by A. J. Downey
I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it one bit, however, I didn’t know what was going on and I did like and trust Detective Stahl. If he said it was what I should do, then it was probably what I should do.
Whiskey took off the Knights of Crescentia cut and threw it on the floor. He gave a nod to his partner and stepped out the door, and I followed. He moved us up the hallway to the elevators and pressed the button to take us down. I tugged on his jacket sleeve and he looked at me.
“What?”
I stuck my bare foot out from beneath the hem of my skirt.
“Shit, where are your shoes?”
I shrugged and pointed at the bag. He rolled his eyes and hustled us onto the elevator.
“Figure it out in the garage,” he muttered.
We slipped out of the elevator in the lobby and went for the garage elevators, the front desk clerk occupied with someone either checking in or out. Blue and red lights flashed outside, cars skidding to a stop as the elevator doors closed and whisked us down into the garage.
We went to the motorcycle parking and Whiskey – I guessed I should be calling him Narcos, now ‒ dropped my bag to the floor beside one of the bikes. I sat on the seat while he riffled through it.
He said, “Ah ha!” and came up with one of my favorite pairs of knee-high fall boots, which were more than suitable for riding, with their thick brown leather and heavy soles. He unzipped them quickly and, kneeling in front of me, slipped them onto my feet and zipped the zippers along the inside of each leg to the top.
He stood up and shook his head, cramming my bag into one of the saddlebags on the bike.
“I know you like your dresses and skirts, but it really isn’t good for you to ride in them. You need to dress for the slide, not for the ride, honey.”
I rolled my eyes at him and rolled my hand over and over as if to say, I thought we were in a hurry.
He grunted and got on the bike, sticking in the key and starting it up. I got on behind him but barely held on. I wasn’t thrilled to be riding with him, but I couldn’t wait to go outside. I had been suffocating in the hotel. I had only been out once, to go to the prosecutor’s office to write my statement. I hadn't been able to tell if they had been pleased with it or not. Considering I was still in protective custody, I had to imagine they were, indeed, happy with it.
He pulled out of the garage and I had never been so happy to be out with the sky above me in my life; I had felt like a prisoner locked away in that hotel. Of course, wherever we were headed to could be a lot worse. I guessed I would see when I got there. When you didn’t have a voice, you got really good at just going with the flow and seeing what happened.
7
Narcos…
She let go with her hands and flung them wide when we hit the highway. I checked her in the side mirror, and with her head tipped back and her long hair streaming out behind her, she was the picture of biker-chick freedom. She was beautiful when she was that at peace, and I had been around her long enough to know she didn’t get these moments of happy peace very often.
Driller and I owned an old fishing shack in the woods outside a small town. It sat on the edge of a river, the living quarters built on stilts, a shed and garage underneath. There wasn't a lot in it of any kind of worth, just an old Ford pickup and a bunch of junk. The place definitely had its pros and cons, and I would just have to see how she dealt with it when we got there. That would probably be around dawn, judging by the time we left the hotel and the ride ahead.
It was my intention to ride her through the little town three or four miles out from the cabin before anybody was up to see her. That plan got shot to shit when we arrived, the false light of pre-dawn just starting to paint the horizon through the trees. She tapped my shoulder urgently and pointed at the town’s little bakery and café, which was just starting to open for breakfast for the old timers.
“You hungry?” I called and she nodded emphatically. I knew there was nothing at the cabin, I’d have to hit the general store; so I pulled up to the curb in front of the little place and cut the engine. She got off the back of Driller’s bike and pressed her hands to her lower back, stretching.
“Come on,” I said, and it came out terser than I intended it to. She frowned at me slightly, but followed me up to the café’s door. I dragged it open for her and she slipped inside with a gentle nod of thanks. I tried to smile at her, but it felt awkward on my face. I wasn’t one to smile a whole lot.
“Mornin’, folks!” the baker called from behind the old wooden bakery counter to the right. “Here for the baked goods or for breakfast?” He smiled affably and tossed a white dishtowel with a blue stripe over his shoulder. He had the whole getup: white tee shirt, white pants, and the long white apron covering his ample middle. He even had the paper hat on his balding head. As middle American as you can get, and straight outta the forties or fifties.
“Breakfast, for now,” I answered.
“Well, go on and seat yourself. My wife Laurie will be right with you. I’m gonna get these muffins out of the oven, and I’ll send a couple out hot. On the house!”
“Appreciate that,” I said, “but I’m happy to pay for ‘em.” I caught Silence looking at me curiously when I turned. I took her by the elbow to steer her through the doorway on our left into the country dining room and as soon as we stepped through the archway, she lightly pulled her arm from my grip.
“Sorry,” I muttered under my breath, just loud enough for her to hear. She cocked her head slightly and took a seat at one of the tables meant for two people.
I sat across from her, and two minutes later, the woman I presumed was Laurie came bustling over with two menus tucked between her elbow and her body, and a small plate with a steaming muffin in each hand.
“Good morning!” she greeted us, and set a muffin in front of Si and one in front of me. She slid the menus on the table next to each of us and asked, “Can I start y’all off with something to drink?”
