Breaking Cover (Tony Wolf/Tim Buckthorn)

by J. D. Rhoades

  Instead, all he said was “How did this happen?”

  Her heart broke all over again. She realized that she did not love this man; she could never love this man; she had wanted to feel that again so badly, but this was not going to be the man she felt it for. He was, she thought with bitter amusement, just that little bit too much like herself for her to ever love him.

  She forced out a laugh. “The usual way, I suppose.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t joke about this,” he snapped. “I thought we were being careful.”

  “You mean you thought I was being careful,” she said, “and I

  thought I was. I don’t know what happened.” He thought a bit more. “Are you sure?”

  “No. I mean, I haven’t been to a doctor. All I have is a home pregnancy test I took right before . . . before all of this.”

  He grimaced. “Wonderful timing.”

  “It’s not the time I would have picked, no.”

  He stood up. “Well, there’s no use making any decisions until we’re sure.” She could see him filing the problem away, putting it aside until he could get the facts that would tell him how he should feel. “When are you going back to Washington?” he said.

  “What do you mean? I’m going back when this investigation is over.”

  “You think that’s a good idea? To wait?”

  “One way or another, we’ll be through here in a few days.”

  He looked at her. “And what about the emotional ramifications of this?” he said coldly. “Do you think it’s a good idea for you to be involved in this, all things considered?”

  “Well,” she said with equal coldness, “I guess I won’t know what the emotional ramifications are until all the facts are in, will I?”

  He flinched as if he’d been slapped. Then he turned on his heel and walked out, slamming the door as he went.

  She took a deep breath, let it out. She walked over to the bed, slowly, as if she were afraid of falling. She lowered herself onto the bed, moving carefully as if she might break, until she was lying on her back staring at the ceiling. She took a deep breath, let it out. She took another. Let it out.

  She wondered when she’d forgotten how to cry.

  THE ROAR of the big motorcycles rattled the store’s front windows and shivered the bottles in the drink cooler. The girl behind the counter glanced up from her magazine, her eyes brightening with unaccustomed interest. She spent every day after school behind this counter, looking at the same faces, making the same small talk. Any change in the routine was something to savor.

  She watched the bikes pull in, a dozen at least, along with a large white van. The riders were clad in black leather adorned with silver and black patches across the back. One by one, they throttled the bikes down and dismounted. They moved stiffly, as if they’d had a long ride. She put down the magazine, smiling shyly as the first of the bikers entered the store.

  “Hey,” she said.

  The man stopped and looked her over appraisingly, his eyes glittering in a weather-beaten, bearded face. “Hey, yourself,” he answered.

  “I like your bikes,” she said.

  “Thanks,” he said. Then the press of his companions behind him pushed him farther into the store. For the next few minutes, she was busy, taking money for gasoline, beer, snacks, and cigarettes. It was the most business the place had done in months.

  When the first guy came up to the counter again, he asked, “So what’s your name, sweet thing?”

  “Alison,” she said.

  He stuck out a hand. “I’m Pete,” he said.

  She shook it. “Hey, Pete,” she said. “So where’re you guys from?”

  “Oh, here and there,” Pete said. “Seems like a nice little town you’ve got here.”

  She made a face. “It sucks,” she said. “Nothing ever happens here. It’s soooo boring.”

  “So, Alison,” Pete said. “You want to go for a ride?” She sighed theatrically. “I’ve got to work.”

  “So what time you get off?” She brightened. “Five.”

  “Well, then, I’ll be back at five.” Pete smiled. “Maybe you can show me around. Show me some of the sights.”

  “Welllll,” she said, her reluctance so exaggerated it was clear she meant something entirely different, “I don’t know . . .”

  “C’mon, honey,” Pete said, “it’s only a bike ride. I’ll have you home by dinnertime.”

  She knew it was a bad idea, but it was something to break the monotony. And despite the leather, Pete at least seemed like a nice guy. You couldn’t just go around judging people by appearances. People had done that to her for years, making fun of her tongue stud and the way she wore her hair, calling her “freak” and “goth girl.” Pete was older, and he’d probably been through a lot of the same things. “Okay,” she said. “But not here.” Nadine had the shift after her, and that dried-up old bitch saw her leaving with a biker, she’d be on the phone to Alison’s dad as fast as her bony fingers could dial. “I’ll meet you at the lake,” she said. She gave him directions.

