane.”

“How long?”

“Two days, three at the most.”

“Sounds good.”

Dean could only hear the sound of the chilled winter wind as he saw the sign for Main Street at the end of the block. Though his family wasn’t with him and were well over two-thousand miles away, he could sense their presence; he could almost feel Layla and Grace standing right beside him, their faces burning bright in his mind along with those of his son, father, and siblings; the people who had stood by him for so many years.

I want to go home.

I want my family.

I want my bed and my dog and my routine and all of the things that I love more than anything in the world.

“Dean,” Layla announced softly. “Are you there?”

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat—along with his feelings of longing—and held his head high. “Sorry,” he said. “I just got turned around on the street here.”

“That’s okay,” Layla said. “Just call us when you’re on your way back. We’ll be waiting for you.”

“I will.”

“I, uh…” Layla took a beat. “I love you.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s heart swelled. “Yeah, I love you too.”

“Talk soon.”

“Talk soon.”

After the call was terminated, Dean pocketed his phone, told himself not to focus on the things that would cloud his mind, and then asked a person walking their dog where he could find the bar called The High Card.

23

If there was a single place in Somerset that stuck out like a sore thumb, it was The High Card. The blemished brickstone building, ensconced in a blotchy, mud-slicked crater of snow was situated on a street corner beside a boarded-up pharmacy. The moment Dean surveyed the joint, he found that it was not too dissimilar from the series of dives he had been in and out of back during his tenure as a professional drinker.

Yikes, he thought.

Just like old times.

Above the door was a faded pylon sign with the establishment’s name—The High Card— and directly below it were four neon lights crafted to look like a poker hand; an ace, queen, jack, and a ten.

Just get in, Dean thought, ask your questions, and get out.

Take a hot shower to rinse the stink off yourself when you’re done.

Dean’s hand grazed the bulge in his jacket; his SIG was nestled comfortably against his hip.

He marched up to the entrance.

Wrenched open the door.

Wrinkled his nose at the bouquet of top-shelf liquor and tobacco smoke, the low drum of “Let Me Have Some” by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles drumming softly through hidden speakers setup throughout.

The layout of the bar, Dean noticed, was cheap and basic and without any semblance of frills. On his right were a series of cracked, high-back leather booths set into wood with miniature ceramic Santa Clauses positioned on the tables. In the center of the room was a pool table where a pair of guys nudged each other and argued whose turn was next. Behind them was a hallway where a pair of signs pointed the way to the bathrooms marked “Gents” and “Ladies.” To Dean’s left was the bar. A burly guy in a flannel shirt looked up briefly from the fingerprint-peppered glass he was cleaning. As for the patronage, Dean saw that it was limited to five, including the bartender.

One man sat hunched over at the bar.

A woman was by herself in a booth in the back.

Two were shuffling billiard balls down the grease-stained pool table, one of them—and something that triggered Dean to wince—a kid who couldn’t have been any older than eighteen who proceeded to curse after every shot he took failed to find its way into one of the table’s pockets.

Is that you, Rory?

Tsk, tsk, boy.

You’re well under the legal drinking age.

Dean sighed, unzipped his jacket, and wandered up to the bar. To his right, the guy with his face hovered two inches above his drink peered at Dean through his peripherals.

“Morning,” Dean greeted the bartender before he looked down at his G-Shock. “Late morning, technically.”

The comment elicited a grunt from the bartender, the brute shaking his head as he continued wiping down the counters.

Dean flexed his brow before he put his focus on the guy beside him; a rancid aroma of sweat, cigarettes, and cheap booze seeping out of his pores as he met Dean’s gaze.

“Five o’clock somewhere,” Dean said. “Right?”

The guy belched, ogled the time on the clock above the bottles of vodka, and then took a pull of his drink. “It’s two past noon, jerkoff.”

“That’s your liver talking.”

The guy straightened his back. “What’s it to you, dipshit?”

Dean held up his hands. “Just making an observation.”

“Yeah?” The guy huffed and put his focus back on his drink. “Keep them to yourself.”

“Hey,” the bartender grumbled as he draped his soiled towel over his shoulder. “We good here?”

“Dunno,” the patron said with a shrug. “Guy’s giving me flak about my liquor intake.”

“What?”

“He’s giving me shit.”

“That right?” The bartender scanned Dean from head to toe. “You giving him shit?”

Dean, unfazed by the bartender’s puffed-chested defensiveness—even though the guy had two inches and at least thirty pounds on him—shook his head.

“I’m not giving him shit,” Dean said. “I’m just jawin’ at him a little bit.”

The bartender braced the sides of the counter and leaned over it to the point that he was nearly nose-to-nose with Dean. “How ‘bout I break your jaw in six places,” he said, “if you keep harassing my customers there? How’s that sound?”

A stone-faced Dean took a beat, nodded, and then slipped down onto the stool. “Point taken.”

“Good.” The bartender jutted his chin toward the door. “Then order something or get the hell out.”

“Sure.” Dean tapped his finger on the counter as he pursued the liquor bottles on the shelf. “Let’s go with cranberry juice.”

“Cranberry juice.” The bartender huffed. “Cranberry juice and what?”

“Splash of lime, if you got it.”

“That it?”

“I’m on the wagon.” Dean rapped his knuckles on the counter. “Thought I’d celebrate by stopping in here and proving to myself that my resolve is still holding strong.”

Time crept by like a snail stricken with the flu as the bartender walked to the other side of the bar and filled Dean’s order. As he did, Dean glanced over his shoulder and took in the two guys playing pool, both of them half-heartedly competing like a pair of kids screwing around on gym equipment in lieu of an actual workout.

That’s gotta be Rory, Dean thought as he remembered the photo Dr. Craven had shown him back in her office.

Only one way to find out.

After learning about Rory from Shannon and Dr. Craven, Dean had considered going to Sheriff Curtis to see if the possibility of Rory being somehow involved in the murders was possible—but he hesitated. The lawman seemed all but sure that it was a random break-in, that there were two shooters involved, and despite Dean’s protests, the man wanted to solve the case all by himself.

Learn more first, Dean thought. Piece together the story here.

There’s more to this whole thing than⁠—

The bartender placed Dean's drink in front of him with a deliberate thud.

“That’ll be twelve bucks,” the bartender said. “Before the tip.”

“Twelve,” Dean said with a furrowed brow. “Did you squeeze the cranberries yourself or something?”

“This is a bar,” the bartender said. “People come here to drink.”

“I’m about to drink.” Dean held up his glass delicately like an antique’s appraiser, took a sip, and let out an exaggerated sigh. “See?”

Red tinted the bartender’s complexion. “Look, man,” he grumbled, “drink your shit, pay your tab, and get the hell out. This place is for repeat customers, people I know,” he pointed a meaty finger at Dean, “and I don’t know you.”

“Repeat customers, huh?” Dean nodded over his shoulder. “Like that kid who looks like he’s two years shy of sprouting curlies on his chest over there?”

The bartender snarled. “The people drinking in here,” he said, “are none of your concern, asswipe.”

“That goes for the underage one, too?”

“You don’t know that.”

“The pimples on his face are a dead giveaway.” Dean glanced over at the pool table and saw the pair of guys beside it staring at him with their cue sticks clutched tightly in their hands. “I’ll have to check his ID for sure, but odds tell me he’s still breaking in his driver’s license.”

The bartender curled the fingers on both of his hands into fists. “You’re not checking his ID.” He grabbed Dean’s drink glass and chucked the contents in the steel sink beside him. “And you’re out of here.”

“I’m staying.”

“This is my place.” The bartender pressed his finger into the counter. “And I can bounce anyone out of here that I want to.”

“Fair enough.” Dean gestured around the bar. “And I have carte blanche to check anyone’s ID that I want to.”

The revved-up bartender shifted his weight like he was about to vault over the counter. “On whose authority, shit stick?”

Dean pulled out his PI credentials and tossed them on the bar; the badge struck against the wood with an audible click.

The bartender’s eyes widened.

The patron beside Dean scooted away.

The pair of guys at the pool table inched their way toward the door.

24

“Alright,” the bartender said, his gaze ping ponging between Dean and the badge. “I don’t know what this is, but you gotta leave.”

“Not yet,” Dean said as he shot a look toward the two men behind him. “I gotta ask the young tyke there a few questions first.”

“You’re not harassing my customers.”

“I just want to know his name.”

“Well, you’re not going to get it.”

“Yo, Rory,” Dean said as he put his focus on the kid. “Your name is Rory, right?”

A dumbfounded look washed across the kid’s face, his skin turning an ashen shade as he looked pleadingly at the bartender.

“Boom,” Dean said as he slapped the counter. “Figured that was you.”

The kid—Rory—cleared his throat and started swaggering about like he had just found his confidence. “Who the fuck are you, bro?” he said. “What do you want?”

“Shut it,” the bartender told him as he scooped up Dean’s badge and held it under the light. “No one’s talking to you.”

“Eric,” Rory said as he padded his way toward the counter, “why the hell is this dude⁠—?”

“Shut up, Rory!” the bartender snapped. “I didn’t ask you anything.”

Dean noted that, the more Rory came into the light, the more his eyes, jawline, and cheekbone structure was similar to that of the bartender’s.

They’re brothers.

Dean narrowed his eyes.

I wonder if Rory here gets to drink for free because of it.

The bartender—Eric—nudged Dean’s wallet aside. “That badge doesn't mean shit,” he said. “You could’ve ordered that off of Amazon for all I know.”

Before Dean could reply, he felt a tap on his shoulder; Rory was rapping his cue stick against his back.

“You should go, bro,” Rory grumbled. “Last thing you want is to have your head split open before the holidays.”

Dean sighed.

Rory puffed his chest.

Then the music over the speaker’s changed over to “Mickey’s Monkey” by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles.

“Rory,” Dean addressed the kid like he did when Grace spit out her food, “put the stick down.”

“Or what?” Rory said as he tapped the cue softly against Dean’s skull. “What are you going to do?”

“Kid,” Dean replied as his eyelids tapered. “Don’t.”

“Or what?” Rory huffed and rapped the cue against Dean’s head again and leaned in close to his ear. “You gonna do something?”

“Stop.”

The kid tapped the pool cue against Dean’s back. “Or what?”

“Rory—”

“Seriously,” the kid thwacked Dean in his leg, “what are you⁠—?”

Dean shot his right elbow back into the kid’s nose, split the bones, and then proceeded to kick the stool out from under him; the cushioned seat flew back a few feet before it struck Rory in his sternum and knocked the air clean out of his lungs.

It took Eric a moment to process that his baby brother had just been knocked on his ass. Once he did, his eyes widened. Four-letter curses pitched out of his mouth. Then he lunged toward Dean with his arms outstretched and his teeth gnashed like a rabid pitbull—but just as his fingers grazed the collars of Dean’s jacket, his eye flickered down to the cold steel of Dean’s SIG pressed underneath his chin.

“Easy,” Eric said. “We’re cool. We’re good.”

As Rory riled around the floor and cradled his broken nose, the older guy who had been playing pool with him grunted and then charged toward Dean’s back.

Dean, still pressing his weapon under Eric’s chin, shot his left leg back, hook-kicked the guy in the chest, and knocked him to the floor.

Not bad, Deano.

Layla was right.

Yoga really does make you more limber.

“You boys finished?” Dean said. “Or should I grab that pool stick Rory was hitting me with and knock some more sense into you guys?”

“Jesus, man,” Eric said as he held his hands high in the air. “What the hell is this?”

“It’s a gun,” Dean said as he pressed the business end of his weapon deeper into the bartender’s chin. “Unless you want to know what it sounds like when it goes off, I need you to be cool.”

“I’m cool!” Eric said. “Just tell me what you want, alright?”

“I want to talk to your brother,” Dean said. “After that, we can⁠—”

A familiar, metallic click-clack filled the air; Dean recognized that sound.

Someone had just pulled out a weapon and snapped back the hammer.

25

When Dean looked to his left, he saw that drunk patron he had insulted when he first walked into the bar pointing Beretta 92F at him with a pair of shaky hands.

“Oh, brother,” Dean groaned. “There’s always one more…”

“Drop it,” the drunk guy said, “or I’ll drain you.”

“Is the safety on?”

“What?”

“Simple question.”

The drunk guy hesitated.

He ripped his focus off of Dean and pinned it to the trigger guard.

Dean then planted the midsole of his boot into the stool beside him, kicked it into the guy’s knees, and watched him collapse to the floor.

Eric swiped the SIG out of Dean’s hands.

Rory and his buddy got to their feet and charged.

Dean then quickly slipped his boot under Rory’s fallen pool cue, punted it, caught it in mid-air with one hand, and took a batter’s wipe against Eric’s head.

The pool cue snapped in half against Eric’s skull; he dropped to the floor.

Rory wrapped his arms around Dean’s neck; Dean jabbed his elbow into the kid’s cheek, shook off the grip, spun him around and seized him by the collar of his shirt.

Dean planted a knee into the kid’s gut; doubled him over.

Picked up his SIG.

Caught the drunk guy getting to his feet, so he thrust his knee into the dude’s temple and put the prick to sleep.

“Alright,” Dean said, “that’s enough of this shit.”

Dean grabbed a fistful of Rory’s hair.

Drove him toward the front door.

Then he used the kid’s head like a battering ram to open it. As the door flew open, Dean chucked the kid into a mound of urine-caked snow, turned back, and marched up to Eric who was in the process of using the bar counter to balance himself.

“You motherfucker,” Eric groaned before he spit on the floor and shook off his daze. “I’m gonna tear you a new asshole.”

“Haven’t heard that one in a hot minute,” Dean replied as he stuffed his SIG into his waistband, picked up the drunk guy’s Beretta, stripped it, and tossed the pieces to the floor. “You dusted off a real oldie there.”

Eric clenched his teeth. “I’m gonna rip off your head,” he moved toward Dean, “and shit down your⁠—”

“Hold that thought,” Dean held up his right hand, used his left to reach into his jacket, and whipped out a pair of handcuffs, “I want you to put these on first.”

“Fuck you.”

“You sure?”

Eric charged.

Dean groaned, bored with the whole thing.

Then he whipped out his SIG, pistol-whipped Eric in the face, and watched the guy drop to the floor.

He did a once-over of the damage.

Shook his head.

Then Dean caught a bar fly in the corner toasting him her martini glass, wished her a Merry Christmas, and then secured Eric’s hands behind his back.

26

“You come into my town saying you were going to ask questions,” Curtis said, his tone surprisingly level despite the situation, “and a few days into your little investigation, you end up whooping the asses of three of my citizens.”

“Honestly,” Dean replied, his body angled toward the window in Curtis's office that looked onto Main Street, “the drunk guy wasn’t all that well coordinated, so I don’t count him.”

“You think that’s funny?”

“Not at all.”

“Alright, Blackwood.” Curtis slipped his hands in his pockets and faced Dean. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t⁠—”

“Toss me in a cell?”

“Exactly.”

“Self-defense,” Dean said. “Those dipshits came at me, and I was well within my rights to defend myself.”

“You didn’t defend yourself.” Curtis threw up his hands. “You busted Quint Vernon’s jaw⁠—”

“Who’s that?”

“The drunk guy you kicked the stool into.”

“Quint Vernon,” Dean said. “Kind of classic, old-timey name, don’t you think?”

“Like I said,” Curtis went on, “you cracked three of Rory Parker’s ribs, and gave Eric Parker a nasty little concussion. Bastard can’t even speak straight at the moment.”

“Good,” Dean said. “Maybe a little wallop upside the head will get him thinking straight before I go in there to have a chat with him.”

Curtis wrinkled his brow curiously. “Come again?”

“Those assholes,” Dean motioned toward the holding cells down the hallway behind him, “Rory Parker specifically, was implicated as having some kind of bad blood with Sean Patterson.”

“By who?”

“That’s confidential.”

“Alright, Blackwood.” Curtis stepped closer to Dean. “Don’t play games with me here. All I know is that you strolled into a bar, tuned a few guys up, and now you’re being nothing short of glib with me about the reasons why.”

“I just told you why,” Dean said. “I have it on good authority that Rory Parker had some kind of issue with Sean Patterson, and when I came in there to ask him about it, the kid tried to take my head off with a pool cue.” He reached into his jacket, took out the cellophane bag filled with crystals, and tossed them on the sheriff’s desk. “And then when I frisked the little asshole, I found this bag of party favors.”

Curtis tapered his eyes.

Picked up the bag.

Examined it.

The expression on his face was one of pure rage.

“That’s meth,” Dean said. “I’ve seen it before. The cursory glance I took at it tells me it’s been stepped on a bunch, too.”

“This shit,” Curtis replied as he looked at the bag. “Where the hell are these bastards getting this stuff from?”

“It’s an excellent question,” Dean said. “And it’s one I plan on asking Rory the moment I step into his cell to have a little sit down with him.”

A few moments passed as the sheriff tossed down the cellophane bag, sat, and turned away from Dean.

“I don’t know where this stuff is coming from,” Curtis said. “Every day, I’m finding more and more of these punks slinging it around town, but I can’t find a supplier.”

“It could be anywhere,” Dean replied. “Hell, someone could be cooking this shit up in a house two blocks from here. For all we know, it could be Rory and his brother Eric, but I’m going to need to feel them out a bit to get an answer on that one.”

“This,” Curtis motioned to the bag, “is on me. I’m the one that’s supposed to put a stop to this, not you.”

“The kid in the cell back there might have some of the answers you need,” Dean said. “And now that I smacked him around a little bit, he’s afraid of me. We can use that to our advantage. Look,” Dean held up his hands, “I don’t know if the drug element here has anything to do with my case, but you need to let me in there to talk to this kid to see if it does. There’s no other way around it.”

A beat ticked by.

Curtis stroked his chin.

Dean waited for a reply.

“You’re kicking over a lot of stones out here, Blackwood,” the sheriff said. “Didn’t take you too long, either.” He turned in his chair and pinned his eyes to Dean. “You’re pissing off a lot of people, a lot of the wrong people too, I should add.”

“Good,” Dean replied. “The more I rile these guys up, the more it’ll bring them out of hiding.”

“What did you say you did with the FBI?”

“Undercover work.”

“I see.” Curtis smirked. “So you probably did this for a good stretch of time—going after dealers, suppliers, stuff like that.”

“Yep.” Dean nodded. “I was pretty decent at it, too.”

“I bet.” Curtis sighed, unclipped his key ring, and tossed them over to Dean. “Go in there and find out who's pushing this crap through my town. If you’re as good as that strut of yours implies, then find me some answers.”

“It’s not a strut,” Dean said as he moved toward the door. “It’s a partial limp. I busted my knee back when I was in the Rangers.”

“Care for something to take the sting off?” Curtis said as he opened a drawer, took out a silver flask, and held it up.

“Negative.” Dean patted his leg just above the area where the jagged surgery scar ran through it. “I’m good.”

“Alright,” Curtis unscrewed the cap of the flask and brought it to his lips, “suit yourself.”

He took a swig.

Dean squinted.

Then he made his way toward the holding cells and debated whether Curtis was pissed, tired, withholding, or a combination of all three.

27

As Dean approached the cells, he saw Eric and Rory in separate cells, each laying on a thin mattress placed on top of concrete blocks serving as beds. The brothers were wincing, cradling their wounds. Eric was on his side with an ice pack held against his head.

“Hey, boys,” Dean said. “How are you feeling?”

“Blow me,” Eric grumbled. “My head feels like it’s splitting open.”

“Make sure you shake that ice pack after you pop it.”

“Fuck you.”

“Potty mouth.” Dean pivoted his focus to Rory. “You got the better end of the beating though. Cracked ribs blow, but they aren’t as dicey as a concussion.”

Rory turned.

Seethed.

Stared at Dean with all the hate he could muster.

“When I get out of here,” Rory said, “I’m going to⁠—”

“Shut the hell up,” Dean said. “We’ve got you and your brother on assault as well as possession of whatever that crap is that I found on you.”

“You planted that shit.”

“Good luck spinning that yarn, butthead.” Dean approached the bars of Rory’s cell. “Have you ever watched cop shows? Law and Order? CSI? Anything like that?”

Rory shrugged. “Who hasn’t?”

“That’s good,” Dean said. “Because if you have, then you know how the next few days of your life are going to play out. You’re going to sit here, have a talk with a public defender in an ill-fitting suit, and before you know it, you’ll be before a judge at an arraignment pleading no contest to possession.”

“Bullshit,” Eric said. “That’s not going to happen.”

“Actually,” Dean winced and snapped his fingers, “you’re right. That’s not what’s going to happen.” He motioned over his shoulder. “There seems to be a pretty gnarly drug problem sweeping through the town. The sheriff doesn’t know the full scoop and he’s trying his hardest to figure it out. That being the case, now that you, the repeat little fuck-up that you are, have been caught with a little baggie full of whatever this stuff is, they’re going to sweat you and throw whatever charges they can at you to try and sniff out where it’s coming from.”

“Go to hell!” Rory barked. “Get me a lawyer. I don’t have to say shit to you.”

“No,” Dean inched closer to the bars, “you just have to listen as I float some questions your way, and I’d suggest you seriously consider answering them. If you don’t, then you’re probably going to be dropped in a cell with a dude ten times your size who’s got a thing for wiry little guys like you—unless I give the judge and everyone else here who’s got authority over you a reason to rethink that outcome, that is.”

“Don’t talk to him, Rory,” Eric shouted from his cell. “He doesn’t know shit.”

“Your brother here,” Dean said to Rory as he pointed to Eric’s cell, “is an adult, and he’s going to get tried like an adult. You, however,” he shot his chin out at Rory, “are still four months shy of becoming one—you're a minor. That means that you might be able to cut loose of this a bit easier than if you tell me what I need to know.”

Rory turned down his gaze.

Trembled.

Sat back down on his concrete bed.

“Sean Patterson,” Dean said. “What was your beef with him?”

“Sean?” Rory shrugged. “What about him?”

“His friends are dead.”

“I know.”

“Did you have something to do with that?”

“Rory,” Eric groaned as he shot up from his bed and marched toward the bars of his cell. “Don’t talk to this fu⁠—”

Dean shot out his foot.

Rattled the bars of Eric’s cage.

Watched the guy cower and slide back down onto his concrete slab.

“Rory,” Dean continued, “I talked to Shannon earlier today. You know her. You know Sean. You also knew the two kids that died, from what I was told.”

“It’s a small town,” Rory replied. “Everybody knows everybody.”

“Some people have more of a rapport with others.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” Dean said, “that you had some kind of problem with Sean Patterson. The way Shannon made it out, the two of you weren’t exactly on good terms with one another.”

“Sean’s a dickhead,” Rory replied. “That’s all there is to it. I don’t like him, and he doesn’t like me.”

“Rory.” Dean shook his head. “That’s not going to fly.”

“What do you want from me, man?” Fear brimmed in Rory’s eyes. “I didn’t kill Luke or Daria, if that’s what you’re trying to ask me.”

“How do I know that for sure?”

“Because I wasn’t there!” Rory said. “I was stuck cleaning out Eric’s garage that night.”

“Convenient timing.”

“It’s true,” Eric chimed in. “Little fucker spilled motor oil all over the floor. I made him clean it up. Took him like three hours to wipe it all up.”

“Oh, okay,” Dean said as he flattened his palm across his chest. “Well, now I’m inclined to believe you. Everyone knows that your word here is gold, Eric, so I won’t do anything in the way of trying to follow-up on that.”

“He’s not lying,” Rory said. “Ask the neighbor next door to us. She saw Eric screaming at me when I spilled that stuff on the floor. The garage was open the whole time because Eric was using the bench press. He was pumping iron while I was cleaning up.”

“I bench two-hundred easy,” Eric said proudly. “You can check out the plates if you go by there.”

“I’m not interested,” Dean groaned, “to check out the baby weight you put up, dummy.”

“Look,” Rory said, “that neighbor next door to us is always staring at us through her living room window. We were there all night—she saw us. Just ask her, man!”

“I’ll do that.” Dean paced the concrete floor of the hallway. “But even if that’s true, you still haven’t given me anything in the way of explanations in regard to this whole ‘beef’ that you had with Sean.”

“I told you,” Rory replied, “we⁠—”

“Hate each other.” Dean nodded. “Yeah, I get it. But you still haven’t told me the reasons behind this little hatred you two allegedly have for one another.”

Rory looked at his brother.

Eric shrugged.

Then Rory parted his lips, hung his head, and motioned for Dean to come closer to the bars.

“Rory,” Dean said, “if you try to spit on me or something…”

“I’m trying to tell you what’s going on,” Rory said. “I…” He hung his head. “I did have a beef with Sean. I did for a while.” He gnashed his teeth. “Everyone thinks that privileged little fuck is a golden boy, but he’s not.”

Dean squinted. “What do you mean?”

Rory took a beat.

Turned up his gaze.

Then he said, “Sean was the one who sold me that stuff you found on me. He’s been dealing that shit out of high school for like a whole year. Dickhead was always overcharging me every time I bought from him; that’s why I had a problem with him, alright? I hate the guy, yeah, but I didn’t kill anybody.” Rory’s eyes widened. “Just ask our neighbor. She’ll tell you we were home the night that Luke and Daria were killed. Please, ask her! I swear to God I’m not lying to you.”

Dean followed up on Rory’s claims.

Questioned his neighbor, Sandy.

Discovered that Rory’s story was legit.

Then he called Curtis to bring in Sean Patterson for a talk, because the kid—allegedly—was the source of the drugs being peddled through Somerset.

28

“It’s not true!” Sean barked at the top of his lungs as his father Michael wrestled him back into the chair inside the interrogation room. “That’s bullshit. Rory’s lying. I don’t touch drugs, Mr. Blackwood. I swear!”

“Sean,” Michael Patterson hissed through a set of clenched teeth, “if any of this is true, if I found out that you were⁠—”

“Dad—”

“Shut up!” Michael slammed his fist on the table. “I’m going to tear apart your room, test your piss and your hair, and burn the whole goddamn house down to find out if this is true or not.” His gaze flickered up to Dean and Curtis who were seated across from him. “What about this Rory Parker kid? Did you question him? Did you find out if he had anything to do with⁠—?”

“He didn’t kill Luke or Daria,” Dean said. “He had an alibi. Rory and Eric’s next door neighbor had eyes on them all night. She was in her living room with her granddaughter watching television. The window she was seated next to looks out to Eric and Rory’s garage.”

“The granddaughter,” Curtis added, “even took a photo of Eric bench-pressing while they were out there, and the time stamp on the photo places Rory and Eric at their residence during the time of the murder.”

“The granddaughter, Kylie,” Dean said, “even posted the picture to her social media feed.” He coughed. “She also had a caption underneath that said ‘slice me off a piece of that cake.’”

“Kids,” the sheriff groaned. “I don’t get ‘em.”

“Eric and Rory Parker didn’t murder Luke or Daria,” Dean said, “at least not by their own hand.” He leaned across the table and looked Sean deep in the eyes. “And even though I don’t take what Rory said about you dealing drugs at face-value, I still need to ask you about it, Sean.”

“I swear,” Sean said as he wiped away the tears streaming down his cheeks. “I don’t deal drugs. I don’t do drugs. I never did. Only Luke…” His mouth snapped shut a quick beat after the name slipped out of his mouth.

“Only Luke what?” Curtis said.

Sean looked at his father.

Michael tapered his eyes.

“Sean,” Dean said, “keep talking.”

“Luke,” Sean said, “had tried doing that stuff one time—but he only did it once. I don’t know where he got it from, but I’m pretty sure he got it from school somewhere. That’s the rumor, at least.”

“Lukas was doing drugs?” Michael said incredulously. “That little punk was doing drugs in my house?”

Oh, hell, Dean thought. Luke’s parents failed to mention that part.

“He never did them in your house, Dad,” Sean said. “This was like, I don’t know, a year ago or something. Luke bought a bag of that crap. He wanted to try it out. None of us knew that he did it though. We only found out after his parents caught him doing it in his room. He was grounded for like six months after it happened. When he finally got to hang out with us again, he told us what happened.”

“Wait a second,” Curtis said as he held up his hand, “Luke’s parents caught him doing meth?”

Sean nodded. “After they found out, they threw the bag away and grounded him. Luke said that his folks were worried that if they told the police, something bad would happen to Luke. Everyone knows about the drug problem in town, so they didn’t want him to get into trouble.”

“It’s true,” Michael said. “Someone’s been peddling this junk for a while. But not in my home. Not in my neighborhood.” He held his head high. “The little bastards selling this shit know better than to fuck around in my neck of the woods.”

Dean smirked.

Okay, Eastwood.

Thanks for leading the charge.

“If I went to Luke DeFeo’s parents,” Dean said, “would they back up this story of yours?”

“You’ll have to call them,” Curtis clarified. “After Luke was killed, they packed up and went to Iowa to be with their family.” He pointed to Sean. “And if I test your system and toss your house, which I will, can you guarantee me that I won’t find anything?”

“Do it,” Sean insisted. “Tear the place up. Look anywhere you want to. You’re not going to find anything. I didn’t do this. I’m not a dealer, no matter what that asshole Rory Parker has to say.”

Dean glanced at Curtis.

An hour later, a pair of deputies cleared the Patterson house.

Rory’s urine was tested.

Nothing was found in either the house or the kid’s system.

And after Dean called Luke DeFeo’s parents in Iowa, he validated the story that Sean told him about Luke trying meth, asked his folks why they withheld that information, and learned that the omission of Luke’s drug “foul up” was done out of nothing more than shame.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Blackwood,” Luke’s father, Walter, said. “I wouldn’t have kept that from you if I thought it had something to do with…” He blew out a sigh. “Do you think it had anything to do with our son’s death? Anything at all?”

“I’ll have to get back to you on that one, Mr. DeFeo,” Dean said. “I just need to know if there’s anything else that you’ve failed to mention that may have some influence with the events that have taken place.”

“Nothing,” the grieving father said. “I swear to you, I promise on my own life that I’ve told you everything.”

Dean believed the man—nevertheless, he asked a few more questions, did another—and much deeper—background check on the DeFeo’s, and was satisfied with the results.

And now, Dean thought as he marched into the cells where Eric and Rory were being held, I’m gonna rip these dipshits a new one for lying to me.

29

“You lied to me, shithead,” Dean said as he approached the bars of Rory’s cell. “You lied about Sean Patterson pushing dope.”

“Wait,” Rory held up his hands, the punk shaking like he was neck deep in an ice bath, “I was just⁠—”

“You’ve got one minute to tell me the truth,” Dean cut in. “And if you lie to me, Curtis is going to charge the both of you with possession with intent, and you’ll be transferred to the jail one town over where you’ll spend the next two weeks with Buddy the Bum Rusher until your court date.”

“Just wait, Rory,” a bleary-eyed Eric Parker said. “Just wait for the lawyer to⁠—”

“Bud,” Dean turned and faced the bars of Eric’s cell. “There are no cameras, mics, or guards in here right now, so it would be really easy for me to slam your head against a wall and tell someone you tripped.”

“No, you won’t.” Eric swallowed hard. “You can’t do that.”

“You sure about that?” Dean reached and seized the bars gently with a white-knuckled grip. “You really wanna test that theory with me?”

Eric averted his gaze.

Rory, mumbling a prayer under his breath, paced the floors of his cell.

“The pair of you better start talking,” Dean said, “and I’d suggest you’d do it fast. I’ve got a stable of old buddies at the FBI, so if I call them up and ask for a favor, I will guaran-damn-tee that the both of you will be sitting in some maximum security gladiator academy being passed around like a collection plate on Sunday.”

Rory whimpered.

Eric grumbled.

Dean, eyes narrowed and teeth gritted, told them they had thirty seconds to provide him with some answers.

“You can’t hurt us, man,” Eric said, his tone more indicative that he was trying to convince himself than Dean. “And you won’t⁠—”

“I have before,” Dean interjected, “and I’ll do it again. I don’t like drugs or dead kids, and you two idiots have managed to get yourselves involved with something that involves both of those things.”

“We didn’t kill Luke or Daria.” Eric gnashed his teeth in defiance. “How many more times do we have to tell you that?”

“You didn’t pull the trigger,” Dean said.

“Exactly.”

“Well, how do I know you didn’t take part of it in some way or another?”

The color drained out of Rory’s face. “You’re saying…” he blinked his eyes repeatedly. “Wait, you’re telling me you think we might have arranged it or something?”

“Very good.” Dean held out his arms and smirked. “You’re not as stupid as that expression on your face makes you out to be.”

“We didn’t do this!” Rory said. “For fuck’s sake. I told you⁠—”

“You lied to me,” Dean said. “About Sean Patterson. And since you made it clear that you’ve got no problem being deceptive with me, how do I know that every word out of your goddamn mouth isn’t a total and utter fabrication?”

“I’ll tell you who really sold us the drugs.” Rory rushed up to the bars and wedged his face between them. “I’ll tell you who he is right now.”

Eric’s face darkened as he stormed up the bars of his cell, bits of spittle forming at the corners of his mouth as he fixed a heated gaze on his young brother. “Shut your mouth, Rory.”

“Back away from the bars,” Dean said. “Now.”

“Don’t tell him!”

“Eric,” Rory said. “Please, man. I don’t⁠—”

“Listen to me you little shit!” Eric thrust his hand through an opening in the bars and seized his little brother by his shirt. “If you tell this guy anything about⁠—”

Dean dashed toward the cage.

Reached through it.

Then he secured a grip on Eric’s throat, reeled him in, and pinned his face between the bars.

“Eric,” Dean said, his eyes shimmering with a fervent brilliance as he tightened his grip on Eric’s windpipe. “I am not playing with you.”

Eric puttered air through his lips.

Rory’s face became a mask of nonplussed horror.

Then a beat later, Dean shoved Eric to the floor, stood back, and put his sights on Rory.

“Tell me who dealt you the meth,” Dean said. “And if you lie to me again, I’ll make sure the two of you don’t see sunlight until the second coming of Christ.”

Eric coughed and pawed at his throat.

Rory hung his head.

Dean waited for a reply.

“Logan Riley,” Rory said, his posture caving in on itself as he slipped down onto his concrete bed. “He sold it to me. He’s the one pushing the stuff through the high school.”

30

Logan Riley—according to the file Dean was reading on Curtis's computer—was seventeen, five-eleven, one-hundred-and-sixty-pounds, and had a history of crimes ranging from shoplifting, vandalism, assault, and a few incidents with kids at the local high school.

One of the “infractions” involved a shoving match.

Another instance detailed Logan using a racial slur against a student whose parents originally hailed from Cuba.

“He’s a real piece of work,” Curtis said as he sat down at his desk. “To make matters worse, he was suspended for a week from Somerset High for,” he winced, “well, for putting his hands on Daria Brennan.”

“What does that mean?” Dean said.

“Logan…” Curtis shook his head, “well, he groped Daria Brennan last year. That son of a bitch hid out in the girls’ shower room by the gym. Apparently, he tried to grab Daria when she was putting her clothes back on.”

Easy, Dean thought as he squeezed his fingers into a fist.

Try not to think about killing this little bastard.

He’s still a kid, technically.

Logan, based on the picture Dean was looking at on Curtis's computer, was a wiry kid. His moppy red hair hung just below his ears. His blue eyes were flinty, filled with hate. According to the file the more that Dean perused it, Logan also had gotten caught carrying a .38 Special that he brandished at a guy at the local liquor store when his fake ID got turned down.

He looks the type.

Fury settled in the put of Dean’s stomach as he stared at Logan’s photo.

Maybe he really is our guy.

“He’s a punk-ass kid a few years shy of graduating from stealing cars,” Curtis said. “He lives with his mother. Has a younger brother, Devon, that split and went out to Nashville about a year ago. His mother’s never around. She travels for work. She’s in Europe half of the year. It’s pretty much Logan all by his lonesome over at his mother’s house. As for the father, Morgan, he cut loose from the family and started a new one in Seattle about four years ago.”

Dean nodded along as he appraised the photo of Logan Riley; the mugshot taken on the night Curtis hauled the kid in for spray-painting male genitalia on a wall outside of a local grocery store.

Curtis is right.

I don’t understand kids these days, either.

“You brought him in for that thing with the .38,” Dean said as he perused the file on Curtis'ss computer. “But you cut him loose the next morning.”

The sheriff shrugged. “That’s the standard practice around here. There were no bullets in the kid. Logan was just trying to show off. Kids like him and Eric and Rory like to stir up trouble, and when they do, I haul them in here, make them sit it off in a cell, then tell them that if they do it again, the next time they’re not getting out.”

“Sounds like that way of doing this isn’t helping much, sheriff,” Dean said, “if you’re asking for my opinion.”

“It wasn’t,” Curtis replied. “Look, it’s a small town⁠—”

“So I’ve been told.”

“—and most of the trouble these kids tend to get into is petty. The best method, from my point of view, is to scare them by locking them up for the night in a cage to think things over.”

Curtis motioned toward the high school that stood two miles away outside his window. “I always forward what happens to Dr. Craven over there,” he said. “I’m a cop, and she’s the behavioral modification expert around here, so to speak. My duty is to enforce the law; hers is to make sure to try and straighten these kids out, to execute the more nuanced disciplinary stuff. So far, the practice has worked. Nothing is ever out of control.”

“Save for the murders of two kids,” Dean clarified. “So it’s safe to say that the methods you speak of aren’t really working out that well anymore.”

The sheriff crossed his arms defensively. “Are you here to tell me where I’ve gone wrong,” he said, “or to offer me something in the way of solutions, Mr. Blackwood?”

Dean ripped his eyes off of the computer and wandered over to the window where he fastened his gaze to the high school a mile off in the distance, the institute shrouded by a thin haze of snowfall.

“According to Rory Parker,” Dean said, “Logan Riley is the source of the drugs running through the high school.”

“Allegedly.”

“Right,” Dean said. “Allegedly. Look, I still have a few follow-up questions I want to ask them, but I don’t believe that Rory or his brother had anything to do with the murders that took place a few nights ago. They’re too stupid and too sloppy to have pulled them off; they’re just a pair of degenerate losers wasting their time and the scarce resources they have on beer and the occasional smack fix.” He nodded over his shoulder to the computer monitor. “Logan Riley is the next guy I want to have a sit-down with, and if he is the source of the drug problem around here, then he might have a lead on your supplier.”

“Yeah, well,” Curtis rattled off a chuckle. “Good luck with that.”

“What do you mean?”

“You storm into town on your little white horse.” Curtis sat down behind his desk. “You start asking everyone questions about drugs and murders and then you tune up a pair of idiots at the local dive bar.”

“Is there a point here, Sheriff?” Dean said. “Or is this an attempt at doing whatever the opposite of flattering is?”

“Word is going to get around about you, Mr. Blackwood,” Curtis said. “What I’m trying to get at here is that people are already inclined to keep to themselves, and now that you’re here, now that people know how you operate, mouths are going to seal shut quicker than a sprinter off the blocks.”

Dean angled his body away from Curtis.

He’s right.

Bad news travels faster than good does.

People around here know who I am.

He ran the back of his hand against the stubble on his chin.

And no one is going to tell me shit now that word has gotten out that I have a proclivity for cracking skulls.

“Rory and Eric Parker,” Dean said. “What do you plan on doing with them?”

“I’ll charge them with possession,” Curtis replied. “That’s all I really have on them. I’ll need the cells free for the holidays. It’s high season for guys needing a cell to sleep off their drunk. After I charge them, they’ll be out as soon as Judge Morris grants them a bail hearing; probably this afternoon.”

“Wonderful.” Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “The second these nitwits get out, they’ll start floating word to people about me, who I am, and why I’m in town.” He turned around. “You sure can’t hold them in a cell any longer?”

“I could request that the judge revoke bail,” Curtis said. “That might buy us a little bit of time.”

“I just need a few days.”

“To talk with Logan Riley?”

“Among other things, yeah,” Dean said. “I’m still not any closer to sniffing out who popped Luke and Daria, but Logan’s a start.”

