Motorcycle Roadkill

by S. P. Shane

  I study the side of the boat until my eyes fall upon a spatter of holes near the bow. And as if she had anticipated a question, she says softly "bullet holes."

  My eyes fall shut and I find myself so dizzy that I have to kneel down, sinking a knee into the mud.

  “You alright, Caleb?”

  “No... Don't think so.” Sickness whelms in my stomach. Dread...worry...fear—I feel like I'm being tied in knots. It occurs to me that I'm kneeling in the belly of the beast. “Why would someone do that?”

  “Don't now. Some say it was the Grants, but no one could prove it.

  “But why? Why would they do that?'

  “The truth?”

  I nod. Climb to my feet again.

  “With Harlan out the picture, they'd control Grow in the county—maybe the whole region. A lot more money for them.”

  “Harlan's really that...” I hesitate to use the word 'big' to describe a drug dealer.

  “That's Harlan. He's crazy, but he's smart. He can grow strains no one else can grow. But, anyway....It doesn't matter, because the Grants are being stupid. They're gonna get caught.”

  “You think?”

  “They're not careful. They don't even try to fly under the radar. It's like the think Sheriff Beecher will be ale to get them off or something.”

  “Beecher? That Colonel Sanders looking guy?”

  “Yeah, he's their cousin for one thing. Plus, I'm pretty sure he's on the take.”

  “Well, he can't help them with the D.E.A.” She tugs at my arm. "Come on." She starts toward the truck. "Don't tell Josh I brought you out here."

  I shuffle along behind her. "Hey, did Josh tell ya we road out to the mines the other day?"

  She stops, turns around, and looks at me with this oh really?.

  “He thought Jimmy might be out there. Well, we didn't see him, but we ran into this crazy old guy. Said the pastor at Calvary Hill has blood on his hands.”

  She turns back toward the truck and continues walking. “I'm sure he was talking about Reverend Sheldon, if anyone. Like you said. He's crazy. Right?”

  I hurry to catch up with her. “Was Sheldon... Uh, you know... shady?”

  She shrugs and shakes her head. “I don't know. Seemed honest to me. Either way, I'm sure it's nothing to do with your dad. Y'all just got here.”

  “Lindsey, I'm so freaked out that I... can't even sit still.”

  “I'm sure it's nothing.” She lights up as she steps into the beam of the headlights and circles around to the driver's door of the truck.

  “I'm balancing this line between being just completely pissed off at my dad. That he could even do something like that. But more than anything I'm scared. Scared for him. Scared for my mom. Me. I mean, look at that boat, Lindsey! These are dangerous people!”

  She nods. “They can be. I wouldn't wanna cross one of them.”

  “But if you can shoot a boat with a child aboard it, what could you do to a grown man?”

  “Shhh... Caleb-Caleb-Caleb. You're getting a little crazy, dude.”

  “You're right. We came out here to clear our heads.”

  “Let's just chill out.” She climbs into the driver's seat, and turns the ignition. The motor begins to purr again and she kicks it into gear and we crawl away.

  Chapter 26

  Saturday, September 25

  Josh lets off the throttle and we coast down the hill into Ferry's Port.

  The town is the twin sister of Crenshaw's Creek—only she's not an identical twin. She's the sister who gets the better version of everything. Better roads. Better houses. It's a town with things going on: hotels, restaurants, and a movie theater. McDonald's. Burger King. Pizza Hut.

  On the hill, above a subdivision of split-level houses, rail cars haul coal down from the mountain. Across the highway, an industrial park glimmers in the afternoon sun. Its parking lots are filled with cars and people moving about. Workers on their lunch hours stroll about a green pond, where a fountain sprays white water into the air.

  It's a normal town. Normal jobs. Normal homes. Normal lives. The people are so much more at ease and it shows in the way they walk, the way they wave 'hello' when they pass someone on the sidewalk. There isn't that hopeless haze of despair in their eyes—that empty stare that's the very hallmark of Crenshaw's Creek.

  Smiles. Friendliness. An attitude that doesn't regard every passing stranger as someone apt to steal their lunch money. Why couldn't we have moved here? If we had to move to some little town, it would have been so much better here.

