Give It All

by Cara McKenna

  There were a few strewn about the shop, and Duncan picked one that seemed to fit and didn’t smell too strongly of its bygone owner’s sweat and cigarettes.

  “You’ve been edging your way into our little clique via my brother’s trouble, and Raina’s pants, and now the garage,” Casey said, squinting at Duncan. “I think you need a nickname.”

  “I strongly disagree.”

  “Welchy. DW. Dunky. The Dunkster.”

  “I’d prefer if you stuck with ‘Motherfucker,’ thank you.”

  “Gimme a couple hours. I’ll come up with something good. What’s Raina call you?”

  She called me baby, Duncan thought, the memory chased by an undeniable shiver. “Nothing special.” Surely not special to her, anyway.

  They wandered back to the BMW. “Had a real good time finishing this fucker up,” Casey said.

  “I’ll treat it well, barring beginner’s mistakes.”

  Casey snorted. “Fuck that. Ride the shit out of her. That’s what machines like this were built for. Not sure what this girl’s story is, but Vince’s bike used to belong to this old Kerouac type—guy took it all the way down to Bolivia or some shit, in the eighties. Had almost three hundred thousand miles by the time Vince bought it. These old warhorses are indestructible.”

  Duncan fussed with his helmet straps and sunglasses. “Just getting around the badlands will do.”

  “Got you covered, then.”

  “I can’t leave Fortuity, incidentally.”

  “Oh man, parole light. The feds are such bitches.”

  Duncan couldn’t disagree.

  Casey walked him through the basics—getting on, feeding it gas, stomping on the starter, then walking it out of the garage, where Casey climbed onto his own bike. It was a smelly, noisy, dirty, dangerous hobby, and they hadn’t even left the lot.

  “Here comes the worst part,” Casey said. “Your first turn. Just give her a little taste of gas.”

  “Do I lean into the turn?”

  “If you’re going fast enough, yeah, but don’t think too hard about that shit for now—your body’ll figure it out.”

  If Casey said so. Duncan and his subtler senses had never been especially familiar companions.

  “Off we fucking go,” Casey said, and headed for the road with a roar of throttle.

  Duncan followed, the bike feeling as though it must weigh ten tons as he let it shepherd him uncertainly down a shallow dip and onto the street. His heart seized up as he made the first turn, then resumed beating as he straightened out, unscathed. His acceleration was jerky and comical to start, but half a mile down the main drag, the fear drained out of him, perhaps rattled free by the relentless vibration.

  They stuck to the pavement, crisscrossing all over Fortuity, Casey forcing more and more turns on the route, the longer Duncan went without toppling—almost as though willing the inevitable spill. Still none an hour in, Duncan was almost beginning to feel nearly competent. Casey pulled over along the shoulder of the road that led out into ranch land.

  “Pretty good so far,” he said.

  “No grievous injuries, at least.”

  “Try a little off-road?”

  Duncan nodded. “What the hell?” Had to happen sooner or later—those bones weren’t buried in the asphalt.

  “Shouldn’t be too bad here,” Casey said. “Dirt’s real hard and packed. It’s the soft shit you need to look out for. I’ll take us into the brush as deep as I can, but my bike’s built for cruising, not safari.”

  “Sure.”

  Casey paused, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his handlebars. “What’s this all about, anyhow? You trying to be what you think Raina’s into or something?”

  Duncan had to laugh. “I suspect it’d take more than a show of ill-fitting machismo to win that woman’s approval.”

  “Yeah, she’s not really the kind you woo.”

  “Indeed.” She was no coy creature in need of tempting. Of taming. She was a mountain lion. The best you could hope for was to avoid getting ripped to shreds.

  “So why, then?”

  He considered telling Casey the truth, but something about it felt too . . . personal. He was uncomfortable even recognizing himself precisely how out of character all of this was—such a fruitless, illogical pursuit. Obsession he was wired for, but not of the pointless variety.

  Plus, admitting it would mean accepting that he wasn’t above the mess surrounding him. On the contrary, he was neck deep in it. In this exhausting mystery, in this awful town. In his infatuation. In his own suffocating uncertainty. Uncertain, but not helpless. He was taking the situation in hand, surely as the bars in his gloved fists.

