Killers, Bikers & Freaks: A Walt Asher Florida Thriller (The Walt Asher Thriller Series Book 1)

by Andrew Allan

  “Executioners in the state of Florida are anonymous.”

  “You don’t even know who’s doing it?” This surprised me. And, it was another obstacle.

  “That’s for their sake. It isn’t a glamorous position.” He leaned forward. “Of course, I know who is running my executions. I lucked out in that department.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “Well, most prisons tend to use any guard who will volunteer for the job. A little extra pay. It isn’t much,” he said. “I made the acquaintance of a team of men who have specialized in these types of services over the years, and they’re great. Nobody does it better.”

  I gave him a bit of a creeped out look because I was indeed creeped out.

  He continued, “You know what I mean. I don’t mean to belittle the act. They’re just very proficient at, um, executing. They apparently did this kind of thing before. Over in France.”

  There we go. A connection.

  He kept talking, “But, I guess you could say they were out of a job when the country banned capital punishment. Typical French. Although a beautiful country. Loretta and I visited about ten years ago. Anyway, these fellas always come prepared. They’re like the Navy Seals of executions. Our simple little lethal injection’s kind of beneath their skill level. But, everyone needs a paycheck. And, they know just what they’re doing. The executed go out without a hitch. Like I said, it works every time.”

  He tacked on a make-nice kind of smile. So, did I.

  I was relieved to get out of there twenty minutes later. It had been nauseating to be talking about killing with such trivial flair. And, disappointing to have to walk away without any names of the people involved. But, at least I knew where they came from. I was on the right path.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  THE TOWN OF Starke didn’t offer much, but for the second time today it looked like it would provide a pay phone. However, when I walked up to the booth, the phone itself was gone. It had been removed.

  I looked for the place least likely to have people who would recognize me from the news. That was a scum bum bar called Rope’s, a block down and across the street from the Huddle House. That sounded appetizing. But, through the windows, I could see a television set to a cable news channel. They’d know about me. No dice.

  Campaign posters for Archie Gagnon were pasted on the wall outside. He had a dumb face making a dumb expression under the slogan “March with Arch!” Sounds fascist. No thanks.

  Inside, the bar was dark and stunk like stale beer, sweat, and depression. I don’t imagine there’s much to do in a town whose primary industry is incarceration and execution. This place had to be the dirt below in a town filled with barrel bottoms.

  I got funny looks walking in. Tough guys perched on stools. Lots of camouflage and confederate flag apparel, hats with fishhooks, and back pockets filled with chaw. Fair enough. I was on their turf.

  I nodded to them and asked the bartender if they had a phone I could use. I put a five-dollar bill on the bar. She pointed to the far end and walked in that same direction. When she reached the end, she set a cordless phone on the bar.

  “Dial anything to get out?” I said.

  “Huh?” she said flummoxed.

  “I’ll take an Intuition.” My favorite beer. Out of Jacksonville.

  I dialed DG again. This time, I got him.

  “Yeah?”

  “DG, it’s Walt.”

  “You’re alive!”

  “Yeah, can you believe it?”

  “Not really,” he said.

  That was depressing.

  “Where are you?”

  I hesitated. “Not sure if I should say. Could your lines could be tapped?

  “Ain’t no one tapping this line, brother. We’re pirating off other users.”

  “Oh, okay. I’m in Starke.”

  “Starke? The hell for?”

  “I’ve found a few things out and they lead here. To Union County.”

  I glanced down the bar. Some of the patrons were taking an interest in me.

  “Hey, how’s Ilsa?” I said.

  “She’s safe. But, messed up bad. Gonna take her a long time to recover. Doc says a few weeks before she can walk. But, she don’t gotta go nowhere. They’re taking real good care of her.”

  I sighed, worried about Ilsa. Felt guilty, too.

  “I need to see her. When can I? And where?”

  The boys down the bar were no longer down the bar. They were walking my way.

  “Get up to Defuniak Springs and call me. I’ll have some of my boys meet you and take you to her,” DG said.

