Satan's Devils MC Boxset 1

by Manda Mellett

I’m approached as I walk along the pavement, leaflets shoved into my hand showing scantily clad girls offering a menu of their services, but none interest me. I crumple them up and throw them into the already overflowing bins. My cock hasn’t stirred since I lost my wife. Not one twitch, solidifying my perception that while I might still be breathing, inside I’m already dead, just waiting for the grim reaper to creep alongside and catch up.

  That evening in Tucson when I attacked Tinker, I wouldn’t have been capable of rape, even though I’m not surprised that thought was my intention. I was angry, incensed that a sweet woman like her was stripping to earn money, ignoring the fact she didn’t have any other choice. I was trying to show her what a man would think she was offering. I’d been out of my mind with rage and grief, not knowing what I was doing, just wanting to lash out, and she bore the brunt.

  No, even an erection is now beyond me. I might be only thirty-four years old, but I’m beginning to think Viagra’s in my future if I ever want to have sex. But as that’s the last thing on my mind, I’m not worried. It’s one less thing to think about. I’ll be faithful to Crystal for the rest of my hopefully short life.

  I make myself stay a few days in Vegas, owing it to my dead wife, experiencing the things she’s missing out on. But one day I can’t make myself leave the hotel, justifying it that I’m taking the opportunity to pop painkillers to give my leg a rest. The bones might have healed, but the muscles needed more time than I’d been able to give them.

  Then my restlessness, my desire to put an end to all this, my growing hatred of the discordance of sound I can’t seem to escape, drives me to leave before I lose what little remains of my mind. I pack my saddlebags, making sure that Christmas ornament is stored carefully, and take off for somewhere quieter. A few hours later, and I arrive at Stovepipe Wells in the centre of Death Valley.

  Sauntering into the motel, unable to hide my limp, I toss a glare at the clerk behind the reception desk, recognising I look out of place alongside the vacationers who are taking advantage of exploring the area in the lower temperatures of late autumn.

  “We’ve no vacancy.” She throws me and my leathers a look of disdain, and then a glance of distrust at my face.

  But I’d pre-empted this disappointment. Knowing this time of year the valley would be busy, I’d pre-booked a room before I left Vegas. I show her my phone and my booking.

  Faced with the evidence, she sighs, then gives in and points me to a room at the end of a row, keeping the biker well out of sight of the rest of the guests.

  “Mr Norman.” She checks my driver’s license. “How long do you intend to be with us?”

  I tap the booking still showing on my phone. “A week, as I told you. I’m here to rest, recover.” I make a show of rubbing my sore leg. “I’ll be sleeping a lot, so I won’t need the room serviced.”

  I ignore her suspicious glance, only registering her nod. I don’t care what anyone thinks of me anymore. I’m only thinking of the seven days of privacy while people would think I am hidden away, licking my physical and mental wounds. One hundred and sixty-eight hours when no one would think of looking or trying to find me.

  Taking my key, avoiding her guarded half-smile, I ride down the row and park my bike. As I cut the engine, I notice immediately how quiet and peaceful it is. Such a stark contrast to Vegas, the silence causing a ringing in my ears.

  Collecting my saddlebags, I enter the room that’s been assigned to me and close the door, shutting out the world. I take off my cut and lie on the double bed, leaving the right-hand side empty, as always. My hand rubs over the comforter, feeling her absence, missing the warm body lying next to me.

  I hadn’t lied when I said my leg needed time to recuperate. I’m sure the surgeons would have conniptions if they knew how little I cared for all the hard work that they’d done. I lie, waiting for the painkillers to work, and only when the throbbing in my leg begins to ease, take a shower to wash away the dust of the road. When I clear steam from the glass and glance in the mirror, I barely recognise the face looking back at me. There’s no point fussing over my appearance, there’s no one to care. My hair is the same as when I awoke from my dream and stepped into my nightmare. One side half shaved and the other side long. The hair on my left side not as stubbly as it first was, now starting to grow back, but not long enough to hide my unbalanced appearance—just the right look for an unbalanced man.

