It was why Sidonie had wanted this career, and the blasé attitudes some of the caseworkers had scared her. She understood needing to build up some armor so that she could get through days like today without tequila as a palliative, but she never wanted to forget that there were human beings on all sides of her cases.
Even if they were big, terrifying, tattooed human beings who threw furniture at her.
Dina was standing at the food table, and when Sidonie came up to her, she smiled broadly and clinked bottles. “Hey, Sid. Long time, no see.”
“Yeah—two whole hours. Seems weird to throw a bash like this on a Thursday. Even if it is the start of our weekend.”
Dina shrugged. “I think Carole keeps them pretty busy on the weekends. She’s a home improvement addict, and now she has this whole new home to improve. Anyway, if you ask me, I’d rather get the obligation party out of the way.” She nodded at Sidonie’s bottle. Which had somehow become empty already. “You driving?”
Sidonie thought about that. She had driven, yes. And she intended to drive home. But her knees already had the telltale tingle that said she was rolling past buzzed down the hill to drunk. “I…guess.”
“Unless that was your last beer, maybe we should drive you home tonight. You can leave that funkadelic thing you drive here.”
She didn’t want it to be her last beer; she was finally feeling like her nerves would stay inside her skin after all. “Are you sure? Don’t you live the opposite direction from me?”
Dina smirked. “We do, but”—she nodded toward her husband, Ron, who was talking with Rex, one of the other caseworkers—“he’s my designated driver, so what do I care?”
Ron looked their way, smiled, and waved. Sidonie waved back. “Okay, thanks. Harry said I could sleep in their guest room if I got too drunk, but that seems weird.”
Dina frowned. “Yeah…don’t do that.”
Her tone made it sound like there was something more than just the awkwardness of passing out at one’s boss’s house in her advice, maybe something like that weird creepy feeling she got from Harry. “Is there something weird…?”
Before she could get further in her question, Dina shook her head abruptly and changed the subject. “You ready to talk about what happened today? Not the scene in the office, but before? That little guy was a mess.”
Yeah, he was. Sidonie had finished her day writing out a full report about the state she’d found little Tucker Van Buren in. Writing it down had etched the memory permanently in her brain and made her realize that every horror she’d ever witness in this job would have to be recorded in that kind of detail and thus forever be a part of her head. And she’d heard some stories making it clear that what she’d experienced today might someday, maybe even soon, be a tiny mark on a vast canvas.
“It was…bad. I thought it was bad. I just…I don’t know. I hate that there was no family and he had to go to strangers.”
“You need to get tougher about that, honey. The Alberts are good people. They’ve been fosters for almost twenty years, and they have a whole file of success stories. That little boy—Tucker?”—Sidonie nodded—“I’m sure he’s having a good night. Better than he would have had at home. It’s easier with the little ones, because they don’t carry their parents’ baggage with them for long.” Dina squeezed her arm. “You did the right thing, Sid. Not that you had much of a choice. That case was tagged for a removal, and the mom knew that she was out of chances.”
Sidonie thought of the furious desperation on the father’s dark-red face and the way he’d just given up and gone pale after he’d blown a fuse. He’d terrified her, but he’d looked terrified, too. And nothing in that thick file indicated that he had ever hurt Tucker or mistreated him in any way. He’d once beaten the mother, though. Badly. And he had been charged with or convicted of about a dozen other nasty, violent crimes.
She’d done the right thing. She had. With a sigh, she glared down at her empty Corona bottle. She needed more liquid forgetfulness.
Dina slid her arm around Sidonie’s. “C’mon. We’ll get drunk and make you forget your shitty first field day. Ron’ll make sure we don’t do anything stupid, and he’ll get us both safely home.”
~oOo~
Three hours and…some…beers later, Ron helped Sidonie up to her front porch. As she fumbled through her keys, he took the ring from her, picked one, tried it, and unlocked her door. As he helped her up the step, he asked, “You got it from here, Sid Vicious?”
He was so nice. “I toooootally do. You’re a nice guy, Ron. A good driver, too.” She patted him on the shoulder—or tried to. She kind of missed, somehow.
He chuckled. “Yeah, okay. Thanks. Do me a favor and have a glass of water before you hit the hay, alright?”
“You betcha. Water. Yep.” That made her think of the water cooler at work, and that made her think about the scary guy who’d thrown it, and that made her think of little Tucker, and she felt pretty sick all of a sudden. “Gotta go. Bye!” She slammed the door and ran to the bathroom. Kind of ran. Caromed, really. But she made it.
When she felt fairly certain that she was finished, and slightly less inebriated, she dragged herself back up to her feet, flushed, brushed her teeth, and slid down the hallway wall to her little kitchen. Without turning on a light, she made her way to the refrigerator and grabbed her filtered pitcher. Maybe a big glass of water right at this very moment wasn’t the best idea on the planet, but it sure sounded nice.
