by Olivia Rigal
Nothing could touch him.
I swallow my coffee, and armed with my driver's license, a credit card, and my mother's keys, I lock the front and back doors of the house before going to the garage. I use to never do that since my mother never left the house.
One-half of the double garage is cluttered with David's bikes and biker stuff. The other, immaculate, is occupied by my mother's car. It's in pristine condition. It looks like no one has ever driven it despite the fact that it's at least ten years old.
I drive out and close the garage door behind me. Uncle Tony's car is in his driveway, and he's sitting on his front porch drinking coffee and reading the paper. That's what Dad and he used to do every day at seven. Now he does it on his own. Come hell or high water, I know I will find him on his porch every morning. It's kind of reassuring to know some things never change.
I wave at him and he waves back. Brian's ride is nowhere to be seen. I wonder where he lives now.
On my way to the hospital, I decide to delay the unavoidable. I drive to the beach instead. It's a pilgrimage of some sort. I kick off my shoes and walk under the pier. I want to go where we used to hide as kids. If there's an afterlife, I'm pretty sure that's where I'll find David's ghost sitting on an ethereal version of his cross-country bike.
There's no ghost but an empty bottle of David and Brian's poison of choice. I suspect Brian came here to mourn as well.
With my back to a post, I sit on the sand. This was my spot between David and Brian. How many times did we come here just to chill out and watch the waves?
"I miss you, brother," I say out loud to empty beach. The only answer I get is the sound of the surf and the distant squawks of the seagulls.
What did I think I was going to find here? Whatever I was looking for, it's not there. The place has lost its magic.
Back in the car I become responsible. Back in the driver seat I go where I should have gone in the first place.
The ride to Point Lookout's hospital is short. It's still early enough to get a parking spot right next to the main door. The receptionist lets me know my mother's room number. It's a semiprivate room divided in two by a curtain. In the first bed there's a woman with bandages over her face. She looks like someone has tried to turn her into a mummy and then given up halfway through. The color of the visible part of her face shouts “abuse victim.”
My mother is in the second bed, and Aunt Nancy is next to her in a reclining armchair. They're both fast asleep, but even in sleep Nancy seems more alive than my mom. Nancy's breath is loud, while my mother is perfectly silent. I touch Nancy's shoulder, and she opens her eyes and smiles at me. It's a genuine smile. She's happy to see me. But then her smile freezes. She remembers… David's dead.
She puts her finger to her lips, points to my mother, and then to the door. She gets up, and we step out of the room together. She hugs me.
"My poor baby," she says.
"We're going to be fine," I tell her. I'm lying through my teeth. I don't believe that I will ever be fine again. "Why don't you go home get some sleep? I can stay with her until she wakes up."
She looks at me and shrugs. "No, there's stuff to be done, like organizing the funeral, and deciding if you want the wake at your house or at the bar next to his squad." She tilts her head, studying my face. "Do you want me to do it? I could, if you'd rather stay by your mother." I can guess from her tone that she would rather not have me stay here. "You know the doctor told me he's knocked her out for at least twenty-four hours, so there's no use for you to stay here and watch her sleep."
"Fine. I'll take care of things. What should I do?" I really don't have a clue.
She pulls out a piece of paper from her back pocket and hands it to me.
"Here's the address of the closest funeral home, and then the name of the person you're to ask for when you retrieve David's stuff at the station. Captain Steven Williams. They'll probably have papers for you to fill out. Maybe you can find out how it happened. No one would tell me anything when I asked. Take care of that and don't worry about your mother. I'll get her home when she wakes up, but I need a favor."
"Anything you want, Nancy," I say, and I really mean it. I'm happy to know there's someone staying by my mother's side even if it's probably useless while she sleeps.
"On your way back home, stop at the pharmacy on Pier Alley to pick up your uncle's meds."
"Sure. Anything else you need?"
"No, I'm good. You know me—I always have enough in the house to face a major disaster, and I guess this qualifies," she adds under her breath. She looks at her watch, shrugs, and then says, "Come on, it's way too early to do any of that. Why don't you let me buy you the worst coffee of the entire Gold Coast at the cafeteria, and keep me company at breakfast?"
I walk with her to the hospital cafeteria and indeed taste one of the worst excuses for coffee I've ever had. She eats what looks like a very stale donut and makes me talk about law school, my finals, and my job, and for a moment, I forget why I'm here. When she's done, I throw out the coffee that I barely touched, and Nancy walks me to the main door.
Just as I'm about to go, she says, "There's one thing I have to tell you." She puts her hands on my shoulders and sighs. "You'll probably hear horrible things in the coming days. When you do, I want you to remember that no matter what, I'm here for you and your mother." She turns around abruptly and walks away.
What was she trying to tell me? I remain standing there for a moment then shrug it off as I walk out. I'm puzzled, but I refrain from running after her and asking what she's talking about. Bad news always arrives soon enough.
CHAPTER FOUR
The funeral place is conveniently located next to the hospice section of the hospital. It makes me think of Lyv—she always says that in the restaurant business, the three first criteria are "location, location, and location." I guess the same holds true in the funeral business.
