Bite Deep (7 page)

‘Just fine,' she lied.

‘This isn't … triggering anything?'

She shook her head. ‘Not at all.'

Bowden nodded, not looking entirely convinced, then turned the engine on and drove out of the medical centre's parking lot.

Lydia wound down the window, letting the fresh breeze ruffle any curls that had come loose from her braid. Sooner or later, she was sure she'd be comfortable back in this uniform, staring at dead bodies of doomed women. But for now, she'd just take one day at a time.

* * *

Jericho leaned against the railing of the Diablo Dogs' pine log clubhouse, listening as his pack brothers discuss Karla's less than impressive news.

Sitting at the back of compound, the clubhouse had only the most basic of furnishings inside: couch, large flat-screen screwed to the wall, pool table with one crooked leg and most importantly, a locked cage that held the centre's medications, riot gear and weapons. The MC also owned a second residence twenty minutes' drive from the compound, a cabin that acted as a quiet retreat for those who needed it. Of course, the place was more often used for wild parties Blades organised, full of booze and women for the Dogs and G1 men.

In the distance, birds called to each other as the sun set and Jericho smelled rain on the breeze, for which he was grateful for. The Dog House had bore water, but relied heavily on the rainwater tanks that sat beside the kitchen. The compound itself was guarded by cyclone fencing, capped with razor wire, the main entrance protected by sentries and a retractable crash plate that could launch a thick barrier of steel in half a second. Inside the compound, cabins sat side by side: some for accommodation, others for meditation sessions. A makeshift gym sat to one side, full of truck tyres and outdoor equipment, and beyond it lay thriving vegetable gardens, a chicken shed, shipping containers full of parts and a rusty generator beside the work shed.

A long workshop tucked at the back of the compound housed a dozen motorbikes, all in various states of repair. From where Jericho stood, he could see a couple of men inside, working on an enormous Triumph Rocket, repairing a busted tank. He had to admit it was a sweet machine, even if it wasn't a Harley. The men were often put into pairs and given a beat-up bike to work on. Teamwork, discipline and fellowship could all be learned from building a motorbike, from creating a machine that flew you along the road, giving back a little slice of freedom and replacing what had been lost.

A small silence fell and Jericho knew they'd all come to the same question he had: why would the Breed King take such a risk, coming to Camden?

‘I say fuck the King,' Blades murmured as he lit a cigarette. ‘We need to be out tracking the missing girl. The King can be tomorrow's problem.'

‘We need confirmation on the identity of the body first.' Jericho mentally pulled up a list of what had to be done. ‘Regardless of whether it's Karla's missing girl, I want to check out the crime scene. If someone's shooting unarmed citizens, we need to find them. The last thing we want is town folk suddenly hanging the crime on us.'

‘I'll find who pulled the trigger.' Blades settled back in his chair, blowing out a stream of smoke. ‘Count on it.'

Jericho nodded. ‘You and Reaper come with me this afternoon. We'll go check the crime scene out. I want both of you to see if you can pick up a scent or tracks that were missed. It's a long shot, but we've got to try.' He turned to Frost. ‘You're going to get into the police system and search for any new hunting permits that have been handed out. And do a background check on all new residents in town. Anything out of the ordinary.'

‘The cops really don't have any suspicions about who shot her?' Reaper asked, eyes trained on a piece of wood he was whittling with a knife, long raven-black hair falling forward like a curtain.

‘Bowden will call me when they identify her,' Jericho said. His gut told him it was going to be the missing female, and he had even called Karla to insist she stop dancing around the issue and view the body to be sure. Karla had stiffly thanked him and hung up. No doubt busy trying to figure out how she was going to explain the death to the Breed Council.

‘If it is the female, we need the ballistic report,' Frost said. ‘Confirm if she was killed with silver.'

‘No one around here's got that kind of ammo,' Blades pointed out. ‘You think a Hunter's arrived in town?'

‘We can't rule anything out at this moment,' Jericho said. ‘But why? To kill an unarmed female Breed? It makes no sense.'

‘Sure it does.' Reaper looked up. ‘Their paths crossed, he couldn't help himself and killed her. Now we find and kill him.'

