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Chapter 8: A New Threat

Nicholas Peters hadn't bothered to fasten up the front of his black overcoat. The temperature was still below freezing, but the air no longer held the bite to it of previous weeks. He half wondered how long they were going to be seeing a break in the weather. Not long he was sure.

He slammed his car door closed and used the remote to lock it up and activate the alarm system. He looked around the street, wondering if the Federal agent who had phoned was somewhere nearby, watching him, though the street looked abandoned. His nerves were wearing thin; he didn't like the feel of this whole situation.

First he'd suffered for over a year under Victor Sweet's thumb, and just when he thought he was free to move on with his life and right his wrongs, Jessup Winston had approached him with the same picture of infidelity Sweet had used to control him. Sure, Winston's deal had been much more appealing to him, with the cash pay offs, but the threat was still there, he hadn't been given a choice, not really.

Jeremiah Mercer didn't deserve to have his entire life ripped out from under him, and he did feel bad that he'd been forced to be a part of that. But he didn't deserve to have his own life end up in ruins either; he may have lost his wife because of the entire mess; she was still trying to come to terms with his actions. He had lost his job with the city, on the zoning commission. His assets had been frozen pending the findings of the courts. In other words, he was broke. The only physical property to escape the hammer so far had been the house, which had been in his wife's name.

It seemed to be a never ending cycle. The worst was supposed to be over, according to his lawyer. He had the proof that he was being blackmailed by Jessup Winston; he had the photo copy of the damaging picture with Winston's fingerprints all over it. True, he hadn't mentioned the money that had been paid, but that was neither here nor there, really. If he had refused the money, or refused to follow Winston's instructions, that damn picture would have been published in the paper. He'd done what he had out of desperation and fear. He had acted under duress. Until that could be proven in court he was hanging by a thread. Of course he had been smart enough to stash the cash money paid to him by Winston in other places than his bank account so he wasn't hurting nearly as bad as it appeared.

The problem was, now the FBI wanted to talk to him. Why, he didn't know. His lawyer had advised him not to talk to anyone about his case without him being present, but Harris had seemed threatening. Hell, that was all he needed, more threats, more worries. He wanted the nightmare to end. Too many people were dead. In some ways the death of Jessup Winston made it easier for him to get out from under the weight of it all, but it was frightening. How many other people involved with the scheme would end up six feet under? Peters didn't want to be added to the death count, and it seemed he'd managed to ride it out to the end in one piece.

The men who had ruined his life were dead, it should be over. Once he could convince the courts he was a victim, he could have his money and his life back; he wanted to put it all behind him and concentrate on getting his wife back.

He held onto the hope of salvaging what was left of his marriage. His wife wasn't unreasonable. They had talked, and she knew he loved her, she just needed time. He could give her time. He had moved out of the house, and he'd left her enough money to get by on for a month. He just prayed that she came around to her senses by the end of the month and let him come home.

The afternoon sun warmed the street. Tri-Centennial Park seemed abandoned despite the mild weather. He walked towards the visitor's center, wondering why the hell Agent Harris had chosen this spot to meet up with him. The park was a big camping and boating spot, popular in the warmer months, but usually quiet and deserted in the winter. He hated the idea of not having other people around, and was about to turn and head back to his car parked on Atwater St.

The door to the visitor's center opened and a man wearing a suit and tie under a grey rain coat stepped out, looking directly at him. "Mr. Peters?" His voice seemed to lack any sound of human emotion, reminding Peters of the way Victor Sweet had sounded when he spoke. He stepped up to Peters casually.

Peters found himself looking up at the man, who had to stand at least six feet, two inches. He gave the stranger a quick nod and offered his right hand in greeting.

Harris looked at the hand but didn't pull his own out of his pocket to accept the offer. "I'm Federal Agent Harris." He sounded irritated, if anything.

"What is this about, Agent Harris? My lawyer said that …" Peters started to tell the man why that he had reconsidered this meeting. Hell, it just felt wrong standing there at that moment. His instincts were screaming at him to turn and leave.

"You're lawyer isn't here, and this has nothing to do with your pending case." Harris turned and started walking down the sidewalk, towards the docks. "Walk with me Mr. Peters." He barked without looking back.

