The Shasta Gate

by Dick Croy

  “Lissen, shweethot”—his Bogie shtick—“I know you’re not down on all bikers. You been ridin’ with one—right? So how about givin’ another dude a break? You’re a beautiful woman, and as fiery as you are fine-lookin’. I know how t’ appreciate that. You an’ me could have us a real good time together. …Understand you had a little run-in with the dude whose bike we fixed.”

  “Who told you that?” she asked, without slowing.

  “He did.” When Catherine didn’t respond, he added:

  “Few things about that ol’ boy you oughta know.”

  Pretty Boy had changed his tune considerably; though the words were the same, the tone of voice was now more relaxed and self-assured. Catherine didn’t believe a word of what she heard of course, but at least his approach had improved. She was so used to being hit on that his aggressive persistence seemed natural enough, however annoying. Some small part of herself had actually come to expect this kind of homage occasionally; and after her pursuit of Eugene, which had been so frustrating, almost humiliating at times, Pretty Boy’s advances were like a return to normalcy. Which is not to say that Catherine appreciated the attention; this would-be James Dean clone was hardly her type. But at least he was playing by rules she understood. The two of them were drawing attention on the sidewalk.

  “What the hell do you know about him?” she asked.

  “Plenty, baby, plenty.”

  Catherine stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “...Like what?

  “Like what he does t’ good-lookin’ women.”

  She blinked and started walking again, nervous now.

  “You’re full of shit.”

  “Hey, I heard you the first time. Just don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

  He stopped and Catherine kept walking, but Pretty Boy had planted a seed of doubt. She heard a motorcycle being kick-started a block or so behind her, and a few seconds later he was cruising up beside her. She wasn’t in the least fooled by his look or manner, which would have her believe he had only her best interests at heart. But in a moment he’d be gone.

  “...How the hell do you expect me to believe you?” she said, glancing over at him without breaking stride. “I don’t even know you.”

  “How well do you know him?”

  “...So what is it he’s supposed to have done?”

  “Sposed to? Lady, this dude’s done time. And the law don’t even know about most of ‘em.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “...Yeah, that’s prob’ly just what the others woulda said.”

  “Who the hell are these ‘others’ you keep talking about?”

  “Women no one warned—or if they were, it didn’t do ‘em no good.”

  The two of them were getting curious stares from motorists and pedestrians alike as Catherine tried to picture Eugene in the unlikely role Pretty Boy was painting. It just didn’t seem possible.

  “Listen, we can’t talk here in the street. Is there someplace in this one-horse town where we can?

  “...Well, there’s a coffee shop”—no, Eugene might think she was still there and come back. “Let’s see... there’s a Denny’s just off the interstate.”

  “Hop on.” No way. Seeing her reluctance, the biker added casually, “I can meet you there if you want.”

  Reassured by his apparent indifference, Catherine replied impulsively, “No, it’s too far. Okay, but don’t even think of trying anything or I’ll rip your eyes out.”

  “Jesus Christ, lady,” he said, “I’m tryin’ t’ save yer ass.”

  Catherine climbed on reluctantly. What could he do on a motorcycle for Christ’s sake? She’d never even been on a bike until a few days ago and it had turned out to be a piece of cake; she could take care of herself. It wasn’t as if they were out in the middle of nowhere. She had no intention of becoming a victim of any kind.

  With that settled, Catherine leaned back against the bitch-bar and decided to try on the role. She was able to take in all the stares they were getting without being obvious about it. It was kind of fun. But what if Eugene, the Aquarian Clarion, saw her?

  It so happened that Eugene was at a filling station just outside of town. He’d already gassed up and was talking with the appreciative long-haired attendant.

  “Haven’t seen many 1200’s in this kinda shape!”

  “Thanks. You won’t.”

  “I guess not.”

  They both looked up at the sound of the bike. Eugene’s expression gave him away. “You know that guy?” the attendant asked.

  “What? Uh, yeah.”