I have a long talk with the owner. He's so obsequious that I feel like slapping him. He's talking to me as if my brother's a member of his family, and he wants to share my loss. Do people fall for this type of crap?
He's very disappointed by my choice of coffin and my decision to have a reception at my mother's house after the funeral. I'm not sure what my mother's financial situation is, and I don't see the purpose of spending a fortune on a velvet-lined oak casket or a sophisticated parlor-room rental. Maybe it helps some people feel better, but I'm sure it won't do a thing for me, and my mother's going to be so out of it she won't know the difference.
When I'm done there, I drive to the police station. I introduce myself as David Mayfield's sister. The young officer at reception offers his sympathies and ushers me into a small, windowless room. It looks like an interrogation room. A minute later, an older man comes in and shakes my hand. He looks like a wrestler, and when he moves, I fear his suit is going to burst at the seams.
"Miss Mayfield, I'm very sorry for your loss," he says with a gruff voice. "Your brother was a fine young man. Let's go to my office so we can talk."
I follow him through a large room where a few men who have probably been my brother's colleagues are working, and then into a small office with a glass door. He invites me to sit in one of the chairs facing his desk. As he sits down in his armchair on the other side of the desk, I find the courage to ask him the question that has been torturing me since yesterday.
"How did my brother die?"
"He died a hero," the man answers. He suddenly looks very uncomfortable. I'm pretty sure he'd rather be breaking up a bar room brawl than talking to me right now, especially when I stare at him, daring him to give me more.
He runs his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair and stares back at me with kind, sharp blue eyes. He's trying to decide what he should be telling me.
"You must know that right after the academy, your brother was asked to take part in a special task force to deal with a specific branch of organized crime." The man pauses, and I nod as if I had known, but the truth
is that I'd had no idea what David was doing. On the few occasions I spoke to him during the past two academic years, he never talked about his work.
Picking his words with care, the man adds, "He got into the task force with his eyes wide open. He knew that his mission was very dangerous."
"Did he get shot?"
"Miss Mayfield, there are some things I cannot tell you about the specifics of your brother's work, and there are things you really don't want to know."
"Sir, please don't sugarcoat anything for me," I tell him. "I'm not a child. I'm a law student, and I want to be a D.A. when I graduate. Furthermore, I have a very vivid imagination, so what I imagine is probably worse than what really happened."
"I very much doubt that, young lady," he says.
"I need to prepare myself for what I am going to see," I insist.
He shakes his head and says, "You won't see him." My eyebrows shoot up. "What I mean is you don't have to see him. It's much better if you don't. I've identified the body, and for everyone, a closed casket is the best option."
He gets up and walks around his desk holding a large envelope. I stand as well, but he still towers over me.
"Suffice to say that his face was badly hurt, so you really don't want to see him as he is now," he says, sounding very adamant.
I understand he's not going to tell me more, so I thank him as he gives me the envelope with some paperwork I need to go through so my mother can receive some benefits. I ask him where I can retrieve my brother's belongings, and he accompanies me to the reception area and asks the young uniformed officer who had greeted me to get David's box. Big Boss shakes my hand and leaves.
The officer comes back with the traditional cardboard box and offers to carry it to my car for me. As we reach the car, I open the trunk.
"I'm really very sorry for your loss," he says as he puts down the box. "I really liked your brother."
"Did you work with him? Are you a member of the task force?" I ask.
"No, not exactly. My forte is more administrative work. But still, we connected when we were at the academy. I was happy to see a familiar face when I was assigned to this station."
"So, you two graduated at the same time?"
"Yes, and we often ended up in the same team because he followed me in alphabetical order. My name is Michael Mayfair so Mayfair-Mayfield, we stood and sat together often," he says, and the smile on his face leads me to believe that he must have pleasant memories of David. "Call me Mike, please."
"Mike, can I ask you a question about your time at the academy?" I ask.
"Sure. What do you want to know?"
"What happened to Brian Hatcher? What did he do to get kicked out of the academy?"
Mike's face goes somber, and he says, "Honestly, at the time I had no idea. You know your brother and he were thick as thieves. They were friends, and yet they had that incredible rivalry. It was fun to watch them compete. They both had top grades, excelled in everything from criminology to precision shooting. They were our regular rock stars, and the only question we had was which one of them was going to graduate at the top of our year."
He stays silent for a moment, staring at his shoe and frowning as if concentrating on his recollection of the events.
"It was less than two weeks before we were done. I remember because that's when the final interviews were set up for those who had applied for special divisions. David and Brian had flown through the preliminary tests for the organized crime task force. They were looking for guys who were comfortable around bikes, so of course those two made the cut. That's when Brian just stopped coming. We were all flabbergasted when he didn't make it to the interviews and then was a no-show for the final exams. I asked your brother. He just said that he would rather not talk about it."
Mike hesitates, so I prompt him with a question.
"So you didn't know then but you know now?"
"Well, I did run into Brian in town," he says. "And it didn't make any sense. One day Brian's applying to the task force, and then, the next day, he's a fully patched member of the Iron Tornadoes."
