by Z. Rider
“He had the patch you described in your statement on his jacket. Same height and build, seems to match the sketch you said was a good likeness of what you saw. And he had an empty knife sheath strapped to his thigh, just like you said.”
“But he didn’t do it,” Carl said, the paper turning sticky against damp fingertips. “Tim— I mean, he killed the other girls the same way, and—”
“And this guy’s prints bring him up as a suspect in a killing in a military hospital. He’s been off the grid for years. Roaming the country, I guess. Involved in an outlaw biker gang.”
“But he didn’t—” He wouldn’t have sliced her throat and dumped her. He’d have killed her to feed.
Bays took his arm and pulled him to the end of the hall, where it teed off and led to the restrooms, a utility closet. Sunlight came through windows on the opposite wall. “It doesn’t matter if he did it or not. It’s how the defense can present it. They can say, ‘It’s possible Timothy Randolph committed this murder, yes, but isn’t it just as possible that this rough character”—he waved the fax—“this obvious criminal, could actually have killed this girl like her brother said he did two years ago?’ And if they can convince the jury that yes, that is possible, the D.A. doesn’t get his win.”
“This is bullshit,” Carl said.
“Listen, maybe Randolph will talk. Maybe something else pointing at him will pop up. But don’t hold your breath. If I were you, I’d consider him caught for something. He’ll go away a long time for the Garcia girl alone.”
“But that’s not—”
“The same? I know, kid, I know. I’ll keep tabs on if they find out anything about Gershon guy. Maybe something’ll turn up that says he was on the other side of the country when your sister was killed.”
“Are they investigating that?” Of course they were fucking investigating that. A dry heat itched across his eyeballs. Of course they were fucking investigating that—and now with Bays asking questions related to this case, there was going to be a connection, however tenuous, between him and the biker. Who was dead.
“I don’t know that they’re going to knock themselves out over it, but the way they found him's got them a little curious.”
Carl swallowed. He figured he knew the answer to this, but Bays would expect the question: “How’d they find him?”
“He had no heart. I’ve seen a lot of things, but I haven’t seen anyone’s heart sawed out of their body yet.”
“What happens now?” Carl asked, shifting his weight to his other foot. Itching to get out of there. Out of Los Campos entirely. He just wanted to be in the middle of nothing so he could scream.
Bays took a breath, stretching his back. “Like I said, they’ll lean on him and see if they can get a confession. There’s a long road to go yet, but they’ll get him indicted, try him, hopefully get the Garcia charges to stick, and he’ll go to prison for a very long time.”
Carl dug his fingernails into his palms. He felt like he was being peeled apart on the inside.
“You should talk to someone,” Bays said, clasping Carl's shoulder again. “I know this is a lot on you. I can get someone to get a few names to recommend you. And hey—everything I said just now? It’s between us. I thought you deserved to know, but you can’t go talking about what the D.A.’s going to do. Not if you want to see him go down for at least some of the shit he did.”
Carl gave a curt not. There wasn’t enough air in the police station. The sun streaming through the windows mocked him with its brightness. It heated his cheek and burned the eye that was still half turned toward it.
He said, “Got it,” as he pulled out Bays’s grip.
“Do you have someplace to go?” Bays asked.
“I’ll figure it out.” All he had was emptiness. No friends, no family, no enrollment in college. Not even his sister was here anymore, just an empty space he used to talk to, photos with eyes that looked out but didn’t see. He was a husk without a seed. “Thanks for your help. I’ll figure it out.”
“If you need those names…”
A young woman hauling a box of files in front of her stepped aside as he strode up the hallway. The bullpen was a burst of noise that immediately seemed to muffle. He felt like everyone was looking at him. The shells of his ears itched hot.
Back in the car, he clutched his keys.
He needed to get the fuck out of Los Campos. There was nothing keeping him here—no family, friends, no job, no classes. Just a shitty apartment he never wanted to see again. And if he got connected with what had happened to Gershon, he didn’t want to be here for it.
He hit the bank, fidgeting in line until he could close out his account and stuff the cash in his pocket. Back in the bright sunshine, he climbed into the Cougar and drove to the middle of nowhere—a dusty road, brown ledges of mountain the distance, nothing but scrub in between.
No idea where to go.
He hit his steering wheel with his fist. “Fuck!”
He could stay. He could get a hotel room, find a job, enroll in school, move into a studio apartment on the other side of town. Visit his aunt and uncle. Try to piece together a normal life. Attend Tim’s trial—a bitter victory when he got convicted. Maybe the biker would never trace back to him. Ten years from now, he’d just be a regular schmo, maybe with a girlfriend, or even a family. Like none of this ever happened.
“FUUUUCK!”
The yell left the back of his throat raw, made the veins in temples throb.
He slammed out of the car to piss on the side of the road, a hot breeze drying the sweat on the back of his neck. He was thirsty as hell—and he had nothing. Nothing but a duffle bag of clothes, and a stupid manila folder he should have destroyed before he booked out of town that last night he spent around the band.
