by Cheree Alsop
“The problem with being the evil villain,” I muttered.
“What was that?” Magnum demanded.
I let out a breath. “Look. You are the leader of the Bullets, you’re two years older than Cassidy, and Uncle Rick is just getting used to the idea of his little girl dating. He’s not going to approve of the town bully asking out his daughter.”
“I’m not a bully,” Magnum protested. At my look, he finished with, “Anymore. Anyway, she should be able to date who she wants.”
“It doesn’t work like that and you know it,” I replied. At his crestfallen look, I decided to give him some sympathy. I leaned against the wall. “Madelyn’s father has the same problem with me.”
Surprise crossed Magnum’s face. “Why? You’re the hero of Sparrow, and he’s one of the few people who know that.”
I nodded and kept my gaze on the brick wall across from us. “Yes, and he also knows that I’m reckless, prone to driving motorcycles through windows, getting shot at, and taking on gangs without backup. I’m sure Martin’s article in the Bulletin isn’t going to help either.”
Magnum nodded. “I was going to ask you about that.”
“It wasn’t me.”
He leaned against the wall next to me. “Yeah, I figured as much. You about killed us trying to defend Joe’s last time the Bullets hit it. So who was it?”
I shook my head. “I’m not sure. Sheriff Bowley’s looking into it. For now, we’re just hoping it’s a one-time thing.”
He nodded. “I hope so.”
Footsteps sounded down the hallway. I realized I was all alone with the leader of the Bullets, the one person in school no one wanted to mess with. He wasn’t one for pleasant chitchat before class.
“Hit me,” I said.
Magnum stared at me. “What?”
“Hit me,” I repeated urgently. “I have to keep up my front or we’re both screwed.”
He glanced behind me just as the footsteps rounded the corner. His fist hit me on the cheekbone possibly harder than he intended, and then he slugged me in the stomach. I remembered to breathe with the punch, but doubled over with a hand on my cheek to slow the fiery pain spreading across it.
“What is going on here?” Mrs. Narrow demanded.
I had never heard the school secretary sound so angry. Before we could react, she had each of us by the ear and was dragging us back to the principal’s office. It amazed me how much pain such a simple hold could cause, though one had to take into consideration the secretary’s long pink fingernails that were merciless in her anger.
She practically tossed us into the chairs across the desk from the principal. “Principal Dawson, I caught these miscreants brawling in the hallway. Please deal with them.” She stormed away without another word.
Principal Dawson looked from me to Magnum. His eyes widened slightly. He sat up in his chair and smoothed his perfectly straight black tie that was a faultless counterpoint to his gray pinstriped suit. “Charles Fisher,” he began.
I was surprised Magnum didn’t argue about the use of his name. No other person, especially those in positions of authority, got off so lightly when addressing the leader of the Bullets.
“I warned you that if you were caught fighting one more time, you would be expelled from Sparrow High.”
My heart sank. Magnum had just rejoined the football team and was working harder than I had ever seen him work to bring his grades up and increase his athletic skills in the hopes of applying for a football scholarship. Expulsion would squash any hopes he had.
“Sir, I started it,” I said quickly.
The principal gave Magnum a level look. I could practically see the gears working behind Principal Dawson’s eyes. He looked from Magnum to me. Everyone feared the muscular senior who used to steal the principal’s car for joy rides. As the Black Rider, I had even won the keys once in a race and had given them back to him through the sheriff. Being on Magnum’s bad side was unhealthy for both the individual and the individual’s wallet. Principal Dawson could either expel the Bullet leader and accept the painful consequences, or take the out I had given him.
He finally nodded. “All right. Based on the information Kelson has given me, I have no grounds to expel you. However, if you are found fighting or if you instigated this fight, keep in mind that the threat still holds.”
Magnum stood. “I will,” he muttered. He stormed out of the office as if he had indeed been wrongly accused. I had to give him credit for theatrics.
“Now, Mr. Brady.” The principal speared me with a look. “What makes you think starting a fight with Mr. Fisher was a good idea?”
