by Cheree Alsop
Despite my misgivings, I finally consented. “All right. I’ll check it out tonight. We’ve got to stop these guys.” Frustration filled me that they had caused so much damage.
“You mean it?” Martin asked with hope in his voice.
I nodded. “I’ll find a way to stop them. I promise.”
He nodded. “I’m glad I know the Black Rider’s on our side.”
“He always was,” I reminded him.
He smiled. “We should probably concentrate on macroeconomics. Your obvious death wish is greatly interfering with my ability to teach you anything,” He thumbed through the book to the right chapter.
I chuckled. “Sorry.”
Martin cleared his throat. “All right, so do you understand how to manipulate the basic aggregate supply, aggregate demand model of the macroeconomy?”
“Did you just speak English?” I asked.
He rolled his eyes. “Fine. Let’s start at the beginning.”
I PULLED UP BEHIND the Sage Horseshoe and left my motorcycle in the shadows. I opened the back door and made my way inside. I was glad to see Roger, Martin’s dad, behind the bar. His black eye looked painful. He looked up when I leaned against the counter. His eyes widened and he gave a minute nod.
A tingle of warning ran down my spine. Before I could react, something slammed against the back of my shoulders. I hit the bar and slumped to the ground.
I came to with the feeling of being carried. “Put him on the table,” Roger said.
Rough hands set me down.
“Let’s see who we’re dealing with,” Roger said. Fingers fumbled for my chin strap. I tried to struggle, but whatever had struck my back had left me in a daze.
“You hit ‘im hard,” someone said.
“Serve him right, hittin’ yur place twice,” another voice growled.
My helmet was pulled free. Roger swore.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Rick Ashby’s nephew,” Roger replied. “Lock the door.”
I heard someone close and lock the front and back doors to the bar. I tried to force my eyes open, but my body refused to respond. My back ached. I had to struggle to breathe.
“He can’t be the one who hit us,” Roger continued.
“Why not?” a gruff voice demanded.
“He works for Jagger at the junkyard. Jagger says he’s a good kid,” Roger replied.
“So does that make him the real Black Rider?” another voice asked.
Roger let out a slow breath. “There’s one way to find out. Martin said Adam patched up the real Black Rider after he detained two of the copycats behind Bailey’s. Apparently one of them was good with a knife.”
One of the men snorted. “You mean Adam knew who the Black Rider was all along?”
Roger gave a small chuckle. “Martin was a bit sore about that. The battle in our house last night could have started World War III.”
“So knife wounds, huh?” the gruff voice said. Hands unzipped my riding jacket.
“A bulletproof vest,” someone noted.
“After what he’s been through, can’t say I blame him,” Roger replied in a quiet voice.
The vest was unfastened and lifted away. I wanted to fight them, to defend myself and my identity, but I couldn’t get my mind clear enough to protest. My head pounded and my body ached, refusing to respond to my will.
Roger sucked in a breath when my vest was clear. “Look at that,” he said. Several voices swore. I wondered if the knife wounds were bleeding again. Cassidy would have my hide.
“It’s the real Black Rider,” the gruff voice said.
Hands closed the vest much more gently than it had been opened.
“You can’t tell anyone,” Roger said in a stern voice.
“We won’t,” someone promised. Several other voices echoed the sentiment.
A wet cloth was set on my forehead. A chill ran down my spine and I was able to open my eyes. I blinked, trying to focus on the faces around me.
“Give him some space,” Roger commanded.
I tried to sit up, but Roger held me down. “Take it easy a sec,” he recommended. “Van hit you pretty hard.”
“Tell me about it,” I replied, my voice raspy.
Several chuckles answered.
I sat up with a hand to my head. Roger held out a cup of water. I drank it, then looked around at the small gathering.
The men who watched me were mostly the regulars I had seen the last time I was in the Sage Horseshoe, looking for Magnum. Their faces showed mixed expressions—a few worried, several with marked interest, and two in the back who barely looked up from their beers.
