Man Made Murder (Blood Road Trilogy Book 1)

by Z. Rider

  Carl squeezed the steering wheel, his breath flooding from him.

  It was him—the hawk nose, the thin mouth. He’d seen him pull his gloves off like that once before, from about the same distance, when he’d watched the man stride up the steps of the Los Campos High School gymnasium, Sophie standing at the top, her fingers fidgeting with the buckle on her purse. She’d seemed to barely notice the biker approaching. Older than her by ten years at least, not worth paying attention to, her eyes had searched past him, looking for someone her age. She’d been waiting for the little snot who’d asked her to the basketball game, then hadn’t shown up. Carl, kicking back in the Cougar in the school’s parking lot, was ready to wait for as long as it took her to give up. Ready to wait until the game let out, even if the kid did show—just in case.

  You couldn’t trust a guy who showed up a half hour late for his first date, although maybe he was related to Jonesy Randolph, one of the team’s best players and habitually late for everything. Carl had seen Jonesy getting out of his brother’s car not long before the game would have started, had watched him jog into the side of the building, his uniform all but spilling from under his arm. Tim Randolph’s car, dark burgundy and about fifteen years old, nearly dragging its muffler behind it, had pulled around, getting lost in the traffic from kids showing up to watch the game. And Carl had gone back to watching Soph watch for her date.

  Later he’d learned that the kid she was waiting on had diabetes, the kind you got as a kid, and had been rushed to the hospital when his blood sugar tanked. His family hadn’t even thought about the ball game or the little girl who’d be waiting on the steps for her date to show. But that was later.

  In his car in the high school lot, after everyone else had gone inside, Carl had watched the biker tug his gloves off as he mounted the steps, one finger at a time. He’d had patches on the back of his jacket, a smudge of black and white. Soph might have dismissed him, but Carl didn’t. His hand had moved to the door as the guy said something to Soph. In the wash of security lighting, she pointed down the road, like she was giving directions. The biker turned, following her arm. The security light picked out details on the back of his jacket—a skeleton on a motorcycle, it looked like. The outline of an oversized moon. The biker said something else to her. She nodded and said something back, just a tiny thing standing up there in her new dress with its long, tapered sleeves and flared short skirt, her dark hair parted neatly down the middle.

  The car’s dome light had come on, Carl unintentionally opening the door just enough to trigger it.

  The biker glanced toward the lot, said one more thing to Sophie, then turned with a nod and headed back down the steps, slapping his gloves against his thigh.

  Carl had let his breath out and settled back to wait some more, pulling the door shut. Thinking he’d take his sister for ice cream when she finally gave up.

  He’d stayed in his car that night—had taken his attention back off Soph when the danger had passed.

  It had cost him everything.

  He reached under the passenger seat now, feeling around the carpet. His fingers bumped the handgun, shifting it. He reached farther, caught a finger in the trigger guard, and dragged it across the scratchy carpet until he could grip it in his hand, solid and cool.

  He straightened and stared at the chrome lined up outside the bar. The bar’s black door. The building itself, closing the biker inside.

  He yanked the door handle and stepped out, his left leg tingling with pins and needles as it unfolded.

  He pushed the handgun into the back of his jeans, settling his windbreaker over it.

  He looked both ways before he loped across the street.

  While the buildings were closely packed on the block he’d parked, they spread out as he headed south—a law office that looked like a home, set back from the street with a neatly tended yard, a frame shop with a sign made to look like a collage of picture frames. A convenience store on a corner, its door set at an angle so it could pick up foot traffic from either direction.

  He picked up his pace, feeling exposed in the middle of the road. When he reached the other side, he veered a little, heading for the side of the clapboard bar. He leaned his back against it, catching his breath, collecting his courage. The gun pressed against the wall. Against his back. His heart ramped up to what felt like two hundred beats a minute. He reached back, one hand on the gun, the other scrubbing his forehead. Trying to work out how this was going to go. Was someone inside the door going to throw an arm out, barring the way, arguing him back out of the bar? Members only. You don’t even look like you own a scooter, you little pissant.