  “Defuniak? Wow, that’s like three, four hours...Okay, I’ll try to get up there as soon as I can. Hey, I gotta go.”

  DG said something I couldn’t make out as I hung up and turned to the lads, who were now gathered around me. I didn’t bother greeting them.

  One guy appeared full-time flummoxed. Another kept blinking. He looked skittish and had a pair of big farmer’s ears. The third fella had a hard, angular face that seemed cut out of rock with Silly Putty for jowls.

  “Do we know you?” said Farmer Ears.

  “No,” I said.

  “Pretty sure we do,” said Putty Face. The difficulty he had articulating that simple sentence made me think he’d had too many dumb-dumb pills.

  That didn’t stop me from getting nervous.

  “Well, you may know me, but I’ve never met you.”

  “You were in the papers.”

  Shit.

  “You read?”

  Nerves shot that one out of my mouth before I could stop it.

  “Yeah, we read it in the paper,” said Farmer’s Ears. He’d been popping dumb-dumbs, too.

  “Oh?” I said. “Stranger things have happened.”

  I smiled quick and stepped through them. Flummox Face grabbed my shoulder and spun me back towards them. Putty Face stepped up. I coiled, ready to punch.

  “You’re that Gator’s coach,” he said.

  Big exhale.

  “Oh yeah. Should be a good season this year. Team looks strong.”

  “No, the one what got caught molesting the boys on the team.” said Farmer’s Ears.

  Awkward.

  “Oh, no. You definitely have me mixed up with someone else.”

  “You just said you was the coach.”

  Putty Face chimed in. “If you’s a molester, we gon’ beat you ass.”

  I held my hands up.

  “I’m sorry. I thought you meant Florida State. That’s my school. In Tallahassee. Not Gainesville.”

  “We hate the Seminoles.”

  “Me, too,” I said and got the hell out of there.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  IT WAS NEARLY seven o’clock when I got out of there. I drove back into town, but when I reached the big intersection at Highway 301, I realized I had nowhere to go. And, being this close to the killers’ home gave me the willies. Plus, I wanted to see Ilsa. I had to see Ilsa. So, I drove towards Defuniak Springs four hours away.

  Besides seeing Ilsa, Defuniak would give me space – away from my home addresses, known associates, and other places most liable to attract the attention of the authorities and the executioners. I needed space to think and let my guard down. Plus, I could hit Tallahassee on the way. It was the state capitol and there was a chance I could uncover some valuable information there.

  The sun was setting just as I reached I-10 West. This bland stretch of highway in the Florida panhandle had little scenic diversity. Moss draped oaks hung silhouetted and black against the deep blue, darkening sky. They added a gothic presence to the drive. But, I couldn’t find anything on the radio to fit the setting. I drove in silence.

  So here I was, three days into having my life turned upside down. I’d had near death experiences, been exposed to a murderous conspiracy, and covered a large portion of the state either fleeing for my life or looking for clues. Well, I wasn’t bored.

  But, I would have loved to get things settl
ed as soon as possible. And by that, I meant save my ass. I missed my house. I missed floating in the river. I missed Ilsa. Sometimes normal was just fine.

  I also missed my kids. Thinking about their sweet faces and winning smiles sent a chill down my spine. My ex had to know I was in trouble by now. If she hadn’t read it for herself in the paper, one of her nosey friends had, and they would deliver the scandalous information without delay. If I knew my ex as well as I thought, she’d be shocked at first, like anyone would. But, then she would feel malicious triumph knowing that all of her worst instincts about me and my character had just been proven true. I knew he was a jerk! She’d ride that triumph over to the phone, dial her lawyer, and push for full-time custody of the kids. As if I needed more motivation to wrap this thing up and clear my name. Goddammit.

  Thinking about the ex made my stomach sink and my blood boil. So, I distracted myself with details of the Warden’s interview. I may not have gotten specific names, but I did get a few clues.

