by R. A. McGee
The man locked eyes with Seth and his eyes opened wide, like he was surprised to see two ski-masked men standing in the back of his sanctum sanctorum.
“Who the fu—”
Seth pulled his pistol and raised it, firing at the man, sending six rounds of unaimed shots in his direction.
The man also had a pistol, but his reaction to the gunfight was too slow. He got his own pistol out after Seth was already firing, pulling the trigger, but badly behind the curve. Seth gunned the man down, flinching and moving as he did, in an attempt to avoid the man’s return fire. At least one of Seth’s rounds found their target. The biker staggered back against the wall and dropped his own gun, hand to his chest.
Seth yelled at Dusty to move and the two took the hard left in the hallway, away from the front with the rest of the Peaks MC members, and out the back door.
A driving rock beat followed them out into the cool night air.
Thirty-Eight
Porter had lied. He’d promised himself that he would devote his attention to the Pima Newton problem first thing in the morning. That wasn’t true.
First thing in the morning, he took Claudette in the shower, which was small but managed to accommodate both of them. Then they lay on the bed, air-drying.
“I brought you something,” she said, standing stark naked and walking to her purse. In the daylight, Porter realized the pants she wore while working were a valid advertisement of her figure.
“I didn’t get you anything,” he said with a sheepish grin.
“Please, it’s not weird. I figured since I read one of your favorites, I’d give you one of mine,” she said, tossing it onto the bed and lying back down.
“Whew. I thought this was a six-hour anniversary present.”
“Looking for a window to jump out of?” she said with a laugh.
He flipped the book over in his hands. “The Graveyard Book?”
“It’s like if The Jungle Book took place in a cemetery. Gaiman is one of my favorites. You ever read him?”
“Sure,” Porter said, flipping through the book.
She frowned. “Really?”
“He wrote some comic books I liked when I was a kid. Never read a novel of his, though.”
“Comic books? You?”
Porter shrugged. “Should I lie?”
“I think you’ll like that, then.”
“Can’t wait to check it out.”
“That’s my personal copy, so you give it back when you’re done with it, okay?”
“Scout’s honor,” Porter said.
“Were you a Boy Scout?”
“Not even close,” Porter admitted.
“I was about to say… there are some things even I won’t believe.” She got up again, this time to dress and get her things together.
Porter slipped shorts on and walked her to the door. Claudette opened it and looked up at him.
“So about this,” she said, pointing to him and the bed. “I had… I mean, it was… you know… the thing is…” She reached up and kissed him, then left the room, the door slamming behind her.
Porter smiled, then got dressed. Having felt the nip in the air when he’d walked Claudette out, he took the time to find a long-sleeved fleece shirt, then stuffed his pistol in his waistband and stepped out into the day.
Back to thinking about Pima, he felt his stomach chewing on itself and resolved to fix it.
The Burger Hut was open for lunch, but Porter was wary. He wasn’t sure what the conventions of the day called for; seeing Claudette this soon would probably make him look desperate. No one wanted to look desperate.
Instead he drove around until he found an open diner with plenty of cars out front. The lunch rush was real, and if this place was good enough for the locals, it was good enough for him.
He sat himself, ordering quickly and staring out the window while the waitress rang in his order. The older woman was pleasant, but no Claudette.
His phone vibrated and he checked the caller ID before answering. “Still worried about me?”
“Not anymore. I’m assuming I haven’t caught you at a bad time?”
“Well, I’m buck naked, admiring myself in a mirror,” Porter said, a little too loudly. Two old men seated at the counter turned and looked at him.
“That’s a visual I don’t need,” Joe said.
“You asked.”
“Look, I dug into things a little more. If you can pull yourself away from the mirror, I think you’re gonna want to hear this.”
“I’m all ears.”
“So our guy, Seth Rollins, he comes from a pretty big family. Had an older brother named Richie who was in on the business as well.”
“Define ‘had,’” Porter said.
“Richie Rollins was recently disaffiliated with his head.”
“Disaffiliated? Someone cut his head off? When?”
“Couple days ago. Apparently they dropped the head on the steps of the sheriff’s department,” Joe said.
“Sounds like some cartel-type business, don’t you think?”
“Those bastards are sick enough to do it. And to drop it on the cops’ front door? They’re daring anyone to catch them. That’s bad, Porter.”
“When you’re right, you’re right,” Porter said, smiling at the waitress who brought his food.
“The Rollins family, they’re into some shit.”
“One’s got no head. How many of them are there?”
“Still a couple. A few years ago, Papa Rollins went away for forty-five years for meth trafficking. It looks like that left Richie and Seth, and a daughter who hasn’t been in much trouble.”
“Fine family,” Porter said.
“I’ll keep beating the bushes,” Joe said. “If I figure anything out I’ll call you back. Porter?”
“Yeah?”
“Try to have some clothes on next time I call, will ya?”
Porter laughed as he hung up the phone. He shoveled the food in his mouth, left more than enough money on the table, and left.
Joe’s intel had been helpful, but now he wanted to see if the sheriff had anything new to tell him.
