Man Made Murder (Blood Road Trilogy Book 1)

by Z. Rider

  The door flipped open behind him.

  Nick appeared in the mirror, an apple in his hand, his jaws working a bite. He looked over Dean’s shoulder, into the mirror, meeting Dean’s eyes before dropping his gaze to what Dean was looking at.

  “Holy shit,” he said, a chunk of apple lodged in his cheek.

  What had been raw and red in the morning was gray now, like old meat. The edges of the skin around it were jagged and blueish.

  “What the fuck happened?”

  He didn’t know. He had no fucking idea. His lips tingled, numb and cold. His knees started to buckle. The mirror fell away.

  Nick caught him, the apple thunking to the grime-streaked tiles. Helped him, half dragging, half stumbling, to the floor where he could lean Dean against the wall, the bandage flapping from his neck like one of the perforated all-in-one envelopes their checks came in.

  Nick set a foot between Dean’s shins, his hands under Dean’s armpits, his hair falling in front of his face. His dark eyes peered through it, searching Dean’s. “You are so not okay.” His voice sounded like it was coming through a conch—far away, lost in the rush of Dean’s pulse. Or Nick’s. Nick’s pulse.

  God, his teeth hurt. It was the one brightly shining spot in the fog. He clutched Nick’s shirt as Nick smoothed the tape back in place.

  The door popped open, Jessie swinging in, saying, “Hey,” before looking—his gaze sweeping before dropping.

  His brow furrowed. Words came out of his mouth—the ones he’d no doubt had in mind when he pushed the door open: “Time to finish it. Is he okay?”

  “I don’t know.” Nick untangled Dean’s fingers from his shirt.

  Jessie stepped closer. “He’s kind of glassy-eyed.” He waved his hand in front of Dean’s face.

  Dean turned his head away, blinking.

  “What happened?” Jessie asked.

  “I don’t think he’s okay,” Nick said.

  “Should I get Mike?”

  “No,” Dean managed, putting a hand up, leaning his weight on his other hand to push himself up. Don’t fucking get Mike. “Give me a minute. No—don’t” touch me. “I’ve got it.” He waved them back. “I just can’t handle the sight of my own insides is all.” He meant looking under the bandage, which had been bad, but it was only the cherry on top of the pile of shit he was worried about at the moment.

  Right now this second he was worried about how enticing the sound of Jessie’s pulse was.

  “Well, it was pretty fucking gross,” Nick said.

  “It’s the stuff they put on it,” Dean lied, bumping his shoulder against the wall, trying to navigate to the door without coming too close to his bandmates. “At the hospital.” He would have liked to have just leaned against the wall for a while. Any minute, though—any minute and Mike would be poking his head in. Do not get Mike. “Let’s do this.”

  “Are you sure?” Nick asked.

  “Yeah. Let’s fucking do it.” He pushed off the wall, his feet sludgy, his ankles wobbly. He got them working, got himself headed to the door, waving Nick’s arm off again.

  As he stepped into the hallway, he forced himself to walk normal. People were watching. People—as the WKRB deejay’d reminded him—talked.

  October 14, 1978

  1.

  * * *

  Traffic congested around Worcester and again around Hartford. Carl jiggled the gas, impatient to break free of the logjam and get moving again. His eyes stung with exhaustion. He had the A/C cranked, cold air blowing on his feet, the radio dialed up, the window open, one elbow leaning on it. He stopped for his third coffee in Bridgeport and dumped quarters into a pay phone in New Rochelle to call the venue and get directions for someone coming down I-95.

  “They’re almost done with their set,” the woman who’d answered said. “You wouldn’t make it.”

  No shit, but he was most of the way there, had no choice but to keep pressing on.

  The coffee didn’t give him the jolt he’d hoped for. It just coated his mouth and made him have to piss again.

