by Amy Law
Mace said, “I wonder what they discussed over their coffee.” His chuckle was a dry rasp. “Must have been a regular country club morning meeting.”
“It’s done, Mace. We have it.”
“We’ll see tomorrow.”
The creak of a boot came towards the door and she jumped back for the bed and under the cover.
The door opened and Mace stood in the frame, his eyes narrow. Tiff kept her eyelids almost closed. She was sure he couldn’t see that she was watching him, but it was hard to keep her eyes relaxed so they didn’t flutter. His lips tightened and he closed the door again. She couldn’t make out what he said as he strode back across the floor of the other room.
Was it Daddy they had been talking about, meeting someone called ‘Iron’ over breakfast? And this ‘Iron,’ whoever he was, had no idea about it? What did it mean? It was hard to keep all of the details straight when she had so few fragments of information to go on.
Chapter 11
Tiff was dozing when she heard the noises in the next room. She woke up fast when ‘Jax’s voice raised. “Someone gets killed, you’ve made me an accessory.” His menacing growl went on, “If you do that, Mace, I swear,” boots clomped and thudded around the next room as he paced and talked, “I will hunt you down. I will nail you to a floor and then kill you in the slowest and most painful way imaginable.”
Tiff got her ear to the door in time to hear Mace’s snarl. “Good luck with that, bro.”
“We got what we need.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know it and you know it. It’s just what Weinberg said, it’s a done deal. We should close up and clear out of here right now.”
“Oh, I’m fine with that part. I just don’t see us carrying baggage.” A chair scraped, “And not turning loose something that could compromise us.”
‘Jax’s voice hardened. “There isn’t any way that she could compromise us, is there.” There was tension in the long silence. Tiffany wished so hard that she could see what was going on in that room. ‘Jax’ again, his voice lower, “How can she compromise us, Mace?”
“I’m just saying, no point in scattering loose ends around, is there.”
“If you’ve done something dumb, then it’s on you. We’re taking big risks here for the health of the club, but I’ve had your back all the way, Mace, and I still have it. Just don’t act against me.”
“Yeah, and I bet that ain’t all that you had.” There was a rush and the sound of bodies coming together.
After what seemed a long moment, ‘Jax’ said, “This is for later. We’re not done with this.”
“Maybe, but your plan to haul out still looks good. Could be time, bro. I say we clean up and go.”
“Then we do it my way.”
A pause and Mace said, “Then we wait.”
There was quiet for a time, so Tiffany slipped back into the bed. She turned it all over in her mind, searching for ways to interpret what she had heard. Ways to read it which didn’t imply that Mace wanted to kill her, and ‘Jax’ was the only thing stopping him.
In the next room, the sullen silence remained. After a long while, murmurs and grunts sounded like one of the bikers was making a call, but she couldn’t even tell which one.
An agonizing half hour passed, maybe more, or perhaps it was only twenty minutes—she couldn’t tell any more. A buzzer squawked, sharp and loud, in the next room. Tiff’s body clenched at the shock, at the sound she hadn’t heard before.
There was movement in the next room. The outer door opened. Then voices, low, but calm, murmured back and forth in some talk she couldn’t make out. Then ‘Jax’ said, “Okay, thanks. Bye.” There was a response she also couldn’t make out, and door closed again.
After a while, the door to her room opened and Mace brought in a whole pizza still in its box, with a beer. He set the box on the little table with the beer on top.
“I’ll leave you a spliff, too.” He drew a fat blunt from the top pocket of his shirt and placed it on top of the pizza box before he left, closing the door softly behind him.
She shivered.
Rubbing her arms, she realized that she wasn’t even cold. It’s adrenaline kicking in, she told herself, the fight-or-flight response. Only it was bad timing on her body’s part. There was no good way she could either fight or fly right now.
Unless… Tiff thought about the lighter.
The expression on Mace’s face when he brought the pizza and left it with the beer, the gentle way he put a joint on top, Tiff was sure he was thinking of it as a kindness—that he thought of it as him bringing her last meal.
She couldn’t sleep all night. She heard every strike of the bell in the clock tower.
Chapter 12
When Jack stepped up to his court bench, he looked out at Frank Gracey behind the prosecution table with his head in his hands. Then Jack saw the defendant and he knew why. Now he understood the purpose of the meeting in the diner. Before the indictment was even read out he called the two counsels to his chambers.
