Page 112 of The Spoil of Beasts

North did one last sweep of the motel room. John-Henry lounged against the mini-split, in a lightweight, long-sleeved tee that covered the tats, athleisure shorts, and flip-flops. He looked like he’d finally had a decent night’s sleep and deserved a few more. Theo, in shorts and a tee, had propped himself against the door, arms folded like he was doing bouncer duty.

Hands on hips, North said, “I guess this is it.”

Theo’s face was hard.

John-Henry said, “I’m sorry.”

North shook his head. “Not your fault.”

A grin skewed John-Henry’s good features. “Yeah? It sure as hell feels like it is.”

But it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, North knew. Sometimes a case just went belly up, and there was nothing you could do about it. Everything had ended with Adam’s death and Gid’s suicide. Welch’s escape, and the murders of Dalton Weber and Sheriff Engels, had been blamed on a corrupt deputy. Gid’s suicide tied up Ambyr’s death. Sure, there were still questions—what were the odds, for example, that Welch would be forced to kill not only the sheriff but also another inmate during his escape? But aside from John-Henry, no one seemed interested in answering those questions. And even if they had, what were they going to do? All the leads had gone cold.

“I’m going to watch Brey like a hawk,” John-Henry said. “He might be a state rep, but I’m going to camp out on his ass, and the first time he fucks up, we’ll have him. Same goes for Cassidy.”

North nodded. “I guess you’ve got Maleah, too. That might go somewhere.”

John-Henry gave an unhappy shrug. “Maybe.”

He thought about that for a moment. Thought about how nothing had happened yet. And then he let out a tired “Fuck me.”

“It’s not over, North.”

North nodded.

“I promise, I’m not going to let Brey—or anybody else—get away with this.”

“I know, man.” North surprised himself by squeezing John-Henry’s shoulder. “I know.”

John-Henry shook his head.

“Come on,” Theo said. “They’re waiting.”

Waiting might have been a loose definition, in North’s opinion, but the other guys were gathered around Jem and Tean’s rented Jetta. Shaw and Auggie and Jem were laughing and showing each other things on their phones, but it had a forced quality, like they were trying too hard. Emery and Tean stood in the shade, faces dour.

“I’m sorry,” Tean said when North reached them. “We’ve got to go back. The girls need us, and work—”

“Don’t apologize,” Emery said. “You’ve got your own life to live.”

“And you’ve done so much,” Auggie said as he led Jem and Shaw over. “We wouldn’t be here without you.”

“In this mess, he means,” North said, but his grin felt tired.

“Or alive,” Jem said, and it might have been a joke, but Theo nodded emphatically.

“This is for the best,” John-Henry said. “Jem’s been a target from the beginning. We should have sent you away sooner.”

No one said anything to that.

“I’m sorry,” Tean said again, and his voice was very small.

“No more saying sorry,” North said. “We did the best we could. Sometimes, you just get fucked.”

Shaw started to cry. Not big tears, not sobbing. But he wiped steadily at his face. For a moment, no one seemed to know what to do; they all stood there. Then Emery crossed the circle and hugged Shaw.

Everyone moved then. Hugs and handshakes, clapping each other on the back, weak attempts at jokes that everyone laughed too hard at. And then it was over, and North and Shaw climbed into the Jetta with Tean and Jem, and they drove away from the motor court. It was another shining day, swimmy with heat, like all the others. North settled into his seat. It was all right, he thought. They’d done what they could. And now everyone had to get on with their lives. He and Shaw would go back to St. Louis, and Tean and Jem would fly home to Utah, and the rest of them would pick up where they’d left off—doing their jobs, living their lives. And the world would keep spinning. The world always kept spinning.

And then, because he couldn’t help himself, North looked over his shoulder. The four men made a ragged line, and at that distance, they were nothing more than outlines against the sun-bright brick of the motor court. And he thought, with breaking clarity, We’re leaving them behind.

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