I had the presence of mind to look at my shoes. “He, uh, wanted my lunch money,” I replied when no better excuse came to mind.
Principal Dawson snorted. “Lunch money? What are you, high schoolers?” I wanted to point out that was exactly what we were, but he continued before I could say anything. “If you’re going to cause fights, you get to pay the consequences in detention. Be there today after school.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied quietly.
“Perhaps you should consider spending more time there anyway,” the principal suggested. “With your grades, you’ll be going to summer school anyway in order to graduate, but it might give you a leg up.”
“Yes, sir,” I repeated, standing.
He picked up a file, already moving on to a different subject. I walked out the door and shut it behind me. While I couldn’t figure out how getting beat up for lunch money meant causing fights, I was happy to get away so lightly. The fire along my cheekbone reminded me that it had cost a bit more than I had planned, and his comments about my grades stung. I didn’t want to go to summer school. I had crept by in California with Zoey’s help, but in Sparrow I was high and dry, especially with the Black Rider taking my study time at night.
“That bad, huh?” Magnum said when I rounded the corner. He pushed away from the wall with his hands in his pockets.
I shrugged. “Detention for a day. Not too bad.”
“Then why the sour expression?” Magnum pressed.
I let out a loud breath. “He thinks reminding me about summer school might get me to participate in detention more often.”
Magnum was silent for a minute as he walked with me toward my English class. “If you go to detention, can you get your grades up good enough to pass?”
I shook my head. “My test scores are too low. There’s no chance.”
He fell quiet again until we reached my classroom. He turned to leave, then hesitated. “Sorry about hitting you.”
I gave him a wry grin. “I asked you to.”
He nodded. “I know, but I think I clipped you harder than I meant. You’re gonna have a bruise on that cheek.”
I put a hand to it. The skin was hot and sore. I chuckled. “What else is new?”
He smiled and shook his head. “Listen to Maddy. You need to take better care of yourself.”
“I should probably get different friends, then. Not the kind who need to hit me to keep up pretenses,” I replied with a half smile.
He chuckled. “Now where’s the fun in that?”
I laughed and pulled open the door.
I WAS FLIPPING THROUGH yet another page of algebra when my phone buzzed in my pocket. Mr. Henry, the teacher who oversaw detention, looked up from the M.A.S.H. book he was reading and glared at the dozen kids scattered throughout the room. Everybody was too busy doodling or staring blankly at their schoolwork to appear even remotely cowed by his expression. He gave up and went back to his novel.
I held up a hand. “Mr. Henry?”
“Yes, Keldon?”
“It’s, uh, Kelson,” I corrected him.
He waved a hand as if to say “Get on with it.”
I stood up. “I need to run to the restroom.”
He shook his head, his attention already back on what he was reading. “No restroom breaks.”
I grimaced. “But I had the spaghetti at lunch. The meatba
lls tasted funny, and I’m afraid they’re going to come back up if I don’t—”
“Get out of here!” Mr. Henry barked.
I nodded and dashed from the room, leaving my open algebra book without any regret. I jogged down the hallway, then shoved open the door that led outside. I stepped into the sunshine with a sigh of relief. Everyone knew Mr. Henry had an extreme dislike for sickness, germs, and especially throw up in his classroom. Now that the threat was gone, I had no doubt he had already forgotten about me and was well back into his book.
“Hello, Sheriff. Sorry I missed your call.”
“Kelson, I need you to get in here right away.”
I glanced back at the school. Detention would have to wait another day. If I was lucky, Mr. Henry would forget to take me off the roll and I would be spared another afternoon in hard chairs that should be classified under cruel and unusual punishment.
“On my way,” I replied. I hung up the phone and jogged to the football field.
Magnum was throwing footballs across the field. I was amazed at his precision as the ball hit the receiver time and again square in the chest. He noticed me standing on the other side of the fence and asked for a break. Coach Farston nodded and walked over to two men near the goal post.
