by E. R. Brown
I slumped in the seat, nauseous at the relief I felt. “Get out of here.”
“Minute.”
I lowered my window and twisted the passenger-side mirror. “Is he alive?” I was hyperventilating and wanted to throw up.
“He’ll be all right. Here they come,” Randle lifted an index finger at the sound of ambulance sirens. “Time to hit the road.”
He put the truck in gear and slid out onto the empty street, driving a couple of blocks before switching the headlights on and heading east to Highway 1. I probed the meaty swelling under my lip, wiggled the tooth experimentally, and covered my mouth to hide the sudden weeping. We were near the city limits before I had my breathing under control.
“Why did you do that?” I tried to keep the wavering out of my voice.
“You just squeaked out.” Randle reached over and kneaded my shoulder.
“You set him up. I fingered the guy.”
“A disaster, the whole damn thing.” He stroked one side of his nose and passed slower-moving traffic. “You’re resourceful. You don’t lose your head. You have no idea how rare that is. That was —” He halted mid-sentence and sucked on his lower lip. “Here’s the thing.” He checked the mirrors. “Some coaches give motivational speeches, you know the kind, ‘get with the program, put your heart in it,’ all that stuff. I’m more of a for-example guy.” He rubbed his nose again, like something itched. “You asked about Ramon.”
“Yeah.”
“Ramon’s job was simple. Do what I tell him, nothing more. Don’t get ahead of himself. Don’t connect the dots. Don’t get ideas.”
It felt like I’d known it the minute I handed the package to the kid in the red vest. “That was Ramon. You set us up. Both of us.”
Randle shook his head. “Who’d have guessed they’d show up so fast? They were supposed to round him up and send him back to El Salvador or Nicaragua or wherever he came from. When he gets out of hospital that’s where he’ll be headed.” He let out a long sigh. “Believe me, there are worse options.”
The body on the street wasn’t going to any hospital.
“And me. I was nailed, thanks to you.”
“What you don’t know. They weren’t supposed to show up ’til later. After you’d made the drop. We should have been long gone before they arrived. But even so, you weren’t in any real trouble.”
He turned to me for a split-second’s eye contact, and a warm smile.
“I wouldn’t put you at risk, Tate, not for a second. In this neighbourhood, cops are busy. One look at your baby face and they know you’re Canadian and underage. They can’t be bothered going through the motions when you’re just going to walk. You’d have been given a stern lecture and they’d have forgotten about you.”
Randle reached into his shirt pocket for a fresh joint. “But instead, you gave them the slip. Now you’ve got their attention.”
“Ramon and the bikers —” I didn’t know what to say. Ramon had escaped, so why did he skid to a halt and do a 180, then run back toward the police? He’d seen what I saw: Ivan and another biker, leaning against his black Dodge Durango beside the self-storage warehouse. They’d watched the entire transaction, from my arrival to when the cops closed in on us from both sides.
Ramon must have seen them lurking, blocking his escape, and decided that Randle was the lesser, or maybe the safer, of two bad choices.
That was a for-example for me. Until tonight, I’d thought that Ramon had succeeded at what I wanted to do: he’d escaped from Randle.
“Another thing,” Randle said. “Cops are video freaks. They’ve got cameras in their cars to record every damn thing they do. Later tonight somebody’s going to be going through their home movies of the takedown, and they’re going to be wondering, who’s the white kid? It’ll drive them crazy looking through their databases for a face match.” He shrugged. “I assume they won’t find one, unless you’ve got a record I don’t know about, so tomorrow morning your image is going to be emailed across the city and posted on station walls, asking anyone to identify the mystery kid. Pulling up that hood would’ve been a good idea.”
I huddled against the truck door, curled in on myself as far away from Randle as I could get. Part of my mind was numbed by the shock and part of it was calculating, comparing the possibilities. Whatever could have happened to me, and whether Randle was telling the truth, it was clear that he didn’t want Ramon around. What did the bikers want with Ramon? Would Ramon have been worse off if they’d caught him? Or was it Randle they were watching? Did they even know it was Randle in the truck? If they’d seen him, the bikers knew that Randle was doing business in the city. Maybe they’d recognized me too. Should I find somewhere else to sleep tonight, and where? Should I call Beth?
