Thankfully, everything had calmed down to normal levels of crazy by the time Roscoe appeared late night Wednesday.
But then, Cletus called a family meeting on Thursday. To my surprise, Drew wasn’t there. He wasn’t related to us by blood, but he might as well have been. But before I could question his absence, Roscoe began complaining about the coffee. Loudly.
This earned him an array of irritated glares from all present. I loved my youngest brother, but he was a hipster of the worst sort, having too many opinions about shit that didn’t matter.
Like red wine. And coffee. And the French pronunciation of French words. Don’t get me wrong, I ain’t got nothing against the French. I like them a lot.
But the way Roscoe spoke sometimes, he acted like his poop didn’t smell even though he was just a poor boy from backwoods Tennessee, the youngest son of a con man and a librarian.
He’s used to getting what he wants all the time. Maybe we spoiled him too much.
Finally, Cletus lifted his voice over Roscoe’s complaints. “Praise for my excellent coffee notwithstanding, I have something serious to discuss with y’all.”
“Let’s hear it.” My sister took a big gulp from her mug, giving Roscoe a pointed stare, then licked her lips. “My, my, that is some mighty fine coffee.”
Our youngest brother rolled his eyes but said nothing.
Meanwhile, Cletus stood from the couch and strolled to the fireplace, like he was standing on a stage. “I have two things to tell y’all. The first is a . . . theoretical situation, and I need your advice. I’d like for all of us to vote.”
Duane, standing to my left, grumbled at Cletus’s request. “You want us to vote on a theoretical situation?”
“That’s right.”
My twin and I swapped a look while Billy set aside his newspaper and spoke up. “Okay. What is this theoretical situation?”
Cletus cleared his throat, and I got the sense he was a little nervous. “Let’s say, theoretically, that I’ve been stealing evidence from the sheriff’s office that implicates members of a certain motorcycle club and placing that evidence in strategic locations.”
Shit.
My pulse jumped and I stiffened, taking a step away from the wall. Maybe this was it. Maybe this is what Christine St. Claire was after.
“What does that mean?” I asked, working to keep my voice even. “Why would you do that?”
“Because a RICO charge requires at least two acts of racketeering activity,” Cletus responded as though he’d been asked about the mating habits of moths.
As an aside, I’d once asked him about the mating habits of moths. He knew all about it.
But getting back to the truth bomb he’d just detonated and the room full of gaping Winstons.
“Oh my God!” Ashley covered her mouth. “What did you do?”
“RICO? You’re taking them down on a RICO charge?” Billy spoke next, like he couldn’t believe his ears.
“In this theoretical scenario, the stolen evidence will be found in the possession of low-ranking motorcycle club members along with exceptionally well-organized lists detailing names, places, and events of their racketeering activities. All information contained on these lists is entirely accurate. Just, you know, now well organized.”
“You set them up.” My twin stepped next to me. “You organized their chaos, didn’t you? You helped them look better so every member will come under an organized crime charge.”
“That wipes them out. That completely annihilates the Wraiths. Anyone associated with them goes to prison, all on the same charge.” Roscoe chuckled, like he couldn’t help himself, but like he was still stunned.
Smirking, I allowed Cletus to see how impressed I was. “It’s not the Wraiths. It’s a theoretical motorcycle club. I’m so happy you don’t hate me.”
I had to hand it to Cletus, he certainly deserved his reputation in our family as an evil mastermind.
Cletus said nothing for about a minute or two, like he wanted to give us time to think through all the implications of his disclosure.
Then he clapped once, giving us all a start. “So, let’s take the vote.”
“What vote?” Duane looked to me, frowning.
“I want y’all to vote on whether I see this plan through. Everything is in place. All I need to do is make a phone call. It’s up to you.”
“It’s up to us?” Now I couldn’t believe my ears. “Since when? Since when is it up to us?”
“Since he fell in love and realized meddling comes with a price tag.” This statement came from Jethro. He was sitting on the couch, knitting something for my niece or nephew (aka his baby).
I stared at my oldest brother’s fingers, the care with which he worked on the hat or sock or whatever it was for his future child. Jethro hadn’t always been as he was now. At one point, he’d been a committed recruit in the Wraiths. Doing dumb shit, hurting people. Our mother had been devastated.
However, and as cliché as it might sound, he’d repented. Over the last five or so years, Jethro had made attempts to mend fences with all of us, make up for his past mistakes. Mostly, he’d succeeded.
Did I think his story of redemption meant that redemption was possible for all Wraith members? Did I think they’d eventually come to see the error of their ways and likewise repent?
Probably not.
Nor do I believe, I thought sadly, that Christine St. Claire wants redemption.
I was so preoccupied with these contemplations, I missed some of the conversation. The room came back into focus when I realized Billy had already voted. He wanted Cletus to bring them down.
“I also say yes.” My twin shared a commiserating glare with Billy. “I hope they all burn in hell.”
A ball of discomfort settled in my stomach, because Duane was voting without knowing all the facts. His birth mother would be affected. She’d definitely be one of the folks going to jail.
Maybe she doesn’t deserve Duane’s concern, but Duane deserves to know.
I sighed, because there was my answer. He needed to know, and I had to tell him.
Because of this, I stepped forward next to cast my vote. “I say no. I say let things happen naturally. If the law has evidence against them, let them use it. I don’t want any of us to be implicated.” I glanced at Duane, finding his glare on me, before finishing in a rush, “Let them make their own bed. It has nothing to do with us.”
And so it went, each of us casting our vote—Billy, Duane, and Cletus ready to lead the charge, Roscoe and Ashley with me—until Jethro was the only one left.
“Jethro?” Cletus prompted. “How do you vote?”
Our oldest brother didn’t look up from the work of his hands. “I abstain.”
“What? What do you mean you abstain?” Duane sounded pissed.
“I mean I abstain. I’m not voting.”