by Nicole Fox
The sky was just beginning to lighten at the very eastern edge when Snow announced that they were closing in on Spike’s location. Spike had apparently slowed down significantly since they started tracking him. Chopper wondered if he was planning to turn and fight once they got close enough. He prepared himself for the possibility. Of course, all his men, including Snow and Alexei, were armed, and this time he made sure they were outfitted with vests as well, just in case. As long as Chopper had anything to say about it, the Savage Outlaws would never lose another gunfight. Hell, if he could help it, he’d never lose another man at all. His best friends had paid the highest price. He had to make sure it wasn’t all in vain.
The wind whipped against Chopper’s helmet, yet more protection against a surprise bullet, if Spike chose to open fire. His headlamp lit up the road before him in a long white cone. At this hour, the highway was still sparsely populated, but Chopper still ran through his options in his mind, trying to preemptively minimize the likelihood of civilian casualties. A high-speed chase would do no good; he might as well just call the cops out and turn himself in. He knew from experience, also, that motorcycle chases had extreme potential to get out of hand very quickly, and in the dark, would most likely end in disaster. So, that was out. He could simply tail Spike until he got to wherever he was trying to go, but Chopper had no idea what destination he had in mind, and he didn’t much feel like putting himself at the mercy of a possible very long road trip.
Which left, what? Chopper frowned. He could run him off the road, if he did it very carefully in a spot where there was a wide shoulder and no dangerous guardrail. Chopper had to admit that the longer he spent pursuing Spike, the less appealing it seemed to just kill him right away. There was something morbidly fascinating about his descent into madness. Chopper wanted a chance to see where his old rival was, to try to understand what he was thinking. Whether or not he’d actually get that chance, he didn’t know. But the old strategy of “murder first, question later” hadn’t really served the Outlaws well as of late Chopper reckoned that he’d gotten way more out of Snow and Alexei with pizza and civil conversation than he would’ve through a good old-fashioned beating.
Not that good old-fashioned beatings were off the table. He and his men were still Savage Outlaws at heart, and old habits die hard. He could not be faulted for any non-lethal injuries Spike Lawler may or may not sustain in the course of his apprehension. And if he fought back, which was nearly a given, then all bets were off. Chopper didn’t necessarily want to kill him, but he still would, if that’s what it came down to.
“We’re gaining,” Snow hollered over the sound of the engines. “Keep an eye out. Phone says he’s just up ahead.”
Since they were alone on the road for the moment, Chopper flicked on his high beams, drenching the highway with hard white light for a split second. He shut the beams off as quickly as he had activated them, but in that instant before the light receded, his sharp eye caught a glimpse of a silhouette further up the road. Too far away to say for sure, but Chopper’s instincts told him it was Spike. He motioned to Snow and Alexei that he was going to gun it, then dropped his foot down on the gas. The custom-built machine beneath him, lovingly pieced together from the best parts acquired over his years at the top of the Outlaws, surged forward, devouring the pavement. The lights along the side of the highway became a steady stream, the dark trees running together in one great mass. There was nothing in Chopper’s world except the sound of his bike and the invisible target ahead of him.
It wasn’t long before Spike’s cloak of shadow fell away in the face of Chopper’s headlamp. Chopper could see him clearly now, clad only in a dirty t-shirt and a pair of torn up jeans, his long, scraggly hair streaming jaggedly behind him. He glanced back once, and his face was almost unlike a human’s face: two wild eyes set deep into an impossibly fragile frame. The beard on his chin and jaw looked mangy and unkempt. Spike’s expression didn’t change when he saw who was following him. He turned around and leaned into his ride, spurting ahead a bit. Chopper kept pace easily. He was perfectly happy to run Spike into the ground; he was quite sure he’d win any endurance test hands down. He guessed that Spike’s bike, though it was a fine piece of work in its own right, hadn’t been held to the rigorous standard of maintenance that Spike had insisted on in better days. This game was Chopper’s to lose.
Spike knew it too — there was no way he couldn’t. He was no longer Chopper’s equal. His only advantage was in sheer desperation, the fierce strength of a trapped and wild thing. Whatever substances were coursing through his system had equal opportunity to be a blessing for him, or a bane. A slim chance existed that he could pull one over on Chopper by invoking the element of surprise and outwitting him outright, but that was only good if it mattered.
Spike had no idea how many Outlaws were screaming down the road at him. Could be one. Could be a hundred. His addled mind spun in circles, trying to gain purchase on an idea — any idea. What he wanted right now was not to fight Chopper Slater. He had decided weeks ago that it would be fine if he never laid eyes on Slater again. No, he just wanted to tie up the one remaining loose end so that he could start over as if nothing ever happened. Mongols? What Mongols? The bastards were dead to him now. And if he could get to where he was going, they’d all be dead for good.
Chopper fell back, temporarily satisfied with the knowledge that Spike could not escape by speed alone. He glanced at Lawler’s former allies as they drew abreast of him, lifted his hand, and made a pinching motion with his fingers. They nodded.
“Let’s rush him,” Chopper called. “Before he has time to think.”