The drive was quick, and Porter was walking through the door of the sheriff’s office in no time. Ruby the receptionist was there, nose deep in her soap opera. To her credit, she was more attentive than on Porter’s previous visits.
“Spaulding in?”
“He’s in a meeting. If you’d have a seat, I’ll let him know you’re here, sir.”
“No thanks, I’d rather stand,” Porter said.
No sooner had he made it over to the big front window than the door to the back swung open. Deputy Adams was the first out of the door, followed by his formerly plain-clothed partner with the buzzcut. Both men were in their uniforms, and both looked like hell.
Spaulding looked angry and was following them out the door.
Deputy Buzzcut had a bruise going from the side of his neck around and up the front of his throat. It was one of those terrifically colorful ones, and was various shades of purple and green. He moved stiffly when he turned to look at Porter, as if it still hurt a couple of days later.
The entire side of Adams’s face was a swollen mess. His eye was blacked and completely closed. He was also wearing a sling with some sort of orthopedic appliance stabilizing his right elbow. Porter assumed that at some point someone had put his elbow back into place. If they’d done it soon enough, Adams probably hadn’t needed surgery.
Probably.
A small smile crept across Porter’s face. “You guys look like shit. What happened?”
The deputies looked at Porter, neither of them speaking. Each not only knew that Porter had caused their current states, they also knew that he knew it had been them at the motel that night.
Coming to with their balaclavas pulled off must have been quite a shock. Still, they had to put on a show for their boss.
“Car crash,” Adams said.
“Really? Must have been a bad one. What
about you, Buzzcut?”
“Same.”
“Damn. You were both hit by the same car? Must have been big, like a truck or something, huh? I’m glad you two are okay,” Porter said.
Sheriff Spaulding stood next to his deputies. “Apparently, that’s why they couldn’t get their ass over to your motel when you called the other night. These two idiots were in a car crash together.” He put his hands on his hips. “I suspect they’d been drinking, but I can’t prove it.”
“Hopefully you two learned your lesson,” Porter said.
“You guys get out of here. Take another couple days and heal up. I swear to God, you’re a waste of damn payroll…” Spaulding trailed off as the walking wounded shuffled away. He waved his hand for Porter to follow him to his office. Once the two men sat down, Spaulding looked at Porter and lowered his head. “I have a question for you, and I need you to be honest with me.”
“I cannot tell a lie,” Porter said.
“Did you bring all the crazy with you when you came to town?”
Thirty-Nine
“How’s that?” Porter said.
“Ever since you showed up, there’s been nothing but trouble. I’m wondering if you brought it with you, like people bring the weather.”
“Considering I only showed up because a kid went missing, I can’t say I’m the root of the problem,” Porter said.
Spaulding leaned back. “Maybe not, but I know for damn sure things have… escalated… since you’ve been in town.”
“Sounds like a problem for the local law enforcement.”
“Fair enough. I’m sure you’ve heard, this tiny ass town being what it is and all.”
“Heard what?” Porter said. “All I’ve basically done is eaten burgers and slept since I’ve been out here.”
“Many of those burgers over at the Hut?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not in the least. Just heard you’ve been over there every day,” Spaulding said.
“Now you’re following me around?”
“Me? Hell, no. The town has eyes, though. People talk; it is what it is. Personally, I don’t blame you.” He leaned forward over his desk and lowered his voice. “Claudette? The ass on that girl—”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Porter said. “Besides where I eat, what else have you managed to hear around town?”
“I don’t have to try too hard; it’s on my front door. Literally.”
Porter fixed Spaulding with a blank stare.
“You heard about the severed head, right?”
“No,” Porter lied. “Must have slept through that one.”
“Hell, it was a mess. Local guy, named Richard Rollins. Somebody just dropped his head off in a burlap sack. Crazy thing is, he’s the brother of…” Spaulding fished around in the papers on his desk. “This one you were looking for. Seth Rollins is his name, in case you never found out.”
Porter leaned back in his chair, watching the sheriff as he spoke. “Last time I showed you that, you didn’t have any clue who he was. Now you know the whole family?”
“It wasn’t hard to show the picture to the boys and find out who he was. Apparently, him and the big guy used to get into a lot of trouble, but I haven't run across them since I’ve been sheriff.”
“You could have told me who they were,” Porter said. “You know I’m looking for them.”
“Why the hell would I do that? You’re a civilian; I don’t owe you anything. I shouldn’t even be telling you all this right now.”
“Suit yourself,” Porter said, pushing his chair out and standing to leave.
“Sit,” Spaulding said, pointing at Porter’s chair.
“You asking me or telling me?”
“Just sit down, all right? I haven’t gotten through with the crazy. You might as well listen.”
Porter sat down on the edge of his chair. “What else?”
“Me and the boys went to the Rollins place to notify the family about big brother’s head in a sack.”
“How’d that go?” Porter said, already knowing the answer.
“It was like a goddammed massacre. Three Mexican guys dead, all shot up. I hadn’t seen anything like that down here before. Not since I was in the city, you know?”