  “I’ve seen the girl before. Comes up here every summer.”

  ... “You turn left up here!” she yelled.

  “Up where?”

  Catherine felt a flash of fear that turned quickly to anger.

  “At the intersection—where do you think I mean?”

  “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about!”

  He sped straight through the intersection, and for an instant Catherine was too furious to be frightened. “You sonofabitch! Let me offa this fucking thing! Right now!”

  “Fuck you, Sister!” The biker laughed like a maniac. “You ever been to a gang-bang, Baby?!” Again that spine-tingling laughter. The gloating and satisfaction in it. The hatred.

  Chapter 31

  Eugene climbed back on the motorcycle in a daze. He’d been trying to give her the benefit of the doubt. The gas jockey grinned when he started the Harley. The sound of the big engine was enhanced beneath the station’s metal canopy like a man’s voice in the shower. The attendant waved happily, drunk on his favorite music, as Eugene turned into the street, in the opposite direction from the other bike. As far as he was concerned, he couldn’t put enough distance right now between himself and Catherine.

  ...She herself felt strangely calm. There are moments in the most tumultuous human activities when opposing forces converge and cancel one another: moments of equipoise, like the top of the arc in the pole vault or the half second a potentially game-winning long bomb hangs above the outstretched hands of receiver and defender. Sports photographers wait for such moments with the same sense of time suspended as the athletes themselves, and in doing so become one with them in it.

  Imagine such a moment held indefinitely, as individuals facing violent death have occasionally lived to tell us about. Subjective time slows drastically, with movement perceived in a super-slow motion. Perhaps defensive mental processes accelerate in some way, so the physical world appears to slow down in comparison. An ironworker losing his balance on a steel beam several stories above the ground may find himself with all the time he needs to assess his situation coolly. In a hyper-extended moment, his eyes sweep his surroundings for a vital handhold while his muscles flex without panic or the paralysis of fear to make the move that can save his life.

  Catherine knew exactly what the threat to her life was; but it was a given which, in completely surrounding her, lay outside the sphere of her present state of consciousness. She felt a freedom to think and act such as she had experienced only a few times before on psychedelic drugs—and then the drug itself had had an effect which of course was not present now. This was the mental equivalent of weightlessness in space. Never in her life had she experienced anything like it.

  Completely free of emotional coloration, her mind had never been so clear and composed. Some other part of herself was running the show now, some part with an entirely different set of priorities than those she was used to. In the midst of this very real threat to her continued existence, was her mind working on a possible plan of escape? No. Perhaps because she had programmed it earlier to give her some answers to her life’s most vexing riddle, it proceeded to do this instead. Not in the laborious and time-consuming manner to which she was accustomed, the reason she was returning to the ranch.

  Rather than the two or three days of solitude and contemplation she had hoped might provide some insights, she was given one clear picture instead. It was the o
ne she had glimpsed this morning: her father’s back, in a starched white cotton shirt, as seen from a child’s point of view. She is in bed. He’s walking away from her, ignoring the special entreaty in her voice, not hearing or understanding, or caring, how desperately she needs the comfort of his arms around her. That’s all there is to it.

  Yet now she saw clearly how, when a moment later he turned out the light and darkness engulfed her, shutting in her desire to be held and rocked—as well as her despair at knowing that nothing she could do was going to bring such comfort to her...clearly and without sadness, self-pity or anger, she saw how as a child she had made a decision at that moment which she had never rescinded. She had drawn the darkness around her like a cloak. Never would she need or seek those arms again.

  They’d never been there when she needed them. Even on those rare occasions when he spent some of his precious time with her, he was not really there; only his body was. He was like the deserted house in her dreams, in which she wandered through room after empty room looking for she knew not what and finding nothing—not furniture or carpets or anything on the bare colorless, windowless walls.

  Lying there waiting for sleep to come stealing out of the dark, she had determined never again to let this dream frighten her. And never again would she rely on anyone but herself for comfort and security.