Peters looked around, again spooked by the lack of people around him. He felt as if he should be cautious for some reason. He sighed and pushed his concerns down deep into his gut. He was worried about nothing. This was an FBI agent for God's sake. What could be so dangerous about him? "What is this about then, Agent Harris?" He had to trot to catch up to Harris' long legs. "If it has nothing to do with my case, then what do you want with me?"

"It has to do with Jeremiah Mercer. You do remember him, don't you Mr. Peters? You shut down his project not so long ago, and now you are paying the price for it, right?" Harris didn't bother to slow down his long stride, or give Peters the respect of at least looking at him. "Tell me how Jeremiah Mercer set you up, Peters."

"Mercer didn't blackmail me, Jessup Winston did." Peters was able to slow down to a fast walk, but his legs weren't used to working this hard. He was, after all, chained to a desk most of the time, and this was just too much for him. "Agent Harris, please, can't you stop? We don't have to walk in order to have this conversation."

"I want to find a discrete location, Mr. Peters." Harris snapped the words at him. "Calm down."

"Calm down? You dragged me out here with the impression this had to do with my case, and now you're telling me it doesn't. I want to know what is going on, and I want to know now." Peters stopped in his tracks. He wasn't going one step further until he knew why the FBI was after him. "Just how discrete do you want this to be? Hell, there isn't another person around for miles. It's not like this is the most popular spot this time of year."

Harris continued walking a few more steps before pulling to a stop and turning to look at him. "We are not going to talk here, it's too public." He rolled his eyes, not an act to endear him to Peters' heart. He didn't appreciate being treated as if he were some ignorant fool. He was well aware that Harris was up to something that had nothing to do with his legal dilemma.

"Too public," Peters looked around at the abandoned park. Not much fishing or boating going on around them at the moment. No joggers trotting past, or campers strolling about. He laughed at the absurd notion that someone might overhear their conversation. Hell, his car was the only one parked on the street at the park entrance. "Please, just tell me what you want from me."

Harris let out a huff. "Fine, have it your way. I need any and all documentation you have of Jeremiah Mercer's business dealings. You do have those papers, don't you?"

"No, actually, I do not. That was city business, and any paperwork pertaining to Jeremiah Mercer's redevelopment project that I did have, I turned over to the zoning commission when I lost my job." Peters couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his words. Who the hell did this fool think he was? It wasn't as if he had been in charge of his office, he did have people that he answered to when he was a city employee. "Why don't you contact the office for whatever it is you need?"

Harris reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a fat cigar. He seemed to be thinking as he carefully slid the cellophane wrap away. "What I need isn't anything the city would have. You would. I know Mercer was involved with Sweet, and I need that proof." His voice sounded cold and hard and detached in some way. He raised the cigar to his mouth, took a nip off of the end and spit it into the melting snow before pulling out a book of matches. Within moments the air was filled with the scent of cherries wafting past Peters in the heavy looking smoke.

Peters coughed at the odor and turned his head slightly away. "What are you talking about? Jeremiah Mercer did not have any dealings with Sweet. He was set up. Hell, he didn't have any dealings with Jessup Winston either, that was another set up. Poor guy was kicked when he was down…" Peters couldn't help but feel sorry for the poor son of a bitch. Hell, he regretted the choice he had made not so long ago to set Jeremiah Mercer up.

"You don't understand, Mr. Peters. If I can prove that Jeremiah Mercer is a no good hoodlum, no better than Sweet, or Winston, then you are off the hook." Harris's eyes bore through Peters as they locked stares.

"What?" Peters felt his gut twisting. Shit, was an FBI agent trying to set him for another big fall? No, if this was a set up, it was going to be much worse than a fall; it was going to bury him. He shook his head slowly. "I don't know what the hell you're digging for Harris, but I can't help you." He started to back up step, a feeling of dread taking over his very being.