At once, the three men gunned their engines, and their bikes leapt forward into the slowly dissipating darkness. Spike came into view, still doggedly rushing on, and his former compatriots pulled out ahead of him on either side, preparing to cut him off. Chopper couldn’t tell from behind if Lawler knew what was coming, but it was of no consequence either way; he made no move to stop it.
Chopper eased up into Spike’s lane, gradually closing the gap between them until their knees came within a few inches of touching. Spike, lost in his own little world, was startled to find Chopper so near, and automatically attempted to get clear of him. But Snow and Alexei were there to pinch him off, forcing him to slacken his speed and allow Chopper to catch up. Slowly, methodically, Chopper nudged his quarry over until Spike was riding on the very edge of the road, the grass slapping against his wheels. The two leaders exchanged a glance, and in that instant, Chopper saw something he had never witnessed before in Spike Lawler’s eyes: fear.
“Back off, you sonofa--!” Spike yelped impotently. He threw a wayward punch in Chopper’s direction, but all it did was unsettle his balance. The bike wobbled ominously, and so did Spike. “Fuck!” He grabbed the handlebars with both hands, wrenching the vehicle straight again. “Get the hell out of here!” he shouted. His voice was high and strained, a far cry from the sneering composure in which he’d always taken so much pride.
“I don’t give a fuck about you, Slater! You know that? Keep Kelsey. I don’t care. Fucking marry her if you want!” His front tire slipped off the pavement entirely, and he put on his brakes, panicking a little. “Just leave me alone! Leave me alone!”
Chopper knew no such mercy. He braked too, keeping Spike effectively corralled between him and the strip of brush that ran parallel to the roadway. Up ahead, Snow and Alexei waited, watching for Spike to try and make a run for it. But Chopper understood that it was too late for that. The game was almost finished. All he had to do now was secure the kill. He shifted on his motorcycle and kicked Spike in the leg, causing him to topple over into the grass. The bike skidded for a few feet, and Chopper was sure it didn’t feel nice, but if it were an accident, Spike could get up and walk away. As it was, he lay underneath his bike, his body limp, eyes open, staring at the sky. Chopper parked. He walked slowly toward Spike Lawler’s prone form, and for a brief moment, wondered if he had actually mana
ged to die like that. But when he leaned over to peer into Spike’s face, the glassy eyes blinked. Spike’s sunken chest heaved with each breath.
“I am going to keep Kelsey, as a matter of fact,” Chopper said conversationally. Spike’s eyeballs swiveled in their sockets. “But you still have to pay for your sins, Spike.” He gripped the handlebars of Spike’s ride and lifted it off of him.
Lawler didn’t move. He lay in the exact same position, staring up at Chopper from the ground.
“Just do it,” he growled. “You won, didn’t you? This is winning, isn’t it? So kill me.” An eerie smile made its way onto his mouth. “There’re no more Mongols left, except one. I did that work for you. In a way, you owe me.”
Chopper laughed. “I don’t owe you shit.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out his gun. His thumb cocked the safety back. “You ready, Lawler?”
Spike’s grin widened. “Does it matter?”
Chopper raised the pistol, steadying its barrel right between Spike’s eyes. But as he prepared to pull the trigger, a splash of familiar blue and red lights in the distance stopped him, backed by the wails of sirens. He lowered the gun, and after a second of assessment, he replaced it inside his jacket. “Look at that,” he said casually. “Guess my plot’s been foiled.”
Spike craned his head around to get a glimpse of the fast-approaching police cars. “I’d rather die,” he told Chopper.
“Oh, really? Then maybe you deserve to live after all.” Chopper moved away, back toward his bike. He was a little surprised that it had taken the police so long to show, given how much time he’d spent flying at breakneck speeds down a regulated roadway. By the time they were close enough to see the scene in front of them, he stood with his hands in his pockets beside his bike. An unfortunate witness, as far as they knew. Snow and Alexei were nowhere to be seen; Chopper assumed they’d split as soon as the cops became a factor. That was fine with him — he’d gotten what he needed. They owed him nothing else.
The first car pulled up fast, the door opening almost before it stopped. Chopper watched calmly as a tall, lanky man emerged from the passenger’s seat, hand on his gun. “Police!” he bellowed, his voice surprisingly authoritative. “Put your hands where I can see them!” Dutifully, Chopper raised his hands. He let them pat him down. He made no fuss when they found and took his gun. They turned him away from Spike before he could see him apprehended, but he could hear it, and that was just as good.
Chopper was placed in the back of the first police car. He waited quietly. Outside, the scene seemed surreal as it moved around him. Chopper leaned back in the seat. They hadn’t cuffed him, so he really had nothing to complain about. He felt a sense of peace growing within him. One way or another, Spike Lawler had gotten himself taken care of. It wasn’t the way Chopper might have chosen to go a few months ago, but that was all right. Now there would be no case against him. He had no extra blood on his hands. He could go through the motions, and at the end of what was promising to be a very long day, he’d go home to Kelsey and everything would be in order.
The car door opened, and the lanky cop slid into the driver’s seat. “Good morning, sir,” he said, his voice smooth and affable. “My name is Detective Wilde. Can I ask you to come down to the station and give me a statement?” The two men locked eyes in the rearview mirror.