The mood in Judge Berringer’s chambers was solemn. The opposing attorneys both sat in front of Jack’s wide mahogany desk. One looked like the cat that got the cream, the other looked like the cat he took it from.
Jack said, “Mr. State’s Attorney, I have always had a good opinion of your command of the law. In this matter, as you know, there is no room for debate. I have met the accused, I know him personally and, as such, I cannot hear the case against him. I must recuse myself.”
“Your Honor, I have to admit, I’m curious about how you came to know James Aaron Farrier, president of the Red Skulls motorcycle club, AKA ‘Iron.’ Did you meet him at one of his cocktail soirées, or is he a member of your bridge club?”
“The details are irrelevant, as you well know. You are at liberty, if you wish, to request an inquiry where another judge, one senior to myself, will ask me in a closed meeting about the circumstances, and I will describe them to him in confidence. If you think that will further your aims, go ahead and apply for an inquiry.”
All the while Ira Weinberg, the defending attorney, sat serene with his hands folded on the fine cotton over his ample gut.
State’s Attorney Kelvin Crane’s voice was strained. “It’s going to mean lengthy delays, Judge. Two months at the least. The State needs this matter expedited.”
“I know the defendant and that means that he also knows me. There is no way around it. This hearing is over, Kelvin. Let it go.”
“But…”
“Mr. Crane, if I don’t recuse myself, then the defense will rightly apply for a mistrial, and they would be bound to succeed. What would be the state of your prosecutorial evidence if that happened after you had started presenting your witnesses?”
With everyone back in the courtroom, Judge Berringer’s announcement set a small clump of journalists into busy huddles over their tablets, while another little herd rushed the courtroom doors while as they stabbed at their phones and bumped into each other. As he slammed the gavel down, Jack thought, That was a subtle move for a biker gang. and he wondered, Who thought that up for you?
The only people in the court who showed no change of expression at the news were the defendant and his attorney.
Chapter 13
Tiffany could only focus on the one thing that she could see to do after the long night with her dread and racing thoughts. It would be the only thing in her control. “Take control of the situation,” was what her Daddy would say.
What would give her that now? The lighter. The pizza box, stained with oil, and a flame. She could start a fire. Smoke would bring the emergency services.
If the room was on fire, the bikers would have to do something, and they wouldn’t be prepared for the situation. In the panic, maybe she could escape. What else could she do?
She could wait and see who won the debate between ‘Jax’ and Mace outside about whether to kill her. There was that, or she could take things into her own hands.
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br /> Take control of the situation. She could set the pizza box on fire; use that to set the bed covers and the curtains ablaze. Create a diversion. It didn’t make much sense and she knew that. It made a lot more sense than doing nothing, though.
She had eaten more than half of the pizza, and the cardboard box was greasy. The grease was oil and oil was flammable. Surely it should burn well And make a great accelerant.
Tiff was proud of herself remembering ‘accelerant’ from a documentary about fire investigators. She tried to keep her mind off the grim realities of her situation by replaying in her mind the interview with grizzled fire marshal, talking about the ‘seat of the fire’ and ‘accelerant’ and ‘propellants.’
She saw him in his big old fire hat as she flicked the lighter under the corner of the pizza box. Maybe he would come out to this fire. The corner of the box started to turn dark brown, then black, but there wasn’t any flame.
The cheap lighter became hot in her fingers. She couldn’t hold it alight any more, but a red smolder spread along the inside corners of the box. She heard a movement in the next room. There were footsteps coming to the door.
Tiff stomped on the box as fast as she could. It seemed like it was out and she slung it under the bed as she dived for the cover. Mace flung the door open and he stood looking at her. He knew that she was up to something, but he couldn’t tell what.
He came towards her with his kerchief. “We’re taking you out of here.”
The hell you are, she thought.
“I just need to put this on you,” and he tied the red and white bandana over her eyes, “One last time.”
The words echoed in her head, One. Last. Time. Tiffany braced herself. A cellphone chirped in Mace’s pocket. He sniffed as he took it out. He said, “Yo,” into the phone as he strode out of the room and closed the door behind him.
Tiff sat, blindfolded and breathing heavily. A few moments later, she heard Mace’s voice raised in the adjacent room. “That was Ryder. He thinks we may be blown.”
‘Jax’s voice, “I told you we should have cleared out last night.”
“And I told you we should have cleaned up.”
“That’s NOT GOING TO HAPPEN.”
