Quarryville was a two-day ride from Columbus, a distance not much different than that from Columbus to North Dakota, a ride he had made several times with the Lords of Ohio to attend the annual Sturgis Motorcycle Rally. He likely had only a few days to decide where he wanted to go and who he wanted to be before the U.S. Marshals Service came for him. He was considering the Pacific Northwest when he finally rolled up the service-bay doors to find Tommy sitting at one of the picnic tables outside.
Tommy rose, tucked the magazine he’d been reading into his back pocket, and headed inside. He placed his usual order and added, “You aren’t planning to throw pickles at me this morning, are you?”
“I should charge you extra for them,” Beau said as he filled a Styrofoam three-compartment takeout container with Tommy’s lunch order.
“Fat chance you could collect it.”
Beau slid a cold can of Dr Pepper across the counter and Tommy slid back exact change.
There were no other customers in the smokehouse and none approaching as far as Beau could see. “Yesterday you said there was nothing for you at home,” he said, “but why do you keep coming here?”
“When I retired, I came home to care for my mother because she was all I had in the world,” Tommy said. “She died a couple of years later, and I planted her in the Methodist cemetery, next to my father. I was spending every afternoon in the Watering Hole, drowning my sorry ass in cheap beer, before you opened this place.”
“You chose brisket over beer?”
“You’re better company than a bottle of Lone Star,” Tommy said.
“What about your old friends, the people you grew up with?”
“The few that didn’t move away are dead or as good as,” Tommy said. “These days you’re the closest thing to a friend I’ve got.”
Unsure how to respond, Beau stared across the counter at his customer.
“I never hear you talk about your people.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Beau said. “They’re gone.”
“That’s a damn shame,” Tommy said. “Good thing you found Bethany. When I had to put my mother’s cat to sleep a couple of years ago, your Bethany held my hand. That’s a good woman you have there. Worth fighting for, don’t you think?”
Without waiting for a response, Tommy picked up his lunch and carried it outside. A lone biker drifted by on the highway, the potato-potato-potato sound echoing into the former showroom until the door swung closed. Beau stiffened.
Beau waited until he was in the privacy of his own home that afternoon before dialing the number he had memorized all those years earlier. After identifying himself to Deputy Marshal Arquette, Beau asked, “Have you heard anything?”
“Nothing,” Arquette replied.
“Are you planning to relocate me?”
“Not at this time.”
“I have people now.”
“That complicates things.”
“You have no idea.”
“I’ll be away from the office tomorrow and Friday,” she said, “but my calls will be forwarded to my cell. Let me know if anything changes.”
“Yeah,” Beau said. “I’ll call when I’m dead.”
He stabbed the phone’s disconnect switch with his finger and began pacing the living room. His first thought the previous day had been to abandon this life just as he had abandoned his previous life, but Bethany and Tommy had made him realize he had more to lose and nothing he wanted to leave behind.
He was sitting at the kitchen table nursing a bottle of Dos Equis when Bethany returned home from the veterinary clinic. He reached into the refrigerator behind him and brought out a second bottle. As he held it out to her, he said, “I’m sorry about last night.”
“You should be.” Bethany took the bottle and settled onto a chair on the other side of the table.
During preparation for relocation, William Secrist and other deputy marshals had promised that no one who followed their instructions had ever been hurt or killed while in the Witness Security Program under the protection of the U.S. Marshals Service. One of those rules was never, ever to divulge his prior identity, not even to a lover who entered his life after relocation. Too many relationships turn sour, and a spiteful ex who revealed his identity would endanger his life. Beau knew he had to risk that possibility.
“You know who I am,” Beau said, “not who I was. I’m not that man anymore.”
“Does this have something to do with your tattoo?”
Tattooed on Beau’s left upper arm, usually covered by his shirt sleeve, was a skull with a crown of thorns and the phrase VENGEANCE IS MINE written in Old English script in a ribbon below the skull.
He nodded. “I was an enforcer for the Lords of Ohio.”
She shook her head.
“Hell’s Angels. Banditos,” he said. “Like them, but a much smaller organization.”
“Organization?” Bethany said. “You mean gang? You’re in a motorcycle gang?”
“I was, a long time ago. I’m not now.”
“So how do you quit? Do you just mail in a resignation letter?”
“I wish it were that easy.” He told her about his arrest and the deal he’d made to roll over on his fellow Lords of Ohio. “The feds had me dead to rights,” he said. “I was facing life in prison with no possibility of parole.”
Bethany listened without interruption.
“The feds dropped all charges in return for my turning state’s evidence, and they put me in the Witness Security Program, relocating me here when all the trials ended,” Beau explained. “Eighteen members of the Lords of Ohio went to prison because of my testimony. Chainsaw Roberts must be out by now.”
Chainsaw had not been convicted of any of the murders Beau had witnessed in his previous life, the evidence too circumstantial despite Beau’s testimony, and had gone away for ten years on a combination of lesser charges. Beau told Bethany the big man used a chainsaw for easy disposal of bodies while leaving behind copious amounts of physical reminders attesting to the deceased’s violent end to discourage the deceased’s friends and family from pursuing matters further.
“Sweet Jesus,” Bethany said under her breath. She opened her bottle of Dos Equis and downed half of it before she spoke again. “So you were just going to walk out on us?”
He told her about the magazine article and how he thought the photograph outed him.
“I thought if I left, you and Amanda would be safe.” Beau didn’t mention that the U.S. Marshals Service had not yet committed to relocating him. “I realized today that if I walk away, I leave behind everyone and everything I’ve ever loved. I couldn’t leave without you knowing why.”
“No,” Bethany said. “You’re staying. We’ll get through this. Somehow, we’ll get through this.”
Amanda, a young woman who resembled photographs of Bethany at the same age, opened the back door and stepped into the kitchen. Her presence ended their conversation.
Tommy ordered his usual lunch on Thursday. As he paid, he said, “You didn’t exist until you moved here, and you barely exist now.”
“How’s that?” Beau asked.
“I spent some time on the Internet yesterday. You’re not on social media, don’t have an email address I can find, and I’ve seen your cell phone. All it does is make calls.”
“You have a problem with that?”
“A man has a right to privacy,” Tommy said. “But your reaction to the magazine article got me to thinking.”
“About?”
“About why a man might be hiding. About why a man might have no past to speak of,” Tommy said. “I worked in the oil fields with men like you. Quiet men. Just wanted the world to leave them alone.”