‘There has to be a reason he's here,' Turk said. ‘If you were a Hunter in Camden, what would your directive be?'

‘Not to let the witch curse kill me?' Blades offered. ‘Isn't that why Hunters don't come here? They'll get cursed with warts or something?'

‘Maybe that's not enough anymore and they're testing boundaries,' Jericho said, though he wasn't sure to what extent he believed in the fabled curse that struck Hunters down. ‘Hunters only act on the authority of the Association. If one is here, I'll wager it's got something to do with the King coming.'

‘So we'll find him and interrogate,' Frost said.

‘Hunters only speak lies. We just kill him.' Reaper shook his head. ‘The only trustworthy Hunter is a dead one.'

‘True enough,' Blades agreed, dropping his cigarette and running a boot heel over it.

‘Anyone got other business?' Jericho asked, suddenly impatient. He wanted to get going. Two Breed deaths in the space of a few days did not sit well with him and a part of him hoped that by finding Anna's killer, the weight of Lance's death would lighten, if only a fraction.

‘You said the King's Enforcer had business with you,' Turk said. ‘You think he'll come here?'

Jericho shrugged. ‘I don't know.'

‘If he does, you gonna be okay with that?' Turk stared towards the canteen, avoiding the scars that ripped through Jericho's face. ‘Considering the past.'

‘Why wouldn't I be?' Jericho deliberately ignored what he was really asking. After all, the past with Vaughn was exactly that. The fucking past. His fingers twitched, wanting to rub his left kneecap that had never healed right from the night he and his king had been ambushed. For the safety of his crew and the Dog House, he'd always held fast that there was no grudge, though he doubted anyone bought that. Hell, he didn't believe it. He clenched his hands into fists, trying to shove aside the dark memories of that night and the burning desire to even the score.

‘And Karla wouldn't say what was wrong with her brother?' Frost looked as skeptical as Jericho felt. Whatever ailed the Breed King, it had to be big to leave the comfort and security of his large mansion in LA. Jericho wondered idly if the issue was something else entirely, like being involved in social scandal, something the full-blooded clans would feast on for months. He'd heard when Karla had refused to divulge the parentage of her baby, the gossip had raged years until she'd been banished here. That had been years ago, and Jericho now sensed she was looking for a way out of Camden and back into her family business. He also got the distinct impression she wanted to tie him into those plans, something he was not interested in, at all. His place was here.

‘The King and his Enforcer can come here and hide out with the women.' Reaper shot him a fierce look. ‘But we've got your back if either show up here.'

Reaper's meaning was clear: the pack stood with him. All men patched into the Diablo Dogs had dirty reputations, but together as brothers they stood strong, even if it meant standing against the King they were supposed to claim fealty to.

Chapter 6

The radio was tuned to a golden oldie station and Lydia found her foot tapping to an old James Brown song as she stared out the car window. Bowden had driven them out of town and they now rumbled along a partly surfaced road hedged with sweet-potato farms, and fields spotted with grazing Jersey cows. Bowden's mood seemed light, considering what they were heading out for.

‘How are you getting on with Greta and Dominic?' Bowden asked. ‘Have they got their caravan ready to roll yet?'

‘I think so,' Lydia said, though she really wasn't sure. After the death of her mother by a hit-and-run when she was thirteen, she'd moved to the mainland to live with a cousin. The family home had stayed in her name, rented out to Dominic and Greta Solberg, a German couple who had moved into the small workers' cottage out the back and turned the four-bedroom home into a successful bed and breakfast for the last ten years.

After Greta had written to Lydia to advise her that she and her husband were ending their lease to retire and travel the country in a caravan, Lydia had seen it as a sign and made the decision to return to her childhood town. It was a beacon of hope for some peace in the darkness that threatened to choke her at night, causing her to wake with a panicked shout, body trembling and drenched in sweat. Now she wasn't so sure; her panic attacks were still not subsiding, even in the peace of Camden.

Beside her, Bowden gave a short chuckle. ‘That Greta is one hard-nosed lady. I still remember the time she kicked out a couple of bikers for smoking pot. Heard she chased them with a straw broom, right off the premises.'

