Next, she flung open the closet doors. Paisley had two helmets. Neither of them were normal. One looked like an aluminum Roman Centurion’s helmet, complete with a big crest, the feathery brush in fuchsia. The other looked like a steampunk pilot’s helmet, but in riveted bronze instead of leather. Green goggles were strapped across the forehead. She debated. Other drivers would definitely see her with wind swept pink fur blowing atop her head. She opted for the second.
Helmet under her arm, she pounded back downstairs, flew through the front door, and raced around to the garage. Sorting through the borrowed key ring, she found a likely candidate for the garage door. When she pulled it open, the traffic-cone-orange Vespa stood ready.
Grace donned the headgear. When was the last time she was on a bike? When she was fourteen, maybe? Rented dirt bikes for some classmate’s birthday party? And the Vespa was nothing like the little motorcycles she had known. The key fit in a slot on the frame below and in front of the saddle. She switched it to the ON position. Lights on the little dash came on. Nothing else happened. There was a switch below the key slot. Grace flipped it to RUN. At that point, she saw the kick start on the right.
Breathing deeply, she straddled the scooter, tilting it off its stand. It started to roll, and she gripped both brakes. “Okay, here goes.”
Angling the vehicle to the left, she got her foot on the starter and pushed. In the closed garage, the little put-put of the two-stroke engine sounded like a roar. Taking a moment, she familiarized herself with the odd controls. There weren’t many. She found the blinkers, the horn, a high beam switch, and one that killed the engine. Oops. She kicked the scooter back to life.
Where could she put her purse? There was a kind of trunk behind the saddle that she didn’t want to mess with. Trying to remember where Paisley kept her bag, she found an eyelet on the inside of the steering column. A bungee hung from it. Grace secured her purse, and hoped she wouldn’t dump the contents on a sharp turn.
Placing the goggles over her eyes, she gently let go of the brakes and gave the machine a little gas. It took off down the driveway. Almost too late, she discovered the throttle had no spring. She had to ease off the gas by twisting the throttle back manually.
Breathing hard, Grace paused at the road. She gazed at the little speedometer. It said she was already going seven miles an hour. “Awesome,” she said aloud. Was she really going to do this?
Did she have a choice?
Riding into Beverly, she caught the Yankee Division Highway toward 95. Shockingly, the scooter easily kept up with traffic. Grace throttled up. This was actually pretty cool. She weaved through traffic just a little, thinking thoughts of “Easy Rider,” the freedom of the road, “Sons of Anarchy.” When the bug smacked her in the chin, she almost dumped. Another one pinged! off the helmet.
Near tears, which wouldn’t do behind the big green goggles, she put her head down and raced toward U.S. 1 and the Tobin Bridge.
Chapter 16
Traffic came to a crawl just beyond the Broadway exit in Saugus. Many cars, apparently aware that the bridge was blocked, chose an easier route, and exited there. Grace kept on with the hardcore Mass-holes, heading for the Maurice J. Tobin Memorial Bridge and Boston to the south.
As she reached the big curve on Highway 1, she heard the engine stutter. Panicked, she looked for a gas gauge, but found none. She remembered the switch she’d turned to RUN to start the bike also had another label. RESERVE. Fumbling, she switched over, the engine smoothing out. But given that she’d been in stop-and-go traffic for two hours, she needed to fuel up.
She edged over, exiting the highway in Chelsea. Grace searched for a full-service gas station. She didn’t know how to gas up the scooter. The attendant stood, staring at the approach to the bridge. After a moment, he wandered over. Huge shoulders stressed out his coverall. His beard was light brown and hipster, hair pulled back in a queue. Rough, bold features of his face dissolved into irony as he took in the scooter.
“I don’t know how to fuel it up,” Grace said.
Hazel eyes twinkled. “I got this. I used to ride one when I was a kid. My first taste of two-wheeling.” He nodded at a huge Harley parked across the lot. His face crinkled with a crooked smile. “You need to get up.”
The attendant lifted the seat. Grace read “Justice” on his coverall patch. He pulled out a plastic cup from the cavity beneath.
