Nomad: A Story from The Reels

by Brian Ewing

  Andrick heard a rising whimper to his right. Looking over, he saw Joy trying to crawl away in a panicked attempt at self-preservation. At the pace she was moving, Andrick was not worried. He looked back and soaked in the view through the plastic wrap, as he could see the last moment that Brady’s hazel eyes lost the shimmer of life and rolled into the back of his head, never to return. Andrick, less than six inches away from his face, stared eye-level with the physically fit man and moaned slightly at the release he felt as Tappy subsided his taunting repetition.

  Two for one, two for one!

  Andrick rose from his hunched-over position and felt slightly weak in the knees from succumbing to his drug of choice. Joy was almost around the corner of the backyard where the side gate had been, using every ounce of willpower to escape. Almost floating across the yard, Andrick made his way around the corner with no stress at Joy’s head start. Andrick got to the corner to see Joy leaning against the wood-paneled gate. She turned around and slid to the ground with a look of defeat in her eyes, then threw her head into her hands while crying. Andrick slowly walked up to Joy and knelt beside her.

  “You put up a valiant effort, Joy. Nothing to be ashamed of,” Andrick said softly while raising her head so he could look in her eyes.

  The mascara bled down her cheeks, giving Andrick a moment of pleasure. The pain and fear he caused culminated in a painted work of art on her face. The full moon shone down and gave Andrick’s artwork a beautiful spotlight for him to admire. In addition to the running makeup, Joy had somehow formed a bubble of gooey snot under her right nostril. The circumference of the snot dome grew and withered in synchronization with her whimpered pleas.

  The involuntary movement made Andrick shutter. Looking for a distraction, he noticed what caused Joy’s burning flame to smolder out. He looked up at the top of the gate to see a brand new Masterlock padlock in clear view from the glowing moonlight, courtesy from the hardware store where the duct tape currently adhered to Joy’s face had been purchased. He looked back down and as he did, he relished in the fact that Joy would be able to see how much satisfaction she would give Andrick in her final moments.

  CHAPTER 9

  The next half hour, while Andrick Wesley was performing his ritualistic act a few hundred miles away, Fitz Ackerman sat in Caden’s Den and let the team in on some of his past experiences, another life as he referred to it.

  “Back when I was with 3S MC, there had been an annual three-week cross-country venture we participated in every year. I must have attended at least four or five.”

  Most followed what he said, but Toby LeNard rose his hand like a fifth-grader asking his teacher a question.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr. Ackerman, but what is 3S MC?”

  “Saratoga Saints & Sinners Motorcycle Club,” Fitz answered the confused LeNard.

  “Oh, I see. My apologies. Please, proceed.”

  Bell rolled his eyes and the little puppet that sat next to him mimicked the action only moments later.

  “Keep going, Fitz.” Culpepper chirped, trying to set some authority back in the room on Bell’s behalf.

  Fitz got giddy and started talking with his hands as he explained, a trait Sisto noticed to be a habit of the man whenever finding a helpful nugget of information during a case.

  “So, clubs from all over the country would start in either Richland or Spokane, Washington, on Valentine’s Day weekend and work their way to Miami Beach.”

  “Valentine’s Day? That’s very sentimental of the biker community,” Sisto interjected. “I thought all bikers were hardcore and into shady shit?”

  “No doubt, the majority are,” Fitz confirmed. “The mentality of most of the MC’s has always been to run the club like a business. The reason this tradition started on Valentine’s Day weekend though was one of the President’s daughters had been going to school in Miami about ten or twelve years back. The family was running a charter in Spokane at the time. Anyways, the story is that the daughter called her dad one night at three in the morning crying her eyes out. She went to a club with her friends with fake IDs and got roofied. She woke up in a strange apartment on the floor with no clothes on.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Mitchell muttered.

  “I don’t think Jesus Christ was watching over this situation,” Fitz acknowledged. “She sat up and there were three guys in their late twenties drinking beers and playing video games, acting like nothing was wrong. They laughed and tried to play it off and when she got visibly upset, the leader of the scumbags told her that their parents were rich and if she called the cops, they would make sure her life was a living hell. Little did they know who her father had been.”