“Again,” the sheriff shrugged, “how do you plan on getting this kid to talk? You walk in flashing your badge, he’s going to give you static. Give it a couple hours, maybe less, and everyone around here is going to know who you are.”

Dean took a beat.

Had a thought.

Smirked.

“They will,” he said. “But no one knows about Freddy.”

31

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

Members of the family were always filtering in and out of Sal Rossi’s Lincoln Park Brownstone any time of year—but the holidays were different; more of the extended family members were around, and between the snowfall, rich meals, decorations, and the Christmas music drumming throughout the house, the atmosphere more joyful than it usually was for Rossi.

Rossi, scotch in hand, watched as his nephews Paul and Nicky—ten and eight—scampered toward the eight-foot-tall Christmas tree, the pair on the cusp of dropping the box of glass ornaments Rossi’s wife, Elena, handed them moments before.

“Easy,” Rossi told the boys through a chuckle. “Don’t drop ‘em.”

Paul and Nicky didn’t hear their uncle. Had it been any other time of the year, he would’ve rapped the pair upside the head, but it was the holidays. Everyone—even that sauced-up stunad Uncle Leo—got a pass.

It’s Christmas, Sal, Rossi thought. Just take it easy.

He brought the glass tumbler to his lips.

Enjoy yourself for once.

Halfway through his scotch, Rossi wandered in the kitchen to pour himself another. As he walked in, he saw his wife Elena and her sister Andrea and a few of the other female members of the family—Gia, Sofia, Isabel—bickering and laughing as they whipped up whatever the night’s four-course meal would be, all of them speaking a hybrid of English and Italian as they weaved and dipped and dived around one another with an aquiline grace.

Rossi smirked proudly.

He caught Elena’s eye.

Then his wife approached, took the tumbler from his hand, and proceeded to fetch him a refill.

“I need more ice,” Elena said. “Leo’s used about two bags by now.”

“I’ll send Nico to the store.” Rossi peeked over his shoulder. “Where is he?”

Elena, pouring Rossi a refill with her left hand as she stirred the pot of marinara on the stove with her right, shrugged. “Non lo so,” the Sicily-born native said. “Outside, maybe.”

Sure enough, when Rossi cut a furtive glance to the backyard, he saw his son, Nico, holding court with the other members of the family. The men, good-looking and in the prime of their lives—ages twenty on up to mid-thirties—laughed and toasted drinks and chomped down on the cigars that Rossi had given Nico for his birthday two months before.

“Sal,” Elena said as she thrust out the tumbler filled with scotch toward her husband. “Esci dalla mia cucina.”

Rossi smirked.

Placed the tumbler down.

Seized his wife by the wrist and pulled her in close.

“I don’t have time for this,” Elena groaned. “Sono occupato.”

“C'è sempre tempo per questo,” Rossi said cooly. “I’m enjoying the view.”

Despite her deep copper complexion, hints of red tined Elena’s complexion. She beamed. Kissed her husband deeply. Then she rubbed circles on his back and told him to get the ice before Uncle Leo used up what was left.

“Ti amo,” Elena said.

“Love you,” Rossi said before he turned out of the kitchen, entered the backyard, and was greeted by the cacophonous roar of the male family members laughing and bullshitting and enjoying the wintertime festivities.

In the center of the action was Nico, the second-year law student—Yale—enjoying what slivers of time he had away from his studies to be with his family. The kid, his tanned skin and dark hair traits he inherited from his mother, caught his father waving him down, approached briskly, and stood at attention like a cadet in a military academy.

“Hey, Pop,” Nico said. “What’s up?”

Rossi, his money clip in hand, peeled off a hundred-dollar bill and palmed it to his son. “Go to the store and get some ice for me,” he said. “Take Paulie with you. Your lush of an uncle used half the bags in the garage.”

“I can pay for it, Pop.” Nico held up the Benjamin clutched in his hand. “I’m good for it.”

The kid—God bless him, Rossi thought—was working two part-time jobs on top of his studies. Nico insisted that he earn his keep the hard way. Rossi had offered to pay his way for his entire run at law school, but just like a Rossi man, Nico wanted to be worth his salt and look back on the formative years of his life saying that he earned it.

“Not on Christmas,” Rossi said. “You don’t pay for nothin’ right now, you hear me?”

“Yeah.” Nico nodded and grinned. “I hear ya.”

“How’s school?”

“Good.”

“You payin’ attention?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Rossi furrowed his brow, raised a hand and held it near his son’s cheek. “You sure?”

Nico chuckled. “Yeah, Pop.”

“No bullshit?”

“No bullshit.”

“Good boy.” Rossi patted his son playfully on the cheek. “Now get outta here. Get your mother some ice.” He nodded over his shoulder. “And cut that deadbeat uncle of yours off after his next round.”

“Will do, Pop.”

Rossi watched his son hotfoot his way into the house, double checked with his mother if she needed anything else, fetched Paulie, and made his way through the front door. As soon as the kid stepped out, sixty-eight-year-old Sal Rossi—built like a bull and looking ten years younger than his driver’s license stated—surveyed his home, all of the members inside of it, and allowed himself to feel pride over the fact of working so hard to bring it all to fruition.

He smiled.

Took a pull of his scotch.

Then he caught Jimmy at the back door motioning for him to come inside with the same troubled look his number two had in his eye whenever there was a problem.

32

Jimmy closed the door to Rossi’s rustic study filled to the brim with expensive furniture, palmed him the burner phone, and then slipped his hands into his two-thousand-dollar slacks.

“It’s Smokes,” Jimmy said. “He says he needs to talk to you.”

The glowing expression Rossi had on his face moments before dissolved into a sneer. He shook his head, uttering some obscenities in Italian as he moved to his polished Amish Stonespire desk, sat down, and loosened the collar of his turtleneck.

Rossi cut a glance at Jimmy.

His second-in-command shrugged his apologies.

Then Rossi took the call off hold, put it on speaker, and placed it on the desk. “Smokes,” he said. “The hell you callin’ me for?”

“We got a problem,” Smokes replied. “Some clown just rolled up here in Somerset asking questions.”

“About what?”

“A few kids got killed,” Smokes said. “Happened a few nights ago.”

“What kids?”

“Just some kids.”

“Be specific, Smokes,” Rossi said. “What do you mean some kids got killed?”

“I, uh…” Smokes took a beat. “I did it. I had to. There was no other choice.”

For a few moments, Rossi said nothing.

There’s one rule, he thought. Just one.

And Smokes just shattered it.

“The fuck is wrong with you, huh?” Rossi said into the phone. “You killed a pair of kids? I pray to Christ my hearing is failin’ me here.”

“It’s complicated,” Smokes said. “I was⁠—”

“I don’t care what the reasons were.” Rossi threw up his hands. “Marone.” He closed his eyes. “This is bad, Smokes. You fucked up.”

“I know.” Smokes took a beat. “And, uh…some prick’s been hanging around the sheriff’s station asking questions about it. I just got word that he kicked a couple of guys’ asses before they got thrown in a cell.”

Rossi squinted. “What do you mean?”

“Some guy,” Smokes said. “Some private detective out of LA. I think the parents of one of the dead kids hired him.”

“Who?”

“I’m working on it.”

Rossi, still speaking to Smokes, turned his gaze up to Jimmy. “Should we be concerned?”

“Maybe,” Smokes said. “This guy has been asking about the murders, and he’s asking about drugs. When he pulled in those two guys I mentioned, he found a baggie of some of our product on them.”

Rossi closed his eyes.

Put aside emotion and thought things through rationally.

Then he leaned back in his high-back leather chair and stroked his upper lip.

“What’s his name?” Rossi said. “This private detective.”

“Dean Blackwood,” Smokes said. “And rumor has it that the guy was a Fed.”

“How do you know?”

“I did some digging. This guy’s got a history, Sal. He’s a skull cracker, a rule-bender. It’s enough to cause some concern.”

Tremors snaked up Rossi’s spine. If history proved that there was one department of law that had a proclivity for fucking up the works, it was the FBI—the same sons of bitches who took down Rossi’s old man, brother, and half of the guys he used to call his friends.

“Our supply chain,” Rossi said to Smokes. “How is it?”

“The usual shipments are going out on schedule,” Smokes said. “All of our East Coast clients are happy. The money is coming in on time.”

“So the product is secure?”

“It’s secure.”

Rossi wasn’t convinced. “I’m gonna send a pair of the boys down to Somerset,” he said. “I’m gonna have ‘em appraise the situation and give me a report.”

“I’ve got this, Sal.” Smokes sounded irritated. “I can handle it.”

“Apparently not. I put my trust in you to keep an eye on the supply out there, Smokes. You’ve got one job—just one, and now you’re makin’ me second guess your ability to do the job justice.” Rossi leaned in toward the burner phone. “Stay close to the phone until my guys get there. We gotta talk about these kids you killed. We got one rule, campagno, and you broke it.”

“I’m sorry, Sally,” Smokes said. “I was just⁠—”

Rossi terminated the call.

Tossed the phone to Jimmy.

Then he groaned as his second-in-command snapped the device in two.

“Incredibile,” Rossi said. “During the damn holidays, no less.” He tapped his finger on the table. “I had a feeling Smokes was getting sloppy. The returns from our stuff over there in Somerset were good, but…”

“It was bound to happen sooner or later, boss,” Jimmy said, the unwavering second-in-command speaking in the same uniform and emotionless tone he always did. “Six years without a problem. Sooner or later we should’ve expected someone to start foulin’ up out there.”

“Never thought it would be Smokes,” Rossi said. “I hooked him up with a cherry little gig out there. All he had to do was just make sure the guys shipping the stuff out were doin’ their job—that’s it. Now he’s tellin’ me he’s whacked a pair of kids.” He looked grimly out the window toward the street. “This ain’t good.”

“Alright.” Jimmy clasped his hands in front of him. “What do you want to do?”

“Send Jackie and Lou,” Rossi said. “Tell ‘em to get a feel for what’s going on out there in Somerset. Once I get a full report from them of what’s going on, we’ll figure out what to do from there.” A thought struck him. “Christ…” He shook his head. “I swear, if Smokes is peddling this shit to people in the town, I’m gonna rip his balls off.”

“You think that’s possible?”

“Maybe.” Rossi shrugged. “Either way, it’s clear that Smokes might have outlived his usefulness.”

“You’re not thinkin’...?” Jimmy made a finger gun, pressed it to his temple, and pulled the trigger.

“I’ll circle back around to that later,” Rossi said. “For now, I’ll wait to hear what Jackie and Lou gotta say. The operation will need to remain intact, but it’s possible that we may need to,” he held up his hands and weighed as though they were the scales of justice, “well, change up some of the management structure.” He held up a finger and stood. “But we won’t make a call on that just yet. Just send Jackie and Lou down there and we’ll go from there.”

“No problem.” Jimmy pulled out his phone to make the call. “You got it, boss.”

Rossi took a beat.

Thought the situation through.

Then he cut a quizzical glance at Jimmy.

“Private investigator,” Rossi said. “That means someone hired this guy to look into this—the question I have is who.”

“I’ll check with Smokes on that,” Jimmy said. “Tell him to find out who hired this son of a bitch.”

“Be quick about it,” Rossi heard several of his nieces and nephews shrieking in delight from downstairs. “I can’t let this shit spill over into the holidays.” He clapped Jimmy on the back. “Let’s head downstairs, Jimmy. I told the kids they could open a few of the presents early tonight.”

33

SOMERSET, ILLINOIS

As Dean climbed the stairwell that led up to the second floor of the motel, he heard the music, a dull throb that shook the door of the room he shared with Freddy.

His skin prickled.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

Damn it, Dean thought as he took out his SIG, held it at his side, and slowly approached the door. What the hell is going on now?

The music grew louder.

Dean heard footsteps stomping on the carpets.

Then he slowly unlocked the door, pushed it open, saw Billy Madison playing on the television, and then his protégé, Freddy, dancing in sync with Adam Sandler on the screen to “I’ll Tumble 4 Ya” by Culture Club.

Dean frowned.

Sighed.

Wondered what the hell happened to the kid when he was little and figured a shrink was better suited to come up with an answer.

This isn’t real life, Dean thought.

This is a fever dream.

Freddy, his back to Dean, shimmied and juggled his hands near his hips, his face pinched into an exaggerated, open-mouth expression as sang in high-falsetto to the music.

Good Lord, Dean thought.

I think I would have preferred a break-in.

As Freddy shot out his legs and danced in place, Dean approached the bed, scooped up the remote, and threw it overhand at the back of the kid’s head.

Freddy yelped when the remote struck him.

He spun around.

Then Dean holstered his SIG and said, “I’m going to breeze past the what and simply ask you why?”

The kid shut off the television. Laughed. Dabbed the sweat off his brow.

“I love that movie,” Freddy said as he gestured to the screen. “It’s a classic.”

Dean glanced at Freddy’s t-shirt with the words “I’m Rick James, Bitch” printed across the front.

“What are you? Twelve?” Dean said as he closed and locked the door behind him. “I could hear the volume from down in the parking lot, you were blasting it so loud.”

“Did someone complain?”

“No, but I wish they would have.” Dean slipped off his jacket. “For crying out loud, Freddy. The last thing I wanted to do was roll back through here seeing you spaz out in the middle of the room.”

“Sorry, boss.” Freddy breathed a sigh and took the chair in the corner. “You kept me cooped up here for the whole day. I’ll keep it down next time.”

“Do you do this all the time when I’m away?”

“More often than not.”

“You must’ve given your babysitters growing up a run for their money.”

“Never had any,” Freddy said. “Mom couldn’t afford it. She used to just put on the TV and tell me to heat up a casserole while she was out. I learned to use an oven by the time I was six.”

“Really?” Dean frowned. “I had no idea.”

“Don’t cry for me, Argentina,” Freddy said, beaming proudly. “I learned from a young age how to be self-reliant. Most kids had Playstations or an XBox.” He gestured to the television. “I learned how to entertain myself pretty quickly. It was fun, really. No complaints on my end.”

“Good on you.” Dean smirked and sat down on the edge of his bed. “By the way, I just spent the past few hours questioning the biggest pair of dipshits Somerset’s ever produced.”

“Oh, snap.” Freddy scooted his chair closer to Dean. “What happened?”

Dean told him the whole story: beating up Rory and Eric Parker, questioning them—as well as Sean Patterson—and then the debrief he had with the sheriff, a series of events which took up half of the day.

“Kind of lost track of the time,” Dean said. “Haven’t had anything to eat since this morning.”

“We’ll grab some burgers,” Freddy replied as he grabbed his jacket. “There’s a burger place down the way.”

“In a second.” Dean held up his hand. “First, we have to talk about what’s going to happen next.”

“What happens next?”

“You,” Dean said with a hint of a grin to accompany it, “are going back to high school.”

34

Once Dean finished explaining to Freddy that the only way to have a chat with Rory Parker and get some intel on the drugs being dealt around Somerset was for Freddy to go “undercover” at the high school, the reaction on Freddy’s face was a combination of fear and amusement.

“Me?” the kid said. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Dean said. “I already spoke with Dr. Craven at the high school. She’s going to help us out. Winter vacation doesn’t start until the day after tomorrow, so we’ll get you enrolled today.”

“That doesn’t sound suss to you?”

“What?”

“Suss,” Freddy repeated. “It means ‘suspicious.’”

“God in heaven.” Dean huffed. “I swear, if you kids just spoke certain words as they were intended to be said, we wouldn’t waste all this time lost in translation.”

“Old man shaking his fist at kids aside,” Freddy said, “don’t you think kids at the high school will think it’s weird that I just showed up and started taking classes right before winter vacation?”

“Not according to your record, John.”

“What?”

“Jonathan Morris,” Dean clarified. “That’s the alias I gave you. You’re a transplant who just moved from Simi Valley to live with your uncle here in Somerset. You got expelled for a pair of fights this last semester, so your mother—God bless her—had enough and decided that it was best for you to start fresh with your old man out here.”

“Damn.” Freddy scrunched his nose curiously. “You came up with all that?”

“On the drive over here,” Dean explained. “I’m already working on the paper trail to back all of this up. We’ll get you enrolled over at Somerset High and put you in a few classes with the guy that I want you to talk to: Logan Riley.”

“Who’s Logan Riley?”

“The kid who’s allegedly selling dope to kids through the school.”

“And how does Logan,” Freddy asked, “tie into the murders that we’re looking into?”

“I’m not a hundred percent sure,” Dean said. “But it’s the only lead we have at the moment. It’s possible that whatever happened to these kids that got killed might have something to do with the drug problem around here. One of the kids that was murdered, Luke DeFeo, apparently purchased some of this stuff a few months back. Maybe he had a problem with Logan, maybe he owed him money, I’m not sure. Either way, I want to start by finding out what this kid Logan knows and go from there.”

“Sweet!” Freddy exclaimed as he shot out of his chair, the kid hopping from one foot to the next as a surge of adrenaline radiated through his body. “This is just like 21 Jump Street.”

“The hell it is.” Dean rose from the bed and approached his protégé. “Look, Freddy. I need you to understand what I’m asking of you. More importantly, I need you to know that this isn’t a game.”

“I know.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” Freddy cleared his throat and stood still. “I know this is a big deal, boss. And I want to do a good job. You’re putting me in the field, and I don’t want to screw that up.”

Dean could sense the conviction in Freddy’s tone; he knew that his protégé meant what he said.

“We have one shot at this,” Dean said. “And we’ve got one day, maybe two, to get you chummy with Logan Riley and find some answers.”

“Okay.” Freddy slipped his hands into his pockets. “No problem.”

“You think it’s that easy?”

“Yeah.” The kid shrugged. “I just hang out with the kid, get to know him, then figure out if he’s actually selling drugs.”

“Two years.”

“Come again?”

“Two years,” Dean repeated. “Back when I was working undercover, it took me two years to get a line on a supplier running meth—you only have two days to pull off the same feat. The odds, I’m sorry to say, are not in our favor here, but we have to take that chance.”

“I can do it,” Freddy said with his head held high. “I can.”

“How?”

“You said that this Jonathan guy I’m supposed to be playing is a troublemaker. If I act the part, if I pretend that I’m just like he is, this Logan kid should gravitate toward me, shouldn’t he?”

Not bad.

Dean flexed his brow.

He knows the basics—on paper, at least.

“Alright,” Dean said as he rolled up his sleeves. “Let’s do a little trial run.” His eyes narrowed as he pinned his gaze to his protégé. “I’m going to put you through a little crash course in undercover work here.” His eyelids tapered. “And I don’t want you to get pissed if I do something that doesn’t make sense.”

Freddy squinted. “Like what?”

Dean drew a breath. “You’ll see.”

35

Dean took the chair that Freddy had been sitting in a moment before. “Now,” he said, “pretend I’m Logan. Act like we just got out of class and we’re hanging out in the cafeteria. The mission here is to question me—Logan—and find out about my involvement with the drug problem around here, so start with that.”

“Got it.” Freddy closed his eyes, breathed, covered his hand with his face, and said nothing.

“Freddy,” Dean shrugged, “what the hell are you doing?”

“Getting into character.”

“Oh, for the love of⁠—”

“Please, boss.” Freddy waved Dean off. “Let me do what I need to do.”

Dean quirked a skeptical eyebrow.

Freddy took a beat, held his hands together like he was praying, and mumbled some kind of incantation.

“Freddy,” Dean said, “there’s no possible way that this is helping.”

“It is,” Freddy said. “I watched this video with Daniel Day Lewis on YouTube about finding the ‘truth’ of your character.”

“So, you’re method acting now?”

“I am.” Freddy drew a deep breath. “Now let me find my truth, please.”

“Find it quickly.”

Dean shook his head.

Freddy exhaled deeply.

Then the kid shot out his chin, approached Dean, and feigned like the two of them were high school teens in a cafeteria.

“Yo,” Freddy greeted. “What’s good, Logan?”

“Fuck off,” Dean said. “Leave me the hell alone.”

“I just⁠—”

Dean clapped his hands an inch away from Freddy’s face; his protégé shuddered.

“You don’t approach the guy you’re trying to work on,” Dean said. “You make him approach you.”

“So…” Freddy absorbed the information for a moment. “I don’t talk to him at all?”

“That’s not what I mean,” Dean said. “What I said was that you need to make him come to you. You need to pique his interest. You can’t just walk up to this guy and strike up a conversation—that won’t work. You have to think of this from a different angle.”

“Okay.” Freddy shrugged. “What does that look like?”

“The character you’re playing is a troublemaker, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Expelled for starting fights, right?”

“Right.”

“So,” Dean said, “you went to school with idiots like that. You remember what they were like. You probably had a run-in or two with them. Try and recall what those were like. Use those guys I just mentioned as a template for your character.”

Freddy took a beat.

Nodded in understanding.

Dean then sat down, mime-ate his cafeteria food, and waited for Freddy to start again.

Freddy approached.

Stuffed his hands into his pockets.

“Yo,” Freddy said. “Did you take my lighter?”

Dean furrowed his brow. “What?”

“My lighter.” Freddy’s tone became more flat and void of emotion. “You sit next to me in history. I was looking through my bag and I couldn't find it.”

“I don’t have it.”

“Did you steal my shit?” Freddy said as he leaned in close to Dean’s face. “I saw you hacking a butt outside, and you’re the only other person I know who smokes. So, did you take it or not?”

Dean smirked.

Clapped his hands.

Wagged a finger at his protégé.

“Better,” he said. “That’s more like it. You were a little too aggressive, but you’ve got the right idea.”

“Yeah?” Freddy’s face was glowing. “Not bad?”

“Yeah.” Dean nodded. “Not bad at all. You see, the point is to get this guy interested. You want to get him talking to you. Once you strike up a rapport, you’ve started the process. From there, it’s a matter of wearing the guy down, to get him comfortable to the point that he’s got something in the way of trust with you.”

Dean went on to explain that Freddy needed to get close to Logan by trying to look like he wanted nothing to do with the—supposed—dealer at all. He told his protégé that once he established his reputation with Logan—a loner, punk kid looking to cause trouble—that Logan would be more inclined to get chummy with someone like Freddy, aka, “Jonathan Morris.”

“You only have two days to pull this off,” Dean said. “I can’t teach you everything I know. Hell, half of this stuff you learn on the job. All you need to do, all you can do, is maintain this persona I’m talking about, get Logan interested, and then find out if he’s dealing drugs or not.”

“What do I do about that?” Freddy asked. “Do I ask him to sell me something?”

“No.” Dean shook his head. “You need him to offer it to you. If we curate an image that you’re a bit of a druggie, that you dabble in the stuff, that’ll help.”

“How do we do that?”

Dean explained that they’d “rough up” Freddy’s appearance; make him look like he smoked, drank, and carried himself like someone looking to score. Dean explained that it was a facade that Freddy could convey by twitching, and fiddling, and look like a guy going through minor withdrawals, an act that they perfected over the course of half an hour.

“Not bad,” Dean said. “Again, we don’t have a lot of time, so we can only get it so close. Luckily, kids are stupid, so it’s not like you're walking into a room with adults who might think differently.” He inched closer to Freddy. “And there’s one last thing, something I need to put you through here. It’s, in a way, kind of the ultimate test.”

“Alright.” An eager-faced Freddy stood at attention. “Go for it.”

“I’m going to pretend I’m Logan again,” Dean said. “I’m going to ask you some questions, and no matter what I do next, I need you to understand that I’m doing it in a bid to get you ready.”

“Of course, boss.” Freddy smirked. “Whatever you⁠—”

“Don’t smile,” Dean said. “Don’t grin. Don’t laugh or chat me up. You’re playing a part here, and you need to play it the best that you can.”

Freddy sealed his lips shut.

Dean took a step back.

“Yo, man,” Dean said. “You a cop?”

“What?” Freddy shrugged. “The hell are you talking about⁠—?”

Dean shoved his protégé.

The kid turned a shade of sheet white.

“I said,” Dean repeated, “are you a cop?”

“No, man.” Freddy shrugged. “I’m not a cop.”

Dean shoved Freddy again.

Then again.

Then he pressed him into a wall.

“You sound like a cop, bro,” Dean said, his teeth gritted, the white of his eyes widening. “You came in here asking me for drugs—that’s shit a cop would do.”

“I’m not a cop, man!” Freddy’s face slackened. “I’m not⁠—”

“No fear,” Dean said, dropping character for a moment. “Hold the image we created; show this guy that you’re tough.” He donned his “Logan” persona again. “Now, I asked you,” he shoved Freddy again. “You a cop?”

“I’m not a cop,” Freddy said. “Now back the fuck up.”

“Bullshit.” Dean shoved his protégé again. “You’re a cop.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you!”

Dean slapped Freddy and then prepared to slap him again—but his protégé caught the attempt by seizing his boss’s wrist, pushing him back, and then poking a finger in Dean’s chest.

“You come at me again,” Freddy said, anger glazing his words, “and I’ll come to your house and burn it down. I’ll rip your friggin’ head clean off if you step up to me like that again, motherfucker.”

Dean took a beat.

Smirked.

Then he patted the kid on the back.

“Boom,” Dean said as he saw the welt on Freddy’s cheek and winced. “Sorry I had to put you through that.”

“Don’t be.” Freddy shook his head. “I’m a lot of things, boss. But I told you I want to learn. And I meant it.”

For the first time in a while, Dean felt a twinge of pride.

He nodded approval.

Then someone rapped their knuckles on the door to the room.

“Housekeeping,” a demure voice called out. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” Dean called back. “Just finding the truth of our characters here.”

Freddy chuckled.

Dean joined in.

Then he offered to buy the kid a burger for a job well done.

36

DECEMBER 22ND

Putting Freddy through a crash course in undercover training left Dean feeling like the kid might be able to pull it off. The kid was a lot of things: reckless, foolish, arrogant, but Dean sensed that he had the raw talent to pull it off…and that was the part that got to Dean the most. Seeing Freddy get into character, training him to do the same work that Dean had done for so many years, instilled him with dread.

It’s not a long-term career for Freddy, Dean thought as he cut a quick glance at Freddy as they strolled into the sheriff’s station. He’ll do it once, be done with it, and that’s it.

Not like me.

Dean’s nostrils flared.

He won’t go down the same path that I did.

The pair approached the door to Curtis's office. Inside of it, Michael and Sean Patterson were seated across from the sheriff at his desk. Whatever Curtis was saying to them, it appeared to Dean that it was pissing off Michael based on the way the man was scowling.

Dean pushed the door open.

Nodded in greeting.

Freddy did the same.

“I just got word from Curtis,” Michael Patterson said, “that you’re recruiting my kid for some hair-brained stunt you plan on pulling at the high school?”

“Hair-brained stunt?” Dean shrugged. “I guess that’s true. But if you’re worried about anything happening to Sean, I can assure you that it won’t.”

“Yeah, bullshit.” Michael motioned to Freddy. “You plan on waltzing this assistant of yours into that school to try and get a line on this dope-pushing prick? What is this? An episode of 21 Jump Street?”

“Dude,” Freddy said as he flashed a sparkling grin. “I said the exact same thing to Dean. Crazy.”

“Michael,” Curtis said as he stepped away from his desk, “as silly as this plan sounds, I think it might be the best shot we have right now at trying to figure out who is pushing this stuff around town.”

The statement triggered a wide-eyed look from Michael Patterson, the brute of a man gawking like someone had just told him peanut butter was an appropriate alternative to sunscreen.

“You’ve lost your fucking minds,” Michael said. “The lot of you.” He crooked a finger at Curtis. “All because you’re too goddamn lazy or incompetent to find whoever’s slinging dope here in the town on your own.”

“Easy, Michael,” Curtis said. “We’re just trying to⁠—”

“Do you know what I’ve been through?” Michael gestured to his son. “What Sean has been through? I’ve made it my mission in life to make sure that he’s had something in the way of normalcy after what happened with his mother⁠—”

The look Dean saw on Sean’s face was equal parts disgust, vehemence, and sorrow.

“—and after what happened the other night,” Michael went on, “after what Sean was forced to endure, I’m going to have to spend the rest of my life forking out God only knows what kind of therapy bills. This is the kind of thing that’s going to stay with him the rest of his life.” He put his focus on Dean. “And now you, Mr. Private Investigator, want my kid to act like a chaperone for your little,” he winced and cut a glance at Freddy, “sidekick here?”

“All Sean is doing,” Dean said, “is introducing Freddy to the other kids at the high school—that’s it. Freddy can take things from there. And if there’s even the slightest whiff of trouble, Freddy’s been ordered to shut things down. You have my word here, Mr. Patterson. Nothing, and I repeat nothing, is going to happen to your son.”

“This is happening,” Curtis chimed in. “Whether you want it to or not, Michael. We have to find a solution to the problem here. This whole thing has gone on too long, and I regret having sat on my hands for as long as I did. This is a wild plan, yes, but it has to happen.”

“Again,” Dean said to Michael, “nothing bad will happen to Sean. You have my word.”

Michael’s complexion turned a shade of red as he walked over to Dean and pressed a finger into his sternum. “Your word means shit,” he grumbled. “Yours, Curtis'ss, and everyone else’s.” He nodded at Freddy. “And if this little pal of yours finds out that Logan Riley is the one selling smack around here, you better hope that Curtis puts the cuffs on him before I put my hands on him.”

Michael stormed out of the office, slammed the door behind him, and left Freddy, Curtis, Dean, and Sean to coordinate the rest of their plan.

“Sheriff,” Sean said weakly, his bleary eyes pinned to the linoleum floors. “Nothing bad will happen, right? I mean, I don’t want to cause any more trouble. I don’t want to⁠—”

“Seany,” Curtis said as he cuffed his hand around Sean’s shoulder, “we just need you to help Freddy get chummy with some of the other kids—that’s all.”

“Freddy knows what he’s doing,” Dean said. “I just need you to point him in the right direction. Give him the lay of the land. That’s all we need here.”

“Did Logan do this?” Sean asked. “Did he kill Luke and Daria?”

“Well,” Dean said as patted Freddy on the back, “that’s what my dutiful protégé here is going to find out for us.”

“Hey,” Sean forced himself to smile, “if it means we might catch the guy who hurt Luke and Daria, I’m down.”

“Good man,” Curtis said as he patted the kid on the back. “And we will.”

As Curtis pulled Sean off to the side to give him a pep talk, Dean did the same with Freddy, their tones lowered to a hush so that Curtis and Sean wouldn’t overhear them.

“Just get Sean to give you the layout of the school and take it from there,” Dean said. “This kid has been through a lot already. I don’t want to see him get hurt.”

“You have my word, boss.” Freddy nodded. “I won’t screw this up.”

“I know you won’t. Now let’s get your wardrobe changed out.” Dean tugged on the leopard print vest Freddy was wearing. “This Ferris Bueller bull shit isn’t going to cut it.”

37

Dean stood back to appreciate his work: Freddy’s hair, usually spiked up like some kind of jock villain from a 90s high school flick, was now tattered, greasy, and uncoordinated. His wardrobe consisted of baggy clothing, hand-me-down items that hung loose on Freddy’s frame and assisted with making him appear at least five years younger than his legal age of twenty-two. To round out the whole “latchkey kid” image, Dean had Freddy gargle a thimble’s worth of Jack Daniels before he had him puff—but not inhale—a single cigarette that clung to the fibers of his clothing. Before they headed out to the high school, Dean gave his protégé one last look to make sure the aesthetic they manicured was as good as it could possibly be.

“Not my best work,” Dean said as he handed Freddy a cheap backpack with a hole in it. “But it’s not bad considering we were in a pinch for time.”

“For sure.” Freddy shot a glance toward the bedroom mirror and checked out his appearance. “Damn.” He laughed. “I do look younger.”

“That’s the idea.” Dean clapped his hands together. “Now, tell me again: who are you?”

“Johnathan Morris, but I go by Morris.”

“Where are you from?”

“Simi Valley, California.”

“Why are you here in Somerset?”

“I slammed a chair against a kid’s head back at my old high school in September,” Freddy said. “It was my third strike, so I was expelled. My mother, Sharon, sent me to live with my uncle out here, Cleeve, who lives over on Clearview.” Freddy winced. “Is Cleeve a real guy?”

“That he is,” Dean replied. “Cleeve Heinmiller is a local hermit. He doesn’t get out much. All it took was a case of Budweiser and a carton of cigarettes to get him to play ball with us. If anyone calls his house looking for you, he’s been instructed to say that his nephew Jonathan—you—is not allowed to use the phone. You’re on probation after what happened at your old school.”

“Okay.” Fredd’s hands trembled. “Got it.”

“Easy, bud.” Dean patted Freddy on the back. “If you start to get nervous, implement the box-breathing technique I told you about: draw a four-second breath, hold it for the same count, release it for the same count, hold it for four seconds, and then repeat it.”

Freddy practiced the move, and moments later, the shakes in his hands went away.

“Hot damn,” Freddy said. “It really works.”

“That it does.” Dean shot a look toward the door of their room. “You ready?”

“Yeah.” Freddy nodded and held his head high. “I’m ready.”

“Good.” Dean rested his palms on the kid’s shoulder. “Now get in there, cozy up to Logan Riley, and find out if he’s pushing this stuff through Somerset. Once you can get him to sell to you, you report back to me. Once you set up a time and place with him for a deal, we’ll get a wire on you, get the kid on tape selling you this stuff, and then we’ll haul his ass in and sweat him. With his priors, he’ll be facing jail time. We can try and use that to get a line on his supplier.”

“Understood.”

“Alright.” Dean escorted Freddy to the door. “Sean is going to pick you up in a second here to give you a ride down to the school.”

“You’re not taking me?”

“Negative.” Dean shook his head. “I can’t have anyone seeing us together. They might get suspicious. Just get in there and get this done. It’ll take two days at the most. You’ve got this, kid.”

Freddy nodded

Opened the door.

But he stopped mid-stride and looked back at Dean.

“Hey,” Freddy said. “Thank you. For everything.”

“Anytime.” Dean felt a bit of regret as he watched his protégé head out for an undercover assignment. “Good luck.”

Freddy saluted.

Walked out.

Dean sat down on his bed and remembered Wilson giving him the same “go get ‘em” speech right before he headed out to his first undercover assignment years before.

How does it make you feel, Deano? he thought.

“Strange,” Dean said as soon as Freddy closed the door behind him. “Weird.”

“Passing of the torch,” the voice of Woody chimed in, the unreasonable part of Dean’s subconscious that he hadn’t heard from in some time. “Life really does come full circle.”

Shit, Dean thought. I thought I got rid of you.

“You can’t,” Woody said. “I’ll always be around.”

It’s been a while since I’ve heard from you, you Irish asshole.

“That it has.”

How’ve you been?

“Silly question,” Woody said. “We’re the same person.”

In a way.

“Honestly though,” Woody chuckled. “Did you ever think you’d be doing the whole ‘Mr. Miagi’ thing? You know, training some young kid to take part in an undercover sting? It’s kind of like fate, in a way—one generation of degenerate thrill seekers just passed the torch to another. Freddy Boy is taking up your mantle!”

Dean offered no reply to Woody. The best medicine, the only way he knew how to shoo Woody off was to not reply at all; you didn’t give the bastard an inch, he couldn’t stretch it into a mile.

“Freddy’s good,” Dean told himself. “He’s got this.” His skin chilled at the prospect of something bad happening to Freddy just like it had to himself all those years before. “He’s fine.”

He shook his head.

Took out his phone.

Decided to not think about Freddy’s mission as he plugged in Kent Wilson’s phone number and decided to work the other side of the Lucas DeFeo/Daria Brennan murders while he waited for his protégé to return.

He’s got this.

He’s fine.

He will be fine.

Dean squeezed his eyelids shut.

Won’t he?

38

Grief, as Angie Brennan came to discover, was an unpredictable beast that couldn’t be tamed. It was a monster, a demon of a roommate that tormented her day in and day out.

For the past several days, Angie cried herself dry. She barely ate. Sleep came in sporadic increments. At certain points—to her disappointment—Angie even thought about finding a way to join her daughter in an early grave to make it all go away.

But she couldn’t.

Angie told herself she had to live.

She knew she had to bury Shannon—the funeral was two days away, the arrangements still being made—and go on living her life as best as she possibly could because Angie outright refused to have her life end and have all those who attended her funeral talking about what a sad story her existence had been.

You’ll rebuild, Angie thought to herself more than once in the past few days. Whatever that looks like, you have to do it.

You have to go on.

Shannon would want it that way.

As Angie threaded her way through the cars in the parking lot next to River Rock Financial, she wiped away the tear that rolled down her reddened and inflamed cheek.

Shannon was a light in this dark world, she thought.

The grieving mother smiled as she conjured up the smiling face of her departed daughter.

She would tell you to keep going.

To not stop.

She was stronger than you could ever hope to be, and your life needs to be dedicated to upholding her memory.

Angie stuffed the withdrawal slip into her purse and fished out her keys.

And Dean will find whoever killed her.

He will.

Angie secured a tight grip around her keys.

And he’ll make sure that whoever did it will⁠—

“Ms. Brennan!”

A sheet-white Angie, heart in her throat, spun around and saw squirrelly little Lloyd Collins briskly approaching her.

Her fears subsided.

Lloyd Collins, five-foot-three with the build of a Hobbit, was a man who was of no threat to anyone.

“Yes?” Angie said.

Lloyd shrugged. Chuckled nervously. Then he threw up his hands and shifted his pudgy frame from one foot to the next. “How are you holding up, Ms. Brennan?”

Angie clenched a fist—too many people had asked her that same silly question too many times in the past several days.

“Fine,” Angie said as she patted her purse. “Just…” she shot a look toward the MacCready Funeral Home a half-mile down the road, “getting things moving for the service.”

“My condolences,” Lloyd replied flatly as he took a step closer. “I imagine this must be the hardest time you’ve ever had to endure, Ms. Brennan.”

Lloyd’s callous and uneven tone, the complete lack of empathy he seemed to have triggered a swell of rage inside Angie.

“Right,” Angie said. “Thanks, Lloyd.”

“It must be difficult.”

“It is.”

“I hope that you’re doing what you can…” the bank manager's eyelids narrowed, “to keep yourself safe, if you know what I mean.”

Angie’s eyes widened.

She straightened her back.

Then she took a step closer to Lloyd.

“Lloyd,” she said, smiling because she was so distraught and pissed and tired that she didn’t know what else to do, “what the hell is this?”

Lloyd took a beat.

His face darkened.

Then he clenched his teeth and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Don’t be fucking stupid,” he said as he raised and crooked a finger. “And tell that PI you hired to back the hell off.”

“I beg your⁠—”

Lloyd struck an open-handed swipe against Angie’s cheek.

She gasped.

Took a moment to process what had happened.

“Jesus,” Angie whimpered. “What are you⁠—?”

Lloyd seized Angie by her wrists, drove her forward, and pinned her to the back of her minivan. “Listen to me you goddamn hag,” he grumbled, his breath hot, his eyes maniacally wide. “Fire this guy you hired. Get rid of him. Stop poking your crooked little nose into things you shouldn’t. If you don’t, your narrow ass is going to get put in a plot right beside that silly little bitch daughter of yours.”

Angie’s knees buckled.

Lloyd shoved her to the ground.

As he turned around and stormed away, Angie wept and shook uncontrollably, her brain still trying to register the event before her flight mode kicked in.

She sped home in the minivan.

Locked the doors.

Hid in her bedroom.

Cried for several hours as she rocked in the fetal position.

What is happening?

Angie buried her face in her hands.

What in God’s name is going on?

39

Freddy’s nerves had subsided by the time Sean pulled into the parking lot of Somerset High School, something that Freddy attributed to the breathing technique that Dean had taught him.

Dude’s a smart guy, Freddy thought with a grin. Smartest dude I ever knew.

An hour later, after Freddy sat in on his first class, he knew he looked, sounded, and walked the part that he and his boss had curated—kids at the school were buying the act. Freddy found his confidence. He felt he was hot shit, completely untouchable, just knowing that the other students' expressions and whispers were indicative of their curiosity as to who he was and what was behind the hardened look in his eyes.