“Uh, coffee for me, please. Black.”
“And for you?” she asked Si. Silence picked up her menu and looked over the drink selection on the back and pointed to something. Laurie pulled her red-framed reading glasses down from the top of her head and peered through them.
“Orange juice?”
Silence nodded.
“Small or large?” she asked and Silence used her hands to indicate ‘large’. Laurie smiled, a bit puzzled and said brightly, “Coming right up.”
“You know what you want?” I asked when Silence stared at me a little too long to be comfortable.
She shook her head and went back to her menu, her clear green eyes skimming what was on offer. I skimmed mine, too, but my eyes kept wandering over the top of it to Silence’s face. She looked like she was doing well. A little thinner, but that didn’t surprise me. Worry ate at a person, and I was sure she was stressed.
“Alrighty, then. Here we go.” Laurie set down our drinks and asked, “Need a little more time?”
Si shook her head and pointed at something on the menu. Laurie smiled and brought down her readers once again, and nodded.
“Okay, and how do you want your egg?” she asked.
“Scrambled,” I answered automatically. “With a little cheese.” That was the way she'd always gotten them when the Knights were out on a ride. At least, that was the way King had always ordered it for her. She’d always seemed happy enough with it, and when I looked at her to check, she nodded, looking at me curiously again.
“Sausage or bacon?”
Si held up one finger for the first option, and I answered, “Sausage.”
I placed my order and folded my hands, propping my elbows on the edge of the table and settling them against my lips as she stared at me unabashed, her lovely green eyes roving over my rough face, the gears and wheels visibly turning in that pretty head of hers.
“You aren’t stupid, but that doesn’t stop people from treating you like you are, just because you can’t talk for whatever reason, doe
s it?”
She shook her head carefully.
“People don’t tend to pay a whole lot of attention, do they?”
Again, she shook her head.
“I’m not most people,” I said, and the light in her eyes dimmed slightly. I cursed myself out inside my head. I hadn’t meant for it to sound like I was berating her, but I had the feeling she took it that way anyway.
We ate quietly. I didn’t try to say much after that, but I didn’t know if that made things better or worse. When the meal was through and both of us were sighing in satisfaction, I asked her, “You want to stop in at the bakery on the way out? I don’t think the cabin has anything.”
She perked up and nodded, and I got to my feet. I was weary, but I’d pushed myself harder than this before, and I likely would again. She followed me and we stopped at the bakery counter. She looked in the glass case to the left, then let her eyes drift over the loaves of bread on the shelves behind the counter. Each type was neatly labeled by a little chalkboard affixed beneath the line of loaves.
She pointed at a crusty-looking loaf of some kind of white bread, labeled ‘Snowy Mountain Loaf’, and I gave a nod.
“How about some of them blueberry muffins they served us?” I asked, and she smiled big and nodded.
“You going to be able to carry it on the bike? Saddlebags are kind of full.”
She nodded and I placed the order with the baker, Ed. He loaded everything into paper bags, and then tucked them into two plastic grocery sacks he found somewhere, saying, “Sorry about that. We only do paper here in the bakery. It lends to the old-fashioned vibe, you know?”
Si smiled warmly and nodded, and I felt a faint smile hit my own lips.
I said, “Thanks for scaring these up. Much easier on the bike. I’ll, uh, try to find some reusable ones for future trips.”
“Snowy Mountain Loaf makes for some great rustic sandwiches. You should hit up the butcher two doors down. He’s got a great selection of smoked and cured meats, and some cheeses from the creamery a county over. Best stuff you ever ate.”
“Really?” It sounded good, actually.
“Of course, another good ol’ standby is peanut butter. Toast the bread first, though. You want I should slice it for you?”
“Yeah, that would be great,” I said and Si tugged my sleeve and held up two fingers. I nodded, thinking I caught her drift, and said, “Why don’t you give us another loaf and just slice it.”
She nodded and I had to smile that I’d indeed understood her just fine. Ed beamed at us and took one of the crusty, flour-dusted loaves in back.
He returned with it wrapped in a plastic bread bag, the end twisted and secured with one of those paper-wrapped wire ties.
“Thank you,” I said, and we went out, to Ed calling out, “Y’all come back now and tell me what y’ think!”
“Will do,” I said, and Si waved gently as the door shut.
“What do you think?” I asked. “Check out that butcher?”
She nodded and looped the two bags over one wrist. We went down the block and slow-rolled past the butcher’s shop, but it was still closed up tight.
“Well, shit. I’m going to have to come back into town later, anyhow. I’ll see if he’s open then.” She nodded and we went on our way.
The fishing cabin on the Blackwater River sort of butted up against the hillside. There was parking up on the hill, and a walk across a narrow dock-like structure led to the cabin itself. It had a wrap-around porch and a set of stairs off the back left corner down to the garage underneath it. There was a switchback, steep drive down the side to get down there.
The truck that was locked up in the garage down there was so old, we didn’t give a damn if the river flooded it. We’d been meaning to get rid of a bunch of shit that was left by the previous owner. I figured, being stuck here for god-knows-how-long, I could put my ass to work making some improvements to the place.