“The gas goes in that?” Grace asked.
“No, the oil. Have to add oil and gas at the same time. It’s a two stroke engine.” Justice gave her a look. “You steal this?”
“Borrowed.” She stretched the goggles and put them on the helmet.
For some reason, he broke out in a bigger smile. Grace wondered at the transformation from biker guy to attractive guy. He pulled out his cell phone. “Been a minute since I converted gallons to liters. You riding on reserve?”
“I hit the switch, yeah.”
Justice punched some numbers, Grace seeing oil in the creases of his skin. “Be right back.”
While she waited, Grace looked at the looming Tobin Bridge. The approach was at a standstill. Off ramps were devoid of any cars. She wondered if there was any way to get on the bridge. Had she blown her chance to get to Paisley because she chickened out with the scooter’s gas?
The biker returned, a large container of two-stroke oil in hand. As Grace watched, he measured out the oil and dumped it in the tank. “Seems to me from the steampunk helmet and the Hilary Clinton outfit that you might be in some trouble.”
Why were her outfits always the subject for comment?
“Not that I’m criticizing. In fact, I think those slacks fit you just right. The dichotomy, however, makes me think you’re in a tough situation.”
Grace colored at his words. “I think my friend is on the bridge.”
Tapping the plastic cup a few times, Justice looked up at her. “Thought you could get to your friend on a scooter. Split lanes past the traffic. Pretty good plan.”
“It was, until I ran out of gas.”
Justice pulled the nozzle from the pump and shoved it in the tank. “Might be tough to get on the bridge again.”
It took only a few seconds to fill. Careful not to overfill, the attendant peered into the tank and gave another squeeze of the nozzle.
“I was thinking the same thing.”
Justice replaced the nozzle, the gas cap, and the seat. He gave her an assessing gaze. “Just how much trouble do you think your friend is in?”
“About as much as she could be,” Grace said.
He nodded to himself. “Try not to mention my name if you get arrested.”
“Okay...”
The biker pointed to a narrow roadway. “I haven’t had any business for about an hour and a half. That right there is the last off ramp before the bridge. Usually, I’m jammed up this time of day. It’s because that off ramp is closed.”
Grace gazed at the concrete shoot of a street curving its way toward U.S. 1. Her heart started to beat faster. She shot Justice a question with her expression.
“I’ve seen a couple state police cars use it, going the wrong way. And an ambulance.”
Once again, Grace traced the route with her eyes. It resembled a cement luge run. Skeletal, green, and impossibly tall, the Tobin Bridge stood far in the distance. “If I went up that way, and an ambulance came screaming down...”
“You’d be toast, yeah.” He eyed the orange scooter. “Toast with marmalade.”
Instead of weaving through a parking lot of angry drivers, Grace could be atop the bridge in minutes. “I don’t think I have a choice.”
“Here’s the skinny from the traffic reports. The other two exits in Chelsea are where the cops are diverting traffic, and as far back as Saugus. On ramps to the bridge are closed. The surrounding areas are in gridlock. But it’s only a matter of time before the protest breaks up, and cars come flooding down that off ramp. It’s wide enough for you to squeeze past. But it’s also one long, blind cu
rve. No driver will be expecting an oncoming scooter.” Justice scowled and shook his head. “You sure your friend is in that much trouble?”
“Yes.” Grace handed him her debit card for the gas.
“It’s on me,” Justice said. “You just be careful as hell.”
She put the card in her purse, securing it again with the bungee. “I don’t know how to thank you. There’s no way I would’ve known about the off ramp.”
“You wanna thank me? How about dinner, once you get your friend out of trouble.”
Grace felt like a bird that had flown into a window.
“I know, I know. But I clean up pretty good.” He took a business card from a hip pocket. “Call me when you get this settled.”
She read the card. Justice Walsh, owner, Justice Motors, Chelsea Mass. Pres. Odin Skald MC.
“I’m Grace,” she said.
“I know. Grace Longstreet. Happy to meet you.”
Again, bird met glass. “How do you know me?”