No, I couldn’t call Beth. That much was certain. If Ivan was on to me, a phone call now might bring the Devils right to the house, to her and Bree.
Chapter 20
I spent the night flat on my back, not sleeping, reliving the sound of bones cracking against the steel of the Pacific Trailways Whistler Express, nursing my resentment against Randle and exploring every possible way out of my situation, except those that would put me in prison beside Randle, Skip, and all the bikers I could name.
Sometime after sunrise I heard my Mitsubishi pickup’s engine turn over, and looked out just in time to see it accelerate up the drive. The security gate pulled closed behind it. Unless I walked out, I was trapped for the day.
Once it was a reasonable time to call anyone, I pulled out my crappy Randle-phone and checked my voicemail. Beth was down to one a day now, and three concise words: Call me, please.
Time to start paving the path that might lead me home someday. Unsure whether she was back in Wallace, I dialled her cell and held my breath until it rang through to voice mail. Relieved at not having to deal with her, I said, “Beth, hey. Read the review in the Globe, totally killer. You must be pumped! Good for you. And I’m all right, okay? I’m eating, I’m safe, don’t worry. I’ll be home to see you real soon, maybe even tomorrow. I’ll let you know.”
I hoped that would calm her down a bit. I didn’t want her feeling any worse, but I didn’t want to see her just yet. Not until Randle was out of the picture.
Bree wouldn’t be up yet, so I texted: Be home in 1–2 days. You doing OK?
With nothing else to do, I closed my eyes and tilted into sleep.
The rumble of the garage door brought me out of my daze, and I found Randle and Maddie towelling down in the sun beside her Beetle. His Porsche hadn’t left all morning and afternoon, and my truck still hadn’t returned.
The guy was fit, I had to give him credit. Where Maddie’s back was dark with sweat, he looked like he could go back out and do another few clicks.
He slung his towel over his neck and gave me a lidded, speculative look. “Got your beauty sleep?” He sounded like a cranky dad, as if there weren’t enough reasons for me to cut short my stay. I gave him a palms-forward “sorry-for-interrupting” and backed away.
“Don’t think this was a day off,” he said. His attitude was noticeably cooler, more remote, than usual. He reached in the Beetle for his street pants and pulled out a set of car keys. “Wait in the Speedster.”
Ten minutes later he returned with an aluminum case, like an oversized briefcase, and orders to deliver it to the apartment building, where Maureen and her boyfriend would store it for him, and no it couldn’t wait for my truck to return (no word on who had it or why), so he was letting me do the run in his precious convertible. And there was more: I had to keep it for the evening and essentially get lost until two in the morning at the earliest. Something was going to go down tonight, apparently, and I wasn’t invited.
Since my plans for the evening had been to get the hell away from Randle before something worse happened, those instructions worked for me.
As soon as I was down the road and safely out of view, I pulled the Speedster onto the shoulder and flipped the latch on the mystery packa
ge. It was lined with foam padding, and contained another case— a locked box made of slick high-tech metal that looked waterproof and fireproof — and a computer’s hard drive. The sealed box was big enough for a serious amount of cash, or even more in coke if Randle, like the bikers, traded green weed for white powder.
If I’d had any ideas about calling the Mounties and coming clean about the whole business, this was my chance. Whatever was in the box or on the hard drive, it would be enough to get Randle off my back. Or maybe this was some kind of test, and Randle, or someone working for him, was following me, and watching to see what I’d do once I was alone.
I delivered the box and headed to my tree house. It was the only place I could think of, and the risk of Bree or Beth finding me there seemed pretty tame.
The Speedster, fake or not, was awesome. The seats were hand-stitched leather and clung to my butt like glue. The steering wheel was made of some kind of exotic wood. For such a little car it felt huge inside, with more legroom than my truck. Even with the top up, it felt like I was in the cockpit of a vintage fighter plane.
