“I’m aware of that. But we’ve just found some evidence that moves the case on.”
I say nothing to prompt more, I know all I need to. My brothers had my back. While I’d lain unconscious, the man responsible for killing Crystal was killed. All the cops can do now is catch up. And as they do so, hopefully they’ll find nothing to link his death to my club. My chest tightens as I realise somewhere deep inside I still care and don’t want to bring trouble down on the men that I’d left behind.
“Mr Norman, we’ve managed to discover who rented the truck that ran you off the road.” There’s a sound like a clearing of a throat. “It was...” There’s a pause as if the words are hard to say. “It was… a man named Archer.”
Again, I say nothing. I already know Detective Archer was responsible for running us off the road. Do I say I know who Archer was? Or wait to be told—if this detective will come clean and admit it?
“Mr Norman, we don’t know much more at the moment. Archer was connected to the Herrera family, and it would help me to know if you’ve come up against them at all? We all know they don’t like to be crossed.”
I’m thinking hard, remembering not to let on what I know, wondering whether Drummer needs to know the police aren’t letting the case drop.
“Mr Norman? Are you still there?”
“I’m here. So you’re going to be questioning Archer?” They can’t. He’s dead. But I’ll pretend and play along as I should.
“That’s my other news. There’s nothing to prove he was driving the truck, just that he rented it. But the other thing is, there was a house explosion in Tucson a couple of months back. Set by an expert, as the whole place was incinerated.”
That would be Slick. A small smile fleetingly comes to my lips. He knows his trade.
“We’ve only just managed to put the pieces together, and one of the bodies, well, body parts that is, we’ve identified as belonging to Archer.”
What do they know? Here it comes. Here’s where I learn if there’s anything pointing back to the Satan’s Devils. If there is, I’ll need to get the information to Drummer. Thank fuck I’ve got some kind of signal here, or at least, for the moment.
“Was it an accident or deliberate?” I ask, thinking to find out info that might help Prez and my brothers. “And if deliberate, who took him out?” I’m holding my breath as I wait for the answer.
Another clearing of a throat. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”
I sigh, looking out into the barren land around me, not a sign of civilisation in sight. Nothing for Drummer, no information. I can go on without calling him, my conscience clear and my endeavour undisturbed.
“Look, Mr Norman, I’d like to meet up with you so we can go over what we know and try to piece everything together. You still have no memory of the accident, I suppose?”
“It wasn’t an accident,” I growl. “And no, I don’t.” I don’t remember losing control and killing my wife. Oh, Archer might have been driving the truck, but obviously I hadn’t seen the threat coming, and that’s down to me. I hadn’t corrected the bike, I hadn’t… Oh fuck, Crystal, I’m so fucking sorry. Making an effort, I try to suppress my sob.
“Where are you now, Mr Norman? Can you come into the precinct today, or meet me somewhere in town?” The voice sounds anxious, obviously I hadn’t been successful in hiding my grief.
But no is the answer. I’ll never be putting in an appearance. “I’m not in Tucson. I’m in California.”
“When will you be back?” the detective asks sharply.
“I can’t tell you that.” When they find my dead body, someone might care enough to take it home, or the vultures might pick my bones clean, leaving nothing to find.
Maybe the tone of my voice gives something away, but the next question surprises me. “Mr Norman, Dale. Is it all right to call you that?”
For some unknown reason, I don’t want the last name I’m called to be that of a man I haven’t been for so many years. I want to hear the name that I earned after I was given my patch, the name my wife gave me. “Heart. Call me Heart.”
“Heart…” There’s a pause. “Are you alright?”
No, I’m really not. I’m as far from alright as it’s possible to get. “My fuckin’ wife’s dead,” I spit out. “How do you fuckin’ think I’m feeling?”
