by Mike Baron
The freezer remained open. Mad Dog bounced through the door holding Fred’s head in both hands and tried to sink it from ten feet. Curtis’ thin body snapped like a whip as he intercepted the pitch, hauling the head into his belly with both hands.
“You’d best get out of my sight,” he said softly.
Mad Dog shimmied in mock fear and slouched out. Curtis reverently laid the head in the freezer and lowered the lid.
“There’s plywood in the shed out back. Figure we should patch that window before it starts to rain again.”
Fagan followed Curtis out the back door to a cinderblock supply shack. The battered red door faced the rear of the bar and was partially open. A big green dumpster crowded one side, an old Ford pick-up the other.
Curtis pushed the door open, noticed Fagan wincing. “Crack a rib?”
Fagan grimaced and nodded.
“See if I can tape it up. Might have some Vicodin.” He rummaged through his denim vest, found a bottle of ibuprofen. “Try these.”
“Thanks.” Fagan gratefully unscrewed the bottle, bounced four into his hand and swallowed them with a swig from a can of Royal Crown Cola.
“I’ll be all right.”
“Ahuh.”
“You know as soon as the power comes back on this place will be crawling with cops.”
“What makes you think the power gonna come back on?”
Fagan tried his hand-held. Nothing.
Inside the shack was a complete workbench with tools and a circular saw, big rectangles of plywood stacked against one wall. Fred’s Fat Boy sat against the back wall covered with dust. Curtis grabbed a tape measure, a hammer and a box of nails and headed back to the club.
“You know what day it is?”
“Thursday,” Fagan replied hitching to keep up.
“June 22. My momma wouldn’t let me out the house on this day. Said this the night the haunts all roam. Ain’t Halloween. No sir. June 22.”
Back in the bar Macy sat weeping in a chair.
Wild Bill was in Doc’s face. “I say we go.”
“I say we wait until morning. He ain’t going anywhere. You heard Fred. He lives in Milton’s Hollow.”
Wild Bill leaned in and sprayed spittle. “You lily-livered piece of shit. My old man should have left you in Nam.”
Doc stayed calm but Fagan could tell he was ready to explode. Wild Bill abruptly turned. “How ‘bout it, Curtis? You comin’?”
Curtis used the tape measure on the front window. “What about the Aces of Spade my man Terrell?”
***
CHAPTER 12
The Book of Death
Wild Bill snarled, “That motherfucker killed Larry and took the ice! He killed Fred. Likely killed Terrell and took our twenty grand. He’s got our ice, our cash, and he’s killed two of our friends.”
Creases radiated from the bridge of Curtis’s nose. “Terrell should have been here by now. Terrell is one punctual cat.”
Mad Dog stared at Fagan. “Maybe the pig took the ice, you ever think of that?”
Wild Bill snorted. “You’ve got to be shittin’ me. Look at him! Do you think he’d drag his sorry ass in here holding our ice? Well here’s your chance, pig. Ride with us—help us get that Fred killer.”
Macy looked up with red eyes.
Fagan measured his words carefully. “Guys, that’s tornado weather outside. I advise you to stay inside until the power comes back on and we get an all-clear from the state highway patrol.”
“Yeah, right,” Wild Bill sneered.
“Pussyyyyyyyy,” Mad Dog hissed. He laid lines out on the table top. “I told you not to trust no jigs.”
“Shut the fuck up, Dog,” Wild Bill said, bending to the table and hoovering a line. He looked up energized. “How about you, Macy. Want a bump?”
“No thanks.”
“Come on. Maybe it might uncrank your ass.”
“No, thank you.”
“Jesus, Macy. You used to be fun.”
Macy got up and went behind the bar where she drew a glass of water and sat on a stool. Curtis set down his tape measure and followed her. The rest of the Dogs could care less except for Doc who watched warily.
Fagan leaned on the bar. Curtis knelt next to Macy and said just loud enough for Fagan to hear, “Does Wild Bill know?”
Macy shook her head. “And don’t tell him.”
“How long have you known?”
“A week.”
“You need something for cramps or nausea?”
Macy looked up. “What have you got?”
