“I wouldn’t change it if I could.”
“I agree.”
“Then why all this? If you don’t believe people can change, then why go to the trouble of this place?”
“Though it didn’t quite turn out the way the Nazis had intended, they ultimately got their wish. This land, right in the heart of the Pine Barrens, was purchased with Nazi blood money. All the hate here, it’s like an oil stain on the pavement. It seeps in and never fully washes away. But why bother breathing if we’re all going to die? Because I still have to try. What’s the point of living otherwise?”
Lindsay smiled. “Henry Drexler, Patron Saint of Lost Causes.”
Henry laughed. “Lindsay Claiborne, defiantly herself. Aren’t we a pair?”
Lindsay decided not to press her luck and rose from her chair. “Well, I’m sorry to take up so much of your time. You’re a busy man. Thank you for the break and the tea.”
“I am a bit tired, but I must say, this was the most fun I’ve had in quite a while. Maybe Ben would let me steal you again? Same time tomorrow?”
“I’d like that.”
Lindsay showed herself out of the main house and walked toward the tent city, trying to process the conversation. She was pleased she had gained an audience with him and had even managed to secure another one for the next night. But there would be no next night. She and Ben were going to take a walk in the woods and never come back. Still, she also found herself feeling pity for the old man, living in the middle of the Pine Barrens, trying to atone for the sins of his father, surrounded by vipers. If anything, he seemed like he was punishing himself. She quickened her pace, passing groups of men who leered at her as she went. She scowled back.
Suddenly she heard a commotion from inside the barn. She peered into the open door and heard from inside, “Hold up there, Anson.”
“Don’t bellyache if y’all don’t have the testicular fortitude for it!”
Lindsay stopped and took a tentative step into the barn. At the far end, she spied Anson with a shotgun, trailed by the older man, Carl, marching toward the bay colt’s stall.
“You can’t just—”
“Drexler said the barn’s mine. That means the horses too.”
Before Lindsay was aware of it, she was bounding deeper into the barn, heading toward the same stall. She made it to the gate before Anson.
“Hi guys, what’s going on?”
“That would fall under the category of none of your damn business,” said Anson.
“Hey, I thought I had an open invitation.”
“Step aside.”
She looked over her shoulder into the pen. The horse was on his side, sweating profusely, lathered like it had just run a race. His breathing was a heavy wind through his nostrils.
Before Anson could stop her, she opened the latch on the pen and slipped inside.
“Get out of there!” he yelled.
She attempted to kneel by the horse, but as soon as she got close, the massive beast rolled violently and she backed a step. When he settled on his other side, panting, she knelt between him and the entrance to the pen.
Anson stood with the shotgun at his side. He spoke quietly now, barely heard over the horse’s panting.
“Don’t make me repeat myself, girl.”
Lindsay sprang to her feet. “Or you’re going to point that shotgun at me?”
Anson fought to maintain a grin, but the thin line of his mouth quivered and his Vandyke beard twitched. Lindsay could see that he was considering just the thing. She wondered just how lawless this place was and if she had overestimated the fleeting sense of order at camp. But she was not going to let him at the horse. Adrenaline flooded her muscles and she began sweating herself.
“You know anything about horses?”
“Enough to see that…” he said, lifting the barrel of the gun in the horse’s direction. Lindsay stepped into its path and shot him a fierce look. Carl put a hand on Anson’s shoulder and said, “Whoa.”
“Get the fuck off me,” said Anson, jerking away. He continued pointing, but only with his finger. “Enough to see that the horse is suffering. He’s been suffering long enough and now he’s spooking the other horses, so I’m putting him down. So come out of there. Don’t make me fetch you.”
Lindsay slammed the gate of the pen. Every horse jumped at the sound, except the one on the ground. Anson’s face turned crimson, and he rubbed a shaking hand across his face. “I’ll be back, little girl.”
“I’ll be here.”
As he stormed out of the barn, Carl approached the pen. “That was not smart, young lady. You do not want to make an enemy of him. Or his friends.”