She smelled smoke.
She scrambled and waved her hands under the bed as she searched for the pizza box. From the next room she heard the outer door slam. A voice she didn’t know said, “We got to haul out of here, bro, right now. The PD are headed straight this way.”
‘Jax’, “How the fuck…?”
Then Mace, “That’ll have to be for later. We got to move. Get the van, I’ll take care of the package.”
Boots, stomping towards her, followed the sound of the door handle. Tiff tried hard not to flinch. Then she heard Mace, close by, “What, bro? WHAT? The kerchief? She’s blindfolded, dumbass.”
Another pair of boots entered the room. Mace spoke again. “Oh, oh, now what, because I’m talking? She ain’t going to recognize my goddamn voice. And if that’s what you’re afraid of, we ought to do like I said all along.”
Click. She felt the press of metal to side of her head. Another click.
Mace’s voice, “Oh, you pull a goddamn piece on me now? You point your weapon at your bro, to save some rich trash gash?”
‘Jax’s’ voice was near, too, and firm, “I told you. She gets killed, we’re all accessories. You make me an accessory, you won’t be alive to see my trial. Bro.”
“Look now she heard your voice, too. Come on man, let’s get her done.”
“There’s something you haven’t told me, bro. I can sniff it. I can feel it.”
The certainty drained out of Mace’s voice, “Look, I’m just saying.”
“And I’m saying, give me one more reason to squeeze this goddamn trigger. Bro.”
Mace was almost pleading now. “Maybe she can ID the club, is all I’m saying.”
“Don’t matter what the crime is,” said ‘Jax,’ “they still ain’t going to put anyone on the stand for wearing colors. Bro.”
“No, but she’s…” click
Now ‘Jax’ was hard. Firm, “One. More. Reason. Mace.”
Tiff still shook as the ring of cold metal came away from her temple. Mace sounded almost sulky. “Okay. This is for later. You and me, bro. For now, let’s just get in the goddamn van and get gone.”
His footsteps crossed the room away from her, and then they stopped. “Man, the goddamned bed’s on fire!”
“Just get down to the van, Mace. Take what you can and I’ll be right there.”
“You’re losing it, bro.” She heard Mace’s voice moving away. “Whatever she gave you, it’s turned your head around.”
‘Jax’ yanked off the blindfold. He stood over her, his eyes blazing and a gun in his hand. Acrid smoke was starting to fill the room. He shouted at her and she flinched, “Bring your jacket.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she mumbled.
“Bring your jacket,” he said again. Moving ahead of him, she found it on the back of a chair in the outer room. As she struggled into it, he shoved her through the door and towards a dark flight of stairs.
As she stumbled down the steps, smoke was starting to billow lazy and thick down the stairwell. It pursued them down.
At the bottom, they come out into a big showroom, empty and dusty. There was one long wall had a wide-open shutter door. A black van revved outside in a wide parking lot.
The other long wall had paper taped over floor to ceiling windows. At the far end of the room was a motorcycle.
As Mace bundled into the van, cop sirens were whooping and whining closer. The van ground into gear and lurched forward.
She heard ‘Jax’ mutter, “Asshole,” under his breath as the van made for the gap in the low wall. There was a thud from within the van and a screech as metal ground against stone.
The van stopped, and the door creaked and was wrenched open. A bundle fell from the door and the van started up again. With more wrenches of metal and stone, it was gone. By now, red and blue lights flashed across the lot.
‘Jax’ dragged her by the collar of her jacket and shoved a helmet at her. “Quick,” he said, climbing on to the bike. As she clambered on behind him he said, “Put your head down into my back and hold on tight.”
The bike engine shuddered and pounded beneath her, and she curled herself as tight as she could into the thick leather on his back. The sirens were right outside, and red and blue splashed across the room as brakes squealed and car doors clunked.
The bike bucked and leapt forward. Tiff held on and watched the paper peel away in slo-mo, as bright sunlight shot through the huge glass ahead. A spider’s web radiated from the center of the glass, and jagged shards rained down on her as the cycle bumped through the frame, onto and over the sidewalk, and bounced into the sun-scorched street.
Tiff’s arm felt a cold wind and some wetness. Why had her instinct been to follow the biker, to cling to her kidnapper, to run away from the cops and not towards them?
The bike was low and fast. As they passed the first intersection, Tiff saw the black van, on the street parallel and peeling away. The lights and noise of the sirens followed it.