  He told Casey, “I have my reasons.”

  “And they are?”

  Duncan shot him a cold stare. “While we’re prying, what exactly have you been up to the past nine years, Mr. Grossier?” He’d overheard enough conversations between Casey and his friends to know nothing shut the man up as quickly as that question.

  Casey revved his bike and aimed it straight into the wilds of Fortuity. Duncan followed.

  The rough red earth was peppered with rocks and ruts, and the bars juddered in Duncan’s grip, the bike feeling like a half-broken horse beneath him. It was brutally sunny, oven-hot. His wrists were already sore from the civilized riding, hands all but numb from the vibration, and off-road multiplied all of that by fifty. But he didn’t fall, not aside from when attempting the maneuvers Casey walked him through—how to tip over with purpose when he felt the machine going down. He seemed good at knowing how much gas to give it, too, how much speed to hazard. And he’d be lying if he said there wasn’t a certain satisfaction to hearing and smelling all that dust shooting out in his wake when he coaxed the bike up a hill.

  If pressed to guess the activity he’d be the least competent at, Duncan would’ve put motorcycle riding on the top of a very short list of candidates. But to his great surprise, he seemed to be rather a natural. His instructor agreed.

  “You sure you’ve never done this before?” Casey asked.

  “Not even in my daydreams.”

  “Well, I hereby grant you your diploma. I don’t think you need much more help—not unless you feel like building some ramps or something.”

  “No, this should do.” There was nowhere in Fortuity he couldn’t get to, Duncan imagined. Precisely his goal.

  Now if only he had the first clue where he needed to get to.

  “Ready to head back downtown?” Casey asked.

  “Yes, I’d say so.”

  Duncan guessed it was about five thirty by the time they reached the main road, the sun edging low toward the mountains. They neared asphalt not too far from Three C’s headquarters, its gate just visible down the quiet two-lane highway.

  It was odd, but Duncan wasn’t especially looking forward to hitting pavement, jarring though the dirt was. And he wasn’t looking forward to the silence and peace that’d follow once he dismounted back at—

  A few yards ahead, Casey’s body seemed to sway, the bike following.

  “All right?” Duncan called.

  The man’s posture righted, then went slack again just as quickly, the motions of someone jerking awake and falling asleep in turns. Duncan gave his bike more gas, trying to catch up, but not before Casey slumped a third time, motor guttering and his bike tipping over in seeming slow motion. The noise of it was horrible—metal scrabbling on gravel—but worse than that was the silence that came from its rider. No shouts, no swearing. No nothing, before or after Casey hit the ground.

  Duncan squeezed his brake levers and got off too quickly—he missed the kickstand but was already tipping sideways, so he let the bike fall, hopping to keep his foot from getting crushed. He hurried to where Casey lay, relieved to see motion—the man’s hand twitched and clutched, and his eyes were open an
d moving. The bike was pinning his leg, though, and helmet or not, he was sure to have rattled his head.

  “You okay?” Duncan grabbed the Harley’s bars and pulled hard, trying to shift it. It was far heavier than the BMW, and he shoved Casey in the ribs with his foot until he rolled out of the way. Duncan prayed his leg wasn’t broken. He eased the bike back down, then knelt at Casey’s side. He shook him by the shoulders. “Hey. Hey.”

  Casey’s eyes were wide, bright blue, his lips moving but no sound coming out. He’d looked limp as he’d gone down, but now his muscles were rigid, fingers still twitching, gaze at once sharp and vacant.

  “Are you having a seizure?” A stroke, a bad drug trip, who knew what?

  Faint words answered him. “Fire. Miah. Star. Night.”

  Duncan gave Casey’s cheek a soft slap—that always seemed to work in the movies. “What’s wrong with you? Tell me this instant or I’m calling nine-one-one.” Selfishly he prayed Casey would come around. The last thing Duncan needed was to be found wrapped up with a drifter in a strange accident, while riding an undeeded motorcycle without the license to do so. He was flirting with detention or house arrest, he realized in a flash. And if that came to pass, this foolish, impulsive quest to find those fucking bones was done.