  Five traffic lights later,a KFC appears on the right side of the Goldenrod Highway. Across from it, the Mountain View Motel hugs the hill.

  The motorcycle banks to the left and we roll in the lot. With just a little gas, we zoom past the manager's office, the swimming pool, and the vending machines. At the second to the last unit on the front side of the building, Josh turns sharply into a parking space. The bike skids to a halt, and he kills the motor.

  The number 48 is stenciled in gold letters on a beige door.

  “Josh, you should really buy me dinner before you take me to a sleazy motel room.”

  “Hey, Caleb... Remind me to kick your ass later.”

  I slide off the bike, and cast my gaze down the highway. A brick high school stands out on the hillside—with its large glass atrium, its long gray windows, and its even white trim. Its brick is the color of ocean sand. "Nice town."

  "Yeah, but their football team's terrible." Despite the fact that he hates Crenshaw's Creek as much as I do, he harbors enough of a sense of rivalry that he can't miss getting his digs in on the sister city.

  "Who gives a shit?" Football's hardly enough of a reason to side with Crenshaw's Creek.

  He nods. "A lot of these assholes used to live in Crenshaw's Creek," he says, as if it should explain things for me. Assholes because they sold out. Because they left. Because they didn't hole up like the rest of the hangers-on did. Because they didn't put up the good fight. They're assholes for wanting something better. Assholes because they broke free of a dying pathetic little town. The Crenshaw's Creek vs. Ferry's Port argument's not gonna get us anywhere.

  He reaches in his pocket and—with the pageantry of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat—pulls an electronic key-card from his pocket.

  “Seriously, what are we doing here?”

  "It's probably best that you don’t know," he says. And he's probably right. As many questions as I have—as many unsolved math problems—I have to admit that knowledge can sometimes be a dangerous thing. “Just be cool."

  "I'm cool."

  He rolls his eyes at me. "No I mean act like you belong here. Like this is your motel room. Like you just came back from a long ride and you're gonna lay down for a nap."

  “Well, whose key-card is that?”

  “I got it from Rosa.” He pronounces the name with a Spanish accent.

  “Uh, who's Rosa?”

  “Our housekeeper.”

  “And she lives in a hotel room?”

  He shakes his head. Makes a face like what I gonna do with ya?

  Dizzy, swimming in my head, my heart really thumps. And I'm nervous. Nervous because I'm in a strange town. Nervous because I didn't take my medication. Nervous because I'm with Josh. Nervous because he never really explains anything. I'm really starting to feel the panic build inside of me.

  He shakes his head, blows air through his teeth, and gives me that see-what-I'm-working with face. "If you look like you're breaking into a hotel room, you'll call attention to yourself. Don't look around. Don't check over your shoulder. Just follow me straight into the room, like you belong here. Got it?"

  “But we're not breaking in! Rosa gave you her card. Right?”

  He slides the card into the lock, it clicks, and he turns the handle. Just like he said—like he belongs here—he shoves the door open and steps inside. No looking around. He's home and everything's right where it's supposed to be.

  It's like any other motel room
that you'd find near an interstate or a truck stop.. Double beds. A table in the corner. Brown shag carpet. The kind of chintzy artwork that you couldn't even sell at a yard sale. It's the scent of stale cigarettes that can't quite be masked by industrial-strength deodorizer. The only thing different in 48 is the bankers boxes that are stacked like brickwork along the rear wall.

  “Josh, this isn't Rosa's room. Is it?”

  He shakes his head. “No...”

  The door falls shut behind me and we are left with dim light that peeks through the closed curtains. He sits on the edge of the bed. “I think you know him as Tim Tolliver, but you were right to call bullshit on him.”

  “No! I'm not...” I spin back around to the door and throw it open “doing this.”

  “It's a long walk back to Crenshaw's Creek,” he says flatly.

  “Josh! My God, man!” I don't even know what to say to him. It's like he doesn't even get that we're probably breaking so many laws that neither one of us would make it out of jail before we turn thirty. But he just kicks back with this piss-where-ya-stand-and-let-the-wind-take-care-of-the-rest attitude. “What's wrong with you?”

  He shrugs. “What? Ya wanna a list or something?”

  “Dude, this is breaking and entering!”