  I need to eat, so as I’m entering polite society, quickly shave away my five o’clock shadow, but that’s the most I bother to do before I rejoin civilisation.

  Walking into the restaurant next to the motel, I get the strange looks that I’ve become used to, but am quickly seated and left all alone. Not surprisingly, no one wants to share a table with a biker whose face is fixed in a scowl. I order a steak, fitting for a man’s last meal, but the succulent meat is as tasteless as anything I’ve recently put into my mouth.

  As soon as my plate’s empty, I walk back to my room, noticing, to my surprise, coyotes wandering around the forecourt of the gas station and small convenience store on the other side of the road. I hadn’t expected that, and I pause a moment to watch them scavenging. Fuck, Crystal. You’d have loved this shit. Are you with me, babe? You seeing this?

  The timing is wrong, as autumn is coming to an end in the valley, and it’s not perhaps the best time to do what I intend. But having checked, tomorrow’s forecast is predicting unseasonal temperatures that might reach the forties. Enough for an unfit biker to carry out his plan.

  I’m tired and exhausted from days, months of no real sleep. I don’t even get undressed, just lie fully clothed, letting my thoughts torture me until I’m ready to start on my final journey. Hours of thinking there’s nothing left. Only the hope of joining my wife in her rest, where there’ll be no more pain and no memories to haunt me. Wait for me, Crystal. I’m coming.

  When only the sounds of the night can be heard—the crying of coyotes, hooting of night-hunting birds, nothing to suggest humans are still stirring—I slip on my cut, open my door, and start walking.

  The night air is cool, which will allow me to put sufficient distance between myself and the motel. Come morning, I’ll be too far, too weak, in too much pain, and too exhausted to turn back in the dry, debilitating heat.

  Chapter Two

  Marc…

  After rubbing it over my greasy hands to clean them, I throw the now filthy cloth onto the workbench and take my vibrating phone out of my pocket, glancing down at the caller display. A small smile plays at my lips as I answer.

  “Hey, Les. It’s been a while. What’s up?”

  “Just checking in. Seeing how you’re getting on, down in desert land.”

  Thinking it’s nice to hear a friendly voice for a change, I sink down onto the floor and draw up my knees, getting comfortable. “I’m doing okay.” It’s good to hear from my old fuck buddy, it’s been a few weeks since we last spoke. We’re friends, nothing more, only ever finding solace in each other’s bodies, little more than working off excess energy and satisfying a joint need. Just how I like it. I never get close to people, or allow them to get close to me. That way I can never get hurt when they leave.

  “Bike get there okay?”

  “Only because I trailered it.” I let the frustration show in my voice. “Lucky I didn’t try to ride it here. Took it out the other day, and the darn engine went. Black smoke billowing everywhere. It’s finished, Les.”

  “Worth the money you paid for it then.” A chuckle comes down the line.

  My lips curl. I’d paid nothing. An old unwanted bike, a going-away present for me. “I suppose it was, though I think you should have given me money to take it away.”

  “You gonna scrap it?”

  My eyes fall on the currently useless machine. “I haven’t decided. If I can find a replacement engine, I might try to get it back on the road.” As I speak, eyeing up what other people would think is a piece of crap, I think it’s too soon to send it to its grave. An
early 1990s Suzuki GSXR 750 now with a blown engine. The broken heap stands next to my bright green Kawasaki Ninja. For some reason though, it’s currently a metal frame missing its major part. I’m still fond of it, and have no regrets that Les offloaded it on me. Fixing it would be a challenge, and being friendless in this new environment, something to occupy me.

  “Let me know how you get on. Are you coming back this way soon?”

  I’d landed in Tucson having gotten a transfer and promotion. Having left, I’ve no desire to return to South Carolina again. I’d only stayed there long enough to jumpstart my career. Apart from Les, I’ve no friends there and nothing to go back for. A new start, a clean break. That’s what I was after.

  “I’m not sure, Les.” I let the doubt in my voice show. Not a definite negative, but I don’t want to give him hope.

