CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Jeremiah Clancy wiped the sweat from his brow with a calloused hand and squinting against the merciless sun. Goddamn Virginia summer, hot as Satan"s asshole and twice as dry.

But he couldn"t complain, not really. Not when this little off-the-books job was paying better than any legit gig he"d scraped up in months. The kind of cash-in-hand deal that lined a man"s pockets real nice, no Uncle Sam or the old ball-and-chain sniffing around for their cut. Music to a working man"s ears.

Sure, it was a little unorthodox. So what if it was kinda sketchy? So what if he had to drive an hour out of his way? Money was money. And in Jeremiah"s world, that was the only thing that mattered.

He stepped back and surveyed his handiwork with a critical eye. The old farmhouse that loomed had seen better days, that was for damn sure. But Jeremiah had never been one to back down from a challenge.

Even if that challenge involved bricking up an old root cellar door in the middle of nowhere for some rich douche with more money than sense.

He turned back to the farmhouse"s weathered clapboard, the old oak door he was fitting into a newly bricked frame. The damn thing was heavy as sin, solid as the day it was hung. They didn"t make them like this anymore, all particle board and flimsy veneer. This was craftsmanship, the kind of woodwork that"d outlast the cockroaches.

The new owner had been really particular about keeping it. He had a real hard-on for "maintaining the historical character" or some such bullcrap. Weird, but whatever. As long as the check cleared, Jeremiah would brick up the goddamn Taj Mahal if that"s what the man wanted.

Jeremiah hefted another brick and slapped some mortar on with a trowel. The repetitive motions were soothing, almost meditative. There was something satisfying about good, honest labor. About working with his hands, watching something take shape under his touch. Even if that something was just a slapdash patch job, covering up a door to nowhere.

He shook his head. Rich people. Who knew what went on in their heads?

Jeremiah had just started shimming it square when a shadow fell across his boots. He glanced up.

Speak of the devil. There was the man himself, a tall drink of water in pressed chinos and a crisp white polo. Trent something-or-other, one of those double-barrel surnames that screamed old money.

‘Hotter than hell out here, huh?' Trent thrust a glass of iced tea under Jeremiah's nose. Condensation beaded the sides then dripped onto the parched earth. ‘Thought you could use a little refreshment.'

Jeremiah hesitated. He wasn"t in the habit of taking handouts from his employers, no matter how tempting. Blurred the lines, made things muddy. A man had his pride, after all. And who the hell offered their contractors iced tea? It was usually coffee or beer or nothing.

But Christ Almighty, he was parched. Mouth dry as a dirt road, tongue practically sticking to the roof of it. And that tea looked cool as a mountain stream, with a slice of lemon floating in its amber depths like a promise.

‘Mighty kind of you,' he said, reaching for the glass. ‘Much obliged.'

‘Least I can do.' Trent's smile widened. ‘You"re out here busting your hump in this heat, making my little fixer-upper shine. Gotta take care of the help, am I right?'

There was something off about the way he said it, but Jeremiah shook it off, too grateful of the refreshment to read into things. He raised the glass in a little salute, then tipped it back. The tea was ambrosia on his parched throat, icy and sweet with just a hint of bitter. He gulped it down greedily, draining half the glass in one long pull.

And for a moment, everything was perfect. The heat faded away, the ache in his muscles easing like a knot coming undone. He could almost forget where he was, could almost pretend he was back home on his mama"s porch, watching the fireflies dance in the gathering dusk.

‘If you need anything else, just say the word.' And Trent made his way back into the house.

Jeremiah wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, set the glass down and returned to the job. He checked the level again, made a minor adjustment. Perfectionism was a point of pride, even on these under-the-table gigs. Folks might say he was rough around the edges, but no one could deny the quality of his craft.

He lost himself in the work, in the satisfying rasp of brick on mortar, the solid thunk of the oak settling into place. A few taps with the rubber mallet and it sat flush, snug in its new frame like it had always been there. The sun roasted his back like a laser beam, but he was used to it. Twenty years humping lumber and swinging hammers had left him lean and tough as old leather.

The repetitive squeeze and glide of the trigger was almost hypnotic as he laid down a neat bead of sealant around the edges. Smooth, even strokes, just like his old man had taught him. The old man might"ve been a mean son of a bitch, but he knew his way around a job site. Jeremiah had learned from the best.

He was just putting the finishing touches on the weatherstripping when it hit him.

A wave of dizziness so sudden and intense, it nearly knocked him on his ass. He staggered, bracing a hand against the door to keep from faceplanting into his freshly mortared bricks.

What the hell?

He"d always been steady as a surgeon, a necessity in this line of work. But now his coordination was shot. Limbs heavy and slow like he was moving through molasses.

Jeremiah shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. Vertigo, maybe? He"d had a bout of it a few years back, some inner ear thing that left him puking his guts up for days. But this felt different. Deeper, somehow. Like the ground was tilting under his feet, the world going soft and sideways.

He blinked hard, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. Christ, maybe it was sunstroke. He"d been out here for hours, cooking his brain in the relentless August heat. Or dehydration – that iced tea might"ve taken the edge off, but it was no substitute for good old H2O.

He ambled towards the house in search of respite from the heat and a good overdose of water – as rare as it was around these parts. But his legs wouldn't cooperate. His tongue felt thick, and unwieldy in his mouth, like it was coated in fuzz.

Then the dizziness crested as darkness crowded the edges of his vision. He lurched sideways and his shoulder slammed into the unforgiving brick. Pain shot through his arm, but it was distant, muted. Unimportant against the rising tide of panic flooding his chest.

He needed to get inside. Needed to sit down, put his head between his knees. Maybe call his old lady, tell her – something.

No. No way. He was fine. He was just just tired, is all. Overheated. He"d rest for a minute, catch his breath. Then he"d finish up and get the hell out of here, go home to Diane, and avoid the sun for the rest of his life.

He pushed off the wall, willing his legs to hold him up. One step, two. He could do this.

But the world tilted and spun like a carnival ride cranked up to eleven. Jeremiah"s stomach lurched, and he swallowed hard against the sour flood of bile rising in his throat. His knees buckled, balance deserting him entirely.

Jeremiah wanted to scream and cry for help, but his vocal cords were paralyzed. He could only watch in mute horror as his traitorous body folded like a house of cards, knees buckling and pitching him face-first into the dirt.

The impact forced a grunt from his lungs. He lay there, cheek mashed into the sun-baked earth, trying desperately to move, to crawl, to do anything. But he was a prisoner in his own skin, betrayed by blood and bone.

A shadow fell over him. He didn"t need to look up to know who it was. Could feel that cold gaze prickling along his spine like icicles dragging over a grave.

‘Looks like you could use some water,' the man said.