  “Say something,” he demanded. “Are you on drugs? Are you epileptic?”

  “Miah,” Casey said, strength coming to his voice. “Fire. On a starless night.”

  “Shit.” The man wasn’t getting lucid anytime soon. Seeing no choice, Duncan removed his helmet and dialed his phone, but no luck—not a single signal bar out here. “Fucking Fortuity.”

  No way could he prop Casey on the back of either bike and get him back to town. He was about to urge the man to stand, to pray he could walk so maybe Duncan could help him hobble toward the ranch, when a vehicle appeared from the west. Duncan waved his arms, and the black pickup slowed along the shoulder. Jeremiah Church hopped out, not even bothering to slam the door. There was a dog in the truck’s bed, medium-size, with pricked ears and a reddish, short coat, looking like a Rottweiler’s less bloodthirsty cousin. It didn’t move a muscle as Miah ran to Duncan and Casey.

  “He okay?” Miah asked, dropping to his knees.

  “I’m not sure. He must have hit his head—he’s babbling like a drunk.”

  Miah tried the old cheek-slap routine as well. “Case? Casey. You awake?”

  “It’s you,” Casey said, smiling dreamily. “Fucking shame, what’s going to happen to you.”

  Miah shot Duncan a look.

  “He’s not right,” Duncan said. “He’s not spoken a word of sense since he went down.”

  “He hit a rock or something?”

  “Not a rock,” Casey interjected, spacey. “A fire. On a starless night.”

  “No,” Duncan said to Miah. “He swayed, right before he went down. Like he fainted, almost. Though a head injury could explain the nonsense he’s talking.”

  “Weird. And he hasn’t been drinking?”

  “Not as far as I know. And the sun’s rough, but the temperature’s already dropped. Drugs, maybe?”

  Miah shook his head. “I doubt it. Never Casey’s style, not aside from weed.”

  “I tried calling nine-one-one, but there’s no signal.”

  “Let’s get him to the house. We can call from there if it comes to that, though he seems more dazed than anything.”

  Miah backed his truck closer and lowered the tailgate, then unfurled a couple of thick, woven blankets Duncan suspected were meant for horses.

  “You grab his feet,” Miah said, stooping to get a hand under each of Casey’s armpits. The man kept mumbling about fire and starless night as they fumbled with his limp body, carrying him over and sliding him into the bed. The dog looked on stoically.

  “Fuck me, you got heavy,” Miah said to Casey. “Sorry about the smell, kid. Watch your feet.” He curled Casey’s legs in and flipped up the tailgate.

  Duncan collected the keys from both bikes, then joined Miah. The man’s black Stetson sat on the passenger seat and Duncan moved it to the console between them.

  Once they were moving, he said, “Good timing, Mr. Church.”

  “Miah’s fine.” His expression was cold, but his tone casual. “You’re the last man I’d have expected to find out there. That the BMW Vince’s been resuscitating?”

  “It is. This was my inaugural lesson. I rather expected if anyone was going to wreck, it’d be me.”

  Miah shook his head. “Fucking weird.”

  They turned into Three C’s big lot, passing beneath the tall timber archway. Miah backed them right up to the front porch’s steps, and as the tailgate dropped, a screen door swung out.

  “Good God,” said a tall, slender woman—surely Miah’s mother, to judge from her age and coloring. Duncan had wondered if Miah was half Hispanic, like Raina, but his mother amended the theory—she looked strikingly Native American. “What’s happened?”

  “He took a spill,” Miah said. “Get the doors open and clear the table.”

  “Is he bleeding? Anything broken?” Mrs. Church asked, propping the screen door wide.

  “Don’t think so, but he’s talking like he must’ve got conked on the head.” To his dog, Miah said, “That’ll do,” and it jumped out of the bed and trotted off.

  “I’ll call the clinic,” his mother offered.

  “Not yet,” Miah said as he and Duncan hauled Casey to the truck bed’s edge by the ankles. “Casey’s funny about doctors.”

