“You a biker?” the masculine voice cracked with age like the twang of a tired fiddle string.
Deacon scanned the equally wrinkled faces, a dozen, separate experiences, a lifetime of history for each. To know what they know, he thought, would be to know it all. He paused trying to see past each visage to the individual who lie beneath. Shakespeare’s words, which had secretly fascinated Deacon as a child, applied to the ancient faces: “A book where men may read strange matters.”
As though shoved, a wheelchair darted from the wall. The occupant’s face was brown and weathered like dry pigskin. Intelligent blue eyes shone like bright marbles against a washed out tapestry.
“I said, you a biker?” An arthritic hand pointed at the Harley-Davidson patch sewn on Deacon’s jacket.
“Yes. Yes, sir, I suppose that’s what some people would call me.” Deacon said respectfully. “I love to ride my motorcycle. I hope you don’t consider that a bad thing.” It occurred to him that a little light conversation with a resident might serve well as cover. He glanced nervously around. His parents were nowhere in sight.
“Hell, no,” the old man answered loudly. “I don’t think it’s a bad thing.”
Several residents looked up.
“Shi-it, in my day, I was one hell-raisin’ son-of-a-bitch.”
Deacon, caught off guard by the language, was empathetic for the misshapen form. Wonder how long it’s been since he raised any hell. “Did you ride a bike?” Deacon asked while simultaneously catching a glimpse of the Joneses strolling across the courtyard with another couple. The two women walked arm-in-arm talking.
The old man seemed unaware of Deacon’s refocused attention. He continued in his loud, cracking voice. “Hell, I di’nt jus’ ride a motasickle, I rode Hawleys all ma life.” Hit and miss teeth distorted his crude speech. “Some a da boys rode Injuns. I was most awways a Hawley man. My first sickle was a Injun, a farty-five Scout. It was damn dawg. So, I sood it, and bought me a Hawley sevnty-foor. Now, tha’ bastird ‘ould strectly hawl ass.”
“I bet,” Deacon tried to sound interested. The movements of his parents captivated his attention. He thought it odd that they both talked with great animation to their same sex conversant, but never to each other or the other person of the opposite gender. The two men, completely immersed in an intense discussion, communicated with sensational gestures.
The women appeared much more gentile. Occasionally, one would squeeze the other’s arm in such a way that convinced Deacon they were close friends. Funny, he thought, I can’t remember a time when my parents even had friends, especially not good friends.
Deacon followed the old biker’s colorful recounting closely enough to make an occasional one or two-word comment. From where he sat, he was able to observe the courtyard unnoticed.
Without warning, the foursome turned toward the building entrance. He had only enough time to lower his eyes. They walked through the doorway and passed him. Neither his mother nor his father even glanced in his direction. They were so close he could hear their concurrent conversations. His mother and the other woman were talking about plants and soil. His father’s booming voice sliced through the room, and dragged Deacon back in time, twelve years. He delivered the diatribe in his practiced march like the measured tick of a metronome.
“But, Reverend,” the other man asked in a timid voice, “how can you speak with such conviction about the feelings of God? I have never seen it so written.” His formation and choice of words convinced Deacon that this man was, or had been, a minister.
The Reverend continued unruffled. “God has spoken to me. My words are His, perfect and divine. They are His flawless recollection. Brother, what I am saying to you is the Word of God.” Some things never change, Deacon thought disappointed. The Reverend Jones was still the same pompous, pious man. A sad, mental breeze swept over Deacon.
“Sir, excuse me.” The nurse, who had been behind the glass, interrupted the old biker.
Ignoring her attempt, he continued his recollections. “Once, we took over a little town in South Dakota for a two day binge. Next year we went back and it turned into a hell of a party’. I hear tell it’s still goin’ on toda…”
The nurse did not let him finish his sentence. In a loud voice, she addressed Deacon. “Do you think your sister’s comin’? My shift is over, and I really need to get goin’. I’ve gotta pick up my baby girl from the sitter.”