The other end of the phone goes quiet, and I’m about to hang up when more comes, “Heart. Don’t give up.” I’m about to blast a sneering reply when words come down the line, tumbling out one after the other in a rush. “Never give up. I know it’s no consolation, but I’ve been where you are, and it is possible to move forward, though I can’t lie and say it’s not fucking hard every step of the way. Sometimes the only thing we can do for someone we’ve lost is to keep them alive by living ourselves. You give up on yourself, you give up on Crystal.”
“I’m not giving up.” I’m giving in to my pain.
“You’re in the middle of Death Valley and not close to a road.”
Fuck! The fucking cop’s traced my cell. The first thought going through my head is fear that I might not be allowed to die today, and that’s followed by one that takes me by surprise. Maybe this isn’t my time.
How, I’ve no fucking idea, but the detective seems to have put it together. “Believe me, Heart. It’s not easy, but you can move past this. You’ve lost your wife and you can’t see a way out of your pain. I understand that. It will never go away completely, but you can learn to live with it. I know, Heart. I know.”
There’s something about the tone of voice, sympathetic, but not the forced compassion from someone who hasn’t a fucking clue what I’m going through.
“How do you know?” Is it possible to be able to go on? It seems so much easier simply to give up.
“I’ve been where you are.” Something in the way the words said before are repeated makes me believe them. There’s a depth of emotion in the tone.
I look around at the barren landscape around me, as desolate as my broken heart. “There’s nothing left,” I whisper. “Nothing at all.” Part of me wonders why I’m still talking to the cop. All I need to do is end the call then switch off my phone. Throw it away, shatter it against the rocks so I can never be disturbed or traced again, but for some reason my hand is gripping it tight.
“She’s gone, Heart. She’s gone. And however much you want to, you can’t join her.”
I can. It’s easy. I just won’t go back. I’ll keep to my plan.
“What would she have wanted you to do, Heart? Would she have wanted you to just give up and stop living? Or carry on? Keeping her memory alive.”
I slam my hand down on the rock beside me. Why the fuck am I still on this call? Why am I being made to think of things I want to avoid? What would Crystal have said? I stand, kicking at the rock with my steel-toe boot. Shit!
“Heart?”
I didn’t need to have this conversation. Not today.
“I can get a team out to you if you can’t get back by yourself.”
How the fuck does this detective know what I was planning to do? I didn’t realise I’d asked the question out loud until I’m given the answer.
“Because, and I know I’m repeating it, but I understand how you’re feeling. And while you can’t see how it’s possible, you can survive.”
Christ, it’s getting hot in the sun. I stand facing the direction I had been walking and, without warning, a lone coyote appears, running across left to right in front of me. The hair on the back of my neck rises as something bugs me at the edge of my consciousness, a conversation I once had with Mouse. The substance disappears before I can take hold of it.
Then without realising I’ve turned, I’m now facing the other way with the words the detective said going through my head. Crystal wouldn’t have wanted me to go like this. As I wipe the sweat off my brow, I realise subconsciously I’ve already made a decision. I’ll try and get back. If I can’t, well, I’ll have made the attempt. What am I wasting but time?
I can always change my mind. A few more days of suffering, there’ll be another chance around the corner. I give the cop something. “I’m not returning to Tucson.” Then, in case I’m misunderstood, add, “I’m on a road trip.”
There’s a sigh on the phone, then a brief period of silence. The detective appears to know I’ve been talked down from the ledge. For now. “Where are you heading to next?” is asked in a conversational tone.
I suppress my normal reaction to say nothing to the cops. It doesn’t bother me now that I’m no longer part of the club. It’s my business, not club business, and the answer is easy. I’ve already started on the route Crystal and I had planned, for when Amy was old enough to be left. We talked about it for months, years even. Crystal hadn’t had a good upbringing, her mom usually too doped up to care for her. Vacations and even days out just didn’t happen. I’d promised her we’d see as much of the country as we could, starting with a road trip through Nevada and California. And that fatal trip to Tucson had been just the first planned to take her to the more local sites.
There’s nothing to stop me sharing. “Yosemite,” I answer.