He popped the trunk now and dug it out. Back in the passenger seat, with the door open and one foot on the ground, he flipped through the reports. A semi rumbled past. He slipped the photo of the soldiers out and held it against the wheel. Sergeant David “Grip” Gershon, smirking at the camera. Sergeant David “Grip” Gershon who probably hadn’t killed his sister—but he’d killed someone. Probably a lot of someones.
And the other bikers, they were probably just like him.
And one of theirs had been killed.
Did Dean know about these other guys? The rest of the biker club? They knew who Gershon’d been after before he bought it. If they were the vengeful type—and why wouldn’t they be—they’d at least be looking to see if the guy Gershon’d been after had had anything to do with why he’s not around anymore.
Tucked in the back of the folder was a stack of papers he’d taken from Dean’s house. On top was page two of the tour itinerary. The date at the top—New Orleans—was two nights away.
He looked up as a station wagon hurtled past, heading toward Los Campos.
He’d be in Louisiana in plenty of time if he left right now.
2.
* * *
Dean was on the bus when they pulled up to the venue because he’d gone back to his room after his kill for just long enough to collect his things. He’d climbed on board while the night was still dark, and he’d taken advantage of the darkness—sitting in the front lounge, stretching his legs. By the time the sun had risen, though, he was cocooned in his bunk.
The curtain scraped lightly against the cardboard he’d taped over the bunk’s opening.
“What’s this?” Shawn said, tapping it from the other side.
“Keeping the light out.”
“Still getting migraines?”
“Not as long as I keep the light out.”
“How long’s this gonna go on?”
“I don’t know. It lasted three weeks one time,” he lied.
“All right,” Shawn said with a sigh. “We’ll see you inside when you get there.” He started to walk away—then his sneakers scuffed back to the bunk. “People are going to talk, you know. You’re going to be the enigmatic, eccentric guitarist w
ho doesn’t give interviews and no one ever sees until after dark.”
“That’s me.” He ran a thumb along the gaffer tape at one edge, smoothing it as Shawn left for good this time. He had no urge to light a cigarette; most of the smoke from the last one was still trapped in the air with him. He settled back on the pillow, hands over his stomach, and played the night before over in his head, one minute chastising himself—he should have worn gloves—the next letting his eyes roll closed at the memory of the woman’s blood hitting his system.
The jacket he had on smelled vaguely like the guy, with a trace of the wife’s perfume in its threads.
What did you do with all the hours? he asked the biker, but the biker had no interest in talking back if Dean wasn’t on the hunt.
The bus swayed, the last of his guys getting off it.
He played with the knife, propping the pommel on his leg. He was going to need to explain to someone, sooner or later. Pull someone in to help keep his secret. Who, though, was the question. It had to be someone in the band—they’d be the only people with as much at stake in keeping him going.
Jessie’d freak out. He wouldn’t be able to deal with the truth of it. Dean could already see him shaking his head, his eyes wild—trying to get Dean to admit it was a joke. Backing away as he became convinced it wasn’t.
Nick and Shawn were tougher to calculate. He wanted to lean toward Nick, not because he trusted him more—there wasn’t anyone he trusted more than Shawn—but because he wouldn’t see the implications as clearly, over the awe of it—wouldn’t really digest the fact of what he had to do to survive.
The fact that he was going to be leaving a trail of dead people in their wake.
A fact he had a hard time being bothered by himself. An old part of him, standing a ways away from the new him, tried to work itself up over it, but it was a small voice, overwhelmed by the way his brain worked now. All the changes this thing had made in his body—the healing, the teeth, the blinding headaches—it hadn’t left his mind alone either.
“Rotting from the inside,” he murmured, tapping the blade against his chin. Rotting to the point that it hardly bothered him that he’d killed two people the night before.
Killing a dog would have hurt more than what he’d done.
Shit.
With hours to go, he had nothing to do but light another cigarette, close his eyes, and relive the rush of blood.
3.
* * *
Texas unspooled under the Cougar’s tires. Some middle-of-nowhere radio station was playing Cherry’s one hit, the jangly “Three Deuces,” reminding Carl of the summer he was twelve—and Soph, singing the chorus loud and wrong, giggling every time he tried to set her straight. She was doing it on purpose, and the corner of his mouth crooked up, remembering.
“We’re going somewhere else, Soph,” he said. “I don’t know where yet, but we’re going someplace new.”
He didn’t know what he should expect, bringing this news to Dean, if the guy would just say, “Yeah, I know,” and walk away, or if he’d want to see his folders—if he’d tell him it was bullshit, or if he’d take him backstage to talk about what had happened. He adjusted the rearview, the setting sun flashing into his eyes.
A sign whipped by, gone in a flash. He glanced at the speedometer, took his foot off the gas until the needle dropped near eighty-five.
He thought about how Tim had handled his search for the guy who’d killed Soph, how he’d seized on the story about the biker early on. He’d provided Carl with his first motorcycle magazine, his introduction to the lurid crudeness of biker gangs. He’d filled his head with the terrible sorts of things guys like that did. Encouraging him to focus on the biker.
The New Hampshire trip—the morning Carl was leaving, Tim had gotten up too, early enough to grab a coffee with him before he headed out the door. In a good mood. He’d said, You’re an idiot for thinking this is going to turn out to be anything, but he’d also asked if he’d had a map, if he had enough cash in case the car broke down. When are you going to be back?