  There’s a sigh. Before I’d left, I’d given no promise that I’d ever return, considering we owe nothing to each other, just shared the occasional fuck to scratch our mutual itch. On my side, it was never anything more than that.

  “But I’m really grateful to you for letting me have the Suzuki.” My words are only to fill the awkward silence.

  “Doesn’t sound like I did you much of a favour. In fact, it was more the other way around. Needed to clear space in my garage.”

  “I’ll let you know how I get on with it.”

  Another sigh, a brief period of silence, then, “I don’t think I can do this, Marc. I know we just had fun together, but I would have wanted more if you hadn’t moved a few states away.”

  Now it’s my time to take some space before replying. I’d suspected there were feelings growing I’d be unable to return. “Long-distance relationships don’t work, Les.”

  “And certainly not physical ones like ours.”

  “Are you saying we’re not friends?”

  Now I hear a long drawn-out sigh. “I don’t know what I’m saying. Just that it’s hard hearing your voice when you’re never going to come back. Look, if you need anything, I’m here. If not…”

  Don’t ring. That’s what he’s saying. Just another person I’ve pushed away.

  We end the call awkwardly, with no promises to keep in touch. As I replace my phone in my pocket, I realise that instead of the phone call cheering me up, it had proved to be the opposite. A shit start to what will probably be a shit day.

  Time’s getting on. Going into my house, I shower and change into smart dress pants and a plain, pale-blue button-up shirt, then slip on my holster and gun. Finally, sliding into my leather jacket and placing my protective helmet on my head, I take out the only roadworthy mode of transportation I’ve got, my Kawasaki, and soar my way through the streets to the precinct where I work. All too soon I’m swapping my leather for a light linen jacket.

  I’ve only just exited the locker room when I hear an expected shout.

  “Sergeant Reynolds wants you.”

  I knew it was coming, just hoped I’d have a little more time to prepare. I let out a deep sigh and pull back my shoulders. Might as well man up and face things head-on.

  Without even time to get a coffee inside me, only minutes later I’m sitting in front of my immediate superior. His face is dark and his mouth twists as he spits out without preamble, “This report’s rubbish! Nothing more than conjecture. You’re maligning a police officer, and one who’s given his life in the line of duty, with no facts to back it up.”

  I open my mouth, but Sergeant Reynolds holds up his hand.

  “I expected more of you than this. You came to Tucson with a glowing recommendation. You apparently cracked a case when no one else could, but now I’ve seen your incompetence first hand, I have to wonder whether that was sheer luck.” He glares and then shakes his head. “Oh, you got a prosecution in that case—your evidence enough to convince a jury—but if it was no better than the work you’ve been doing lately, I’d be worried you put the wrong man in jail.”

  I bristle. There’s no way I did. The man I was responsible for putting behind bars was as guilty as they come, only no one else had managed to join the dots and point their finger at him. Once we had a name, it had all fallen into place. That’s how I got my relatively early promotion to detective.

  Trying to be reasonable, I sit back, clasp my hands in my lap, and take a less combative stance. “Archer was identified as having rented the truck that knocked Dale and Crystal Norman off the road.”

  “Show some respect. It’s a dodgy identification at best.”

  There was definitely something suspicious about it, but I’d discovered it was the police process that was suspect. “Detective Archer,” I start again, and say with emphasis, “rented the truck. When I questioned the rental agency, they were quite certain of that.”

  “Where’s the evidence that he was driving it?” Hmm. He’s stopped refuting that he rented it. Has he conceded that point and moved on? Score one to me if he has.

  But as my shoulders rise and lower, I know I can’t tell him I’ve found anything to prove Archer was behind the wheel when the truck ran the biker and his wife off the road. I only have my thoughts putting together the clues. The truck was found burned out and forensics found nothing, no fingerprints or anything else. Clearly an expert job by someone who knew what he was doing.