Freddy told himself he would do what he set out to do; he would find Logan Riley, get him to sell to him, and turn him over to Dean.

You’re the man, Freddy thought as he tailed Sean Patterson to his next class. You’re the friggin’ king!

“Listen,” Sean Patterson whispered as they sauntered their way down a hallway flanked with classrooms and lockers, kids offering him subtle nods and waves—silent condolences for what he had been through. “Logan’s in the next class. He usually sits in the back. I don’t know what your boss told you to do, but maybe you should sit next to him. Knowing Logan, if he thinks you're a badass, he might try to talk to you first—if he doesn’t think you're suss or anything.”

“Sweet,” Freddy grumbled. “Sounds good.”

Sean snickered. “This is weird, dude.” He adjusted the strap of his shoulder bag. “I never went to school with a cop before.”

“I’m not a cop.”

“What are you?”

“Not sure.” Freddy shrugged. “A PI in training, I guess.”

“What’s that like?”

“Pretty baller,” Freddy said. “Dean and I chase down bad guys all of the time.”

“Your boss seems pretty badass,” Sean said. “He doesn’t really take shit from anyone, including my dad.”

“Nothing really gets to Dean, I don’t think. He used to be an Army Ranger,” Freddy leaned in close to Sean’s ear. “And an FBI agent.”

“No shit?”

“No shit,” Freddy said. “Dude saw some wild crap back in the day. There was this guy, not that long ago, who showed up to Dean’s house trying to kill him. Dean shot the guy right in his own house. It was wild.”

“Damn.” Sean turned white. “He’s seen a lot of crazy stuff, yeah?”

Freddy nodded. “A shit ton. It’s pretty gnarly what he’s been through.” He jutted his chin at Sean. “And if anyone can find out who killed your friends, it’s him. Dude’s got a nose for this sort of thing. It’s whacky. It’s almost like, I don’t know,” Freddy flexed his brow, “trouble always finds him.”

“What about you?” Sean nudged Freddy—aka, Jonathan Morris. “How did you meet Dean?”

“My uncle,” Freddy said as memories of his dearly departed family member Cliff Bazz popped into his mind. “Dean and him were friends. My uncle was the closest thing I had to a dad. Right before my uncle passed away, he told me that if I was ever in a pinch, Dean could help. After I skipped out on living with my mom, I tracked Dean down, told him who I was, and got a job.”

“Where’s your mom now?”

“Somewhere in Vegas.”

“You’re from Vegas?”

“Yeah,” Freddy said. “But it’s lame. It’s just a desert filled with neon lights, degenerate drinkers, and gamblers. I’m never going back there.”

“Least you got a mom,” Sean paused. “Mine died before I could remember her.”

“Shit.” Freddy winced. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all good.” Sean shrugged. “I guess it’s better that it happened before I knew her. You know, even if she was alive, I’d have a hard time thinking she wouldn’t have left my dad. You’ve met him. Guy’s kind of a jerk.”

“I noticed,” Freddy said. “Pretty stubborn dude, your dad.” He registered a familiar forlornness in Sean’s eyes. “And I know what that’s like, not having your whole family together or whatever.”

“It sucks,” Sean said. “Nothing you can do about it though—it is what it is. My dad’s a jerk, yeah, but he’s still my dad. He cares. He’s tough on me, sure, but he’s all I got. I know he cares about me and stuff.”

“Still,” Freddy said, “he should take it easier on you, all things considered.”

“The way I see Dean talk to you, he should do the same.”

“He’s hard on me because he needs to be,” Freddy said. “I know that.”

“Still.” Sean terminated his walk and faced Freddy. “We both got that family trauma bullshit or whatever. I feel like, I don’t know, like someone should cut us some more slack or something with everything that’s happened to us. The dudes in our life are only being hard on us because⁠—”

“Because their dads,” Freddy cut in, “were hard on them. It’s a shitty cycle, man. Your dad, my dad, Dean,” he threw up his hands, “all those guys act how they act because they don’t know any other way. Still, there’s some stuff we can learn from them.”

“I don’t want to be like my dad,” Sean said as he resumed walking. “I want to be nice to my kids if I ever have any. I don’t want to have a wife leave me because I’m an asshole.”

“You won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because,” Freddy said, “the fact that you think about not wanting to be like that is half the battle, as far as I know. You’re a good dude, Sean. Even with all the crap that’s happened, I’d put the ten bucks in my checking account on you turning out alright.”

Sean smirked.

Freddy refrained.

On the inside though, he felt a genuine connection being forged with the kid next to him.

“Thanks for doing this,” Sean said, “for trying to find the dudes that did this thing to Luke and Daria.”

“We’ve got this,” Freddy replied. “We’re gonna nail whoever did this up to a wall and kick ‘em in the nuts.”

“I’m down with that.”

“Swingin’,” Freddy said, hijacking a saying that he heard his boss mumble several times before. “Then let’s get me cozy with Logan so we can get this sucker on the road.”

The pair walked toward the next classroom—Algebra.

They walked inside.

Sat apart from each other.

Waited for the bell to ring.

A few moments after the bell clanged, Logan Riley entered, a red-haired kid who looked like a sinister version of Opie from The Andy Griffith Show.

Logan grunted.

Took the seat next to Freddy.

Freddy turned up his gaze.

Logan then gave him a subtle—yet heated—nod.

Sweet, Freddy thought.

We’re gonna make this happen.

40

“Ibroke a chair upside a kid’s head,” Freddy—aka, Jonathan Morris—said as he passed Logan the cigarette he was puffing on. “Stupid fuck ratted me out to the vice principal. Then the cops busted my ass, held me overnight, and then my bitch of a mom shipped me out here to live with my uncle.”

Logan, laughing, took a drag of the cigarette he was giving and then leaned against the bleachers on the football field. “Same shit happened to me last year,” he said. “I tried to score a fifth of Jack from Tooley’s Liquor Mart with a fake ID and this dipshit working the counter narced on me to the sheriff. Shit would’ve been cool if I hadn’t waved that piece in front of his face, but whatever. Thing wasn’t even loaded. The sheriff still got pissed though, so he locked me up for the night. My old man whooped my ass when I got home.”

Freddy, gazing out at the football field, concealed his delight at having gotten close to Logan over the course of three hours. It was a fairly easy feat. Logan had taken to Freddy—Jonathan—with ease, and Freddy thanked the training Dean gave him, the wardrobe, and the knack he appeared to possess for undercover work for pulling it off.

You’ve got the dude on the hook, man, Freddy thought as he took the Pall Mall back from Logan. You’ve got this.

“You live with that dude Cleeve, right?” Logan said. “That old fuck on the other side of town.”

“Yeah.” Freddy nodded. “He’s uncle.”

“The dude’s nuts. You know that, right?” Logan shifted his weight. “I tried stealing some two-by-fours off his lawn last August and he pointed a double-barrel at me.”

“Fuck that guy,” Freddy said. “I’m not staying long anyway.”

“Stick around, bruh,” Logan said. “Got some dudes you should hang with.” He winked. “You’ll like ‘em.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Freddy said. “This town’s nuts though.” Ask about the murders. “Didn’t two kids actually get killed not that long ago?”

“Luke DeFeo and Daria Brenna.” Logan nodded. “Fuck ‘em though. Never liked ‘em.” He flashed a crooked smile. “Save for Daria, maybe.”

“How so?”

“She had a sweet rack, dude.” Logan laughed. “Chick is hot.” He laughed harder. “Well, was.”

Freddy joined in—on the inside though, he was reeling at the fact that he was.

“What did those kids get murdered for?” Freddy said. “They piss someone off or something?”

“Not that I know of,” Logan said. “People think it might have something to do with drugs though.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“What kind of drugs?”

Logan narrowed his eyes. “What kind do you think?”

“I don’t know.” Freddy took a drag of the cigarette—didn’t inhale—and passed it back. “Only shit I did back in Simi was weed. Usually wax. Stuff’s thick out there, bruh. You should go out there sometime.”

“You ever do coke?” Logan said. “Booger sugar?”

“Yeah, one time.” Freddy remembered what Dean had told him about cocaine making people jittery and paranoid. “I couldn’t sleep for like two days.”

“How much did you do?”

“Couple lines.”

“Was it stepped on?”

“You mean with fenty?” Freddy shrugged. “If it was, then it didn’t do shit to me.”

“Where did you do the coke?” Logan said. “Who with?”

“Couple buddies.”

“Were you at a party?”

Shit, Freddy thought. This kid is asking a lot of questions.

“Some house party in Simi,” Freddy said as he thought of a story Dean had told him about. “We had a dude with a scanner on the front lawn keeping an ear out for cops and shit. Made out with this chick with a neck tattoo. Her breath friggin’ reeked.”

Logan chuckled.

Freddy, again, joined in.

“Out here,” Logan said, “we got some decent stuff. It’s pretty good. Purity keeps going down on it, but that happens.”

“What kind of stuff?” Freddy replied. “What do you got?”

“Good stuff.”

“Like what, man?” Freddy said. “You talking in riddles or something?”

Logan took another puff of his cigarette, flicked it away, and took a step back. “This was fun, dude,” he said, “but I’m kind of over it, you know?”

Freddy squinted. “What do you mean?”

“You’re pretty convincing, dude.” Freddy shook his head and took up a boxer’s stance. “I mean, your stories were good and shit. For a second, I thought you were legit.” He took a step closer. “But you didn’t really think you could walk into school, act tough, and think I would buy it, did you?”

Freddy took a beat.

Smirked.

Held his head high.

“Alright, dude,” Freddy said. “The fuck is your problem?”

“Some fake-ass cop pretending to be a kid is weak, bro,” Logan said. “Shit, I can’t believe you were that dumb to think you could pull it off.”

“Fuck you, man.”

“Nah,” Logan shook his head. “Fuck you and that dude who sent you here.” He shot his chin toward the football field. “You can blame him for this next part.”

Freddy opened his mouth.

Prepared to rattle off a reply.

But then he saw four kids of different sizes, all of them grinning and cackling as they walked toward the bleachers with their fists clenched as they spread out like a pack of hyenas closing in on a wounded deer.

Oh, fuck, Freddy thought.

This is really gonna suck.

41

Dean looked over the series of welts, bruises, and small lacerations on Freddy’s face as his protégé dabbed at them with an ice pack.

“Looks worse than it feels,” Freddy said, seated on the edge of his bed as Dean tended to his wounds. “I’ve had worse. One time one of my mom’s boyfriends beat the shit out of me so bad that I couldn’t see out of my left eye for like a week.”

This is my fault, Dean thought.

I should have never made him do this.

“They tuned me up pretty good,” Freddy groaned as he dabbed at his split lip with a bloody hand towel. “I got a few punches in, but they just started hammering me. By the time I woke up, they were gone. They took my shoes, too.” The kid glanced down at his sneaker-less feet. “The hell is that? This an episode of Oz or something? I had to walk back here to the motel barefoot.”

Dean took a beat.

Stood back.

Cursed at himself internally for the plan he had put into motion.

“I’m sorry, Freddy,” Dean said. “This was a mistake. We should have never done this. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.”

“It’s my fault, man.” Freddy shifted the ice pack to the welt under his left eye. “It was too soon for me to do this. I thought I had it.”

Dean shook his head. “This doesn’t make sense,” he said. “If Logan thought you were a cop or whatever, why tune you up? He could’ve just ignored you completely. Him beating you up would've run the risk of him getting arrested.”

“He’s a jackass,” Freddy said. “He’s hot-headed.” He flinched at the pain in his shoulder. “That’s all there is to it.”

“No,” Dean said. “No, before Logan kicked your ass⁠—”

“It was five against one.”

“Whatever,” Dean waved his hand through the air. “Before it happened, you told me that Logan called you a ‘fake-ass cop.’ Then he said, ‘fuck the dude that sent you here.’”

“So?”

“So, he was talking about me. He knew you weren’t a cop.” Dean took a beat to think. “Someone must have dimed you out, dimed us out, before you got to that school.”

“You don’t know that,” Freddy said. “This whole thing could be explained by me not simply pulling off the ruse.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, if someone told Logan that I was working with you,” Freddy said, “then who was it?”

“I don’t know,” Dean said. “I’m not sure. It’s a small town, so word travels fast. Maybe people were wise enough to know who we were and why we’re here.” He clenched a fist. “All I know is that we’re not any closer to figuring things out than when we started. We don’t know if drugs have something to do with what happened to Luke or Daria. All we know is that someone ratted you out to Logan, and they wanted Logan to send some kind of a message.”

Freddy groaned and laid back on the bed.

Dean flared his nostrils. “This is screwed,” he said. “Completely fucktangular on all sides.”

“I like that one,” Freddy said. “Mind if I use it?”

“Yeah.” Dean fetched the bottle of aspirin from the nightstand and tossed it to Freddy who caught them with one hand. “Knock yourself out.”

Someone knocked on the door.

Dean went to answer it.

Then he opened it and saw a stern-faced Sheriff Curtis standing outside.

42

“Twenty-four hours,” Curtis said. “When I come back here then, I expect the two of you,” he motioned to a battered and bruised Freddy inside of the room, “to be gone.”

Dean processed what the sheriff told him.

Squinted.

Then he rattled off a laugh.

“You can’t be serious,” Dean said. “You⁠—”

“Some kid,” Curtis cut in, “told me he saw your pal Freddy getting worked over by Logan Riley and his friends on the football field.”

“So arrest them,” Dean replied. “Pull that Logan kid in⁠—”

“I did.”

“And?”

“And,” the sheriff said, “it’s his word against Freddy’s. Look, whatever this investigation of yours is, whatever pull you may have with the FBI, I don’t care. You’ve caused enough trouble, and it’s clear to me, after what happened to your partner, that it’s spiraling out of control. I want you gone. The both of you.” Curtis tensed his jaw muscles. “And I plan on getting an MRI to make sure my synapses are firing right. After giving you the green light to send that kid into the high school,” he shook his head, “I’m worried my brain isn’t working as right as it used to be.”

“Sheriff,” Dean said as he stepped outside the room, “it’s clear we’re stirring up the pot here with this drug problem. If I can just⁠—”

“I’ll take it from here, Blackwood.” Curtis held up his hand. “You’ve got twenty-four hours to leave Somerset, and if you don’t, I’ll arrest you for obstruction.” With that, Curtis stomped his way down the staircase, got in his cruiser, and tore out of the parking lot.

Dean blinked his eyes.

Slammed the door to the room shut.

Then he proceeded to pace, digest his conversation with Curtis, and think of what his next move would be.

“So,” Freddy said, “that’s it?”

“Two dead kids,” Dean replied. “A bunch of meth floating through Somerset. A bereaved mother.” He crooked a finger at Freddy’s wounds. “And now this.” He shook his head. “I don’t like this, Freddy.”

“What’s there to like?” Freddy shrugged. “This whole thing blows. Maybe we should just go home.”

“No,” Dean said as rage swelled in his chest. “Not yet, at least. I want some answers, and I’m going to get them. “

“Be careful, laddie,” Woody whispered in his ear. “You’re headed down that road again.”

Good, Dean thought. Because I don’t like dead kids.

Or drugs.

Or my subordinates getting beat up by shitheads who grope women.

Or people telling me to back off of finding the truth.

“What about your family?” Woody said. “I thought this was all for a paycheck.”

Not anymore, Woody, Dean thought. Now kindly be quiet.

He grabbed his keys.

Told Freddy to lock the door.

“Where are you going?” Freddy said as he shot up from the bed.

“I’m done screwing around,” Dean replied as he threw open the door. “I think we need to start doing things the hard way around here.”

43

For the third time in the last hour, Logan Riley, seated on the porch of his home with two of the guys that helped him beat up Freddy—Kyle and Geoff—retold the story of the ass kicking that took place under the bleachers.

“Did you hear that groan that dude made?” Logan said. “He made the weirdest noise.”

“That was sick, man,” Geoff, the biggest member of the group, replied. “So good!”

The trio continued talking about the beating, reenacting it, and trading off the large bottle of IPA beer they were sharing, the bluetooth speaker beside them churning out a mumble rap song that sounded the same as the several others they had played before it.

“I kind of want to kick his ass again,” Logan said before he took a swig of the beer. “We should go find where he’s at.”

“What if that dude he’s with comes looking for us though?” Kyle said, his face pinched. “You think he might?”

“Maybe.” Logan shrugged. “But my boss said that he’d handle it, so he’ll handle it. He said he’d get rid of Blackwood⁠—”

“Oh, shit,” Geoff said as he shot up from the stoop and pointed toward the street. “No fucking way.”

“What?” Logan shot his friend a look. “What’s your problem?”

“Him.”

“Him who?”

“The dude,” Geoff said, his eyes wide, his finger pointed toward the street. “The guy who sent that kid in we beat up. He’s right there!”

Logan swept his gaze toward the street.

Squinted.

Saw the guy that his boss mentioned—Dean Blackwood—standing there with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket.

44

“Fuggin’ shit,” Logan said, gazing at Dean as he handed the bottle of IPA over to Geoff. “You weren’t kidding.”

“Logan, right?” Dean said as he inched closer to the porch steps. “You’re the scrawny little prick who beat up my friend.”

“Fuck yeah, I did.” Logan puffed his chest proudly. “So, what?”

“You, uh…” Dean winced, “you also sexually harassed and assaulted Daria Brennan too, right?”

“And?”

Straightening his back, Dean climbed the porch steps, approached Logan, and took a long hard look at the punk who cackled and talked shit with his buddies; nothing about his attitude gave Dean a sense that the kid was intimidated.

“Go away, man” Logan said as he took out a cigarette and lit it up. “This stupid ass tough guy shit doesn’t scare me.”

“I’m going to ask you a few questions,” Dean said. “You’re going to answer them.”

“I got a better idea.” Logan sucked down half of his cigarette. “How about,” he flicked the cigarette toward Dean’s chest; flakes of burning embers left a dime-sized scorch mark on Dean’s shirt, “you go back where you came from, light a candle, strip naked, and suck yourself off?”

The two kids flanking Logan doubled over with laughter.

Logan shrugged.

Dean took a small step forward. “I know you’re dealing drugs around here, kid,” he said. “You’ll get caught sooner or later. You’ll screw up, make a mistake. Everybody does.”

“You can’t prove shit, fucker,” Logan said. “Now get off my porch before I call the cops and tell them there’s a pedophile sniffing around people’s yards.”

“You’re going to tell me what you’re dealing,” Dean said, “who you’ve been dealing it to, how much of it you have, and the guy that’s supplying it to you.”

“I’m going to go inside,” Logan gestured like a bellhop to the front door, “get my dad’s gun, come back out here, and shoot you in the dick.”

“Kid,” Dean held his fists at his sides, “don’t be an asshole.”

“You know what?” Logan stripped off his hoodie, tossed it to one of his buddies, and shot his cuffs. “I’m just going to fuck you up and call it self-defense.”

“Knock it off.”

“Hell yeah, Logan,” the chunky kid holding the sweater said. “Beat his ass!”

“Kid,” Dean said as Logan circled him. “Don’t.”

Logan, his fists held up in a defensive posture, skipped his feet from left to right. “Here it comes,” he dashed toward Dean and cocked back his right arm, “I’m about to go Jake Paul on your⁠—”

Dean raised his booted foot back, shot it forward, and kicked Logan square in the nuts.

Logan shrieked and doubled over.

Dean then grabbed him by the collar, lifted him up, and slammed him back first onto the porch.

Geoff, the chunky kid, spread out his arms and darted toward Dean.

Dean clotheslined him.

The other kid, Kyle, tried to throw a haymaker into the back of Dean’s head—but Dean quickly spun around, seized the kid by his shirt, drew back his head, slammed his forehead into the kid’s face, and put him to sleep.

Logan, on his back, struggled to pull air into his lungs. As Dean watched the kid flop around the ground, he pulled him up by his shirt, lifted him off his feet, and hovered his nose an inch away from Logan’s face.

“You’re just as shitty a boxer as Jake Paul is,” Dean said. “Now, where were we?”

“Dude,” Logan grumbled, his face red and spittle forming at the corners of his mouth. “What the fuck?”

“You put hands on my partner—and a young girl.”

“So?!”

Dean gritted his teeth. “Wrong answer.” He slammed his fist in Logan’s solar plexus, released his grip on the kid’s shirt, and watched him crumble to the floor.

“Tell me what I need to know,” Dean said as he circled Logan like a vulture. “I want to know who’s supplying you with the shit you’ve been pushing around here.”

“Bruh,” Logan crawled his way toward the porch steps. “Fuck you.”

“Again,” Dean seized the kid by the back of his shirt. “Wrong answer.” He threw Logan into the swinging loveseat on the porch, watched the chains snap, and heard the air shoot out of Logan’s lungs as the swing toppled to the floor.

“One more time,” Dean said as he stormed up to Logan, grabbed him by the shirt, lifted him, and then pressed him into the floor. “Who’s supplying you the stuff?”

“Bruh—”

“Call me ‘bruh’ again,” Dean said, “and you’ll be turned into a falsetto for the rest of your life, you little shit.” He tightened his grip on Logan’s shirt. “I’m going to count to three now. If I get to ‘one’ and you haven’t answered me…” He shrugged and allowed the kid to fill in the rest.

“Dude,” Logan groaned. “Please.”

“Three,” Dean counted.

“I don’t⁠—”

“Two!”

“Alright!” Logan’s lips pouted as he tried to crawl into a fetal position. “I’ll tell you. Fuck! I’ll fucking tell you!” He closed his eyes. “It’s the dude from the mechanic shop. Sean’s dad. Michael Patterson is the one who sells me the shit.”

Dean released his grip.

Stood back.

Ran Michael Patterson’s name through his filter.

That, he thought, might just make sense.

45

Moments after the scuffle ended, just after Logan told Dean that Michael Patterson was his boss, Dean painted a vivid picture for Logan of what would happen to him in prison after he contacted his FBI buddies. He spoke in ghastly hypotheticals that even Dean couldn’t help but grimace at soon after he said them.

“I need you to stick around here for a few minutes,” Dean said, Logan seated on the porch, his two buddies Geoff and Kyle moaning and struggling to get to their feet. “I’m coming back here in a bit to bring you into the sheriff’s office so we can talk this whole thing through.”

Logan nodded his compliance. “I won’t deal anymore, man,” he said. “I swear.”

“I know you won’t.” Dean pointed at Geoff and Kevin. “You two—get lost. Don’t come back here. Go hide in your houses until the sheriff comes around to question you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Geoff said.

“I will,” Kyle groaned.

“Good.” Dean marched down the porch steps, turned left, and saw the next-door neighbor gazing on with a befuddled expression at the trio of battered kids sprawled across the porch.

Great.

Dean sighed.

Witnesses.

The neighbor, a guy in his early forties—Dean’s best guess—shrugged and went about checking his mailbox.

“Fuck that kid,” the neighbor said. “I know what he does around here.” He winked at Dean. “I didn’t see a thing.”

Dean winked, bid the guy a “Happy Holiday,” and then headed east toward Michael Patterson’s auto body shop—Mel’s—six blocks away. The entire walk, Dean felt disturbed by the fact that he felt nothing after beating up a seventeen-year-old.

But why should I? He’s a piece of shit. A drug-dealer. A recidivist asswipe who’ll end up serving time in one of the big boy pens by the time he turns eighteen.

Trudging his way through the snow as the last remnants of daylight slipped into the west, Dean, two blocks from arriving at Mel’s, stuffed his hands in his pockets as the temperature ticked down another degree.

“Well, laddie,” Woody said. “Looks like you're getting some answers.”

Yeah, Dean thought. That looks to be the case.

“How’s it feel beating up a kid?”

Not great.

“You should go to the sheriff,” Woody suggested. “Tell him what you found out from Logan.”

I will. Dean got a glimpse of the sign for Mel’s Auto Body a half-block away on his left. But first I want to have a talk with Patterson.

“What for?”

I’m going to confront this prick to his face.

“Not exactly standard procedure.”

Nope, Dean thought. But when was the last time I ever abided by standard procedure?

“Good point.” Woody huffed. “Besides, I think you know why you’re going to Patterson first before you go to Curtis.”

Do tell.

“Because you don’t trust Curtis,” Woody said. “Deep down, you never have. That little intuitive sense for distrustful people we have went haywire when you first met him.”

When you’re right, Dean thought, you’re right.

“Crazy little town, eh?” Woody said as Dean moved across the street, hopped on the curb, and rounded the corner toward the front of Mel’s Auto Body. “Everyone here seems to be guarding some dirty secret.”

Dean nodded. My thoughts exactly.

“Then why stay? I thought this was for a paycheck?” Woody sighed. “You’re doing that thing again, laddie. You’re just a few moves away from being in so deep that you can’t dig yourself out.”

I know, Dean thought. It’s a problem. He turned the corner, arrived at Mel’s, and saw Michael Patterson fiddling under the hood of a pickup truck. But someone’s got to air out the dirty laundry around here.

46

“Howdy, Mike,” Dean greeted, forcing a tight-lipped smile. “How ya doing?”

Michael Patterson stuck his head out from under the hood of the pick-up, saw Dean, and frowned. “You’re still here?” he said. “After that beating your boy took, I figured you’d have left by now.”

“Not yet.” Dean cut a glance to his left and surveyed the auto body shop that bore the appearance of something from the 1950s, a retro-looking building which, like the rest of the town, was in immaculate condition.

“Nice place, by the way,” Dean said. “Makes me think I just stepped off the bus in Pleasantville.”

“You got a car problem, Blackwood?” Michael said as he continued tinkering under the hood of the pick-up. “Or a question?”

“More of an accusation, really.” Dean tapped a finger on his hip holster. “Word around town is that you’re supplying these pimple-popping breeze-brains at Somerset high with smack. I just figured I’d come to you and ask you flat-out if that’s true.”

Michael stopped tinkering under the hood of the pick-up, sighed, and wiped the grime caking his hands on his coveralls. “I can’t tell if you're dumb,” he said, “or dumb as shit, Blackwood.”

“Reckless, maybe,” Dean replied. “A little stubborn, perhaps.” He approached Michael. “But I’ve got a wicked little sixth sense for when things are true; that whole detective’s intuition thing.” He wagged a finger. “And my gut is telling me right now that this claim of you floating drugs to kids may be a rumor that holds some truth to it.”

Michael flexed his brow.

Reached into the cab of the pick-up.

Palmed a tire iron and gripped it tightly in his hand.

“You’ve got a knack for fiction, Detective,” Michael said, “and a huge set of balls rolling around here throwing bullshit accusations like that my way.”

“I take it you’re going to say it’s not true.”

“You got it.”

“Still,” Dean wrinkled his brow, “after Freddy got dimed out to Logan Riley that he was with me, it got me thinking. You see, only three people knew who Freddy really was and why I sent him to the high school: Me, Curtis,” he shot out his chin. “And you. And since I damn well didn’t rat my own guy out, and based on the way you fought so hard to keep Sean out of the little undercover arrangement we had, I think you understand why I’m inclined to think that maybe you were the one who did it.”

“So, I’m a drug supplier,” Michael said incredulously. “And Logan Riley was one of my dealers. What’s your proof? Your evidence? Sorry to talk like we’re replaying old episodes of Monk, but…” Michael shrugged.

“Good show,” Dean replied. “It’s one of those series you put on before bed. It’s comforting. Kind of par with a fireplace.”

“Get to the point, Blackwood. Cite your evidence and do it quickly.” Michael gestured toward his shop. “I’ve got a call to make to Curtis to complain about you, followed by my five hundred dollar-an-hour lawyer who’s going to file a lawsuit against you on my behalf.”

“Five hundred.” Dean whistled. “Pretty expensive for a guy who runs an auto shop.” He snapped his fingers. “But I guess you got that kind of cash on hand thanks to this so-called ‘rich aunt’ you inherited a huge chunk of cash from.”

“That’s right.”

“Bullshit.”

“Prove otherwise.”

“I can’t,” Dean said. “Not yet, at least. Again,” he patted his stomach, “all I have is my gut instincts right now, and the second Logan Riley told me you were his supplier, something screamed at me that it was true.”

“So,” Michael flicked his gaze toward the pavement, “Logan told you this.”

“He did,” Dean said. “And as big a fuckup asshole that kid is, if something happens to him, I’ll know who to question-slash-beat to a pulp first.”

“You’ve got a vivid imagination, Blackwood.”

“A stellar penchant for recall, actually.” A thought floated through Dean’s mind. “You know, there’s something I meant to ask you before.”

“What?” Michael said.

“The night Luke DeFeo and Daria Brennan were killed,” Dean said. “You told Curtis that you were visiting your sister in Aurora. After Curtis called you and told you what happened, you zipped back down here.”

“Right.” Michael shrugged. “And?”

“What’s your sister’s name?” Dean said. “And why were you stopping off over in Aurora to visit her?”

Michael grinned. “You said you’ve got a knack for remembering stuff, yeah?”

“Yep.” Dean resisted the urge to think about the death of his brother Tommy, as he did more often than not. “I do.”

“Well,” Michael said, “burn this one into your memory for future reference…”

Michael strolled up to Dean, the tire iron held by his side.

A small part of Dean, as he slid his palm across the grip of his SIG, prayed that the guy would give him an excuse.

“If I see you again,” Michael said, standing two feet away from Dean, “if I catch you sniffing near my kid or trying to come at me like this again, I’ll shoot you, claim self-defense, crack open a beer, and call it a day. You’re in Somerset, fucko, and our laws protecting self-defense make Texas look like paradise for queers you’ve got out there in California.”

“Noted,” Dean said. “And just so you know, if I find out that you’re the one behind this shit being pushed through town,” he brushed off flecks of dried oil from Michael’s greased-stained coveralls, “I’m going to severely fuck you up—really fuck you up. I’m talking like bound to a wheelchair or sucking on a food tube the rest of your life kind of fucked.”

“Got it.” Michael clapped Dean on the shoulder. “Now get the hell out of my shop.” He turned and walked away. “I believe you’ve still got two murders you haven’t even gotten close to solving.”

Dean held his ground.

Michael continued working on the pickup.

After a moment, Dean left, the sun in the early stages of setting in the west, fixated during his entire walk back to his motel on what Michael Patterson had said—and the fact that he was still no closer to solving Luke and Daria’s murders than the day he first arrived in Somerset.

47

Logan’s nerves were sapped after the beating he took from Dean Blackwood. It got so bad that he swiped some of his old man’s tequila from his hidden liquor stash just to calm himself down.

No more dealing, Logan thought, his hands trembling as he hid in his bedroom and took another swig from the tequila bottle. I need to stay home, hide out. Mom’s not coming back until January, so I’ll be fine if I just wait out here until then. Before she gets back, I’ll tell Michael that I quit, put all my cash into an account, get rid of the last of my stash, and be done with it.

Logan’s body shook uncontrollably. Fuck, man. He took another sip from the bottle. That Blackwood guy is serious. He’ll fuck me up again if I do something wrong. He cut a glance toward the half-moon high in the sky outside of his window. Does Michael know? Is he going to come after me?

Fuckin’ shit dude!

I screwed this up so freakin’—

Someone knocked on the front door.

Logan shot up and thought he pissed himself, but when he glanced down, he realized that he just spilled some of the tequila on his jeans.

He cursed under his breath.

Stashed the bottle under his bed.

Figured his old man had gotten home a few days early, so Logan gargled some mouthwash, spit it in the kitchen sink, and rushed downstairs to answer the door as the rapping of knuckles on it continued.

“Alright,” Logan groaned out as he palmed the front door handle and pulled. “I’m coming⁠—”

The kid’s mouth dropped when he opened the door and saw the pair of men in peacoats and three-piece suits on the porch. Logan didn’t recognize them, hadn’t the slightest clue who they were; but the men, tall and dark and grinning, stared at Logan like they knew exactly who he was.

48

“Hey, kid,” the guy on the left said, his eyes steel-blue and cutting through Logan like a carving knife, his teeth straight and perfect and sterling to the point that it looked whiter than the snow covering Logan’s front lawn. “How’s it going?”

“I…” Logan winced. “Who are you?”

“What happened there?” the man on the right said as he twirled the gold pinky ring on his finger. “Your face looks a little swollen. You take a spill or somethin’?”

“I…” Logan shrugged. “I don’t know…”

“He doesn’t know,” Blue Eyes said, laughing as he nudged Pinky Ring. “Kid looks like he got beat to a goddamn pulp.”

“Bad luck,” Pinky Ring replied. “He should get some meat and slap it on that welt on his cheek. Old ways are still the best, I’m tellin’ ya.”

“Listen, I…” Logan huffed. “I don’t know⁠—”

“Easy, kid,” Blue Eyes said. “We’re here on behalf of Smokes. You remember him, don’t you?”

“No.” Logan furrowed his brow. “Who’s that? Does he work for Michael?”

“Yeah.” Jackie grinned. “Sure, he works for Michael.” He shot his chin toward the foyer. “Invite us in.”

“What?”

“Invite us in,” Pinky Ring said before he puttered his lips and raised his shoulders to his ears. “Goddamn congelamento out here.”

“He’s right, bud,” Blue Eyes added. “Our pricks are gonna freeze and snap off like icicles if we stay out here too much longer.”

Too stunned, scared, dazed, and taxed from the beating he took, Logan simply stood aside, said nothing, and tried not to look at Blue Eyes or Pinky Ring as they trudged their way into the house.

“Nice and warm in here,” Pinky Ring said. “Cozy.”

“Where’re the decorations?” Blue Eyes motioned around the living room. “No tree? Stockings? Nothin’?”

“It’s Christmas.” Pinky Ring flashed Logan a tight-lipped grin. “Everyone should be celebrating. What’s the story, huh?” He nudged Logan. “You one of the chosen ones?”

Logan tapered his eyes. “What?”

“A Jew,” Blue Eyes clarified. “You know, the Chosen Ones.”

“No.” Logan shook his head. “I’m not Jewish.”

“You a Mormon?” Pinky Ring said as looked at his partner. “Don’t those Joe Smith-lovin’ blonde boys celebrate the season?”

Blue Eyes nodded. “Last I checked.”

“You gotta get some lights or somethin’ in here, kid,” Pinky Ring said as he walked down the hallway, his head on his swivel; sweeping and scanning every inch of the house. “Brighten it up, you know?”

Logan, his skin prickling, tried to wolf down the lump in his throat. “Listen, I…” He struggled to find the words. “I don’t know…” He held up his hands. “I don’t know what I did⁠—”

“Relax,” Blue Eyes said as he gently clapped a hand on Logan’s shoulder and squeezed. “Take it easy. Nothing’s gonna happen to you.” He motioned to the couch near the bay window. “We just need to talk to you for a moment, alright? After that, we’ll be out of your hair and you can go back to watching porn on your phone.”

Pinky Ring—in the throes of checking out the bathroom down the hall—chuckled and proceeded to poke his head in the study.

Logan, hands at his sides, wandered over to the couch, sat, and tried his best to not look the two men in the eye.

“Who did it?” Blue Eyes said as he swiped the pack of Pall Malls—Logan’s—from the living table. “Who gave you that shiner?”

“Some guy,” Logan grumbled. “I don’t know.”

“Some guy.” Blue Eyes shook his head, fished out a cigarette, and tapped it on the face of his gold Rolex. “Just some random asshole, huh?”

Logan gripped onto his legs, squeezed, and said nothing.

“Listen,” Blue Eyes said as he took out a gold lighter from the pocket of his peacoat, lit his cigarette, and puffed. “Everything’s gonna be alright. Michael said you’re in some trouble, and we’re here to help.”

“You…” Logan squinted. “You work for him too?”

“Nah.” Blue Eyes said. “Technically, we work for the guy that Michael works for. Names aren’t important though. But just so we can all get comfortable here, I’m Jackie,” Blue Eyes pressed the fingers he had clenched on the Pall Mall to his chest before he motioned them toward Pinky Ring, “and this is Lou.”

Pinky Ring—Lou—rolled his eyes. “Stai perdendo tempo.”

“Ho bisogno che questo ragazzo si rilassi,” Jackie said. “Get us a drink. Yeah?”

As Lou set about rifling through the cabinets in the kitchen, Jackie slipped down on the loveseat across from Logan, staring down the scrawny kid whose complexion paled more and more as the seconds rolled by.

“Your old man,” Jackie said. “He’s in Detroit for a few days, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Logan’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”

Jackie shrugged. “Michael told us.” He reached into his pocket, whipped out a silk handkerchief, pinched the glass ashtray on the table, and pulled it toward him. “He knows all about what you're up to, kid.” He tapped his ash in the tray. “And he told us all about that kid you tuned up at the high school.”

“He told me to do it.” Logan shifted his weight, his eyes alive and brimming with fear. “He said I needed to⁠—”

“Scare him off.” Jackie nodded knowingly. “Yeah, we just talked to him before we popped in here. What he should’ve done was have you give the kid you worked over a wide berth, but I guess your boss is slidin’ a bit these past few years.”

“Ha fatto un casino,” Lou said as he palmed a bottle of whiskey hidden in the back of the cereal cabinet. “E ora dobbiamo uccidere questo ragazzo per questo motivo.”

“Lou…” Jackie brought a finger to his lips. “Please.”

Lou shrugged. Strolled into the living room. Placed the bottle of whiskey in his hand—Four Roses brand—on the table in front of Logan.

“This guy,” Jackie said to Logan, “the one who came around here and beat you up. Do you know his name?”

“Blackwood,” Logan replied. “At least that’s what the boss told me.”

“Big guy, right?” Lou said. “Used to be a Fed or something?”

“I don’t know.”

“When did he come around here?”

“Like,” Logan thought about it, “two hours ago, maybe.”

“What did he say?” Jackie said as he shrugged impassively. “What did he ask you?”

“About…” Logan’s shoulders slumped. “About who I was working for. He just started kicking my ass and telling me he was going to…” He wrung his fingers. “Look, I don’t know what I was supposed to do! He was beating me and my friends up like crazy. He asked me who I was working for⁠—”

“And you told him,” Jackie said, speaking to the kid in a paternal tone. “Correct?”

“I didn’t know what to do.” Logan swung his gaze over to Lou, the Italian circling the living room as he closed all of the blinds. “I didn’t know what else⁠—”

“Kid,” Jackie held up his hand. “Everything is kosher. All we want to know is what you told this Blackwood guy—that’s it. We just need to get a sense of what he knows, who he’s been talking to.”

“I told him about who I work for,” Logan said. “That’s all. Then the guy threatened to come back over here if I kept selling that stuff the boss gives me or hang out with any of the dudes I usually hang out with.”

“What about Smokes Romano?” Lou said. “Did that name ever come up when this Blackwood guy was talking to you?”

“No.” Logan shrugged. “I don’t know who that is.”

Lou skidded his gaze toward Jackie.

Jackie smirked and said nothing.

“The dudes you hang out with,” Lou said to Logan. “They dealers like you too?”

“I’m the only dealer,” Logan said. “It’s just me.”

“You sure about that?” Jackie said. “Michael only has you dealin’ out of that high school of yours?”

“Only me,” Logan said. “Michael said that it keeps the risk low. I’m the only one who deals around the town. He holds onto all of the cash I make. He’s the bank. He gives me a few hundred bucks a week.”

“You spend that money?”

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

“I’m saving it.”

“Savin’ it,” Jackie said. “For what?”

Logan took a beat. “To move out to LA,” he finally said. “I’m saving up as much as I can so I can have my own apartment out there.”

“What’s in LA?” Jackie arched his brow. “You got a girlfriend out there?”

Logan shrugged. “I see LA on TV shows all of the time. There’s beaches. Hot chicks. Stuff like that.”

“Yeah.” Jackie grinned as he unfastened the top button of his peacoat. “That there is.” He flickered his eyes toward the ceiling. “How much money have you got saved?”

“Seven grand.”

“Lucky seven,” Jackie said. “Where is it?”

Logan said nothing.

“Kid,” Jackie said, “I’m not going to steal your money. We just need to make sure it’s clean. Untraceable. As soon as we check it over, we’ll put it back. I’ll even put a little more into your LA stash myself for this little inconvenience that we’ve put you through.”