  Voices rose on the other side of the wood, but not enough to make out what they were saying.

  He put his head against the wall. Swallowed. Clenched and unclenched his hands.

  He needed to do this.

  A car came down the road, turning onto a street a little ways up. Someone came walking down the sidewalk several blocks down, a Styrofoam cup in hand, a newspaper tucked under an arm. Getting an early start on the day. Carl watched the man shake out a set of keys, put one in the lock of a shop door.

  When the street was empty again, he turned toward the front of the building, shoulder against the wall, and started making his way toward it.

  At the corner, he put his hand against it, cheek pressed to the wall. A laugh gathered like a storm under his ribs. He was more suspicious creeping along like this than if he’d just manned up and walked up to the door. He pressed his forehead to the wall, heart hammering.

  Just as he lifted his foot to do it, to man up to it, the door around the corner opened. Boots thumped out.

  “Damn,” someone said.

  “Pain in the ass,” said the other.

  “Least it’s still drivable.”

  Silence—Carl guessed they were looking at the bike he’d just watched drive up the street.

  He was listening to his guy.

  He’d heard his guy’s voice.

  He wanted to flatten his back against the side wall of the bar, but he was afraid to move, afraid the crease of clothing or shift of his foot over dirt would draw their attention.

  “You’ve got a mess on your hands,” the one who wasn’t his guy said.

  “I’ll get it cleaned up tonight.”

  “No fucking shit.”

  “A little fucking sympathy, huh? I was fucking run over.”

  “How’re you gonna find him?”

  “He left his wallet. If he doesn’t turn up at the hospitals—” The door swung shut again, cutting them off.

  Carl pushed off the wall and stepped past the building’s façade, heart thudding. His guy had been right there.

  Another car swept past, its gust riffling Carl’s hair.

  He reached behind him as he headed for the door, his other arm outstretched, fingers closing over gun and door handle at the same time.

  He pulled.

  The door didn’t budge.

  He took a soft breath, put his teeth together, and pulled again, just to be sure.

  It was locked.

  He dropped both hands, empty. Stepped back a few paces and looked at the building.

  They’d leave eventually, go home. He’d just wait and follow. Once he got to the biker’s house, he’d wait some more, let him get good and asleep. Then he’d break in any way he could.

  In fact, he liked that plan better—standing over the bed, his gun pressed against the asshole’s temple. No way to miss.

  October 13, 1978

  1.

  * * *

  Dean’s eyelid twitched.

  He drew his upper lip back, his neck stiff, and he hadn’t even moved it yet. His body wasn’t in a position he’d expected to wake up in. He forced his eyes open to narrow slits. The steering wheel was directly in front of him, and beyond that the dash, faded in the early morning sunlight.

  He squinted until everything was just a sunlit blur before pulling his head forward with a groan
. He must have had one hell of a party.

  Hugging the steering wheel with one arm, he dragged himself up. His shirt peeled away from the seatback with a sound like old tape pulling free. His head pulsed with hot, cottony murk. Blinking at the sun, he tried to make out the truck’s hood, hoping the front end was intact. The last thing he needed to wake up to was the aftermath of a drunk-driving accident.

  He fumbled for the door handle, and as he pulled it, he elbowed the door open. It took another grunt to get himself to the ground, one of his knees taking his weight like a rusty hinge. He stumbled forward a step and stopped bent over, hands braced on his thighs.

  Sharp lines burned across his right hand, irritated by the rough denim. He was afraid to turn his head or hand to look at it—the movement might upset the very delicate balance of his stomach.

  Too late. His sides heaved. Vomit vaulted up his throat, splattered steaming in the dirt.

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, eyes closed—unsteady.

  He felt for the door and clutched it, using it to pull himself upright. The lines of pain in his palm throbbed against the sun-warmed metal.