  Then as instantly as it had appeared the image vanished, and in its wake as a sort of afterimage another kind of revelation impressed itself on her consciousness. Something which she had intellectually acknowledged many times suddenly became clear in an entirely different manner.

  She suddenly understood with her whole being, it seemed, not just her mind, that every man who had ever embraced her had been subject to this same ancient ban. Her cloak of self-protection was a winding sheet which had been suffocating the life out of her for years. Her physical death at the hands of this psychopath would only culminate a process which she herself had begun and was perpetuating.

  Another image appeared: not a back, a face. A face as full of yes as the other had been of no. Eugene’s face, in a moment when his own defenses were down and she had seen almost to his soul. Yes! If she were ever to lift the curse she herself had imposed on her happiness and self-fulfillment, this was a man she could rely on to help her. The certainty of this was a blinding flash of light.

  “Yes! Yes! Oh yes!” Sobbing, Catherine had to blink hard to see through tears. Her predicament hadn’t changed—she remembered where she was and what was happening to her. But the emotion which surged through her now was not fear but a determination to survive, to live! A car was speeding toward them. Of course!—she wasn’t in a vacuum somewhere. There were other people in the world. She waved frantically as the automobile bore down on them. “Help meee!”

  From the car came the dopplered wail of a mocking echo as it careened past them. Four jeering teenage faces and a carful of spasmodically jerking arms accompanied mimicking shrieks and howls of laughter.

  Pretty Boy’s maniacal laughter drowned out the fading jeers. But someone else would come along. Moments later someone did: a middle-aged man in a battered pickup. She waved and cried out again for help.

  “Fuck you too!” he yelled back at her, thrusting his hand through the open window of the cab with the same curt message. Catherine was seeing the biker world from the inside. This time Pretty Boy damn near lost control he was laughing so hard. She guessed they were going 70 or 80 miles an hour; which was worse—to be raped or to hit the pavement at that speed? When the next car approached, she did nothing.

  But she had to think of something. Her imagination was becoming lurid as she wondered where he was taking her and what his intentions were. Could she fight him off when he finally stopped—or escape somehow? Would it be just him or others too? The feeling image of a gang rape paralyzed her for a moment. Even jumping off the bike might be better than that. How insane to be holding tightly to this...this animal! She shuddered; revulsion and anger rose in her gorge like vomit. “You ever had your eyes torn out at 80 miles an hour?”

  “Try it bitch! We hit the ground, the road’ll eat you alive!”

  In her desperation she was tempted—at least he’d go with her. Her fingers itched to get into the sockets. But it would be nothing short of suicide. If she waited till he stopped at least she’d have some chance—if he was alone. If she got any hint he was taking her to the rest of them, she’d take him, and his eyes, with her.

  Then something prompted her to look back. It hadn’t occurred to her earlier; they were going too fast to be followed or overtaken. Nothing but empty highway.

  But something caught her eye: sunlight on metal. A bike. It was one of his friends—or Eugene.

  She couldn’t let herself hope. She turned around, trying to contain her excitement. Waited as long as she could stand it and looked again. Whoever it was was gaining on them. Oh please let it be him! She still couldn’t tell. Not wanting Pretty Boy to notice, Catherine again tore her eyes from the rapidly approaching rider. But he’d already sensed her excitement and glanced at his mirror. Just as she turned, he gave the bike full throttle. Even at this speed it surged forward.

  Still the other rider continued to gain. Pretty Boy’s reaction told her it must be Eugene, but now she was too terrified to confirm it. They were doing over 100 easily; the highway streaking beneath them just inches away was like the belt on some enormous engine turning at hundreds of rpm’s. The tiniest mistake by her driver and she’d be flayed alive.

  But she had to let Eugene know she was in trouble! What if he decided at this speed to let them go? She was clutching her kidnaper knowing only too well that her life depended on it, but with an act of will she let go with her left hand and waved it frantically overhead before grabbing onto him again. The bike wobbled dangerously. “Take it easy back there!” he yelled, and now she could hear the fear in his voice too.