  The group looked at Fitz, all speechless as the grim tale settled in. Fitz recognizing the room started to resemble a funeral, got to the connection of the story.

  “So, the Pres and his charter, along with his connections in Spokane at the time, in the early hours of the morning, took whatever they could carry on their bikes and set off to Miami to get vigilante justice. Legend says, without incriminating anyone, the three boys have only since been seen on milk cartons in the last decade. No one knows what they did to them.

  Over the years, the tale made way down the grapevine of clubs, and the story of true love a father held for his daughter, traveling on Valentine’s Day weekend to avenge her, was revered. Maybe six months later, the President was killed and to honor his legacy, his club and most of the surrounding charters created a fundraising event where riders will take a three-week trip, if they do the entire route, mainly using the I-83 until getting to the coastline in New York, followed by US Route 1, to get all the way down to Miami.”

  Sisto looked around. If Sisto hadn’t had a vision that somewhat supported what Fitz Ackerman suggested, he may have been skeptical as well.

  “What makes you think they are a biker and not just some nut traveling on the highway, pulling over from time to time to kill?” Jordan Wallace asked.

  “Good question,” Bell asked. “Fitz, you got anything to back up your theory, aside from the story?”

  Ready for the resiliency of trained detectives, Fitz cleared his throat. Fitz Ackerman had always been looked at as a man that had been dumber than the person assessing him, based on his background alone. The man spent most of his youth involved in a life of protecting gun runners and prostitutes. Fitz never minded, as he felt the stereotyping gave him the advantage of free-range. No one would stand in the way of someone they felt was not intellectually a threat. Physically, he was a tall, long-haired, tattooed, scary biker that seemed like he went out bashing baby’s skulls in with his boots on the weekends as a pass time. Intelligence had never been something he was given credit for, until recently while contributing to Project: Corrine. He didn’t feel like his teammates were doubting his intelligence, but possibly not able to connect the dots as well as he could.

  “Ama, darling,” Fitz spoke softly.

  Sisto had no right to be irritated by the nickname Fitz tended to use frequently when speaking to her, yet something rose in the pit of his stomach.

  “Fitz,” Ama responded.

  “You think you and Winter can look into any killings or missing persons that fit this type of kill in Washington state over Valentine’s Day weekend timeframe for the last five years?”

  “Spokane area?”

  “Better start with Spokane first, since that has the been the starting point the last few years. If nothing there, then Richland and the whole Seattle area may be a good backup.”

  Ama nodded and jotted down a note to herself.

  “Each of these locations of the kills,” Fitz drew in a sigh of relief as he saw less judging in the eyes of his teammates, “are within twenty to thirty miles of set campgrounds on that event path.”

  “Group of people traveling on Valentine’s Day, to beat the shit out of, or kill, someone that raped a girl, is now a national holiday in the biker community?” Culpepper spoke with repulsion.

  “I think
it’s sweet,” Ama spoke softly, looking as Fitz drew his attention from Bell Jr. and over to her. “My father would have done anything to protect me. It’s just a celebration within the biker culture. No different than a Bar Mitzvah.”

  Sisto noticed something else that made him uncomfortable. He saw from her profile view, that Ama had taken her left hand to swipe a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear, revealing her golden-brown skin started to get rosy in the cheek area. She looked down, similar to a high school girl with a crush. Sisto brought his micro-expression skills across the table to assess Fitz Ackerman. Fitz had a pleased look on his face as well.

  What in the literal fuck was going on, Sisto thought to himself? Ama, to his knowledge, had never mentioned being attracted to burly, reformed bikers. Also, Fitz looked like Rip Van Winkle just dusted himself off, ready to pick up a prom date twenty years too late. Fitz, with his fucking long, unkempt, graying beard was the only thing half-hiding his shy smile. Sisto couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Granted, Sisto recognized he was still wrapping up feelings about Caden’s passing but at that moment felt a twinge of jealousy arise as the two idiots stared at each other.