“I can’t imagine where my sister is. We’ll call and make an appointment for another day.”
“That’ll be fine. We’ll look forward to your call.” The woman sounded sincere.
Deacon noticed her left hand. A white line where a ring had recently been marked her finger. “Thanks very much for your consideration.” He glanced furtively around. His parents, along with their companions, had disappeared down the hall.
The Low Rider’s left foot peg scraped the pavement as Deacon leaned through a tight turn. He breathed a sigh of relief. The rapidly falling sun lit the road ahead in convoluted shades of orange and yellow. He leaned back, his right hand rested lightly on the throttle, listening to the V-twin engine as its song echoed across the empty highway. He thought of the story of the prodigal son and wished someone would butcher a fatted calf for him.
He passed a payphone. Star’s face popped into his mind. He pushed on into falling darkness. Doc’s warning continuously cycled through his mind. Don’t make contact with anyone. He had agreed. He argued with himself. After all, it was Star. I owe it to her, he reasoned. She would never do anything to hurt me.
The payphone called to him; over the howling wind, it screamed his name. He slowed to a rolling U-turn. Doc’s persistent tone echoed in his head. He reversed the turn and continued eastbound.
The third payphone, which also knew his name, was irresistible. “What the hell,” he shouted to the sky. “There’s no danger in a five-minute call to the love of my life!” He braked hard and made a tight sweeping one hundred and eighty degree turn in the middle of the two-lane tarmac.
A busy signal answered. Deacon depressed the switch-hook and dialed again, still busy. He glared at the shiny black and chrome instrument. This isn’t right, he thought. I promised Doc I wouldn’t do this. The busy signal is a sign; I should leave this alone.
He spun on his heel and headed toward his bike. Twenty seconds later, he was rolling smoothly out of the parking lot away from the device. Instinctively, with a series of fluid motions that required some action from nearly every appendage, he stopped. Simultaneously, he killed the engine, extended the kickstand, turned off the ignition, and gyrated off the leather seat.
“Sweetie, it’s me,” he began before she could answer, “you all right?”
“Geez, doll, I’m so happy to hear from you. I’ve been worried sick. The question is, are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Just missing you too much, that’s all.”
“Deac, where are you, what’ve you been doin’?”
“Right now, I’m somewhere in God-only-knows-where po-dunk Missouri. Star, I saw my parents today.”
A prolonged silence followed. “Really, did you talk to them?”
“No, I just watched from a distance, pretty close actually. If they saw me, which I doubt, they didn’t recognize me.”
“I suppose that’s good. Did you want to talk to them?”
“I don’t know. I’m just not sure. At one point, I thought I did. I heard them. My father was talkin’ just like—I mean in the same self-righteous way that he always did. I just couldn’t. I don’t want to talk about them. What’s happenin’ there, any news?”
“If you mean have the police been here lookin’ for you, I’m afraid so, several times.”
“What’d you tell them?”
“I told them you just disappeared without telling me anything. They said they were lookin’ for you in connection with a homicide, nothin’ more.”
“I wish I knew what they know. Our inside source has dried up.”
“What do you mean?”“I shouldn’t say more. Doc thinks it’s better if you don’t know the details. We don’t want to compromise you.”
“Anything that applies to me should be my decision.” She responded sharply. “If I have to lie to the police, it’s no big deal. They aren’t going to torture me. Doll, tell me,” she demanded.
“I can’t. Really, I shouldn’t. I told Doc I wouldn’t.”
“At least tell me where you’re stayin’.”
“I can’t, it’s for your own good.”
“Doll, please…” she cooed.
SIXTEEN
The bridge across the Mississippi was lit bright as day with artificial light too yellow to be the sun. The rumble of Deacon Jones’s finely tuned Harley-Davidson echoed against the faded green steel structure as he headed east. At the traffic light he turned left, north on the Great River Road. Emotionally and physically exhausted, every nerve in his body was on a sort of numb alert.