  New York City was overwhelming—he’d never been in anything like it. This time of the early morning there was more traffic than he saw at midday where he came from. Buildings stretched up to the dark sky, one after the other. Shops crowded at street level, dirty and scrawled with graffiti. He jammed on his brakes as a young guy in a purple leisure suit stumbled into the road. The guy gave him the finger. Carl pushed his heart back down his throat and crept forward, until he had to pull over, parking lights flashing, to study the notes he’d taken at the pay phone.

  When he glanced up to double-check where he was, Sophie’s face caught him, hanging from the rearview. A neon sign turned her skin green, made her look dead. He straightened, checking for traffic, and pulled out again, flicking the lights off.

  After another four blocks, he had to admit he was fucking lost.

  His chest tightened. To come all this way…

  Soph looked at him as if to say it was okay, he’d done the best he could. But he hadn’t, had he? He’d wasted time sneaking around the edges instead of charging right in. He’d spent two years going to classes, trying in vain to keep up with his schoolwork, writing checks that meant he could sit back while someone else did the digging.

  He was on a fool’s errand anyway. What good was this going to do?

  New York choked him. He had no idea what fucking borough he was in—uptown, downtown, it was too goddamned much. Failure broke in his chest, tight and aching. The street blurred, traffic lights and taillights widening to starry blots.

  What was he going to say when he went home?

  I failed? I quit? I gave up?

  You came to your senses, Tim would say.

  Horns blared—he didn’t even know if it was him they were honking at, him they were annoyed with, him who was breaking some kind of rule everyone else around here knew about.

  A yellow taxi swept past, picking up speed as it went by, as if to make a statement.

  He swiped his eye with his sleeve and looked around.

  Where the fuck was he?

  Waitwaitwait.

  That street he recognized, right? That was on the directions. He scrabbled for the scrap of paper, pressing it against the steering wheel as he crossed lanes—to the complaint of drivers behind him—and turned up the cross street.

  Okay, he could be anywhere on this street. This street could be ten miles long for all he knew; he could be halfway down the wrong end of it going the wrong way, but if he stayed on it until the end, and if he then turned and came back up it, eventually—eventually—he’d find the next street on this list, and that street—that street—was the fucking one he wanted.

  That street right there.

  He slammed on the brakes and made a right, horns rising in his wake.

  This street.

  This street with the fucking Triumph parked on the fucking sidewalk. The venue’s marquee jutted out over it, the ticket box dark. The doors dark.

  The fucking Triumph was fucking here.

  He circled the block, clutching the steering wheel, looking for a place to park. The area was so crowded, not only were all the places taken, but a few cars were parked right alongside them.

  Coming back around toward the venue, he said Fuck it, and pulled in close beside a Volkswagen bus, just beyond the mouth of an alley where he’d seen a crowd milling around a real bus about halfway up.

  The photo of Soph wouldn’t come off the mirror, the ribbon he’d tied to it getting caught on its edge. He yanked it, and the ribbon tore through the hole he’d punched in the paper.

  He leaned forward to put the gun under his jacket again. Grabbed the keys out of the ignition. Opened his door and stepped onto the street in New York City, the whole thing unreal. Like a movie—that was the only place he’d ever seen New York City. Mean Streets, The Anderson Tapes, Midnight Cowboy. All brought to life. He pushed the door shut as someone leaned on a horn, dodging him. He headed around the VW bus with
his fists shoved in his jacket pockets, Soph’s picture tucked behind his wallet in his jeans.

  The crowd outside, hoping to talk to the band, was probably forty people thick, crammed between the bus and the alley wall, blocking his view of whatever might be going on at the venue’s side exit. Exhaust puffed from the bus’s tailpipe, rising gray in the night. A good half of the crowd were girls, their heads low enough to see over even as they rose on tiptoe and turned to grin at their companions. He rose on his own toes, looking over the taller heads—long hair, short almost military cuts, moustaches. An arm pumped up every now and then, a smart retort rising in response to something someone from the band—the band must be up there somewhere—said.

  So where was his biker? Inside? Farther up? Maybe in front of the bus, with Dean pulled aside?