Went unsaid were, do you plan to tell Bill, and what do you plan to do with the baby?
“Please don’t make a fuss, Curtis. I don’t want anyone to know.”
Curtis turned his soulful eyes on Fagan. Macy looked up.
“Please don’t tell anyone,” she said.
“I won’t.”
Wild Bill snorked and bellowed, “Saddle up, boys!”
“Not before we get that window sealed,” Curtis said. “You ain’t gonna leave your woman open to the elements, are ya?”
Wild Bill looked from Curtis to Macy with little pig eyes.
“Go a lot quicker if you guys chip in,” Curtis said.
Chainsaw sprang to his feet. “I’ll help you measure those plywood sheets. How we gonna cut ’em?”
“Fred’s got a table saw in the shed.”
Curtis called off measurements. Chainsaw wrote them down. He, Curtis and Mad Dog returned to the shed. Soon Fagan could hear the shriek of the table saw. Even Wild Bill helped mount and seal the window. Chainsaw’s measurements and cuts were spot on. The replacement sheet was exactly the size of the plate glass window. Mad Dog found a tube of window putty in the shed and squeezed the whole thing out around the frame so the wind couldn’t get through.
He stood back, hands on hips, proud of his handiwork. “Got any spray paint?”
“All right?” Wild Bill said. “Everybody happy?”
“That’ll do ’er,” Curtis said.
“Lock and load, boys.”
Mad Dog pulled out his nine, Chainsaw the magnum, Wild Bill the double .45, Doc a Taurus Judge five-shot revolver chambered for .410 shotgun shells.
Curtis looked at Doc. “What the fuck, Doc?”
“Curtis, we took an oath. You saw what he did to Fred.”
Wild Bill stood. “Let’s roll.” He looked pointedly at Fagan. “You coming?”
Fagan backed away with his hands up, palms forward as if to say, “I don’t have a thing to do with this.”
“Don’t be here when we get back. Macy darling, make yourself beautiful for me.”
The quintet trooped out of the bar shaking the floor. Fagan remained standing at the bar, Macy seated at a table with her face in her hands. Seconds later the Road Dogs’ bikes exploded into five kinds of thunder, revved, gassed, goosed and shredded down the road.
For a moment there was silence. The room was much darker with the plywood in place. Macy looked at Fagan with red-rimmed eyes. “Fred kept a book.”
“What book?”
“About the killings.” She pushed the chair back with a screech, got up and went behind the bar. She went into Fred’s private quarters and returned a moment later with a big vinyl scrap book covered with dust, the cover plastered with a peeling Grateful Dead logo and a Harley decal. She stood behind the bar and smacked the bar top with it causing a mini dust storm that rolled over an ant. Macy flicked the ant off the bar top with a finger, flipped the book open to the first page and turned it toward Fagan, a yellowed newspaper article clipped from the Carbondale Courier dated June 20, 1999.
CYCLIST BEHEADED BY GUY WIRE
State and local officials have declared the death of Chicago native Robert MacGruder to be the result of a first-degree homicide. They believe the 48-year old motorcyclist was beheaded by guy wire stretched between trees in the Shawnee National Forest.
Sheriff Jonah Brach of Sharon County said the killing bore similarities to
a five-year-old homicide, the unsolved death of motorcyclist Wayne Cappucio. “We may be dealing with a serial killer,” Sheriff Brach stated, asking that anyone with any knowledge of either case to please contact his department.
Fagan’s throat dried up. “Could I have a glass of water please?” he rasped.
Macy filled a bar glass with water and handed it to him. He drank it all, handed it back. She refilled it.
“How is it possible nobody knows about this?” he said. “Why isn’t this a big deal?”
“Nobody gives a shit about outlaw bikers.”
Fagan wondered if Sheriff Fullerton were incompetent or merely ignorant. From the way he talked, Fagan always assumed Fullerton was from around these parts. How could he not mention this?
How could he not know?
Fagan had interviewed for the job three months ago. It had taken them that long to make up their minds.
