Iron Goddess

by Dharma Kelleher

“She didn’t tell ’em shit. Wouldn’t even give up your phone number. Just let them burn her with a lighter to protect your thieving ass.”

  “Ha! Guess I trained my bitch right, then.”

  A high-pitched horn sounded behind them.

  The boys must be tired of sitting in the rain, thought Shea, managing a weak smile.

  Hunter put the truck in gear and roared down the road. Shea stared out the window as they drove north toward Bradshaw City. A double rainbow arced across the eastern sky. Her dark mood muted its jeweled colors. Air from the truck’s vents warmed her skin, but the heat didn’t penetrate the cold emptiness in her core.

  It pissed Shea off to see Wendy cower from Hunter. Where’s the badass chick who defied Oscar’s abuse and shot the guard in the poppy field?

  She wanted to punch Hunter for treating Wendy like a disobedient child. Wendy was under his thrall, same way Mama had been under Ralph’s. Nothing Shea could do to change that. Wendy had tried to leave him once; maybe she’d do it again, once Annie was safe.

  By the time they approached their destination, the setting sun had painted the blanket of clouds with hues of lavender and peach. They were a few miles outside of Bradshaw City when Hunter pulled off onto Pinellas Parkway, an isolated road meandering between grass-covered hills west of town. A few minutes later, he turned onto a driveway, stopping at the gate of a ten-foot-tall chain-link fence. Two men wearing prospect cuts and armed with AR-15 assault rifles opened the gate, letting them through.

  A hundred yards past the gate, Hunter drove up to a worn brick building that had been like a second home to Shea when she was growing up. What once had been a church in the days before Arizona’s statehood now served as the Confederate Thunder clubhouse, which they continued to call the Church. Up in the bell tower, a sniper’s rifle barrel extended from the balcony railing.

  Hunter pulled the truck into the nearby lot among a small assortment of cars and three dozen bikes, some concealed with covers. When the truck stopped, Shea grabbed the AK-47 and hopped out next to her sister. They’d taken two steps when Hunter appeared with his hand extended. “Gimme the AK.”

  Shea didn’t have much interest in the assault rifle, but held it away from him in defiance. “This ain’t yours.”

  “You’re in my house now. I say what’s mine and what ain’t.”

  Wendy looked at Shea with dull eyes. “Give it to him.” Her voice was flat and lifeless. Shea wondered if her sister was again jonesing for a hit of Oxy.

  She held up the rifle. Hunter snatched it away and inspected it. “Can’t never have too many of these.”

  One-Shot and Mackey walked past them, both pale and wet, lips lavender with cold. Hunter, Wendy, and Shea followed them around to the front of the building.

  A rain-soaked Confederate battle flag fluttered on a flagpole attached to one of the four-by-four columns on the porch. Shea put her hand on the wooden façade that covered the front of the building. The paint, cracked and faded to the color of butter, felt like lichens growing on boulders.

  “ ’Member when we used to play tag and hide-and-seek here with the other bikers’ kids?” asked Wendy.

  Shea recalled her sister’s childish laughter, tinkling like the tiny silver bells some of the Thundermen put on their bikes to ward off road gremlins. “Long time ago,” she said.

  Shea followed the others inside. The air vibrated with the sound of Lynyrd Skynyrd and reeked of stale smoke, beer, urine, and sweat.

  The walls of the entryway were covered with photos of past members, many of them mug shots. In one club family photo, a young Shea and her sister sported goofy grins. Interspersed with these were framed letters of appreciation from local charities for contributions. Images of the Confederate stars and bars, along with the club’s Johnny Reb logo, were everywhere.

  Part of her longed for the innocence of her childhood, but she knew the sweet memories were only part of the story. The trauma of the dog attack and the recurring terror of her father’s abuse poisoned the recollections. Despite its promised commitment to its members and their families, the club was a cesspool of racism, misogyny, and violence.

  Shea stepped into what had been the sanctuary of the old church. A bar stood where the altar must have once been. A dozen members of the MC, along with a few of their old ladies, were drinking and laughing around wooden tables that had replaced the church’s pews.