“I’ve never been, but I’ve heard how beautiful it is. You hoping to get there before the snow?”
I’m thinking logically now. If I want to go over Tioga Pass as we’d planned, I’ll need to check out the weather conditions first. You can put snow chains on a car, but not on a bike. I’ll have to stock up on more warm clothes. I’m amazed how quickly my brain’s latched on to the practicalities.
“Is it alright if I call again to keep you updated?”
Yeah. Because anything useful I learn I can feed back to Drum. Maybe there’s still something for me to do before I leave this life. The thought solidifies my resolve that I won’t, if I can help it, be dying today. Wait a little longer, Crystal.
“Don’t take risks, Heart. I didn’t know Crystal, but if I know anything about women, she’d want you to keep living.”
I’m not sure I’m doing much more than existing, but I am living her dream. Seeing the things she’d set her heart on. Experiencing the life she ought to still have.
I try to sound nonchalant. “Yeah, keep in touch.”
“You can ring to check up… On the case if you want.”
Nah, I’ll be deleting this number after the call.
I end the connection and check my phone. Would you fucking believe it? Even with all the shit in my head, it’s still got twenty percent battery. Par for the course. Over the past couple of months, I’ve been doing everything on autopilot. Having a signal for now, I call up the GPS and check my position, then turn to limp back in the direction I’d come.
One last moment of hesitation, a few seconds to reconsider if I’m making the right decision. Living is hard, dying out here not much easier. As I stand, undecided, I feel that hand on my shoulder, and a slight pressure toward Stovepipe Wells. In a gesture of long practice, I raise my arm to place my fingers over those touching me, feeling nothing but the sun-warmed leather of my cut underneath.
Not sure if I can do this without you, babe.
A wind blows up out of nowhere, tumbleweeds blowing past my feet, turning over and over in the direction I’m facing as if it’s a sign from a ghost that I’m doing the right thing.
Until Crystal died, I’ve never believed in God, or a hereafter, always accepting that when you’re dead, you’re dead and you’re not coming back. But even given my beliefs, I can’t imagine a world without something of Crystal in it, and pray there’s a part of her left that knows that every mile I’m travelling, every step I’m taking, it’s all for her.
Don’t leave me, babe.
I’m not sure I can even do this. My feet sore and tired, my leg giving me nothing but pain, and my skin burned red by the sun, placing one foot in front of the other is almost too much of an effort. I’m about to give up, this time not because of any suicidal desire, but from sheer exhaustion. My vision is blurred, but not enough that I don’t see the coyotes dogging my steps as if waiting for me to succumb. Is that the way I’ll end up? A meal for the pack? The thought they might not wait until I’m dead spurs me to make one last effort. My head is swimming, my thoughts jumbled and erratic.
A coyote comes alongside me. I eye him up, looking directly into his sea-green eyes, which seem to glow with satisfaction. Fuck this, I must be far gone.
The spirits are waiting.
I stagger and fall, the coyote comes up alongside.
You’re already a dead man walking.
Yeah, well I’m not going to lay down and die so you can have me for dinner, Mr Coyote. And if you can speak, why do you tell me what I already know?
Christ, I’m in a bad way if I’m imagining voices, and touch, sensation. A prod on my back that feels like a human hand.
Unsteadily, I stand and get moving again, one foot unevenly in front of the other. I cover the last mile slowly, relieved when the motel eventually comes into sight.
I arrive back in early evening, pausing only to grab the courtesy bottle of water from the fridge before collapsing on the bed, drinking it all, but not before using it to wash down a handful of painkillers. The last distance I’d covered only on pure desperation, that hand on my back making me unwilling to give up. I have no appetite, no desire to drink or even to smoke. My body’s exhausted and my mind, for once, too drained to think. I settle back to enjoy another restless night, but as soon as my head hits the pillow I’m out like a light, sleeping dreamlessly for the first time in weeks, and for twenty-four hours straight.
