Rough Men (10 page)

“No. I don’t know. I didn’t exactly follow what happened to him. To any of them. I had my own life to worry about, and then I had Alex.”

In front of them, the wind shoved a GMC Denali right off of the road. The big truck was catching enough wind on its large frame that its four-wheel drive had ceased to matter, and the thing slid horizontally off the highway as though moved by a god.

“Jesus,” Will said, “did you see that? That’s fucking nuts.”

“They’re going to be waiting for a wrecker for a while too. Anyways, though, like I was saying, there’s a reason Jason served the maximum possible sentence for that B and E, and his time had nothing to do with a little smash-and-grab. He made a sixteen-year-old girl blow him, and when it came down to her word against his, she decided not to talk.”

“None of that matters now. He did his time, and he’s the only person who can help me find out who hurt Alex. If that gets a little blood under my fingernails, then so be it.”

Isaac shook his head and went back to watching the road. Vehicles were pulled over and stuck on roadside culverts as they traveled. When the two brothers pulled off the highway, they both let out sighs of relief.

T
wo days after the worst of the blizzard, the plow trucks were clearing and salting the streets, the sun was shining and suggesting winter might finally be coming to a close, and Will received three phone calls.
The first was from Lou.

“How you holding up, buddy?” Lou exclaimed into the phone, before Will could even say hello.

“I’m doing OK. Alison seems to be getting better as well. I think my brother is going home pretty soon too, now that he can. I know he meant to only be here for a day or two, but the snow had other plans. Plus, I think he’s enjoying the little vacay from work and his old lady.” Isaac was sitting across the kitchen table from Will as he spoke and flipped his little brother a middle finger and a grin.

“That’s great, great stuff. Any word from the law? Have they said if they have any leads?”

“Nope. Nothing on releasing Alex’s body, either.”

“I already told you this, but I can start making waves on that, light a fire under their asses.”

“No. I’m sure it’s just the snow. It slowed down everything else, may as well slow down the cops and the medical examiner too. I’ll let you know if I change my mind.” After a beat, Will said, “Lou, I know you aren’t just calling to see how I am.”

“I’m like a piece of glass,” Lou said. “There’s a window into my soul, what can I say? The people at Fox want to talk to you. Might score some national coverage, give you a chance to tell
your side. Alison could be on if she wanted to as well—hell, that’s what they want—but I told them I’d talk to you.”

“I don’t know.”

“Will, these people put you on the air twice when you were promoting books. I’ll get a list of questions beforehand, and it won’t be live—it’s pretty much best-case scenario. You get to tell your story in a safe setting, and if stuff goes badly, we have them edit the hell out of it.”

“Give me a day to talk to Alison, but you can tell them I’ll do it—once I approve those questions, of course.”

“Great! They’re going to be thrilled. I’m going to get on the horn with them. I’ll get back to you soon—day or two, tops.”

The phone clicked off, but before Will could replace it in the pocket of his jeans, it began to ring again.
Christ, what now?
Checking the caller ID, Will could see that it was a 206 area code.
Jack, most likely.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Will, do you have a couple of minutes?”

“Yeah, sure. What’s going on, Jack?” Will stood from the kitchen table, held a finger up to his brother to say,
One minute
, and then walked into the dining room.

“I was able to talk to Terri and Bruce this morning. Don’t freak out, but we had a meeting to discuss your issues. Actually, before I say anything else, it’s all good news, so really don’t freak out.”

“I’m good.”

“Cool. Terri and Bruce both agreed with me that we should push your next title back a little bit, maybe a quarter or two from when you normally release, so nothing crazy. I think they would have gone for it either way, but I sort of gave a nudge in that direction, and they went for it. I didn’t mention that you weren’t writing right now. I mean, I assume they would think you weren’t writing because of what happened, but I didn’t say you were kind of stonewalled before that.

“Here’s where it gets really good. Terri still wants you to get something to her when you normally do, but we’ll have a ton more time to work out the kinks. If you get in by the middle of summer, you’d most likely be looking at a fall release next year. I think that should be totally doable, writer’s block or not, and it should give you a way to escape from reality for a bit.

“The other great part is that if the next book is as good as your first two, Terri will likely negotiate an advance with you. Now, don’t quote me on that part, but we all feel terrible about what happened, and none of us want it to affect your ability to produce new work, or need to take time away from doing what you love, for something that isn’t your fault.”

“I appreciate that, Jack. And the possibility of an advance—that’s awesome.”

“Will, we want you to do well. This is enough to go through, not to mention writing. That said, dude, you need to give us something we can work with. You need to produce something awesome, something that works within the genre that you found success in. We both know you can write, but you need to stay focused. I loved that last thing, but it was way off the reservation in terms of what people have come to expect from you.”

“I got that, Jack. Once this is a little more settled, I’ll get back to the keyboard.”