Chopper smiled. “Yes, sir,” he answered. “I got nothing else to do today.”
Epilogue
Kelsey’s phone rang in the late hours of the evening, a week or so after Spike Lawler’s arrest had been plastered all over the front page of the newspaper. She’d been as shocked as anyone to hear of the multitude of direct murder charges, but slightly less shocked by the story of how he was captured on the side of the highway after a non-lethal crash that was witnessed by Jesse Slater. Slater had given his statement willingly to the police over a period of nearly fourteen hours, detailing his lengthy relationship with the suspect and disclosing what limited knowledge he had of any such murder plots. At this time, no connection could be found between Slater and the “Mongol Murders,” as they had already been dubbed by the press. It was all Kelsey could ask for, really.
Chopper had walked in the door around nine at night, ragged around the edges, but as serene as a Buddhist monk. He smelled like stale sweat and cigarette smoke, which he attributed to the room in which his interview took place. He got in the shower, Kelsey heated up some food, and over a belated dinner, he told her everything that had transpired from the moment he left the bedroom in the wee hours of the morning. The police were keen on finding out if he had participated in the killings, if he had signed off on them, if he and Spike Lawler had struck some kind of crazy deal. The answer to all of these questions was a firm “No.” As hard as they tried to press him, each time they came up with nothing, and so eventually, they had to let him walk.
This was about when Chopper described the interviewing officer, and Kelsey realized that it was Detective Wilde. She’d ended up telling him about the renewed investigation into Hannah’s murder as a result. And now, Detective Wilde’s number was lighting up her screen. She answered. “Hello?”
“Hi, Kelsey, this is Detective Wilde, from the precinct. Do you have a minute?”
Kelsey blinked. “Sure. What’s up?” Beside her in the bed, Chopper shot her a quizzical glance. She shrugged. He turned the TV down.
“Are you sitting down?” Wilde asked. There was an audible smile on his lips.
Kelsey hesitated. “Yes …” She dared not get her hopes up, but she could feel them rising in her chest. Unconsciously, she reached for Chopper’s hand, wrapping her fingers around his and squeezing tightly.
“We were contacted by an individual with links to an unrelated case earlier today.” Wilde paused. “He just confessed to the murder of your sister.”
Kelsey almost dropped the phone. “What?” she asked hesitantly. “Is that true?” Her hands shook so much that Chopper gently reached over and held the phone for her.
“It’s true,” Wilde confirmed. “I was there. Congratulations, Kelsey. We got him.”
Kelsey wanted to say something; she wanted to say a lot of things, but all her words ended up smothered by a torrent of tears. Somehow, she choked out a thank you that wasn’t nearly as heartfelt as Wilde deserved. The detective promised to let her know about trial dates, and he promised to send her a picture of the killer, at her request.
The man’s name was one she recognized from the media coverage of Spike Lawler’s killings: Henry Rawl, the last Mongol standing. He had fled the city, or so he claimed, to avoid the fallout that he was sure would come after word of the killing got out. And when his old leader Spike Lawler turned up captured, it changed something in Rawl’s hard heart. He began to grow a conscience.
Kelsey was positive some of that was just Rawl attempting to capitalize on the pitying impulses of the public, thinking that if he came back and showed remorse for his crimes in the shadow of Spike’s atrocities, he might be let off easy. At the beginning of her journey, that might have bothered her a lot. But now, basking in the glory that came with finally knowing as much of the whole story as she possibly could, Rawl’s confession was enough. She felt some restless shadow within her settle down to sleep at last. A great weight lifted itself from her heart. She had done right by her little sister at last. She had done everything she could, and she had received her answers. When the call was over, she turned toward Chopper and buried her face in his chest for a minute, breathing in the comfort of his presence. He rubbed the back of her neck until she lifted her head and looked up at him.
“Now what?” she asked, a little smile tilting the corner of her mouth.
He kissed her forehead. “What do you mean?”
“Well…” Kelsey shrugged. “Spike’s in jail. I know who killed my sister. Who are we now? What do we do?” She meant it half as a joke, but the more she thought about it, the more she realized how much her relentless pursuit of the truth had defined her. With that c
hapter finally written and tucked away, she had no idea where to go next. As painful as Hannah’s death had been, it provided her life with a structure that was suddenly missing.
“Here’s an idea,” Chopper whispered, his lips against Kelsey’s neck. She shivered, resting her hands on his strong forearms. He slid his fingers teasingly under the hem of her shirt. “Why don’t we celebrate?” Before she could say anything, their lips met, and Kelsey decided it would be okay to stop thinking for a while.
# # #
The buzz of the tattoo gun was like a fly droning around Kelsey’s torso — a fly that stung like crazy. She lay on her back in the parlor chair, trying to keep her mind off the pain. “Hey,” she said, running her finger along the outside of Chopper’s wrist. “Tell me something.”
“Tell you what?” he asked, looking at her with mild bemusement.
“Anything. Just say words so I don’t have to think about how many needles are poking me right now.”