Page 155 of Homecoming

Ghost nodded, and picked up the landline they’d rigged up for this purpose. He punched in the number, aware of the unnatural hush in the common room around him.

The line rang, and rang, and rang, and rang…and went to voicemail.

“Damn it,” he muttered.

But then, after the hiss of static, he heard the outgoing message. A velvet-smooth voice with a faint Spanish accent. “Hello, Mr. Teague. I assume that’s who I’m speaking to. I won’t offer my name, because you already know it, but I will offer you this: my apologies. I’m sorry that I thought you were cleverer than this. I expected more from the mother chapter, honestly. Send Derek Snow my love.” A kissing sound, and then the beep.

Ghost thought about leaving a message, something biting and threatening – but hung up. Luis would never listen to it. The phone had already been abandoned, he knew. Even if it was found, all they would find would be prints and saliva, and that was useless, because they already knew exactly who he was.

“No luck?” RJ asked, face screwed up with disappointment.

“No,” Ghost said, wiping a hand down his face. “And I have a feeling we won’t find the girls, either.”

~*~

Eden stood with her arms resting on the top of a split rail fence and stared off across a field of waving grasses and wildflowers; bees droned among the buttercups and Queen Anne’s lace. Doves fluttered up laboriously and winged for the tree line, thick with blue-green pines, shady as nighttime beneath the canopy of needles and young poplar leaves.

Behind her, in the rotted shell of an old farmhouse that Peter Weston’s dying breaths had directed them to, she heard screen doors slapping and boots tromping across the porch floorboards as the boys did one last walk-through. There was nothing to find save a used-up roll of duct tape, some water bottles, and a single roll of toilet paper in the disgusting bathroom. They’d even searched the root cellar, but had walked through layers of cobwebs to do so. It had been too damp and uninviting even for sex traffickers to venture down into.

The girls had been here – but weren’t now. They would call Fielding, and a team would come, and snap photos, and take samples. But to what end? There wasn’t a trail here. There was nothing of any use.

Eden watched a hawk circle overhead, silent, riding an updraft, hunting the field.

She wiped the corners of her eyes, told herself it was only from looking up at the sun, turned and went back toward the house.

~*~

Mayor Cunningham could drink Scotch like it was water – but he couldn’t hold it. He swayed forward in his seat, bleary-eyed, talking in a whisper that wasn’t at all quiet; the mics should be having no problem picking up every word. “They get in the way of every goddamn move anybody tries to make in this town,” he said, words soft around the corners from the alcohol. A lock of hair fell over his reddened, shiny forehead, and he didn’t seem to notice. “It’s high time they all got thrown in jail and got outta my hair.”

“But how?” Ian asked, batting his lashes innocently. “All of their businesses are legitimate ventures. They’re well-established members of the community.”

“Not for much longer, they won’t be.”

“But they’re expanding.”

“I heard they bought up that bar downtown,” Tenny chimed in.

“Not Bell Bar.” Fox feigned outrage. “It’s a Knoxville staple.”

“And bought quite legally, I assure you,” Ian said. “There’s nothing to prevent the Lean Dogs – individually or collectively – from investing in the city in their own way. And their intimidation tactics are subtle, I’m afraid. They don’t leave evidence of any kind, and citizens end up too frightened to ever come forward. No charges ever seem to stick to them.”

“Fucking police department,” Cunningham agreed, nodding and throwing back the dregs of his latest Scotch. “I swear they’re in bed with the Dogs. Why else wouldn’t you arrest them for dealing all that shit?”

“Do they deal?” Fox asked.

“They’re a biker gang! Of course they do.” He grinned, then, ugly and uneven. “Let’s just say, their marketing is a whole lot moreexplicit, lately.”

“What do you mean?” Ian asked.

“Oh, you know. Sometimes people gotta see something with their own eyes before they realize it’s a problem. We know the Dogs are bad for Knoxville.” He splayed a hand across his chest in demonstration. “But the little people don’t always know what’s best for them. We have to help them along.”

“Who is we?” Fox asked, too sharply, and smoothed his face. Signaled to their server for another round. “Are there efforts being made to snare the Dogs in some sort of sting?”

Cunningham’s bleary smile was triumphant. “You could say that.” He hunched low over the table, voice dropping – slurring noticeably now. “Something just fell into my lap. I’ve – and if you wanna talk investments, don’t look at Knoxville, this city is absolute shit. You wanna invest with someone who can guarantee you some real return. A few months ago, I sank some assets in a group out of New York. Abacus – that’s who you want to get in touch with. When I explained the problems down here with the Lean Dogs, they sent a rep down to advise us, and boy, does he have someideas, let me tell you.”

“Abacus?” Tenny was typing on his phone. “The…” His brows lifted. “It says they’re a financial consulting firm.”

“They are. They consult you on how to get rich. Ha! Smart, smart group. Lots to offer.” He winked. “Get hooked up with them, you won’t regret it. They’re getting rid of the Lean Dogs for me.”

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