I heard the bikes before I saw them, three big chromed-up jobs hammering along in the passing lane, moving faster than I wanted to push the Speedster. The first one flew right past and drifted into my lane. A Devil’s Own patch covered the back of his vest. The second pulled up beside me and cut its speed to match mine. I felt the Harley’s throb right through the floor. Even the steering wheel vibrated. Behind me, the third bike came up tight to my rear bumper, its skinny front wheel filling the mirror.
Don’t slow down, I said to myself. Don’t pull over. They can’t be looking for me, and I delivered the box already so there’s nothing in the car.
The driver beside me floated closer, and I couldn’t help myself — I looked. He was tall and skinny with a horned devil tattoo above his ear, right under the little skid-bowl helmet. Keech’s eyes locked on mine. We weren’t on the same side anymore.
He nodded and straightened in his saddle, and raised his leather-gloved right hand in a forearm wave that looked like something out of a cavalry movie. All three of them kicked it, in deafening unison, and blasted down the road and out of sight.
My ears rang. They weren’t after me. I hadn’t been forced off the road to flip and roll in the ditch, exploding in a fireball as the thin steel crumpled. I took deep slow breaths and concentrated on keeping my sweaty hands on the steering wheel.
It was Randle they were after. Should I head there and warn him? Or did he know already? And if he did know, had he sent me out deliberately to drive along the Soowahlie highway, passing almost within sight of Sadie’s strip club, in the neon-yellow car that no one but Randle ever drove?
I drove straight to the lake, to Randle’s house, to drop off the Speedster and get as far away from it, and him, as possible. If I couldn’t get my nondescript old truck, I’d walk into town. If I couldn’t reach Rachel and talk her into being friends again, and maybe crashing on the sofa in her dad’s rec room, I’d find a motel.
But first I had to slip into Randle’s house, just for a moment. I didn’t want my suitcase — that would be too obvious — but I needed my wallet. All I had in my pocket was a fake Jackson Mitchell ID and five dollars.
Randle’s angular concrete house hovered over the dark water, lit like a cruise ship. The gate was open and welcoming, and the smell of high-quality House weed carried on the breeze. The sloping drive was lined with vehicles — a couple of trucks, three bikes, and a Mercedes with a lowered suspension, and a pimped-out Navigator blocking the garage door. I wasn’t going to get my truck back tonight. The car and one of the trucks were from B.C. and all the other vehicles had Washington plates.
I crept in by the kitchen door, slipped off my shoes, and padded through smoke-blue air. From the great room and its outdoor terrace, I heard a rumble of voices and the clink of drinks. Maddie’s voice saying, “Do you taste the raspberry aftertaste? Incredible that they’re all basically the same plant, isn’t it?”
A woman — a girl really, not much older than me, miniskirted and showing serious cleavage — passed me with a friendly nod, returning a tray of empty beer glasses to the kitchen. A server, hired for the tasting, I guessed. I didn’t know her and she didn’t know me. I made it up the stairs without any more confrontations, retrieved my wallet and the little cash it contained, and headed down again, where I nearly walked into Sammy Jay’s back. He and Randle were in the hallway, in my way if I wanted to leave through the kitchen. I jumped back up a step, but I’d seen Randle and he knew it. I’d caught them in mid-handshake, or fist-shake, or whatever you call that finger-hooking homie-shake thing. Two grey-hairs bonding. Sealing a deal.
Randle’s jock-buddy smile slipped for a brief instant as he registered that it was me, standing gape-mouthed behind the boss biker of the biggest gang in the continent. Then he released Sammy Jay’s armlock and placed a welcoming hand on my shoulder.
They made an odd couple. Randle wore a long Indian-style shirt-jacket thing made of silk, and black pants of some soft flowing material. He could have been a yoga instructor or something. Apart from a half-week’s white chin stubble, Sammy Jay looked the same as the last time I’d seen him: the same jeans, black T-shirt, and cowboy boots that he wore when he effectively dismantled the House.