She drank it down and then stood at the sink, deciding how sure she was it would stay down. Pretty sure. Okay. Off to bed, then.
As she sat on the side of her bed, she saw that the message light on her landline phone was flashing. That meant that her father had left her a message—no, two messages. He never called her cell. He was probably the last man on the planet who was afraid of mobile phones. She basically had a landline at all only for him. Groaning, she leaned over and pushed the button. Her father’s musical, slightly accented voice came through the speaker.
Hello, nanu! How are you tonight? How did your field day go? Did you save many babies? He chuckled, thinking he’d made a joke of some sort. Call me and tell me all about your day. I’m thinking of you! Love you!
After the time stamp and beep, his voice returned. Oh! I forgot! There is a new show on the television that I want to watch, but I don’t remember how to do the thing that makes it record when I’m not home. Can you come this weekend?
He knew full well how to work all of his home electronics. He wasn’t a moron. He used complicated electronic equipment every day in his work. He just wanted her to drive all the way to Huntington Beach to spend the day. He could have just asked, but in his mind he had to have a reason, trumped up though it might be.
Those were the only messages, of course, because civilized people of the twenty-first century used mobile phones. She looked at the clock—almost eleven. And she was drunk. Although she knew he was probably sitting up waiting for her to call him back, she decided that the censure she’d get in the morning for making him wait and worry would be easier than trying to have a sober conversation with him now. He’d want a story about her day that she hadn’t written yet—the clean, happy, I-love-my-new-job version.
Since her parents’ divorce ten years before, and especially since her mother’s remarriage six years before—and possibly still more in the weeks since she’d moved to Madrone—Sidonie’s father had become heavily reliant on her. It didn’t make much sense. He was a dentist with a thriving practice in Orange County, fully capable of running his own life. But he had a rigid way of living and old-fashioned ideas about marriage and family, the role of the husband and the role of the wife, and he had mated for life. After all this time, he still hadn’t been able to get himself settled as a bachelor, or even begin to consider finding a new mate.
Her mother, on the other hand, had had different ideas about marriage and commitment. And now Sidonie had a stepfather younger than some of the men she’d dated, a st
epbrother and stepsister who were young enough to be her own children, and a father who might as well be.
She sighed, wishing her brain got as slurry and vague as her body did when she was drunk. But no, all of her thoughts seemed sharp and logical, the pictures in her head considerably clearer than the images her eyes were making out.
She scooted out of her jeans, shrugged out of her sweater, and lay back on the pillows, not bothering to take off her bra or get into one of the comfy old t-shirts she liked to sleep in. Closing her eyes, she gave in to the thoughts her brain wanted to think, the pictures it wanted to show her. Apparently, there just wasn’t alcohol enough in the world to hold them off forever.
~oOo~
She woke just after three o’clock, with the room spinning and her stomach churning in that awful, still-drunk, but here-comes-your-hangover-right-on-schedule way that she’d known intimately during her undergraduate days. So, leaving all the lights off to protect her eyes, she ricocheted her way to the bathroom and made herself sick up anything left. She’d heard it was a myth that puking eased a hangover, but she always felt better afterward. And this time was no exception. When she was done, and she’d brushed again, she felt brave enough to try some ibuprofen. Then she went back to bed with a cool, wet cloth to put over her eyes.
When she sat down again on the side of her bed, she noticed that her curtains were still open. That would suck when the sun came up, so she went over to close them. As she reached to pull one side from behind its brass hook, she saw a big motorcycle across the street, just outside the halo of a sodium arc lamp. She blinked and forced her eyes to focus—yes. A huge bike, she thought, though it faded into the shadows.
There was a man leaning on it, dressed all in black. Bald.
Or with hair so fair and short he might as well be.
She stepped back, her stomach rolling again. Tucker’s father was standing across the street from her house. Tucker’s angry father. Tucker’s angry, biker father with the mile-long violent record and the scary nickname. Tucker’s father who’d thrown a full water cooler across the room. At her.
He was leaning on his bike. Staring at her house.
How had he found her? Like all the caseworkers, she kept her personal information as locked down as she could. She didn’t even have any social media accounts anymore, because they’d said in training that there was no way, even under an alias, to be sure anything she posted couldn’t be tracked. Had he followed her? But her car was still at Harry and Carole’s house.
While she watched, a dark van drove through the circular glow of the streetlight. It made a U-turn, its headlights sweeping the lawns and the street, momentarily casting Tucker’s father in bright relief, and then pulled up behind his bike.
He had an accomplice? Were they going to try to abduct her?
She should call the cops. That was the smart thing. Just call the cops and wait, staying away from the windows. That would be the advice she’d give anyone else.
Yep. That would be the smart thing.
But fuck hiding in a corner of her own damn house. That was not the way she was going to start her career—cowering from people angry at her because they couldn’t take care of their children. Fuck that sideways.
Instead of doing the smart thing, she did the brave thing. She opened her nightstand drawer and pulled out her .38.