I cut the engine to Driller’s bike and heeled down the kickstand. He’d likely ride mine out here, and we’d swap then.
We were best friends, so we already had keys to each other’s place on our rings. I was hoping he’d have the presence of mind to pick me up some shit from my place. I wasn’t sure how much I had here in the way of clothes. It’d been a while.
Si leapt off the bike as soon as she could, putting distance between us. I couldn’t say I blamed her. I’d been the instrument of some pretty serious trauma. She didn’t know the real me, only what she’d seen of me first hand. That was rough. It pained me more than anyone could know, but by the same token, that was the job…
“Come on,” I said, my voice rougher with emotion than I’d like, as I pulled her leather bag of wispy hippy-chick clothing out of the saddlebag I’d locked it in. “This is home sweet home until further notice.”
Her face was unreadable as her lovely eyes roved over the silvery, weathered wood-shake cabin. She nodded carefully as I marched across the walkway to its front door. It took some fishing to find the right key for the lock, which grated a bit from disuse as I turned it. Silence picked her way carefully across the walkway, dubious as to its stability, and I chuckled.
“It’s newer than the cabin. Driller and I share this place. He’s my best friend. We repaired all the structural defects before I transferred into Narcotics and went undercover.”
She gave me a careful nod of understanding and preceded me through the door. It was dimmer inside; the windows in the back overlooking the river were in need of a wash, plus the porch was roofed in, shading the windows all the way around. There was a loft on the front side of the cabin, but it, like the garage, was full of junk.
The cabin down here was pretty much one big room except for a wall separating off the kitchen. The bed was down in the one big room. The bathroom door was on the left as you came in, a two-seater couch against the wall separating the kitchen from the rest of the room. From the bed, you could see it all, the front door to the left, the back door leading out to the porch, and the stairs down to the garage on the back side; all of them were visible.
I dropped the leather bag of hers by the bed and reached for the plastic ones of our bakery goods. She handed them over and I went around into the kitchen.
“You can take the bed, I’ll take the couch,” I called out, and jumped when I heard the sharp slap of leather against the worn floorboards. I dropped the bread on the counter and went back around. Her leather bag had been relocated to the end of the rough-upholstered loveseat and she was curled on it resolutely, her back to the room, huddled in her brown, tough suede coat with its hippy fringe.
I shook my head. “Suit yourself.”
I went over to the bed, which was made, but dusty like the loveseat, and flopped down on my back. I grunted and dug my gun out of the small of my back and set it to the side within easy reach. I didn’t tend to move around a lot in my sleep.
I was out inside two minutes.
8
Everleigh…
I slept harder than I could have imagined despite the oppressive heat of the cabin. I was finally jarred awake by the sound of an engine trying to turn over. It was disorienting at first, not knowing where the sound was coming from, but finally I realized it was below me.
I stood up and tossed my jacket down over the arm of the loveseat. I wanted to take my boots off so badly, but I didn’t know what I would find by accident with bare feet around this place. It was a tetanus shot waiting to happen… I looked down at my hands, at the healing marks both front and back and thought to myself, I’d already had one of those. Still, I didn’t want a matching set of holes through my feet, so the boots stayed on.
I went to the back door and opened it out onto the porch. I wished it was just a screen, but the porch itself, though it should be screened-in, was open-air. If it had been screened, it could be so much cooler in the cabin, but the windows didn’t have screens and I wasn’t a fan of bugs, as much as I loved nature.
There was another door at the back cor
ner of the porch, just a screen, and I opened it to find a landing and square twist of stairs. I heard a bang, the clang of metal as a tool skittered across cement, and a curse.
I couldn’t help but smile, but I quickly wiped it off my face as I quietly descended the stairs.
Most men didn’t like it if you smiled or laughed at their expense. Bikers were even worse about it. I swear, it was some kind of complex the men I’d encountered had. I believe Margaret Atwood expressed it best when she said she’d asked a group of men what the worst thing a woman could do to them was. They’d answered ‘Laugh at them.’ When she posed the same question to women about men, their answer was stark. ‘I’m afraid he will kill me.’
I found it best, with my background, to not provoke any man in any way that I could think of and I was always thinking about it. Of course, there were some things that couldn’t be avoided… like things I hadn’t done but got blamed for, anyway.
I stood at the bottom of the stairs and looked around. The barn-like doors of the garage under the stilted cabin were flung wide. Inside, an ancient pickup truck, more rust than faded tan paint, sat with its hood up, and Whiskey - I mean Narcos ‒ half-hanging out from under it. I didn’t know how to approach without startling him, so I stood back, and kind of just waited for him to notice me.
I didn’t have to worry about it, though, because he glanced at me from under one arm and asked, “Don’t suppose you know anything about cars, do you?”
I shook my head and he smiled and sighed.
“I think it’s the starter; I’m not real sure. I guess I’m going to have to take the bike into town and have it tested.”
I made a kicking motion with my foot, and he choked back a laugh.
“Have I tried kicking it?”
I nodded.
“Don’t think that’s how it works, honey.”
I gave a shrug. That was about the extent of my expertise when it came to the subject.
“You’re funny,” he said, nodding approvingly. “You got jokes.”