Randle spoke to Sammy Jay. “And here’s the young partner I told you about, the only one who’s stood by me through these challenging times. Tate, this is Sammy Jay. He’s an interesting man.” His fatherly tone was contradicted by the steel in his blue eyes. “Get yourself a drink, Tate, and mingle with the others on the terrace.”
Sammy Jay didn’t offer a hand to shake. His eyes had drifted to the server, who was passing out fresh drinks in the great room.
“No, no, I needed something upstairs,” I said, circling the two of them and backing into the kitchen with the most servile smile I could manage. “You’re busy. I’ll go now, sorry.”
Randle tipped his head in silent agreement and I got the hell out. No way was I getting involved in a product demo for a crew of American bikers and bike-club management, I was leaving, even if it meant taking the yellow car and sticking to the back roads with my eye on the mirror.
And if I was stopped by Ivan or Keech or any of the Fraser Valley chapter of the Devil’s Own Motor Club, they might be interested in the tale I had to tell about this quiet little evening. Bullard wasn’t here, nor was anyone from the local chapter. I wondered what Randle and Sammy Jay, and all those bikes with Washington plates were up to.
Rachel was waiting for me a block from her father’s place — I’d called on the ride over and she’d been eager, inviting me right over. I’d hoped to hide the car behind the house and hang out in her dad’s rec room where I could spill my guts about Randle and Ramon and my half-formed escape plan, but she was having none of it.
“Take the top down,” she said, and when I’d complied, “don’t talk, drive.”
I took my orders gladly — somehow we were friends again, without any awkwardness or the abject apology I had ready. She kicked off her canvas runners and stretched her legs, taking a prehensile toe-hold on the dash. The moon hadn’t risen, leaving a deep black sky with crisply defined stars against a pale wash of the Milky Way.
I knew all the dirt roads and the shortcuts that connected them — the ones that led to grow ops, at least — and weaved from subdivision to farm road, heading indirectly toward the provincial park and the picnic area near the campground. Each time I looked her way, curious about the change of tone, she gave me the same dimpled pixie grin. It was lovely, if a bit forced and off-putting, and far more interesting than Randle and Sammy Jay, who kept flashing back into my thoughts.
When we passed the provincial park sign and the water came into view, I took a gravel side road — the service road for the bike-and-runners-only Sadler Trail — which led past a row of darkened vacationer’s cabins to a cul-de-sac picnic area where a grassy slope led down to a pier. I switched off the en
gine and the lights. The breeze off the water smelled fresh and clean. Somewhere out there, a quiet motor puttered.
We sat in silence. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for her to break the growing tension I felt.
“This is for you,” she said, and leaned in and kissed me. I responded, after a moment of shock and discomfort and trying to get a word out, but she forced her tongue in and probed for mine. Her teeth were slick and sharp and she smelled of fruity shampoo and baby powder.
All kinds of worries passed through my mind: that she was trying to prove something, that the steering wheel and stick shift were in the way, and we’d be more comfortable anywhere else, but she was in control and nearly weightless on me, so slim that my fingers met when I held her waist.
The second time, we lay on a blanket I found in the car’s trunk, and I held on longer and felt her loosen and enjoy it more, with gentle shudders of pleasure as I slowed down and matched her pace, and felt my breathing and hers rise and fall. She fell asleep on my chest, her body slack and unguarded, her heart beating over mine.
I woke and reached beside me to find a cold, empty blanket. She was at the pier’s end in a private moment, chin on her knees, arms hugging her shins, catching the earliest chill rays of sun. She was already dressed. I felt a rush of pride as she stretched and twisted like a cat that knows it’s being watched.
I ran past her with a hoot of naked delight and crashed the icy water, twisting underwater to surface beside the dock.
“What’s up, babe?” I said, with what I hoped was a lewd grin.
Her skin looked pale, almost blue in the lake’s reflection, and the piercings around her barbell were ringed with pink. A smile played on her lips but she shook her head.