  His neck hurt like a son of a bitch. Moving it as little as possible, he took a gander at where he was.

  The old, boarded-up body shop looked familiar, but he thought it was a strange place to wind up, on the way to no place he imagined he might have been going to.

  He squinted at his watch.

  “Shit.”

  He was catching a ride to the bus in a little over an hour. New York City by two in the afternoon—interviews, sound check, more interviews, and the first show of the tour.

  He grasped the back of the driver’s seat, then closed his eyes and opened them carefully, taking in but not being able to process the fact that the back of the seat was filthy with rust-brown stains.

  The echo of a dog barking scratched the back of his memory, made a shiver dig through him. Suddenly he felt chilly.

  He’d worry about the seat later.

  He dragged himself inside, his knee complaining again as he pressed the brake pedal down. The engine started right up—he loved this truck, a 1962 Chevy C10 hand-me-down from his grandpa not long before he’d died. Save for the seat, it seemed fine.

  As he pulled the Chevy in a circle in the dirt lot, pointing its nose at the road, a fog of déjà vu muddled his head. Shrugging it away, he aimed the truck toward home.

  The barking came back to him on the drive home. A shudder rocked through him at a dreamlike memory of a dead hand, its delicate fingers resting on the dirt, one of its painted nails split almost to the cuticle. He wiped his forehead with the heel of his hand and pressed the gas a little harder. He just wanted to get the fuck home.

  When he got through the door, his bags sat packed on the coffee table, unzipped and waiting for last-minute toiletries. He dropped his keys and headed for the bathroom, mentally running through everything he needed to do before the van showed up.

  As he let his bladder go, he braced a hand on the wall and rubbed his forehead against his shirtsleeve.

  Bent at that angle, his neck throbbed like a heartbeat. He lifted his head, and stared at the hand on the wall. Smeared with dirt, a scrape on the knuckles. Jesus, what had he done last night? There’d been the radio interview…

  He closed his eyes, and images jolted him like exposed wires: jagged glass, a dog’s barking, struggling on the ground.

  Two thumps that made his heart still.

  He pressed the flush handle down, his fingers lingering on the cool metal—his mind blank, just the echo of the silence that had followed those thumps.

  As he cranked the taps in the shower on, he rewound to the dog in the darkness, its hot breath in his face, its chest lunging over him, his skull rattling with the barks.

  He started on the buttons on his shirt, twinges across his palm as he worked his fingers.

  He could almost feel the brittle edge of glass, smooth and sharp all at once, cutting into him.

  He peeled his shirt off, the fabric adhering to his skin. When he dropped it, it stayed half upright, stained brown down the back, especially at the collar. He stepped on it, flattening it, on his way to the sink. Dreading what he was about to look at, but—

  He flinched. Gripping the counter, he pulled himself forward to get a better look.

  If he didn’t know better, he’d think he’d just climbed out of a dumpster—dirt smeared across half his face, hair sticking up. He touched his cheek with two fingers and winced at the tender bruise under the dirt.

  He dropped his gaze slowly, because he’d already gotten a glimpse of what was there, and he was kind of hoping it wouldn’t be as bad as he thought.

  His fingertips went cold.

  “Jesus Christ,” he breathed.

  He angled his shoulder toward the mirror.

  He closed his fist, the cuts stiff, the pain like holding barbed wire.

  He’d needed to get to a hospital. That’s the last thing he remembered—giving up on the hospital. Thinking that thing had killed him. That fucking psycho.

  He touched his neck, just shy of the wound, and leaned closer to the mirror.

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  Was that fucking bone? Or just the glare of the mirror’s light glistening off his pink insides?

  He shut his eyes. He was up and walking around, and aside from the pain, he didn’t seem to be any the worse for wear. He’d apparently not lost as much blood as he’d thought, and neither the gouge in his neck nor the cuts on his hand had that intense fire-pain that came with an infection.

  And he had twenty minutes before the van pulled up out front. He could spend the better part of the day at the ER, or he could go on fucking tour.