  Shakes his head. “No... We didn't break in. We had Rosa's housekeeping key.”

  “And this guy's like some sort of federal agent, or something.”

  He gets off the bed, comes across the room, pulls the door from my grip, and closes it. “D.E.A.”

  “You knew?” I start to open the door again, and he pushes it closed.

  “Look, if this is a crime, we're already guilty. We may as well as well see what we can find out.”

  I hold out my hands in exasperation. “I'm leaving.”

  “No, you're not. You're gonna help me find out what Mr. Tolliver knows.” He gestures toward the bankers boxes with his chin. Each box is labeled with crudely-scribbled letters. ANDERSON. GRANT. BROCK. CARRIE. DAVIS. FRANKLIN. GLOVER. HOWARD. CALLOWAY. MILLER. MORGAN. MANSON. ROGERS. SCHAFFER. SHELDON. SLUSHER. STRUNK.

  “What is all of this?”

  Josh starts toward the boxes. “My guess is evidence.”

  “And he just keeps it here? In his hotel room?” I shuffle forward, glancing over the boxes.

  Josh grabs a box labeled 'Grant'.

  “Interesting that you start with that one.”

  “Well, nothing with my last name on it is gonna surprise me.” He sits on the edge of the bed and pops the lid off the box. “But you...”

  “Yeah?” I dawdle toward the edge of the bed.

  “If ya wanna find out for certain what your dad was doing with Mr. Grant, I'd start with the box marked 'Calloway'.”

  I step around the bed and rest my hand atop the 'Calloway' box. I'm not sure that I really want to know what's inside of it. It's like Pandora's Box. Once I open it, I can't put everything that comes out back inside. There's not away to un-know whatever's in the box.

  “Hey, Caleb?” Josh calls as he thumbs through a stack of manilla folders.

  “Yeah?”

  “You're gonna be alright,” he says.

  I pop the lid off the box. The first manilla folder is labeled 'Bank Statements-National Bank of Cleveland.' It's a thick file, maybe a couple hundred statements. "Jesus! There's stuff in here from Cleveland."

  "Really?"

  A few files later, a stack of black and white photos appear. Dad getting into the back of a Lincoln Continental. Dad walking into a bank with a tall bald man in a dark suit. Dad signing papers. Dad handing an envelope to the bald man.

  Josh takes note of the apparent curiosity on my face. "Anything interesting?"

  "Just that these pictures had to be taken three... four years ago. Maybe more."

  "Goes that far back?"

  "I guess. Dad's a lot thinner in these photos."

  Josh grabs a thick file that must have taken half a ream of xerox paper to print. " Here's the shit from Lindsey's dad."

  "I don't understand what they want with him."

  "I do." He starts thumbing through the file, mostly receipts and bills of sale. "Look at this, man! There must be $100,000 of irrigation supplies that he bought from the Farmer's . All on credit." He shrugs. Shakes his head. Makes a face like he just bit into a grapefruit. "Don't know why my dad was so afraid of the Grants. They're amateurs."

  "$100,000! Doesn't sound like they're amateurs."

  "Man, everyone knows that you pay cash for your grow supplies. Especially if you don't have a registered agricultural business!"

  "Oh, sure," I play along, but I wouldn't have known that.

  "Well, I mean, if you're a farmer, it makes some sense that you'd need to invest in irrigation. But someone who runs a marina? Not so much."

  The next file I come to is labeled 'RUBY RIDGE. "There's something in here about the mines."

  "Yeah?" He raises an eyebrow.

  "Dividend statements, alternative payments to shareholders."

  "But the mine's been closed for years."

  "It's still paying dividends."

  “Interesting,” he says, turning his gaze back to the file box. “What do we have here?” He comes to a stack of photographs. It's picture after picture of suspicious faces—lynch pins of Crenshaw's Creek's Grow fields. Mr. Gray Beard loading plants into a jeep. Mr. Gray beard cutting plants with a machete. Grant, the goon exchanging money with Mr. Glover. Bryant Grant walking through a grow field. Troy Schaffer and Danny Miller puffing on a joint.

  Josh makes a ruckus, digging through the Grant files, while I browse through the statements from Ruby Ridge Mines. Abruptly, the rustling stops. He lets out a gasp, like he can't catch his breath. A gag. He coughs.