"Sure you can, Peters. Unless you want this to be the last civilized conversation you have." Harris used his left hand to pull his coat back just enough that his holster and side arm were visible. "Hell of a shame what can happen to a man when he's running from a federal agent. I've had to take many a man down by shooting them in the back. Not that I was shooting to kill mind you, but I had to try to stop my suspects somehow…"A grin played on the man's lips. "Now, let's get to some serious talking. I still would prefer to take this some place a little less public. "He turned and motioned towards the boat docks, "After you Mr. Peters." He motioned for Peters to walk in the direction of the frozen lake.

Peters drew in a weak breath. It looked as if he had another problem, a new threat was in town, and his name was Harris.

Jeremiah listened as Camille complained over the phone about the amount of time he'd already been gone from home, and the fact that he was heading back to his mother's house to talk to his brothers. He waited until his wife took a breath before responding to her. "Camille, baby, you know I gotta take care of this. I want to come home, I really do, but this is serious."

"Then tell me what is going on Jeremiah. No more of this bull about how something has come up." Camille's voice was quiet.

"I can't, not yet." Jeremiah shook his head, despite the fact that Camille couldn't see the action from the other end of the phone.

"I can't keep doing this." Camille sounded hurt. "I've talked to you about this before and we can't go on like this. We have some problems and we need to fix them."

"I know, I do know that," Jeremiah sighed. "You are the most important thing to me, you and the girls. You know that. I love you. But what's happening here, it is serious Baby."

"Just tell me." Camille pushed.

"Not yet. I need to tell you when I get home." Jeremiah was tired of going around in circles. "Look, either you trust me, or you don't. Which is it?" He finally asked the question that was burning at his chest. "I need you to trust me, but if you don't, then you need to do what you gotta do." He felt his heart ripping in two as he said the words.

"I trust you, Jeremiah; I don't trust what you are doing right now though. Why is it more important for you to talk to Bobby than me? I'm your wife." Camille's hurt seemed to turn and her voice took on some strength. "It was different before, but my God, you almost died in that warehouse, and I can't lose you, not like that. We never had these problems before. Why can't you come home to me, and call Bobby on the phone?"

"Because what I gotta tell them ain't good Camille, not at all, and they need to know…" Jeremiah stopped himself. "I will fill you in when I get home. I won't be long, I promise." He hung up the phone before his wife could argue further. He pulled his car to a stop at the curb in front of his mother's house and put it in park. He looked up at the first real home he'd ever known and wondered how much longer it was going to be a part of his life. How much longer was his family, which was already hanging together by a thin thread, going to be subjected to the bullshit?

He was tempted to walk into that house and tell his brothers they all had to get the hell out of Detroit. As happy as he was to have them all close again, to feel that connection that had been missing for so many years, he was willing to give it all up just to know that they were all well and safe, somewhere else.

The voices of his brothers could be heard from outside the house, loud and boisterous, Bobby's the loudest of them all. Jeremiah was sure he could hear laughter, and that made what he was about to do all that much harder. He steeled his fears and worries and pushed his way through the thick air on the closed in porch, trudging to the front door of the house. He managed to enter unnoticed and unheard. Bobby, Angel and Jack seemed to be in the dining room, laughing while Bobby's voice rang out like a mocking sports announcer.

Jeremiah remembered his roughhousing with Angle on Thanksgiving, the brief wrestling match that had ended with his pinning Angel and putting him in his place. Bobby's talents at calling shots and moves had shown through that morning.

Now, Bobby's playful tone was rising while quiet grumbling from the living room mixed in, the two conflicting sounds forming a melody, so to speak, that felt familiar and made the house feel more like home than it had in years.

Craig was on his knees, half crawling half dragging the dry and prickly Christmas tree left over from the holidays out of the corner and into the middle of the room.

"Don't drag it like that, you're gonna get those needles all over the floor. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get those things cleaned up?" Jack called out, but amusement intertwined with his words. "Hell, you'll be sweeping them up until next Christmas." His laugher nearly over drowned out Bobby's play by play.

"Craig's got the tree by the trunk, will he manage to hold it down this time, or will the tables turn? We've already seen the tree take him down by a sneak attack from the rear!" Bobby called out.