Excitement filled Magnum’s expression. “Thanks for taking the rap for me,” he said. He tipped his head toward the men his coach was talking to. “Because I missed a few games during the season, Coach had a talk with scouts from State about seeing me during a team workout and they showed up unannounced. I would’ve missed it.”
“Happy to help,” I replied. When we first met, which began with a fist in my stomach and my food spilled on the floor of the lunchroom, he was completely focused on the Bullets and had never dreamed of going to college. It was great to see his enthusiasm.
His brow creased. “Aren’t you supposed to be in detention?”
I held up my cell phone. “The sheriff called. He needs me at the police station. Can I take your truck?”
He gave me a steely look. “The last time I let you drive anything of mine, you smashed my motorcycle into the side of my truck and caused so much damage, I can’t afford to fix it. I have to drive Dad’s junker until I can work off the costs. I don’t know if I should trust you.”
“I’ll take care of it,” I promised.
He jogged to a pile of gear underneath a table with a cooler of water and cups spread on top. He came back with the keys. “You better,” he replied. “Mess this one up and I’ll be without a car like you.”
“I should probably just keep it. Might help with your conditioning,” I pointed out.
“Don’t press your luck, Kelson,” he replied. “I’ll see you here in an hour.” He jogged back to his coach without waiting for me to answer.
I chuckled and made my way to the rusty red truck in the parking lot. I started it up and slowly pulled onto the road. The screeching when I shifted from first to second gear made me wince. I couldn’t understand why everyone in Sparrow had to own a truck.
When I reached the police station, I was immediately aware of the difference. Without the Black Rider uniform, I was just another high school student called in for who-knows-what. I missed the recognition. As Kelson, I was just another potential mess-up; as the Black Rider, I had saved lives and helped to pave a new future for Sparrow. It was good to be known.
“Kelson,” the sheriff said with a nod when I was shown into his office. He gestured for me to shut the door. When it was closed, he turned his computer screen around. “I’ve reviewed both of these recordings several times. I wanted to get your opinion.”
I wordlessly pulled up a chair and watched the first tape. It showed a man dressed in black with a black helmet on his head. He entered the gas station from the rear of the store, then surprised the attendant and tied her up before ransacking the shelves, destroying whatever he couldn’t carry. Bottles and bags littered the floor when he left. My heart went out to the attendant as she scooted her way to the phone and proceeded to dial nine-one-one with her hands tied behind her back.
“Here’s the other one,” the sheriff said, his expression unreadable.
The security camera footage showed a man dressed in black riding an older Honda CBR through the front window of Joe’s Country Store. He proceeded to destroy everything he could with a crowbar. By the time he left, the store I had helped Joe put back together after my first true fight with the Bullets as the Black Rider lay in shambles.
Sheriff Bowley turned the screen back around. He leaned back in his chair and gave me a probing look. “What do you see?”
“There are two different copycats,” I said. A pit grew in my stomach at my words. The first man had been a bit rounder at the waist, while the other man’s shoulders were wider and he walked with a rolling gait. “Two men are out there, trying to put a mark on the Black Rider’s name.”
The sheriff nodded. “Now we need to know why.”
“I just don’t understand—”
Sheriff Bowley’s phone rang and he held up a hand. He listened for a second. “We’ll be right there,” he replied. He hung up and stood in one smooth motion. “Get geared up. I want you at the Browns’ feed lot asap.”
I stood. “What’s wrong?”
“They hit again,” the sheriff said. His tone turned the pit in my stomach into a black hole.
“WHAT’S HE DOIN’ ‘ERE?” a farmer with a wide straw hat demanded when I pulled up on my motorcycle next to the sheriff’s car.
Sheriff Bowley put a hand on Mr. Brown’s shoulder to mollify him. “He’s not the Black Rider who hit your feed lot,” the sheriff explained. “There’s a copycat out there, and we’re trying to catch him.”
The farmer gave me a sharp once-over. He finally nodded. “You’re right. He ain’ the one.”