“Are you a horseman?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I just keep them fed and watered. The last horseman, the full-time, went missing.”
“Missing?” asked Lindsay, then shook her head as if to hurl the thought out of her mind. “Never mind. Do you have Banamine?”
“I have no idea, ma’am.”
“Is there a medicine chest? Supply closet?”
“When the camp started filling up, all the drugs went missing. Now whatever we have is up at the main house.”
“All right, go up to the house.”
The man hesitated, his eyes darting back and forth.
“What?”
“You don’t just go up and knock. The Black Cadre doesn’t like that.”
“Jesus Christ,” she said, running her fingers through her hair. “Do you have a gun?”
“A rifle.”
“Get it.”
Carl returned with a rifle and passed it over. “I thought you weren’t going to shoot him.”
She took it and marched outside the barn, chambered a round, and fired into the sky. The report rattled between the outbuildings and the trees and echoed throughout camp. She reentered the barn and passed it back to the man.
“That should get someone’s attention,” she said. “You really think Anson is coming back?”
“Could be on his way, could be stewing with a bottle. Could be both.”
“Fantastic. What’s this guy’s name anyway?”
“Slip.”
She entered the pen once more, careful not to spook the horse or to get in the way if he thrashed again. She knelt by his head and daubed the sweat from the white stripe along his nose. “Hey, Slip, remember me? You’re going to be just fine. I promise.”
They waited. It did not take long for Breaux to enter the barn, wary, pistol by his side. “Was that you?” he asked Carl.
Lindsay exited the pen. “This horse is in severe pain. It could have a torsion of the colon or large intestine, which is deadly, or it could just be gas colic. I need ten ccs of an anti-inflammatory called Banamine. If he responds to it, then it’s probably just the colic and he should recover.”
“You fired a gun in camp—in this camp—over a damn horse?”
“The young lady didn’t have a lot of options,” said Carl. “She stopped Anson from putting Slip down the hard way. I don’t think he appreciated it.”
Breaux gave her a curious look through his hooded eyes. A half smile began to tug upward at one corner of his mouth.
Lindsay said, “I understand all of the drugs are under lock and key. Go get me some Banamine.”
“Anything else I can get for you, Your Highness?”
“Anson nearly shot this horse over what could be a bad case of gas. You want to tell the old man that or should I?”
Breaux looked from Lindsay to Carl, then sighed. “What’s it called again?”
“Banamine.”
Breaux exited the barn and was nearly toppled over by a skidding Ben. Lindsay waved him inside and she strode over to him, out of earshot from Carl.
“What the hell was that?” asked Ben.
“One of your idiot friends nearly gunned down one of these horses. I stopped him.”
“Tell me on the move.” He glanced over her shoulder at Carl, then dropped his voice. “Com
e on, we’re late for an appointment.”
“I can’t leave. He may come back to finish the job out of spite.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I just need a little more time. One more night.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Hi,” she said in a fierce whisper, extending her hand, “I’m Lindsay Clark, a zoologist from the Smithsonian…”
“Okay, okay,” he said through gritted teeth. “But you can explain it to Davis that we blew the exfiltration over a damn horse.”
She smiled, triumphant. Within ten minutes, Breaux returned. He pitched her a bottle of the medicine as he approached, but handed her the syringe. She filled it with ten ccs as she approached Slip. She waited for one of the brief moments when the massive bay wasn’t rolling from side to side and whispered to him, her voice a steady, calming susurrus. She brushed her hand up and down Slip’s neck and smoothed the white patch between his eyes, getting him accustomed to her touch. She traced her thumb down the ropy, jugular vein on his thick neck and slipped the syringe in and depressed the plunger with one fluid motion. The horse didn’t even notice. She whispered lullabies to him for another few moments, then stepped back to the gate, where Breaux and Carl were watching her intently.
“Impressive,” said Breaux.