A few seconds went by.

Logan nodded.

Then he told Jackie the cash he had was stored in a shoe box in the back of his closet along with the rest of the stash—two pounds—that he was selling on behalf of Michael.

“Thanks, kid,” Jackie said. “We’ll hold onto the cash for you until we get this sorted out. You got my word.” He took a long slow drag of his cigarette. “You’re sure you didn’t tell this Blackwood guy anything else? Anything at all?”

“No.” Logan shook his head. “Just who I work for. That’s it, I swear.”

“And after Blackwood beat you up, he left?”

“Yeah.”

“Where did he go?”

“He didn’t say.”

Jackie squinted. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah.” Logan let out a shaky breath. “I’m positive.”

“And you’re certain,” Jackie said, “that Blackwood never mentioned a guy named ‘Smokes’?”

“No,” Logan said. “He didn’t.”

Jackie took a beat.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe a word.

After a few moments of dead air ticked by, he stood and motioned to Lou. “Controlla la casa,” Jackie said. “Vedi se c'è qualcuno del prodotto nascosto qui. Lo porteremo con no.”

Lou nodded.

Slipped on a pair of leather gloves.

Headed upstairs.

Then Logan heard the guy rifling around stuff in the rooms on the second floor.

“Okay, kid,” Jackie said as he scooted forward on the couch, took another drag of his Pall Man, and stamped it out in the ashtray. “Here’s what’s gonna happen.” He clapped his hands together. “We’re going to hang out here for a little bit. We’ll play some music. Wait around. Talk a little more. Have a few drinks. After that, Lou and I are going to leave, and you’re going to stay home until we can get this business with Blackwood sorted out.”

“W-what,” Logan stammered, his anxieties easing. “What about me?”

“Well, you’re done dealin’ around here. That’s for sure.” Jackie stood, picked up the Four Roses, and pulled out the cork. “But I don’t want you to worry about anything bad happening to you. Just…” he held out the bottle, “consider yourself retired. You did a good job. You made a decent chunk of change and got out with nothing more than a few licks. Lot of guys in this business don’t get off that easily.”

Logan eyed the bottle.

Relaxed his posture.

Then he took the bottle, brought it to his lips, and took a swig.

“Come on,” Jackie groaned. “You're a high school kid. I’m bettin’ you know how to throw a few back at parties. Yeah? Guys like you are masters with that whole keg stand shit.” He shot his chin out toward the bottle. “Take a big pull—a man’s pull.”

Logan hesitated.

Then he took a swig so big that he coughed up a little bit of it.

“Not bad,” Jackie said. “You’re a champ.” He sat down on the couch and took out another cigarette. “Now do it again.”

Logan did.

“One more for good measure.”

Logan complied.

“Nice,” Jackie said as he took a drag of his Pall Mall and blew the carcinogens out his nose like a revved-up bull in Looney Tunes cartoon. “Now.” He leaned forward, a devious flicker shimmering in his eyes. “Do it one more time.”

49

As Dean rounded the corner outside of the motel, a light snowfall speckled his hair, jacket, and boots. It makes sense that Michael’s working behind the scenes here, he thought as he fished his room keys out of his pocket. Hell, Michael knew about me sending Freddy to high school. Maybe Michael told Logan about it. Hell, he might’ve even told the kid to beat Freddy up so it would scare us away.

Dean arrived at the stairwell leading up to his room, stopped, and stood off to the side. But Michael’s right—where is my proof? How do I prove it? And how in the hell does all of this tie in to Luke DeFeo and Daria Brennan’s murder? Is it all connected or am I throwing shit against the wall to see what sticks?

The situation, the fact that things were spiraling out of control, that the plane couldn’t seem to level off, weighed heavily on Dean’s conscience. I should call Wilson, he thought. He could send some of the guys and gals from the bureau down here to throw their weight around. They could help solve this. I can’t do this on my own. I might be on the verge of being caught in the middle of something sinister.

“You need to get the calvary out here to deal with this, Blackwood,” Dean said. “This whole thing is whacked—completely fucktangular on all sides.”

“Call your family,” Woody suggested. “After all, you’re involved in this whole thing because you were trying to bring some bacon back home to them.”

You’re right, Dean thought as he pulled out his cell. And when the hell did you turn into the voice of reason, Woody?

“Times change, laddie,” Woody said. “People change. Well, maybe not you, so much. You seem to gravitate toward crazy situations like the one you’re in.”

Dean plugged in Layla’s number, heard it ring once before she answered.

“Hey there,” Dean greeted, stressed but masking it as best he could with a calm tone. “How’s it going?”

“We’re headed out to Claire’s soon,” Layla said. “Just packing up the last of everything before we head out. You?”

“Just, uh,” Dean took a glimpse of his scraped knuckles; a byproduct of the beating he gave Logan, “finishing up stuff on my end too.”

“That’s great,” Layla said. “So, you’ll be here soon?”

“I will.”

“We’re looking forward to it.”

“Me too.”

“I’m glad we’re doing this,” Layla said. “Despite everything that’s going on, it’ll be nice to spend some time with you.”

Despite everything that’s going on, Dean thought. Despite the madness that I’ve attracted. He flexed his sore hand; the instrument he used to whack Logan upside the head. The madness that I’m still attracting.

“I can’t wait,” Dean said to Layla as he jammed his scraped and bloodied hand into the pocket of his jacket. “I miss you guys.”

“We miss you too,” Layla said before he heard his daughter squeal impatiently in the background. “I gotta go. Get home safe.”

“I will.”

“Bye, Dean.”

“Bye, Lay.”

And that, Dean thought, is why you’re doing this. People like Angie Brennan don’t have a family anymore—you do. Your kids can open presents under a Christmas tree—Luke and Daria no longer can.

Dean pressed the lock screen button on his phone and gazed at the picture of his infant daughter swaddled in blankets that he had set as his wallpaper. If someone hurt her or Jeremy, he wondered, what would you do? You wouldn’t let it pass. You’d do whatever you could to avenge them and stop it from happening again.

Figure this out.

Get Wilson out here so you can find out what’s going on and⁠—

On the second floor, through his peripherals, Dean spotted the door to his room opening; Freddy popped his head out, the bruised and pulpy-faced kid shrugging as he asked for an update.

“We’re going to call an old friend of mine,” Dean said. “I’m going to ask him to send some of his pals out here to help us out.”

“Sweet,” Freddy said. “Who?”

“The FBI.” Dean pulled out his phone and pulled up Wilson’s name in his contacts. “Get your stuff. We’re going to Logan Riley’s to talk with him some more. He just confessed to slinging dope. He also told me who his supplier is. I’m gonna get his statement so we can get the ball rolling for the Feds.”

“Hot damn.” Freddy moved into the room, retrieved his jacket, and stepped back out. “How did you get Logan to tell you all of that?”

Before Dean could answer, he heard the caterwaul of emergency sirens, turned around, and saw Sheriff Curtis's cruiser zipping east down the street toward the direction of Logan Riley’s home.

Fuck.

Dean told Freddy to grab his jacket.

You know that’s where he’s going.

50

The frigid winter felt like pins were being pricked into Dean’s skin. He stood next to Freddy, the pair across the street and four doors down from Logan Riley’s home on the corner, watching Curtis, a pair of his deputies, and a detective filter in and out of a two-story home lit up by a blend of Christmas and emergency lights.

Yellow police tape was set up.

A black coroner’s van arrived.

A few minutes after that, Dean saw a bagged-up body being hauled out on a gurney from the rear of the house; the Christmas lights strung up around Logan’s home flickered off of the black polyethylene bag that the coroner pushed toward his van.

“Shit,” Freddy mumbled. “What do you think happened?”

“Best guess?” The sight of the body bag made Dean feel like his soul was dipped in concrete. “I think something happened to our buddy Logan.”

Dean surveyed the block and the neighbors close by, poking their heads out, standing on their lawns, trying to get a glimpse of the action.

This is fucked, he thought. This whole thing is spiraling out of control.

And you, dumb fuck, put your hands on that kid just a few hours before the cops found his body.

“Come on,” Dean said. “We shouldn’t be here.”

“How come?”

“Well,” Dean grabbed Freddy by the arm and steered him back toward the direction of the motel, “I might have had a few harsh words with Logan a few hours ago.”

“What did you say?”

“I asked him a few questions.” Dean winced. “In between clocking him upside the head.”

“You beat him up?”

“More than some.”

“Hell yeah,” Freddy said. “Street justice.”

“It was stupid,” Dean said as he cut a glance over his shoulder at the crime scene. “But the kid kind of left me no choice, really. Plus, I needed answers. Everyone in this goddamn town seems to know something that we don’t. Every person we run into has that whole ‘witness for the prosecution’ look about them.”

“What do you mean?”

“After I wiped up Logan’s porch with his face,” Dean said, “he told me that Michael Patterson was his supplier.”

“Holy shit,” Freddy said. “You think it’s true?”

“My gut tells me that it is,” Dean said. “I had a little face-to-face with Michael a few minutes after I talked to Logan and confronted him about it.”

“What did Michael say?”

“He told me to get fucked, essentially,” Dean said as he replayed his nose-to-nose confrontation with Michael Patterson. “I’m going off of gut intuition here, but when I looked that son of a bitch in the eye, every light in my head turned green. But we have no evidence to back up Logan’s claim. It’s Michael’s word against his dead dealer’s now.”

“And after this,” Freddy forked a thumb over his shoulder to the cops corralled on Logan’s front lawn, “you think what he said about Michael being his supplier are true, yeah? I mean, you question him, he gives up Michael, then Logan ends up just dead a couple hours later.”

“Exactly.”

“Who did it?” Freddy shrugged. “Who do you think killed Logan, I mean?”

“I dunno,” Dean said. “Maybe it was Michael, maybe it was someone else, someone who works for him.” He winced. “I feel like there’s a few background players around here that we haven't crossed paths with yet.”

“Okay,” Freddy said. “So, what do we do now?”

“We’re going to call my old buddy Kent Wilson.” Dean pulled out his cell phone. “I’ll tell him what we’ve learned and get him to send some agents down here. There’s enough going on to warrant a sit-down with Michael Patterson. They’ll need to move fast though. If Patterson really is some kind of suburban drug kingpin, he’s going to try and clean up his mess before it becomes untenable.”

“We still don’t know how it all goes into the murder of these kids though,” Freddy said. “Wasn’t that the whole point of this?”

“Maybe Michael knows.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“Then we need to let Wilson and the FBI take over from here so that it can get figured out.” Dean stopped walking and looked at his protégé. “Something big is playing out here, Freddy. The writing is on the wall: shit is going to get a hell of a lot worse before it gets better. We need to call for backup, hold the fort until they get out, and then we can go home.”

“What about Angie Brennan?” Freddy said. “She hired us. What about the money that we’re⁠—?”

“There is no money.”

“Come again?”

“All of that is done with, Freddy,” Dean said. “It’s finished. Over. We’ve stirred up something pretty sinister out here, and the more questions that we ask, the more bodies start dropping.”

Dean put his gaze on the front porch of a Victorian house they were strolling past and caught a glimpse of a neighbor in a bay window staring him and Freddy down.

“The walls are closing in here, Freddy,” Dean said. “We’ve done a solid job, enough to warrant the FBI’s attention, but we need to clear out before we get caught in the crossfire.”

“Alright,” Freddy said, defeated. “What about Ms. Brennan?”

“I’ll talk to her.” Dean resumed his walk to the motel. “I’ll let her know what we learned. I’ll tell her that the FBI is coming in to help. Once that’s done, once Wilson and his pals get here, we’re going home.”

“I’m not against that.” Freddy gestured to his swollen cheek. “Kind of had my fill of fun, you know?”

“Yeah,” Dean said as he thought about his family waiting for him back in LA. “Me too.”

51

Forty-five minutes had passed after Dean and Freddy returned to their room. Dean had called Wilson. It went to voicemail, but Dean left him a detailed message. Once he finished leaving the voicemail, he called Angie Brennan, but there was no answer.

Of all the times I need people to pick up the phone, Dean thought. It’s now.

“Alright,” Freddy said as he placed his bags near the door. “I’m all set.” He checked the time on his phone. “When’s the FBI getting here?”

“No one’s picking up the phone,” Dean said. “We need to wait until we can get a hold of someone. For now, we just need to wait here.” The conversation/confrontation he had with Michael Patterson popped into his brain. “You’ve got Sean Patterson’s number by chance?”

“Yeah, actually,” Freddy said. “Why?”

“Call him.”

“What for?”

“Ask him about his aunt in Aurora,” Dean said. “Find out her name. See if Sean has ever met or even talked to her before.”

Freddy dialed Sean’s number. Sean answered after three rings. After Freddy asked about Sean’s aunt/what her name was/if he ever met her, Freddy thanked the kid, hung up, and flexed his brow at Dean.

“Her name is Linda Patterson,” Freddy said. “And Sean said he’s never met her.”

“Of course not,” Dean said. “How much do you want to bet that if we get someone to check on the whereabouts of Linda Patterson in Aurora, they’ll come up with nothing?”

Knuckles wrapped on the door to the room.

Dean spun around.

He took out his SIG, held it behind his back, and told Freddy to stay behind him.

He unfastened the locks.

Cracked the door open.

Saw Sheriff Harlan Curtis standing outside on the landing with one hand resting on the hilt of his holstered sidearm.

52

For a long moment, Dean stared at Curtis, their eyes locked and their faces pinched as Freddy, backing up toward the bathroom, thought about grabbing a blunt object in case something was about to go south.

“Word has it,” Curtis said to Dean, “that you stopped by Logan Riley’s place a few hours ago.”

“That a fact?” Dean flexed his grip on the SIG concealed behind his back. “And who might have told you that?”

“One of Logan’s next door neighbors.” Curtis ripped his eyes off Dean and put them on Freddy. “He said you had a bit of a heated exchange with Logan a couple of hours ago.”

Your fault, Dean.

Nice job.

“Very interesting.” Dean narrowed his eyes. “I take it that something happened to Logan.”

“Oh, yeah. Something happened.” Curtis guffawed dryly. “Little prick drank himself silly. Looks like he threw back a bottle of whiskey and half-a-bottle of tequila before he puked his guts out, got in his old man’s jacuzzi, and drowned.” His lips twisted into a scowl. “To be honest with you, I always figured Logan would punch his own ticket like this. I had my money on him flipping his car while he was half in the bag, but this makes sense too.”

Dean huffed. “It’s thirty-two degrees outside.”

“And?”

“So what the hell was this kid doing dicking around in a jacuzzi when it’s that cold out?”

“He got shitrocked,” Curtis said. “He drank himself into oblivion, lit a joint, then he slipped into the hot tub, passed out, and drowned. Stranger things have happened, Blackwood. I mean, how many times have you heard of some B-list starlet out in your neck of the woods doing the exact same thing?”

Unreal. Dean tamped down his urge to rattle off a doubtful chuckle. Dude is ready to write this off, throw Logan in a box, and call it a day.

“So,” Dean said, “you found a joint on Logan?”

“In the pool,” Curtis said. “Just floating there in the water along with some chunks of vomit. Third kid in less than a few weeks has died in Somerset, Blackwood.” He shrugged. “Strange, no?”

“You saying I had something to do with it?”

“The drowning?” Curtis shook his head. “Not at all.” He inched closer to the door. “From what I gather though, you apparently tuned the kid up a little while ago. After you did, you had a little chat with Michael Patterson.”

“Let me guess,” Dean smirked, “Patterson filed a complaint against me.”

“That he did.”

“And this neighbor of Logan’s claims that he or she saw me rapping my fist upside his head before I talked to Michael?”

“It would line up,” Curtis said. “Kid’s face was welted up pretty good. I’m sure when we get the report back from the medical examiner in a few days, she’ll come to the conclusion that those injuries were sustained prior to Logan’s little accident.”

Dean took a beat.

Nodded in understanding.

Saw Curtis's hand move toward the weapon in his hip holster.

“Well,” Dean said, “I guess you should arrest me then.”

“No,” Curtis said. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Why not?”

“Because I know Logan Riley.” Curtis shrugged dismissively. “Kid was a pugnacious little son of a bitch. He was known for picking fights with everyone all across Somerset. Half the time he was walking around with a shiner or two. It’s possible that those injuries that he received could’ve been given to him by a number of people.”

Dean’s eyes widened.

Jesus.

This is so fucked.

He shook his head.

Curtis really is just going to write this whole thing off.

“I told you to leave,” Curtis said. “I gave you twenty-four hours. In the time that’s passed since then, I’m catching wind of you harassing, berating, and allegedly accosting several citizens in my town, one of whom just drowned after getting a load on.”

“Then I should stick around,” Dean said. “I mean, at least until you can get the full scoop on what happened to Logan. If what the neighbor said about me accosting Logan is true, then you should probably cite that whole ‘don’t leave town’ adage.”

“Not the way I see it.” Curtis raised and pointed a finger. “I just want you gone—now. Tonight. Just pack your bags,” he shot his chin toward Freddy, “take your little friend with you and don’t ever step foot in my town again.”

“And if I don’t?” Dean said. “If I decide to post up for a little bit to see this thing through, what then?”

The sheriff rested his palm on his holstered Colt.

Dean slowly reached around to the SIG stuffed in the back of his jeans.

Freddy swallowed the lump in his throat as he shifted his weight from one foot to the next.

“Leave town, Blackwood,” Curtis said as he moved to the door. “And if I roll back through here in the morning and find that you’re still here…” He turned, moved to the stairwell, and climbed down it.

“You’ll what?” Dean said. “Come on, Harlan. You were about to go all Dirty Harry on me. Don’t leave me hanging.”

Curtis got in his cruiser and backed out.

Dean slammed the door shut and locked it.

Then he angled his body around and pinned his gaze to his protégé. “You know what just happened?”

“Beats me,” Freddy said. “Thought the two of you were about to plug holes in one another.”

“That prick,” Dean said as he pointed to the door, “might as well have just shouted that he’s involved in this whole thing somehow.”

“For real?”

“For real.”

“Why?” Freddy said. “How?”

“It’s like I told you before,” Dean said. “Everyone around here knows something they don’t want to say out loud. There’s some dirty secret buried in the heart of this little Hallmark-league town that everyone, including Curtis, is trying to keep a lid on.” He shot out his foot and kicked the bed. “Straight out of fiction, Freddy. All of this. Every damn morsel of it.”

“Alright,” Freddy moved to the window, parted the curtain, and looked out to the parking lot. “So, what’s the story? What’s going on?”

“I need to get Wilson out here,” Dean said as he retrieved his cell phone. “We need to⁠—”

His cell rang. Angie Brennan’s name flashed on the display.

Dean quickly answered the call. “Angie,” he said. “I was just going to⁠—”

“Dean,” Angie cut in, whispering as though someone was beside her listening in. “I need to speak with you.”

“Is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine. It’s just…” Angie’s voice trailed off.

“Angie,” Dean said, “talk to me.”

“I…” she pulled air deep into her lungs, “need you to leave this issue with Daria alone. I need you to just…let it be.”

“Hold on a second⁠—”

“Please, Dean,” Angie said.” I need you to leave Somerset. I need you to forget that you ever came here.” She wept openly over the phone. “Just go. Never come back. Pretend like all of this never happened.”

The line clicked off.

Dean stared at his cell.

Freddy asked what happened, but Dean didn’t answer right away.

“Get your stuff,” Dean finally said. “We need to clear out of here.”

Freddy gathered his clothes. “Where are we going?”

“We’ll figure it out.” Dean took out his SIG and implemented a press-check of the rounds. “We need to stay on the move for now.” He fastened his gaze to his protégé. “And we need to expect that the next time Curtis drops in, he’s going to be a little more stern with us.”

“Shit…” Freddy's posture slackened like a slowly-deflating balloon. “You think he might shoot us or something.”

“Yes.”

“Well,” the kid shrugged, “shouldn’t I have a gun then?”

“No.”

“Hear me out⁠—”

“Freddy.” Dean held up his hand. “Get your shit and get in the car.”

They gathered their bags.

Headed out.

Twice more Freddy asked if he could have a gun.

53

It was just before midnight—close to twenty-four hours had passed since Angie had been assaulted by Lloyd Collins and twenty-two hours since she left her house at all. During that time, she had locked the doors, closed the shades, and held onto a blunt object at any given moment.

She was paranoid.

Couldn’t sleep.

Was certain that someone—maybe Lloyd, maybe someone else—was coming back to hurt her again, or worse.

Angie, pacing the living room floor inside her two-story colonial, considered packing a few bags, leaving Somerset, and heading to her step-sister’s place in Michigan. She told herself that she’d leave it all behind: the house, her belongings, her past, all of it, if that meant that she would be free and clear of whoever was threatening her—God, are there more than one?—and whatever the hell it was that they were trying so hard to keep hidden.

Her gaze pinned to the window above the kitchen sink, her cheek still swollen from where the bank manager had struck her, Angie peered at her reflection lit up with a red glow from the Christmas lights tracing her roof.

I’ll never find out who killed Daria, Angie thought. Whoever these people are, whatever they’re trying to⁠—

A pair of knocks rattled the front door and triggered Angie to shudder.

She spun around.

Snagged a steak knife from the knife block.

Then she crept her way to the front door, stopped a few paces shy of it, and called out, “Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” Dean Blackwood said. “I need to talk to you.”

Oh, God! Angie’s hands trembled. He shouldn’t be here. She took a scan of the block outside the window. What if whoever called is out there? What if they’re watching me? What if⁠—?

“Angie,” Dean called out softly from the other side of the door. “Please, let us in.”

“No.” Angie shook her head. “I told you I don’t⁠—”

“I know what you said. But I’m not backing off of this,” Dean said. “I know you’re scared. But I promise you that I’m going to do whatever I can to keep you safe. Just open the door. Let’s talk this out.”

At that moment, Angie recalled all of the things that she had been told about Dean before she hired him. “If anyone can help,” she remembered Erika telling her, “it’s him.”

Angie breathed deep.

Took a few moments.

Then she unfastened the locks, peeled open the door, and saw Dean Blackwood and his kid “friend” standing on the porch.

“Can we come in?” Dean said.

Angie nodded.

The pair entered.

As soon as they were inside, she secured the locks and took a step back.

“Are you, uh…” Dean said as he gestured to the steak knife in Angie’s hand, “planning on using that?”

Angie blinked her eyes.

Shook her head.

Placed the knife down on an end table.

“You can’t stay here,” Angie said. “Neither can I.”

“Why’s that?”

“Someone threatened me.”

“Who?”

The moment Angie sat down, Dean saw her face become illuminated by the flare of the table lamp beside her; specifically the welt on the side of her face in the throes of turning a shade of cobalt.

Dean’s heart rate ticked up. “Who did this to you?”

“Dean,” Angie said. “I just want to⁠—”

“Who?”

Angie took a beat.

A tear trickled down her inflamed cheek.

Then she told Dean that Lloyd Collins, manager of the River Rock Financial, was the man responsible.

“Collins,” Dean said as he recalled the one interaction he had with the unkempt little man when he first arrived in Somerset. “I don’t understand.”

“He…” Angie ran the tip of her tongue across her chapped lips, “approached me outside the bank. He told me to stop looking into what happened to my daughter.”

“Then he hit you.”

“Yes.”

“How many times?”

“Why does that matter?”

“Because for every time he struck you,” Dean said as he tapered his eyes, “I’m going to multiply the number of times I hit him back by two.”

Angie said nothing—but the way her lips twisted into a hint of a grin was something Dean took as an endorsement of his plan.

“Lloyd Collins,” Dean said as he paced the room. “River Rock Financial.” He squinted. “We’ve got drugs pumping through Somerset. Two dead teenagers. Then a kid dealer who gets knocked off not long after I question Michael Patterson⁠—”

“A kid dealer?” Angie furrowed her brow quizzically. “What are you talking about?”

“Logan Riley.”

“Jesus.” The vein in Angie’s forehead twitched. “He got in trouble for harassing Daria a few months ago.”

“Well,” Freddy chimed in, “he’s dead now.”

Angie flashed the whites of her eyes. “You—” She swallowed hard. “Did you…?”

“No.” Dean shook his head. “I didn’t kill him.”

“Jesus.” Angie brought her hand to her mouth. “How did he die?”

“I’m trying to figure that out.”

“We figure it has something to do with Michael Patterson,” Freddy said. “Logan told Dean that he’s the one who's been supplying him with his drugs. Then after Dean talked to Logan, someone paid him a visit and made it look like he got wasted and drowned in his jacuzzi.”

“That’s the theory, at least,” Dean said. “And we’re trying to figure out how that all ties into Luke’s and Daria’s murders.”

Angie’s face paled, her body tensing as though some unseen force was squeezing the life right out of her. “I can’t take this anymore,” she said as she rose from the couch, her coordination off-kilter as she moved through the room. “I can’t do this.”

“Angie,” Dean said, “right now, I need you to⁠—”

“I can’t do this!” Angie screamed, the lines in her face pulled back taut into a terror-stricken expression. “I’m past the limit of what I can take here. I need to leave. I can’t stay here any longer!”

As Angie wept and shook and collapsed into the couch, Dean wrapped his arm around her shoulder. The more he gazed at the woman, the more he thought about his mother, about the night she broke down and sobbed without interruption after she was told that her son, Dean’s late brother Tommy, had been killed.

She looked just like Angie does right now, Dean thought. They were both broken, dismantled and stripped down to absolutely nothing.

Angie buried her face into Dean’s shoulder.

I can’t let this pass, Dean thought. Someone needs to pay.

“We’re getting you out of here,” Dean said to Angie. “I’m going to get the FBI down here, and I’m going to get you as far away from this town as I possibly can.”

“After you do,” Angie said as she peeled her head off of Dean’s shoulder, “what happens then?”

“I’ll make sure that they’re held accountable for what they did,” Dean said. “All of them. Every last one.”

Tears rolled freely down Angie’s face. “What is happening?” she said. “Who’s doing this?” She grabbed a fistful of Dean’s jacket and squeezed. “Why was Daria killed?” Her eyes widened. “Why?”

“I’m going to find out,” Dean promised her. “I’m going to call the FBI and get them out here. There’s enough to warrant their involvement. Whoever killed Daria and Luke, they’ll find them. I promise you that.” Dean moved Angie to the couch. “But right now, I need you to wait here.”

Angie held her head in her hands.

Dean pulled Freddy into the kitchen and ticked down his volume. “Stay here with her,” he said. “I’m going to head out for a quick second.”

“Where are you going?” Freddy said.

“To talk to Lloyd Collins,” Dean said. “Whoever’s crank calling this woman must have sicked this bank manager after her.”

“Shouldn’t we wait for the FBI?”

“The people involved in this are dropping like tin ducks at a carnival, Freddy,” Dean said. “Patterson might be killing off everyone that’s involved in his little drug operation. If there’s no one left, it’s going to be a bit harder for the FBI to piece together what happened. I need to talk to Collins.” He flexed his brow. “And I need to find out why that sack of shit thinks it's okay to put his hands on women.”

“I don’t understand,” Freddy said. “How is this bank manager dude wrapped up in all of this?”

“Give me thirty minutes and I’ll find that out,” Dean said. “Just stay here until then. Keep all of the doors and windows locked. Don’t go anywhere. And if anything happens, if anyone shows up, even if it’s a throng of Christmas carolers, you call me right away.”

Dean took a long hard look at his loyal assistant.

He sighed.

Then he propped his foot up on a chair next to the kitchen table, lifted his right pant leg, and removed the chrome Smith & Wesson Model 637 stuffed into his ankle holster.

Freddy grinned.

Dean checked the six rounds in the chamber, took all of them out, stuffed them in his jacket pocket, slapped the cylinder back into place and held out the weapon toward his protégé.

“Alright, champ,” Dean said, his tone grave and assertive and layered with consternation. “There you go.”

“Bro…” Freddy gawked at his employer. “The hell good is a gun with no bullets going to do me?”

“They’re called rounds,” Dean clarified. “And as dicey as the situation we’re in may be, I don’t trust you with live rounds yet.”

“Dean—”

“We’re done talking.” Dean gestured to the weapon held limply in his protégé’s hand. “Anyone gets in your face, anyone comes around here that’s not supposed to be, you wave that in their face. Consider it a prop. Hopefully you won’t need to whip it out because you’re not going to answer the door for anybody.”

“Weak.”

“Is what it is, sport,” Dean motioned to Freddy’s pocket. “I’m going to text you the number for this friend of mine, Kent Wilson. You’re going to ring him up when I’m gone. We need to get a hold of him. If you manage to get him on the phone, tell him what’s going on. Tell him all of it. And tell him I need him to get a fleet of agents down here as soon as humanly possible.”

With that, Dean clapped Freddy on the shoulder, and made his way back into the living room where he questioned Angie about the whereabouts of Lloyd’s residence which, according to one of Somerset’s premier real estate agents, was a mile-and-a-half away.

“What are you going to do?” Angie said.

Dean tried to slap together a quippy way of explaining to her that he was going to question Lloyd in as stern a fashion as possible—but he didn’t.

He just wasn’t in the mood.

54

DECEMBER 23RD

Hints of a hangover pulsated inside Lloyd’s skull with a dull throb. The stout bank manager, his breath coated with an essence of scotch, splashed some water on his face before he gazed at himself in the mirror above the sink.

I feel like hell, Lloyd thought as he assessed the dark bags under his eyes. Rolled hard and put away wet.

He checked the time on his gold Rolex wristwatch; eight minutes past midnight.

He walked into his bedroom.

Thought about the slap he delivered across Angie’s Brennan’s face and grumbled.

Lloyd had only raised his hand to a woman twice; first to his ex-wife, the second time with Angie Brennan. Both times he didn’t take pleasure in the fact that it had to be done—but it had to be done. Sometimes women just didn’t listen, and if Angie wanted to stay alive and not end up like her daughter, she needed to back off of looking into what happened with her kid and just go on living her life.

“Fuckin’ dumb bitch,” Lloyd grumbled as he palmed the tumbler beside the faucet filled with scotch. “Stupid frickin’ slags. All of them. Every one of them in my life.”

Things were easy before that PI showed up, Lloyd thought as he nursed his drink. Business was good. The money was coming in steadily. He looked at himself contemplatively in the mirror. Then your partner told you to scare a woman—it was hard to do, but it had to be done. Hopefully this will all be over soon⁠—

From downstairs, the sound of “I Am…I Said” by Neil Diamond blasted through the living room.

Lloyd shuddered—his drink slipped from his grip; the glass shattered to bits along the polished zebra wood floors.

Heart in his throat, Lloyd stepped around the shards, approached the stairwell, and peeked over the bannister. The kitchen light—as he left it—was still on. Same for the pair of lamps in the living room, but even though he was a drink shy of being under the table, Lloyd was sure as hell that he hadn’t taken out his Neil Diamond Stones vinyl and placed it on the turnstile in the downstairs study.

Someone’s in the house, Lloyd thought. Somebody broke in!

Lloyd, too terrified to own or operate firearms, picked up the small bronze eagle bust from the drum table in the guest bedroom and slunk downstairs.

He ventured into the living room; empty.

He looked right into the kitchen; nothing.

“Where are you?” Lloyd whispered. “Who the hell is in my house?”

Lloyd crept down the first-floor hallway toward his study—You left your cell in there, God damn it!—entered the room, and saw the same son of a bitch—Blackwood—that asked him all those questions in the bank days before.

55

“What…?” Lloyd whimpered as he stared at the back of the intruder standing in his study. “How did you…?”

Dean loitered in front of Lloyd’s record player, his focus turned downward at the Neil Diamond vinyl in his hands. “Evening,” he greeted before he checked the G-Shock strapped to his wrist. “Well, morning, technically, I guess.”

“You’re that guy,” Lloyd held his head high, courage welling inside of him as he raised the bronzed eagle bust in his hand. “That PI.”

“Dean Blackwood,” Dean said flatly. “My friend’s call me Deano—do not feel free to do the same.”

“What the hell is this?” Lloyd stepped into the room. “How did you⁠—?”

“Bypass your security system?” Dean winced. “Come on, man. I’m a PI. Wasn’t all that hard.”

“You son of a bitch.” The lines in Lloyd’s face pulled back into a snarl. “You’re in a crap load of trouble, my friend.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. You’ve just broked and entered⁠—”

“Grammatically incorrect, I think.”

“You’re here uninvited,” Lloyd said. “You’re trespassing.” He raised up the eagle bust. “And I’m well within my rights to defend myself.”

“Well, shit.” Dean motioned to the cell phone Lloyd left on the desk to his left. “I guess you should call the fuzz then.”

Lloyd cut a glance at his phone.

Dean shrugged.

Neil Diamond continued to sing.

“Go ahead, Lloyd,” Dean said. “Ring up the sheriff.”

One beat ticked by.

Two more followed.

“Don’t hesitate any longer, Lloyd,” Dean said. “I mean, God only knows what I’m going to do to you.”

The banker manager held his breath.

Dean tapered his eyes.

Lloyd dashed and outstretched his hand toward his cell phone.

56

Dean flung the album liner underhand like a frisbee; the record sleeve made contact with Lloyd’s windpipe and punched a gurgle out of his throat. When Lloyd reached up to paw at his neck, he released his grip on the eagle bust; the twenty-pound statue then dropped onto his left foot and smashed a majority of the bones inside of it.

Lloyd hollered.

Dean sighed.

As the bank manager dropped to the floor and pawed at his maimed appendage, Dean removed the vinyl from the turnstile, tossed it over his shoulder, and started sifting through the other records stashed in alphabetical order on the shelf.

“You’ve got a sweet collection here, my dude,” Dean said as he pulled out a copy of The Feel of Neil Diamond. “This stuff is in pristine condition; original pressings, most of them. Must’ve cost you a fortune.”

Lloyd, his face crimson and every vein in his neck and head spasming, turned his gaze down to his foot; the flesh swelled and changed to a plum shade as a nauseating pain contorted Lloyd’s stomach into a knot.

“Just breathe through it,” Dean said nonchalantly. “It’s going to feel like a real son of a bitch for a little while.”

“H-hos…” Lloyd sniveled. “H-hos⁠—”

“Hospital?” Dean nodded and pulled the record out of its dust sleeve. “Sure, in a little bit. First we need to have a talk though.”

“Please…” Lloyd held up his free hand, “don’t hurt me.”

“Looks like you’re doing a solid enough job of that on your own, bub.” Dean walked over to Lloyd, assessed his busted left foot, and squinted. “Yeesh.” He flashed the whites of his eyes. “That’s some haggard-looking shit right there.”

“It hurts…”

“I bet it does.” Dean placed the record he took out on the turnstile, flung the sleeve, and then leaned against the desk. “Probably a hell of a lot worse than that black eye you gave Angie Brennan, I would imagine.”

The color evacuated from Lloyd’s complexion.

Dean flexed his brow and wagged a finger. “I’m showing a lot of restraint right now, Collins,” he said. “It’s taking a lot for me right now to not slam a door against your head a bunch of times. After you decided to raise a hand to a grieving mother, you jockeyed into the top five tier on my shithead list.”

“Just listen.” Lloyd held up his hand. “Let me explain.”

“Please do.” Dean crossed his arms. “Because I’m very curious who and why someone would send a portly little putz such as yourself to intimidate a bereaved mother.”

“It’s…” The aching swelled in Lloyd’s feet, the crippled bank manager squeezing his eyelids shut as tight as he could to assist in staving off the agony. “It’s complicated.”

“Well, pretend you’re writing an Idiot’s Guide here and uncomplicate it for me.”

“I…” Lloyd snapped open his tear-glazed eyes. “I can’t.”

Dean shook his head.

Puttered his lips.

Then he brought the needle down on the record player onto the vinyl, a faint scratching permeating through the speakers set up in the corners of the study that gave way to the intro of “Cherry, Cherry.”

“Let me give you the rundown of what’s going to happen here,” Dean said as he flattened his hands against his chest. “I ask questions.” He gestured to Lloyd. “You answer them. If you do that honestly and without hesitation, I’ll walk out of here and consider your busted foot as sufficient enough recompense for what you did to Angie Brennan.”

“You don’t get it,” Lloyd said, his fear overtaken by anger. “I can’t tell you anything. These guys in Chicago⁠—”

“Good start,” Dean cut in. “So, whoever’s behind all this is in Chicago.”

“Listen to me, you idiot!” Spit gathered at the corners of Lloyd’s mouth. “You keep prodding around here trying to⁠—”

“I’m well past the point of being told ‘don’t stick your nose where you’re not supposed to,’ dickhead,” Dean said. “Now tell me about these guys in Chicago. Tell me about Michael Patterson. Tell me how this all ties into the murders of those kids, and I’ll protect you until we can get you on the record with the FBI.”

“Get this in your head,” Lloyd replied, his smoldering gaze pinned to Dean. “I’m not going to tell you a goddamn thing. The second I do, I’m as good as dead just like those shithead kids are.”

Dean’s nostrils flared. “Shithead kids, huh?”

“Yeah.” Lloyd sneered. “Shithead kids, and fuck them all. They got killed because they were stupid. They were probably sniffing around something they weren’t supposed to, just like you.”

Dean narrowed his eyes.

Lloyd spit on the floor.

Neil Diamond crooned and strummed his acoustic guitar in the background.

“Alright.” Dean threw up his hands. “So be it.”

“Wait—!”

“Nope.”

Dean grabbed Lloyd by his collar and dragged him into the hallway, the bank manager howling as his busted foot dragged across the floor.

He’s going to kill me, Lloyd thought.

Holy shit.

I’m going to fucking die!

57

“One more time,” Dean said as he hauled Lloyd into the living room. “How is the bank, the drugs, Michael Patterson, and the murders of these kids all related?”

“Let me go,” Lloyd shrieked. “Please!”

“Answer the question.”

“I can’t!”

Dean planted his feet, pivoted, spun around, and brought his fist down on Lloyd’s cheek.

The bank manager collapsed.

Dean stood over him and slipped off his jacket. “That one was for Angie,” he said. “And if you keep this up, I’m gonna keep punching you until your eyes seal shut. Now, again,” he got down on one knee next to Lloyd. “Tell me what connects Michael Patterson, the bank, the drugs, and these murders.”

“Listen to me,” Lloyd said as a ribbon of ruby trickled from his lip. “You don’t understand what’s going on around here.”

“I don’t, which is why I’m asking these questions. You see,” Dean laughed, “that’s how mystery stories work. The guy trying to solve the mystery—me—goes to the guy who has answers to his questions—you—and applies his own unique method of getting answers to those questions. In this case, my method is beating them out of degenerate shit kickers like you and Logan Riley, and I don’t tend to lose much sleep over when I’ve got something to justify it.”

Logan slapped his palm on Dean’s shirt and squeezed. “You have to leave Somerset. We both do. If we don’t, they’ll kill us both.”

“Who are they?” Dean swatted away Lloyd’s grip with the same ease he would a gnat. “Give me names. Give me something to work with. And I’d strongly suggest that you refrain from saying ‘I can’t’ anymore. Time is of the essence, and my patience is running thinner than the elbows on my jacket.”

Lloyd hung his head, the pain in his foot intensifying to the point that he was on the cusp of blacking out.

“You’ve got an open fracture there, bub,” Dean noted as he nodded to the slivers of bone that jutted out through the flesh of the bank manager’s foot. “If we don’t get that fixed soon, the situation is gonna get even more complicated.”

“Take me to the hospital.” Lloyd’s breathing strained. “I’m begging you.”

“Tell me what I want to know and I’ll get you there in a jiff.” Dean held up two fingers. “Scouts honor.”

Lloyd weighed the pros and cons as his brain teased that it was in the throes of powering down.

“Who are they, Lloyd?” Dean said. “Tell me who’s behind this. Tell me who killed those kids. Tell me how Michael Patterson and Logan Riley tie into it all. Tell me that, and we can go get you fixed up. The FBI can help. You can cut some kind of deal with them—that I can guarantee.”