  Carl was still a good twenty feet from the rear end, ready to break to the empty side and come out around front, when his gaze, lifting, caught movement above. His eyes followed a figure jumping down from the back corner.

  He took a step back without thinking.

  His hand went back, under his jacket. Fingers closing over the gun’s grip.

  The skeleton on the back of the leather jacket picked up light from the security lamps along the venue’s side wall, and Carl was still registering what he was seeing as the biker half turned, digging something from a jacket pocket.

  Seeing Carl, the corner of his mouth rose. He brought a black-gloved finger to his lips. Shh. His eyes caught the light, glowing like an animal’s for the flash of a second. He spread the dark shape he’d tugged out of his pocket and drew it down over his head, first over those eyes—dark now that the light wasn’t hitting them—then his nose. Then the smirk, and then that was gone too, and Carl, taking another step back, picked up on another odd thing: the ski mask had no eyeholes. No mouth, no nose—he’d seen that before. But no eyes?

  The biker ducked, grasping the bus’s back bumper, and snaked into the narrow space under the bus. His feet turned over as he went, coming up off the ground. They disappeared too. All of him disappeared.

  With the knurled gun grip under his palm, the back of his jacket brushing his knuckles, Carl crouched, moving quickly, dropping even lower as he neared the bus. He put his free hand on the asphalt and ducked to look beneath it.

  The undercarriage bulged and bumped with grime-black shapes—pipes and housing, axles and hoses. A softer, stranger line of shapes didn’t fit with the rest—the biker was nestled up against and clinging to the underside of the bus, one foot hooked in who-knew-what, the other braced against something else. Carl couldn’t see the other end of him, had no idea how his arms were holding on, what he was doing to support his head.

  The edges of the black shape shifted, the biker fixing himself more firmly into the bus’s belly.

  The bus moved too, jostling from above. Voices to his right became clearer, and he caught sight of a couple passing. The guy gave him a curious look—The hell are you doing, man?—as they walked by, the girl clutching something precious in her hands, something with signatures on it, probably.

  More of the crowd broke off, heading back up the alley.

  The tone of the bus’s idle changed.

  A light squeal brought him back to elementary school days—the bus door closing.

  Shit.

  He straightened as he backed away, his feet nearly tangling. He smoothed the back of his jacket over the gun. Turned on his heel and speed-walked to the street, around the VW bus, through the blare of more horns as he yanked his door open and dumped himself in his car, dragging the door closed as he pulled his foot inside.

  This was good, though. This was good. Wherever that bus was going, the biker would be stuck on foot, his Triumph left sitting out here on the sidewalk. Carl’s ability to keep up just got a whole shitload better. How fast did a bus go, right? It wasn’t like it was going to lose a tail. And the biker wouldn’t have any idea he was back there. This was perfect.

  He popped the Cougar into reverse, threw his arm across the seat, and cranked his body half around to watch the faces of oncoming drivers contort as he backed up, confident they’d be smart enough to get out of the way—not particularly caring if they didn’t. He was going after that bus even if he had to drag his rear bumper behind him.

  He turned into the alley. The bands’ hardcore fans, lit by his headlights, jumped out of his way, hitting the hood of his car as he pushed between them. They yelled at him, and he did not give one shit.

  The bus had a hundred yards on him, but it wasn’t gaining speed quickly.

  This is such a joke, Tim-in-his-head said. You’re like a fucking cartoon character. It’s like you don’t even want to catch him. You had him you asshole.

  How long do you think he can cling to a chassis? Carl asked back. Once they get out of the city, onto an interstate, how long do you think someone can hold onto a chassis with pavement racing under their back?

  If the biker were to lose his grip—oh fuck, man, how awesome would that be? To see the biker suddenly appear right in front of his tires? Bump, bump, motherfucker.

  Getting out of the city was a shitload easier than getting in: he just had to keep his eye on the back of the bus and let their driver do the hard work. In the meantime, he entertained himself with visions of pulling his car over on the interstate and walking back toward the bloody pulp of a man lying on the road, cars swerving around the mess.