“Longstanding interest in the occult. Anyway, you better get going. I need you to survive this so we can sit down to a nice meal. Good luck, Grace.”
More confused than anything, she focused on kicking the bike to life on the first try. It would make a terrible exit if it took her, like, seven kicks. Goggles in place, she leaned over, flipped the switch to RUN, and booted the engine over.
Chapter 17
From that point on, it felt like Grace moved through a nightmare. She passed the bright red WRONG WAY signs on the off ramp. Though a single lane, there was plenty of room for vehicles to pass. Although with each minute, she felt the walls closing in. Because of the curve, there was no way to see if a car was on its way down. Grace couldn’t figure out whether to take it really slow, or gun it. Luckily, the fact that she’d just accepted a date from a biker mechanic guy distracted her.
Moments later, she idled near the guard rail, trying to catch her breath. Opposing traffic flowed, though slowly. On Grace’s side, there wasn’t a single vehicle. In the distance, she could see helicopters descend. Maneuvering around, she followed U.S. 1 toward the Maurice J. Tobin Memorial Bridge, this time driving the right way.
She passed an on ramp, expecting a state police presence. There was none. At the second on ramp, the highway angled up steeply. Oncoming lanes disappeared beneath. Curving around, the structure of the bridge appeared. Choppers hovered in the surrounding airspace. At this point, the highway was high in the air. Grace could see the tanks of an oil company and another bridge to the left, the Boston skyline dead ahead, a park off to the right.
The lights on police cars flashed in the shadow of the truss. Grace neared, seeing state police leaning on cars or sitting in them. None seemed particularly vigilant. Still, she wasn’t about to charge a police barricade. She slowed the scooter to a stop and walked it.
On the left, orange highway repair barrels blocked a lane. White construction trucks parked there. Grace headed that way. She spotted a Statie with a lot of stripes on his sleeve and moved closer. As she did, the ruckus grew. Helicopter blades battered the air. On the bridge, people shouted in protest over competing music blasting from portable speakers.
“How the hell’d you get up here? We’ve got the on ramps blocked all the way to Revere,” the sergeant shouted.
Grace threw her palms up and shouted back. “I just want to get a friend off the bridge.”
“One less person. Fabulous.” The sergeant looked at his lounging men. “Fine. We’ve given the protesters an hour. Then, either they walk off peacefully, or we escort them to jail. They got—” he checked his watch. “Thirty-six minutes left. It’s dangerous up here, and we got a storm coming in.”
He looked to the east, Grace following his gaze. The happy, fluffy autumn clouds now gathered, glowering and bruised, over the confluence of the Mystic and Chelsea rivers. She felt a chill wind ruffle her power suit. “Yes, sir,” she said.
Corrugated metal had been placed on the girders of the truss above, sheltering the construction. It made the span dark. Through her feet, Grace could feel the vibration of the traffic on the lower span. Wind gave the bridge, despite its size, a slight sway. In front of her was pandemonium.
Some of the protesters acted like protesters, shaking banners at the helicopters and chanting: “Free drug dealers? Hell no! Judge Stanton has got to go!”
Some of the others acted... odd. One group of senior citizens danced. Grace heard the happy flute of “The Hustle.” In relative synchronization, they all did the funky chicken and raised pointed fingers to the sky like John Travolta.
Grace pushed the scooter past the disco protesters. There had to be thousands of people up here. Her head ached from the racket. She spotted a dozen people milling around, doing nothing. Grace headed over to a small group, singling out a skinny guy with a crewcut.
“I’m looking for my friend!” she shouted over the noise. “About five-six, long green hair, looks like Dracula’s daughter?”
“Oh, you mean Jane? Jane’s awesome she’s the one who started all—”
The crewcut guy froze in mid sentence. Grace looked around, confused. All the milling-around people had frozen in place. Gritting her teeth, she maneuvered her way through the thicket of human statues. Damn flash mobs, she thought.
Another group dressed like zombies. Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” blasted from portable speakers. The zombies did the choreography from the music video. A separate group dressed in ball gowns and tuxedos. They all clapped their hands four times in unison. Grace could make out the frenetic accordion of the “Chicken Dance.”