“I never…” Lloyd drew in thin breaths. “I never met them.” The pain in his foot intensified. “I don’t know who they are.”

“Tell me what you do know.”

“It’s…” Lloyd spread his hands and braced his teetering body against the floor, “the bank. Everything runs through the bank.”

“What does?”

“The money.”

“What money?”

All of the air in Lloyd’s lungs discharged out of his mouth. “The drug money,” he said. “Michael Patterson’s. He brings it to me and I wash it.”

It is Patterson, Dean thought. That son of a bitch is the man responsible.

“Tell me more.” Dean’s eyes widened, his pulse ticking up as he found himself closing in on the truth. “Tell me how these guys in Chicago factor in.”

“Michael…” Lloyd winced as he envisioned the heinous shit that Michael Patterson would do to him once he learned that he was singing to high heaven. “He brings me the money twice a month. I balance the spreadsheets; make it all look clean. I don’t know how the operation works. I’m just the money guy.”

“Be more specific.”

“I…” Lloyd’s eyelids fluttered. “I don’t know.”

It was clear to Dean that whatever details that were housed in Lloyd’s skull were clouded by the crippling pain in his foot.

Had the idiot not dropped that bust on his foot, Dean thought, maybe we’d be further along here.

“Alright, bud.” Dean ruffled Lloyd’s thinning hair like he would a dog. “Hold tight here for a second.”

Lloyd cursed under his breath.

Heard the speakers in the study cut out.

A moment later, Dean returned with a bottle of Glenlivet and Lloyd’s cell phone.

“Have a swig,” Dean said as he pulled the cork off and placed the bottle on the floor. “It’ll take the edge off. Need you to ask a few more questions before we’ll get you sorted out.”

The bank manager, before Dean had finished speaking, scooped up the bottle and took a generous swing followed swiftly by another. In under a minute, the combination of the booze and adrenaline triggered a wave of euphoria to overcome him; the aching in his foot was now a muted prickling sensation.

“Michael Patterson,” Dean said, “is pushing the dope around here, correct?”

Lloyd nodded. “Correct.”

“And kids like Logan Riley selling his product.”

“I’ve never seen it happen, but yes.”

“Then you launder that cash through the bank,” Dean said. “How am I tracking so far?”

“I clean it through a few real estate fronts and a laundromat,” Lloyd clarified. “I set it all up after Michael asked me to clean his cash.” He huffed. “He never gave me a choice, really, but the money he gave me was green, so I didn’t think about telling him no.”

“You cleaned the dirty money,” Dean said, “and then you kicked back and reaped the benefits of your little arrangement with Patterson.”

“Yeah.” Lloyd’s hand gripped onto the whiskey bottle trembled. “Yeah, I did.”

“Good for you.” Dean tensed his jaw muscles. “So who does Michael work for? Who are these guys in Chicago that you mentioned?”

“I don’t know.”

“Lloyd,” Dean took the bottle from the bank manager’s hand, “don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not!” Lloyd held up his hand. “I honestly don’t know. I came to Somerset a few years back. Two days in, Michael approaches me. He hands me an envelope with five grand in it. He told me that I get one of those every month. He said all I had to do was make sure that I cleaned whatever cash he brought in twice a month to the bank. He also told me not to ask questions. He said if I did, his ‘guys’ in Chicago would pay me a visit.”

“No names?”

“No,” Lloyd said. “Never.”

“Who told you to threaten Angie Brennan?” Dean asked. “Was it Michael?”

Lloyd nodded. “He said I needed to scare her off,” he said. “He told me to hurt her and tell her to call you up and fire you. He said that the guys he worked for in Chicago were starting to get worried, and if they did, there’d be hell to pay.” Lloyd thrust his trembling hand out toward the bottle and grabbed it. “Oh, God. They’re gonna kill me for telling you all of this.”

“Lloyd,” Dean said. “Do you want to live?”

“The hell kind of question is that?”

“A simple one, dipshit.”

“Of course I want to live!” Lloyd took a sip from the liquor bottle. “Now that I told you all of this, I don’t think that’s going to be for very much longer.”

“Well, if you want to add years to your shelf life,” Dean said, “then you’ll do as I tell you to do. I’m going to take you to the hospital and drop you off. You’ll be safe there while I call up my friends at the FBI. You’ll tell the staff there that this,” he motioned to Lloyd’s twisted and battered foot, “was an accident. Make something up. I trust you’ll keep what happened here between us. I don’t want to have to make those ‘if you talk, I’ll kill you’ threats. I’m kind of past my quota on that for the week.”

“I won’t,” Lloyd said “I swear.”

“Your promises mean spit to me, little man.” Dean stood. “Now let’s just get your foot fixed. I already plugged my number into the contacts on your phone. I’ll ring you up off and on while you’re getting fixed up, and if you ignore or fail to take any one of my calls, I’ll take that eagle bust and crack your skull open.” Dean furrowed his brow. “Understood?”

“Yeah.” Lloyd grabbed his cell and held it to his chest. “Yeah, I understand.”

“Do you have records?” Dean asked. “Stuff that connects Michael Patterson with all of this money that you cleaned for him?”

“No,” Lloyd said. “I made sure to not leave a paper trail for any of it. But if the Feds want to know how it works, I can tell them.” He tapped the side of his head with his cell phone. “It’s all up here.”

“Well, that’s as cliche as it is convenient, Lloyd.” Dean averted his gaze, drummed his fingers on his leg, and logged away everything that the bank manager had given him up to that point to memory. “What about these kids? Luke and Daria. Who killed them?”

“I don’t know.”

“You sure?”

“I swear,” Lloyd said. “I don’t know what that was all about.” Lloyd flattened his palm across his chest near his heart. “I swear on my life.”

Dean took a beat.

Looked deep into Lloyd’s eyes.

Then he hooked his arms under the bank manager, picked him up, and led him to the door.

“Easy,” Dean said. “Let’s get you sorted out.”

“Am I going to lose my foot?”

“No, but you’ll be wobbling around like an old-timey sea captain for a minute.” Dean patted Lloyd on the back. “Now buck up. Be a good sport about all of this. I might even sign your cast for you when we get finished.”

58

After several attempts, Dean managed to get a hold of Kent Wilson. It had turned out that Wilson was at home celebrating the holidays with his children and grandchildren—but when he found out about Dean’s little stopover in Somerset and what he had uncovered, he raced back to the field office in LA just a hop, skip, and a drive away from his house.

“River Rock Financial,” Dean said over the phone to Wilson as he paced Angie’s porch. “It’s here in Somerset. I need you to do a deep dive into this place. Whoever you need to call, whatever you have to do to make that happen, and quickly, I need it, Willy.”

“River Rock Financial,” Wilson grumbled. “I’ll look into it.” Dean heard a pen being scribbled on paper on the other end of the line. “And why am I looking into this place?”

Dean told his old boss the whole story starting with his first day in Somerset all the way up the “conversation” he had with Lloyd Collins a short while before. When Dean finished, he heard a protracted pause being taken on Wilson’s end of the line; the boss man was processing the story.

“You know,” Wilson finally said, “people always like to say that certain things remaining unchanged are a good thing, but I don’t think they were referring to your predilection for going around and clocking people upside the head to get answers.”

“I had to, Willy,” Dean replied as he observed the white flecks of powder dribbling down from the skies above his head. “This whole town, this whole place is crooked in ways I’m still trying to figure out. All I know is that it’s got something to do with River Rock, Michael Patterson, and the drugs this guy is pushing through the town, and somehow it’s tied into the deaths of these two kids I told you about.”

“If that’s the case, I’ll make a few calls and scramble some people from the field office in Springfield,” Wilson said. “It’ll take a little time, but maybe it’s best if you let the cavalry take over from here.”

“I want the feeb to take over this one, Willy,” Dean said. “And they need to move fast. I’ve kicked up some real shit here; the people calling the shots are starting to creep out of the woodwork.”

“Like who?”

“That’s where I need your help,” Dean said. “I know that Michael Patterson and Lloyd Collins are in league together, but there’s other people at the top of the pecking order. All I know so far, according to this bank manager, is that they’re based somewhere in Chicago.”

“Chicago,” Wilson replied, Dean sensing that his old boss was running the names of different east coast players through his mental databases. “I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, I’d recommend you keep your head down. If you’re doing what you do best⁠—”

Pissing people off, Dean thought.

“—then you might want to hit the pause button until some of your compatriots from the bureau get there.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Dean said. “I’m still going to talk a little more with our friend Lloyd Collins to get a better sense of this deal he had in place with Michael Patterson. As for Patterson⁠—”

“Stay away from him, kid,” Wilson butted in. “If this guy Patterson really is pulling a Walter White out there in Somerset, if you’re on the verge of figuring out whatever he’s up to, he’s going to do whatever he can to make sure you don’t paint a full picture.”

“Yeah.” Dean thought back to his last confrontation with Patterson. “I get that sense too. Also, can you search for a ‘Linda Patterson’ for me in Aurora? The night of the murders, Michael allegedly went to visit the woman. He claimed he was her sister. The sheriff said he spoke to his sister, but I trust everyone in this town now about as far as I can throw them.”

“Hang tight,” Wilson said, fingers clicking against a keyboard coming through the phone. “By the way, what about the local cops? Where do they stand with all of this?”

“The sheriff might be in on this whole thing,” Dean said. “I don’t know for sure. Ever since bodies started piling up, he keeps trying to write them off with whatever excuse he can. Part of me thinks he might even be trying to pin the death of this kid Logan I told you about on me as we speak.”

“Then give him a wide berth as well,” Wilson suggested. “There’s enough here to warrant the FBI’s involvement; what you’ve learned has given us plenty to work with.” Wilson took a beat. “Also, according to what I’m looking at on the screen here, there is a Linda Patterson here listed in Aurora.”

“Really?”

“Only issue is,” Wilson said, “she’s been dead for the past fifteen years.”

“I kind of figured something was up,” Dean said. “Any relation to Michael Patterson?”

“Negative. No way they’re related.”

“How do you know for sure?”

“Because according to what I’m reading here,” Wilson said, “Linda was an African-American woman. Unless you failed to mention that Michael Patterson is too, I think his claim about being in Aurora was a lie.”

“He’s not,” Dean said. “And it is.”

“Just hunker down, kid,” Wilson said. “Stay low for now and wait for the boys with the gold badges to get there.”

“Understood.”

“Dean,” Wilson said soberly, “I mean it.”

“I know, Willy.”

“Stay sharp.”

“You can count on it.”

Dean ended the call.

Did Michael kill those kids? he wondered. Where was he that night? He sure as hell wasn’t in Aurora, so what’s the real story?

As Dean headed back into the house, he sent a text to Lloyd Collins; the bank manager promptly replied, said he was in the midst of getting a cast put on his leg, and assured Dean he would call as soon as he was discharged. Once Dean was satisfied that Lloyd wasn’t going to get a wild hair up his ass and try to skip town once he got out of the ER, he secured all of the door locks, took another glimpse out the front window, and then approached Angie and Freddy who were waiting in the living room.

“Angie,” Dean said. “Who’s the closest relative you have?”

The woman mulled over the question for a moment. “My sister-in-law,” she finally said. “She lives in Decatur.”

Dean pulled out his cell and plugged the city into his map application; the destination was a four-hour drive from Somerset.

“Pack your bags,” Dean instructed. “As quickly as you can. Once you’re ready to go, you, Freddy, and myself will take a ride in your car to the city limits. Once we’re there, you’ll drop us off and head to Decatur. Freddy and I will walk back.”

“Dude,” Freddy said, “it’s thirty degrees outside.”

“Put on some mittens then.” Dean approached Angie, got down on one knee, and took her hand into his. “We’re going to make sure you’re not being tailed before you split town. Drive straight. Don’t stop unless you have to, but be quick about it. As soon as you get to your sister’s, you let us know. You tell her everything that’s happened.”

“What about you?” Angie asked as she pushed herself off of the couch, her eyes ping-ponging between Dean and his protégé. “What are you two going to do?”

“We’re going to stick around for the FBI,” Dean said. “I called up my former boss and told him everything that’s happened. They’re going to step in and take over. It’ll take a few hours, maybe a little more, but they’re on their way.” He forced a smile. “Now go pack. We need to move quickly.”

Moments later, Angie retreated upstairs to her bedroom. As she set about packing her luggage, Dean, his gaze fastened to the bay window that looked out onto the lawn, patrolled the living room with one hand resting on the SIG tucked into his holster.

“The FBI’s coming?” Freddy said. “What does that mean?”

“It means that this is all coming to an end soon,” Dean replied as a sickly sensation cascaded over him. “And we need to expect that the people who are stage managing this whole thing are going to try to do whatever they can to protect themselves before that happens.”

“Shit...” The lines in Freddy’s face slackened remorsefully. “Well,” he held up the dry Model 637 his boss gave him, “good thing I have a gun with no bullets then.”

59

It was three a.m. by the time Lloyd got out of the hospital. The second he was rolled out the doors in a wheelchair by a nurse, he texted Dean and expected that the PI would roll up minutes later to scoop him up and continue his interrogation.

But that didn’t happen.

Instead, as soon as Lloyd and the nurse escorting him through the entrance touched down on the sidewalk, he saw two men dressed in lavish suits—one had blue eyes, the other had a pinky ring—who stepped out of a Cadillac parked near the emergency entrance with smiles so wide that the corners of their mouths nearly touched their eyes.

“Hey, pal,” Blue Eyes greeted. “How ya feelin’?”

Lloyd traded off between looking at the pair of well-dressed, John Gotti impersonators.

Learning their names wasn't important.

He knew goddamn well who they were and who they represented.

“I, uh…” Lloyd cleared his throat. “I’m okay.”

Blue Eyes patted the nurse on his shoulder. “Thank you, my friend. We’ll take it from here.” He motioned to Pinky Ring who stepped in and assisted Lloyd to his feet, the left one enveloped in a thick plaster cast.

The nurse, six-foot-three, his muscles bulging out of his scrubs, squinted and sized up the two men in front of him. “Mr. Collins,” he said. “Are they here to pick you up?”

Pinky Ring smirked.

Blue Eyes narrowed his eyes.

The bank manager nodded and assured the nurse that all was well.

“Thank you again, chief,” Blue Eyes bid the nurse as Pinky Ring assisted Lloyd into the front seat of the Cadillac. “You have a Merry Christmas, alright?”

The nurse waited close by as Pinky Ring loaded Lloyd into the passenger’s seat of the Cadillac before he slid in back. After Blue Eyes got behind the wheel, he honked the horn once, waved to the nurse, and slowly pulled out of the circular driveway away from the entrance to the ER.

The car drove for two minutes.

Not a word was spoken.

I’m dead, Lou thought.

These guys are going to kill me.

60

Lloyd, his focus turned down to the floor mats, squeezed his hands to fend off the shakes that plagued them as he waited to be pistol-whipped, chided, or thrown out onto the road.

“Jackie,” Pinky Ring said. “Metti un po' di musica.”

Blue Eyes—Jackie—fiddled with the radio dials, perused the channels, and stopped when he came across WBLC; Elvis’ rendition of “I’ll Be Home For Christmas” was part way through its airplay.

The Cadillac eased through a dip in the road.

Lloyd’s breathing became shallow.

Jackie nudged him, Lloyd shuddering as he cut a glance at the man and saw him offering him a Chesterfield cigarette from a nickel-plated case.

“N-no thank you,” Lloyd stammered as he flashed a wry smile. “I don’t smoke.”

“Lou,” Jackie said as he held his hand over his shoulder. “Ne voglio uno?”

Pinky Ring—Lou—pinched and took out a Chesterfield from the case and handed it over. Jackie lit it, rolled down his window, and blew out a smoke ring.

“Lloyd,” Jackie said. “You know who we are?”

“I, uh…” Lloyd nodded. “Yeah, I think I know.”

“You know why we’re here?”

“Yeah.” Lloyd took a beat. “Yeah, I think I have an idea.”

Jackie tapped his ash out the window, a brisk breeze rolling through the car that stung at Lloyd’s face.

“This guy,” Jackie said. “Blackood.” He cut a glance at Lou through his rear-view mirror. “He stopped by your place, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Lloyd nodded. “Yeah, he did.”

“Did he do that?” Lou asked as perched forward and motioned to the cast on the bank manager’s foot.

“You know he did, you mook,” Jackie said. “We heard it all outside the house when it happened.”

A befuddled Lloyd furrowed his brow. “You…” he blinked his eyes. “You were outside my house?”

“Of course we were,” Jackie replied. “Boss man sent us to have a chat with you. We rolled up to your place to have a little sit-down, though Blackwood was already in there with you.”

“Music was playing pretty loud,” Lou chimed in before he broke out in laughter. “But we could still hear him working you over pretty good.”

“Thought he was gonna kill you,” Jackie said. “We were pretty sure of it actually, but I guess he still has some questions for you. This Blackwood famook is stirrin’ up a lot of trouble around here.”

“Shame though,” Lou said. “Quel ragazzo si è quasi preso cura di questo per noi.”

Jackie swiped his hand through the air. “It’s all good now.” He gestured to Lloyd. “We just wanna know what Blackwood asked you, what you said to him. You know how it goes.”

Lloyd’s mouth turned dry. “Blackwood…” He scoured his brain for the right thing to say. “He came around⁠—”

“Asking questions,” Lou said. “Wanting to know the score. I’m sure he asked you about your little arrangement with Michael, what you do at the bank, obvious things like that.”

“And you told him what he wanted to know,” Jackie’s gaze flickered toward the bank manager. “I mean, just so we’re on the level here.”

Lloyd, his fingers twitching, grinned and laughed and found his reaction odd considering the circumstances he was now in. “Listen,” he said, “I was just⁠—”

“Lloyd,” Lou reached up and patted the bank manager on the shoulder. “You’re on our team; we’re all together on this one here.”

“He’s right,” Jackie said. “Blackwood’s the problem here, not you. We just need to get a clearer picture painted for us here so we know how to approach and handle the situation we’re in properly.”

“We’re gonna get you home.” Lou took a drag of his Chesterfield. “We’ll talk this out, have a drink, and then Jackie and I here will deal with Blackwood. After that, you can just sit at home, spike some eggnog, and take it easy.”

“We need you, Lloyd.” Jackie patted Lloyd on the arm. “You’ve done good work. No sense in throwin’ the baby out with the bathwater here. Just tell us what Blackwood told you. That’s all we need to know.”

Lloyd took a breath.

Nodded.

Then he told Jackie and Lou everything he told Dean Blackwood with no detail left spared.

“What about the name ‘Smokes Romano,’” Lou said. “That mean anything to you?”

“Smokes Romano?” Lloyd said, scouring his brain for the name. “No, it doesn’t.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Okay, good,” Jackie said. “See how easy that was?” He patted Lloyd on his shoulders. “Now let’s go back to your place and sit tight for a bit. We’ll have a drink. I’ll bartend. You like Moscow Mules?”

“Yeah.” Lloyd smirked. “I do.” He sat back and blew out a sigh. “Jesus, I thought you guys were going to shoot me or something there for a second.”

“Oh, come on now,” Jackie said. “No one’s gettin’ shot here tonight, Lloyd.”

“Thank Christ.” Lloyd motioned to Jackie’s cigarette case. “Is it okay if…?”

“Absolutely.” Jackie handed the bank manager the case. “Light one up for yourself there, pal.”

Lloyd took out a cigarette.

Lou lit it.

61

“Feliz Navidad” by José Feliciano then came over the airwaves.

“You boys really had me freaked out back there,” Lloyd said. “Thought I was a goner.”

“You watch too many mob movies, buddy,” Lou replied. “People don’t just get whacked left and right like that.”

“Some do,” Jackie interjected. “The rats and the fools, mostly.”

“I hear you on that one.” Lloyd took a pull of the cigarette, blew it out, and coughed to the point he thought he was going to hack up a lung.

Jackie chuckled.

Lou joined in with him.

“Virgin lungs,” Jakie said as he playfully slapped Lloyd on the leg. “First cigarette?”

“No.” Lloyd covered his mouth with a fist and coughed some more, his skin goosing as the nicotine coursed through his veins. “I had one before in high school.”

“You like it?”

“No,” Lloyd said. “Not really.”

“That’s alright.” Jackie shrugged. “It’s not for everybody. It’ll help with the nerves though, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah.” Lloyd, still crouping, examined the Chesterfield between his fingers. “I’m still shaking.”

“Povero bastardo,” Lou said. “Sembra che si trovi di fronte a un plotone di esecuzione.”

“Shit, yeah,” Jackie replied as he appraised Lloyd’s pale complexion tinged with hues of green. “He does, doesn’t he?”

Lou shrugged. “What did he say?” He huffed and smirked. “I don’t speak Italian.”

“Lou over there,” Jackie said, “said that you look like a guy marching into a firing squad.” He reached over and squeezed Lloyd’s shoulder. “In a way, he’s right, you pudgy little fuck.”

Lloyd’s eyes widened.

Jackie struck him across the cheek with his fist.

Then Lou lurched forward in his seat, wrapped the garotte wire in his hands around Lloyd’s neck, and pulled back on it like he was reining in a bellicose stallion as the upbeat, finger-snapping melody of the music drowned out Lloyd’s gurgles and screams.

62

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

When the telephone hit its third ring, Sal Rossi stirred from his slumber. He mumbled a string of curses under his mouth as he swung his legs over the bed; Italian spliced with some English.

“Animali,” Rossi grumbled quietly as he took the phone and headed into the bathroom composed of royal marfil crema beige marble flooring, a Lexia Thermostatic Shower System, gold sinks, toilets, and other high-end fixtures.

Rossi leaned against the sink.

Shook his head.

Answered the call and heard Jackie greet him with a cordial, “How are ya, boss?”

“I was sleeping,” Rossi said as he looked at Elena conked out on her side of their king-sized bed. “So talk and talk quickly.”

“That kid dealer and the banker have been dealt with,” Jackie said. “It’s done.”

“What about the PI?”

“Not yet.”

“Why the hell not?”

“We’ve been followin’ him around,” Jackie said. “Been watchin’ him from a distance to see who he’s been talking to. When we came around to the banker’s place to talk to him, the PI was already there. He worked over the banker pretty good. Asked him a bunch of questions about what’s going on. After he cut the banker loose, we tailed the banker, talked to him, then did what we needed to do.”

“What about Smokes?”

“We talked to him.”

“In person?” Rossi said.

“Over the phone,” Jackie replied. “He told us what happened, told us Blackwood talked to his kid dealer, and then we headed over there and handled it.”

“Per l'amor di Dio.” Rossi eyed the box of antacids near the sink that he’d been chewing like Tic Tacs for the past several hours. “Jackie…” he pinched the bridge of his nose, “we need to wrap this thing up. Why the hell haven’t you talked to Smokes face to face?”

“Smokes is worried about this Blackwood asshole seeing the three of us together,” Jackie explained. “Last I talked to him, he said he’s sendin’ his kid away for a few days while we get this whole thing sorted out. He said once that’s finished, we can all have a sit-down, but only if this PI has been dealt with beforehand.”

“Then deal with him.”

“The guy is good, boss,” Jackie said. “He’s a pro. The way he’s been workin’ over everyone, I take him for military or somethin’.”

“I don’t care if the guy’s General Patton, alright?” Rossi said. “Enough is enough. I gotta know where we stand with the operation out there and how much Smokes has fucked it up. It’s clear we got cancer growin’, and I gotta know how much of it we gotta cut to save the patient.”

“There’s more to it.”

“Spiegare.”

“Our buddies over in Chicago PD,” Jackie said. “I had them run a background check on this guy Blackwood.”

“What did they find?”

“A lot of redacted stuff.”

Shit, Rossi thought. No good.

“The one thing they highlighted for us was pretty significant though,” Jackie continued. “This motherfucker, Blackwood, used to be a Fed. What that means in terms of the here and now, I dunno, but it’s like you always say…”

Assume the worst. Rossi closed his eyes. Hope for the best.

Wonder who came up with that whole saying in the first place.

“Cavolo,” Rossi grumbled as he rose and padded his bare feet across his marble floors. “You’re sure our guy in Chicago PD said that?”

“Hundred percent,” Jackie replied. “He’s sure. Look, I hate to say it, but maybe you should take a drive down here. This PI having potential friends in the FBI makes the situation a lot more complicated. Also, Smokes said he’s only gonna talk to you from here on out. You and him go way back. It’s clear this guy doesn't have the same kind of respect for us that he has for you.”

Rossi held the line.

Sifted through the information.

Told Jackie he was on his way, instructed his muscle to inform Smokes that he would be meeting with him in a couple of hours, and then quickly slapped together an excuse to give to Elena.

“I’ll be back tonight,” Rossi assured his wife a half-hour later as she assisted him with putting on his cobalt-colored cashmere overcoat. “No later than that.”

The irritation on Elena’s face was clearly visible as she followed her husband with a pair of crossed arms to the door.

“Questo è ridicolo,” she said. “It’s the holidays. We have everyone from your family to mine coming over⁠—”

“And I’ll be here for all of it,” Rossi assured her. “Hai la mia parola.”

He smirked.

Winked.

Elena couldn’t refrain from blushing. “You know,” she said as she took hold of her husband’s jacket. “If I didn’t love you so much, I would leave you.”

“Sweetheart…” Rossi leaned in and kissed his wife gently on her cheek. “Tu sei il mio mondo.”

“E tu sei mio.” Elena rubbed small circles on her husband’s back. “Now go. Come back soon.” Her eyes widened. “And don’t forget to bring back a pecan pie.”

“I will.”

“I love you.”

“And I,” Rossi flashed the same million-dollar smile that won over his wife in the first place and popped up the collars of his coat, “love you.”

He left.

Elena waved goodbye through him to the window.

As soon as Rossi was behind the wheel of his BMW and had the city of Somerset plugged into his map application, he took the Beretta 92X Centurion out of the glove compartment, checked the rounds, and stuffed it under his seat.

Just in case.

63

SOMERSET, ILLINOIS

The Volvo pulled over to the shoulder of the highway three miles outside of Somerset. Dean and Freddy slipped out, the stars above their heads boundless and shimmering like nothing the pair were used to back in LA.

Too bad, Dean thought. It’d be a nice place to visit if it weren’t for its blemishes.

Dean, poking his face through the driver’s side window, reached over and patted Angie on her hand. “Call us when you get to your sister-in-law’s,” Dean said. “Let us know that you got there safely.”

Angie Brennan, her hands clutching onto the wheel at the ten and two position, nodded and took a glance at the WELCOME TO SOMERSET sign off to her left on the highway. “I will,” she said. “I promise.” She motioned with her chin to Freddy pacing the highway a few feet behind him. “Are you two going to be alright?”

“We’ll be fine,” Dean said. “The FBI should be getting here pretty soon. We just need to hold things down here for a little bit until they show up.”

Angie pinned her eyes to Dean; they welled with tears, a single one rolled down her cheek that she wiped away with the back of her hand.

“You’re going to be okay,” Dean said as he reached over and placed his hand on top of Angie’s. “Everything’s going to be alright.”

“I know,” Angie replied and then took a beat. “You know, I’m curious about something,” she said. “Something that’s been on my mind this whole drive.”

“What?”

“Why are you putting yourself in harm’s way like this for me?” Angie said. “You barely know me, and the more you’ve looked into this, the crazier it’s gotten. You have your own problems to worry about, your own family. Most people would have cut and run by now. Erika told me you were a good man when she recommended me to you—she just never said that you’d go above and beyond like this. I guess I’m wondering why that is.”

“You know,” Dean took a beat, “I’ve asked myself that question a lot in the past few years. There’s been a lot of times I’ve found myself in situations just like this one. I could have cut and run plenty of times but I didn’t.”

“How come?”

Dean threw a glance to his right toward the town of Somerset and the glimmering lights that cut hazily through a light snowfall that blanketed the highway. Despite its sleepy, comforting aesthetic, Somerset housed a sinister gallery of menacing characters; bad men who hid behind the manicured lawns and polished facades featured throughout the town. They were the same villains—assholes—who seemed to follow the playbook of every middle-of-the-road 80s action film ever made, individuals that Dean felt like he had run-ins with on an annual basis.

“As hard as I fight it,” Dean said to Angie, “as much as I try to tell myself that I’m not the guy who stands guard at the door, the more I think about it, the more I’m starting to believe that I am. Believe me, I don’t like it. It’s caused me a lot of problems.”

“Then why do it?” Angie said. “Why not do something else?”

Dean reflected back on a conversation he had with his sister, Sheila, when she asked him the exact same thing.

“Maybe there’s something wrong with me,” Dean said, seriously considering calling Dr. Rance to make an appointment as soon as things cooled off. “I think there’s something driving me that I haven’t put my finger on, some kind of Batman complex or something. All I know is that someone has to be there to put people like the ones who killed your daughter in check. Until someone better comes along,” Dean smirked, “I guess I’ll have to make do with me.”

Angie flashed a weak smile.

Squeezed Dean’s hand.

Thanked him for everything that he had done.

“Just get clear of the town,” Dean said. “Don’t stop driving. Don’t pull over for anyone. Once this is done, I’ll let you know. Be safe.”

“You too.” Angie put the car into drive and flickered her gaze toward Freddy. “The both of you.”

The car pulled away.

The red brake lights washed over Dean and Freddy.

Moments later, the vehicle disappeared down the road, and Dean and his protégé began their march back to the town.

“You know,” Freddy said as he crossed his arms and rubbed them to warm them, “we could just hitchhike our way out of here. I looked on my phone and saw a Hooters about twenty miles away near Fairvale.”

“Grow up,” Dean groaned as he pulled out his cell phone. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not talking about going there for the reasons you’re thinking,” Freddy said. “I’ve just always dug the wings they serve.”

“When we’re done, I’ll buy you a plate of ‘em, Freddy.”

“Hopefully it will end soon.”

“It will,” Dean said. “One way or another.”

“I know.” Freddy sighed. “I’m just nervous.”

“Me too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Dean plugged Wilson’s number into his cell. “All the time.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Freddy said. “The way you strut around like Jack Reacher or some shit, I always thought that the fear center of your brain never got installed or whatever.”

“I’m scared more often than not, kid,” Dean said. “It’s just about what you do with that fear that makes a difference.”

“Hero shit.”

“I’m not a hero.” Dean pressed the dial button and then put the device on speakerphone. “I’m just a dude who doesn’t like bad dudes getting away with bad stuff.”

“Poetic,” Freddy said. “You should write a book after we finish this.”

“You could edit it.”

“Deal.”

Dean smirked.

Freddy laughed.

The pair then rounded the bend in the road and approached the outskirts of Somerset.

64

Michael Patterson eased his F-350 pickup down a dip in the road three miles outside of the town, his thoughts fixated on his son as he took his time getting to what he knew was going to be the absolute final destination of his life. Michael hated the idea of Sean driving on his own, let alone in the wee hours of the morning, but it had to be done. And if Sean did as he was told, he’d be halfway to the motel in Galena by now; the stay would be much longer than Michael had made out to his kid, but there was no other choice.

Things were getting too squirrely.

Blackwood was turning over too many stones.

And now Sal wanted a sit-down in the middle of goddamn nowhere, and Michael tallied his odds of walking out of that conversation alive at a fifty-fifty shot—at best.

“You did this to yourself, you idiot,” Michael grumbled as he hugged the left turn in a road that threaded through a wide-open expanse of corn fields. “This is all on you.”

In the five minutes of drive time that followed, Michael reflected on the last thing he said to Sean before the kid pulled out of the driveway. “Just need to know you’re safe,” he told his son. “There’s too much weird stuff going on around here. I don’t like it. I don’t like this Blackwood asshole or what he’s up to—it’s no good.”

“Why aren’t you going with me?” Sean asked. “Why can’t we go together? Why do I have to leave right now? It’s practically midnight, Pop.”

Because I might not be alive after tonight, Michael thought. Because I got ahead of myself. Because I did the same thing all those dumb fucks did back in the day that got them all buried in a grave or a cell.

I got greedy.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Michael told his son as he patted the kid on the arm. “Soon as the sheriff can give me his word that Blackwood is gone and things are safe, I’ll come join you. We’ll spend Christmas over there in Galena. We’ll make a thing of it.” He grinned for the first time in years. “I’ll let you have a beer; we’ll share it. How’s that sound?”

All Sean could do was nod and flash a weak smile.

Moments later, he backed out of the driveway.

As soon as the kid was gone, Michael whispered to his son that he loved him, called Jackie and Lou, and was then given instructions to head six miles outside of town to the deteriorated cornfield that once belonged to late Rich MacCready, a location that made sense to Michael being that no one had lived on that plot of land in close to two years.

No good, Michael thought as he turned right onto a dirt path that led toward the boarded-up, two-story house two-hundred yards away. No good at all.

Michael put the trunk into park.

Sat back.

Hated the fact that it was so goddamn quiet out that he turned on the radio, scoured the channels, and turned up the volume on “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” by Elton John.

Michael grinned.

Thought of his wife, Sean’s mother.

The times they shared before she passed.

The son they raised.

The good life they had during those few years in-between Michael going from crooked to straight and back to crooked again.

She loved this song, Michael thought as he glanced at the radio and tapped his finger to the beat on the steering wheel. She was always dancin’ when she was listening to the radio.

Michael closed his eyes.

I miss you, baby.

He pictured his late wife’s face as the chorus started to play.

Maybe if you were still here, none of this would have happened.

Then two pairs of headlights reflected in his rear-view mirror and triggered a shudder to trace like a cold finger up Michael’s spine.

65

As Michael watched the vehicles approach him from the rear, he killed the radio, slipped out of the truck, and stuffed his hands in his pockets as he stood by the rear of his pick-up, nodding in greeting to the Cadillac and the BMW rolling slowly toward him.

The vehicles parked beside one another, the engines then shutting off—though the headlamps remained on—before three men stepped out of the cars, men that Michael had known for over forty years but hadn’t seen in person in close to twenty.

Jackie Bianchi.

Lou “Tuney” Marino.

Salvatore “Sal” Rossi.

Christ. Michael’s body tensed up. Just like old times.

“My God,” Sal Rossi said, stepping away from his BMW as he wagged a finger at Michael. “Look at you.”

Rossi outstretched his arms and greeted Michael with a warm, welcoming, and sycophantic smile that Michael had seen on so many men’s faces before; the same look a number of goombahs he had known would put on display right before they put a bullet into some poor fuck’s head or slipped a screwdriver to the back of his neck.

“Been a long time,” Sal greeted as he pulled Michael into an embrace. “Stai bene.”

The two men hugged.

Squeezed each other tight.

The moment, for Michael, though brief, felt like it lasted for an eternity.

“Christ,” Sal said as he stood back and seized Michael gently by the shoulders. “You really packed it on since I last saw you.” He ogled Michael from head-to-toe. “You look like one of these corn-fed locals you’ve been hiding out with.”

“All that starch,” Michael replied, flinching as he heard his native Brooklyn accent returning. “Doing a number on my colon, I’m tellin’ ya.”

Sal laughed.

Nodded over his shoulder.

Lou and Jackie seemingly took that as their cue to space apart and flank either side of him.

“Remember Jackie boy over here?” Sal said. “Him and Lou were just kids last time you saw them.”

“Yeah.” Michael nodded. “Yeah, Jackie was running packages for us. Louie over there was up to his mother’s knee the last time I saw him.” He nodded at the two men. “How you boys doin’?”

“Mezzo mezzo,” Jackie said. “Good to see ya.”

“Been a long time, boss,” Lou chimed in. “Last time I saw you, you slapped me upside the head for scratchin’ that Caddy of yours.”

The Cadillac.

The old neighborhood.

Michael blinked himself out of the past.

Days gone by.

“How’s that boy of yours doin’?” Sal asked. “What’s his name?”

“Sean,” Michael said. “He’s good. Does good in school. Guess it skipped a generation.”

“Same.” Sal’s lips twitched into a grin. “My kid Nico, God bless him, is a whiz. You remember, yeah? You were at his christening right before…” His face darkened. “Well, you know.”

Before the whole thing went tits up, Michael thought. Because of Joey Galliano and all those assholes who fucked up a good thing.

“Look,” Michael said before he cleared his throat and straightened his back. “I know we gotta sort this all out⁠—”

“I don’t think we can sort through a mess as big as this, my friend,” Rossi interjected. “I mean,” he motioned around at the withered corn stalks and laughed as though they had said something amusing, “we got dead kids, private dicks with DOD connections…” He shrugged. “It’s not good.”

A grim-faced Michael hung his head and paced back and forth. He always chalked it up to his prowess that he was able to cut loose of his ties cleanly with the Gambinos back when all that shit went down in ‘92, when three quarters of the guys he knew had gotten collectively pinched under the RICO Act.

The choice was simple: rat or rot.

Michael chose the second.

So did Sal.

Then once enough time passed, they started from scratch, and built themselves something new.

But you fucked it up, Smokes, Michael thought. Your eyes just got too goddamn big for your stomach.

“Dominic,” Rossi said, using an old name that Michael hadn’t heard in thirty years. “This is bad.”

“I know,” Michael replied. “It’s fucked up.”

“How’d it get fucked up?” Rossi winced. “I set you up nice out here. All you had to do was look after the truck stop and make sure the shipments went out—that’s it. You barely had to do anything. All you had to do was collect payment, cash it at the bank, and lay low.”

Michael shrugged.

Waved his hand through the air.

Turned his back on Rossi and fully expected to take a bullet to the back.

“Guardami,” Rossi said. “You and I go back a long way, Smokes. You owe me the respect of lookin’ me in the eyes when you talk to me.”

Smokes, Michael thought as he angled around and pinned his eyes to Rossi, thinking about how that name had been given to him by Luca Albino back when he was a young man in 1982.

It was South Brooklyn. Michael—Dominic Romano—had sprayed lighter fluid in Kenny Antonio’s eyes while the guy was hacking on a cigarette and burned the prick’s eyes right out of their sockets; just one of countless stories from Michael’s old life that he had never told to his son.

Dominic Romano, Michael thought.“Smokes” Romano.

Who I was.

Who I am.

As hard as I tried to hide it.

“Sally,” Michael said, “I don’t know what to tell ya.”

“You can at least tell me what you did and why you did it, Smokes,” Rossi replied. “We had a good thing going over here.”

“Sal—”

“Don’t make a jerk outta me.” Rossi tapered his eyes. “How many guys did we know who died in prison after all of that shit with Galliano? Huh?”

A lot. Michael tensed his jaw muscles. Too many to count.

“You remember what happened,” Rossi continued. “All of us do. Galliano was a cowboy. He took too many chances. That asshole was flashin’ his shit around town and thinkin’ he had full-frigging-immunity to do whatever he wanted to do, and you know what happened because of that. He took a lot of good people down with him because he was folle, Smokes, because he got greedy and stupid.” He flattened his hand across his chest. “I don’t need that. I don’t need to die slowly in the joint because I’ve got partners operatin’ outside their boundaries like Galliano did. And it’s clear to me that you,” he pointed a finger at Michael, “have been doing exactly that.”

Michael, his gaze turned down to the ground, said nothing.

“Per l'amor di Dio,” Rossi said. “Did you not learn a damn thing after what happened back in the day, Smokes? How hard did we work to get this thing built up to what it was? How many times we talk about how the old guys fucked up and made sure we didn’t do the same bullshit they did?”

Michael—again—said nothing.

“Talk to me,” Rossi said coolly. “Tell me what happened.”

Michael took a beat.

Then a breath.

Finally, he confessed.

66

“Iwas skimmin’ from the supply, Sally,” he said. “Just a little off of the top.”

“How long?” Rossi said, his face dark, his fists clenched. “And how much?”

“Few years. Few pounds here and there,” Michael said. “Nothin’ that would affect things too much in terms of the bottom line.”

“And then you took that product,” Rossi said, “and gave it to some kid to push through Somerset, right?”

“I did.” Michael hung his head. “It got out of control though. I was just planning on making enough cash to have on hand.”

“For what?” Rossi huffed. “I was paying you six figures.”