  Funny about paper trails, more like, Duncan thought, and grabbed Casey’s feet. Miah handled the other end. They weaved him through the two open doors and around a short hall into a large, rustic kitchen. They laid him out along the oversize trestle table and Duncan got his helmet off. Miah’s mother slid a couple of folded dish towels under his head.

  Casey resumed his muttering. His voice was more peaceful than manic now, though he still shook with the odd, tiny tremor. To Mrs. Church he said earnestly, “I’m so, so sorry for your loss.”

  She smiled at him, confused. “That’s sweet of you, Casey. How many fingers am I holding up?” She showed him two.

  “If there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know,” Casey went on.

  She shook her head. “He must be concussed. I’m calling the clinic.”

  Duncan and Miah exchanged a glance, nodding in unison, and she grabbed a phone from its dock on the hutch, disappearing into the next room.

  Miah pulled an outmoded cell phone from his back pocket. “And I’ll call Vince.”

  “So much for his beauty sleep,” Duncan murmured, circling the table, wishing he knew how to check vitals—how to do anything useful just now.

  “Hey. Listen, it’s about Casey,” Miah told his phone. “He wrecked while he was riding around with Welch . . . No, he seems solid, except he definitely thumped his head—he’s talking complete nonsense.” A pause. “I dunno, weird bull. He just apologized to my mom for her ‘loss.’ She’s calling the clinic, but you wanna get over here, if Kim or Nita’s around to watch your mom? I can drive him back to yours later, but somebody’ll need to get his bike home, or at least ride it up here. It’s ditched half a mile down the road—you’ll see it on the way in. Okay, great. See you.”

  Miah’s mother returned, replacing the phone. “Ronnie Biscane’s on duty. Says he’ll come straightaway.”

  “Vince is coming, too,” Miah said.

  His mother looked to Duncan. “I’m Christine, by the way. You must be a friend of Casey’s.”

  Duncan looked to Miah for a split second, realizing he was basically asking the man’s permission to claim such a thing. “Sort of,” he said to Christine, and shook her slender hand. “I’m Duncan Welch.”

  She frowned, looking thoughtful. “Your name sounds so familiar.”

  I’m sure you�
�re overheard your son wishing bodily harm upon me. Or the local news calling me a conspiracy suspect. “I know Vince better than I do his brother,” Duncan said. “I got wrapped up in the events that led to the late sheriff’s arrest.”

  “Oh dear—are you the one who . . .” She touched her mouth fretfully, and Duncan’s tongue reflexively sought his fake tooth.

  “I am, yes. Small price to pay to help.”

  Behind her, Miah rolled his eyes.

  “You work for the developers?” she asked.

  “I did. Things are at a bit of a standstill at the moment, of course.” Because of the VRC investigation, he let her infer. He was pleased her ignorance must mean that Miah wasn’t petty enough to gossip gleefully with his family about how someone from Sunnyside had been accused of taking bribes and lost his job. The Churches had every right to distrust Sunnyside, of course. The casino was going to cause the ranch no end of headaches by the time it was completed. If it ever got completed.

  “Everyone in this town owes you a debt of gratitude,” Christine said to Duncan. “Vince said he doesn’t know if he’d have been able to expose Tremblay without your help.”

  “I don’t know about that.” And there’d been many times when Duncan wished he’d never gotten involved at all, justice be damned. He was a capitalist, and they rarely made good humanitarians. The praise didn’t fit him any better than the stiff, heavy boots on his feet.

  Christine looked to each of the coherent men. “Coffee?”

  Miah shook his head. “Nah, I’m good.”

  “No, thank you,” Duncan said.

  She studied Casey, who’d gone quiet, his chest rising and falling deeply. He could have been napping, if not for his half-open eyes.

  “We better get him sitting up,” Miah said. “Can’t have him falling asleep concussed.”

  Duncan helped shift Casey onto the long bench seat.

  “I sure hope he doesn’t need to go all the way to Elko,” Christine said, watching as the men balanced Casey upright, the table’s edge at his back. He blinked dozily, supported by a hand on each of his shoulders.

  “Okay there, Case?” Miah asked.

  “Where the fuck am I?”