Motorcycle Roadkill

by S. P. Shane

  “Shit,” I mutter, realizing that I can barely hear the sound of my own voice beneath the ringing in my ears. I thought the shot would have scared him off. If push comes to shove, there's no way that I can shoot him—not even a leg shot. It's just not in me. But I can't leave Josh out here in the mining camp either.

  He shoves his door open and steps out into the rain. Leaving the door ajar, he walks around and stops in front of his car. Looks up at me. All at once, Josh jets from the side of Noah's trailer. He raises his gun and squeezes the trigger. Grant jumps like a bee stung him. Josh keeps his gun drawn on the car, as Grant staggers around toward him. Is this the moment they finally collide? Josh vs. Grant, the title match?

  The passenger door opens, then the driver's rear door. Troy climbs out the passenger door and Danny climbs out the rear door. Grant stumbles, then falls to the ground—a red dart sticking out of his back.

  Troy hurries toward Grant, but before he reaches the front of the car, he reels back and clutches his shoulder. Kennon bolts around the car with his dart gun still raised in the air. Danny stays near the car, shielding himself with the door. His eyes fix on Grant, but he likely sees Josh in the corner of his eye. If he doesn't see Josh, he sees Kennon with his gun drawn on him. He raises his hands in surrender. But Kennon didn't come looking for prisoners. He squeezes his trigger and Danny grabs at the back of his neck, crumples against the door, then falls back into the car.

  Troy keeps up a good fight, refusing to fall all at once. He sinks to his knees, trying to pry a dart from his shoulder with weak fingers. But it's no use. He's been bitten and the venom's in his system. He crumples face-first into the dirt. Time to sleep.

  My grip loosens on the gun, as I stagger back to the Cadillac. Soaked. Chilled to the bone. Shivering. I sling the door open and slide onto the plastic-covered seat. Steam rises from my body, as warm air blows against my skin. I close the door and lean against it, keeping my eyes peeled on Grant's car.

  Josh wades through a puddle toward Grant—his finger still on the trigger. He has the weary eye of a gunfighter, who half-expects his kill to rise up in revenge. He pauses at Grant’s side with his gun pointed at him. He waits, cocking his ear toward him, as if to listen for heavy breathing. After a moment, he crouches down and yanks the dart from his back. He holds the dart up to look at it, then drops it into the pocket of his jacket.

  Josh and Kennon share a few words, then Kennon comes to Grant's side. Crouches. They each grab an arm and just pull like their lugging a sack of potatoes behind them. His heavy body leaves a muddy streak, as they tow him toward the car. Lifting Grant into the car appears a lot like trying to get a refrigerator through a narrow doorway—only there doesn't seem to be much of a need to be gentle about it.

  Once Grant is situated in the driver's seat—slumped across the steering wheel—Kennon walks around the car and disappears between two trailers. Josh is on his own with Danny and Troy, but Danny's basically in the car already.

  I stay put, waiting, watching in the rear-view mirror. It doesn't really make any sense—knocking Grant out with a tranquilizer dart..and then Troy and Danny...and then loading them all back into their car. It's certifiably insane—like something Harlan would do.

  Just as Josh finishes wrestling Danny's legs into the car, an orange glow begins to reflect off the rain puddles. Even with the rain, the bitter smell of smoke carries through the mining camp. And boom! The windows of the Cadillac rattle and I jump across the seat, pulling my head below the dashboard.

  I reach blindly for the gun—not really sure what's going on. Keeping my head low, I angle the side mirror, trying to get a glimpse behind me. The windows of the trailer are gone—blown out—and flames gush out into the air.

  “What the hell...”

  Josh slings the passenger door shut on Grant's car, as Kennon strolls away from the burning trailer—kerosene can in hand. He walks around the car, like he has all the time in the world, pulls out a handkerchief, and wipes the gas can clean. He exchanges a few words with Josh, then opens the driver's door, and sets the gas can on Grant's lap.

  As he closes the door Josh shuffles away from the car. Kennon trails along behind him.