  After a long moment to assess the play proposed, Bell chimed in. “I like it. I think it’s as good a place to start as any. It would make sense why the FBI wouldn’t have already picked up on this since the bureau probably is not in the habit of outsourcing agents from any motorcycle clubs. Seems like we got one up on the snarky fucks.”

  A heckle to his right came from Culpepper, “Those stupid pricks.”

  “Culpepper, if you dig your nose any further up Bell’s ass, he won’t need to visit the doctor for a physical until next year.” Mitchell blurted.

  It was Sisto’s turn to slap the wooden tabletop, laughing uncontrollably. Chuckles emerged from everyone, everyone except Culpepper.

  “Okay, okay. Enough.” Bell rose as he spoke. “Ama, you get with Winter and start looking into missing persons and murders in the Washington state area starting around Valentine’s Day weekend.”

  “Got it,” Ama said.

  “Toby, I want you to go over these autopsy and forensics reports and see if you notice anything that can solidify the angle Fitz proposed.”

  “Absolutely.” Toby LeNard replied.

  “He isn’t wrong,” Sisto spoke up.

  Everyone looked in his direction.

  “Something in the dossier kicked off a vision. I saw what I believe was our guy or girl I guess, grooming a victim. Victim number five.”

  Everyone turned their reports to the fifth victim.

  “The Reels showed me this scene for a reason. I don’t think victim number five got in a random “wrong place, wrong time” situation. It felt like he almost recognized the killer.”

  “Almost?” Culpepper perked up, trying strike back from her embarrassing exposure as a kiss-ass.

  “Well, I didn’t see the guy get killed. I watched through the eyes of someone that showed up to some concert in the middle of some junkyard, surrounded by a bunch of people in leather, raging out to some metal band.”

  “Fifth victim was Earl Thompson, found killed in Cheyenne, Wyoming,” Fitz spoke aloud, reviewing the report. “One of the stops on the annual ride is in Wellington, Colorado. It’s only thirty-three miles south of Cheyenne.”

  Sisto looked back at Bell. “I know you hate relying on my visions, but how often have they not produced?”

  “I don’t believe that bullshit,” Culpepper said, crossing her arms.

  “Whoa, whoa.” Bell angrily replied. “While I have learned to appreciate the…visions…that have led to fruition, let’s try to stick to facts for now.”

  Culpepper smirked with her arms crossed, expecting Bell to lay into Sisto with a hardened no-nonsense reaction.

  “I lost my partner, you lost her too. She believed in you, all of you. Do I think you are a thorn in my dick? Yes. Do I think you are a good detective? Not yet, but you are honestly knocking out Jenkin’s obstacles faster and more proficient than either he or I thought you could. I may not be your friend, but the same way Caden had to stick up for you with me, is what I now deal with regarding my reports about you with Jenkins weekly. I hate relying on your visions, Kid. I hate it because I know almost every time you are going to be right. So, do me the favor, and let’s get facts squared away so I can write a report without feeling my ulcer bubble up.”

  The admission stunned Sisto. He didn’t know how to reply and thankfully the quiet conference room was interrupted by Reese Culpepper trying to save face.

  “I mean, anything is possible, I guess.”

  Bell rolled his eyes that time, not foregone to the fact of Culpepper acting as a ‘yes man’.

  “Okay, Ama and Toby, you two know what you are doing. Mitchell, you take Wallace and start reaching out to departments in each of the kill zones to see if there is anything the FBI conveniently left out of their info for us.”

  Both Mitchell and Wallace nodded their heads.

  “Culpepper,” Bell said, looking over to the eager beaver. “I want you to connect with Madigan and review these files with her.”

  “The shrink?” Reese Culpepper asked in confusion.

  “Dr. Madigan is our department psychiatrist. We are not the FBI, Culpepper. We don’t have profilers other than ourselves. I would like our resident head doctor to put in her perspective on what is driving this sick piece of shit.”

  Culpepper nodded, yet seemed perturbed at the seemingly shit task.