He’s digging, she thought. She didn’t care. “I need to stay with him. If it is gas colic, he’ll start feeling better pretty quickly.”
“What’s pretty quickly?” asked Carl.
“An hour or two.”
“And if not?” asked Breaux.
“Then this horse is going to need to get to a clinic ASAP. Either way, I’m staying here tonight.”
Breaux studied her, narrowing his already hooded eyes, making it look as if he was falling asleep. “Not alone.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“No doubt,” said Breaux, “but if Anson decides to tie one on, he may come back.”
“Ben can stay with me.”
“Your boy ain’t going to be enough to discourage shenanigans. And Anson might not come back alone. I’ll post a couple of the Cadre.”
Carl frowned and Breaux noticed. “Is there a problem?” asked Breaux.
“Storm troopers give me the creeps,” mumbled Carl.
“That’s the point. No one will mess with them and no accidents will happen on their watch.”
Lindsay was mulling this over when they heard a distant rumble coming from outside the barn.
Chapter 24
The Kobolds rolled down the dark road to Välkommen in single file. On the highway they rocketed at high speed and in tight configuration, but on the narrow dirt they gave one another more distance than usual. Daniels brought up the rear, eating dirt and fumes, but that was the standard station for a prospect. Ahead of him he saw the leather cut of Jakes, the chapter’s sergeant at arms, illuminated by the red of his taillight. The top rocker was the KOBOLDS patch, curving downward at both ends. In the center of the cut was a massive patch of a cartoon goblin aflame. The bottom rocker read NEW JERSEY, curving upward, as in a smile. As a prospect, Daniels’s cut was largely blank, featuring only the New Jersey patch. He was still earning the right to call himself a Kobold, fetching beers, emptying ashtrays, corralling girls for the other members, or going on late-night missions like this, no questions asked.
They didn’t make much of a war party—the chapter’s president, the SAA, and a single prospect—but then again, they didn’t need numbers. They were Kobolds, deep in their own territory, and there hadn’t been any One-Percenters from other clubs during their last brief visit. Or rather, if there had been, the pussies had removed their cuts to blend into the crowd. Kobolds were always on the lookout for other clubs encroaching on their territory, particularly the Brazen, though shit had been relatively quiet with the rival club for a few years.
Strictly speaking, this reconnoiter wasn’t necessary, but a prospect did as he was told without complaint or delay. They’d been partying for days in a house outside of Seaside Heights, and despite the booze and the chemicals, the rager had begun to wind down. But Big Billy never really wound down, which probably contributed to his being the P. He was a garrulous man with an easy smile, friendly even, but he could gut a man without the smile ever leaving his face. But it never came to that. The SAA, members, and prospects always flanked their P wherever he went. No one who understood anything about biker protocol ever approached, but there was never a shortage of bitches trying to take selfies with the big, bad, bald biker. If they were hot enough, he just might let them. Also, Big Billy couldn’t stay in one spot for too long. This was a trait common to most Kobolds, but the P was always more comfortable in the saddle. So when the party began to run on fumes and Kobolds were sprawled in beds and couches and the least offensive patches of carpet, Big Billy, conferring in a corner with Jakes, summoned their prospect over with a finger.
“Up for some reconnoitering, prospect?”
It wasn’t really a question.
In addition to his ever-present itch to ride, Big Billy could get paranoid depending on the combination of the substances in him. Tonight it was apparent his P and SAA were talking about Nix Healey again.
Healey had been a Kobold associate and a reliable supplier of drugs, but he had gone missing. Disappearing bikers made everyone jumpy and Nix was becoming an urban legend. None of the Kobolds or satellite clubs knew his whereabouts, but the last place anyone had seen him for sure was that camp in the woods. So off they went.