The nearly deserted highway felt uncertain. An ethereal black ribbon stretched into the night. Occasionally, distant headlights cast ghostly shadows upon the littered surface of the muddy river. Matte finish galvanized guardrail bordered the black tarmac. Deacon slowed to twenty-five miles per hour. In one practiced motion, he loosed his chinstrap and removed his helmet. Cool night air wove its fingers through thick brown hair.
This ride, this night, was different; Deacon ground his teeth. The further north he rode, the tighter the knot in his stomach became. The clear, moonless sky held its bright stars close. One broke free and shot across the sky. In a millisecond, the earth’s atmosphere devoured it. A vacuous fear gnawed at his soul. Why is this happening to me? Dear God, what have I done? He questioned the Deity who is night and all things, both of this world and beyond. For the thousandth time, he mentally worked his way backward through the years trying to remember every detail. He began during that period of his life before he left his parents. He remembered similar experiences full of trepidation, of impending doom. He had felt like this, exactly like this every time, just before the Reverend summoned him to his study.
His angst increased with each passing mile. The bright headlight illuminated the familiar metal sign, Riverview Resort, 4 miles. Still nothing felt right. A nagging voice in the back of his mind began to shout. You’re riding into something!
Deacon relaxed his grip on the throttle. Why no cars? he wondered, feeling like the last man on earth. How long had it been since he met oncoming traffic? He tried to remember. He checked the rearview mirror again, and still there were no lights. He glanced to his left. Even the river was devoid of traffic. The strange night, the aloneness, and the sense of impending doom were untenable.
A mile from the turnoff Deacon recognized the terrain and instinctively coasted onto the shoulder. He shifted into neutral, killed the engine, and rolled to the wide bottom of the deep ditch. Totally hidden from the road, he left the machine, and walked the last mile. When the trench became too shallow, he climbed northeast into the forest. The rocky terrain was steep. With short, labored breathing, Deacon quietly worked his way up the incline. At the base of a low, sheer bluff, he stopped. Artificial lights glowed from atop the stone precipice.
“My cabin,” he whispered breathlessly. “If there’s nothin’ up there, I’m gonna feel pretty stupid. Better safe than sorry, the exercise will do me good,” he reasoned.
The desolate resort was deadly quiet. Still, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Only Deacon’s uncanny premonition held him back. He peered over a boulder to the top of the bluff. He had a clear view of the cabins and the parking area. The Corvette was gone; there were no cars in sight. One yellow light glowed next to each cabin door, except for one, Deacon’s cabin. Three bluish-purple bug zappers buzzed and occasionally popped. Deacon felt relative compassion for the tiny unsuspecting insects. He wondered if he was crazy. Do sane people care about insects?
He carefully studied the outline of the buildings. He probably would not have seen the first man had he not scratched his head at exactly the same moment that Deacon’s eyes traced the vertical line of that particular cabin. Deacon froze; his heart fought against the wall of his chest. The man dropped his hand and vanished.
One at a time, he found six men. Police detectives, he thought.
On the cold, gray-black river bluff in the dark, pre-winter woods, time had no cadence. How long ’til daylight? He wondered not risking the movement necessary to remove the chained pocket watch from his jeans. He worried that the polished stainless steel, or phosphorescent clock hands, might reflect a bit of light. Apprehensions hammered his brain like a blacksmith trying to destroy his own work.
Deacon’s arms and legs ached; frigid air penetrated to the bone. He wiggled his toes. His feet were numb. He wished for the men to leave. There was no movement around the cabins. It was clear they were awaiting their prey. Deacon was equally sure he was the prey.
How did they find this place? His mind badgered him. There’s no way they followed Doc. He hasn’t been back. We’ve used payphones. Maybe they tapped my phone.
Darkness overstayed its welcome in the too long night. Indecision became the enemy. If he remained, the first light of day would reveal him. In the dark, he easily blended into his surroundings. Daylight would steal his advantage. To slip away unnoticed, it had to be soon.