  “As for you two clowns,” Bell looked over at Fitz and Sisto’s direction, “I am going to put Fitz back in his native land of biker world and you’re going with him, numbnuts.”

  Since he addressed Fitz by name, Sisto assumed he was numbnuts.

  “Undercover? I have never done anything like that. I don’t even know what I am looking for.” Sisto disputed.

  “Fitz knows the lay of the land and is on good terms with 3S. I want him to integrate himself and no better backup than a psychic like yourself, Kid. Wrap up anything you need to tomorrow. You two head up to Mustain on Sunday.”

  “Up top, brother!” The overly enthusiastic Fitz rose his hand over Ama towards Sisto for a high five.

  Sisto looked to his right and saw concern in Ama’s eyes before looking up at the gentle giant’s expressive joy.

  Fuck me, Sisto said to himself.

  CHAPTER 10

  Andrick, who always wakes up before his alarm, was greeted by a cold, repetitive tone creeping louder and louder throughout his motel room at Clancy’s until he swatted at his phone and was able to turn off the horrific noise. He grabbed the phone a few minutes later, once his eyes adjusted, to see it was indeed 7:05 AM. He rarely slept to the normal lifestyle fashion his cohorts did who usually muddled around no earlier than eight or nine, sometimes later. Andrick always wanted time to prepare for his day, even after long nights, such as the one he experienced last night. Even the grazing thought of the night before had given Andrick chills.

  Flashes of memories started to flood his mind. He greedily searched his memory bank for the most brutal scenes, the moments saturated in viscous, dark crimson, along with the moment of release when Tappy subsided. Before Andrick knew it, he lay in bed with an erection from the endorphins that had rushed through him. Normally, he would go to the restroom to relieve himself, but since he was in a shitty motel room that was probably dirtier than the ground, he proceeded to simply relieve himself right in the bed, allowing the motel maid to deal with the consequences of his actions.

  An hour later, Andrick had showered and felt like being generous with his time. He was heading down to the common area where he knew some of the early risers would start to gather. Usually, the leaders would send their prospects to go pick up bagels or pastries or something that resembled a poor attempt at a continental breakfast. Lord knew Clancy wasn’t going to provide anything that would be deemed edible. Carrying his leather bag with him, he patiently waited for the attendant to accept his k
ey and acknowledge his check out. A frumpy little meatball of a woman, with a mustache Andrick could almost be jealous of, smiled as she handed him his acknowledgment receipt.

  “Was the room to your satisfaction, sir?”

  “It was, thank you so much,” Andrick replied, surprised at himself at how the tone seemed so easy to fake when he didn’t have any annoying tap digging into his neck and down his spine.

  “Bed comfortable?”

  Andrick let his memory recap the bodily urge he released twice in the sheets not more than an hour prior, “Slept like a baby.”

  The wispy ends of her facial hair fluttered as her chubby cheeks rose in a smile, thanking Andrick again as he walked away.

  He walked out to take in a wonderful deep breath of fresh air, then wrapped around the inside corner of the building to see a small gathering already starting at the northern end of the common area. Normally, Andrick wanted nothing more than to stay away from the maggots he surrounded himself around. However, Andrick woke up with an incredible feeling of satisfaction and chose to use his chipper outlook to his advantage. Four men sat at a small metal table and all looked up at him approaching. He recognized them all but had only ever had a handful of conversations with the one furthest left of him.

  “Andrick! I missed you at Rucker’s last night. You guys know Andrick, right?”

  The jolly bastard, who was over the top for only being 8 AM as far as Andrick was concerned, introduced him to the three familiar faces as Rug, Freddy, and Mole.

  “Pleasure, guys. I was at Rucker’s but ran into some old friends and left a bit early.” Andrick explained, as leaving an event before ten o’clock was deemed early. He also left out the part about deliberately trying to avoid being seen with the couple by too many of his brotherhood.

  “Listen, Andrick. We have an opening in a few of our chapters if you are interested? I know being a Nomad is fine and dandy for some, but most want to be a part of something bigger.” The leader, Mason, proposed in his signature jolly tone.