A desperate, late-night phone call. A girl in trouble. A man with a guilt-haunted heart.
Lightning flashes out over the Gulf. Thunder rolls down Panama City Beach.
Thousands of bikers have descended on the Miracle Strip for one of America’s premiere biker rallies. There’s energy, excitement, electricity.
The twenty-seven miles of silky, sugar-white sand and emerald green waters of the Gulf of Mexico along the World’s Most Beautiful Beaches are teeming with hot bikes and even hotter babes. It’s a party in paradise, but a storm is blowing in, its approach relentless, pitiless, menacing.
Amid the bikes and beer and bikinis, crimes of unspeakable brutality are being commited — one of which touches too close to home for former reporter and lost soul Merrick McKnight.
Adrift, Merrick wanders around at night — alone and lonely — seeking an elusive woman, searching for a way back from the brink. Now, chasing down a vicious killer like the lead of a oncein-a-career type exclusive, Merrick is living the story of his life — and that’s just what it might cost him.
Between crashes of thunder, a killer strikes, and a young woman’s life hangs in the balance. Merrick will do anything he can to keep from losing her again, but will that be enough?
The neon-lit night is electric.
Heat lightning flashes out over the Gulf as thunder rolls down Thomas Drive.
It’s a warm May night, the air thick and humid beneath a bank of gunmetal-gray clouds, hovering in the dark night sky, heavy from holding backthe approaching storm.
It’s three days before I’ll go to the Bay County Medical Examiner’s office to identify her remains, and I’m shocked to see her bikini-clad body on the cover of the official event magazine of Thunder Beach, the semi-annual biker rally in Panama City.
I’ve come in search of a woman.
It seems I’ve spent my entire life searching for something — something elusive, evanescent — something that usually involves a woman. Ironically, the woman I’m here to see is not the woman I’ll spend the next few days frantically trying to find.
The woman I’m in search of now, is here with her weekend-biker husband — or is supposed to be, and I’ve come hoping to catch a glimpse of her, hoping for her to see me. When we haven’t seen each other or spoken for a while, I look for ways to remind her of my existence, to reignite the passion and attraction that’s so obvious when we’re together, so fast to fade when we’re apart. Together, the intensity is like an exploding star. Apart, the light wave from that star decays so rapidly, and at such a short distance from the high energy event, it makes me question whether it really ever existed at all.
I’ve never been in a relationship quite like this one — from its unlikely birth in a VIP booth at The Dollhouse to this fire and ice, intimates/acquaintances dance we’re doing now — I’ve never been asstrung out on someone in my entire life.
Thunder Beach began in 1999. Known then as “Bike & Beach Bash,” it was born out of anannual gathering of riders from Macon, Georgia, who always came down and stayed atthe Sandpiper Beacon Beach Resort.
Following the first rally, the Bay County Tourist Development Council got involved, hired promoters, and changed the name to Thunder Beach.
After the 2000 rally, Joe Biggs came on board as an investor and advisor, and in 2001 became sole owner.
In 2001, just two weeks after the terrorists attacks of 9/11, Thunder Beach held its first autumn rally. Since then, the event has been twice a year — a smaller gathering in the fall and the premiere rally in the spring.
Over the years, Thunder Beach has grown into one of the best, most biker-friendly, free rallies in the country, attracting tens of thousands of riders twice yearly to the place locals call the world’s most beautiful beaches.
I start at Ms. Newby’s.
Regan is as likely to be here as anywhere. Though there are what seem like an infinite number of Thunder Beach venues, Ms. Newby’s is ground zero.
The parking lot is filled with vendor tents, bikes, and people — the last lined up to watch as other bikes ride in. Moving through the mass of bodies, often coming to a complete stop, it’s impossible not to touch and bump and brush up against others. At first, I say, Excuse me, to everyone, but quickly realize it’s not necessary.
Inching through the parking lot, I scan the crowd searching for her.
