He let it go.
We got to the auction. I drifted between the lanes. I threw a half-hearted bid out on a Prius but quickly lost track of it.
I was a mixture of giddiness over last week’s date with Gen and terror over the raven’s skull that had been left on my pillow. Even without that kind of turmoil, this whole directive to buy a car felt wrong. Who was my boss to dictate how I lived?
He was the man who’d fire me if I didn’t come up with reliable transportation, that’s what. I drifted away from the lane I’d been monitoring, the one Bob had directed me to.
And then I saw It.
My eyes landed on the hunter green frame from a dozen yards away. I practically sprinted over and entered the bidding as soon as it started. It cost more than I meant to spend, and by the time I’d won, I wasn’t sure exactly what had happened until me and Bob were standing beside It after I had handed over the largest stack of cash I’d ever held in my hand.
“Jack.”
“Yes, Bob.”
“Do you have a license for this?”
“Nope.”
“Do you know how to ride It?”
“Nope.”
“Did you think this through?”
“Do I ever?”
He sighed. “We’ll arrange for it to be held. I’ll borrow a trailer and haul it down.”
I stood there stroking the gas tank and saddle of my slightly used, seized-property 2015 Indian Scout. I tentatively sat on it. My feet found the pedals, my hands the bars.
It sure felt a hell of a lot better than a hatchback.
* * *
Bob was true to his word and the next afternoon I heard the rumble of his truck. From the deck I could see him wrangling the trailer with It strapped in place.
I came out to meet him. He got out of the truck, his face a mask of anger. He held a newspaper and a file folder in his hand.
“Inside the goddamn boat,” he said through clenched teeth.
Baffled, I followed him.
Once we were on the Belle I walked straight into a punch that, if he hadn’t pulled it a little, could probably have broken my jaw. Then he threw the paper at me as I lay on the deck, dazed.
“What the fuck, Bob?”
“Just look,” he hissed.
I picked up the paper and saw the headline. “BIKER BODIES FOUND.” I scanned the story; gangland style stuff, ambush, shoot-out. A lot of words were tossed around. The one that stood out was Aesir.
I knew the bodies. Of course I did. I’d seen them die.
I absolutely could not tell Bob Sanderson that.
“So why did this get me hit?”
“You do it?”
“Jesus, Bob. Since when am I some kind of gun-hand, can shoot down three bikers before they get a shot off?”
“Oh, they got a shot off. Two or three. But it was pretty professional stuff. It was a fucking shooting gallery just our side of the PA line. So I’m gonna ask you again. You do it?”
“The only firearms I have any access to are secured in the firm’s gun locker. You’re welcome to go check them and count the ammo inventory. Every round has to be accounted for.”
“You don’t have a piece around here?”
“I don’t like guns and I won’t have one on my boat.” I was beginning to think about changing my mind on that score, but I hadn’t quite yet. I thought maybe the local boys were giving the Aesir as much as they could handle.
“Well,” Bob said, “you better hope that between these three and the couple we have in custody that the Aesir numbers are depleted.” He held the file folder out. I came to my feet and flipped it open.
I almost dropped it immediately when I saw the crime scene photos.
“This one is up in PA. We were alerted to it because the LEOs there suspect the Aesir, and the dead guy is from Cecil County.” Bob droned on about the guy’s record. I didn’t hear him; I just stared at the photos.
A man had been tied face down in a field, had his ribs cut away from his spine, and his lungs pulled out over his shoulders. I felt acid rising up my throat.
Bob had stopped talking. I looked up at him. I knew I was pale.
“That’s a Blood Eagle,” I said.
“A what?”
I closed the folder, took a deep breath, then tapped it with one finger. “What they did to this guy. It’s from Viking sagas. May or may not have been a real thing in Viking days.”
“Looks pretty fucking real now.”
“Yeah.” He took the proffered folder. I felt weak. “Got something to show you.”
Anger dropped. Cop inquisitiveness replaced it. “What?”
I rummaged in a cabinet and brought out the raven skull. I’d sealed it in a plastic bag. The J and D carved in stood out in the morning light. Bob looked at it curiously. “Should’ve brought this to the cops.”
“Yeah, well. Protective custody ain’t really my style.” I paused. “Are you really in the throes of grief that three outlaw bikers and one drug dealer have eaten it?”
He looked up from the skull. “The way you ask that makes me think you did have something to do with it.”
“Test my hands for residue if you want.”
He frowned, shook his head. “Come help me get this ridiculous motorcycle off my trailer.”
We went outside and carefully unstrapped It, muscled it down into an empty parking spot close to my slip.
Bob handed me some pamphlets about motorcycle training courses and licensing, and opened the driver side of his truck. Then he turned and looked at me.
“You’re right, Jack. I’m not real sorry that some bikers died in a field just because it’s in my county. But if you started a gang war? The bodies that start dropping are on you.” He got in, the engine revved, and he drove away.
I took a look at the Scout, thumbed through the material, and decided to spend at least the following hour not thinking about how many bodies would end up on my books when all was said and done.
The End
Jack Dixon will return in CHEAP HEAT
About the author
Bianca Tredennick
Daniel M. Ford is the author of The Paladin Trilogy. A native of Baltimore, he has an M.A. in Irish Literature from Boston College and an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from George Mason University. He teaches English at a college prep high school in rural Maryland.
Find him on Twitter @soundingline.
Find us on Facebook, Twitter @sfwp, and at sfwp.com
Body Broker Page 20