He turned the page. A story from the Harrisburg Gazette about a biker found with his head lopped off only this time the killer left the head. Some grad student riding cross country. Dartagnan Broddus was a history major and Civil War buff. Police were looking for “an historical re-enactor, possibly with a Confederate cavalry sword.”
Someone with deep-seated racial prejudice.
Broddus’ family offered a five thousand dollar reward for information leading to an arrest. Fagan had a feeling there had been no arrest. Coming from a medium-sized city Fagan understood the politics of unsolved cases. After awhile they became an embarrassment which the higher-ups simply wanted to go away. Maybe the killings had stopped for awhile. Fagan flipped ahead—there were only two more entries, the last from 2008. Four killings in all. Not exactly an epidemic.
Unless there were others that had gone unnoticed.
Macy had a point. No one cared about a bunch of hoodlum bikers whose life expectancy was equivalent to that of some Third World country.
“Are you really a cop?” Macy said.
Fagan showed her his badge and ID card.
Macy picked up the ID card, her face twisting in consternation. “It’s your fourth day on the job?!”
“Ma’am, this looks like a criminal conspiracy to distribute meth.”
Macy’s mouth dropped open in a half guffaw. “Are you for real? Don’t you think we have other stuff to worry about?”
“Sooner or later power will be restored and so will the rule of law. Do you have any outstanding warrants?”
“Who, me? No.”
“Do you know if any of the others do?”
“I’m no snitch.”
“Does he often lay hands on you like that? I should have arrested him for assault. I would be happy to do that.”
“Yeah right. And get the shit beat out of you.”
“I’m looking at a criminal conspiracy. Sooner or later they’re going to restore power in Ptolemy and I’ll be able to get through on my radio.”
“You want to know about me and Bill?”
The wind picked up. Thunder rumbled. The lights flickered.
Macy buried her head in her hands and sobbed. Before he knew it Fagan found himself on the other side of the bar with his arm around her shoulder. She stood and let him embrace her.
“Bad, huh?”
***
CHAPTER 13
Tape
Macy grew up in Kinney, Iowa, second child of Herbert and Rosalyn Edwards. Kinney lay seventy-five miles south and west of the Quad Cities. Herb was a Farmer’s Insurance agent. Rosalyn was a stay-at-home mom. Rosalyn was unhappy. She could never quite put her finger on it. She saw a therapist and a yoga instructor.
She had an affair with the yoga instructor. She broke it off when she became pregnant for the third time, when Macy was five.
Shane was five years Macy’s senior, the Firstborn, the golden child. He was a remarkably handsome little boy who liked to twist kitten’s tails until they squealed. When the folks weren’t looking he would wipe his boogers in Macy’s scrambled eggs or pour Tabasco into her tomato juice. He shoved other children at the playground. Macy always knew there was something wrong with him.
He turned Marcy’s childhood into a grueling ordeal. But things were going to get worse. Much worse.
She was eleven when Shane held her down and penetrated her with a vibrator he’d stolen from a house party which he’d crashed.
She was so overcome with shame that it never occurred to her to approach her parents, the police or a counselor. She had sex with those boys to see if she could, to see if it was different. Not much. It wasn’t until years later, and Wild Bill, that she achieved an orgasm with a man.
All left unsaid.
She went Goth in high school as a form of camouflage. Fagan blanched when she described her Goth Barbie dolls with their Mohawks, piercings, homemade tats, wounds and vampire fangs, but Macy didn’t notice. She built a Shane doll from a Ken and systematically amputated his limbs.
She graduated somehow and went onto Carlton School of Nursing in Wexfordshire.
“In my junior year at Carlton I worked summers at Don’s Malts, Shakes, Burgers and Dogs on Lake Nebagamon near Wexfordshire. This guy I knew took me to the drive-in to see The Wild One. Man, it knocked me out,” she told Fagan. “Then one day the Road Dogs roared up. Most of my regulars took off like wildlife fleeing a forest fire.
“Wild Bill just looked so beautiful to me. So young and charismatic. I was so naive. He had me on the back of his Harley within three days. My parents nearly died.
“I suppose I was looking for a father figure. My real dad and I didn’t get along.”