It takes me a while, but I finally make it inside the covered patio. Black-clad bikers surround the bar in the round, stand in small groups butted up to each other talking, and press toward the stage and the Southern Rock band, Flirting With Disaster, playing a 38 Special cover.
There are so many people jammed into the small area, and this joint is like so many others around here, I think the city must send the fire marshal on vacation during Thunder Beach.
The patio floor is wet from melted ice, spilt drinks, and a light rain tracked in from earlier in the evening.
I am not a biker, and I’m not dressed like one. I stand out like a straight-edge at a freak party, but no one seems to notice. Maybe it’s too dark or too crowded, or they’re having too much fun to give a fuck.
Unable to find her at Ms. Newby’s — though that doesn’t mean she’s not here — I walk down and check out Spinaker, La Vela, then cross the street to Dysfunction Junction.
On my way back, I hear my friend Dave Lloyd singing from beneath the covered porch of Hammerhead Fred’s, and stop in for a song or two.
Because he knows how much I like them, he does Sting’s “Fragile,” then pulls out his ukulele and does a haunting, beachy groove version of Jim Croce’s “Operator,” Scott Neese backing him up on steel drums.
I think of Regan as they play, and the songs make me happy and sad at the same time, filling me with a pain-tinged longing, both crushing and comforting.
Thanking them, I drop a twenty into the open guitar case on the floor in front of the stage.
As I’m leaving Fred’s, I hear someone call my name.
—Merrick?
I turn to see Stacie Adams, standing there, napkin in hand, big, genuine smile on her plain, pretty, pale face.
Beneath blond hair and big blue eyes, her large lips are painted a too-bright red — particularly against the whiteness of her skin, but her smile is so radiant everything else about her fades into the background.
—Hey, I say, giving her a hug.
She smells just the same — soapy clean with a hint of flower-scented hand cream.
—How are you stranger?
—I’m good. How are you?
—Good. You know...
Over beneath the large lighted sign, a family poses their redcheeked children next to the enormous plastic shark hanging from a hook by its tail.
—Still waiting for you to call me for our next date, she says.
—Sorry, I say. I’ve meant to call, but have just had so much going on.
It’s one of the great mysteries of life — why do we instantly connect with some people, no matter how unlikely, and not others. On paper, Stacie and I should be a far better match than me and Regan, but the heart isn’t influenced by socioeconomic factors the way the head is.
Stacie and I were set up by a couple we both know. We went on a couple dates about five months ago, the week prior to me meeting Regan.
Our first date had been nice enough, but we probably would’ve just had the one, except she really seemed to have a good time. With very little in common and no real affinity for one another, our date was a little on the bland side for me, but as a single second grade teacher, Stacie is a good, kind, giving person without a lot of fun in her life, so I took her out a few more times to try and provide her with some.
—Yeah, yeah, yeah, she says.
—It’s true, I say, but I’ll call you next week.
—Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.
—I do and I will.
—Who, now. I didn’t ask you to marry me, she says, her enormous smile reappearing. Easy with all the I do’s a
nd I will’s.
I give her my best courteous laugh.
—I don’t need your sympathy, she says.
—Huh?
—That laugh. Lacked authenticity.
—Sorry. I’m just tired.
—Listen, she says, turning serious. If you do call —
—I will.
—If we do go out again.
— We will, I say, and I mean it.
—Let’s —
—How’s next Thursday, I ask, cutting her off.
—Sure. Okay. But let’s do something you enjoy.
—Okay.
—I know I had a better time than you when we went out before. It’s sweet of you to take me out again, but I’ll have fun doing anything that doesn’t involve finger paint and glitter, so pick something you enjoy and let’s do that.
—It’s a date, I say, hug her goodbye, and resume my search, eventually returning to Ms. Newby’s where I began.
It’s early and most places are still pretty quiet. Besides, it’s Wednesday. The main action won’t happen until the weekend.