  His hands are press against the wall, as if to steady himself. Face as white as a sheet. Mouth gaped open. A tear slips out the corner of his eye.

  "Josh?"

  "Let's go." His voice is a breathless squawk. He falls back on the bed.

  "Go? Just like that you wanna leave?”

  He slides the lid back on the Grant files. But he looks more than just upset. He looks sick—as if he may not even be able to drive the motorcycle.

  "What's wrong?"

  He turns his head from side to side. "Nothing."

  "What? What is it?" I ask, sitting down by him on the bed.

  "Nothing." He falls back on the bed, looking up at the ceiling—bewildered.

  "No, it's not nothing." I grab the box marked 'Grant' and it a second flat Josh is on his feet—jumping around like he's been doused with gasoline and I'm holding a lit match.

  "Get off it!" He grabs at the box, but I turn with it. It's out of his reach.

  The lid pops off the box and a black and white eight-by-ten satin photo is atop the files. A boy. In a boat. Eyes wide and blank. Dead. A crude and jagged hole gapes open in his chest. A bullet circled in chalk beside him in the boat.

  "Shit..." Because sometimes there's nothing else to say. And sometimes you're not gonna make things better with words.

  He lets go of the box and I tuck the photo back into its file. Put the lid back on the box.

  There's no question who the boy was. And maybe it was like Lindsey said. Maybe there was an undertow. And maybe Elliot drowned. But he was shot also. Make no mistake about it: Harlan's boat did not sink by accident.

  I put the box back on the stack. "Alright, Josh. Let's go."

  Like a boxer who's been hit in the head—who's just kind of dreaming on his feet—he stumbles toward the door.

  Chapter 27

  Sunday, September 26

  A car door closing rouses me from my sleep. Another... and another. Voices carry from the parking lot. I sit up. Intense white light beams between the curtains..

  It's not like I have some sort of aboriginal tell-the-time-by-the-position-of-the-sun kind of skills or anything, but the sunlight has a certain late morning quality to it. The usual morning chilliness has already baked out of the air. But t
he house is quiet. No noise from the kitchen. No noise from the bathroom. No noise in the living room. Mom and Dad have left already, but neither of them bothered to wake me up.

  Dread gnaws on my guts—an unpleasant mixture of guilt and fear. Without checking the clock, I know that I've missed Sunday School. I don't really feel like I missed much of anything, but I run the risk of Dad coming down on me. Worse, he may not say much about it at all. He'll just say "I see you weren't at Sunday School". He'll be quiet after, but the expression on his face--one of extreme disappointment—is worse than being bawled out by a drill instructor.

  A deep breath. Count backwards from ten. Think of a beautiful place. Ten... A kite flying over a beach... Nine... A tall white sailboat beyond the breakwater. Eight... A big white wave rolling in off the ocean... Seven... The wave breaks. It's no use. What ya really need to know is that I'm not good enough. There's a dozen and one reasons why I'll never be good enough to be the kind of man that Dad thinks I oughta be.

  My eyes find my way to my desk, where my orange pill bottle catches a ray of sunlight and glows like a light bulb. For a moment, I pretend that Doc Finkelstein's sitting there in my chair—his hands folded across his stomach.

  "Tell me, Caleb, what are you afraid of?" He looks at me through his thick bifocals, making an expression like he's waiting for the correct answer to a mathematics problem.

  "Everything..." Right now the world's a fifteen pound bowling ball, hanging by a thread. The only wonder is that it hasn't broken already.

  He sighs. Nods. "Ah. Everything's a lot to worry about."

  I roll over, shuck my blanket away from my body, and sit on the edge of the bed. My hands brace against my knees. "I'm no expert on things, Doc, but how can you look at Harlan's boat and say 'this was an accident'? And yet... nothing was done about it."

  He leans back and makes one of those smart guy faces, pressing his index finger across his cheek. He makes a go-on motion with this other hand—the one with the ink pen.

  "And maybe I'm just losing it, but I got this sick feeling down in my gut that Reverend Sheldon didn't have an accident either. There's a lot of accidents around this town, Doc, and I'm afraid something might happen to us."