  Chapter 40

  White light spills from the Citgo Station onto the highway, but the lot sits empty. A stocky guy with long red hair and a bushy beard leans across the counter—browsing through a magazine. He doesn't stir when Kennon pulls onto the lot.

  Kennon makes a wide swing around the pumps and glides to a stop beside the building. Between a rusted Ford truck and a broken Coca-cola machine, a pay phone is mounted to the side of the building.

  “You're on, Calloway,” Kennon says.

  Josh slaps my back. “Just what we talked about. Okay?”

  I nod, but I'm not really okay with any of this. My only consolation is that it's okay to sound nervous for once. It's okay to sound like a scared little kid.

  I sling the door open and climb out of the car, checking to make sure no one else is watching me—besides Josh and Kennon of course. And once I make my peace with the fact that I'm actually doing this, I shuffle toward the pay phone.

  I pick up the receiver. Dial tone. My quarters clang as I drop them through the coin slot.

  Then, I look back at Kennon, as if this can only occur with his permission—his say so. He nods. “Go on, kid.” I dial the number.

  Ring.

  Ring.

  Ring.

  “Kentucky State Police. Officer Ransdell speaking. How can I help you?”

  Pause. The sound of falling rain. Breathing. My heart beats in my ears.

  This is it. They can trace the call, but there's no one—except for Josh and Kennon—who can place me here—at this phone booth.

  “Um yeah... Me and my friend... um we were just riding our bikes... by the Ruby Ridge Mining Camp. And, um... we saw these guys... And they had this gas can... And, um... they were setting this building on fire. And, then... they went back to their... And, um... it was a yellow convertible. But they just sat there. Um... I think they passed out or something.”

  “Who is this?”

  “My name's Randy... and um... I think you better send someone.”

  “Randy, I'll get someone on it. Okay? You just be brave, okay?”

  “Okay.” Click.

  Chapter 41

  Thursday, October 7

  A pulse is in the air, beating low. It's something I feel with my whole body—a low rapid thud that shakes the walls, the floor, everything around me. The white fluorescent lights burn brighter, making a loud hum. The hallway's a roar of whispers, muffled gasps and there's something so unsettling about their tone.

  The door to Rooster's office stans open. He sits behind his desk with his hands held out: "there's nothing I can do."The cowboy swagger's still there, the puffed chest, the stiff chin—but his face betrays him. He has a wounded look like he's been gut shot. He's not dead yet, of course, but perhaps time will take care of the rest.

  Coach Hensley drips sweat from his tomato-red face. He chops at the air, shouting, as spittle spews from his mouth. It's hard to hear what he's saying, but one thing is clear: football is broken in Crenshaw's Creek, and there's nothing he, or anyone else, can do to fix it.

  Rooster shakes his head at Hensley, shrugs. There's genuine concern in his eyes. This kind of stress can't be good for a man as large as Coach.

  "Hey, what's goin' on?" A skinny kid with a Moon Pie face stops next to me.

  "Don't know." It's not exactly a lie on my part. I know about three football players asleep in front of a burning trailer. I know about an anonymous phone call to the state police. What I don't know is how it all played out—and I don't know what all of it means to the football team.

  "Someone said the game's canceled. Maybe the whole season," he says. He shuffles forward to join the frenzy near the windows.

  "Why?" I call after him and he answers with a shrug.

  Inside the office, Lindsey raises her head and looks tow
ard the windows. She turns her head slowly, as if she's scanning the crowd for someone. My guess is Grant, Troy, or any of the goons. But when her eyes stop on me, she smiles.

  Every eye is on her, and the crowd stands ready to pounce, like reporters in a press pool. She's the girl who's sitting at ground zero. She's the girl with the inside story. Of course, they want to know what she knows.

  She opens the door and steps out into the crowd. A dozen questions are uttered all at once, but she doesn't seem to hear them. She smiles, bats her eyes, and walks by them, weaving through the crowd, until she's in front of me.

  "I hear they're canceling the game?"

  She bites her lip. "Not just the game. It's the whole season."

  The roar erupts at once. My mouth makes the word "why?" but my voice is drowned beneath a roar of voices.