“For Sean,” Michael said. “I wanted him to be set up good and well in case somethin’ happened to me. I was just planning on sellin’ what I was skimmin’ for a little while, but…” He sighed. “I didn’t think it would go as far as it did. Then kids started overdosin’, I had to pay off certain parties to keep their backs turned⁠—”

“Kids, Smokes,” Rossi cut in. “You were sellin’ dope to kids. Then you get workin’ at the bank to scare people off when the heat got turned up? The fuck were you thinkin’?”

“Sally,” Michael held up his hands, “I was just⁠—”

“Being a dumb fuck.” Rossi pointed a finger, his volume and anger ticking up a few degrees. “That’s what you were doing. God damn you, Smokes, and God damn you for makin’ the excuse that it was all for your kid.”

“It was, Sally,” Michael said. “I was only⁠—”

“No,” Rossi said. “It wasn’t. I was payin’ you enough to set that kid of yours up for life. You didn’t do this for him. You did this because you’re that same degenerate putz I knew back in Brooklyn. You were greedy. You always were. Nothin’ about you has changed, Smokes, no matter how big your gut has gotten or how many gray hairs you’ve sprouted.”

He’s right, Michael thought. Everything he said is true.

“It was Sean’s mother,” Michael said, feeling like he was in a confessional booth with Sal. “After she died, I…” He resisted the urge to cry. “I dunno. I got lost. She was the angel on my shoulder, the voice of reason. After she passed away, I…” He couldn’t bring himself to say the rest.

Rossi, his scowl dissolving, nodded understanding. “I hear ya,” he said. “The wives have a way of keepin’ us on the straight and narrow. God knows mine has done it more times than I can remember. Without them, it’s easy for a man to go nuts.”

“I did,” Michael said. “I did go nuts. I just couldn’t hack it. I needed somethin’ to do. I had to keep my mind occupied.”

“So you do this?” Rossi said, his frown returning. “You steal from me and sling dope to kids?”

Michael, his gaze turned to the ground, said nothing.

“I fooled myself into thinkin’ you changed, Smokes.” Rossi motioned to the town of Somerset several miles away over his shoulder. “And this is untenable, the whole situation, and now I gotta clean it up.”

Whatever reservations Michael had about leaving the conversation alive were gone—he knew Rossi was definitely going to kill him off him. It was only a question of the minutes or seconds that would take.

“These kids,” Rossi said, “the ones that got killed, the ones that this PI is looking into.” He wrinkled his brow. “That was you, right?”

Michael paused. “Yeah,” he finally said. “Yeah, it was me.”

“Mio Dio.” Rossi clicked his teeth. “Why?”

“I had just got back after I stopped by the place where we stash the product,” Michael explained. “I found these two kids in my house, kids I knew. They weren’t supposed to be there. My kid Seany was supposed to be home alone. I thought he’d be dead asleep when I got back, but he wasn’t. I came home, walked in, and then I found these two kids screwing around in my basement. They found one of the boxes that had some of the product in it. Both of them flipped out when I walked in and caught ‘em. Then that kid Luke tried to walk out. I grabbed his arm. He tried to hit me. After that happened, I…” Michael shook his head, “I panicked. I shot ‘em both. Then I ransacked the place, made it look like a break-in, and left.”

“What about the cops?” Rossi said. “How did they not figure out⁠—”

“I paid them off,” Michael said. “I’ve been doin’ it for a while now. Everyone made out good with the side hustle I had set up. The money trickled down and everyone got a nice house because of it.”

“So that’s the reason.” Rossi shook his head. “You made good money on top of what I was giving you, and you decided you wanted more.” Rossi's lips contorted into a sneer. “Hai perso la testa.”

“I’m sorry, Sally,” Michael said. “For whatever that’s worth.”

“It’s worth shit,” Rossi said. “Because now our operation in Somerset is a bust. I gotta start over. Power down for a while. Our deal that we had, as of right now, is done.”

Michael’s hand shook.

He swallowed hard.

Thought about the fact that he had let down his son, was never that great of a father to him in the first place, and realized that the biggest mistake he had ever made was shortchanging the kid on a better life than the one that he gave him.

I’m sorry, Seany.

Tears glazed Michael’s eyes.

I’m so goddamn sorry.

“I don’t like doin’ this, Smokes,” Rossi said as he held out his hand toward Lou. “But it is what it is. Monday mornin’ quarterbacking isn’t going to get us anywhere.”

Lou took a step forward.

Dug into his coat.

Pulled out a compact firearm—a Beretta, far as Michael could tell—and handed it over to Rossi.

“Before we do this,” Rossi finally said, “I gotta know what this guy Blackwood knows. I gotta know what you told him.”

“Nothin’,” Michael said. “God’s honest truth.”

“Smokes—”

“I mean it.” Michael huffed. “What do I gotta hide from you at this point, Sally?” He motioned to the gun in Rossi’s hand. “I’m tellin’ you the truth here. I didn’t tell Blackwood or anybody else a goddamn thing. You gotta do what you gotta do—I get that. I just need you to promise me once it’s done, you leave Seany alone. He doesn’t know anything. I made sure that he never did.”

“No one’s gonna hurt your boy, Smokes,” Rossi assured Michael. “I’m no goddamn monster, not like you. I don’t have the balls like you do to kill kids.”

Rossi gestured to Lou and Jackie.

The pair popped the trunk of their car and fetched the picks and shovels from inside of it.

“Alright, Smokes,” Rossi said. “Where’s the product? The one you were skimming and pushing around town?”

“After that thing with those kids,” Michael replied, “I took whatever I had left back to the truck stop where the supply is. It’s thirty miles outside of town. It’s all there, every kilo we got.”

“Alright.” Rossi sighed. “Good.”

A few seconds ticked by.

A coyote yelped in the distance.

An owl hooted in reply.

“Mi dispiace,” Rossi said to Michael. “I mean that.”

“Yeah,” Michael replied as he stood tall and held his hands at his sides. “I’m sorry, too.”

Rossi’s face twisted into a forlorn expression.

He shook his head.

Then he brought up the Beretta—saw that Michael wasn’t closing his eyes—and slowly eased back on the trigger.

I’m sorry, Seany, Michael thought as he held his breath. For everything.

Three shots went off; two in Michael’s chest, one in his head.

The first shot killed him.

The other two Rossi fired just for good measure.

67

Rossi, as he handed Lou back the Beretta, felt terrible for what he had just done.

But, he thought, it absolutely needed to happen.

“Bury him quick,” Rossi said as he ripped his gaze off of Michael’s—Dominic’s—body. “After that, we need to find this PI and deal with him.”

“Deal with him?” Lou said as he followed after Jackie to help him with the disposal of Michael’s corpse. “For good, you mean?”

“Yeah.” Rossi nodded. “We got no other option here. I want everyone dealt with that had a hand in this thing, anyone that knows a goddamn thing.” He checked the time on his watch. “Make the call to a couple of our guys to come down here from Chicago to help us out. Shouldn’t take them too long to get down here. We’ll need the extra hands to help load and move out the product.”

“I’ll call one of our drivers out here to load it up in an eighteen-wheeler,” Jackie said as he hooked his arms under Michael’s body and hoisted it up. “I’ll pay him a little extra for the effort.”

“Where are we movin’ it to?” Lou asked as he grabbed onto Michael’s feet. “Who’s takin’ it?”

“We’re sellin’ it wholesale to that Mick over on the southside,” Rossi said. “I’ll have to scramble, tell our guys in Pittsburgh that we’re powerin’ down and the operation out here is kaput. They’ll be pissed, but it’s what it is.”

Rossi cut one last glance at Michael’s body, took a drag of his cigarette, and puffed the smoke toward the diamonds generously distributed in the skies above his head. “Let’s get this done as fast as we can.” He heard Jackie and Lou digging into the earth with their picks and shovels. “I promised my wife I’d be back home by the morning.”

68

The story behind River Rock Financial, from what Dean had heard from Wilson, was enough for his old boss to trigger a four-alarm fire over at the field office in Chicago.

The G-men—and women—were on their way.

Backup was en-route.

Dean just needed to hunker down until they got there.

“What I said before still stands,” Wilson said over the phone. “I need you and your little friend riding shotgun with you to find a place to power down until we get there.”

“We?” Dean squinted. “I take it you’re tagging along.”

“Anytime the notorious Dean Blackwood gets in trouble, I step in during the third act.” Wilson snickered. “I always make an appearance; it’s expected.”

“Good enough for me.”

“Promise me you’ll stay on the sidelines.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“That’s not a promise.”

“Best I can do for you, Willy,” Dean said. “You know how I am.”

“Yeah.” Wilson puttered his lips. “That I do.”

The only place that Dean figured he and Freddy could, as Wilson phrased it, “power down,” was Angie Brennan’s home. The pair, having slipped inside through a backdoor that Dean pried open, stood in the living room of Angie’s home while Dean attempted to get in touch with Lloyd Collins.

But the manager wasn’t answering his texts.

The calls Dean placed went straight to voicemail.

And Dean suspected that, by this point, someone—maybe a couple of people—had paid a similar visit to Lloyd like they had to the late Logan Riley.

“Shit,” Dean said after the third call he put in to the bank manager yielded nothing. “This smells fishy.”

“It might be me,” Freddy said as he sniffed under his armpits. “I forgot to pack deodorant for this trip.” He took another whiff under his arms and winced. “I’m getting a little ripe here, homie.”

Dean checked the time on his watch: 2:06 a.m. It’ll take the people from the field office a couple hours to get here, he figured. It’s gonna be a minute.

“Boss,” Freddy said. “What’s the play here?”

“I’m thinking,” Dean replied. “I’m also fairly certain that our friend Lloyd has gone MIA.”

“What about Michael Patterson?”

“What about him?”

“This whole thing is his doing, right?” Freddy said. “I mean, knowing you, you probably want to get eyes on the guy to see what he’s up to. If he feels the heat coming around the corner, he’s going to want to split.”

“You stole that line,” Dean said. “From Heat.”

“I know.” His protégé smirked. “Good movie. I tried to use that line on a date once.”

“How did that work out for you?”

“Not good.” Freddy shrugged. “Kind of went over like a lead balloon. Still,” he rose from the couch, “don’t you think we should get eyes on Michael Patterson? If he knows something is up, if Collins is missing, maybe he might be too soon.”

“Dicey,” Dean said. “But you’re probably right. Chances are high this guy is going to skip town before the Feds get here.”

“And if he hasn’t?” Freddy said. “What if we go to check on him and he tries to run?”

The cold metal steel of Dean’s SIG dug into his flesh. “One step at a time,” he said. “But if that happens,” he grazed his palm against the handle of the weapon, “things might get loud.”

“So, I should have a loaded gun,” Freddy said, beaming as he spoke the words out loud. “For safety’s sake.”

“Only because you’re staying here.”

“What for?” Freddy’s eyes widened. “You can’t do this alone.”

“I can’t risk something happening to you, kid,” Dean said. “You’re my responsibility. I made the same mistake of thrusting you into the middle of all of this before. I won’t do that again.”

“Boss,” Freddy said, “please.”

“Just stay here, Freddy.” Dean took out his SIG and press-checked the rounds. “Lock up tight. Keep your phone handy. If I’m not back in half an hour, you call Wilson and tell him to put the pedal to the floor mats and get his ass here as quickly as possible.”

A slack-jawed Freddy huffed and puffed as he took out the piece Dean had given him earlier and looked at the cylinder; rolled his eyes at the fact that the thing still had no bullets. Dean headed to the back door, reminded Freddy to keep the windows and door locked—and the lights off.

Freddy, in the dark with a gun in his hand, paced the floors of the residence. The stillness and darkness throughout, for a brief moment, led him to believe that the place might be haunted.

“Don’t screw with me,” Freddy said to whatever unseen specters might have been lingering. “I mean it.” He held up the Smith & Wesson in his hand. “I’ll pop one between your little ghost eyes.”

He twirled the weapon by its trigger guard.

Dropped it.

Scooped it up.

Took a look around, winced, and thanked God that Dean wasn’t there to see the mishap.

69

Dean, flakes of snow sprinkled on his jacket, approached the side of Michael Patterson’s home and thought back to the night of Luke DeFeo’s and Daria Brennan’s murders.

Who did it?

Why?

And how did it all go down?

Dean, as he crept toward the window that looked into the basement, scanned the block.

The lights were off.

Michael’s truck wasn’t in the driveway.

The house was completely still.

As far as Dean could tell, neither Michael nor Sean Patterson were home.

“Take it easy, Blackwood,” he whispered as he crouched and approached the window that looked into the basement. “Don’t get yourself shot.”

Dean threw a glance over both shoulders to make sure that no one was watching or waiting in the wings. Satisfied that neither was the case, he dug out the Benchmade 917 Tactical from his pocket and flicked it open; moonlight flickered along the tip of the blade. Dean then wedged the blade between the frame of the window, jimmied the lock, pulled it open, and stuck his head through the opening.

He slipped inside—slowly.

Touched down.

Closed the window and held his breath in the off-chance that someone was home.

What are you doing, Blackwood?

What’s your plan here?

“You’re looking for evidence, laddie,” Woody said. “You’re listening to that funny little sixth sense of yours.”

Get lost, Woody.

“Why are we down here, my boy? You came here to find Patterson, and he’s clearly not around.”

I’m not sure. Dean took out his cell, toggled the flashlight, and swept the beam across the floors, walls, and ceiling. I was seeing if Michael was here, but now I think I’m looking for something else.

“You are,” Woody said. “The question is what that is, exactly.”

Dean stood over the area where Luke’s and Shannon’s bodies had been discovered. He kept thinking about the first time he came down here with Sheriff Curtis; replayed the conversation he had with the lawman and how certain the guy was that the demise of the teenagers was nothing more than a home invasion that went south.

Why bring them down here?

Why kill them?

Dean kneeled down and touched two fingers to the cold concrete.

What the hell really happened here?

He surveyed the entire basement.

Saw the cardboard moving boxes.

A few plastic crates for bottles.

Some cobwebs.

The furnace.

Then the dust outlines beside it—impressions—from where a series of boxes or cartons or crates once stood.

I must’ve missed that before, Dean thought.

What were these?

Who moved them?

Were these already gone when I came here the last time?

Dean closed his eyes and scoured through his Home Movie Collection, a fully-detailed, decades-long gallery of memories.

He recalled the last time he was here with Curtis.

Squeezed his eyelids shut.

Slowly picked apart the visuals his brain took and saw the same impressions on the floor—they were there before, the first time he had stepped foot inside the basement with Curtis during his first few days in Somerset.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean grumbled. “What the hell did you move, Patterson?”

He took out his cell.

Dialed Wilson’s number.

Heard it ring one time before his former boss answered.

“Deano,” Wilson said. “I’m still working things on my end over here. I got a few of the forensic accountants helping me out, but I did get a little bit of info on River Rock Financial from the bits and pieces we’ve sifted through. How good are you at understanding the nuances in terms of banking and finances?”

“Shoddy at best,” Dean replied. “Pretend I’m half an idiot here.”

“Well, before I break it down into details for you,” Wilson said, “you should know that we’ve got pretty a sense over here that this institution is dabbling in something shady. Whatever’s going on there aside from the mom and pop checking accounts is suspect at best.”

“Alright.” Dean held his head high. “Hit me.”

“Here’s the skinny,” Wilson said. “Mel’s Auto Body was once owned by a guy named Mel Torrance.”

“Fitting. Probably could’ve figured that one out on my own though, chief.”

“Well, you couldn’t have figured out this one,” Wilson continued. “Back in the day, Mel had big back tax problems, and the IRS was going to put a lien on his shop. Mel nearly went out of business when that happened. Mel was unable to get a conventional loan at the bank, so he got a loan from River Rock Financial. As a condition of the loan, Mel was required to put River Rock as a co-owner of the property and his shop. As part of becoming co-owners of the shop, the official title to the property and the business licenses are updated to show River Rock Financing as an official co-owner. Then in 1991, Mel passed away, and Michael took over the shop.”

“Good God, Willy,” Dean said. “How’d you figure all of this out that fast?”

“I type fast,” Wilson explained. “That side, all of this information is recorded with the County Assessor’s Office—it’s public record.”

“What about Mel’s Auto Body?”

“Turns out that the field office already had an interest in it.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“I got access to all of this because there was already a case that had opened on it,” Wilson explained. “It turns out that the FBI field office in Chicago was contacted by the IRS recently. Some of the year-end tax stuff that was turned in for Mel’s Auto Body on behalf of this bank manager, Collins, had gotten flagged, so the IRS asked the Chicago field office for assistance with looking into it. The field office was already getting ready to send a pair of agents down to Somerset to talk to Collins and Michael Patterson after the holidays.”

“Only I got here first.” Dean chuckled. “What are the chances?”

Dean sifted through what his boss told him and shook his head; stories like this one was something that was all too familiar. “The bank and Michael’s shop are dirty,” he said. “This is classic, money-laundering bullshit, Willy. I can’t help but wonder what the chances are that this bank is mob-owned.”

“I’d say they’re pretty strong,” Wilson said. “Because Michael Patterson isn’t Michael Patterson.”

“You speaking in riddles or something now, boss?”

“What I’m trying to tell you, Deano,” Wilson said, “is that Michael Patterson is the name that Dominic ‘Smokes’ Romano was given after he went into the Witness Protection Program.”

70

“Michael Patterson’s real name,” Wilson told Dean, “is Dominic ‘Smokes’ Romano. He used to be a soldier for the Gambino family.”

That surly look in Patterson’s eye, Dean thought. Those hints of an accent.

I was staring right at Bobby DeNiro this entire goddamn time.

“Dominic Romano’s jacket is about three inches thick,” Wilson continued. “Once I started floating Michael Patterson’s name through the databases, I found his Witness Protection files. Back in the 90s, the FBI brought the hammer down on Joey Galliano. I’m sure you remember him.”

“Joey Galliano,” Dean said. “He took over the Gambino family. Flamboyant guy. He went through three consecutive trials before the charges ended up sticking.”

“Thanks largely in part to the fact that Smokes Romano,” Wilson said, “aka Michael Patterson, and a guy named Salvatore Rossi ended up flipping on him. Rossi and Romano were two of the highest ranking members in the family, but they ended up breaking their oath and cutting deals with the government in ‘92. In exchange for their testimony against Galliano, both of them got immunity and were set up with new IDs in the Witness Protection Program.”

“So Smokes ended up becoming Michael Patterson,” Dean said, “and he started a new life in Somerset.”

“Bingo.”

“What about Rossi?”

“According to the files, he went to Arizona,” Wilson explained. “He only stayed for eight months though. When he got out, he moved to Chicago. Allegedly, Rossi went straight. He started a few restaurants, did well for himself, and coined a pretty good penny.”

“Rossi’s got a pretty big set on him,” Dean said. “The guy left witness protection and went to Chicago to start a new life under his real name. How the hell did he not get shot outside his house the second he came back? Correct me if I’m wrong, but mob goons would refer to someone like Rossi as a ‘rat.’”

“Think about it, Deano,” Wilson said. “Why would Rossi be comfortable enough to come back to the world and continue carving out a legacy under his real name?”

Dean took a moment.

Mulled it over.

Felt like he wanted to puke.

“Because he’s still working with whatever members of the Five Families are left,” Dean said. “Because Rossi is an earner. He makes a lot of money, and the one thing that the mob cares about more than its little code of silence is its bottom line.”

“Things changed after Joey Galliano went away,” Wilson said. “The mob isn’t like how all of those old movies make it out to be. These guys operate in the shadows now. Sure, we had eyes on them for a while after Galliano was locked up. We were tracking them for years to make sure the families like the Gambinos weren’t as prominent⁠—”

“But then 9/11 happened,” Dean interjected. “After that, the bureau’s interests shifted from the mob and all of our other domestic problems to terrorism, so the bureau lost track of guys like Romano and Rossi. We stopped keeping tabs.”

“And then people like Sal Rossi and Michael Patterson,” Wilson said, “also known as Smokes Romano, were able to start up their old businesses, dabble in their old trades.”

Dean stared at the spot in the basement where Luke DeFeo’s and Daria Brennan’s bodies had been found. “And whatever Michael was up to out here,” he said, “ended up getting a pair of kids killed because of it.”

“Pushing drugs,” Wilson said, “was always a big no-no in the Italian mob, at least on paper. But you’ve seen the movies, kid. You’ve heard the stories—these assholes always get caught up in that game. It’s one of their biggest money makers.”

But why were Luke and Daria killed? Dean thought. Did they see something? Hear something?

The fingers on Dean’s hand curled into a fist.

Who killed these kids and why?

“Dean,” Wilson said, “just stay put. I’m three hours out from touching down in Somerset. The agents from the field office in Chicago will be there in less than two. Just keep your head down and wait until we get there.”

He’s right, Dean thought as he moved to the basement window, slipped outside, and broke into a jog back toward Angie Brennan’s house six blocks away. If Michael and whoever else he’s working with are smart enough, then they know the walls are closing in. The heat is on.

What song was that?

Dean thought about it.

Oh, yeah.

Glenn Frey.

He smirked.

Great song.

Six minutes after leaving Michael’s basement, Dean turned the corner and made a beeline for Angie Brennan’s home—but he stopped dead in his tracks when he spotted Sheriff Curtis, standing on the porch with Freddy, the older man’s hand resting on his holstered sidearm.

71

“Mornin’, Sheriff,” Dean said as he approached Curtis and Freddy, his focus on the weapon nestled in the sheriff’s hip holster. “What’s new?”

“Took a drive through the block,” Curtis said. “For a quick moment, I thought I saw your little friend in the window of Miss Brennan’s home.” He nodded at Freddy. “Then I thought, ‘That can’t be right. I told those two to leave.’ I decided to take a quick look through the door to see if my mind was playing tricks on me, but low and behold, there he was—your little partner sitting on a couch channel surfing.”

“Boss,” Freddy said, motioning to Curtis with that whole “I dunno what to tell you” look in his eye. “He just pounded on the door and told me to come outside.”

“You’re good, kid,” Dean said as he parted his jacket with his hand to show off the SIG in his holster. “Everything’s cool.”

“Is it?” The sheriff crooked a finger at Freddy. “Because this looks like breaking and entering to me.” He peeked into the window that looked into the living room “Where’s Miss Brennan?”

“Gone.”

“Gone where?”

“As far out of town as she possibly could.”

“And what prompted that?”

“Me,” Dean said. “Angie Brennan felt that her safety was no longer guaranteed in Somerset, so she left. She should be well on her way by now. If you don’t believe me, give her a call.”

Curtis, his eyes narrowed, angled his body toward Dean. “I told you two to leave town—you didn’t. You’re still here. Now I’m finding you wandering around other people’s homes. Do you remember what I said would happen if I found you still hanging around here?”

“You know,” Dean replied as he rapped his knuckles against his skull, “my mind just isn’t like it used to be. I do recall some kind of chat we had where you dished a thinly-veiled threat my way, but I can’t remember exactly what it was that you said.”

“I told you to split,” Curtis said. “And you haven’t. Now what we’ve got here is⁠—”

“A failure,” Dean interjected with the best southern drawl he could manage, “to communicate.”

Curtis forced a smile.

Slid his palm across the butt of his Colt Trooper Mk III.

Dean took that as his cue to do the same with his SIG.

“We could waste a few lines of dialogue here going back and forth,” Dean said, “but I think it’s best if we skip past who has the better one-liners and get to the point.”

“That’s a solid plan, Blackwood,” Curtis replied as he motioned to Dean. “Consider the floor yours.”

“Are you in on this?”

“In on what?”

“I thought we weren’t going to waste time prattling here.”

“We’re not.” Curtis's fingers snaked around the handle of his Colt. “Now speak your mind clearly, son. And for the sake of your health and the kid’s here, I suggest you do it quickly.”

Dean’s gaze flickered toward Freddy, his protégé pale and trembling as he stepped a few paces back from the sheriff.

“Michael Patterson,” Dean said as he put his focus back on Curtis, “is pushing smack through Somerset. Lloyd Collins at the bank cleans the money.”

Curtis took a beat.

Dean saw no reaction on the man’s face.

“Is that so?” Curtis said. “So, that’s what you came up with, huh? After all your nosing around, this is the official story you’ve pieced together.”

“Some friends from the FBI helped me out with the gray areas,” Dean said. “Turns out that Patterson used to be a guy named Dominic ‘Smokes’ Romano. He used to work for the Gambinos back when Jordan was still playing for the Bulls. Romano cut a deal with the Feds to rat out his old crew. After that, he got set up in witness protection—he started over. I’m guessing he got bored because he linked up with some old friends and started using Somerset to sell dope.”

“Quite the story,” Curtis said. “And I take it that I’m supposed to believe it? You’re telling me that all of this shit was going on in my town without me knowing?”

“Two reasons could account for that,” Dean replied. “The first is that you were just too ignorant or stupid to know this was all going down.”

The vein in the sheriff’s neck protruded. “And the second?”

“The second is that you’re on the take. Either Patterson or whoever he’s working with paid you off. If that’s the case.” Dean flexed the fingers on the hand he had gripped onto his SIG. “Then shit’s about to get real squirrelly here in about two seconds.”

Curtis squared a heated gaze on Dean.

Dean narrowed his eyes.

Freddy swallowed the lump in his throat.

“I’ve just laid all of my cards on the table here, Curtis,” Dean said. “The only thing left is for you to do the same.”

“This was a quiet town, Blackwood,” Curtis replied. “Things were simple around here before you started with all of your bullshit.”

“Every guidance counselor and school teacher I had empathizes with you.” Dean stepped closer to the porch. “Now you either pull that gun of yours out or work with me on figuring this thing out, Sheriff. The Feds are on their way. Whatever’s been happening around here is about to get burned to the ground. You’ve got a choice to make here. And like you told me a second ago, I’d suggest you make that choice quickly.”

Curtis said nothing.

Dean prepared to draw out his weapon.

Freddy tamped down the urge to wet his pants.

“So, Michael Patterson is selling drugs,” Curtis said. “That’s why these kids got killed.” His eyebrows touched. “That’s what you’re telling me.”

“I don’t know why Luke DeFeo or Daria Brennan were murdered,” Dean replied. “But I’m betting that Patterson had something to do it with. All I know is that we need to corral him and wait for my friends to get here so they can start asking him these questions. Of course,” Dean tapped his index finger on the SIG’s trigger guard, “that all depends on where you stand on this whole thing, Sheriff. I still don’t know if you’re trying to help or about to become a hindrance.”

Curtis's nostrils flared.

Dean tapered his eyelids.

A light snowfall then trickled down from the skies.

“This is my town, Blackwood,” Curtis said. “My responsibility.” He removed his palm from the grip of his Colt. “Now tell me what’s going down so I can start throwing cuffs on the right people.”

72

As soon as Curtis cooled off, Dean repeated the story to him in full detail about Michael Patterson’s old mob life, his old connections, and what Wilson and his buddies at the FBI had learned about Red Rock Financial.

“This whole thing with Michael Patterson and the bank has been going on for a while,” Dean explained, Curtis leaning against the hood of his cruiser with his head turned down as he listened. “And like I said before, the only thing I can’t figure out is why Luke and Daria were killed. It has to be one of those ‘they saw something they weren’t supposed to scenarios.’ Whatever the case is, we gotta find Michael Patterson and keep him confined until the FBI gets here.”

“And Lloyd Collins,” Freddy chimed in before he took a bite of the ham and cheese sandwich in his hand. “Dude’s gone missing, fam.”

“Freddy,” Dean shrugged, “where the hell did you get that sandwich?”

“Miss Brennan’s fridge.”

“You raided her kitchen?”

“Bro,” Dean’s protégé spoke with a mouthful of food, “what was I supposed to do? I’m hungry, and the closest Arby’s is like a mile outside of town.”

“Enough,” Curtis grumbled as he kneaded his forehead. “I’m trying to wrap my head around all of this.” He paused. “Alright, so where’s Patterson?”

“I was hoping you might be able to tell me,” Dean said. “After I spoke with my former colleague, I rolled by Patterson’s place to see if he was there. He’s gone. Same goes for his money guy, Lloyd Collins.”

“Then we do a sweep for Collins and Patterson,” Curtis said as he moved to the driver’s side door of his cruiser. “I’ll put out the call to my deputies and tell them to search every goddamn inch of Somerset until we find them.”

“It might get hairy, Curtis,” Dean said. “If Patterson and whoever he’s working with know that the walls are closing in, they’re going to lash out.”

“Fine by me. If Patterson really is responsible for all of this,” the sheriff tapped a finger on his holster, “then I won’t lose any sleep over putting him down if he decides to get screwy with me.”

“I don’t know about you guys,” Freddy said before he took the last bite of his sandwich and chewed, “but I’ve kind of hit myself getting kicked and punched and pissing people off quota for the holidays.”

“I hear you.” Dean reached out and squeezed his protégé’s shoulder. “Maybe it’s best if you head over to the station and hang out until the FBI gets here.”

“I’m not tapping out, boss. I wanna ride with you guys.” Freddy held up his hands. “I just don’t want to get my ass kicked anymore.”

“No, Dean’s right,” Curtis said. “You should head to the station and wait for the FBI to get here. First, I want to take a ride to Patterson’s place. See if he’s still there. It’s on the way to the station.”

Dean shook his head. “I doubt Patterson’s still hanging around. I just popped by there about twenty minutes ago. I hate to say it, but I get the feeling that he’s long gone by now.”

“Or dead,” Freddy said. “I mean, after what happened to Logan Riley and the fact that Lloyd Collins is missing, how do we know these mob dudes are not just knocking everyone off one by one?”

Probably, Dean thought.

There’s a solid chance that’s exactly what’s happening.

“Look,” Dean said, “I vote we all go to the station, rally the other deputies, and start patrolling the streets on the off chance that we locate Patterson, Collins, or anyone else that might be working with them. But we’ll have to do it quietly. Last thing we need to do is freak out people in the town.”

Curtis nodded. “It’s the only play we’ve really got.” He moved to the driver’s side door of his cruiser. “But first, I want to go to Patterson’s. I know it’s a long shot, but something tells me he might be there.”

“Let me guess.” Dean felt his pulse tick up a beat. “Gut feeling?”

The sheriff’s eyes glinted. “That’s right.” He pounded his fist on the roof of his cruiser. “Let’s roll. I wanna find this son of a bitch and restore order to my town, Blackwood.”

Dean shot Freddy a look.

His protégé crinkled the lines in his face.

Yep, Dean thought. I don’t like his vibe either.

73

An onslaught of snowfall triggered Curtis to toggle the wipers to clear the powder that had accumulated on the windshield. Two minutes had passed since they left Angie Brennan’s house. Not a word was spoken. Only the whispered breeze of the nighttime wind was audible.

The tension in the car was so thick that Dean felt it almost gave off a scent. Listen to your gut, he thought as he cut a quick glance at Freddy in the back seat. This dude is so nervous he’s practically shaking.

“If we do manage to find Patterson, Sheriff,” Dean said, “I’m going to have to insist that you try your hardest to not put a bullet in the guy.”

A bleary-eyed Curtis eased the steering wheel to the left, hugging a turn down a residential street. “After everything that’s happened,” he said, “that son of a bitch is going to get a nice clean pop against his chops at the very least.”

“Don’t give his lawyer anything to work with.”

“This isn’t LA, Blackwood.” Curtis's gaze flickered up to the rear-view mirror. “Things don’t work like that out here. If I knock one upside the guy’s head, people will look the other way. People don’t take too kindly to kid killers out here.”

“I hear you.” Dean surveyed the snow swathed terrain outside his window. “Something about all of this happening during the holidays kind of,” he took a beat, “what’s the word…?”

“Sucks?” Freddy suggested from the back.

“I was going to say ‘compounds it,’” Dean shrugged, “but sure.”

The car drove another block.

The wind kicked up speed.

Snow slapped the cruiser.

“Hell of a way to spend Christmas, Blackwood,” Curtis said, his tone depleted, his eyes glossy, his composure deflated. “Didn’t think this would be how things went, you know?”

“Same,” Dean replied. “Hopefully, when it’s done, we’ll all be able to salvage something for ourselves—a little ham, a little turkey. Some of Elvis’s Christmas hits on the radio.”

“Yeah.” Curtis paused briefly. “Hopefully.”

Dean turned and looked at the sheriff. “You good, boss?”

“Yeah.” Curtis briefly met his gaze. “You?”

“Yep.” Dean’s hand crept toward his SIG. “I’m just peachy.”

Moments later, Curtis pulled the cruiser in the driveway of Michael Patterson’s home.

He parked in front of the garage concealed by trees.

Killed the engine.

Dean made a move for his SIG.

But the sheriff swiftly drew his Colt, snapped back the hammer, and pointed the barrel at his face before Dean had the chance.

74

The strategy on Dean’s end was simple: to draw down on Curtis, take him into custody, and sit tight until the suits from the field office stepped in to sweep up—but the plan was shot.

Curtis got the drop on Dean.

He was faster.

It simply was what it was.

“Fuck,” Dean said, his words coated with a laugh as released his grip on the six-shooter. “Man, I really hate being right all of the time.”

“I’m a quicker draw than you are, Blackwood,” Curtis said, Dean eyeballing the barrel an inch away from scraping his temple. “Helps when you’ve got nothing but time to spend on the range down here.”

“Good for you.” Dean squinted. “No, that came out wrong. I was trying to say something else.” He took a beat and then snapped his fingers. “Oh, right: fuck you. That was it.”

Freddy’s eyes widened at the sight of Curtis aiming a gun at his boss.

He gritted his teeth.

Tried to jump out of his seat.

Stopped dead in his tracks when the sheriff jabbed a finger in his direction.

“Don’t move,” Curtis told him. “Either of you two idiots try to pull some Jason Bourne shit on me, I’ll blow Dean’s teeth out of the back of his fucking head.”

Freddy mumbled a curse under his breath.

Sat back.

Watched Curtis swipe the SIG from Dean’s holster.

“You know,” Dean said as Curtis located and swiped the two spare magazines for his SIG from his jacket, “it really bums me out that no one has improved on the ‘blowing your teeth out of your skull’ line. Folks really are lacking anything in the way of originality nowadays, aren’t they?”

Dean thought about trying his luck at charging at Curtis, but knew it would be a bust.

Then he gritted his teeth when Curtis ordered him and Freddy to slide out of the car—slowly—before he instructed them to head toward the back door several paces away.

“So, you were covering for Michael Patterson, right?” Dean said. “I just want to make sure I’m getting the facts of the story here straight.”

“Excellent work,” Curtis said. “Now shut up and walk.”

“What now, dickhead?” Dean marched side by side with Freddy toward the rear of the Patterson home. “You gonna drop the two of us in plain sight for the entire block to see?”

“I could.” Curtis, following behind them, motioned with his weapon at the trees that covered the garage and rear of the home. “No one can see shit back here.”

“Then do it, fuckwit.” Dean slowed his breathing so his heart rate would follow suit. “It’s freezing out here.”

“Get in the house.”

“What the hell for?” Freddy said, his skin pale and hands held high in the air. “Fuck, bro. This is so shitty!”

“Put your goddamn hands down,” Curtis said. “And stop talking. Both of you get your asses inside. The door is unlocked.”

Dean opened the door.

Moved inside with Freddy.

Curtis followed after them.

“Living room,” the sheriff said as he gestured down the darkened hallway with his Colt. “Go.”

Dean complied.

Freddy stayed close to his side.

The kid mumbled curses and regrets under his breath the entire time.

Figure a way out of this, Blackwood, Dean thought, and figure it out quick.

They stepped into the living room.

The lights came on.

Dean screwed his eyes to adjust his sight.

Then he groaned as he laid eyes on a trio of men dressed in peacoats, three-piece suits, and styled/greased hair that screamed “mobster shitball” standing in front of him.

75

Dean looked at the faces of the men in the room—the mob goon with blue eyes flashed a smirk. The second wiped his hand compulsively with a blue silk handkerchief, his pinky ring glistening. The third—and the biggest of the trio—took a small step forward and puffed his chest to signal that he was the guy in charge.

“Evenin’ boys,” the one in charge said, Dean noting the hints of gray that streaked his hair. “Sorry to get the drop on you like this.”

Curtis stepped around Dean and Freddy. Moved into the kitchen. Averted his gaze, though Dean was able to pick up on the sheriff’s resignation based on the way the crooked prick was glowering.

“Melatonin or booze,” Dean said.

Curtis spun around. “What?”

“Just trying to figure out what you take to sleep at night, you dishonorable prick.”

“You son of a bitch.” Curtis charged and drew back a fist. “If you had just left town when I told you⁠—”

The mob goon with the pinky ring stepped in and intercepted the sheriff. “Alright.” He pressed a palm into Curtis's chest and pushed him back. “Easy.”

“Fuck that!” Curtis's focus ping-ponged between Pinky Ring and Dean. “This asshole blew this whole thing sky high. If he hadn’t been sticking his mick beak into things⁠—”

“Mick beak,” Dean said. “I gotta remember that one.”

“Abbastanza,” the leader said. “Everyone cool off here.”

Freddy, his complexion ash, his brow beaded with sweat, leaned into Dean’s ear. “He said ‘easy,’” he whispered.

Dean gawked at his protégé. “You speak Italian?”

“I took AP Italian my junior year,” Freddy said. “Only class I ever got an ‘A’ in.”

“No kidding.”

“Not at all,” Freddy said. “Ho fatto abbastanza bene.”

Dean couldn’t resist the urge to grin.

Neither could the leader of the mob goons that flanked him.

“Curtis,” the leader said. “You frisk these two?”

“They’re clean.” The sheriff dismissed the mob ringleader with an indignant wave. “I already did it.”

“Do it again.” The leader narrowed his eyes. “For my own peace of mind.”

Curtis took a beat.

Huffed.

Patted Freddy down.

Then he started in on Dean; felt up his waist, his leg, his ankles, the small of his back, and his chest—all he found was the tactical knife in Dean’s jeans pocket.

“That’s it,” Curtis said as he pocketed the knife. “We’re good.”

“Good,” the leader said, his casual tone on par with a guy hosting a rotary club meeting. “Now that we’re finished with all of that,” he put his focus on Dean, “I think it’s safe to say that you know who we are and why we’re here, yeah?”

“Yeah, I know you are,” Dean said as he raised a finger and pointed. “You’re Huey,” he swung his finger toward the man with the handkerchief, “he’s Dewey,” he nodded at the mobster with the steel blue eyes, “and that’s Louie, right?”

“This ain't a joke, slick,” the leader said. “I should be home with my family. All of us should be. Last thing I was plannin’ on doin’ during the holidays was dealin’ with this shit.” He flicked his eyes from one person to the next. “But low and behold, here we are.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s eyes flickered. “I hear you, Sal.”

The leader—Sal Rossi—took a moment to size Dean up. “Avete capito bene,” he said. “You know more than you’re letting on, my friend.”

“I mean,” Dean shrugged, “I figured one of you was Sal Rossi based on the information I was given. I just wasn’t sure which one. Honestly, all of you mob fuckos seem to take your fashion hints from the wiseguy How To Manual, so it’s kind of hard to tell you nutbags apart.”

“Boss,” Pinky Ring said. “Dovremmo semplicemente uccidere questi stronzi e andarcene.”

“Not yet.” Rossi cupped his hands, blew into them, and rubbed circles. “We still gotta run through this whole ‘what do you know’ shtick. Christ almighty.” He put his gaze on the fireplace. “It’s colder than an eskimo’s tit in here.”

“Time’s running out, Sal,” Curtis said as he took a glimpse at his wristwatch. “Feds are on their way.” He cast a bitter look toward Dean. “Soldier boy over here called in some favors from his old friends.”

“We’ll make it quick.” Rossi threaded his way through the living room furniture and approached the fireplace. “I’m gonna have a sidebar with our buddy Blackwood and his,” he examined Freddy, “nephew? Sidekick?”

“Sir,” Freddy said, his body and voice lacquered with nerves. “Can I make a point here?”