  I’d only gotten the receptionist at the rental agency to confirm it was indeed Archer who had rented the truck when I’d gone back myself to ask. Other officers had been there before me and had come back with nothing. Now I reckon I’m a pretty good detective, but even I wouldn’t say it was because of my prowess in my job that I got them to talk. Something tells me those that proceeded me hadn’t bothered to ask, or buried the truth once they found it. Which would mean more dirty cops. Oh, I know who my prime suspects are, but am biding my time. You don’t make accusations against fellow officers without just cause. Quickest way to finding yourself unemployed.

  “And so what if he’s a distant relation to the Herreras? Or that his body was found in that house? There’s nothing to link him with the grooming of girls, nothing to say that activity was going on in that house at the time he was there and was killed.” Reynolds pauses, and I swear his eyes glow as he raises his voice. “And if there was, Detective Archer was probably present to make an arrest. You clearly haven’t thought about that. There are other options—he could simply have been visiting family. One of the bodies was identified as his cousin, Lucas Herrera.”

  Second cousin, I correct, but don’t say that out loud. “The house has been linked—”

  “No proof. There’s only the word of an unreliable kid. As far as I see it, Detective Archer lost his life in the pursuit of his duties and should be given a hero’s funeral. We can’t ask him about renting the truck—fuck, if he did rent it, it could have been to move some furniture or scrap, and it could have been stolen from him. We can’t ask why he was in the house. He’s fucking dead!” Spit flies out of my sergeant’s mouth.

  If the truck had been stolen, why hadn’t he reported it? Well I’m one person who won’t be attending his funeral, or at least, not to pay my respects. There are too many things which don’t stack up. If he’d been at that house owned by Lucas Herrera to make an arrest, why was there no paper, or rather computer trail, showing what he was doing? Anything put forward to prove Archer’s innocence in my opinion seems to be a whitewash. I might be new to the grade of detective, but that doesn’t mean I’m stupid.

  The sergeant glowers again. “And you say he was helping Susie Clyde get custody of her granddaughter.” He holds up his hand as I go to speak. “I’ll give you that a druggie is no person to look after a young kid, but let’s give the detective the benefit of the doubt. He might not have known about her habit.”

  But the only thing that makes sense to me is that he did. And working on behalf of the Herreras, was going to take little Amy Norman in payment for her grandma’s debts. Why else would he offer his assistance to the unpleasant, strung-out woman? Unable to suppress a shudder at the f
ate that little girl had luckily escaped when her father had come back from the dead, I draw another look of contempt from my boss.

  He picks up the folder and chucks it across the desk. “I don’t want you wasting anymore time trying to malign a dead colleague. And as for the biker’s accident? It’s not worth spending taxpayers’ money on the likes of him. Most probably it was a rival gang trying to take them out.”

  I can’t prove it wasn’t, but I’d like to try. Anyone, whatever their status in life, deserves justice in my view. “A young woman died.”

  “A woman who’d taken up with outlaws. She would have known the risks.”

  He hadn’t had to interview the biker in the hospital, seen the predictable grief and rage that his wife had been killed. Dale and Crystal Norman deserve more than simply to be dismissed because of the lifestyle they chose.

  There’s more to this case, I know—a tangled dark web of intrigue. But even I’m not crazy enough to keep flogging a dead horse, at least, not officially. For one reason or another, Sergeant Reynolds has made up his mind. I pick up the file, stand, and turn to leave.

  “One last thing, Detective. If you want to keep that promotion, don’t go against my wishes. This case is closed, we’ve far more important things to be working on.”

  My shoulders shoot back. It’s totally unreasonable of him to threaten my position. He can tell me what cases to work, but can’t prevent my doing what I want on my own time. As I leave his office my nose twitches. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve followed my gut feeling when something didn’t smell right. I’ll just have to keep whatever I do under the radar until I can come up with some cast-iron evidence.

  I leave it a couple of days until my next rest day, then take a chance and visit with Susie Clyde, Crystal Norman’s mother, an utterly nasty piece of work. When Dale came out of his coma, it was to find she’d already buried his wife, on the grounds that as he couldn’t speak for her, she was the closest next of kin. And before that, again while he was still unconscious, aided by my ex-partner Archer, she’d started a custody battle for care of his young daughter, not expecting Dale to wake up.