  He’d make sure the biker was looking at him, make sure he knew he was there. Then he’d point the barrel of his gun at the guy’s skull and blow it away.

  He was fucking exhausted. He felt like he should be thinking about this more—not about what he was doing, but about the fact that a man had crawled under a bus to ride it to who knew where. And those eyes—like a coyote’s in the moonlight.

  He was so tired he was losing his marbles. But the biker had been real, and that was all that mattered.

  God, he hoped he’d been real.

  Why wouldn’t the biker have just followed on his bike, the way he himself was following in his car? Why force yourself into such an uncomfortable position, take such a big risk of fucking up life and limb if you fell off and hit asphalt going fifty-five miles an hour on a busy highway?

  He wondered if there was a trap door on the bus, if the biker might have crawled up through the floor while the bus was ambling out of the city. Had he slashed all their throats already? Hell, he could have even done the driver in and taken his seat.

  But that wasn’t likely. Otherwise, why was the bus in New Jersey now, headed south, getting farther from the Triumph with each turn of its wheels?

  And how many people were on that bus? The band, yeah—he thought there were four of them, unless they’d added or lost someone since he’d stopped paying attention. The driver. There had to be roadies, whatever other guys a band needed on the road. So say somewhere between seven and ten people on that bus—and one biker, on it or under it.

  The dark swept past him, gray smokestacks to his left, picked out against the sky by the light of a waxing moon.

  Exhaustion was catching up, creeping through his muscles like fog.

  He stretched his non-driving leg, shook his head, and pulled up straight, blinking himself awake. The burst of adrenaline he’d had when he jumped in the car slipped away, leaving traces of irritation and impatience in its wake.

  Ten minutes later, the car was drifting right, and he jolted himself, gripping the wheel, guiding it back.

  Follow the fucking bus. He wished for something cold to drink, and lit a cigarette instead.

  2.

  * * *

  Jessie had a girl’s phone number on each hand. Nick had the rest of his bottle of J.D. in his. The bus was barely out of the city when Dean said he was going to lie down.

  Nick was enthusiastic in his support. Jessie nodded, like, yeah, that’s a good fucking idea, man. Neither had told the others about the bathroom, as far as Dean could tell, though Shawn watched him thoughtfully. D
ean dragged in a steadying breath and focused on getting from here to there without looking like he needed help.

  The front lounge buzzed in ways he was sure no one else noticed, electric fields sparking around everyone. He focused on the doorway.

  Just get through the fucking doorway.

  He’d felt better once he’d gotten back on stage. After the show, by keeping his distance yet not going off on his own, he’d been able to maintain some kind of equilibrium. Telling himself he just needed sleep.

  But the minute—the fucking minute—he’d climbed on the bus, a black dread had washed through, clenching his insides, leaning in his chest like a boulder.

  He pulled the bunkroom door shut.

  And the dread only grew, as though the heart of it was right here, beating beneath his feet. Waiting for him.

  In his bunk, black and cramped as a cave with the curtain and the doors to the two lounges shut, he curled into a ball with his back to the aisle.

  Panic picked over his nerves with sharp fingers.

  Danger and dread consumed him, and he didn’t know what it was. Couldn’t even think with all the noise from the lounge—the talking and laughing, yeah, but the other noise, the one he had beating against his eardrums. Secret, private noises amplified to a steady whoosh whoosh.

  Whoomp whoomp unfolded in his head, like big, slow wings, and then he was back in his truck, trying to get away—the scrabble of fingers on metal, only it was beneath him. Scraping and shifting and waiting. His moan stirred him, and he turned, restless on top of the sheets. Still fully dressed, his boots scuffing the far wall of the bunk.

  He clutched the curtain, his eyes shut tight. His mind trapped in the memory, black fingers reaching into his truck—that hadn’t even happened, but it was scaring the shit out of him right now.