Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [27]
“Never forget the sound that night . . . The cryin’ tires, the bustin’ glass. The painful scream that I heard last . . .”
Faulkner wailed, yanked the door open and ran into the night.
Jago looked at Asha and lifted his brows. “Impressive. Would someone like to tell me what the bloody hell just happened?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“What the bloody hell was that?” Jago repeated for anyone willing to answer. No one did. Ruddy cowards. The instant the words were out of his mouth, Asha and Netta scurried off, muttering they had closing chores to start. Jago had a hard time believing what he’d seen. Something really strange—look for-Rod-Serling-time strange—had just occurred, yet no one wanted to speak about it. Obviously, they were going to pretend it hadn’t happened, and hoped he’d do the same.
“You’re going to ignore my question, too?” Jago’s eyes targeted Liam.
Asha’s brother strolled around the counter and fetched two bottles of beer from the cooler. Perching on a stool, he handed one to Jago. “What’s to tell? The man’s a vulgar creep. An aging town bully. I wouldn’t put it past the jerk to sneak up behind you and stick a knife in your back. While old man Faulkner was still alive, Monty got away with a lot—and I mean a lot. In the manner of all serial killers, he started small by shooting animals, pets, and then later, car windows of passing vehicles. No matter what he did, daddy dearest bought him out of trouble, right down to Montague committing rape when he was barely fifteen, with no charges ever being lodged—so it’s told. He’s been gone for a long time; most people assumed he’d moved away. Then he showed up again about three years ago, just after Dr. Faulkner died. Residents of Leesburg cross to the other side of the street when they see him coming.”
Jago wasn’t diverted. “That’s not what I asked and you know it.”
Pretending not to hear, Liam kept his eyes on Netta and Asha preparing to close up for the night. “I get the impression, Fitzgerald, you want to court my sister.”
“Court? A quaint way to put it.” His turn to play cagey, Jago tilted his beer and looked at the label. “If this is a dry county, how is it The Windmill can serve beer?”
“Oooo, nice duck. I’m impressed.” Liam grinned, lifting his ale in salute. “The old icehouse on the edge of The Windmill’s property originally straddled two counties. Some mapmaker goofed. When boundaries were drawn, there was this very narrow strip, a No Man’s Land that each county claimed. They battled over it in the courts for decades. Outside of any incorporated lines, there were no laws to rule what happened here. With the two counties fighting over which one The Windmill actually sat in, and each wanting the taxes, our mother Mae put her foot down, said the only way she’d support either side was if they grandfathered The Windmill and let it continue to serve beer.”
“Thank goodness for grandfather clauses.” Jago rotated on his stool to observe Asha and Netta filling salt-and-pepper shakers on the tables. “And thank heaven for little girls.”
Sam came from the kitchen, wiped steam from the dishwasher off his face with his apron, and then helped himself to a Budweiser. “Amen to that,” he said. With an exhausted exhale, he joined Liam and Jago on the stools. The three sat and watched the ladies. “Two mighty fine women.”
“Represents the breed.” Liam sighed his admiration.
Jago glanced at Montgomerie, unused to men ‘prettier’ than he was. Asha’s brother was as handsome as Asha was beautiful, though not in a plastic way like many models tend to be. Both Montgomeries were earthy, vital, sensual creatures.
Over the years, Julian Starkadder—Desmond’s right hand man—had compiled extensive files on all the Montgomeries in preparation for his brother’s plans. Jago knew that Liam was only a few months older than he. Had they attended the same school, Liam and he would’ve been in the same classroom—maybe even good friends, judging by his instant liking of the man.