  Her voice fills with a strange sense of justice. “David Grant... Troy Schaffer... Danny Miller all got arrested yesterday. Can't have a game without your starters.”

  “Why don't they just get new players?” Moon Pie chirps in my ear.

  “From where? Are you gonna play?” I ask.

  He laughs. “Not in a million years.”

  Lindsey's eyes dart around the foyer, taking note of dozens of listening ears. She shakes her head. “Don't know.”

  Her eyes meet mine again. She hesitates, as if she's not telling me everything. She steps toward me and leans close enough to catch the scent of her wintergreen mouthwash. “Scoot stopped into the shop last night. Don't know why. None of the jocks ever show their faces there. And, well, he seemed kind of down. So, I asked him what was wrong.”

  “And?”

  “The police busted Grant with a hundred pounds of pot in his trunk,” she whispers.

  “Holy Jesus!” It's not entirely fake surprise on my part.

  “He was working out of an abandoned building up in the old mining camps.”

  Light spills into the foyer from the doors behind me. The dull roar fades to an eerie silence. A shadow stretches beside me, coming from the opened door. I crane my neck as Scoot lumbers inside, looking like a gun shy puppy. His eyes are puffy and red—fighting back tears.

  “Y'all blew it, Scoot.” A voice shouts in the crowd, but he doesn't acknowledge it. He pushes his way through the crowd. He jerks the office door open, then glances back at Lindsey. For a brief moment, he watches her with affection and seems to be waiting for some sort of acknowledgment from her. She doesn't raise her head and Scoot lowers his gaze and lumbers into the office.

  Inside the office, the goons gather around Coach Hensley. They look like battle-weary soldiers awaiting the word—waiting for Rooster to tell them what they already know. All they have to do is look around—at the students, at Coach Hensley, at Rooster, at each other—to know that it's over. But they haven't heard the official word yet—not from Rooster, not from Coach.

  Rooster takes off his bifocals and drops them on his desk. His head stays lowered for a moment, his gaze fixed on the desk. He's silent, waiting, praying, or maybe searching the vacuum of his huge noggin for the right words.

  Scoot holds out his hand, saying "Well?" with his whole body. "What's it gonna be?"

  Rooster slowly raises his head. His eyes meet Coach Hensley, before finding their way to Scoot. He shakes his head. His lips move, but there's no hearing him. The silence is broken in the foyer. The soft chorus of whispers begins again.

  Hensley' holds his arms out at his sides, his fist clenched. His shoulders shudder, his body trembles. He looks like a volcano waiting to erupt. Scoot reaches over and puts a hand on his shoulder. Coach shakes his head. Then... pop. The seal blows. Whatever it was that had been holding Coach together breaks.

  Rooster turns slightly toward Scoot, his hands stay raised, his lips part. "I'm sorry." His face says the rest of it: "There's nothing I can do."

  "It's our senior year!" He wipes a tear from his face.

  "I know. It's not your fault.”

  Hensley waddles forward. His whole body seems puffed up. "I'M NOT HANGING AROUND HERE JUST TO TEACH HEALTH CLASS!" He grabs a folder from Rooster's desk and slings it across the office. Papers scatter across the floor.

  Scoot steps back, as Hensley staggers around to face the door. The goons spread, making a passage for him. "AHHHHH!!" Hensley screams as he kicks over a chair. He wipes his mouth, lets out a sigh, and storms out of the office.

  In the foyer, dozens of students scamper to get out of his way. The office door crashes against the rubber stop as he pitches it open. The floor shakes as he lumbers toward the door.

  At the door, he pounces on the handle, throwing it open. He does not look back, as he steps outside into the falling rain and walks out of sight.

  The door falls shut, as students stare in stunned disbelief.

  "Guess he's done here," Moon Pie says in my ear.

  "Guess so."

  A collective gasp echoes through the hallways.

  A moment later, Scoot comes out of the office alone. Disappointment is clearly written on his face, but he has a sense of cool about him. As the door falls shut behind him, he leans back against it. "Doesn't look like there's gonna be a football game this week.... I'm sorry."

  A sound like "awwww" builds in the crowd, as Scoot makes his way down the hallway.