Jerry couldn't help but laugh while Craig struggled with the unruly branches. Dry needles seemed to stab at the poor kid as they fell away into a mess under his feet. The tree was twice the size as the youngest Mercer and he wasn't strong enough to control the weight of it, not after the month he'd had. Jeremiah leaned against the door way leading into the living room and started peeling off his gloves. He felt his heart lighten just a little while he watched Craig fall back onto his butt, landing on the coffee table. The kid looked towards the dining room while his audience continued their good hearted jibes.

"Yeah, go ahead and laugh. We'll see where I put all these damn needles later on, after I sweep them up." Craig muttered just loud enough for Jeremiah to hear him, but probably not at a level that would reach Bobby, Angel, or Jack. "Underwear, I'll just load all of your underwear with dry Christmas tree needles." He went on. "Socks would be good too; they won't come out of your socks for a month."

Jeremiah chuckled quietly, drawing Craig's attention in his direction. The teenager scowled at the fourth brother's presence, and his obvious amusement. "Yeah, laugh it up Jerry, I can still get you too." He muttered and turned back to the tree.

"Jerr', what the hell, I thought you was gonna call, you ass hole." Bobby stepped into view at the opposite doorway. "Get your ass in here. What the hell did Green say?" He didn't bother keeping his voice down.

Craig turned and looked in Bobby's direction, then shifted his gaze to Jeremiah.

"You get your ass back to work little boy. You ain't done here. You got that tree to get out of here, and then you got all those boxes of Christmas crap to put up in the attic." Bobby looked at Craig and waited until the boy was following his directions before glancing at Jeremiah and motioning for him to move to the dining room. "Come on, get in here and talk to me little brother. I need to know what the hell is going on."

Jeremiah moved towards the dining room, taking one last look at Craig. "You know, if you cover it with a sheet it's a lot easier." He pointed to the tree."

Craig looked tired and frustrated. "Thanks." He muttered. "But Bobby won't let me use a sheet."

"He's working off some shit. He needs to do it the hard way; maybe it will teach him a lesson. I'll explain later." Bobby walked back into the dining room.

Jeremiah wasn't surprised to see his brothers each drinking a beer. He dropped into the first available chair and pulled his hat off of his head. He dropped it onto the table and looked at Bobby, who seemed to find it difficult to stop watching and taunting Craig.

"Get it in a choke hold, maybe you can choke the life out of it." Bobby laughed while Craig continued to struggle with the oversized, dead tree. "Don't let it get the best of you. You gotta show it whose boss."

"Bobby, we really need to talk." Jeremiah spoke up.

Bobby looked at Jeremiah and frowned. "Green had bad news, huh? What the hell did he tell you? Harris is out for blood, ain't he?" He picked up his bottle of beer and tipped it up, draining it quickly. "I think I need another bottle. You want a beer Jerr'?" He started to move towards the kitchen.

"Bobby, you're gonna need something a hell of a lot stronger than beer." Jeremiah spoke loud enough that Bobby would take him seriously. He couldn't stand the screw off attitude that Bobby liked to exhibit when he was nervous.

"Well shit Jerr', that's nothing I can't take care of." Bobby called back as he disappeared into the kitchen. A minute later he returned with a bottle of whiskey and four glasses. "Okay little brother, spill it. I was right, wasn't I?" He started pouring shots, giving the first one a slide across the table to Jeremiah. He repeated the action until Angel and Jack had a drink, and emptied the bottle into his own glass, filling it to the rim.

Jeremiah picked up the glass with both hands and rolled it between his palms slowly. "You have no idea." He stared at the whiskey sloshing around the glass from the motion. He finally looked at Bobby and cleared his throat. "Drink that first, maybe you'll be less likely to go off half cocked if you have a little bit of that shit in you."

Bobby didn't smile, but he picked up the glass and drained it down, despite the burning it had to inflict. He slammed the empty glass back to the table and used his sleeve to wipe at the corner of his mouth and narrowed his gaze on Jeremiah, waiting.

Hell, now he really had to tell his brother the news that would probably send him into one of his rages. "Well, Bobby, it's pretty simple really." Jeremiah started out speaking slow. He looked at the doorway, where Craig was now standing, staring in at them. His gaze was locked on the empty whiskey bottle and Jeremiah wondered if it still bothered him to see his brothers drinking. Hell, if the kid was gonna hear this; he might need a drink himself…