I end up spending the remainder of the week in Stovepipe Wells, the original time I’d booked the room for, but not the purpose I’d planned, letting my body and mind recover from my self-imposed ordeal in the desert.
My dreams full of tumbleweeds and coyotes, making me remember Mouse and the time he went on what he called a vision quest to commune with nature. He’d departed uptight and tense, and had returned relaxed. Though he hadn’t shared the details, I’d known he’d seen visions and claimed they had cleansed his mind. I’m ashamed to recall how I’d mocked him, said it was the starvation he’d put himself through that made him hallucinate. But after that day in the desert, I’m no longer certain.
I’d felt Crystal’s presence, and saw signs she wanted me to continue.
Maybe it’s not time to join her yet. Not until I’ve seen everything she wanted to see.
Up until now I’ve relied on room service, but on my last day I decide to venture into the restaurant again, the first time I’d been outside since I’d returned. Leaving my room, I find a coyote waiting, having a remarkable resemblance to the one who’d spoken to me in the desert. It walks alongside until the light of the building floods out over the ground. I pause as it steps away, seeming nervous to step onto the illuminated ground. The last thing I see before it’s swallowed up in the darkness are its yellow eyes reflecting the light and focused on me.
The spirits are waiting.
The coldly delivered words send a shiver down my spine.
Fuck. I must be in a bad way if I’m hearing animals talk when I’m stone-cold sober and not suffering exhaustion.
Chapter Four
Marc…
My day off, and I’m spending it going around scrap metal yards in Tucson, seeking that elusive animal, a 750 cc engine for the Suzuki, and so far with no luck. As I ride the Kawasaki into the fifth yard I’ve tried, I’m heartened to see there are a number of bike parts scattered around. Maybe I’ll have more luck at this location.
I’m only just throwing my leg over the seat when a man approaches me. He’s broad, about my height, covered with tattoos and an unlit cigarette is tucked behind his ear. When he speaks his voice is gruff and rough, just like his appearance. He looks me up and down and then sneers. “I take it you don’t want to scrap that.” He points at my bike.
“God, no.” I laugh, and without bothering to exchange pleasantries, explain what I’m after.
His eyes sharpen as he realise
s I’m here to buy, not to sell. “Got any experience putting in an engine?”
“I can do it,” I assure him. There are YouTube videos for that.
A half-smile plays on his lips as though he’s got doubts, but not wanting to turn down a sale, he waves toward an office, a ramshackle hut that’s seen better days. “Well, come with me and I’ll see what I’ve got.”
I follow him and stand while he sits at a grubby computer. Large fingers tap slowly and deliberately at the keyboard.
As he shakes his head, I prepare to be disappointed. “Hmm, don’t have nothing listed.”
I sigh deeply, thinking of going to the next place on my list, starting to think I’ll never find what I’m after.
“But let’s go take a look. Sometimes stock doesn’t all get entered.”
What’s it going to take? Just a few more moments out of my precious day off when I don’t have to put up with Garza popping his gum. “Thank you,” I say politely.
“Suzuki GSXR? 750 you say?”
I nod. What was he looking for if he needed to confirm that again?
The smile turns into a grin. “Got something you might be interested in. Depends on whether you’ve got guts or not.”
Now that’s got me interested. “What are you thinking?”
For an answer, he shakes his head. “This way.” I’m following him out into the sunshine again.
He leads me around the shells of cars, old washing machines, and other scrapped metal until we come to a couple of bike engines. He moves the one in front, then points to the block behind. I lean forward to look. A bubble of excitement billows up inside me. I cock my eyebrow as I realise what he’s thinking. “7/11?” Those bikes have intrigued me before. The seven-hundred-fifty engine swapped out for an eleven hundred, giving rise to the name.
He laughs and slaps my back. “Didn’t know if you’d recognise it. But yeah, that’s my thought.”
I think about it for a moment. Putting an eleven hundred cc engine into the Suzuki would make it one hell of a beast. Take off the fairing… A perfect rat bike.
Satan's Devils MC Boxset 1 Page 153