“What made you come here, with all that’s going on?” Roger asked.
I took a deeper, testing breath. My back throbbed where it had been hit. I glanced over and saw a baseball bat on the bar near where I had stood. My ribs didn’t feel broken, but I would definitely have bruises. I let out the breath slowly. “I was tracking down the copycat riders. I thought you might have some more information that Martin didn’t write down.”
“He was pretty thorough,” Roger answered.
I gave a small smile. “It’s a talent of his. I think everyone in Sparrow was ready to kill me before he wrote that last article.”
“They were,” Roger replied with a chuckle. “Good thing you got smart and figured out who you could trust.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, a lot of good that did me.”
Laughs sounded.
“We can help,” the gruff voice said.
I glanced over to see a man with a thick gray beard and mustache. He looked like the closest cousin to a grizzly that I had ever seen.
“I don’t want anyone to get hurt,” I told him.
He grinned, showing jutting front teeth. “Not like we’re going to give you much of a choice. We can’t have some kid fighting our battles.”
I grinned back. “I’ve been doing a pretty good job this far.”
He nodded. “That you have. Now it’s time you got a little help.”
I DROVE TO THE junkyard, feeling like I had been hit by a truck. I chuckled at the thought that I was actually hit by a man named Van. Irony had a sick sense of humor. I looked up to see Jagger watching me as I climbed carefully off the bike.
“Rough night?” he asked. There was a hint of humor in his voice.
“You spoke to Roger,” I guessed.
He held up a cell phone that looked even more archaic than mine. “He’s an old friend.”
I nodded. “That’s what he said about you. Thanks to you, I didn’t get my head smashed in.”
“Yeah, he mentioned tha’, too,” Jagger replied. “Good thing I tol’ Sally you were a good kid.”
“Thought you liked her too much to lie to her,” I said. I laughed when he tried to swing at me with his crowbar cane. The thing was too heavy for him to actually make it an effective attack, but my body ached enough that he came close.
“Next time I’ll tell ‘em ta ‘ave at ya!” he threatened.
“It might be safer for them than becoming the Black Rider’s unofficial alert squad.”
He peered at me. “That’s what they’re doin’?”
I sighed. “They wouldn’t listen to reason. Apparently, all your friends have now staked out sections of town with the plan to call me if anything unusual happens.”
“Isn’t that ta police’s job?” Jagger questioned.
“That’s what I told them. You have very stubborn friends,” I told him with a hint of frustration.
He grinned, revealing gaps where teeth were supposed to be. “Can’ say I’m disappointed there.”
“Where are you going?” I asked, surprised to see him head to the green junker truck he kept barely running for his trips to town.
“Got ta head ta the bar,” he called over his shoulder. “Fortunately, et’s in my section ta stakeout.”
“Not you too,” I said in exasperation.
He winked at me and started the engine. I could only watch as
he drove up the long dirt road.
“EVERYONE’S GONE INSANE,” I muttered as I turned off the four-wheeler.
The screen door to the Ashby house flew open and Mom stormed out. “Knife wounds?” she said with real fury in her tone. “You have knife wounds?”
I was tempted to start the four-wheeler again and head back to the junkyard.
Mom speared me with a look as if she guessed my thoughts. “Everyone at Sparrow Market was raving about the article in the Bulldog Bulletin. The Black Rider apparently spoke to a reporter about a fight he got in that left him with knife wounds down his chest.”
“Did he mention that the Black Rider caught two of the copycats?” I asked in an effort to soften the blow. I had the copy of the article Martin had given me in my backpack, but hadn’t read it yet.
“Kelson, don’t even try,” Mom said in her tone that warned of my near proximity to death. “Show me your chest, now.”
“Usually girls ask a little nicer—”
“Kelson!” Mom shouted, her face red.
I gritted my teeth and lifted up my shirt.
“That’s it,” Mom declared. “We’re moving back to California this instant. Go inside and get packed.”
