I was on a dirty mattress on the floor, the mattress covered in brown stains. Blood. Old blood. Tonia all but died here. Neeta did die there. And God knew who else.
I was bound and I was gagged, my hands tied over my head to an old, rusty radiator, my legs, opened wide, tied to huge, wide screws fixed to the floor.
“You shouldn’t have let him hear you, Laurie,” Dalton whispered and then the blade sunk into my side and my cry of pain was muted by the gag.
His mouth came to my ear as the blade slid out.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
*
Tate
“I’m gettin’ nothin’,” Tate said to Bubba who was standing at his back.
Bubba and Krystal had shown up five minutes ago. Bubba had had to drive like a wild man to get up there as fast as he did, all the while talking to Tate on his phone, giving Tate the info he had.
Dalton was off for two days when Neeta was done, he was off when Sunny was attacked and he was off when the girl in Chantelle was brutalized.
Krys had brought the application with them but Bubba had given him the details on his way up the hill, Krystal reading the data to him in the truck and Tate had been running the info through his databases for the last fifteen minutes.
Dalton Caulfield McIntyre didn’t exist. His address was in town but it was a fucking warehouse. He didn’t own a car. He didn’t own property. He didn’t have a record. He didn’t pay taxes. He didn’t have a fucking driver’s license. He didn’t even have any credit history.
Tate knew Dalton had a truck and a bike and Tate knew Krys, and now Laurie, withheld taxes on Dalton’s wages but for some fucking reason none of this showed anywhere.
Dalton McIntyre was a black hole.
He only had a bank account into which they transferred his pay and how the fuck he got that without any apparent ID was anyone’s fucking guess.
Except it had a second name on the account, not McIntyre, first name Michael, last name Simpson, middle name, eerily, Caulfield.
So Tate ran Simpson and got shit. Same thing all around. No taxes, no license, no credit, no car, no property. Nothing. Not one fucking thing. Except a birth date, born in County Hospital, the same hospital where Tate was born, a hospital twenty minutes away, Simpson’s birth date nearly thirty years ago. His birthday July eighth and Dalton’s birth date on his application stated August seventh.
Transposed.
So who the fuck was Michael Simpson?
No wonder the Feds never got close. Both of them, Dalton and Simpson, totally off the grid.
Tate swiveled in his chair and leaned forward, putting his elbows to his knees and his head in his hands.
“Think, Jackson,” he muttered to himself, “think.”
He felt movement and looked up to see that Deke’s mammoth frame was filling the door. Then Tate’s eyes went to Bubba.
“I made some calls,” Bubba mumbled.
“Came by to see if we had to lock you down,” Deke announced.
“No one’s fuckin’ lockin’ me down,” Tate returned.
“You holdin’ your shit?” Deke asked.
“Yes, I’m fuckin’ holdin’ my shit,” Tate clipped in answer.
This was true. The part he didn’t share was that he was barely fucking holding his shit.
Deke surveyed Tate then looked at Bubba. “Wood’s organizing search parties at the garage. You comin’?”
Bubba glanced at Tate then he looked to Deke and said, “Yeah.”
Deke’s eyes moved to Tate. “You?”
Tate stood up. “We’re combin’ the hills where Sunny was attacked.”
Deke nodded. “Wood’s already got boys headin’ that way. They even got fuckin’ quadrants. He’s all over it.”
“Feds didn’t find anything up there,” Bubba noted.
“That don’t mean there’s nothin’ to be found,” Deke replied.
“Krys got Jonas?” Tate asked Bubba and Bubba nodded.
“Stella’s on her way up,” Deke added.
“Let’s go,” Tate muttered and headed out the door.
Krys and Jonas were in the living room when they arrived. Both sets of eyes flew to the three men as they hit the dining area.
Jonas shot off his chair and ran to Tate, slamming into him headlong and throwing his arms around Tate’s middle.
Jonas was holding his shit too, but that hold was slipping.
“Dad,” Jonas whispered, his voice small and scared and Tate allowed himself in that instant to acknowledge what he’d known since he’d heard Frank’s voice on the phone and that was the fact that tonight someone was going to die and Tatum Jackson was going to fucking kill him.
“Goin’ out, Bub, lookin’ for Laurie,” Tate muttered, his hand moving along his son’s hair and down to curl around his neck.
Jonas’s head shot back. “Can I –?”
“No,” Tate cut him off.
“But –”
“I gotta go, Bub,” Tate told him.
“But Dad –”
Tate grasped him by his biceps, pulled him firmly but gently away and held on as he bent double and looked in his son’s eyes. His eyes. Eyes Laurie had told him, in the dark when they were in bed after he’d made love to her weeks ago, that she thought were the most beautiful eyes she’d ever seen, both sets of them.
“Who’s my big man?” Tate whispered.