I shifted my eyes up from the toes of my boots, and nodded my head. As I pointed toward the back yard, I tried to explain my other need.
“I uhhm,” I murmured as I wagged my finger toward the fence.
Her eyes widened slightly and she stood waiting patiently for me to continue.
“Yes?” she said, attempting to get me to continue.
I shook my head and lowered my hand to my side.
“Nevermind,” I said. “Thank you for your time.”
“The library has internet. You might try, maybe you can find something about her there,” she said as I turned away.
I glanced over my shoulder and tried my best to smile. “Thank you.”
The time I had spent in prison, away from any means of technology had left my mind - and me - in the stone ages. Something as simple and common as the internet had escaped me as even being a possibility. I hadn’t stroked the keys on a computer in almost ten years, and as far as I knew, they didn’t even exist. Her very kind and sure to be useful suggestion had me feeling like a complete fool.
I sat on the bike and watched as she shut the door. After starting the engine and riding half way around the block, I pulled over, parked, and removed my leather gloves from the bedroll. I pulled the gloves onto my hands, clenched my fists a few times, and walked up the driveway of a home I didn’t immediately recognize.
After jumping over their fence and into their yard, I walked confidently to the far side of the fence and lifted myself over it and into the easement. A few more steps and I climbed over the wooden security fence and into the adjoining yard.
I stood and stared.
Right where I had planted it, it remained. Now three times larger than when I had last seen it, the rose bush completely covering the trellis. I glanced around the yard, stooped down, and walked immediately behind it for cover.
After gripping the base of the bush with my gloved hands, I pulled for all I was worth. Although it moved slightly, it didn’t uproot itself at all. I bent at the knees, gripped a little tighter, and thought of the day they were screaming at Emily in the living room, guns drawn and acting like the jack-booted thugs they really were.
I straightened my knees, pulled with every ounce of muscle I had worked ten years to develop, and growled from deep within my lungs.
Slowly, the bush lifted from the earth and snapped free of the soil. I set the large ball of roots to the side, leaned down, and dug in the soft soil of the large void. After a few seconds, the green plastic of the box I had buried was right below the tips of my fingers. After I brushed the dirt free of the box, I lifted it from the hole, hoping the rubber-gasketed weather-proof box was as good in real-life as the advertisements claimed.
I tucked the box under my arm, walked to the fence, and tossed it over into the easement. After climbing over the two remaining fences, I walked to my bike and removed the tool kit from under the seat. I carefully worked the screwdriver against the dirt-covered latches for a few minutes, and they eventually popped free. Eager to look inside, I shoved the screwdriver into my front pocket, opened the box, and peered inside.
Just the same as the day I left it.
I grinned, glanced up and down the block, and pulled the pistol from the box. It appeared to be as perfect as the day I placed it in the box, which was surprising considering the weather and the amount of time that had passed. I nodded my head in appreciation of the quality of the box I had chosen. I leaned forward and shoved the pistol into the center of the bedroll, removed the magazine, ammunition, and money from the box, and dropped the empty box beside the curb where I was parked.
Realizing I needed to move before I drew any more attention to myself than I already had, I started the bike, pulled from the curb, and twisted the throttle back.
Two more stops, and I’d be ready to hit the open road.
Chapter One Hundred Eighty-Two
JACK
After a knock on the door produced nothing, I rode to the only other place I knew to go. As the building came into view, my heartbeat increased, and I was filled with all of the emotion which had been absent for the last ten years. As the sound of my motorcycle wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, I didn’t expect to raise any suspicion, so I pulled alongside the building and parked.
I pressed the pistol into the front of my jeans, pulled my cut down to cover it, and walked around the side of the building and into the parking lot. As I walked up the drive and toward the open door of the shop, eyes widened and jaws began to drop.
“Killer, I heard you were out, the President of the Selected Sinners called and talked to …”
“Shut the fuck up, Bart,” I demanded.
Sarge locked eyes with me.
Each member who surrounded him immediately stood to the side, exposing him to my approach without any obstructions. Naturally, his hand slowly hovered over the knife he carried underneath his cut.
“Don’t bother,” I said as I lifted my cut slightly, showing him the H&K pistol I carried.
“Listen, Brother…” he began.
“Don’t call me a brother,” I said through my teeth as I took the remaining steps which separated us.
“You abandoned me,” I yelled, “Each and every one of you worthless pricks abandoned me.”
I glanced around the half a dozen members who stood with wide eyes and quickly shifted my gaze to meet Sarge’s.
“Not a fucking goodbye, good luck, not a dollar on my books, and none of you pieces of shit took care of my Ol’ Lady. Shit, you motherfuckers…”
I inhaled a deep breath and realized I was angrier than I could ever remember being. As I exhaled, I leaned forward and swung an uppercut into the bottom of Sarge’s chin. The punch connected perfectly, and sent him back on his heels. As he stumbled and reached for his cut, I slapped his hand away and swung a left hook into his ribs.
He leaned forward and coughed as he tried to catch his breath. Two more carefully positioned punches into his face while he was bent over were all it took.