“Mom, it’s not as bad as it looks,” I protested.
“It looks like you got sliced to pieces and hid it from your mother,” she replied.
“It, uh, might be how it looks,” I replied with a grimace. “I just didn’t want to worry you.”
Mom stepped closer. “What worries me is that you hid it from me. What if you were dying or something?”
“I think you’d know,” I replied with a hopeful smile.
She shook her head. “I can’t take this anymore, Kelson. We are done here. You can’t keep putting your life on the line. You’re a kid. You need to be a kid.”
“I’m not a kid, Mom,” I pointed out.
Her gaze glittered with moisture. “You are a kid, Kelson.”
Tears of frustration, of pain, of heartache burned at the backs of my eyes. Words burst free that I had been holding in for a long time. “I’m not a kid, Mom. I stopped being a kid the day Zoey died. She called my name, and I couldn’t save her.” I took a shuddering breath. “I stopped being a kid with the reality that life is terminal. I have no say in how I die—I only have a say in how I live, and I’m living for Zoey.” I didn’t know when the tears had broken free. The evening breeze brushed against my cheeks, cooling them.
Mom shook her head. Moonlight caught in the tear tracks on her face. “Zoey wouldn’t want you to get hurt,” she said softly. She set a hand on my cheek.
I covered her hand with my own. “Zoey wouldn’t want other people to get hurt either. I’m doing what I can, Mom. When I moved here, I was so stuck, so frustrated with what I hadn’t been able to do. I couldn’t stop Dad from leaving us. I couldn’t save Zoey and Jeff from the warehouse fire. I couldn’t live in our apartment with the reminders that she was gone. And when I got here, I couldn’t find myself.”
My voice dropped as I forced myself to speak past the tightness in my throat. “I was lost, Mom. I didn’t know where I was going, and I didn’t care. I had no purpose.” I met her gaze. “I have a purpose now.”
“What if it kills you?” Mom asked as more tears broke free and slid down her cheeks. She lowered her hand, and her fingers twined together in front of her.
“I’m doing everything I can to stay safe.”
“It’s not good enough,” Mom replied. “I’m afraid the police are going to show up at my door and tell me you took it too far and I’ll never see my little boy again.”
“I don’t know if you see me when I’m here,” I replied. I had said it, the truth, the thing that made me reluctant to accept Deputy Addison, that ate at me whenever I saw Mom happy. I hadn’t been able to forgive her for sending me away to Sparrow. When I lost Zoey, she had taken everything else away from me—my school, my friends, any semblance of a normal life that might have made it possible for me to live again as myself. When she sent me away to Sparrow, I had also lost my mom.
“What do you mean by that?” she asked, though I could tell by the guilt in her tone that she knew.
I tried to put how I felt into words. “If I wasn’t getting in trouble all the time, it would be easier for you to pretend I didn’t exist. Maybe that’s what you want.”
I could see the hurt in Mom’s eyes and I hated myself for it, but I couldn’t take back the truth of my words. I swallowed against the knot in my throat.
“I could never forget my little boy,” she replied in a voice just above a whisper. She looked at me, really looked at me, for what felt like the first time in forever. “You’re still my little boy,” she said. “I remember you running out into the rain as a toddler, telling me you were going to scare the clouds away so I would let you go play.” A hint of a smile showed at the corners of her eyes. She reached up and pushed a strand of hair off my forehead. “I remember bribing you with a sucker so you would hold still while I cut your hair. The cowlicks are still so stubborn.”
I couldn’t help the small smile that grew on my face at her words. “You said girls love boys with curls.”
“It worked with Maddy,” she said.
“Yes, it did,” I agreed with a little laugh.
She touched my cheek again. “I knew those dimples would be trouble. Even as a little boy, you could charm your way out of anything.” She shook her head. “I still have a hard time staying mad at you.”
“You don’t have to.”
Sadness swept her gaze. “I do, Kelson. A mother’s job is to worry about her children, to hope that they will be happy, to help when they get stuck and don’t know where to go or what to do.”