It felt like Grace had stumbled into the mind of a crazy person. More actual protesters stood on the edge of the bridge, holding up signs for the news copters, fists raised. How the hell was she going to find Paisley in the midst of this chaos?
Rolling the scooter along, she cast about for anyone with green hair. She saw a lot of magic unicorns, some purple, a few various shades of blue, but no green. Grace thought about calling her name, but the din atop the bridge would drown her out.
“Attention protesters,” a police bullhorn blatted, “You have thirty minutes.”
The sky darkened, setting sun blotted out by purple clouds. Wind cut fiercely through the triangular spaces of the truss structure. It probably whistled through, but Grace couldn’t hear it. She had to find Paisley fast. She didn’t want to get caught riding a scooter in the rain.
The freezing people unfroze again, milling and chatting as if they hadn’t just stood like statues for a couple minutes. It made it easier to move through the crowd. But Grace found that she had moved past nearly everyone, and hadn’t spotted a single green-haired girl.
She saw a figure moving past one of the parked construction trucks. Grace moved to investigate, but froze more still than even the freezing protesters. A woman walked on the narrow girder of the guard rail. Her arms were out, like a tightrope walker. Grace’s heights phobia kicked her in the stomach. Prickling sweat broke out over her skin.
After a second, she found her voice. “Get off of there! We’re two hundred fifty feet in the air!”
Of course, her voice was swallowed by music, chanting, shouting, the rumble of traffic beneath, the whirling of blades above. Shaking herself, Grace forced herself closer.
“Hey! Hey!”
The woman turned. She wore a black stocking cap and pea coat, face pale and dusted with freckles. Long lashes and heavy brows gave her face a mournful cast. Their eyes met. The girl’s eyes flicked down. “That’s my ride!” When she scowled at Grace, there was no doubt who the girl was.
Paisley.
Even with her green hair hidden, and no makeup, Grace knew. She had finally found her friend. But given Paisley was walking the guard rail of the biggest bridge in New England, she might have found her friend too late.
Chapter 18
“Get down! We have to get out of here!”
Paisley gave her the hairy eyeball. “Why?”
“There
’s a storm coming. And if we don’t leave, the police will arrest us.” There was no point arguing. Grace needed to take another tack. “Do you know who I am?”
“I sure do.”
For a second, Grace’s heart lifted...
“You’re the bitch who stole my ride.”
...And crashed.
“Please come down from there. You know I’m afraid of heights. I can’t stand seeing you up there.”
“Oh, like I’m gonna fall.” A stiff wind blew Paisley’s pea coat. The girl waved her arms in circles, her eyes going wide.
Grace took shuffling, stuttering steps toward her, hands reaching.
Paisley laughed. “Gotcha!”
Fear. Paisley was making Grace afraid. The opposite had to happen if what Sister B said was true. Paisley had to feel fear again if the spell was to be broken. “This bridge isn’t safe, Paize.”
Paisley blew a raspberry. “C’mon. It’s rock solid.”
“Then what are all those construction trucks doing here?”
Gazing to the right, Paisley took in the trucks, the orange and white barrels. She turned back to Grace, features smug. “Maintenance.”
“Of course they are. This thing is rusted out. Just look at the girder you’re standing on. And it’s shaking, swaying. Can’t you feel it?”
Now, doubt suffused Paisley’s pale features, if only for a moment. She glared at Grace. “Oh, c’mon. This is the freakin Maurice J. Tobin Memorial Bridge. It’s a landmark.”
Grace thought she was getting to her friend. “Sure it’s a landmark. Because this bridge is nearly seventy years old.”
Paisley had no response.
Grace pushed. “And speaking of seventy, in the ‘70s, a truck crashed on the lower deck, and collapsed the upper deck. It took months to fix a simple traffic accident! This thing isn’t safe.”
Worry etched Paisley’s forehead. “It is kinda swaying in the breeze, isn’t it?”
“And shaking.”
The Sinister Secrets of the Enchanting Blaze Page 7