  First, the executioners work for Warden Durfee. As in, present tense, still happening. So, they were still local or nearby. Unless they commuted for executions. And, he confirmed they were French and they had executed people in France. Would there be any record of that? Where would I find it? Would I find it if France kept their executioners anonymous like Florida? Didn’t seem like the type of profession that inspired passing out business cards.

  I came up with a list of people who would know who the executioners were. Prison guards and journalists attend the executions and would have seen who did the killing. However, they wouldn’t have their names unless they tracked them. Was there anyone involved in the business of the executions, like the mayor or the funeral director? The medical examiner likely had a hand in things.

  What about that guy, Gagnon? The State Representative, Mr. “March with Arch”. Maybe. If one person didn’t know I could ask the name of someone who might know. That networking approach worked great while growing my business. I bet it could still work.

  But, that would bring me a lot of attention. Starke was a small community. Word might have gotten around—would get around. To the wrong people. And, they could find me before I found them.

  After all, I was a wanted man with a face plastered all over the news, hourly on the local cable news broadcasts. I suspected they had spun it well – Madman on the loose. Killer on the prowl. This was serious business.

  And so were those headlights in my rearview mirror. Right on my ass, two of them...but drifting together and apart from each other. Motorcycles.

  I tapped my brakes and got a momentary glimpse of the drivers in the red light. Bikers. Maybe DG’s guys. Good chance they’d know this car.

  Before I could consider any options in depth, the cycles split and rode up on opposite sides of my car. Looked like some tough characters behind the handlebars. They vibed long time on the scene.

  The biker to my left signaled me to pull over. I rolled down the window to see if they were with DG, but the cycle roar was too loud. He pointed to the side of the road again. I nodded, and as soon as the guy to my right pulled up ahead of me, I veered onto the road shoulder and parked. I got the sense this could be important if DG’s guys had to track me down in the middle of I-10.

  I stepped out of the car. The guy who pointed parked his bike behind me. A semi roared past in the lane closest to us and with enough light to illuminate the back of the Pointer’s jacket. The colors said “Panhandle Rippers.”

  Not DG’s crew.

  The Pointer walked my way, no expression.

  “Panhandle Rippers? You guys affiliates with DG’s—“

  Pointer held up a fat wrench and smashed out my taillight. He followed that up with a whack against the back window. White shatter veins cracked through the glass, but it held strong.

  “Shit, what the--?” I said.

  A doubled-up metal chain swung in from behind me and wrapped tight around my neck. I gagged and felt like I was choking on my tongue. The biker twisted it tight and shoved me to the ground. I landed hard, chest to dirt, with gravel and glass pressing into my skin and that chain cutting off my oxygen.

  Pointer got down in my face and pressed my jaw with his big, brutal wrench.

  “No one flies their colors on Ripper roads, dickhead”, said Pointer.

  “What are you talking about?” I said with a strained croak.

  Chains pressed his knee into my back to shut me up and said, “Your car man! DG’s colors. We hate DG!”

  “You crazy thinking you can drive DG colors through here after the other day?” said pointer. “That’s fuckin’ suicidal!”

  “What happened the other day?” I said.

  Another knee in the back created a wave of pain up my spine that rippled into my arms.

  Pointer bent my nose with the business end of the wrench. “We didn’t blow up your goddamn compound,” said Pointer.

  “We told DG that, but he still hammered us,” said Chains.

  “Wait, what?”

  “Don’t act dumb, scab.”

  They were kicking up road dust and it was drying my throat out. I attempted to roll on to my side to get more air in my lungs, but they shoved me down.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not in DG’s gang. And, he said the place blew up because...” I hesitated, “of someone else. He didn’t even think it was a biker gang. I swear!”

  They yanked me up and slammed me against the car, unworried that a highway patrol officer could drive by and react to seeing a man accosted. I wanted to avoid that anyway. I was thrilled just to suck in a little bit of fresh oxygen.

  “How do you know what he was thinking if you’re not in DG’s gang?” said Pointer, leaning in hard with the wrench against my throat.