This time, I enter the lounge/package store part of Ms. Newby’s, and though just as crowded as the parking lot and patio, it’s a lot cooler beneath the force of the frigid air blasting out of the vents.
Shuffling around the room, doing a kind of dance with the other patrons trying to move about, I search for her, looking mostly for her long, wavy, thick black hair — easily the best way to identify her in the throng.
So intense is my concentration for the raven-haired Regan that I bump into several people harder than I should, sloshing strong-smelling drinks onto our clothes and the floor, nearly walking directly in the path of a dart game in the process.
After a cup of Hunch Punch and almost an hour of looking for her, I give up in frustration and am about to leave when I see it.
It sits atop a stack of beer boxes, the official event magazine of Thunder Beach, and there’s Casey — back arched, breasts out, hands reaching down to grab the strings of her bikini bottoms.
The old familiar guilt grips me, and I have a difficult time catching my breath.
I try to remember just how long it’s been. Just over three years. She’s changed so much in that time, transitioning from adolescent girl to young woman. I’ve spent so much time trying not to think about the whole situation — about Monica and Casey and Kevin and, most of all, little Ty — that I’ve only been vaguely aware of the expanding void at the center of my soul.
I’ve just come face to face with the single biggest regret of my life, and it rocks me, but I quickly realize what I’m witnessing isn’t only a painful reminder, but a hope-inspiring opportunity. Casey is back. I’ve got to find her, to beg her forgiveness and make things right. Is it too late? Will she forgive me? Can I make it up to her?
Suddenly wet with sweat, room spinning, heart pounding, I can feel the Hunch Punch coming up.
Grabbing the glossy publication, I rush toward the bathroom and run directly into Regan.
—Merrick?
She looks distressed to see me, looks over my shoulder and all around us, then seems to grow even more distressed at how I look.
—You okay?
I shake my head.
—What is it?
I hold up the magazine.
Her eyes widen and she seems to recognize Casey, though I’ve never mentioned her.
—You recognize her? I ask.
—What’re you doin’ here? Are you following me?
—No.
—Then what?
—Looking for her, I say, nodding at the magazine cover. Technically, it’s the truth now, but it still tastes like a lie on my tongue. Do you know her?
—Here comes Gabe, she says. I’ve got to go.
—You working later tonight? I ask, but she’s moved on — something I need to do — and I don’t get my answer.
I stumble into the restroom, splash some water on my face, and attempt to pull myself together.
What the fuck am I doing in a relationship with a married stripper? What am I doing with a stripper at all?
Before I got to know Regan and some of the other girls she works with, I probably had some of the same stereotypical assumptions about strippers as the masses, but the dancers I know in general and Regan in particular, like most people, continually surprise and delight and shatter society’s shallow caricatures of them.
When I come out of the restroom, Regan and Gabe are gone.
I wait in line for a turn at the bar. When I get it, I order something I don’t intend to drink from a bartender who’s far too busy for more than a perfunctory greeting.
—What can I getcha?
—You seen her around? I ask, plopping the magazine on the bar and pointing at Casey.
—They got a booth outside, he says, with barely a glance.
—Who?
—Eight bucks, he says, nodding toward the drink, then moves down to do refills.
—You Merrick McKnight? the guy on the stool to my left asks.
—Yeah?
—Used to read your column in the Democrat. Liked it — a lot. What happened to it?
—You read the online or print version? I ask.
—Computer.
—That’s what happened.
—You were good.
—Still am, I say, but if a writer falls in the woods...
—I hear ya.
I drop a ten on the bar beside the untouched drink, and head outside.
It takes a while because of the crowd, but eventually I locate the Thunder Beach Productions booth sandwiched between a stall for Vintage Leather Enterprises biker apparel and one for collectable Case pocket knives.
Behind a table filled with stacks of various editions of the Thunder Beach Magazine, and in front of poster size prints of Miss Thunder Beach Contest models in bathing suits, two young guys with cups of Hunch Punch stand around eyeing the crowd.