  Hunter, One-Shot, and Mackey marched down a hallway on the right side of the barroom-sanctuary.

  “There she is!” A heavyset man with thinning gray hair and a well-worn cut stood up from one of the tables and approached Shea and her sister. He looked familiar, but Shea couldn’t place him.

  “We was worried about you, sunshine.” He gave Wendy a bear hug. She yelped when he squeezed her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Is Dopey around, Papa?”

  Wendy calling him Papa eliminated any doubt. This was Monster. Or had been at one time. Not nearly as scary looking as he’d been seventeen years earlier.

  “He’s around here somewhere. Why? You hurt, sugar?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He grabbed the arm of one of the other Thundermen, the same guy with the goat patch on his chin who had brought Hunter the pills for Wendy. “Goatsy, fetch Dopey for me, will ya?”

  Goatsy ran off. Monster turned to Shea. “Jesus fucking Christ! Can’t be. Little Shea-Shea?”

  “Hey, Monster.” Nostalgia once again tugged at her. She could smell his Old Spice aftershave.

  He shook her hand with a strong grip. “Good to see you, kiddo.” He looked her over. “You look like a drowned rat. You fall in a river?”

  She shrugged. “More or less.”

  A lanky man with John Lennon glasses and a port-wine stain on his right cheek walked up to Monster. “You looking for me?”

  “I am,” said Wendy. “Can we talk someplace private?”

  “Sure.” Dopey waved her on and she followed him down a hallway. “Come on down to the infirmary.”

  Shea watched them leave. “He a real doctor?”

  “Sure enough, board certified and everything. One of them Doctors without Boundaries.”

  “I think you mean Doctors without Borders.”

  Monster crinkled his brow. “Naw, pretty sure he said Doctors without Boundaries. Either way he sewed me up one time after a serious scrap with them Mexican bangers. Hey, ya want anything? Whiskey, coffee, both?”

  “Coffee’d be nice.”

  “Hey, Jimbo! Bring us a cup of coffee,” he called to the man behind the bar. “Shea, let’s you and me have a seat and talk. I’m getting too old to stand for long.” He ushered her over to where he’d been sitting and drinking a bottle of Miller.

  A moment later, Jimbo, who reminded Shea of a scary version of John Belushi, dropped off a cup of coffee. “Thanks,” she said.

  “What in the world happened to y’all?” asked Monster. “We were ’specting you hours ago.”

  “We got ambushed by the Jaguars,” Shea said. “We tried to get away, but they caught us, took us to their warehouse out in the forest.” Her voice rippled with anger. She tried to calm herself.

  “Why would them damn beaners be going after the two of you?”

  “Hunter,” she said.

  “Hunter?” Monster looked surprised. “What’s he got to do with this?”

  “Yesterday, I rode with Hunter, Mackey, and One-Shot up to the Jags’ warehouse looking for Annie.”

  “Heard about that. They said she wasn’t there though.”

  “No, but a whole lot of the Jaguar’s hex was. Hunter and the boys helped themselves to a few hundred kilos. When I protested, they jumped me and left me there.”

  Monster gave a low, throaty grumble. “That boy. He got more dollars than sense sometimes.”

  “How come you ain’t at the head of the table?” she asked.

  He chuckled. “There was a time I wanted it. Believe me, I did. But I had enough on my plate raising your sister, especially af
ter what she been through. What y’all been through, I should say.” His face darkened. “Wish you’d come to live with us, too. Wendy missed having her big sister around.”

  “After Ralph killed Mama, I didn’t want nothing to do with the club. I had to find my own way.”

  “Can’t say I blame ya. This life can be brutal sometimes.”

  “So why you still part of the club? Why not leave this shit behind?”

  “These folks is family. Besides, somebody’s gotta be here to put some sense into these little punks.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t sound like they’re listening, old man.”

  “Not enough, that’s for sure.”

  “What happened? Ralph and Victor used to have a good partnership.”

  “They did. When your old man got locked up, Roadster took the gavel. Wasn’t too keen on doing business with brown. Tried a few other things to earn. Dogfighting, guns, crystal. Jags didn’t take too kindly to it.”

  “Imagine that.”