“By all means, kid,” Rossi said. “Take the mic.”

“I just wanna say,” Freddy flattened his palm against his chest, “that I’ve got nothing to do with this whole thing. I’m just some dude who got roped into a bad situation. Shit, I’m not even getting paid for this.”

“No kiddin’.” Rossi’s eyes were on Dean. “That true? You’re not payin’ this kid?”

“College credit only,” Dean said. “His credits will transfer in the fall.”

Rossi chuckled. “That’s cute.”

“Sir,” Freddy said as he flashed a toothy smile. “This really is a ‘wrong place, wrong time’ kind of thing I’ve landed myself in here.”

“You got a point there, slick?” Rossi shrugged. “‘Cause if you’re trying to plead your case here for a stay of execution, you’re wallowing.”

Freddy took a beat.

Mulled it over.

Drew his face back into a sneer.

“I just don’t want to get shot, man,” Freddy said. “If that’s at all possible.”

“Unfortunately,” Rossi replied, “it’s not. Your employer put you between a rock and a hard place. I’m afraid you’re riding shotgun with him on this for the duration.”

“Would the whole ‘I won’t say anything’ fly in this situation?”

“Negative.”

“Oh, man.” Freddy’s shoulders dropped. “This sucks.”

“Can it, Freddy.” Dean nodded at Rossi. “Diet Coke Al Capone here is running out of time to clean up his mess. Plus, I don’t think he’s truly appreciating the pile of shit he’s managed to land himself in.”

“Don’t worry about my end here.” Rossi palmed the stick lighter from the mantle and crouched down in front of the fireplace. “You should be more concerned with how the next few minutes of your life plays out.” The mob boss shook his head as he fiddled with the stick lighter. “Curtis is right, you know. If you had just skipped town⁠—”

“Yeah, I get it.” Dean inched closer to the mob leader and caught the other associate doing the same to him. “Look, I’ve heard enough hackneyed shit for one night, Rossi. Just ask your questions so we can get on with it.”

“Alright.” Rossi ignited the logs in the fireplace, stood back, and basked in the warm glow of the growing flames. “In that case…” he turned around, faced Dean, and shrugged, “tell me what you know.”

“Enough to string together a narrative here.” Dean looked at each one of the men in the room in succession. “You and your boys were using Somerset as a hub to sell drugs. Patterson—Smokes Romano—was your pusher. His boy Collins at the bank cleaned the money. Then these kids got killed. Someone hired me to look into it. Then when I turned over enough stones, you felt it warranted your attention. How am I tracking so far?”

“You’re batting a thousand.” Rossi snickered. “I assume your friends at the bureau are privy to this information, too?”

“They’re the ones who spelled it out for me, dipshit,” Dean said. “They told me all about you ratting on Joey Galliano, selling your soul to the Feds, then regressing back to being a recidivist asshole who sells drugs to kids.”

“I guess you know everything then, PI man,” Rossi said. “Good on you.”

“You’re a piece of shit, Rossi.” Dean glanced at the associate with the pinky ring and the one with the blue eyes. “All of you. By the time this is done, you’re all gonna spend the rest of your lives wasting away in MCC getting passed around for a pack of smokes.”

The grooves in Rossi’s face, lit up by the glow of the fireplace, contorted and bent upward to the point that he looked like a demon. “Smokes did this,” he said, a hiss glazing his tone. “If that prick hadn't kept his stash here, if those kids hadn’t stumbled across it, things might be different. Christ,” he rapped his fist on the mantle and pinned his gaze to the fire. “Maybe if those kids hadn’t freaked out, if that boy didn’t try to fight Smokes, none of us would be here.”

“Where is he?” Dean asked. “Where’s Patterson?”

“Shakin’ hands with Saint Joseph,” Rossi said. “I took care of it myself. Again, he’s the one who caused all of this, my friend. Patterson was stealin’ from me, his partner. Then that dumb fuck stashed what he was skimming here inside his own house.” He motioned toward the door that led down to the basement. “Then those kids found it. Smokes came back here and caught them rifling through his stash. Shit went haywire, so the son of a bitch panicked and killed them both—that’s the story.”

Dean’s eyes widened.

Michael Patterson was skimming drugs from his supply.

He was storing what he took in his own goddamn basement.

Luke and Shannon found it.

Michael came early and found them.

They freaked out.

He freaked out.

Then Michael killed them both and staged it to look like a break-in.

Dean closed his eyes.

What a shitty reason for two kids to die.

Oh, hell.

If Patterson was still alive, I’d kill him myself.

“So, that’s the reason,” Dean said, struggling to come to terms with the how and the why behind Luke’s and Daria’s deaths. “Michael Patterson was stupid because he got greedy.”

“One man’s stupidity,” Rossi replied, “has managed, time and time again, to contribute to the downfall of empires.”

“Kind of like the last season of Weeds,” Freddy chimed in. “The writers really screwed that one up, man, I’m telling you.”

“Kid…” Rossi’s expression became a mask of irritation. “Shut up.”

Dean, his temperature flaring, skirted around the couch.

Pinky ring crept in on his left.

Blue Eyes swooped in on his right.

“You’re fucked, Rossi,” Dean said. “You got maybe two hours to figure your shit out before the hammer comes down.”

“Boss,” Pinky ring said, ogling Dean from head to toe. “Lemme do this guy and be done with it, yeah?”

Dean, his attention fully fixed on Rossi, leaned in toward Pinky Ring. “What’s your name?”

“Lou.”

“Do me a favor, Lou?”

“What’s that?”

Dean looked Lou square in his eyes, drew back his head, rammed his forehead into the man’s face.

He broke the guy’s nose.

Heard the bones crack.

Watched him drop.

Indulged himself with a smirk.

“I can’t lie,” Dean said. “That was gratifying as hell.”

“Christ!” Lou shrieked as he shot to his feet, ripped a Glock from his peacoat, and chambered a round. “You prick.” He swung up the weapon. “I’m gonna rip your⁠—!”

“Lou,” Rossi groaned. “Back off.”

“He broke my goddamn nose, Sal!” Lou gingerly scraped the laceration across the bridge of his nose with his fingers as the guy with the blue eyes laughed, seized a grip on his arm, and pulled him away. “I’m friggin’ wheezin’ now.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have gotten that close then.” Rossi held his hands out toward the fireplace to warm them. “I’m gonna let that one slide, Blackwood,” he said. “All things considered, I don’t hold any personal grudge against you here. You were just doing your job. To your credit, you did it pretty well, too.”

“You feel good about all of this, Rossi?” Dean replied, his attention pinned to the door that led down to the basement where Luke and Daria were murdered. “Killing kids?”

“I didn’t kill them—Smokes did. I don’t give the green light to have kids whacked, and anyone who does deserves a one-way ticket to the ferryman, and that’s exactly what I did with Smokes.”

“For a guy who sells drugs, you’re coming off awfully high and mighty there, shitbag.”

“You’ve got a narrow-minded view of the world there, Blackwood.” Rossi grabbed the poker from the stand beside the fireplace. “To be fair, I’ve never expected anything less from cops.” He prodded at the firewood with the poker. “Guys like you just don’t get it.”

“If you’re about to justify murder to me,” Dean said, “do me the courtesy of refraining. I’ve spent enough time in the company of shitsacks that I’ve heard all of the excuses.”

The fire in front of Rossi twinkled in his eyes, the mob boss taking a beat as he ambled down a hallway in his mind brimming with memories. “You don’t grow up thinking that one day you get involved in the line of work I’m in, Blackwood. Hell,” he chuckled amusedly, “I thought I was gonna be an astronaut when I was a kid. Then that whole ‘nature versus nurture’ shit came into play, and like everyone else in this world, I was forced to make choices based on the circumstances I was in.”

“Any of you guys have a violin?” Dean asked as he cut glances at Blue Eyes, Lou, and Curtis. “No? None of you?”

“Lemme ask you something,” Rossi said as he replaced the poker in its stand. “You ever kill anyone?”

“Yeah.” Dean refrained from taking a tally of how many. “More than my fair share.”

“Because you had to,” Rossi turned and faced Dean. “Right? Because you had no choice. Because you got family, people that care about you, and the last thing you wanna do is leave a wife without a husband or a child without a father.”

“There’s a big difference between you and me,” Dean replied. “Don’t kid yourself into thinking otherwise.”

Rossi prodded a finger in the air. “You’re the one foolin’ yourself there, slick.” He angled his body back toward the fireplace. “You think I like doin’ what I do, that I’ve enjoyed pullin’ the trigger on certain people.” He shook his head. “I never enjoyed a single second of it. But I was born into this business. I had no choice in the matter. All I could do was work with what I had. You see, in my world, it’s kill or be killed—it’s either your family who suffers or the other guys, and people like you will never understand that.”

“Who the hell wrote your script there, Rossi?” Dean asked. “The writers from the Fast & Furious franchise? You keep peppering in the word ‘family’ to the point that I’m on the verge of blowing my lunch.”

“I got a kid.”

“So do I.”

“And I’d do anything to protect him.”

“Preaching to the choir.”

“Then you understand what it’s like,” Rossi said. “Father to father, you’ve looked into your child’s eyes more than once and wished that they could have a better deal of the hand than you did—and you promise yourself, day after day, to do whatever that means to secure that.”

“No shit,” Dean said. “But again, killing kids is a faux pas any man in his right mind wouldn’t dare try to justify.”

“I told you—Smokes did that, not me.”

“Just because you’re not in the room when these kids are jabbing their arms with a needle or shoving that shit up their noses doesn’t make you any less culpable, asshole.” Dean took a small step forward. “And Patterson was on your payroll. He was your partner. The second he pulled the trigger, that made you guilty by association as far as I’m concerned.”

Rossi said nothing.

Clenched a fist.

Dismissed what Dean said even though his stomach was tensing into a knot.

“I did my best to keep things simple, Blackwood,” Rossi explained. “I never wanted any of this to happen. I didn’t want kids or death or any of that other heinous shit to come into play here, but Smokes, God rest him, fucked that up and forced my hand here. Now I gotta clean it up. I gotta kill you, that kid there, and it makes me sick to my goddamn stomach that I gotta do it.”

“But you have to, right?” Dean said with a thick air of sarcasm. “Because of your family. Because you have to protect what’s closest to you.”

“You’d do the same.” Rossi inched closer to Dean, his stare unwavering and eyes unblinking. “Don’t lie and tell me otherwise.”

He’s right, Dean thought.

I would.

“Time’s running out here, Rossi,” Dean said. “And if you kill me and Freddy, it’s only a matter of time before the Feds figure out what happened.”

“Again,” Freddy said, hands clapped together like he was praying to a saint, “if there’s even the slightest possibility that I can get a pass on that⁠—”

“Let it go, kid,” Rossi said. “We’re here, this is happening, and there’s no other way around it.” Rossi snapped his fingers and caught the pack of Chesterfields that Blue Eyes threw at him with one hand. “And I’m sure they’ll figure it out in good time. All I’m doing is just buyin’ some time.”

Time, Dean thought. You need a bit of that yourself, Blackwood.

And it’s running out quick.

What are you gonna do, dumb fuck?

Dean took stock of each man in the room.

Make a move for Rossi?

Curtis?

The guy with the pinky ring?

You’ve got no weapons.

No chance.

No way to⁠—

Dean’s train of thought ceased.

His gaze flickered toward the fireplace.

Then he thought about the six rounds he took out of the Smith & Wesson he gave Freddy that were still inside his jacket pocket.

76

It’s not the greatest plan, Dean thought as he slipped his hand into his pocket and felt his fingertips graze the brass casings that were inside. But I’ll take what I can get.

Rossi, fiddling his lips, fished out a Chesterfield from his pack. “All I need to know,” he said, “is what the two of you know.” He signaled to Dean and Freddy. “If you boys make this easy for me, I’ll plug you two, dump you, and leave you. We won’t have to do any of that wild shit like pulling out fingernails or blowtorching balls. So, that being said,” he stepped away from the fireplace. “Tell me what you know.”

“Everything.” Dean waited a beat before he ambled his way toward the fireplace. “All of it.”

“The Feds know about Red Rock?”

“Maybe.”

“What about Donner’s?” Rossi used the stick lighter to light the tip of his cigarette. “They know about that place?”

“The truck stop.” Dean thought back to the time he sat down in the diner of the same establishment with Angie Brennan. “What about it?”

“Good.” Rossi puffed on his Chesterfield. “So, they don’t.” He nodded at Curtis. “Get some of your boys on the horn. Tell them to meet us there. They’re on the payroll too, right?”

“They are,” Curtis said. “Everyone except the rookie, but I gave him the night off.” His lips twitched into a frown. “He doesn’t need to get caught up in any of this. He’s a good kid.”

“So,” Dean said, “that’s where you’re drawing the line, huh?”

“Fuck you, Blackwood.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

“That’s enough,” Rossi said as he glanced down at the gold watch strapped to his wrist. “We gotta unload everything from there and clear it out.” His gaze flicked up at Curtis. “I want you to stay behind though. After you’re done taking care of Blackwood, I need you to run interference with the Feds once they get here so we’ve got enough time to clean out the joint.”

“Hold tight,” Freddy said as he held up a finger. “Does that mean I’m getting a pass here?”

“More of a brief reprieve from the inevitable,” Rossi said. “You’re coming with us. Call it insurance.” He addressed his associates. “In case something goes sideways, we can use the kid here as a bargaining chip. After we’re done, he’s done.”

“Copy that.” Curtis unclipped the radio on his hip, angled away, and went about making the call.

“Okay then,” Rossi said before he took another pull of his cigarette. “So the Feds know about Red Rock. Not a problem. Only Smokes’s name was on the records—that’s tenable. All that’s left is moving the supply.” He pouted his lip at Lou. “What else am I missing?”

“I think that’s all,” Lou said, his voice on par with Jack Nicholson thanks to his busted nose. “I think.”

“You should get some ice on that nose there, Pesci,” Dean said. “You sound like shit.”

“Keep pushing me, asshole,” Lou patted the pocket where he stored the Glock, “and I’m gonna gouge your eyes out.”

“You’re gonna need an apple box to stand on just to reach me, fuck ball.”

“Alright, we’re done here,” Rossi said. “He cut a glance at Blue Eyes. “Jackie—dove sono gli altri ragazzi?”

Blue Eyes—Jackie—took out his cell. He made a call. Then he informed Rossi that their “people” were just under twenty minutes away from arriving at Donner’s.

“Lou and I are gonna head out with the kid,” Rossi said. “Jackie, you’ll stay here with Curtis to deal with Blackwood. Make sure it looks good for the Feds. The way I see it,” he held up his hands and squared them like he was lining up a camera shot, “Blackwood flipped out and put a gun to his head. Based on his track record and his reckless disregard for authority and personal safety, people will think he finally cashed in his chips.”

Rossi shrugged.

Dean’s eyes flinted.

“Listen,” Rossi said as he tossed his cigarette butt into the fireplace, “this isn’t personal, Blackwood. I have no desire for this to go down the way that it is.” He turned and faced Dean who stood a few paces away from the fireplace. “I know that doesn’t help, but I wanted to say it because I mean it. We’ll make this quick.”

“Rossi,” Dean said, his scowl illuminated by the hadean glow of the fire, “when I get out of here, after I kill your friend Jackie and Curtis here, I’m going to knock that silly little mobster smile right off of your goddamn face.”

“That a fact?”

“Indeed, it is.”

“To be honest, I’d welcome that outcome,” Rossi said, beaming as he patted Dean on the back. “If things ever fell to the wayside, I’d rather be buried by six than judged by twelve.” He snapped his fingers at Jackie. “Kill him the right way. Don’t fuck around. If I found out you did anything other than make this look like how we need it to look, I’m gonna slam your head off.”

Jackie nodded. “Will do, boss.”

“Good.” Rossi tipped the imaginary cap on his head to Dean. “See you on the other side.”

“Come on, kid,” Lou said as he grabbed Freddy by the arm. “Let’s go.”

A sheet-white Freddy, digging his heels into the floor as Lou hauled him toward the door, flashed a pleading expression at Dean. “Dude…” His bottom lip trembled. “Dean, I⁠—”

“It’s okay, Freddy,” Dean assured him. “I’ll catch up with you.”

“Dean!”

“It’s okay.” Dean nodded once. “I’ve got you.”

Freddy said nothing. He hung his head. And the look on his face, one of sheer and unbridled terror, was one Dean had seen before.

Tommy, Dean thought as his mind briefly drifted back to the memory of his late brother’s demise. He had that same look in his face before he died.

Hang on, Freddy.

Just hang in there.

I’m coming for you.

Rossi ambled out the front door, Lou and Freddy hot on his heels.

Curtis palmed Jackie the SIG he took from Dean.

Dean dug in his pocket and slowly scooped up the rounds inside of it into his fist.

77

Live rounds discharging as a result of being tossed into a fire wasn’t a figment crafted out of fiction; it was real. Dean had seen it before—the only question he couldn’t answer was what the bullets would hit once the rounds went off.

Get close to the fire, Dean thought. And make sure these two dickheads are watching.

“Alright,” Jackie said as he press-checked the rounds in Dean’s SIG. “I gotta blueprint this thing.” He squinted at Curtis. “What do you think, chief? How do we make this look good?”

“Probably need to shoot Blackwood here under the chin or in the side of the head,” Curtis said, side-stepping through the room as he eyeballed Dean with the same indifference that he would a corpse. “We need to make this look like a suicide.”

“If you think I’m going to lie down and do this willingly, Curtis,” Dean said as he stalked closer to the fireplace, “you’re dreaming.”

“Eat dirt, Blackwood.” The sheriff pointed toward the fireplace. “Just stand there. Don’t say anything. If you do, I’ll fucking shoot you.”

“Alright,” Dean said as he pulled his fist packed with six live rounds and stepped toward the fireplace. “You got it.”

Dean put his back on the fireplace.

Hid the fistful of bullets in his hand behind his back.

Made sure Curtis and Jackie’s eyes weren’t on him.

Then he tossed the six rounds in his hand behind him into the flames, slowly inched away to his right, and figured the rounds would ignite and go off in thirty-to-sixty seconds.

The only question, Dean thought, is where the shit those bullets are going to fly.

Hell, the primers might be the only things that go off.

The bullets might not go anywhere.

It’s Luke Skywalker time here, Blackwood.

Hope is all we’ve got.

“Oh-kay,” Jackie said as he crept his way toward Dean. “I’ll do the honors.”

Dean, standing a few feet to the right of the fireplace, cut a glance toward the flames.

Ten seconds and counting.

“Soon as it’s done,” Curtis said as he crept his way toward Dean, “I’ll touch up the scene to make sure it's square.”

Twenty seconds and counting.

“Outstanding.” Jackie snapped back the hammer of Dean’s SIG. “Then let’s get a move on here.”

Thirty seconds.

“Hey, Curtis,” Dean said.

“Hey, what?” the sheriff replied.

“You should probably move out of the way.”

Curtis narrowed his eyes.

Jackie did the same.

Then a resounding clack rang out from the fireplace followed swiftly by two more.

78

Aseries of gunshots rang out from the fireplace in quick succession, one after another, a staccato-tempo pop pop pop like the crackling of little kernels of popcorn.

A bullet slapped Jackie square in his forehead.

Another punched its way into a lamp.

Then a third round discharged from the fireplace and bore a hole into the couch.

“Shit,” Curtis hissed, spreading his stance as his hand moved swiftly to retrieve his holstered sidearm.

Dean bolted—he ran at the sheriff, his eyes wide and arms spread as he watched Curtis pull out his Colt from his holster.

Dean charged.

Curtis swung up his weapon.

Then Dean wrapped his arms around a stunned and slack-jawed sheriff and tackled him over the sofa right as the remaining two rounds in the fireplace went off.

The first bullet thwacked against the kitchen stove.

The second one nicked Dean in his left calf muscle.

Dean and Curtis's limbs were entangled, curses being exchanged as they barrel-rolled across the hardwood floors until they crashed into the Christmas tree positioned near the fireplace.

Curtis still had a firm grip on his Colt.

Dean swiped it out of his hand; heard it skid across the floor.

“You son of a bitch,” the sheriff mumbled, his eyes sizzling as he pawed at Dean and managed to land a blow across his chin. “I’m gonna fucking kill⁠—”

Dean struck Curtis in his groin; heard a gurgle. Watched the man go limp and then hauled him to his feet.

Dean drew back a fist; thwacked it against Curtis's cheek. Then he brought his fist back again to land another blow, but Curtis managed to block the incoming strike, snake his arm around Dean’s, and then reeled him in before jabbing his forehead into Dean’s face.

Stars peppered Dean’s vision. His knees wobbled, his feet struggling to find traction as he stumbled backward a few paces.

Curtis picked up his Colt.

Dean’s eyes widened.

Then he dived into cover in front of the couch as Curtis drew down and squeezed off four shots that punched their way through the furniture’s fabric.

79

Find a weapon, Dean thought. Anything.

He peered over his shoulder; saw the overturned Christmas tree; a series of ornaments scattered along the ground a few inches away from it.

Better that than nothing.

Curtis rounded the couch.

Dean palmed a ceramic snowman ornament.

Locked eyes with Curtis as he raised his Colt, cocked back his arm, and pitched the snowman toward Curtis's face.

The ornament struck Curtis between the eyes.

His weapon discharged.

The bullet that escaped the barrel struck Dean in his left side.

Swift pain spread across Dean’s ribs—excruciating, his muscles tensing, the sensation of flowing blood instant and unmistakable—but he didn’t have time to think about it.

He got to his feet. Knew the sheriff had one shot left in the chamber, so he dashed toward him, bellowed a primal howl, slammed into him, and then drove him backward toward the bay window.

Dean and Curtis, locked into an embrace, crashed through the window, the deafening crack of glass shattering as they toppled over the sill and landed with an air-depleting thud on the porch.

Dean rolled off of the sheriff.

Shot to his feet.

Turned around and reached out to grab a hold of Curtis, but saw the rapid accumulation of blood pooling around the man’s leg.

Glass nicked his artery, Dean figured as he took a step back and appraised Curtis's wound, the puddle of crimson expanding hastily, a shard of glass roughly measuring the size of a pizza slice buried halfway through the part of Curtis's leg near the area of the femoral artery.

Sucks to be you, brother.

Dean examined his hands; small lacerations nicked his palms, and upon a quick inspection of his face in the few shards of glass in the window that weren’t broken, he discovered he sustained several small incisions to his face, as well.

Dean cursed under his breath.

Dropped down to one knee beside Curtis.

Retrieved the pair of spare magazines for his SIG from the sheriff’s jacket pocket, his phone, the keys for Curtis's cruiser, his tactical knife, and then looked square into the sheriff’s eyes as the crooked lawman’s complexion quickly began to pale.

Curtis's mouth fell open.

He tried to speak.

Couldn’t summon the energy.

A beat later, his body slackened and his chest sank, his face lit up by the glittering lights of the overturned Christmas tree in the living room.

“Alright,” Dean whispered as he stood and clambered his battered body toward the front door. “Who’s next?”

80

The nick from the bullet that grazed Dean’s calf muscle, upon a closer inspection he made, was superficial; nothing he couldn’t remedy with a little peroxide and some neosporin.

Deal with it later, Dean thought as he raced into the house and swiped his SIG from Jackie’s limp and lifeless hand. You gotta find the kid.

After Dean executed a press-check of the rounds in his SIG, he skittered through the front door, threw a look over his shoulder, and saw house lights flicker to life one by one throughout the block.

Only a matter of time.

This is all about to blow sky high.

He thought about the expression on Freddy’s face as his protégé had been hauled out of the house.

He’s scared.

Downright terrified.

My God, he had the same exact look that Tommy did right before he died.

Not again.

I can’t let that happen.

I am not going to let that kid die.

Dean, heart racing, got behind the wheel of Curtis's cruiser, cranked the engine, and peeled out of the driveway. He quickly sifted through the series of snapshots in his mind, a layout and roads that snaked through Somerset, the images snapping off one after another before Dean was able to recall and pinpoint the route that led toward Donner’s Stop ‘N Fuel.

Okay, hombre, Dean thought as he fingers kneaded the steering wheel.

Finish this.

81

Once Donner’s Stop ‘N Fuel was visible from a half-mile away down the highway, Dean killed the lights, slowed the cruiser, pulled off to the side, and surveyed the layout of the truck stop.

The diner was in front. A truck wash was to the west of it. Gas pumps were to the east. A loading bay with four docks in the back and a sprawling grassland blanketed with snow was beyond it.

Dean rolled the window.

Pinned his eyes to the truck stop.

Waited for just under a minute before an eighteen-wheeler pulled into the parking lot.

Place looks emptied out, Dean thought, studying the layout of the truck stop. Save for Sal and his boys.

Freddy’s in there somewhere.

Get him.

Kill whoever stands in your way.

From a half-mile away, Dean could see Sal Rossi, his associate Leo, and three other guys dressed just like them sauntering through the parking lot toward the front doors of the diner, walking fast, on a mission. Sal chopped his hands through the air, his men listening and nodding their heads before the group split apart.

Where’s Freddy?

Dean gritted his teeth.

Shit, I don’t see him.

They’ve got him stashed away somewhere.

Dean watched as two of Sal’s associates walked toward the truck wash. Then he saw Sal and Lou head into the diner as the third mob goon, one hand stuffed in his coat pockets, stood outside the doors to the diner as he waved the eighteen wheeler in and directed it toward the rear of the building.

“Move fast, Blackwood,” Dean whispered to himself. “You don’t have much time.”

Dean took out his phone. Dialed Wilson’s number. Thing didn’t even ring once before his one-time superior answered.

“Deano,” Wilson said. “You okay?”

“Not really. I just had a talk with Sal Rossi. Long story short, the sheriff is dead along with one of Rossi’s associates. I broke out of there and tailed them to a truck stop called Donner’s Stop ‘N Fuel.” Dean drew a deep breath. “Rossi’s got my boy Freddy, boss, and I’m pretty sure he’s using him as a human shield until he can clear out his product and skip town.”

“Dear God,” Wilson said. “Where are you now?”

“I’m at the truck stop. It’s about fifteen miles outside of Somerset. It’s where Rossi and Patterson are holding their product. Rossi and his boys are there right now packing everything up.” Dean watched the eighteen wheeler haul ass toward the rear building, the loading dock. “Looks like they’re moving pretty fast too.”

“Shit,” Wilson hissed. “We’re still an hour out, give or take.”

“You’re fucking with me.”

“There was an accident,” Wilson explained. “They’re ended up being some kind of multi-car pileup and⁠—”

“The roads are closed.”

“Temporarily.”

“But enough to cause an hour delay.” Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “By then, Rossi and his merry band of shitheads will be on the road.”

“It looks like that car pileup scene from The Blues Brothers out here, Deano,” Wilson said. “Goddamn road turned into a demolition derby—we’re not moving.”

“Awesome.” Dean, jaw tensed, slipped out of the cruiser and moved to the trunk. “My lucky fuckin’ day.”

He placed the phone on speaker.

Popped the lid of the trunk.

Lifted it.

Pushed aside the rear tire, a gym bag, a plastic grocery bag filled with half-emptied oil jugs, and nodded in agreement when he found the Ithaca 37 shotgun.

“Swingin’,” Dean mumbled as he placed his cell down, palmed the shotgun, rifled through the trunk, and found a box brimming with 12-gauge shells.

“Dean,” Wilson said. “You still with me?”

“Still with you.” Dean fed eight shells in quick succession into the shotgun’s loading port and then pumped the forearm. “Just trying to piece-meal a plan together here.”

“Don’t be an asshole. You’re going to sit tight and wait for backup. ”

“No can do, Willy,” Dean said as he shoved the remaining eight shells into his right jacket pocket. “They’ve got Freddy.” Dean did the quick math on his round count and tallied that he had sixteen rounds in total for the Ithaca and eighteen for the SIG. “I’ve gotta get him back.”

“Sweet Jesus.” Wilson took a beat and then sighed. “How many men are there?”

“Six, including the truck driver.” Dean saw a pair of headlights closing in on the truck stop from the other end of the highway; a patrol cruiser with Somerset Sheriff’s Department decals on its doors. “Wait…” He blew out a gust of air as he watched the cruiser pull into the lot and park before a pair of deputies slipped out. “Make that eight.”

“Those are shit odds.”

“Very shitty.” Dean grabbed the shotgun, got in a crouch, and went left toward the open field to the west of the truck stop. “But if Rossi and his guys pack this up and split, they’ll be gone before you get here. They’re going to put miles of distance between you by then.”

“Stand down, Dean,” Wilson said. “God damn it, the last thing I need⁠—”

“Willy.” Dean terminated his stride and got down on one knee. Scanning the truck stop, he spotted one of the sheriff’s deputies moving inside the diner as the other hot footed his way toward the loading dock. “There’s no time. They have the kid, and I’m going in there after him.”

Wilson held the line.

Then with a resigned tone, he said, “Be careful. Stay sharp. I don’t need to be handing any of your family members a folded flag before the new year.”

“Copy that.” Dean pulled air deep into his lungs. “I’ll do my best. Get here when you can.”

“Will do.”

“See you soon.”

Dean terminated the call.

Stashed the phone into his pocket.

Felt it buzz, saw Angie’s name on the display, and answered.

“I’m here,” she said. “I made it to my sister-in-law’s.”

“Good,” Dean said. “I’m about to finish things up on my end.”

“How so?”

“I’ll call you back.” Dean fixed his gaze to the truck stop. “I promise.”

Dean ended the call and pocketed his phone. He nuzzled the butt of the shotgun into his shoulder. Then he slid his finger against the trigger guard, and slunk his way quickly in a side-step motion toward the parking lot of Donner’s Stop ‘N Fuel.

Hang on, kid.

Dean closed in on the mob goon pacing in front of the diner.

Just a few more minutes.

82

Mother nature decided to cut Dean a break as he quietly approached the truck stop from the west; the snowfall overhead had increased and shrouded the area for about two square miles with a light bank of advection fog.

Concealment, Dean thought as he slowed his pace and eyeballed the cluster of trees that hugged the truck stop parking lot sixty yards to his left. I’ll take it.

With the business end of the shotgun pointed toward the ground, Dean approached the trees, slipped into the thicket, and concealed himself behind the trunk of a hackberry tree.

He peeked around the trunk.

Saw the mob goon posted up near the front entrance by a Mercedes Benz parked beside the Sheriff’s Department cruiser, his gaze sweeping suspiciously from right to left and then left to right.

Dean inspected the truck stop: there was a camera above the front doors. A pair on the eastern side facing the fuel pumps. He figured there’d be a few more on the side, and the same most likely applied with the loading dock.

Are they on?

Is someone watching the feed?

Oh, brother.

Dean adjusted his grip on the shotgun.

This is really gonna suck…

Dean glued his eyes to the goon by the front doors, the man pacing in a half-circle like some kind of prize fighter waiting for his opponent to step into the ring.

What now, Blackwood?

Dean double checked that his tactical knife was secured snugly in his boot, saw the ribbon of ruby seeping out of the flesh wound on his side, and zipped his jacket up to his neck.

You gotta make a move.

You need to find Freddy and get him out.

Dean tried to think of a tactical approach, a way to get in, a way to get Freddy and not die trying.

Then a thought struck him.

He knew it was insane.

But something told him that it just might work.

83

The goon by the front door, squinting in an effort to see the figure approaching through the fog, distended his chest like an ape. A few beats later, he was able to make out Dean, the shotgun he was holding in one hand pointed toward the ground, and the little half-smirk plastered on his face.

“Hey, yo!” Dean shouted. “Where are we loading out?”

“What?” the goon’s hand drifted toward the Glock 17 stuffed in his waistband. “What are you talkin’ about?”

“The product,” Dean said, six paces away from the goon as he motioned with his shotgun toward the loading dock. “We moving it back there?”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“My bad.” Dean patted his sternum with his hand. “I’m Detective O’Leary, I’m with Somerset PD. Listen, I uh…” he was two paces away from the goon, “got a report of some dude with hooves and horns⁠—”

The goon made a move for his Glock.

Dean swung up the shotgun and lined up his head flush between the sights. “His name is ‘Krampus,’” he said. “Dude likes to kidnap kids and has a sidekick who wears blackface. It’s pretty messed up.”

The goon snarled. “You dumb son of a⁠—”

“Two fingers.” Dean gestured to the Glock in the goon’s waistband. “Slowly.”

The goon pinched his Glock with his fingers. Held it up. Let it drop to the pavement.

“Turn around,” Dean said as he circled the goon like a vulture. “Hands at your sides.”

“You know what you’re doin’ there, fucko?” The goon said, chuckling as he put his back on Dean. “Pretty stupid move, if you’re asking me.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You’re gonna get yourself killed.”

“Chances are high, I’ll give you that.”

“For the love of God.” The goon glanced at Dean over his shoulder. “So, what now? What’s your plan, huh?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

With an arced motion, Dean struck the butt of the shotgun against the back of the goon’s skull, watched him drop, and then hauled him by his collar toward the Mercedes. He opened the back door. Threw the man inside. Then he swiped the keys for the Mercedes from the guy’s pocket, closed the door, and crouched behind the trunk.

Dean held his breath.

Put his focus on the diner entrance; flicked his gaze up toward the cameras.

No one’s coming.

He loitered behind the cruiser for a few more seconds.

Keep moving.

Get to Freddy, and do it fast.

Dean peered inside the backseat of the Benz, made sure the goon was out cold, and then dashed toward the Glock 17 that the goon dropped near the entrance. Dean stuffed it into his jacket. Zipped toward the entrance of the diner. Then he wrenched the door open, and made his way inside.

84

Mumbled voices were the first thing Dean heard as he slipped inside the dimly lit diner. He got low and moved to his left, taking cover behind one of the booths as he surveyed the layout that reminded him a lot of his old cafeteria at Pasadena High School.

Go Bulldogs.

A series of emerald, faux-leather booths hugged the walls. In the center of the room were a cluster of tables. To the east was the kitchen. On Dean’s left—to the north—was a long hallway flanked with four bathrooms, and beyond that was a mini-mart that housed commercial fridges, soda machines, aisles filled with shelves stacked with the shittiest sustenance one could put in their body, and a check-out counter on the left beside it that led out to the pumps. Past the mini mart, to the north, was another protracted corridor, and at the end of it was a large door with a crash bar and a sign above it that said “LOADING DOCK—AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.”

On the other side of that door, Dean’s ears pinpointed the source of the mumbled voices; several of them—and the cadence of one of the voices sounded an awful lot like Sal Rossi.

Move in.

Get the drop on them.

Get. Freddy. Back.

Dean checked his watch, wincing when he felt the pain in his side sear, but he put it out of his mind, got into a crouch, and prowled his way toward the hallway that fed into the mini mart.

Dean stepped into the hallway.

Prepared to move through it.

Then all the lights came on and forced him to duck into the first bathroom on his left and hide behind the door.

Quiet.

Still.

Dean wedged open the door a quarter of an inch; just a sliver for him to see through.

Hang tight for a moment.

Dean heard footsteps clacking along the linoleum floors of the diner; Rossi’s voice followed soon after, Dean peering through the opening in the door at the mob moss who spoke to Lou and two more of his associates.

“What about the kid?” Lou said. “You just gonna keep him stuffed in the trunk of the Caddy until we get back to Chicago?”

“Fuck the kid,” Rossi said. “And yeah, he can sit in there and suffocate for all I care.” He winced. “We still need him in case something goes wrong. When we’re in the clear, we’ll get rid of him.”

He’s acting the fool, Dean thought. He doesn’t need Freddy.

He’s acting desperate.

He knows the walls are closing in.

“Alright,” Rossi said. “Jerry’s gonna head out in about ten.” He motioned over his shoulder with his thumb toward the loading dock. “Curtis's guys are helping him finish loading up the truck right now.” He reached over and squeezed the arm of a guy with silver sideburns. “I want you and Tommy to follow him all the way to Chicago—no stops, no piss breaks, nothing. You understand?”

Sideburns, stripping off his leather gloves, nodded in agreement. “Understood.” He motioned to the associate flanking the other side of Rossi, a tall guy with a camel-colored pea coat shifting a toothpick around in his mouth. “Tommy’s gonna be Johnny-On-The-Spot with the scanner in case we pick up any trouble. If we do, we got the alternate routes picked out already.”

“Just get the damn truck to Chicago,” Rossi groaned as he terminated his stride in the center of the mini mart. “Once it’s there, you’re gonna pass it off to that mick asswipe McManus over in Bridgeport. I just got off the phone with him. He’ll be there to meet you, one a.m. sharp.”

“What happens then?” Tommy asked. “Where’s the product going?”

“Dunno,” Sal said. “Don’t care, either. McManus and his little Irish band of hoodlums are taking it off our hands at wholesale. I’ve got a payment plan all worked out, so you won’t be taking cash once you hand over what’s in the truck.”

“No cash?” Sideburns asked. “Nothin’?”

“I’ve got the payment structure all worked out.” Sal held up his hand. “McManus is a degenerate, soda bread eatin’ boozehound, but he’ll make good on what he owes. Trust me. All I need you to do is get the shit from here to Bridgeport before the sun breaks, capisce?”

Sal nudged Lou for a cigarette; Lou offered him one from his pack.

“Move fast, alright?” Sal said as he lit up his Chesterfield. “I want Somerset and all of this bullshit to be a distant memory by tomorrow morning. Once you boys escort Jerry and the truck to Bridgeport and pass it off to McManus, go enjoy your Christmases.” He checked his watch. “Alright, let’s get the show on the road. I’ll go see if Jerry needs an extra hand so we can get the hell out of here in the next few minutes.”

Dean nestled the butt of the shotgun into his shoulder.

You gotta move in.

Find Freddy.

Coral these guys.

Flush them into⁠—

“One sec,” Sideburns said, the mob goon hustling toward the bathroom Dean was in, fiddling with the zipper of his slacks. “I gotta take a leak.”

Fuck.

Dean backed away from the door.

Bad timing.

“Be quick, will ya?” Tommy said, smirking as he cut a glance at Lou. “Guy’s got the bladder of a six-or-seven thousand year old man, I’m tellin’ ya.”

Sideburns dashed toward the door and raised his hand to push it open.

Dean shot a look toward the three stalls behind him, moved to the one in the middle, and slipped inside with the shotgun held port arms at his chest.

Okay.

Now what?

85

“For the love of God,” Dean heard Sideburns groan as he scurried into the bathroom. “I’m pissin’ every five seconds.” He sighed and ticked down the volume of his voice. “Call the doctor, Luca—get your shit squared away.”

Dean, standing on the toilet bowl inside the middle stall, held his breath and listened; he could hear Sideburns taking a leak, whistling as he did so, the process of the mob goon emptying his bladder feeling like it lasted an eternity.

“Luca,” the associate named Tommy called out from inside the mini mart. “Hurry up, will ya?”

“Keep your pants on,” Sideburns—Luca—hollered back. “I’m backed up like a goddamn camel here.”

Dean, peeking through the sliver of an opening in the stalls walls and saw Luca, his head turned toward the door, pressed up against the urinal, taking his sweet flippin’ time.

Dean waited for a beat.

Thought of a play.

Decided to run with it as he slowly climbed down off the toilet, nudged open the stall door, and crept his way up behind Luca.

“Hey, Tommy,” Luca shouted. “Grab me one of those energy drinks from out there, will ya?” He flicked his wrist and looked at his watch. “We’re gonna be on the road out there for a minute.”

Dean, in a half-crouch, tiptoed toward Luca’s back as he gradually raised up the Ithaca.

“The hell with that,” Tommy replied. “You’ll be holding in your piss for half the night.”

Dean was four feet away from Luca.

Three.

Two.

“Don’t be a jerkoff,” Luca said as he slammed his fist down on the flush valve. “Just do it.” He fastened his zipper and turned around. “I swear to God, one of these days, I’m gonna slap you upside your⁠—”

Luca, eyes wide, froze in his tracks when he saw Dean; but the mob goon had no more than a split second to process the sight when Dean swiped the butt of his shotgun against his cheek.