—We’ll have some more of the new one in a minute, one of the guys says.
—I’m looking for her, I say, pointing to Casey’s picture on the cover of the magazine I’m holding.
—You and every other horny bastard on the beach, one of them says.
—Which one is that? the other one asks, leaning in to see.
—She’s a little too young for you, don’t you think? the first one adds.
—It’s not like that. Where can I find her? It’s important.
—We just pass out the magazines. Can’t help you.
—The office number’s in the front, the other one adds. Talk to somebody who knows something.
—It’d be refreshing, I say.
Beneath a streetlight next to Thomas Drive, I find the office number to Thunder Beach Productions and punch it into my phone.
As I expect, I get voicemail, and leave a message for the person listed as being the Miss Thunder Beach Program Manager.
I try to impart just how important it is that she call me back, that I talk to her cover girl, without sounding like a perv. Several times I have to stop talking and repeat myself because of the bikes thundering by on the street in front of me.
As I’m about to leave Ms. Newby’s, I think I see Casey in the crowd at the side, not far from the patio.
I try to rush over, but the crowd prevents me from doing anything but edge along at a crawl.
When I finally arrive where I thought I saw her, she is gone.
I look around for a while, searching every face I encounter for the familiar, yet foreign face that feels like a blade being buried just below my ribcage — all the more because she looks like her mother now and makes me wonder what Ty would’ve looked like — but she’s not here and probably never was.
It must have been a trick of light, the night, or my guilt-memory, and I wonder how many more times it will happen before I find her.
I’m almost to my car, when a thick, muscular black man steps from between two other vehicles and holds up a copy of the Thunder Beach Magazine.
—Heard you were lookin’ for her.
The issue he’s holding is different from the one I have. In it, Casey is wearing a different swimsuit.
—I asked you a question, he says.
Actually, he didn’t, but I’m smart enough not to point that out.
His massive upper body, which looks perpetually flexed, presses against a too-tight light blue T-shirt, and the circumference of his neck is larger than my thigh.
I glance around, my heart rocking around my ribcage.
—It’s just us, he says. Ain’t gonna hurt you. Just got a message for you.
—Okay, I say stepping back a bit, trying to ease out of arm’s reach from him.
—Whatever you heard, why ever you’re lookin’, don’t. Just let it go. Move on. Always other girls.
I stare at him in stunned silence, wondering what Casey’s involved in, wondering what I can do about it.
—Nod if you understand me, he says.
I must not have done anything because he says it again.
I nod.
—Let this be the end of it, my friend, he says, his voice light and jovial, as if he’s just expressing genuine concern.
—Nod if you’re gonna let this go.
I don’t do anything.
—Do yourself a favor and nod your fuckin’ head.
I hold his gaze, but don’t move.
—A subsequent visit will not be so pleasant, he says, pressing the magazine into my chest as he walks off.
I drive by The Dollhouse, searching the lot for her car.
Most dancers park on the right side of the building beneath a couple of security lamps, a bouncer escorting them back to their cars when their shift ends.
Still shaken by the threat I’d received in the parking lot before leaving, I’m out of sorts, desperate to find Casey, to try and help her out of whatever fix she’s in.
Regan’s car isn’t there.
I probably left the beach too soon. Crossing the Hathaway Bridge and coming back into town hadn’t taken nearly as long as I thought it would. I could’ve stayed longer and kept looking for Casey, but Regan recognized her — maybe even knew of her connection to me — and since I was jonesing to see her anyway, why not get the information from her instead of cruising around PCB to events it’s unlikely Casey would be at until the weekend anyway — if at all. Just because she’s on the cover of the Thunder Beach Magazine doesn’t mean she’s actually going to be at Thunder Beach activities. And if she is, if there’s a Miss Thunder Beach competition, it’d take place over the weekend.
MICHAEL LISTER'S FIRST THREE SERIES NOVELS: POWER IN THE BLOOD, THE BIG GOODBYE, THUNDER BEACH Page 30