“I didn’t even know you guys had three Mexicans in this town,” Porter said.
“We don’t anymore. Then the trooper gets killed and—”
“What trooper?” Porter said.
“You really don’t watch the news, do you? One county over, a trooper gets himself killed on the highway. Dashcam shows your two boys doing the killing.”
“Damn it,” Porter said. He hated that anyone lost their life in the performance of their duties. All for a public that couldn’t care less. There would be a funeral and then it would be lost from the mind of the populace.
That Seth and Dusty had killed a trooper was unwelcome news. It showed a loss of control. And the fact that they were a county away meant they were running. It was already hard enough to find someone who didn’t want to be found; it was even harder trying to find a moving target.
“Not too long ago, Sheriff Upton calls me and tells me about a shooting they had in one of their biker bars last night. The guys that run it are a tough bunch, and they won’t say anything, but I have a theory.”
“I like theories,” Porter said. “Lay it on me.”
“I’d be willing to bet my fat Northeast pension that it was your two boys again.”
“My boys? Believe me, we’re still unacquainted,” Porter said.
“The thing is, I’d never even heard of these two assholes until you showed up. Now, I got dead Mexicans, a head in a bag, and a murdered trooper. So, I gotta ask: what part do you play in this?”
Porter smiled. “Me? Come on, Spaulding, I’m just looking into things, same as you.”
“Well, this old law-dog gut of mine tells me that’s not true. I can feel something isn’t right.”
“That’s probably agita,” Porter said. “Take an antacid.”
Spaulding just looked at Porter.
“Hey, Spaulding, I’ve been wondering something. I hope you can help me, since you serve and protect and all that shit.”
Spaulding nodded. “What’s that?”
“Ever since I was a little kid, I’ve loved motorcycles. Didn’t you say there was a biker bar somewhere?”
“I don’t think they’re really looking for tourists,” Spaulding said.
“I’m sure they’d love me. Mind pointing me in the right direction?”
Spaulding eyed Porter for several moments. Porter noticed the man’s blue eyes had flecks of green in them. He reached out and scratched an address on a piece of paper. “You’d just find it anyway.”
“Very generous of you,” Porter said, reaching out to accept the scrap of paper.
Spaulding didn’t let it go. Each man pulled slightly on an end. “Listen, you didn’t take my advice when I told you to let us worry about the Newton girl, so I’m probably wasting my breath right now, but here goes nothing—don’t go to this bar. For your own good.”
“But I love motorcycles so mu—”
“Joke all you want to. The cops don’t go there if they can help it. Besides that, those boys are some real ‘the South will rise again’ types, if you get my drift.”
“I don’t,” Porter said, deadpan.
“Yes, you do. You’re… you know…”
“Tall?” Porter said.
“Black. They aren’t too keen on that.”
“Ahh. Well, I’ve always thought I’m more of a medium brown. But if it will help break walls down, I’m sure I have a copy of Roots somewhere I could give them. In the name of progress, of course.”
Porter walked out of the office, slamming the door behind him while Spaulding shook his head.
Forty
The drive out to the biker bar was relatively straightforward, as far as directions went. Straight on I40, no turns until you found the bar. Actually driving the high
way was a different beast. The road itself was winding, with sheer rock faces on the right and drop-offs on the left.
Porter had to blast the air conditioner to keep from getting nauseous.
Eventually, the color-soaked views changed and there was a small building on the left side of the divided highway. It this case, it wasn’t just a double yellow line, but a several-hundred-foot stretch of tall concrete barricades that Porter could just barely see over.
He took the next right, up a steep grade and into the parking lot of a church. It was neither Sunday nor Wednesday, so the church and the parking lot were both empty.
Because of the hill the church sat on, Porter could see over the barricade and into the parking lot of the biker bar. He reached into his back seat and grabbed a pair of binoculars, looking through the windshield at his target.
The parking lot wasn’t paved, just loose gravel spread in front of a one-story building with brown shingles and brown siding. The cars out front were a motley assortment of pickup trucks with rust damage to the body panels and motorcycles that looked as though they had been put together the hard way—in someone’s garage, not a factory.
The sign out front read The Peaks MC, with the familiar-to-Porter logo of a mountain ridge covered in blood.
“Son of a bitch,” Porter said. “These guys are everywhere.”
He guessed there were eight to ten people in the bar, and they didn’t seem to be moving around much. With the sunlight directly overhead, he had a clear view of the entire place. No one was showing in the windows; nobody stepped out into the parking lot.
Papers taped to the front door fluttered in the breeze as Porter looked over the area one more time. He’d expected men outside, twirling revolvers and shooting them off into the air.
This looked more like a bunch of old guys had fallen asleep.
He saw a path that led to the rear of the building and briefly thought about sneaking in, but stopped himself. He needed to talk to someone, and sneaking wouldn’t help him do that.
Porter tossed the binoculars onto the front seat of his car. Then he popped the trunk, slipping a couple of magazines for his Glock on his waistband, and slammed the tailgate. He reached back onto the front seat for a picture of Seth and Dusty.