Page 50 of Lord Have Mercy Part Four: Big Son

Walsh slitted his eyes open to peer up at him, searching for a trace of judgement, even contempt, that of course wasn’t there. Or at least wasn’t visible. He was too woozy to deny it. Swallowed and said, “When did you know?”

“Immediately.”

“Jesus. There goes my convincing side.”

“I think Aidan believes.”

“Yeah. That’s going to be a big problem.” When Michael nodded, and continued to peer at him without anger, Walsh volunteered, “He went with Fox to Virginia.”

“How’s that going?”

“Fox said to watch the news tonight.” He blearily checked his watch. “Or this morning. Whatever.” He could feel the fluids perking him up a little, but only in a way that served to remind him how badly his head hurt.

“Can you stand?” Michael asked.

“Maybe.”

Michael held out a hand, and Walsh knew it wasn’t merely an offer of physical help.

He took it, and let himself be hauled to his feet.

Sixteen

“Whoa.”

Aidan hadn’t slept much last night, but not because he was drinking or wallowing in his own misery. He’d been staying at the clubhouse, avoiding his too-empty apartment, where Lainie’s abandoned toys and Sam’s left-behind clothes in the closet reminded him of how alone he was, and how acutely he’d come to rely on their closeness and comfort and undemanding love to power him through each hardship the club faced. Last night, though, he’d wanted some privacy, so he’d gone home, and dragged his confidants with him. Beneath the glare of the chandelier at the kitchen table, dimmer switched flicked all the way up, Aidan had outlined his idea for the Parker farm, and for getting rid of the FBI presence in Knoxville for good.

Roman stayed for a while, then, when he was satisfied that Aidan wasn’t “completely stupid,” he’d left, saying he needed to check on his “kids.”

“Betcha fifty bucks he’s forgotten Kris is in London and swings by her place,” Carter said, wry curve to his mouth which said he himself had forgotten the girls were gone, and maybe he’d parked his bike in front of Leah’s apartment only to be slapped with the harsh reality of her absence all over again.

He, Aidan, and Tango had remained, smoking and drinking coffee. Aidan had woken just after six, drool on his chin and a crick in his neck, to find that he’d fallen asleep slumped over the table. Across from him, Tango had had his head down on his folded arms, snoring softly, and Carter had been stretched out on the sofa, one arm flung over his face.

Now, though his friends were yawning into their coffee mugs, Aidan strode into the chapel for this morning’s churchmeeting jittering as if he’d already down three espressos. He had aplan. He was takingaction, and that had inspired a thrill to rival any level of caffeine consumption.

And then he caught sight of Walsh.

“Shit,” he said as he rounded the table to get to his new seat. “What the hell happened to you?”

Walsh sat half-slumped in the president’s chair, chin propped on his fist, his other arm lying along the table, forearm to the ceiling, IV needle hooked with tape in the crook of his elbow. A moveable coatrack had been roped into bag-holding duty, and one of the banana bags they kept in the chest cooler hung half-empty from the top of it.

His gaze shifted, half-lidded and lazy, toward Aidan, and he didn’t bother lifting his head from his hand when he said, “Stay hydrated, kids.”

Aidan frowned a moment, then it clicked. “Have you had anything but vodka and coffee for the past three days?”

Walsh tipped his head toward the IV bag. “You’re looking at it.”

Ratchet entered last, and closed the door, open laptop balanced in the crook of his arm. He set it down in front of Walsh, spun it around so it faced the length of the table, and looked to Walsh for confirmation.

“Hit it.”

He pressed play on the queued video, and a national news report started rolling.

“…D.C. authorities reporting the shocking news that FBI Deputy Director of Forensics, Special Agent Deborah Sawyer, was found dead last night in her own home. The investigation is still in its early stages, Tom, but so far, no foul play is suspected–”

“Mute it,” Walsh said, and Ratchet leaned over the table to do so with another button click. The footage keptrolling soundlessly, the grave-faced reporter in her red blazer interspersed with shaky, distance footage of a handsome colonial home, and a professional headshot of Sawyer.

“Fox?” Aidan asked.

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