Bowden's humour was infectious and she laughed with him. Lydia had sat down with Greta a few times since moving back, and learned quickly it was best to just agree with whatever the elderly woman said. She hadn't seen much of Greta's husband, Dominic, just the odd glimpse now and then of him slipping into the shambling large shed near the cottage as he attempted to ready their caravan for their travels.

‘You know, I don't recall when you left,' Bowden said. ‘You were, what, about eight years old?'

‘Thirteen,' Lydia said softly. ‘I was thirteen.'

‘Right.' Bowden trailed off, becoming aware the conversation had veered into territory best left alone. They drove in silence for the rest of the way and Lydia was fine with that. She didn't quite have her footing yet. Even though Camden seemed the same, she was still essentially a stranger. Everything felt slightly off and she couldn't quite relax, aware she didn't fit in. She told herself that things would change once the Solbergs left. The house had decades of strangers traipsing through its doors and she knew logically it would take a while for her to settle and make it a home.

Bowden pulled off the road, turning onto a winding dirt driveway pinpointed by a letterbox made from a milk crate nailed to a wooden stump. The path stretched up through acres of apple trees, heavy with fruit, until an old timber house came into view, looking like it had been put together by someone who didn't care much about the finer points of carpentry. An elderly man sat on a bench on the front porch, shotgun lying across his knees. Lydia glanced at Bowden, wondering if it was usual to be greeted by a person with a weapon. She hoped not; her nerves didn't need the workout. Bowden just gave a weary sigh and braked near the house.

‘Don't mind the gun, Sam's harmless,' he told Lydia, killing the engine and getting out. ‘Probably just filled with rock salt anyway.'

Lydia followed him, trying to keep her hands away from the gun at her hip, an automatic response when faced with an armed stranger. She tried to be calm and appreciate the beautiful morning sky, a clear stretch of sapphire overhead. But somehow she couldn't shake the feeling she was going to throw up.

‘Frank.' The old man nodded at Bowden in greeting, ignoring her.

‘Hey, Sam.' Bowden stopped at the bottom of the porch, resting a foot on the bottom step.

Up close, Lydia saw Sam Tanner was a scrawny man, with snowy fairy-floss hair and oversized ears. He smoked a brown cigarette that smelled like burning tar, fingers nicotine-stained down to the knuckles.

‘What's going on, Sam?' Bowden asked.

‘Just like I told you on the phone. I would have called yesterday, but I was feeling a little off.' The old man picked some tobacco leaf off his lip, then stood, shotgun in his left hand. He eyed Lydia doubtfully. ‘You sure you want to see this, love?'

‘Sorry, Sam, don't know where my manners got to.' Bowden threw a hand Lydia's way. ‘This is Constable Gault, Jade Gault's little girl. She's come back after working on the police force back on the mainland.'

Sam fixed Lydia with a shrewd look. ‘Dominic still kicking around, eh?'

‘He's still around,' Lydia said. ‘He and Greta are looking to retire. Travel the country in a caravan.'

‘He'll go mad within a week, guaranteed,' Sam predicted with a sage look. ‘Especially with that wife of his. Got a tongue on her that can draw blood.' Sam inhaled deeply on his cigarette, then dropped it on the porch and stubbed it out with a mud-encrusted boot. ‘There's a bit of blood out there, Frank. Maybe leave the girl in the car.'

Lydia forced a stiff, reassuring smile across her face. ‘I worked homicide before I came here, Mr Tanner. I've seen worse, I can assure you.'

‘Yeah?' The corner of the old man's eyes crinkled, like he thought it was kind of funny. Lydia's face flushed hot, remembering how lightning-fast gossip spread through towns. No doubt he'd heard about her throwing up out the back of the station. She would never live that down in a community this size. Bowden shifted aside as Sam descended the steps, shotgun cradled in his arms.

‘Best get going then and I'll show you this cow.'

They headed towards the orchards, the air sweet with ripe fruit. As they walked, Bowden and Sam talked in low voices about general town business. Lydia followed at a short distance, until they reached a small clearing.

‘This is it,' Tanner said.

The rusty metal smell of blood hit her nose like a blow and she forced herself not to gag. The blood was splattered around the small clearing and the clogging stench of iron mixed nauseously with the honey scent of ripe fruit.