  “Great,” he said. “See you then.” He stopped. “Hey,” he said, “how old are you anyway?”

  The lie came easy, like it always did. “Eighteen.” He grinned again. “Okay.” He walked out.

  In the parking lot, Pete stopped to stretch his back. Florida Bob came out behind him, carrying a plastic bag with two sixes of Bud. “Eighteen.” He chuckled. “Right.”

  “Hey,” Pete said, “if they’re old enough to bleed, they’re old enough to breed, right?”

  Bob laughed. “And she’s still got her baby fat.”

  “Just the way I like it, my man,” Pete said. “You want a piece of her when I’m done?”

  “Well, I don’t much care for sloppy seconds,” Bob said. “But if you had her after me, she’d be so stretched out it’d be like throwing a hot dog down a hallway.”

  “Fuck you,” Pete said, laughing. “You want to share or not?” Bob shrugged. “Maybe. We’ll see what shakes out.” He looked

  around the parking lot and shook his head. “Jesus,” he said, “what a dipshit town.”

  “Hey,” Clay yelled from the driver’s seat of the van. “Let’s get moving.”

  Pete, aka Pete the Perv, and Florida Bob acknowledged the summons with a wave and saddled up.

  WOLF ROLLED into town just under the speed limit. He wanted to avoid traffic stops; some of the gear he was carrying under tarps in the back of the truck would take more explaining than he felt up to. He passed the liquor stores, the car lots assuring poor-risk buyers that their job was their credit, the pawnshops where TVs and bling shuttled in and out, bought and lost between paydays. He slowed down as he approached the Leopard Lounge. It was still there, same pale yellow windowless cinder-block walls, same gravel parking lot. It was early evening, between the happy hour crowd and the hardcore drinkers, so there were only a few scattered cars in the lot. He didn’t see any bikes. He had no idea what Nathan or Clay was driving these days, but his cursory glance didn’t turn up anything ostentatious enough to suggest either was there. He sped up and drove off.

  On a whim, he drove to the neighborhood where he’d once lived. The little house was still there, a rusting pickup sagging low on its springs in the drive. It gave Wolf a creepy feeling, thinking that someone else was living in his house.

  No, he told himself. Axel McCabe’s house. This house was never yours. Still, he felt an unaccountable sadness, as if McCabe were a person he’d miss.

  His last stop was the Spelling house. It was empty and looked as if it had been that way since he left. A faded for sale sign with the Realtor’s name rendered nearly illegible by time and the elements poked up from the shaggy lawn. The paint was peeling, and a screen hung half off one of the windows. It looked like someone had given up even trying to sell the place. Wolf figured that a notorious double suicide in the living room hadn’t done much for the house’s curb appeal.

  He drove back out to the strip and fo
und a mini-storage facility that provided twenty-four-hour access but didn’t provide twenty-four-hour live security. He paid cash for a six-month rental. It was a smaller unit than he’d had back in North Carolina; he wasn’t planning to stash the truck there. In point of fact, he wasn’t planning to need it for six months. He’d be lucky to be alive six days from now, and he rated his chances of surviving six weeks as roughly those of his being selected for American Idol. But he wasn’t going out quietly. Or alone. Knowing that, for the first time in years he wasn’t afraid anymore.

  He stashed the supplies he’d brought in the rental unit. He paid cash for a cheap room in a nearby motel and got a good night’s sleep. He figured it was the last one he’d have.

  BUCKTHORN PULLED his cruiser up to the small hut that served as a makeshift office for the Pine Lake Campground. As he got out of the car, he could hear the roar and rumble of motorcycles from down the hill. He glanced down the long slope toward the big lake that gave the town its name. Half a dozen tents nestled among the pine trees, unusual for this off-season, and doubly unusual for the middle of the week. Some tents had big bikes parked in front. A couple of men clad in leather and denim relaxed at one of the picnic tables, drinking beer. Others were building campfires. Several other men were riding their own machines up and down the gravel paths. Buckthorn could smell the exhaust from the top of the hill.