The idea that Brian joined a motorcycle gang is so preposterous that I'm about to laugh out loud, but then it hits me. Brian's father has now become the president of the Iron Tornadoes.
Aunt Nancy's warning is starting to make sense.
Before driving away, I thank Mike for his help and give him the information about the funeral and the wake.
In the car, I try to wrap my head around this absurdity. Brian can't be part of the Iron Tornadoes. They claim to be just another MC, but they do make the news way too often for me to really believe that. Many people claim they are a menace to society, and they may be right. I remember a few years back a young woman had asked for police protection after running away from the club. She had testified that the strip joints they run are actually whorehouses. At the time, I had even heard talk of underage sex.
This can't be. Brian, my childhood hero, the heartthrob of my teenage years, the sweet guy who rocked me when I cried last night and then held me until I fell asleep… No. He can't now be one of them.
I scold myself. As a future lawyer, I should know better than to listen to rumors. I will see him at David's funeral and I'll ask him.
CHAPTER FIVE
After I leave the police station, I drive to Costco. If I'm going to hold the wake at my mother's house, I need to stock up. I go through the aisles mindlessly, and when I check out, I remember I have an errand to run for Aunt Nancy. I park next to the pharmacy and go pick up Uncle Tony's prescription. On the way out, I walk by the "family planning" section of the store, which is the prude name given to the condom section. Three guys are looking at the selection and making crude jokes about the flavor of the gels on the shelf. As I'm about to open the door, one of them grabs my arm.
"Hey, sweet butt," he says with what I assume is his charmer's smile. "Give me your advice. Which of those flavors would you prefer if you had to lick my dick?"
I blink, wondering if this guy's for real.
"I'm not into popsicles, so I wouldn't know," I answer before my brain registers that these guys are wearing biker jackets with the Iron Tornadoes patches.
Oh, me and my big mouth.
The one holding my arm strengthens his grip and looks stunned, as if I had just slapped him.
The other two turn around slowly to face me. There's a moment of silence in the store. I glance at the cashier and the regular customer by the register. They are both staring at me with wide eyes. There will be no help from them.
Then one of the bikers starts laughing and slaps his buddy's back.
"Hey, Waxer, your memory ain't what it used to be. Obviously you've done her and she was not impressed," he says.
Waxer is turning crimson. I can almost hear the wheels of his slow brain engaging. I'm not sure if he's going to hit me, hit his friend, or laugh with him. Before he's able to come to a decision, someone closes the door behind me and a hand lands heavily on my shoulder.
"Waxer, you let her go. This one's mine," says a familiar voice at my back. Waxer doesn't let go. On the contrary, his grip gets firmer, and he spins me around until I bump my nose into Brian's chest.
Brian's dressed like them, in full biker's regalia. I'm too close to have a good look at his jacket, but I'm sure he's sporting the Iron Tornadoes patches.
"Well, if she's yours, you'd better teach her manners," Waxer growls.
"Yeah, I know. She's got a big mouth." He sighs, and then he grins and winks at his buddies as he says, "But then again, that's one of the things I really like about her."
Seriously?
Looking down from his face to his chest, I'm about to deny being his when he gives a harsh tug on my ponytail to make me look up at his face again. His stare is so cold I barely recognize him.
"Now you apologize to my brother," he commands me.
I stare at him and blink a few times, wondering if I've fallen into another dimension.
"Come on, girl,
enough wasting our time," Brian says, pulling so hard on my hair that the elastic holding it breaks. "I told you to apologize."
I realize he's dead serious, and then it dawns on me that this is could be the gang that my brother went after. They're not just loud and obnoxious; they're dangerous. I need to protect myself before things get out of hand.
I turn my head around toward Waxer, cast my gaze to the floor, and mumble, "I'm sorry."
That's obviously not enough because when I turn around again, out of the corner of my eye, I can see Waxer shaking his head.
Brian says with a chilling voice, "You turn around properly, look at him in the eyes, and tell him what you're sorry for."
I do as he asks, raise my head, and stare at Waxer as I tell him, "I'm sorry I was not respectful."
I bite my lips to keep from saying something like, Yeah, I really am sorry for you because the only reason my stupid answer about the size of your dick got to you is that it must have hit too close to home. Seriously, his penis has got to be the size of a tiny pencil for him to react that way.
"That's better," Brian says. He catches a new handful of my hair and almost drags me out of the store. As soon as we're in the street, he pushes me back against the wall. He's in my space, breathing hard, and when the door closes behind us, he says between clenched teeth, "Are you out of your fucking mind?"
He doesn't give me a chance to answer as his lips cover mine. With his hand still fisted in my hair, he tilts my head to a perfect angle for his invasion of my mouth. His kiss is violent and passionate, and there's something really wrong with me because I'm actually enjoying this. I can't believe how much I'm turned on by his caveman behavior.
I don't know if it's the adrenaline from the confrontation or just the fact that Brian's seriously improved since the last time we kissed, but my body betrays me completely and I melt against him. His free hand slides to the small of my back, and he pushes a knee against my crotch. It takes all my willpower not to grind myself against his thigh, but before I make a spectacle of myself, he pulls away.