  He shoved his jeans off. Steam billowed from the shower. He could use a smoke but didn’t have time. He made the mistake of thinking about the wound in his neck again on his way to the tub, and his knees went rubbery, his forehead clammy. He caught hold of the shower’s curtain rod. He had bandages somewhere—if he hadn’t thrown them out—from the time he’d gone down a hill sideways on a dirt bike. No stitches needed then, no broken bones, just road rash he’d needed to cover to keep blood from oozing through his shirt.

  He stepped over the edge of the tub and yanked the plastic curtain shut, trying to think of where he’d put those bandages, forcing his mind to run though his cabinets and closets rather than go back to thinking about what he needed to use them for.

  Hot water sluiced his back as he examined the rest of his body. He found a bruise the size of a tangerine on his kneecap, another like a thumbprint on his hip. He had a sore wrist and a hinky elbow—hinky but it worked. It just complained a little when he extended it. Nothing else like his neck, though. Or even as bad as his hand.

  He straightened, wincing and turning away as shower spray hit the gash in his neck. He let water run over the cuts in his palm—this was going to be the real problem. It was his picking hand. He fingered a riff in the air. He thought it’d be okay, hoped the cuts didn’t open and ooze halfway through the set, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d bled on his guitar.

  He found the bandages in one of his dresser drawers, the box still half full of four-by-four gauze pads, just big enough to cover the mess. He grabbed the buck knife out of the nightstand and slipped it in his back pocket. He wasn’t going anywhere without that thing after this.

  The shower hadn’t made his neck look any better. He stood right up against the sink to get another look. The raw edges had dark, coagulated blood around them that flecked off with the scrape of a thumbnail. Between those edges were the bright, moist contours of exposed muscle.

  Blood drained from his cheeks. His face washed with heat. Saliva flooded his mouth, like he was going to throw up. He leaned over and spat in the toilet.

  You’re okay. You’re alive. You’re gonna be fucking fine. He tore open the packet of sterile gauze.

  As he was taping it to his neck, a horn sounded a short note ou
t front.

  Smoothing the tape down, he thought he looked better already. Less like he was about to pass out.

  He ran his fingers through his wet hair, shaking the ends loose, letting them curl against the bandage.

  The horn sounded, longer this time.

  He grabbed the box of bandages, the tape, and the moustache scissors he’d used to cut it. Loping out to the living room, ignoring his bruised knee, he stashed the supplies in one of his bags.

  The horn again, louder, longer.

  He swung the front door open. “I’m coming! Shut up for a minute!” With the door hanging open, he shoved toiletries in his bag. Then went to find his jacket.

  He didn’t have his fucking jacket. His first thought was the truck, then—no, he didn’t have his fucking jacket.

  He patted the pockets of the jeans he’d been wearing. No wallet either.

  Shit.

  He hoped he wouldn’t need I.D. Maybe he could have Gary work some magic and get something sent to him on the road.

  He grabbed a beat-up black denim jacket from his closet, the horn outside blaring again. He caught his two bags by their straps and glanced around the place one more time. Four rooms, modest and easy to manage. He’d put the down payment on it when they’d gotten their first advance, happy to be out of the apartment he’d been sharing with Jessie.

  Nothing against Jessie.

  He’d expected to be living in a much nicer place by now, maybe a cabin up north, big windows overlooking a lake, floor-to-vaulted-ceiling fieldstone fireplace, a nice crackling fire in the snowy winters. That was before they’d learned that advances were pretty much all they got. Those payouts needed to stretch from one album to the next, on top of covering equipment breakdowns, new equipment, whatever they might need that the label wasn’t covering. (And when Dean thought in terms of what the label “covered,” it was a loose use of the word—the label just put every penny it spent, whether it consulted with the band on the expenditure or not, on the band’s account. Try to argue with them, and within twenty minutes you felt like you were being gaslighted. And what could you do about it?)