  “What about you? What’s keeping you off the streets these days?”

  “Building custom bikes for women.”

  He smiled. “Yeah, think I heard something about that. Never knew there’s such a thing as women’s bikes. Figured a motorcycle’s a motorcycle.”

  “For the most part. Lotta women are shorter. Most bikes are too tall in the seat, even with lowering kits. So we make smaller bikes.”

  “No shit. That’s something else.”

  “For our best customers, we design the bikes like a tailor custom makes a suit. I measure arms, legs, torso, then build the bike to spec.”

  “I’ll be damned. Purty clever there, girl.” He took a sip of his beer. “How’s business?”

  She shrugged. “Okay till we got robbed a few days ago.”

  “Know who did it?”

  “Friend of mine owns a chop shop, says someone wearing Jag ink was trying to fence a few of our custom bikes. Him and someone who looked like a cop.”

  “Huh! Fucking beaners and pigs. Now them Jags got my grandbaby.” He slammed his bottle on the table. “Serves ’em right, Hunter stealing their dope.”

  “I’m worried about Wendy, Monster.”

  “Wendy?” He raised an eyebrow. “How come?”

  “For starters, she’s hooked on Oxy.”

  He frowned. “Yeah, been noticing that, too.”

  “Then there’s Hunter abusing her. I’m afraid what happened to Mama will happen to her. Annie, too.”

  “Hunter gets a little rough sometimes, but Wendy holds her own.”

  “A little rough? He and his boys came charging into my shop and nearly killed her for leaving him.”

  “Yeah, well. That’s the life, ain’t it?”

  “Being someone’s punching bag? That ain’t no life, Monster. She deserves better and you know it.”

  He frowned. “I ain’t arguing with ya. I want her to be happy.”

  With the coffee, Shea felt warmer. She started to unzip the windbreaker and stopped when she remembered she had nothing underneath. “Y’all got a spare shirt I can borrow?”

  Chapter 32

  Monster flagged down Goatsy again. “We got a change of clothes for my goddaughter? She needs something to wear while her clothes dry.”

  Goatsy looked at Shea. “Let me see what I can come up with.” He hustled down the hallway.

  “Goddaughter?” She raised an eyebrow.

  “I know you blame the club for your mama’s death. But in my mind, you’re still my goddaughter. You and Wendy both.”

  Shea let it sink in.

  Moments later Goatsy brought Shea a faded Sturgis T-shirt and pair of drawstring sweatpants. “The pants are a bit short on me but they should fit you.”

  “Thanks. I should have the pants back to you in a bit. I may need to hang on to the shirt a little longer.”

  “Keep ’em long as you need.” He hustled off.

  “The dryer still where it used to be?” Shea asked Monster.

  “Same place, newer model.”

  She carried the clothes down the hall to the bathroom. A handwritten note taped to the wall advised people to use the sliding bolt lock rather than the lock in the doorknob. She wriggled out of the windbreaker and slipped off the wet jeans, socks, and underwear. The bandage on her leg was similarly soaked. She peeled it off. The scabs that had formed were now soft and oozy. The skin glowed bright red.

  The medicine cabinet contained no first-aid supplies. She squeezed a glop of hand sanitizer into her palm and smeared it across the tattered flesh of her road rash. The alcohol burned like fire on her exposed nerves, causing her to wince.

  She looked at the shirt and sweatpants Goatsy loaned her. Her skin crawled at the idea of putting on a strange man’s clothes, especially without any underwear. God, I hope he don’t have crabs or anything else contagious. How would she explain that to Jessica? She gritted her teeth and pulled them on. The pants were a little long, the shirt baggy. She pulled the windbreaker over it.

  At the end of the hall, she popped the wet clothes into the dryer and returned to the clubhouse’s main room.

  Wendy sat at a table with several other bikers’ old ladies on the other side of the room. They were all skinny with long hair and way too much makeup. Aside from her sister, Shea didn’t recognize any of them. All of the women’s eyes were on Wendy, as if she were holding court as the young queen of the club. Their expressions were somber and consoling. An older woman in a tube top held Wendy’s hand.

  Is that Monster’s old lady? wondered Shea. What was her name? Julia?