  Buckthorn turned back to see Romy Watts, the owner of the campground, coming out of the hut. He was wiping his hands on his overalls.

  “Evenin’, Sheriff,” Watts said. “Any trouble?”

  “Nothing major, Romy,” Buckthorn said. “Just got some concerned calls about a bunch of bikers coming through town. Looks like they decided to stay the night.”

  “Yessir,” Romy said, ducking his head slightly, as if he had just barely stopped himself from bowing. “Paid for a few days, in fact. In cash. In advance.”

  “That so.”

  “But they ain’t caused no trouble. ’Cept the noise.” He looked nervously down the hill. “I can tell ’em to be quiet.”

  Yeah, thought Buckthorn. That’ll work. “Noise ordinance doesn’t kick in till sundown,” he said. “They’re all right till then. Assuming they behave themselves otherwise.”

  “Like I said, no trouble.”

  “Guess there won’t be any objection to me goin’ down there and saying hello, then,” Buckthorn said. “Just to welcome our new visitors.”

  Romy looked unhappy, but he ducked his head again. Buckthorn took that as assent. He walked down the gravel path toward the campsites. He saw one of the men at the picnic table say something, saw the other one look in his direction. Others stopped poking the campfires and straightened up. Buckthorn silently counted. Looked like a dozen men, all told. Then he noticed the van parked on the concrete slab of the campground’s handicapped accommodation. There was a man in a wheelchair sitting by the campsite’s picnic table. As Buckthorn approached, one of the riders killed his engine, dismounted his bike, and strode over to the picnic table to stand beside the man in the wheelchair, who motioned to him impatiently. The rider bent down to hear what the man in the wheelchair had to say, nodding quickly as he listened.

  That’s the leader, Buckthorn thought, then he slowed, almost stopped, before picking up his pace again. A man in a wheelchair, he thought, running a biker gang. Couldn’t be too many of those. He thought about the story Blauner had told him, of how Wolf had crippled the leader of the bikers he’d been investigating. If what Blauner had said was true, then these were some very dangerous people. Buckthorn suddenly wished with all his heart that he’d called for backup. But there was no way to back away now.

  He had reached the handicapped site. The man in the wheelchair looked up at him, his face impassive. “Evenin’,” Buckthorn said. There was no response at first; then the man nodded.

  Buckthorn heard a couple more of the bikes throttle down, leaving only one rumbling along the lakeshore. He thought he could hear footsteps in the gravel behind him. He felt cold sweat beading on the back of his neck. “Just wanted to stop by and welcome you fellas to town.”

  The man who’d gotten off the motorcycle snorted. “Right,” he said. The man in the wheelchair shot him a look before turning back to Buckthorn. “Thanks,” he said.

  “I’m Tim Buckthorn,” he said. “Just wanted to make sure you fellas knew about some of the town ordinances. So there wouldn’t be any, ah, misunderstandings.”

  “No,” the man in the wheelchair said. “Wouldn’t want that.” “I didn’t get your name,” Buckthorn said.

  “Didn’t tell you,” the man in the wheelchair said. “But I’m Johnny.”

  The name removed all doubt. Johnny had to be Johnny Trent. These men were here looking for Anthony Wolf. Well, Buckthorn thought, the best way to get these thugs out of his town was to convince them that Wolf was gone. But to do that now would tip Johnny Trent off that Buckthorn knew who he was, and he didn’t find the idea appealing right then. He decided the friendlydumb-hick-sheriff routine was working fine.

  “Pleased to meet you, Johnny,” Buckthorn said. “We got a noise ordinance startin’ at sundown, so you fellas want to keep the bikes quiet after then.” He could hear the one motorcycle ripping and roaring behind him, as if mocking him. “You can drink your beers inside the campground, but there’s a public display ordinance, too. So no alcohol on town streets. ’Course, no drinkin’ and drivin’. We do run DWI checkpoints, and state law don’t let us give no warnin’s. Okay?”