“I know what I’m doing,” I pointed out gently.
“That’s what worries me,” Mom replied. “Every time I see you hurt, I feel like I’m failing you as a mother.”
I took her hand. “When Zoey died, I felt like I failed you as a son. Sending me here made it that much worse.” I could see the heartbreak in her eyes, and I rushed on before she could speak. “Being with Maddy and seeing all she went through when her mother died helped me realize that sometimes we don’t have control over the things we thought we did, and sometimes when people die, there’s no way to explain why.” My voice cracked. “Though we might try to find the reasons over and over again.”
I took a deep breath, pushing down the overwhelming emotions. “I need to stop these copycat riders from destroying Sparrow, Mom. I feel like there’s something I’m missing, and until all the copycats have been found, Sparrow won’t be safe. If I disappear from the picture, there will be no one else to protect the town.”
“That’s what the police are for,” Mom said, but her tone was soft as if she was trying to understand.
“There wouldn’t be copycat riders if it wasn’t for me. I need to help them get figure this out. It’s something I just have to do.” I held her hand in both of mine. “I need you to let me do this, Mom.”
“I can’t,” she said, her words tight with despair. “If I lost you along with Zoey, I would have no purpose left on this earth.”
I fell silent. Her words cut through me, reminding me that while I was her son, I could never fully understand the love and drive of a mother to raise her children and do the best she could for them. I knew guilt ate at her for Zoey’s death, just as it did me—it took that moment to make me realize that perhaps her anguish was even greater than my own.
I caught her up in a hug. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I said, my voice thick with tears. “I’m so sorry.”
Her arms wrapped around me. “I just don’t know what else to do,” she said with a sob.
I never knew until Zoey’s death that mothers could break down. Even when Dad left, Mom had hidden her sorrow from us. Losing Zoey had left a void in her just as it had in me. “We’re going to make it, Mom,” I whispered.
She nodded. Tears soaked through the shoulder of my shirt.
&
nbsp; I didn’t know how to give her what she needed. I was unavailable as a son. I had avoided her just as she avoided me. We reminded each other too much of all that had happened. We needed to start over, to become a family again.
The answer was in front of me. My chest tightened at the thought, but I knew it was the right decision. “When we find whoever is behind the copycat riders, maybe I can slow down on the Black Rider stuff.”
Mom looked up at me. “Are you sure?”
I nodded. Somehow, it felt good to take a step back. “Yeah, I’m sure. Maybe I can make a difference in Sparrow some other way.”
“You could play football,” she suggested with a teasing smile.
“Ha ha, very funny,” I replied.
She gave me a searching look. “Are you sure you want to take it easy on the Black Rider stuff, Kelson?”
“I think I need to,” I replied. “For both our sakes. We need to begin a real life here.” I gave her an unyielding look. “But that doesn’t mean I’m giving up my motorcycle.”
“Maybe we can find a way to get your CBR from California,” she suggested.
I smiled at the thought. “I’d like that.”
We walked together to Trouble’s makeshift pen. The little calf mooed at the sight of Mom. “He sure likes you,” I said.
She smiled. “That’s because he knows I love him.” She scratched the top of his head. The little calf leaned against the fence as she rubbed his ears. “Don’t you, my little troublemaker? You know how much I love you, yes, you do.”
I had to laugh at her baby talk. “He’s a cow, Mom.”
“He’s a baby cow,” she corrected. She leaned down and rubbed his chin. “Just a widdle teeny tiny cow, aren’t you, Trouble wubble?”
“Mom, you’re embarrassing him,” I said.
She laughed and joined me on my way to the house. We were almost to the door when she said, “What do you think of Wayne?”
“Who’s Wayne?”
She nudged my shoulder with her own. “Deputy Addison.”
“His first name is Wayne?” I asked as I quickly thought of what my answer to her first question should be.
“Yes, Kel. What do you think? Honest opinion.”