  In the office, a handful of football players loiters around the counter. Rooster stands in front of the P.A. system, glancing at a legal pad.

  A tone squawks and the roar dies down. "Attention students and teachers..." Manson's voice is low and hoarse. He pauses, while the students remain quiet. “After speaking with the superintendent...members of faculty...and the State Athletic Association...I regret to inform you... that the Football Season...has been canceled... effective immediately."

  The sound that erupts in the hallways is so deafening that Rooster pauses, waits for the noise to die down. It takes at least a half minute before he can continue.

  “Due to changes in status among several of our team's key players, we regret that we will be unable to field enough eligible players to continue the season.”

  The first bell rings, as Rooster continues. “We understand how deeply disappointing this is. And we will strive to rebuild our program for next year's season... Thank you.”

  A deafening roar rips through the hallways. Outrage and sadness strains their voices. There's not gonna be any bus trips to games in distant cities; there's not gonna be any rallies, trophies, or parades; and there's not gonna be a championship. It's all over now.

  “Holy shit” just kind of slips out. But it's not outrage that I feel. It's a horrible sense of confusion—and guilt.

  Lindsey looks at me astir with sadness and sympathy. “What's wrong?”

  “It's just sad—is all.” I shake my head. It goes without saying that Grant had it coming—Troy and Danny too. But looking around at hundreds of sad faces, you kind of see a ripple effect running through the school—through the town. It's over for everyone.

  Lindsey leans to my ear again. “Scoot says the feds are involved. They're investigating the entire Grant family.”

  Her words crawl down my spine like ice water, as an image of Bryant Grant flashes through my mind—sitting in my dad's office with a briefcase filled with money. It's the ripple effect again. Are the bread crumbs still there? If the agents search hard enough, can they find the rabbit trails that lead back to Calvary Hill—to my dad?

  “Caleb!” Lindsey grips my arm.

  I look up at her.

  “Are you alright?”

  I nod.

  “You look like you saw a ghost.”

  Chapter 42

  Sunday, October 10

  My whole body hurts—my muscles, my back, everything. I don't want to open my eyes or roll over and get out of bed. I can't find the will to lift myself up and to press forward. I just want to lie down... sleep... wither.

  There's a knock at my bedroom door, but there's something different about it. It's softer, gentler, less imposing.
“Caleb, dear?” It's Mom, not Dad.

  “Yeah?” My voice is so hoarse and strained that I hardly recognize it.

  “Are you going to make it to church this morning?” It's a question on her part, not a demand. There's the option of saying 'no'.

  As much as I want to just lay here, curled beneath my covers, something tells me that it's not a good morning to sleep in.

  “Yeah, I'm comin'.” Her footsteps move slowly away from the door.

  My whole body aches as I tumble over to the floor. I'm on my hands and knees, staring down at the floor. The light from the hallway spills under my bedroom door. If I can just get my feet under me, I'll be alright. My legs are stiff, but I can hold my own weight. Slowly, I straighten myself, like a sunflower unfolding toward the sun.

  I stumble toward the door, open it and lean against the doorjamb. The light is on in the bathroom, but all is quiet upstairs. Water runs in the kitchen below and the sound of dishes clanging together carries up the stairs.

  “Caleb, I'm gonna head over to my Sunday School class,” Mom calls up the steps to me. I jump at the sound of her voice.

  “Okay.”

  A sick feeling swims in my gut that I'm Crenshaw's Creek's new Jimmy Hickman. Even if Josh sticks around, he can't keep the goons at bay forever. But there are worse things than the goons. If the Feds nab my dad, Mom's likely to go crawling back to Cleveland. There's not a good way for her to explain that her husband's no longer with her, or that the pastor who was fired from the Immanuel Congregation is in prison.

  In my closet, I find a pair of tan slacks and a white dress shirt. I don't care that they don't match; I don't care that they haven't been pressed. I throw them on and slide my feet into a pair of loafers.

  When I stumble down the stairs, Dad still sits at the table, wearing his pajamas. He stares into his coffee, as if the mystery of the universe may wait at the bottom.