Deacon made a mental list of each man’s position and calculated every one against his field of view. He noted the devotion with which each individual had manned his post. The odds appeared in his favor. The men lay hidden from anyone who came up the narrow, winding driveway. On that thoroughfare, they concentrated their watch. He reasoned that the two men who were completely out of his sight were of almost no threat. The others would only see him if they diverted their attention from the entrance. They were obviously growing weary becoming easier to study. Their animation increased in proportion to the mounting hours.
I arrived unnoticed, he concluded. My way in will also be my best way out. He took a deep breath, made one last visual sweep, and began a meticulous—measured retreat. Deacon took one cautious step; a sharp pain shot up his leg. He checked the four men. No one had moved. He took another step.
When the last suit disappeared from view, he increased his pace. Sunrise began to splash through the trees. It was still more than two hundred yards to the base of the hill, plus a mile to his bike. He covered his face and launched headlong through the heavy under-brush, ignoring the stinging branches that whipped his brittle skin.
It was impossible to push the six hundred pound machine through the spongy, frost-laden grass up the steep embankment to the road. Deacon was reticent to start the loud engine; there was no choice. He threw his right leg over the motorcycle, crushing an empty beer can under foot. Deacon cringed at the loud crunch. He gulped, and hit the start button. At barely more than an idle, man and machine climbed diagonally out of the ditch.
Good, no traffic, he congratulated himself. A quick U-turn and he rolled out south toward St. Louis. The stubborn engine warmed slowly, throbbing and trembling at low speed. Deacon guardedly twisted the throttle. The exhaust barked proportionately. He continuously clicked through every gear until his speed was a steady thirty-five miles per hour in fifth gear. The illuminated analog tachometer showed only seventeen hundred RPM. The emanating rhythm seemed unbearably loud.
The first two miles took less than four minutes, two hundred odd seconds, which seemed like an eternity. With five miles in his rearview mirror, Deacon breathed a deep sigh of relief. He opened the throttle until the speedometer, whose internal light source diminished by the light of day, showed ninety. He looked warily back. No one was following.
*****
The phone rang seven times before Doc awakened. “You all right?” he asked as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
“I’m fine. I had a close call. Did I wake you? Sorry for calling so early, I didn’t want you to ring the payphone at the cabins. Everything is crashing down around me.”
&
nbsp; “The time doesn’t matter, but we should be careful. We talked about an alternate payphone in the city. Go there; I’ll call you in an hour. D, keep the faith.” Without waiting for a reply, Doc hung up and quickly dressed in jeans, a tee shirt, and a plain leather jacket. No colors today, he thought.
*****
Deacon answered the payphone before the first ring finished.
“You okay?” Doc anxiously asked for the second time in as many calls. “Yeah, I’m all right, but the cops found me. They found the resort.”
“How do you know, are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. When I went back there last night, they were waitin’.”
“How’d you get away? There’s nothin’ on the scanner.”
“I don’t know. It was weird. I just had a feelin’. It kept eatin’ at me. The closer I got, the stronger it was. I hid my bike and climbed up to the cabins through the woods. They were hidin’ and waitin’, six plainclothes. I was careful. They never saw me.”
“Sounds like that intuition of yours is finally payin’ off. We need to meet. You sure you weren’t followed?”
“Positive, no cars were behind me or in front. They say the good tails stay in front. Is somethin’ wrong? Do you have bad news?”
“Nothin’s wrong, well, nothin’ more than that which is inherently wrong with all of this. Let’s just meet. I’ll tell you everything then, okay?”
“Shit, Doc, don’t do this to me. You know I hate it. My father always made me wait for my punishment. He knew the waiting was worse than the punishment itself.”
“Sorry, I don’t mean to be punitive. God knows you’ve been through enough. It’s just somethin’ I’d rather say in person.”
“That does it! I can’t stand it. Spit it out. What happened?”
“There’s no easy way to say this. There’s been another murder.”
Deacon propped himself against the phone.
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