Her mother still prayed for her return and called her every Sunday but lately the calls had become listless as if both parties understood she was gone for good. Hooking up with Bill did little to further her career. She thought she was in love. Bill told her he ran a successful motorcycle shop and owned his own home which turned out to be a shotgun shack in Carbondale.
He made his money dealing drugs. Within six months Macy had a cocaine habit and was reduced to staying in the shotgun shack stepping on the product until Bill realized how far gone she was and took that away. Locked her in a room and made her quit cold turkey.
“He fed me cold turkey sandwiches. He thought it was funny.”
Once she cleaned up Bill sent her out to find a real job. Against overwhelming odds she got hired as a receptionist for an ad firm in Moline and was doing great until Bill showed up one day, drunk, stoned, buzzed with a bee up his ass about how she loaded the dishwasher wrong and started wanging her around the reception room.
Cops were called, Bill was arrested, charges were dropped, Macy lost her job. She declined to press charges. At least she no longer had to explain the odd bruises or dark glasses. There followed a series of unsatisfying jobs which she lost through hard luck or Bill. His record was remarkably clean for such a scumbag.
She’d been with him for four years. Like victims of the Stockholm Syndrome, she regarded his abuse as normal, even a sign of love. She was obviously ambivalent about the baby.
“How old are you?” Fagan asked.
“Twenty-six.”
“You want to think about testifying against him.”
She gave him that half-guffaw look. “Are you nuts? Do you know how vindictive he is? It’s a way of life with Bill. He’d find me and have me killed.”
“Not if you went into witness protection.”
“Oh mannnnn,” she said stopping to drain a glass of water. “Are you for real? Where are you from anyway?”
“My last job was with the Duke County Sheriff’s Department in Iowa.”
“What’dja do to end up here? Screw the captain’s wife?”
Fagan felt the color rising. He turned away and winced.
“What? Did I strike a nerve? Chainsaw broke a rib, didn’t he? You want to take your shirt off let me have a look?”
“Do you know what you’re doing?”
“Two years nursing school. Not much you can do for a cracked rib bu
t tape it up and take pain meds.”
Fagan peeled off his jacket and shirt revealing a hairy chest with a gold Star of David dangling from a thin gold chain.
“Raise your arm.”
Macy examined the purpling bruise where Chainsaw had sunk his Size 10 Doc Marten. “Yup,” she said, poking it. Fagan winced.
“That’s gotta sting.”
“Yeah, thanks a lot.”
Macy giggled. “I’ll be right back.”
Fagan examined his surroundings. The TV hanging from a bracket above the bar was off but the bar lights were on including several strings of Christmas tree lights which cast a gay glow on the antique mahogany back bar. Fagan figured someone had put them up at Christmas years ago and never bothered to take them down.
There was a stuffed bobcat above the bar. The pine paneled walls contained a bulletin board advertising odd jobs, baby-sitting, puppies and so forth. There was a dart board at the far end of the room and a cold jukebox beneath a horizontal side window, an old sprung sofa backed into a corner against the front wall where some booths had been ripped out. The unpowered jukebox looked like an Easter Island head. Shelving high up on the south wall held a couple dozen souvenir steins, the kind with the hinged lids and intricate ceramic design. Dusseldorf. Heidelberg. Munich.
Macy returned with a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a spool of tape-backed bandage. She pulled a seat up next to Fagan who guessed that this was not the first time she’d been pressed into service as a nurse.
Of course the Road Dogs traveled with their own MD and RN but they seemed such an odd group. Doc and Curtis were quiet, self-contained with a certain inner peace that eluded the others.
Fagan grunted as Macy applied the alcohol to his ribs and to his forehead.
“Nice goose egg you have here.”
Fagan craned his neck to look at himself in the mirror behind the bar.
“What are their real names?”
“William Hedgecock,” Macy replied without looking up, intent on applying the bandages to minimize rib movement. “Chainsaw is Derek Gunderson, Mad Dog is Sam something, I never did catch that. I don’t like him. Doc is Tom Garrison and Curtis is Curtis Jones.”
“What are Doc and Curtis doing with this bunch?”