  I could feel blood trickling down my forehead.

  “And, you’re driving a car with his colors. Why you lyin’ to me?”

  “Look, I know DG because he’s a neighbor of mine. We live by the same river. I was there when the house blew up. I’m not in his gang. What he did to you guys had nothing to do with me,” I said.

  “Stop lyin’ to me. You got his car and you’re flyin’ his colors,” Pointer said.

  Chains pulled me tight against the car, over the hood. My feet started to lift off the ground. No air in the lungs. I started to choke. Cars passed and no one stopped to help.

  Pointer gave a hard shove against my throat and it felt like my neck was ready to snap. But, then he withdrew and Chains slackened up. I slumped down to the ground, gasping for air. When the chain was loose enough, I put a hand in the dirt to hold myself up and I rubbed my throat.

  Some jerk honked as he drove by.

  Pointer grabbed me by the back of the shirt and pulled me up. But, he spoke to Chains.

  “Call the boys, Fang. Tell ‘em to come pick up my bike. I’m gonna drive this sucker back to camp.”

  A moment later he slammed the trunk shut with me inside. The car revved to life and off we went.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  THEIR CAMP WAS a makeshift trailer park in the middle of a wide sinkhole amidst a scrub filled, un-farmed field. At its center burned a large bonfire with filthy, rundown mobile homes parked around it, like an old west wagon circle. Several of the mobile homes had junk wood patios built off of them. Choppers were parked next to each trailer.

  At one end of the wagon circle was what looked to be a motorcycle junkyard replete with bike skeletons, tire stacks, and scattered spare parts. A three-legged dog hobbled through the mess. At the opposite end of the circle was the dirt road. I presumed it was the path we drove in on.

  But, I didn’t find any of that out until after Pointer popped open the trunk, a beer already popped and spilling suds over his fingers. A few of his friends were gathered around for the big unveiling.

  “Shee-it, Panther! You got a car and a soldier!” said a biker who looked like a desperate weasel.

  Panther, no longer “Pointer” said, “Pull him out
.”

  And, they did. They let me fall onto the dirt. Sand spurs stung my knee. I swiped it away as they yanked me up and prodded me towards the campfire.

  At the campfire, they sat me down on the ground while Weasel Face scampered over to the most prestigious looking trailer in the compound. He knocked on the door. A biker mama answered, listened for a moment, and then went back inside. Weasel Face headed back towards the fire, around which more of the village goofballs were now sitting. They stared at me with dumb, amused faces, like eight year olds fascinated by an ant they were burning alive with the sun and a magnifying glass.

  The door to the prestigious mobile home swung open and out stepped a very short, very stocky man, done up with all sorts of biker regalia. He looked pompous for a biker, the way he strutted towards the fire – chin up, right arm bent and holding the lapel of his denim biker vest, like an old-time plantation colonel.

  His lips were pursed as he surveyed the crowd. It wasn’t until he stood fully in the soft orange glow of the bonfire that I saw his lengthy hair was rolled up in curlers. My heart sank. This was the last thing I needed - a Fancy Biker Napoleon. It looked like my evening was just getting started.

  “You’re not listening to me,” I said.

  “I don’t have to listen to you, nave! I am in control here,” said Fancy Biker Napoleon a.k.a. ‘Artimus’.

  “Look, Artimus—“

  “It’s Emperor Artimus for the last time. Panther!”

  Panther kicked his heavy biker boot into my kidneys. I toppled into the dirt. The pain was excruciating.

  “You shall address me as such whenever I am in your presence and in the midst of my kingdom,” said Artimus. He sneered down his nose at me.

  Emperor Artimus had his act in full swing. As if they didn’t get very many guests around here. It was obvious he wasn’t going to squander this opportunity. He wanted respect and adulation, but it vibed desperate and small potatoes. These were the Grade-Z wannabe bikers, especially compared to DG’s A-list crew.

  “Hail Artimus!” said the rest of the gang.