  Hunter walked up to Shea, brooding. “We got the money. One-Shot and Mackey are putting it in duffel bags now.”

  “How’d you come up with four million so quickly?”

  His eyes narrowed. “None of your business.”

  “Fair enough. You got a computer I can use? The kidnapper told me to post an ad on craigslist once we have the ransom.”

  “Yeah, in the office. I’ll show you.”

  She followed him back down the hallway to a door on the left. He pulled out a set of keys and opened up a small office decorated with framed photos, biker memorabilia, and an assortment of Confederate flags. A rolltop desk sat in one corner with a computer and monitor. She sat down, logged into her craigslist account, and created a personal ad with the subject “Come Home Annie.” In the body of the ad, she wrote, “Your room is ready, but no allowance until you’re safe.” She added Oscar’s phone number.

  “What’s that mean?” He pointed to the text.

  “It means he doesn’t get the ransom without first giving us Annie.”

  “Now what?”

  “We wait for the kidnapper to tell us where and when to make the drop.”

  They returned to the main room. She joined Monster, though the two sat without saying anything. The music had been turned off, replaced by an occasional creak of the building or the scrape of a chair across the floor. During her childhood, this room would shake with raucous laughter or the odd heated argument. The silence made Shea’s ears ring.

  An hour later, Oscar’s phone dinged. The kidnapper had sent a text message with a video. “Better get Hunter,” she said to Monster.

  He brought Hunter and Wendy both, who stood behind Shea’s chair.

  Shea looked up at Wendy. “Maybe you shouldn’t see this.”

  Wendy’s chin trembled. “Play it.”

  Shea did so. On the screen, Annie held up a tablet displaying the current time and date with large, readable numbers. A strip of gauze wrapped around her head held a bulky, blood-soaked bandage where her right ear had been, reminiscent of van Gogh’s self portrait. “Mommy,” she sobbed.

  “What’ve they done to my baby?” Wendy’s knees buckled. Hunter grabbed her and put her in a chair.

  Monster held out his hand. “The time on that tablet she’s holding could be faked. Lemme check the time stamp on the video.”

  “How you know about time stamps?” Shea handed it t
o him.

  “From my granddaughter there.” He adjusted his bifocals. “Video was shot about an hour ago.”

  He was handing it back to Shea when it rang. No caller ID appeared on the screen. Was it the kidnapper or someone trying to reach Oscar?

  She answered it. Her insides shook. “Hello.”

  “Is this Che?” The same Mexican voice mispronounced her name.

  “Yes.”

  “Why you using Oscar’s phone?”

  “Borrowed it from him.” What else could she say? The connection went silent for a moment. “You still there?”

  “You like the present I send to you?”

  Her body trembled as she resisted the urge to throw the phone across the room. “I just want Annie back.”

  “You got my money, Che?”

  She looked up at Hunter, not sure if he’d told her the truth. “We got it.”

  “All of it?”

  “All four million dollars.”

  “Bueno. Bring the money to 1437 North San Juan Boulevard in Ironwood. Be there at midnight. Just you. If I see anyone else, I kill them, you, and the girl. Comprende?”

  “I understand.” Her voice shook with anger.

  “If you call the cops, I kill you and the girl. Comprende?”

  “Yes, I comprende.”

  “If all the money isn’t there, if there are any sequential bills, if there are any tracking devices…”

  “Yeah, yeah, you’ll kill me and you’ll kill the girl. I got it. Now here are my demands, asshole. I don’t let go of the money until Annie’s safe. Otherwise, I will light the whole bag of money on fire and you get nothing. Comprende?”

  “What are you doing?” Hunter whispered between gritted teeth.

  “Oh, so you making the rules now, gringa? Let me remind you I’m in charge. Not you.” Annie screamed in the background.

  Shea’s jaw clenched. “What did you do, asshole?”

  “I see you at midnight, gringa.” The call ended.

  Hunter grabbed her shirt collar. “What the hell you doing? Getting my little girl killed?”

  She grabbed a fistful of his braided beard, gave it a yank. He released her collar.

  “I’m making sure he doesn’t take the money without giving us Annie,” she said.