“How can you be so sure?” the sheriff asked.
Mr. Brown pointed at my jacket. “That one’s coat’s seen better days.”
I ran a gloved hand over the front of my jacket where Madelyn had carefully stitched the bullet holes and knife slices from my fights. She had jokingly asked if I wanted her to use green thread, reminding me that she kept some on hand in case I ever needed her to redo my stitches again.
“The rider we saw was in spiffy new gear that didn’ look like it ‘ad a scratch on it. Also, he was taller.”
I felt a bit disgruntled at the thought of a Black Rider copycat who was taller than me. At just under six feet and in the best shape of my life from working out and my job on the farm and in the junkyard, I looked like I could handle my own, but being compared to the apparent hulk they had seen still ruffled my feathers. I chuckled inwardly at the thought that Aunt Lauren’s chickens were definitely getting into my head.
“Can you show us what he did?” the sheriff asked.
Mr. Brown led the way between two long, low sheds to the feed yard. The second we cleared the buildings, the scent of hundreds of cows, silage, and moist manure nearly floored me. Several of the sheriff’s men who had followed us covered their mouths and noses.
“He came this way,” the farmer was explaining. “Rode through on his bike, fired, and took off that-a-way.”
I followed his gaze. My heart sank at the sight of a black cow lying on its side. The other cows in the same pen were standing around chewing their cud, oblivious to their slain companion. Black calves and a few with white faces bounced around on legs that appeared to be made of springs. A lone baby calf with a little white spot on its nose stood next to the dead cow. It gave a plaintive moo.
I left the others and walked to the fence. The little cow stared at me. I no doubt looked strange with my helmet on. The calf took a step closer. I removed a glove and stuck my fingers through the fence. The calf let me pet the curly hair on top of its head. It then licked my sleeve, leaving a long string of slimy drool along the black material.
“It’ll wash,” Deputy Addison said, leaning against the fence next to me.
I smiled inside
the helmet. “I’m sure it will.” The calf nuzzled my hand. I petted it again. “What will happen to the calf?”
The deputy shrugged. “Don’t know. He might bottle-feed it or sell it. Sometimes farmers don’t have time for the bummer calves that don’t have mamas left.”
A though occurred to me. “I’d like to buy it from him.”
Deputy Addison stared at me in surprise. “What’s the Black Rider going to do with a calf?”
“Give it to my mom.” I smiled at the thought. “We’ve moved to farm country, so I might as well see to it that she acclimates as quickly as possible.”
The deputy laughed. “I’m sure that’ll help.” He eyed the calf curiously, then nodded and walked back to Mr. Brown. “I’d like to take that calf off your hands. How much do you want for him?”
I turned in surprise. The deputy winked at me, then looked back at the farmer.
Mr. Brown took off his hat and scratched the sparse hairs on his head before replacing it. “Well, I thank ye for that. I ain’t got time for mouths that can’t fill themselves. How’s fifty? He’s purebred Angus, and ‘is father’s one of my prize bulls.”
Deputy Addison pulled a few bills from his wallet and handed them to the farmer. Sheriff Bowley watched the proceedings with interest. As soon as the arrangements were made, all four of us walked to the fence.
“I’m sorry about your cow, Mr. Brown. We’ve got your report and will do what we can to bring in the copycat rider.”
The farmer stuck out a hand. The sheriff shook it.
“Much obliged.” Mr. Brown said, “I’m just relieved to know the man who shot my cow wasn’t the same one who saved my granddaughter when she was showing her Charolais at the fair.” He gave me a nod. “Seemed a contradict’ry situation.”
“I hope I can help track the imposter down,” I replied. He shook my hand.
“I’ll be back in about an hour with my trailer to pick up the calf,” Deputy Addison told the farmer.
I walked with the sheriff over to two other deputies, who were studying the tire tracks from the rider’s retreat.
“He almost skidded out,” Deputy Nayton noted, pointing at the splayed tracks where the bike tires had slipped before the rider righted his motorcycle.