  Johnny Trent’s gaze never wavered. You’re not fooling anyone with this cornpone bullshit, that gaze said, but I’ll let it go.

  “Okay, then,” Buckthorn said, absurdly pleased with himself at how steady his voice sounded. “You guys have fun here. And welcome to Pine Lake.” He turned. There was a solid wall of bikers behind him. He didn’t break stride, and the line parted at the last possible second to let him past. He didn’t look back, but he concentrated all his attention on listening behind him. He didn’t hear the sound of running footsteps, and to look back to see if anyone was sneaking up would be a sign of weakness. So he didn’t.

  He was so busy thinking of what was behind him, he didn’t see the motorcycle until it pulled onto the path ahead of him. There were two people on the bike, a man and a girl. As the man gunned the bike up the path, the girl looked back at him, laughing. The smile on her face died as they recognized each other. Oh, shit, he saw her say, and he knew just how she felt. She turned back to the man steering the bike and said something to him. He slowed, stopped, turned the bike to face Buckthorn. He began gunning the engine as if he were going to peel out and run Buckthorn over. The girl was pounding on his shoulder frantically, saying something Buckthorn couldn’t hear. He hesitated, and Buckthorn used the interval to step forward and grab the bike handlebars with his left hand. “Stop the bike,” he said. The rider acted as if he didn’t hear. He grinned and gunned the motor again. Buckthorn reached down and unsnapped his holster. The man’s eyes widened. “Stop the bike!” Buckthorn yelled. The man hesitated, then killed the engine. The sudden silence was deafening.

  “Get off the bike, Alison,” Buckthorn said. “Hey, asshole,” the rider said, “she’s with—”

  “She’s with who, asshole?” Buckthorn snapped. “Before you answer me, let me just tell you something. This girl is fifteen years old.” The man’s jaw snapped shut with an audible click. He gave Alison a wounded look that would have been comical under other circumstances. As it was, the sound of heavy boots slowly crunching up the gravel path behind him squelched any humor Buckthorn might have found in the situation. “Now, sir,” he almost spat the last word, “you have anything else you want to say?” Before that pack of wolves behind me kills me and eats me, he thought. He looked at the girl. She was looking down sullenly, her shoulders slumped. “Look at me, Alison,” he said.

  She looked up. Her eyes were red and glassy.

  “Now,” Buckthorn said, “if I was to do a search incident to a
lawful arrest for, say, failure of either you or your passenger to wear a helmet, I’m sure I wouldn’t find any evidence anyone here has either been possessing controlled substances or providing same to a minor. Would I?”

  “I ain’t done nothin’,” Alison mumbled.

  “Shut up, girl,” Buckthorn snapped. And maybe I can get us both out of this alive.

  “No,” the man on the bike said through clenched teeth. “Good,” Buckthorn said. He released the handlebars. He turned.

  The line of bikers had re-formed behind him, glaring at him with open hostility. Both sides stood there frozen, each waiting for the other to escalate things the next notch higher.

  A man shouldered his way through the line. It was the same man who’d previously stood beside Johnny Trent. “Let her go, Pete,” the man said. He grinned at Buckthorn, but there was no humor or friendliness in the smile. The joke’s on you, that smile said.

  “Aw, shit, come on, Clay,” the man on the bike began, then stopped as that grin was turned his way.

  “Let’s go, Alison,” Buckthorn said. He grasped her by the shoulder and started marching her back up the path. Once again, all his attention was turned to listening behind him.

  “Why don’t you leave me alone?” the girl muttered. “You ain’t my daddy.”

  “Alison,” Buckthorn said, “I’ve known you all your life. I was there when you were baptized. I even taught you in Sunday school. But girl, I’m telling you truly, if you don’t shut up, I’m going to punch you right in the mouth.” The threat stunned her into silence. As he bundled her into the patrol car, Buckthorn saw that the hut/office had a hand-lettered sign in the window. gone to supper, the sign said. back in an hour.

  “Thanks a lot, Romy,” Buckthorn muttered. He started the car. Alison slumped in the passenger seat, looking out the window.