Well, like, minimum, how long do you think you’ll be gone?
Bays had wanted to know if Tim had acted any different, and Carl didn’t know how strong the evidence was for that. He was afraid he’d slip up, anyway, if he tried to tell Bays about the morning he’d left without giving away what he was leaving for.
Well, like, minimum, how long do you think you’ll be gone?
Because he’d already decided on another target. Another little girl, barely seventeen. Cute. Dark-haired. She had a brother, but he was just fifteen. He wondered if Tim had tried to insert himself in the kid’s life. I remember your sister from the bowling alley. She’d come in sometimes. She always seemed really happy. In fact, I saw her that night. I can’t believe I saw her that same night. Who would do such a thing?
Fuck him.
Just fuck him.
“What do you think, Soph? Time to put that behind us?” The medal hanging from the mirror swayed. His tires bumped over broken asphalt as he pulled up by a gas pump.
He rolled into New Orleans in the dark, the city pressing close, thick with sweat, humidity, and something dark and earthy, despite all the streets and sidewalks.
Lack of sleep tugged at his eyes. He’d caught a half hour here and there in the back seat of the car last night, then driven through the hot sun, the never-ending interstate hypnotizing him. But this city—it was like driving into another world. If magic existed, he thought as he craned his neck to gawk at a graceful porticoed mansion, it existed right here.
For the first time since he’d come home, he felt like he’d found something. Like he’d come to the right place.
4.
* * *
Prey.
The young girl in the venue shirt working her way around people to empty ashtrays. The tour-manager-slash-roadie for Thieves, with his beige leather jacket, wide collar, and gold chain peeking through the V of his shirt as he swept a carrot stick through a plastic tub of dill dip. The two music journalists talking to Shawn, one of them sweeping a curl of blond hair behind her delicate ear, smiling at him; the other—a guy with a paunch and Who tee shirt—crowding her out of the way, probably oblivious to the fact he was even doing it.
They all made Dean feel like a mouthful of teeth.
A short pop turned his head, the rise of a cheer.
“Can’t Win” had hit number one for the week.
Another pop went off, Janx opening the second bottle of champagne as Mike poured the first into plastic cups, passing them around. Sparkling effervescence spilled over people’s hands. Nick slurped champagne from the crook of his thumb with a smile. Mike moved onto pouring the second bottle, Wayne still handing cups around.
Jessie brought him one, grinning, raising his own and saying, “Prost!”
Dean lifted the cup, vibrating in his fingers—from the bubbles, from the noise in the room, from the impulses inside of him—and said, “Prost,” before lowering the drink to his waist. He could tell by the smell; champagne wasn’t going to sit well with him.
When Shawn came by, it was to whisper, “This sucks,” in his ear, but he was smiling.
They had four more bottles of champagne on ice, a gift from High Class. A reminder of who they were yoked to.
But Dean was thinking, right now, that that was probably for the best. If he had to leave, they’d still have a label, still be a band. Someone would replace him. He even had a couple vague ideas on that.
And he was thinking this because even Shawn, standing beside him with his drink, watching the crowd hoot and holler—even Shawn was prey.
A dimple creased Shawn’s cheek as he smiled at Nick riding Wayne and Janx’s shoulders under the spray of a shaken bottle of bubbly. A featherlight pulse at the side of Shawn’s throat broadcast his smell.
He was a walking bag of blood, and Dean, wondering how he tasted, dropped his eyes.
October 20, 1978
1.
* *
*
Carl woke in a hotel room that smelled like mildew and cleaning agents. It took a moment to orient himself. He was twisted in the clothes he’d had on last night, and the colored lights of Bourbon Street were still flashing in his head. He’d gotten some spicy chicken, ate it while he watched the crowds. Thinking about how Tim had talked about the French Quarter once, about Mardi Gras, how you could buy liquor there at eighteen—and kill someone in the middle of that parade going on, and nobody would ever figure out who did it.
He’d bought liquor last night, and his head ached with it. He dragged himself out of bed, unsure whether he was looking to pee or puke. The cool of the bathroom tiles helped his stomach settle some. A shower put him in half-decent shape.
He checked the clock—fuck. Yanked wrinkled clothes from his duffle bag.
In the lobby, he got directions to the venue from the desk clerk. Too far to walk. The Cougar’s air conditioning blasted as he crept down Poydras. City buildings towered over him through the commercial district. He caught a glimpse of Port of New Orleans before turning off, and then he started looking for signs.
He spotted the bus instead, its cargo doors gaping open. He wound around the block, looking for a place to leave his car. Anxious to get out there. He walked three blocks back, a bounce in his step. He was here, and they were here, and if nothing else he was going to see a show tonight.
Men in tee shirts and boots lugged equipment into the venue. The upper part of the bus was silent—door shut, blinds down.
He leaned against the corner of the venue and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. Far enough away that he wasn’t in the way, close enough to watch what was going on. He did his best to look nonchalant. He still had no idea how this was going to go, but it might be best if he wasn’t too memorable.