Luca’s head snapped back.

His legs gave out.

Then he spun like a top, knocked his head against the urinal, and collapsed.

Dean caught Lucas by one arm; guided him down slowly to the ground, then he dragged him by his foot into one of the stalls, retrieved his Glock, and dismantled it into pieces.

The whole process took five seconds—flat.

One down, Dean tallied, six to go.

He approached the door that led out to the min mart. Cracked it open; spotted Lou and Tommy rifling through the food and beverage items in the mini mart, their backs to him, both of them bullshitting and counting the calories on the back of each item that they snagged.

Take ‘em both, Dean thought. If you can.

He pushed open the door.

Shook his head.

Then Woody started whispering in Dean’s ear.

“Dear God, laddie,” Woody said. “Just like old times, eh?”

Not now, dickhead, Dean thought as he stepped into the hallway and raised up the business end of the shotgun. I’m kind of busy.

Dean side-stepped his way toward Lou and Tommy.

Closed the gap.

Then after the two mobsters grabbed another armful of snacks, they angled their bodies around, saw Dean and heard the thunderous click-clack of him chambering a shell into the chamber.

86

Dean, standing just five feet away from Tommy and Lou, winked and then said, “Feliz Navidad, gents. How the hell are ya?”

Lou, straining to squint due to his bandaged nose, dropped the confections bundled in his arms. “Son of a bitch,” he groaned. “Why the hell am I not surprised?”

“Season of miracles, I guess,” Dean said, making sure his voice was no louder than a dull roar. “Hands up. You know the deal. And if either of you two scream out for help, I’ll blast you out of those Berluti shoes you got on.”

“They’re Stefano Ricci shoes you fuck,” Tommy grumbled. “Seven grand a pair.”

Dean’s gaze quickly skidded down to the burgundy, crocodile-pattern footwear on Tommy’s feet. “You overpaid,” he said as he slid his finger across the Ithaca’s trigger. “Now put your goddamn hands up. I’m not going to ask you again.”

“Stupid prick,” Lou said as he raised up his hands, his elbow pinned to his sides, his associate Tommy mimicking the motion. “You don’t really think you’re walkin’ out of here, do ya?”

“Turn around.”

“I promise you this, shit for brains.” Fire danced in Lou’s eyes as he motioned at the shotgun with his chin. “In two minutes, I’m gonna shove that thing so far up your⁠—”

The door that led out to the loading dock swung open.

Dean shot a glance toward it.

In the doorway he saw one of the two sheriff’s deputies, his teeth gritted and his mouth open; ready to holler and shout for backup.

Shit, Dean thought. We’re off to the friggin’ races.

He snapped his focus back to Lou and Tommy; both were reaching for their guns.

The deputy cried out for Sal as he wrestled his service weapon out of his holster.

Dean, embracing that the situation was about to get squirrely, spun around, trained the shotgun at the deputy, and applied pressure to the trigger.

87

The blast from the shotgun triggered a deep-piercing ring in Dean’s ear; high-pitched, a sound he hadn’t heard in some time. A quick beat after he fired the weapon, the blast shredded apart the sternum of the deputy in the doorway leading out to the dock—the poor prick had barely gotten his gun out of his holster when Dean blew him apart.

As the deceased deputy fell backward, Dean crept back and to his left toward one of the display shelves, Tommy and Lou’s weapons raised and aimed in his direction as he rolled into cover six feet away from them across the polished floors.

Then the shots started to fly.

Tommy and Lou split apart, both men squeezing off one shot after another as they attempted to flank either side of Dean.

“Fuckin’ prick,” Tommy shouted as he fired off two more shots. “You just bought your friggin’ button!”

The flurry of collective rounds that Tommy and Lou fired chewed up the chip bags, sealed cupcakes, candy bars, and bags of big jerky all around Dean; plastic and confectionary confetti that flaked his hair, face, shirt, and jacket.

Think! Dean thought as he chambered a shell.

Get your ass moving.

He fired blindly over the shelves to his right.

Chambered another shell.

Squeezed off another shot over the shelves to his left.

A beat after he fired the second shot, Dean heard a lack of shots taken from both Lou and Tommy.

He chambered a round.

Dived to his left; coasted on his right side for six feet until his head poked out sideways through the aisle.

There stood Tommy, two feet away, the whites of his eyes flashing wide as he attempted to slap a fresh magazine into his dry weapon.

“Fuck,” Tommy groaned.

“Yep,” Dean replied as he blasted the guy in the chest, the impact taking Tommy off his feet and projecting him backward, the mob goon belching out his last breath as he landed on his back and glided across the floors.

Dean chambered another shell.

Caught a glimpse of Lou stepping into the aisle across from him.

Rolled to his left one aisle over as Lou started squeezing off one round after another.

“You fuck,” Lou screamed, firing madly, not lining up his shots, the bullets stitching the floors a few feet away from Dean’s heels as he scampered into the next aisle and moved through it. “You’re fuckin’ dead!”

Dean, ducked down, scurried his way down the aisle in a half crouch. Above his head, Lou’s bullets ripped apart the bags of powder sugar, flour, and cornstarch.

Then a bullet nicked him in his right shoulder; Dean dropped onto his side.

He cursed and raised the Ithaca; he fired once through the shelving, chambered another round, and then fired off another shot.

Dean, upon a quick appraisal of the shelves, saw that his shots had managed to create two, crater-sized holes in the shelving a few inches apart—and through the holes, he saw Lou, ducked low with his back pressed against the shelf.

“Hey, bud,” Dean grumbled as he stuck the barrel through the hole on his left.

Lou looked up.

Widened his eyes.

Rolled away just as Dean fired a shot that punched through the shelf an inch shy of hitting him.

Dean stood. Scanned with his weapon; spotted Lou scurrying to the left toward the checkout counter.

Dean took aim.

Lou vaulted over the counter.

The shot that Dean fired smashed apart the bottles of liquor on the shelf behind the register.

“Damn it,” Dean hissed as he dropped back into cover in the aisle, dug into his pockets, and quickly reloaded the Ithaca with the eight shells he had left. “Squirrelly little bastard.”

“Hey, Blackwood,” Lou called out. “Catch.”

Dean heard a click.

The kindling crackle of fire.

When he looked up, he saw Lou’s burning handkerchief stuffed in a liquor bottle—a molotov cocktail—that Lou had managed to slap together arcing and coming in for a touchdown by his feet.

88

Aquick beat before the molotov cocktail made contact with the floor beneath Dean’s feet, he spun around, dived, and slid across the floor.

The bottle smashed.

Flames fanned out.

The entire aisle and the shelves that had gotten splashed ignited without a second’s delay.

“That’s right, shithead!” Lou screamed as he fired a few blind shots over the counter. “How do you like that?”

As the fire spread and the flames licked at his boots, Dean, in a crouch, moved to his left toward the hallway with the bathrooms. His shoulder throbbed; the bullet that hit him and the pain it caused was spreading as swiftly as the inferno in the aisles of the mini mart.

Jaw muscles tensed, Dean squeezed off a covering fire shot toward the checkout counter as he side-stepped his way into the hallway. He then fired another shot for good measure, tallied the six rounds he had left with the shotgun, and took cover in front of the door of the bathroom where he had knocked the goon named Luca into a slumber.

Well, Dean thought, breathing shallowly. This is going swimmingly.

His gaze on the fire in the mini mart, the blaze licking and consuming every inch of the space, Dean raised the shotgun and toyed with the idea of laying down fire on Lou’s location, keeping him suppressed, and then quick-drawing his SIG so he could put a round between the fucker’s eyes—but then the bathroom door flew open.

Dean snapped his head to the left.

To his surprise, there stood Luca; blood smeared the left side of his face.

Dean swung the shotgun around.

Luca growled as he thrust out his hands.

89

As Dean squeezed the trigger, Luca—fueled by sheer anger, it seemed—managed to drive the barrel of the shotgun toward the ceiling a half-beat before the weapon discharged.

Pellets thwacked a hole into the ceiling; plaster rained down and speckled an entangled Dean and Luca who struggled to take possession of the shotgun.

With a spread stance, Dean, his right hand gripping the stock of the Ithaca and left hand palming the barrel, attempted to lurch the weapon out of Luca’s grip—but the mob goon was insistent as hell, fighting with everything he had to keep a hold on the weapon.

Dean thrust his knee into Luca’s groin; the goon doubled over, but his grip on the Ithaca remained tight.

Luca howled. Eyeballed Dean’s hands engaged in a tug of war with the shotgun. Then he decided to release the hold he had on it with his right hand, balled that hand into a fist, and struck it across Dean’s chin.

It was enough to cause Dean’s senses to go haywire; his vision spun, his limbs turned to rubber. Between the bullets that grazed his leg and ribs and the tussle out the bay window he took with Curtis, it was clear to him that the taxing on his body was starting to add up—but he was still in the fight; he wouldn’t give in, so he dug deep, found a second wind, and channeled every scrap of energy he had into his arms.

He ripped the shotgun away from Luca.

Cracked the fucker across his cheek with his fist.

Once Luca was on his back, Dean chambered another round—click-clack—and directed the business end of the shotgun toward Luca.

Luca rolled to his right into a stall.

The shotgun barked; a dinner-plate sized hole was punched into the chipped floor tiles a half-second after Luca moved out of the way.

Dean chambered another round.

He swung the barrel up and aimed the weapon at the stall.

Then his body pitched forward; Dean’s brain quickly registered that the door behind him had struck him in the back.

He lost his hold on the shotgun; the weapon skidded across the floors toward the back of the room.

Dean spun around; he saw Leo sprint into the room.

Now it was two against one.

90

Leo, hollering with a Glock in his hand, his suit and face caked with soot from the raging mini mart fire, barrelled toward Dean like a bullet train, and rammed into him. The pair crashed into the stall that Luca was hiding in; the force of the impact shattered the stall into thick pieces.

Dean landed on his back on a large section of broken stall; the air in his lungs shot out.

Leo was on top of him; his lips curled into a snarl, the mob goon searching for his Glock before he saw that it had skidded toward the sinks behind him.

“Thought you could kill me?” Leo landed three jabs across Dean’s cheek. “I’m gonna rip your balls off, fucko.” He grabbed a fistful of Dean’s hair and slammed the back of his head twice on the floor. “How do you like that, you dumb prick? Hu?” He hammered Dean’s head once more against the floor tiles. “Say your prayers now, you pansy—this is it!”

Consciousness teased that it was about to pull the ripcord in Dean’s brain.

His head throbbed.

His vision was a blur.

All he could feel was Leo’s hands on his neck, squeezing the life out of him. Dean struggled to draw even the shortest breath while he simultaneously dug his fingernails into Luca’s hands.

Then Dean thought about Freddy.

His son.

His daughter.

Layla.

Every single person that he loved.

The innocent kids that had died because of all Sal Rossi and Michael Patterson’s bullshit.

Not like this, Dean thought.

Wilson isn’t going to hand your kids a crisply folded flag.

Fuck that.

“Then get the hell out of here, laddie,” Woody said. “Get Freddy back and get yourself home so those kids of yours can open up some presents.”

Dean held his head high. For the first time in a while, he agreed with the voice in his head, rallied whatever energy he had left, and rattled off a primal growl.

Dean dug his fingernails deeper into Leo’s wrist.

Leo growled.

Then from underneath him, Dean sensed the floor moving, but it wasn’t an earthquake or the structural integrity of the building in the early stages of fracturing or a mere figment of his imagination—it was Luca, the battered and bloodied mob goon attempting to crawl his way out from underneath the jagged slab of stall that Dean’s back was pressed against.

Luca grunted and pressed his weight against the slab Dean was laying on; Luca must’ve been benching three hundred-plus pounds on the regular, Dean figured, because the guy managed to push the broken slab of stall, Dean, and Leo off of him after three solid tries.

Dean and Leo rolled to the left out of the collapsed stall.

Luca sat up.

Then Dean, now on top of Leo, managed to rally yet another second wind, gritted his teeth, and cocked back a fist.

He struck Leo once in the face.

Twice.

Three more times for good measure.

Then, to his left, saw Luca getting to his feet, the goon shaking off his daze before he charged and threw his body into Dean’s. As the two rolled off of Leo, Dean planted his knee into Luca’s gut, pressed it into his sternum, used the guy’s momentum against him, and managed to flip Luca over his head, the goon rolling head over heels onto his back near the urinal where Dean had knocked him out cold a few minutes before.

Dean jerked his head to the right; he saw Leo scrambling toward the shotgun.

He heard a grumble on his left and cut a glance toward it; Luca was gathering his bearings.

Dean reached into his waistband and palmed his SIG.

Leo scooped up the shotgun.

Luca palmed the fallen Glock near the sinks.

Every single man in the room was drawing down at the same time.

Luca raised up the Glock.

Leo did the same with the shotgun.

Dean whipped out his SIG and swung his arm to the left; he put two bullets in Luca’s sternum, watched the son of a bitch drop, and proceeded to put his sights on Leo.

Leo hollered.

Dean dropped to his back and lined up Leo between the SIG’s sights.

Both men fired at the exact same time.

Dean emptied his entire clip into Leo, the bullets punching their way into the mob goon’s chest, the impact of the bullets causing him to bend backward right as he squeezed the trigger of the shotgun, the blast boring a hole into the ceiling as he crashed into the wall behind him, slid down it, and smeared it with the blood flowing out of the the exit wound in his back.

Dean, realizing he had held his breath, released it.

He shot a look toward Luca—dead.

Then put his focus back on Leo, the stooge lying spread eagle with his back against the wall, his chest tattered and torn, the mob goon struggling to pull air into his mangled lungs with a sickening wheeze.

Dean got to his feet. He walked over to Leo. Picked up the shotgun. Then he counted that he had three shells left as he rested the weapon against his shoulder.

Leo’s eyelids fluttered.

Dean bent over and got in his face.

“Too slow,” Dean grumbled before he turned around, slipped his SIG into his waistband, and stalked toward the door.

91

The moment Dean ducked out of the bathroom, he saw that the blaze in the mini mart had spread to the hallway. He shielded his hand with his face in a bid to block the heat, coughing as his throat and lungs became irritated by the toxic fumes churned up in the inferno’s wake.

“You gotta find the other guys,” Woody said. “There’s three of them left, my boy—and you still gotta find Freddy.”

I know.

“They’re in the loading dock, I would think.”

Yep.

“Well, how are you gonna get there? You can’t get to the loading dock through the mini mart—it’s kind of on fire at the moment.”

Yeah. Dean raced toward the diner on his right. No shit.

“You need to move fast, my boy.” Woody snickered. “You’re running out of time.”

Again, Dean burst through the doors that led into the parking lot, the fire inside the diner in the throes of rolling through the hallway, no shit.

Racing toward the gas pumps, Dean felt a tinge of relief as his overheated body was chilled by the bitter winter air. As he arrived at the pumps, Dean felt his legs teeter, his brain screaming at him to slow down, but he couldn’t.

Keep going.

Don’t quit.

Find Freddy.

He glanced to his left—the entire building was completely ablaze.

Stop that goddamn truck!

Dean, shotgun raised, turned the corner and arrived at the loading dock—but no one was there. There was no truck, no sign of Sal Rossi, the truck driver, or the second deputy he had spotted when he first arrived.

Fuck.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

Dean spun in a circle, his mind hazy, every part of him wanting to collapse, Dean thinking that it was possible that the truck, Sal, and the other deputy had made a break for it while he was dealing with Leo, Luca, Tommy, and the other deputy whose bodies were in the throes of crisping.

They might be gone.

Dean's shoulders dropped.

Damn it, they’re probably⁠—

The hiss and whine of a twelve-gear diesel engine rattled on the other side of the truck stop.

Dean straightened his back.

“You hear that, laddie?” Woody said. “That means they’re still here.”

Dean sprinted to his right.

Arrived in the parking lot.

Saw a Cadillac zip ahead of the eighteen-wheeler following behind it.

Then a deputy dashing through the snow toward his cruiser parked beside the Mercedes.

92

The deputy, his handlebar mustache twitching, saw Dean, terminated his run, and placed his hand on his holstered sidearm.

Dean swung up the shotgun.

The deputy’s mustache twitched.

The pair stood six feet apart like a pair of cowboys in an old western movie.

“Hands,” Dean said. “Now.”

The deputy narrowed his eyes.

Spread his stance.

Drummed his fingers on his holster.

“Don’t do it!” Dean screamed. “I swear to God, I will fucking drain you.”

But the deputy didn’t comply; he wrestled his gun out of his holster, and Dean was forced to spray him with lead. As the lawman collapsed, Dean flicked his gaze toward the Cadillac and eighteen-wheeler, the two vehicles pulling out of the parking lot before making a left turn onto the highway.

Dean aimed at the rear tires of the eighteen wheel—he fired once, chambered a round, and fired again, but it had no effect.

Dean dropped the shotgun.

Cursed.

Then he fished the keys for the Mercedes out of his pocket, got behind the wheel, and turned over the engine.

Dean pressed the pedal to the floor. He turned left out of the lot. Then he caught sight of the eighteen-wheeler hauling ass up the highway, pinned his gaze to it, and drove as fast as he could.

I’m on my way, kid.

Just hang tight.

93

Dean, racing like a getaway driver, merged the Mercedes onto a two-lane highway, his visibility limited to a half mile through the windshield due to the thick veil of snow and fog.

I can’t see shit. Dean flicked on the windshield wipers as surveyed the highway. It’s a narrow highway with tight turns. The rear of the Benz fishtailed; Dean turned out of it. Man, this is gonna be dicey.

Through the windshield, Dean saw the eighteen-wheeler a half-mile ahead of him, the glow of the brake lights amplified due to the haze. The entire highway was bathed with a hellish shade.

Get close.

Roll your window.

Try and shoot out the tires.

“You’re outta your goddamn mind, Blackwood,” Dean said as he took a quick peek at his shabby, blood speckled reflection in the rear-view mirror. “You know that, right?” He put his focus back on the road, eased his foot down on the accelerator, and saw that the needle was just above sixty-five miles per hour on the speedometer. “Every few months, we get into some bullshit.” He slammed his fist on the steering wheel. “You got a knack for getting into hairy shit, slick.”

No sooner than he said it, Dean threw another glance toward the rear-view mirror.

His heart skipped a beat.

Then it shot into his throat when he saw the mobster he had knocked out and stuffed in the Mercedes when he first arrived at the truck stop awakening from his daze.

The mobster pinned his gaze to Dean.

He flashed his teeth.

Then he lurched forward and proceeded to choke Dean from behind.

Forgot about this guy, Dean thought as he felt icy fingers snake around his neck. Shit.

This one’s on me.

94

As the goon in the back seat placed Dean in a choke hold, Dean’s grip on the steering wheel drifted; the rear of the car shimmied from side to side. Dean struggled to correct the car’s traction with his right hand as his left hand threw punches over his shoulder into the face of the guy trying to crush his windpipe.

“Use your gun, Einstein,” Woody suggested. “That might help.”

Dean stopped throwing punches. Gripped onto the steering wheel with his left hand. Then he used his right hand to secure a grip on the SIG in his waistband, drew it out, and thumbed off the safety.

Dean aimed the weapon over his shoulder and squeezed off a blind shot; the combined sounds of the back window splintering and the deafening crack of the gunshot triggered a ringing in his ears.

The goon shrieked.

Dean saw him instinctively duck.

Then the prick started clawing at the SIG clutched in Dean’s hand in an attempt to wrestle it away.

The Mercedes swerved; the vehicle nearly went into a one-hundred-eighty degree spin due to the icy conditions, but Dean, right before it did, managed to turn out of it.

The guy in the back seat punched Dean in the neck.

Dean winced.

Then the mobster took possession of the SIG.

“Uh-oh,” Woody groaned. “That ain't good.”

The goon in back pointed the weapon at Dean.

Dean’s eyes widened.

Then a bright idea struck him and he slammed on the brakes, bracing as the car weaved from side-to-side and screeched slowly to a stop.

The goon in the back pitched forward.

Soared over the front seats.

Then he crashed into the Benz’s windshield, shattered it, skidded over the hood, and rolled several times across the blacktop speckled with powder.

The guy sat up.

Raised up the SIG and took aim.

Dean slammed his foot down on the accelerator—he ran the guy over; the Benz lifted up, wobbled, and then dropped.

“Yeesh,” Dean said as he breathed a sigh and put his eyes on the side mirror, the mob’s goon’s body lying in the middle of the road, his limbs twisted and bent at unnatural angles. “He ain’t walking that one off.”

“You’ve had more clever lines than that before,” Woody said. “Not that I’m grading you or anything.”

“Yeah,” Dean replied as he retrieved the Glock 17 from his jacket pocket and placed it on the passenger’s seat. “But I’m tired.”

“You still gotta get Freddy back.”

“I know.” Dean, the wind lapping at his face through the busted windshield as he lined up the front of the cruiser toward the rear end of the eighteen-wheeler three-quarters of a mile away. “Now let me wrap this up, will ya?”

“Hop to it, laddie,” Woody said. “Best of luck to you.”

Dean pressed the accelerator into the floor mat.

Closed the gap.

Eased into the left lane.

Crept up toward the left side of the eighteen-wheeler.

Then Dean saw the driver of the semi roll his window, squinted, and saw a double-barrelled, sawed off shotgun being pointed at the hood of the Mercedes.

95

The muzzle flash from the double-barrel flared and lit up the night sky. Dean, tapping the brakes, heard the right headlamp of the Benz shatter as he turned into the right lane and got behind the semi.

“Okay, dickhead,” Dean said through clenched teeth as the road gradually crested. “I’m sick of this shit.”

He eyeballed the right rear tires of the semi trailer.

Shrugged.

Raised up his Glock and and fired off four of his nine rounds into the tires, heard them pop and hiss, and then watched as the rear end of the eighteen-wheeler went into a spin.

The driver of the semi slammed on his brakes; the semi trailer swayed from one side to the other, then the left side of the semi lifted up before it slammed onto its right side.

The crash was ear splitting; metal twisted, rubber burned, steel bent and warped.

Dean wrenched the steering wheel to the left; he snaked around the semi as it fell like a slain giant onto the road, the driver’s shocked face visible inside the cab as his rig toppled over. As Dean crested around the wreckage—just inches away from clipping it—he flicked his gaze up to the rear-view mirror and watched the semi glide across the road, a cascade of sparks and snow churned in its wake before it collided with a guardrail, split it open, and then careened off the highway before tumbling down a bridge abutment.

Dean slammed on the brakes.

Threw the cruiser in the reverse.

Backed up, stopped near the broken guardrail, and stuck his body part way out the door so he could see where the semi had landed.

Dean huffed; the thing had fallen eighty-some-odd feet off the bridge abutment and into what appeared to be a recently excavated embankment. The engine of the semi sizzled; smoke whooshed out of the hood. The whole wreck was like a mangled and contorted accordion, and as bad as the cleanup would be, Dean felt a swell of gratification as he surveyed the sight.

Outstanding.

The only thing better would be burning Sal’s money right in front of him.

As Dean slipped back into the cruiser, he shot a look toward the twisted doors at the rear of the semi-trailer—pounds of meth, too many to count, had spilled out, burst open, and were scattered for close to two-hundred yards across a densely wooded area.

“Damn,” Dean whispered as he got behind the wheel and put the car into drive, hoping that whatever critters were in the woods didn’t get too close to the semi or the meth-laced air that surrounded it.

He raced down the road.

Hugged a left turn and then a right.

Drove for one-point-six miles before he saw the Cadillac that the semi had been following.

“Okay, Freddy,” Dean said as he did a quick press-check of his Glock and saw that he was down to thirteen rounds, an unlucky number. “Here I come.”

96

Dean, closing in on the Cadillac, looked at his speedometer and saw that he was clocking in at close to seventy miles-per hour. If his math was right—usually it was shoddy, he only managed C and D grades back in high school—then the Cadillac, based on how fast Dean was closing in on it, was traveling about five miles slower.

He knows he lost the semi, Dean thought as he inched his way closer to the Cadillac’s brake lights. His plan fell apart, and he doesn’t know what to do—he’s desperate.

And desperate guys tend to lash out.

Dean, thirty feet away from the Cadillac, honked his horn.

Sal stuck his middle finger out the driver’s side window in reply.

“Okay, fuckhead.” Dean lined up behind the Cadillac, flicked his gaze toward the trunk, and imagined that a bound and gagged Freddy was inside of it. “Here we go.”

Dean jammed down on the accelerator.

Nosed into the left lane.

Then he registered the muzzle flash from inside the Cadillac, watched the back window of the Cadillac shatter, and then felt two rounds zip past his ear before they burrowed into the back seats of the Benz.

Dean palmed his Glock, thought about firing off a few shots in reply, but knew he ran the risk of hitting Freddy in the trunk.

Don’t do it.

Don’t be stupid.

He shot a look toward the left rear tire of the Cadillac.

Yeah.

Dean nodded.

Yeah, that’s not a bad idea.

He tried to get into the left-hand lane; the Cadillac cut him off.

Dean got into the right lane; the Cadillac cut him off again.

PIT him, Blackwood, Dean thought. Get that Caddy to spin around.

Dean tightened his hold on the steering wheel.

Eyeballed the rear tires of the Cadillac.

Faked like he was turning into the left lane and watched the Cadillac do the same before he jerked the wheel to the right and slammed down on the accelerator.

Dean rapidly closed in on the Cadillac.

Lined up the front bumper on the Cadillac’s rear tire.

Then he nudged it, watched as the Cadillac turned into a spin, and crested around it.

Dean, on his right, saw the windshield of the Cadillac coming into view as it rotated one hundred and eighty degrees—and there was Sal Rossi, the mob boss’s face tense, his tapered eyes staring right back at Dean.

Rossi drew up his Glock.

Dean did the same.

The vehicles revolved around each other.

Both men fired at the same time.

97

Dean squeezed the trigger and put eight rounds in Rossi’s windshield; the glass frosted and became splotched with blood. As Dean fired his weapon, he heard the register of the shots Rossi was taking over the rumble of the Benz’s engine; three of the six shots Rossi took punched their way through the hood, one clipped Dean’s head rest, the second struck the passenger’s seat, and the third took out the right side mirror.

The cars spun in a collective hug for three spins.

Then the rotations ceased.

As soon as the Benz lurched to a stop, Dean patted himself down, saw that he was free of holes, and breathed a sigh of relief.

Thank God.

Christmas miracle.

His eyes widened.

Freddy!

Dean kicked open the driver’s side door of the Benz, raced toward the trunk of the Cadillac, and fiddled with the lever.

“Freddy!” Dean said. “Can you hear me?”

Nothing from the trunk.

“Shit.” Dean, noticing the dent in the rear of the trunk lid, couldn’t get it open. “Fucking thing is stuck.”

He jimmied the handle.

Punched the lid.

Couldn’t get the thing to pop.

“Come on,” Dean groaned as he shot a look toward the star-studded sky. “Cut me a break here.”

Dean heard a click from inside the trunk; the lid lifted, and when Dean peered inside, he saw a pale-faced Freddy, hands and legs tied with duct tape, waving at him lethargically.

“What’s cracking, boss?” Freddy said. “Little help here?”

Dean, laughing, hauled Freddy out of the trunk and pulled him into an embrace. “Holy shit,” he said. “You’re alright.”

“No, I’m not alright!” Freddy exclaimed. “I just got rolled around like goddamn soiled laundry inside of there; pretty sure I got a concussion.” He shot a look over his shoulder at the dinged up pair of vehicles behind him. “What the hell were you guys doing anyway?”

Realizing that he hadn’t checked on Rossi, Dean, after he nudged Freddy aside, held his Glock in both hands, cautiously approached the driver’s side of the Cadillac, and aimed at a bloodied Sal Rossi seated as far back as he could behind the wheel. Upon a closer inspection, Dean saw that he had managed to shoot the man once in his neck—a graze—and four times in his right arm; he was alive, but barely clinging to it.

Rossi turned his gaze lazily up to Dean.

Dean lowered his weapon.

The mob boss flashed a set of blood-caked teeth.

“Told ya…” Rossi said through a wheezy breath. “Better to be buried by six than⁠—”

“Hey, Sal,” Dean cut in as he retrieved Rossi’s weapon and tossed it over his shoulder. “Do me a solid and shut the hell up, okay?”

Rossi snarled.

Spit up blood.

Dean was upset he was alive, but knew that he couldn’t confess or corroborate a story if he was dead.

“Whoa…” Freddy said, standing behind Dean, looking over his shoulder into the Cadillac. “He’s still breathing?”

“As a matter of fact, Freddy,” Dean stuffed his Glock into the back of his pants, “he is.” He faced his protégé. “You alright?”

“Yeah.” Freddy smirked. “You?”

“Decent.” Dean examined his tattered appearance in one of the Cadillac’s windows. “I’ve looked better though.”

“I, uh…” A sheepish-looking Freddy averted his gaze and cleared his throat. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

“Anytime.” Dean playfully hooked his arm around the kid’s neck. “You still owe me money for all those movies you rented on prime anyway, so…”

“I’ll pay you back.”

“I know you will.”

Freddy laughed.

Dean joined him; then he flinched, sensed that his adrenaline was subsiding, and experienced a wave of pain ripple across his body.

He heard sirens gather.

Looked over his shoulder.

Saw the distant twinkle of red and blue light in the distance, breathed a sigh, and stood with Freddy to wave down the incoming backup.

98

Apair of fire trucks, an ambulance, and a fleet of sheriff’s cruisers and FBI vehicles were scattered across the highway. Deputies set up yellow tape. EMTs loaded and cuffed a bleeding Sal Rossi into the back of an ambulance. Dean and Freddy, taxed and clutching hot cups of coffee in their hand, sat on the hood of Kent Wilson’s unmarked cruiser as they watched him explain to a gaggle of agents of how the clean-up process would pan out.

“Are we going to get in trouble for this?” Freddy asked before he took a sip of coffee. “I mean, you rolled a semi filled with meth down a hill.”

“Maybe,” Dean shrugged and flinched at the pain in his shoulder, his various wounds bandaged by an EMT twenty minutes earlier. “But maybe they’ll cut us a break. After all, it is the season of forgiveness.”

“I thought that was Thanksgiving.”

“It’s whatever Hallmark says it is.”

Freddy snorted. Put his attention back on the scene. Couldn’t believe that everything played out the way that it did. “This is wild,” he said. “I mean, if this is what Christmas looks like for you, I’m dying to see what one of your birthday parties looks like.”

“It’s about the same,” Dean said. “Minus the meth, gunshots, mob bosses, and murder.”

Wilson approached.

Held out his arms.

The shocked expression on his face said everything.

“Alright,” Wilson groaned. “Lay it on me.”

Dean told him the whole story: chasing down Rossi and his guys, the truck stop being lit on fire—emergency units, according to Wilson, were in the process of putting it out—the chase on the highway, the eighteen-wheeler taking a dive down a hill—units were at the scene working on cleaning it up—and the final, Mad Max-style showdown that Dean had with Rossi just before backup had arrived.

“This is a hot, stinking, haywire, tangled shit of a mess you’ve made, Deano,” Wilson said. “The worst yet, if I’m being honest.”

Dean flexed his brow. “I take it we’re in trouble.”

“Probably.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Maybe.” Wilson shrugged. “You took out Rossi and this whole trade he was running with Patterson in Somerset, so that counts for something. Helps that Rossi’s alive, too. We’ll be able to squeeze him once they deal with him at the hospital.”

“So,” Dean said, “you can fix it.”

“I wouldn’t call it ‘fixing,’” Wilson said. “More like softening the blow. It’ll take some finesse, but I might be able to smooth it out. Either way, I’m gonna need you boys to come in and help me sort this out with all the proper departments.”

“Can it wait?”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. It’s Christmas,” Dean said with a weak smile. “And I told my family that I’d make it home in time to open some presents.”

Wilson smirked and shook his head. “I can buy you a day, maybe two,” he said. “Call it my gift to you. Keep your phone on you though. I can’t have you going too far.” He gestured down the road. “I’ve got a truck stop on fire and a shit load of meth scattered on the road back there. I hate to say it, but it’s got Dean Blackwood’s trademark signature all over it.”

“Understood.” Dean nodded in agreement. “I do have two more requests though.”

“Of course you do.” Wilson rolled his eyes. “Name it.”

“Two seats on the closest FBI plane you’ve got,” Dean said. “It’s about a four-hour flight from here. I’d like to get back home before the sun breaks. Also, if you can swing it, a change of clothes might be nice, too.”

“I’ll make a call.” Wilson pulled out his cell. “Shouldn’t take long. There’s an air strip about twenty miles west of here with one of our Gulfstreams. There’s a shower there too. Just wait a few minutes until I can get it sorted out.”

“Thanks, Willy,” Dean said. “While you’re at it, you might want to call the field office in Chicago.” He shot his chin toward the EMTs in the process of putting Sal Rossi on a gurney. “I overheard Vito Corleone over there talking about some guy in Bridgeport that he was planning on unloading that product to, some guy named McManus. Don’t know if you do anything with that, but I thought I’d mention it.”

“I’ll get it on.” Wilson dialed a number and held the phone to his ear. “Just hang tight for me. I’ll get you out of here soon.”

“I can wait.” Dean retrieved his cell phone from his jacket pocket. “I gotta make a call first.”

He dialed Angie Brennan’s number; it rang once.

99

“Dean,” Angie greeted, her foggy tone indicating to Dean that she had just woken up. “What’s going on?”

“We got them, Angie,” Dean said as he shot a look at the ambulance hauling away Sal Rossi toward the hospital. “All of them. Everyone that was involved in Luke and Daria’s murders. They’re gone. It’s over.”

Angie held the line for a moment. “My God,” she finally said. “Dean, I…” She sniffled. “I don’t know what to say. What happened? Who was responsible?”

Dean told her who Michael Patterson really was—aka “Smokes” Romano—his arrangement with Sal Rossi, the fact that Patterson was stealing from his partner, and the night that Luke DeFeo and Angie’s daughter Daria had stumbled across Patterson’s dirty little secret. He explained how it was an accident, how Luke and Daria had surprised Patterson when he returned home, tried to flee, but ended up getting killed, all because Patterson was stupid and reckless and greedy.

“I know it won’t take away the pain,” Dean said. “But I wanted you to know that the people who are at fault are gone.”

“They’re dead?” Angie said. “All of them?”

“One’s alive. He’ll be able to confess to everything. That’ll help.” Dean focused briefly on the pain racking his body; his souvenirs from the whole ordeal. “But Michael is dead. The man who killed Daria is gone, for good.”

“That won’t bring Daria back,” Angie said, Dean hearing her hold back tears. “But it’s still something.”

“It is.” Dean thought about Luke and his parents. “You should call the DeFeo’s too. Let them know what happened. I think they’ll want to know.”

“I will,” Angie said. “And now that it’s over,” she took a beat, “how do I pay you?”

Dean shook his head. “You don’t,” he said. “You don’t owe me a thing.” He looked over at Freddy. “The best payment for all of this is a one-way ticket back home, far as I’m concerned.”

“You certainly earned it.” Angie held the line for a moment. “Thank you, Dean. For everything.”

“You should go and be with your family,” Dean said. “Get some rest. Pick things back up in the morning and go from there. Take it day by day. That might not mean much right now, but…”

“It does,” Angie said. “And I will.”

“Take care, Angie.”

“You too.” Angie laughed. “And Merry Christmas, by the way.”

“Yeah.” Dean cracked a smile. “Merry Christmas to you too.”

Dean terminated the call. Felt a weight lifted off his shoulders. Surveyed the scene around him and knew that he—and Freddy—would be in for a ride in terms of dealing with the fallout, but for now, for at least a couple of days, they could kick off their shoes and take a break.

“So,” Freddy said, “what now?”

“We go home,” Dean replied. “You and me.”

“Together?”

“Yep.”

“Really?” Freddy squinted. “I thought our whole,” he thought of the word, “arrangement was strictly professional.”

“Freddy, after all of this,” Dean motioned to the slew of officers, agents, and emergency technicians on the scene, “I think you earned a seat at the table.”

Freddy beamed.

Dean winked.

Then he got a text from Layla: On your way?

Yep, Dean texted back. Headed home now.

An hour later, they were seated in a Gulfstream aircraft—showered, and tired, and wearing second-hand clothing that Wilson gave them—resting back their heads as the plane taxied, rose, and started on the first leg of its journey back to LA.

EPILOGUE

As Dean stepped out of the Uber, the first rays of sunlight slipped in from the east and tinted the skies with a pinkish hue.

It’s so warm here, he thought, the crisp Southern California temperate breeze pleasantly licking his skin. Beats the hell out of Somerset.

On his left, Dean saw that the house where his ex-wife lived was bustling—he could make out the silhouettes of his family through the window, their collective laughter seeping out of the windows and doors and every single crack in the two-story home that sat by the ocean.

He saw the Christmas tree through the living room window. The vibrant, multi-colored string lights tracing the frame of the house. Heard the dull throb of Frank Sinatra’s cover “I’ll Be Home For Christmas” playing from some unseen speaker inside.

“Are you sure your kids will like this stuff?” Freddy said, holding up the two Target bags filled with toys that Dean had purchased on the drive over. “You kind of just grabbed a bunch of stuff and ran.”

“We were in a time crunch, Freddy,” Dean said as he smoothed the wrinkles in his dress shirt. “Can’t show up to Christmas empty handed. Besides, I don’t think Jeremy is going to hate that I got him a PS5.”

“Yeah, you kind of went all out.” Freddy glimpsed into the bag. “Wish you were my dad.”

Dean smirked. “Got you something, too.” He nodded at Freddy. “Snagged it when you weren’t looking.”

Freddy squinted.

Opened the bag.

Found a shirt with the word “Dingus” printed on the front and grinned.

“Hell yeah,” Freddy said as he gripped tightly onto the shirt. “I dig it.”

“Come on.” Dean clapped him on the back. “Let’s go get some grub.”

They approached the door.

Knocked.

Stood back.

Waited.

A beat later, Dean heard Layla call out and felt his heart skip a beat. Then the door opened; there stood Layla, and the sight of her made Dean feel weak in the knees.

She’s always been beautiful, Dean thought. But right now, she’s absolutely stunning.

“Hey, you,” Dean greeted.

Layla, mouth open, eyes wide, stood in the doorway as she processed Dean’s nicks and welts and bruises in the early stages of forming all over his body.

“Jesus,” she rasped. “What happened?”

“Hey, Freddy,” Dean said as he nudged his protégé. “Head inside for a moment, okay? I’m right behind you.”

Layla blinked herself out of trance, greeted Freddy with a smile, moved aside, and told him that there was a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen.

She stepped out.

Closed the door.

Crossed her arms.

“I, uh…” Layla tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she ogled Dean’s wounds. “Do I wanna know?”

“Maybe later,” Dean said. “If it’s alright, I kind of just want to drink my weight in eggnog for a little while.”

“Okay…” Layla bit her lip nervously, staring at the cuts in the throes of scabbing on Dean’s cheek. “You look a little⁠—”

“I know.”

“But you’re alright?”

“I am.”

Layla blinked her eyes.

Frowned.

Then she turned it up into a grin, her shoulders dropped, and she moved slowly up to Dean and wrapped her arms around him in an embrace.

“I missed you,” she whispered.

“Me too,” Dean said softly into her ear. “Every second of the day.”

Layla stood back. Held Dean’s face in her hands and laughed, because she didn’t know what else to do. “Shall we?” she said.

“Yeah.” Dean glanced to his right, looked through the window that peered into the living room, and saw his son, father, ex-wife, his infant daughter in her arms, and his sister pulling a beaming Freddy into the kitchen. “Definitely.”

Dean followed Layla into the house.

Closed the door.

Then she led him by the hand toward his family as the soothing sounds of “I’ll Be Home For Christmas” continued to play softly all throughout the house.

AUTHOR’S NOTES

Thank you for reading Winter Kill, book 5 of 5 in the Dean Blackwood series.

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