  Pushed to its limit, their motorcycle began to shimmy. It was no match for the expertly tuned 1200. Eugene was only a few lengths behind now and still gaining with ease. But his mind was racing too. So he’d been right! But what the hell was he going to do when he caught up with them? He actually slowed down so as to overtake the other bike less abruptly. He didn’t know how good a rider this guy was but the last thing he wanted to do was spook him. What Catherine could only imagine, he had witnessed once right in front of him, and he’d never forget it. With the finesse of a fighter pilot in formation, he eased up beside them. Catherine was almost too scared to care. She clung to this man she loathed like a lover.

  “Pull over!” Eugene yelled.

  “Try anything and she’s dead!” Having been overtaken, Pretty Boy eased off to a more manageable 90 or so: still fast enough to make the threat valid. Suddenly a car appeared—it would be on top of them in seconds and Eugene was in the middle of the highway.

  He could drop back easily enough, but he knew he had to keep the pressure on or they’d be playing this game for miles. He stayed right on the centerline.

  And on that broken white line, he visualized his mental-image cross like an imaginary hood ornament. Because of the speed or the danger, or maybe from necessity alone, he was centered almost instantly. No longer was Eugene a vulnerable body of flesh and bones, hurtling through space on a chunk of metal that was part machine and part projectile. He was a point of consciousness in a holographic movie, observing its sound and fury with absolute clarity and detachment.

  Seeing his opportunity, Pretty Boy drifted toward him over the few inches separating them. But Eugene didn’t waver. The oncoming car screamed toward them, its horn blaring. Catherine buried her face against Pretty Boy’s filthy denim jacket.

  They felt its shock wave an instant before the car reached them. When the blast of air struck them, for a split second the bikes clashed—but somehow neither rider lost control. The car missed Eugene by the length of his handle grip.

  He didn’t notice; he’d come up with a plan that would require Catherine’s full coop
eration. Needing to avoid her abductor’s attention, he focused on her with all his will. It seemed almost as if he’d spoken her name; she looked over at him.

  He touched his ear, then mimed an exaggerated bite. What? She couldn’t believe what he was telling her. Aside from the fact that it was too disgusting for words, there was too much danger it would cause Pretty Boy to lose control. But Eugene persisted; this time the message was a command.

  For perhaps the first time in her life a command didn’t push Catherine Conrad into automatic disobedience. She sat up straight and leaned to peer around the left side of his head. His ear was barely visible beneath thick greasy tangles of hair. She shuddered and looked pleadingly at Eugene. He nodded peremptorily.

  Pretty Boy sensed something was up and kept glancing at Eugene but saw nothing to give him a clue. Steeling herself, Catherine strained forward on the seat. She couldn’t reach him. Eugene made just a shadow of a gesture with his arms.

  He wanted her to pull herself up off the seat? At 90 miles an hour? Are you crazy? said her expression. Again the command, this time with just his eyes.

  She had no doubt Eugene had her best interests at heart. But that didn’t make him all-knowing, nor did it take away the responsibility to think for herself. Not when one false move could be fatal. Why couldn’t they ride along in tandem until Pretty Boy finally had to stop?

  She knew the answer to this: there would be more cars, other incidents in which this sustained speed might bring sudden disaster. And the rest of the gang could be waiting for them.

  So it boiled down to trust. She was in Eugene’s world now—metal, speed and the highway—could she trust his judgment when her life was on the line?

  She took a deep breath and snaked her arms around Pretty Boy’s waist, gradually so as not to alarm him. She couldn’t do it!...But she had to do it! Another breath.

  Tightening her arms around his chest, her hands clasped so he couldn’t shake her off, her mouth open, she pulled herself up and leaned forward to take his ear, hair and all, between her teeth. Then she bit down hard—not sharply but firmly—and set her jaw.