CHAPTER THREE
Muse reached up and grabbed his burner off the windowsill before it vibrated off and hit him in the head.
“Yeah.”
“Muse, honey. Sorry to wake you.”
Bibi? Since when did Bibi call his burner? And in the middle of the night? He opened his eyes and sat up. Cliff jumped off the bed, thinking it was time to get up. “Yeah, Mama. What’s wrong?”
“I put Demon to bed at our house tonight, but he’s gone. He’s not picking up. I’m worried, and Hoosier’s on a run.”
Muse was already yanking his jeans back on. “I got it, Bibi. I’ll track him down.” He ended the call and dialed Demon himself. When he didn’t pick up, Muse called Sherlock, the club Intelligence Officer.
“This better be a fucking calamity, asshole.”
“I need a 20 on Demon. He’s off the rez.”
“Shit. You think he went after the junkie?” Sherlock’s voice was much clearer now.
“I don’t know. I’ll head that way now, but can you do whatever you do and pin him down? He’s not answering his burner.” Not answering the burner was bad—Demon was either in trouble, or he was looking to start some. He pulled on his boots and a t-shirt, then grabbed his hoodie off the floor.
“Yeah. I’ll see what I can do. Gimme a few.” And he was gone. Muse shoved the phone into his pocket.
He let Cliff out for a quick piss, then called him in and gave him a ruffle between the ears. “Sorry, bud. I won’t be long.” Then he grabbed his kutte, went out, jumped in the club van he still had, and headed toward Rialto.
When the new Night Horde charter had started up, they’d moved their bike shop from L.A. out into the far suburbs. San Bernardino County was a vast amalgam of tidy bedroom communities, quaint turn-of-the-last-century towns, and downtrodden neighborhoods that had mainly been given over to gangs and dust.
Madrone was one of the tidier bedroom communities, populated primarily by commuters who drove the fifty miles each way to and from their career-track jobs in L.A. It had its wrong side, but for the most part, the neighborhoods and developments were neatly tended, and the residents had block parties and catered yard sales. Pinon Boulevard, the town’s version of Main Street, was mostly made up of pretty strip malls. And, positioned as it was between two mountain ranges, and with the San Jacinto Mountains not far south, the view in almost every direction, on a clear day, was absolutely brilliant. If not for that view, Muse thought the town would be nearly indistinguishable from probably thousands of middle-class communities all across the country.
Where Muse was headed on this night, though, toward Demon’s ex’s apartment, was a different kind of neighborhood in a different kind of town, twenty or so miles, and a whole world, away. Gangs and dust.
He didn’t think there was ever a time that California roads were clear of traffic, but three o’clock on a weekday morning was probably as close as it got. Not for much longer; in an hour or so, the commuters from these far-reaching exurbs would be heading west toward L.A. with their giant travel mugs of coffee. For now, though, Muse almost had the road to himself.
He’d driven about fifteen minutes when Sherlock called back. “I think I got him. 17497 Zinnia Lane. It’s here in Madrone. Signal’s steady. Looks like he’s sitting there, far as I can tell.”
“What’s there?”
“I don’t know, man. Hold up.” There was a pause, and Muse pulled to the side of the road. He could hear a baby crying in the background. Sherlock had an on-off thing with a chick who had a couple of kids. Sounded like they were on tonight. “Residential. Don’t recognize the names at or around that address: Hernandez, Johnston, Berger, Tuladhar, Schmick…”
One of the names rang a bell for Muse, and he got a sick feeling. He’d seen a nameplate on a desk. “Hold up. What was the T one?”
“Tuladhar? Yeah. The first name’s weird, too. Sid…Sidonie, something like that? You know him?”
“Her. It’s French. That’s the social worker took Tucker today—yesterday.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah. I’m on it.”
“You need backup?”
“Nah. But stay alert. I’ll call if I do.” Muse ended the call and swung the van around, headed back home.
~oOo~
When he got to Zinnia Lane and found Demon leaning on his bike, he swung the van around in the narrow street and parked behind him.
The street was in a pretty little residential area, the kind with wide, even sweeps of sidewalk, where everybody had automatic sprinkler systems and enough trust in the world to put matching furniture and fancy gewgaws out on their front porches, safe in the
knowledge that they would be left undisturbed. The houses were small but nicely kept—the kind of neighborhood middle-class people were proud to live in.
The kind of neighborhood that might be unsettled by a big biker hanging out in their street in the middle of the night. Muse wondered whether Demon had already been noticed. He got himself ready to deal with cops. The Horde had good relationships with the various powers in Madrone, so he wasn’t especially worried, but it would be a hassle, at least.
He got out of the van and walked up to his friend, shrugging his kutte on as he went. Demon didn’t acknowledge his presence until he spoke. “What are we doing here, Deme?”
Strength & Courage (The Night Horde SoCal Book 1) Page 3