With the cheap speed and the lake of beer in his stomach, Daniels felt both sluggish and agitated, and the dark scenery began to take on a kaleidoscopic effect, but instead of a rainbow of colors, it was degrees of black. Fractals of shadow shot past and the passing cones of their headlights made the treeline feel as if the forest were undulating, alive. As if the branches were making bizarre, sinister shapes. It put him in mind of staring up into a swirling ceiling fan, when the blades are one unbroken blur for a moment, then you can pick out a single blade, and then, in an illusion, it seems to be traveling in the opposite direction. Daniels shook his head and the world snapped back into focus.
You shouldn’t be riding, a small voice said in his head. It was not a voice he usually paid much mind to. It was not the thing a prospect would ever say aloud. Not if you wanted to get patched.
He was relieved when the arch materialized out of the woods and they sped past the two sentries standing on either side of it. The sentries were shouting, but with a thunderous roar and a cloud of dust, the Kobolds blew through, leaving the useless guards coughing and holding their dicks. One reached for a radio, but Big Billy and Jakes made sure it wasn’t necessary.
Välkommen opened up, an oasis in the dense woods at the end of a sandy road. The roads became small streets, made of packed dirt and in some places gravel, and with the extra space, his P picked up speed, watching people dive out of the way. Big Billy raced into the roundabout in front of the yellow house, Jakes following behind, and Daniels behind him, and they circled like a trio of sharks. If the P wanted to put on a show, it was his call.
They made a few rotations until a crowd gathered in front of the big house and the old man from last time emerged. Only then did Big Billy stop and dismount. It was among the prospect’s many jobs to guard the bikes, so he hung back as Big Billy and Jakes marched up the steps and the old man grasped his P’s hand. This was a massive breach of protocol, but perhaps out of respect to the head of this settlement—one leader to another—Big Billy allowed it. The old man excitedly turned to Jakes next, who bristled but followed his P’s lead and shook hands.
They disappeared inside for a while, leaving Daniels alone with the bikes, and after a while the crowd dispersed. After their noisy entrance, it was anticlimactic to watch one biker babysitting three bikes. One by one, the stragglers left, leaving behind three guards, clad in all-black paramilitary gear and sporting sidearms. They watched Daniels, utterly expressionless, as if he was not only
not a threat, but beneath their notice. Daniels felt a mixture of indignation and anger, with a few drops of fear. He was a prospect in the baddest outlaw motorcycle club in the Northeast, this close to being a One-Percenter, and he was not accustomed to sensations of feeling isolated and outnumbered. It made him furious.
One man had not left with the dispersing crowd and wandered too close to the bikes, squatting down to get a closer look at Big Billy’s, a gleaming Harley that Daniels himself had to polish. The man was short with a shaved head and his sleeves were pushed up, revealing a tat of a pit bull head on one forearm and “Lindsay Forever” scrawled on the other.
Daniels marched over and without breaking stride brought his boot down on the side of the man’s face. It wasn’t his hardest kick, but the man went sprawling. Daniels looked over his shoulder at the black-clad guards, expecting them to charge, but they watched silently, motionless. This pissed him off even more. He loomed over the man to give him another brutal kick when the front door opened and his P emerged with the old man.
“Daniels?”
Their sergeant at arms was already bounding down the steps to join in the one-sided fight. The man, on all fours now, held up his open palms.
“No…” he muttered. Then with more volume, “No disrespect.”
This caught Daniels off guard. Even the SAA stopped his charge. Daniels had his arm cocked, ready.
“Got too close,” continued the man. “Should’ve known better. I…apologize. My dad wiped out on one when he was young. Never let me get a bike. Still, they’re beautiful.”
Daniels looked to his P on the step, standing shoulder to shoulder with the old man. Big Billy smiled and gave a small nod to Daniels. It’s cool.
“You always do what your daddy says?” said Daniels, unable to resist a final barb. He dropped his fist.
“Not so much,” said the man, gently touching the side of his head. The pink flesh where the boot had struck was already darkening. He looked around at their surroundings. “Obviously.”
This got a big laugh from Big Billy. Once the P was laughing, it was like the entire clearing had been holding its breath and exhaled. Everyone else began to chuckle along.
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