“Good, that makes me super happy. Get through this, and get to writing. You’ve done it before; you’ll do it again. Just because the last one was a no-go doesn’t mean we don’t want more from you or that some crazy Norse god took all your stories away. You’re a good writer, and writers write.”

“Thanks, Jack, for everything. I can’t say that enough. I’ll let you know when this is over.”

Will hung up the phone, trying to flush the tears from his eyes. Jack was 100 percent correct. It was time to get back to the keyboard and, instead of whining about writer’s block, to start telling stories. He’d picked writing as a way to get out of a dead
end of a job—and dead end for a life—and to throw away everything he’d accomplished wasn’t only unreasonable, it was childish. The phone ringing a third time interrupted his thoughts and made him almost throw the thing to the floor.

Will didn’t recognize the number and almost ignored the call. Then he remembered what Jason had said about calling on a burner, a throwaway cell with a number he wouldn’t recognize.

“Hello?”

“Meet me tonight. Bring what you brought the other day.”

Jason hung up before Will could even attempt a response, and it wasn’t until the phone was back in his pocket that he realized Jason had meant for him to bring a gun.

“Isaac, I need to talk to Alison for a few minutes.”

Isaac stood. His brother had gone pale, and before he could disguise it, Alison saw him.

Turning to Will, he could tell that she had been waiting all along for the other shoe to drop. “Is it bad news?” she asked as Isaac fled to the basement. “I’m not sure I can take much more of that. I suppose you’ll tell me either way, though.”

“This is good news and bad news,” said Will. “Mostly good, but a little bad—at least you may think so. I talked to Jack. It looks like there will be a delay on my next book, once I get around to writing, editing, and submitting it, of course. It sounds like they want to avoid any negative publicity that Alex’s...situation could send my way.”

“That sounds OK. Right?”

“Except, I have no idea who or what I’ll be writing about.” Will considered telling her about the possible advance, finally deciding against it. It would be better not to play with her feelings over something that might not happen. “But none of that matters. They still want to see work from me and, if it’s up to snuff,
promote and publish it. If anything, the delay is a good thing. It will give me time to write and really play with what I want my third book to be. I have to imagine that
Bottles
sold enough that there will be people out there actually expecting something from the next Will Daniels book, as weird as that is to actually come right out and say.”

“That all sounds great, Will. And of course people are waiting for your next one.”

“The other thing, though, it’s not as pleasant.”

The light that had risen in her eyes went out, just like that, and he wondered if anything that he might have to do in the following weeks, days, or even hours could be forgiven.

“Isaac and I went and met up with an old friend on that grocery trip during the blizzard the other day. He’s a friend from when I was still trouble—or at least thought I was trouble. This guy, though, he was the real deal then, and he still is now. I asked him if he could get me any information on who had hurt Alex, and he said he would call if he was able to. We already had a set time and place to meet, so all he had to do was call on the day he wanted to meet if he had any information.”

“And he called you.”

“Yes, he did.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to meet with him, and I’m hoping Isaac will come with me.”

“I know you’re going to meet with him—I’m not an idiot. It’s obvious you’re set to go do something. I mean, if he can get you info and show you who hurt Alex,
then
what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet. I suppose I’d want to turn them into the police, but I’m not sure that would even be an option. I know that Wixom—the guy who’s helping us—would never have gotten involved if there were even a possibility of police involvement.”

“Will, do think the police are going to catch the men who killed our son?”

“No. Do you?”

“No, I don’t. That makes me feel very weak and also very scared, but I don’t think they will. I think that, even if they do, it will be an accident.”

They thought about that together, eyes locked, and then she said, “I guess what I mean is, I want you to be safe. And I don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret every time you close your eyes. But”—she swallowed, and steel came into her eyes—“I want those men punished. If that means that you and your brother need to call every old hood that you know from some long-buried little black book, you do it. Those men killed my son.”

W
ill and Isaac sat at Founders.
Will was drinking a glass of Breakfast Stout, and Isaac was too. Both brothers were nervous, but only Isaac had admitted to it on the car ride over to the brewery.

The Sig felt heavy in Will’s jacket, but not like it had when they’d gone to Jason’s tattoo shop. If anything, it felt like a keyboard to a writer or a hammer to a carpenter. It was a tool necessary for the right sort of job. Isaac was carrying as well, a small 9mm that Will had picked up as a summer carry piece, if he ever got around to taking a concealed carry class.

They were at a table near the rear of the brewery, figuring that Jason would be able to find them even if they tried to hide from him. The building itself was packed. Most of the tables, about twenty in all, were occupied, and the fifty-seat bar had nary a single empty stool. Conversations roared, and Will understood why Jason had picked this place, even if it seemed like the last sort of bar that he would ever hang out in on his own. It was perfect. With the varied tables of oddly mixed groups, they wouldn’t stand out in the least.