He fell to the floor of the garage like the piece of shit he truly was.
I shifted my eyes to the men, back toward Sarge, and bent over him as he groaned and attempted to get up. As I pulled the knife from his belt, I hissed my request in his ear.
“Don’t ever let my name pass your lips or I’ll come back and kill the entire bunch of you pricks. Not a threat, you fat prick, it’s a promise. You hear me? A fucking promise,” I seethed.
As I stood up and shoved the knife into my back pocket, I noticed Chili standing wide-eyes and chewing his bottom lip.
“Not a fucking word, you aren’t any better than the rest of these pricks,” I growled.
“Suh…suh…suh…awwe, shit, Killer…I sent…muh…muh…money. Fuh…fuh…four or fuh…five times. Buh…but…it was huh…huh…hard. The A…A…ATF told us if wuh…wuh…we…muh…muh…made contact…”
I waved my hand in his direction and turned away. Part of me felt sorry for him, yet a bigger part felt disgust. I didn’t want excuses or explanations, I wanted satisfaction, and although it might have seemed like a simple solution, I received it.
Chili was one of them, and to me, they were dead. I walked to my bike without turning around. Where I had been for the last ten years, this was the ultimate disgrace. Walking away from a man who challenged you in prison without so much as taking a second glance was perceived as one of the most disrespectful things you could do. It sent a clear message you had not one ounce of fear regarding his ability to harm you.
Although neither Sarge nor the men would understand, I felt satisfied I had said all there was to say. I started my bike, tossed Sarge’s knife in the weeds beside the shop, and pulled out onto the road.
As I twisted the throttle back, I grinned into the wind. It felt great to release my tension. I glanced at my right hand and gazed blankly past it as the wind blew the blood back along the back side of my clenched hand. I twisted the throttle a little further and smiled a smile I hadn’t smil
ed in years.
It felt good.
And I only had one more stop.
Chapter One Hundred Eighty-Three
JACK
I pressed the tips of my fingers against the keys of the keyboard and pressed ‘enter’. It seemed awkward using a computer and I felt an odd guilt, checking over my shoulder as I waited for Google to produce the results of my search.
The search of ‘Emily Stewart’ produced page after page of people, men and women, but none of which were the Emily was searching for. After feeling like an idiot, I narrowed my search with a more specific request.
Emily Stewart restaurant.
Again, Google produced pages and pages of worthless articles, documents, and web pages. I sighed, stared down at the keyboard for a moment, and grinned as I had a revelation.
I pecked at the keyboard, making an even more specific search, placing the quotation marks before and after the phrase I was searching for.
“Emily Stewart’s Restaurant”
My heartbeat increased to steadily as the page opened with the results. I clicked the first option, and fought against every emotion within me as the new page I had opened revealed a photo of Em.
I glanced over my shoulder into the empty library, and upon satisfying myself I wasn’t going to get into trouble for proceeding, turned toward the computer. My throat clenched as I read the article, and breathing became almost impossible. As I listened to my choppy breathing while attempting to keep from losing my complete composure, I read the article.
Albuquerque Sentinel
“Is something wrong?” my lunch companion asked as we sat together enjoying our first visit at Albuquerque’s newly opened Jackson’s, a restaurant owned by a rather eccentric Emily Stewart. The establishment, a fine family dining experience with a few strange twists, sits at the corner of Candelaria Road NE and Highway 85.
I was elsewhere, floating above the clouds, my mouth filled with Dijon mustard infused rosemary-sprinkled chicken unlike anything I had ever had the opportunity to experience.
Yes, experience.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he chuckled.
In many respects, he was right. Emily had just happened by, checking on us, wearing a white apron secured to her waist by a white belt tied in a simple knot. Atop her head, a white chef’s hat with the name “Em” embroidered on the front, she could have passed for a ghost. I pointed down at my plate, and quickly realized I had all but offered him to sample my food. As his eyes did their very best to focus on my plate, I quickly pulled it away and covered it with my forearm.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
I shook my head and carefully selected my next bite, a small sautéed whole new potato.
“Do you find it odd she serves the salads last?” he asked as he placed the menu beside his plate.
Incapable of response, and having had witnessed the establishment’s signature dish first-hand prior to him even attempting to begin his meal, I now knew better than to dismiss anything the breathtakingly beautiful owner chose to do as odd.
I reached for my glass of water…
My heart racing, and filled with pride for Em, I eagerly scanned through the article to see the conclusion of the review.
Determining the tone for a new restaurant can be complicated. As construction expenses increase and ambitions continue to rise, so do the complications. The tone, however, at Jackson’s reveals the ambitious nature of the owner and chef very well.
A meal not to be tasted, but experienced.
Five forks up.
My eyes were welled with tears. I gazed around the library, read the article once more, and stood from the leather chair. Albuquerque was roughly 650 miles away, and would take ten hours on the bike.
Growing up as an orphan, I had never anxiously waited for a birthday or Christmas as a child, and, as a result, waiting had never been a strength of mine. In my former life, waiting ten hours would have killed me.
Having just spent the last ten years in prison, however, provided me with much more patience than I had ever believed I was capable of possessing.
The ten hour ride would be a blessing.
And maybe, just maybe, the ten hours of hot summer wind blowing past my face would dry the tears of pride which were beginning to roll down my cheeks.
Chapter One Hundred Eighty-Four
JACK
As I exited highway 85 on Candelaria road NE, my heart sank. The only restaurant at the intersection was clearly marked Ruby’s. I sat at the traffic light, exhausted, hot, disappointed, and still slightly hopeful. As the red light switched to green, I released the clutch and rode along the access road and into the parking lot.
I parked the bike, stretched my legs and admired the scenery. In the bottom of a valley, Albuquerque sat at the base of the mountains surrounding the city, and from where I was standing, was quite beautiful. I found it as no wonder Emily had chosen the area for her restaurant.
As I walked toward the restaurant, it dawned on me that although I had made no advancements in my life, the clock in the world of the civilians had continued to tick at the same pace the entire time I was away. Emily had lived a life of almost ten years, and it was quite possible anything could have happened in her life; marriage and children included.
Prepared for any and all things I exposed myself to, I opened the door and walked inside. I was immediately met by a Hispanic woman in her mid-thirties wearing a colorful apron and a huge grin.
“One?” she asked.
I began to speak, and instead changed my mind and nodded my head. “Yes, one.”
I glanced around the rather small and extremely colorful restaurant and tried to imagine Emily gracefully walking about, her brown hair confined inside a hair net, wearing a chef’s hat and feeling as proud as a peacock.
“Follow me,” she said as she grabbed a menu and turned away.
“Sit anywhere you like,” she said as she waved her hand toward the empty restaurant.
My stomach told me it was time to eat, but my watch confirmed it was only 10:30 am, certainly not a time most people were prepared to eat lunch. I graciously accepted the menu, ordered a glass of water, and began to scan the menu for something I recognized. After a few moments, she returned with a small pad of paper and a pen.
“Ready?” she asked, her voice carrying not so much of a hint of accent from her ancestry.
As I began to wonder if she may be American Indian, she grinned and shook her head.
“Not ready?”
“What do you recommend?” I asked.
“Tacos al pastor are really good. The molcajete is good, the…”
“Sounds good, bring me one of each,” I said.
She gazed at me as if I was on fire, staring at my extremely dark and rather sunburnt skin, dirty sweat-stained wife beater, and raccoon-like eyes from wearing my sunglasses for what ended up being twelve hours on the road.
“You want the tacos, and the molcajete bowl?” she asked with wide eyes.
“Sure,” I responded as I handed her the menu.
“Okay…” she said as she turned away.
After a short wait, she brought a bowl fashioned from volcanic rock filled with a tomato soup based dish of shrimp, vegetables, and pieces of hominy. She slid another plate with three tacos filled with small diced pieces of pork beside the large bowl.
“Anything else?” she asked.
I raised my finger in the air. “There is one thing. Wasn’t this place called something else a while back? Jackson’s or something like that?”
She nodded her head. “We’ve been here almost two years.”
Show respect, get respect.
“She had a pretty good chicken dish, but I bet it’s nothing like this,” I said as I nodded my head toward the bowl of soup.
“You have your work cut out for you. You’re big, I hope you’re hungry,” she said with a smile.
“Just passing through again. Been on the road for twelve hours, so yeah, I�
��m hungry,” I said as I reached for my spoon.
As she turned to walk away, I continued.
“Do you know what happened to it? The other place?” I asked as I dipped my spoon into the bowl.
“She moved to Sante Fe and opened a new place,” she responded.
“Ahhh,” I said as I lifted the spoon to my mouth.
I knew little about New Mexico, but I was well aware Sante Fe was north of the city; I had passed it an hour or so before reaching the restaurant. As excited as I was to try to find Emily, I figured the least I could do was finish my meal.
I never really cared much for Mexican food, but the lava rock bowl filled with soup and my empty stomach were quickly changing my mind. After enjoying each and every drop of the soup, I ate the three tacos and all of the garnishments spread artistically around the plate.
As I relaxed in the booth and slowly slipped into a light sleep, the sound of a set of car keys jingling caused me to jump from my seat. I glanced around the restaurant, muscles tense, prepared to run.
A lone Hispanic man with a cowboy hat sauntered in and sat at the bar.
A sound I doubted I’d ever again become accustomed to, keys jingling were the tell-tale sign of being approached by the guards in prison. Partially worn on the utility belt as an audible warning of their approach, and more than likely used as a deterrent to violence, the keys rattled with each step the guard took toward the cellblock, warning the inmates to run like roaches and return to acceptable behavior before the arrival of the prison’s only policing force.
I wiped the sweat from my face and gazed around the restaurant. The waitress grinned as she walked toward me with a pitcher of water.
“Sleepy man,” she said.
“Guess so,” I responded as I moved my empty glass toward the edge of the table.
“You done, or you want more?” she asked.
“Done,” I said.
“How long you been out?” she asked.
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