Biker (25 page)

“Don't worry. I won't tell anyone,” she said softly. “I'm dreadfully sorry I stepped in on you two.”

“That's all right. Josh Pratt.”

“Yes,” the woman said. Up close she had wide-set brown eyes that were almost mesmerizing. She could have been anywhere from fifty to seventy. “You're the man who saved George and Gracie. I know all about you. Good work, young man. I'm Morgan Teitlebaum. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll go back downstairs and get the book I was looking for.” She turned and went. She'd come upstairs to spare them any possible embarrassment when they emerged from the bedroom.

Pratt backed up against a stone wall and observed. Most of the guests were older, well-dressed and had that academic look—the BoBo clothes, the studied casualness. Cass was chatting up a Mitt Romney look-alike with a pale yellow cashmere sweater tied around his neck. A college kid had fired up the grill and was setting out plates of hamburgers and hot dogs. Another table had been set up with condiments, paper plates and napkins. A couple sat on the end of the diving board eating from paper plates balanced on their knees.

Morgan Teitlebaum reappeared next to Pratt holding a copy of Bruno Bettelheim's
The Uses of Enchantment
.

“I read that book,” Pratt said.

Morgan stood next to him watching the party. “Really. Was it assigned to you?”

“Yeah, by the chaplain at Waupun. He helped turn me toward Christ.”

“Glad to hear it. How does an ex-con get a private investigator's license?”

“It helps to know someone who knows a judge.”

“Ah.”

They watched Lowry work the crowd like a maestro, cupping elbows, laughing, a hand to the back, a gesture toward the bar. George and Gracie lurked beneath the buffet table, eyes fixed on hands holding food.

“Is Dave raising money?” Pratt said.

“Dave is always raising money.”

“Do you give him money?”

Morgan had a hearty laugh. “No, we're just old friends. I'm faculty. I teach child psychology, mostly for special needs kids.”

Pratt looked at her. “You know, Morgan, I don't put a whole lot of stock in fate, but this is just too weird. Can I tell you about this case I'm working on?”

“Well, sure, if you're not divulging any confidences.”

“No names. Let me just tell you the situation. Let's sit down.” Pratt led the way to a pair of Adirondack chairs on the lawn near the tree line. Through the trees they saw the bones of another incipient McMansion.

Pratt went through the story from his meeting with Ginger. When he got to his discovery of Eric Morgan gripped his wrist like a vise. Her face turned to ash.

“You saw this?”

“It was dark but yeah, I saw enough of him to know he was real. Well enough to see that his spine was out of whack, his teeth were a mess, he could barely speak.”

“This is the worst case of child abuse I've ever heard in my life,” Morgan said. “I'm not even sure therapy would do him any good, but we've got to try. Where is he now?”

“He ran off. He's mistrustful of everyone, probably has a love/hate relationship with his father. Probably dreams about killing Moon, but fears to do so because he doesn't know how to survive on his own.”

“That's very insightful. Have you studied psychology?”

“Just books in the prison library. My old man was a worthless piece of shit. I used to think about killing him a lot.”

“Is he still alive?”

“I don't know and I don't care.”

“You might benefit from therapy too.”

“Are you a shrink?”

“I'm a psychologist. The first thing is to find this boy and get him into a clinical setting. Unbelievable as this may seem, there are precedents. Kaspar Hauser is probably the most famous. Werner Herzog made a film about him. More recently there have been several from India. I don't know why, but India has more feral children than any other country in the world. Alex the Dog Boy from Chile. In each case, these children were without socialization, no social skills. They don't even know how to use a toilet. Fortunately we know a great deal more today than we used to. Unfortunately, the prognosis for any feral child is grim.”

Pratt watched a hawk circling over the tree line. “I'm heading back out there as soon as I can clear my schedule with the intention of bringing him in. Any tips?”

“By yourself?” Morgan said.

“My girlfriend Cass will help. That's her chatting up the movie star.” Did he just say girlfriend?

“It's not going to work if either of you drinks or does drugs.”

Pratt sucked air through his teeth. Did they look like that? “We won't be drinking or doing drugs.”

“He might respond better to a woman.”

“That's what I was thinking although he did speak to me. Probably the first human other than Moon he's ever spoken to.”

“I'd like to help. Let me give you my card.”

“That's what I was hoping you'd say, Doc.”

“Call me Morgan.” She rummaged through her feedbag and drew a business card. Pratt tucked it in his wallet, wrote his phone and e-mail on the back of one of Bloom's and handed it to her.

When Cass looked up the hill, Pratt waved his arm. She came toward them weaving slightly and holding a drink. Pratt cringed.

“I was wondering where you went,” she said, oblivious to the fact that the woman with whom Pratt was seated had walked in on them making love.

“Cass, Morgan. Morgan's a child psychologist. She might be able to help us.”

Cass stuck out a hand. “Very pleased to meet you.” At least she wasn't slurring.

Pratt stood. “I'll call you. Come on, Cass. We've got to get going.”

CHAPTER 47

Pratt went through the house one last time. Everything was up tight and out of sight.

They left at seven-thirty, Cass' pick-up laden with drinking water, food and blankets. They ate trail mix, granola bars and apples. Cass played Queen loud on her six-speaker system.

Pratt turned it down. “Loud music makes me want to drink and do drugs.”

Cass laughed. “Life makes me want to drink and do drugs.” She cracked the window, pulled a cig from the armrest and lit it with a Zippo. They drove north toward Sauk City, inspiration for Sinclair Lewis'
Main Street
, sun blazing in from the west. Four riders appeared around a bend heading toward Middleton. Pratt slouched in his seat as they passed.

As soon as the last one passed Pratt popped up and stared out the rear window trying to see their colors. Couldn't make them out.

There was an APB out for the War Bonnets but you never knew. The Bonnets were bat-shit crazy. They'd do whatever their supreme commander demanded. Moon would know how to get Cass' license number, the make and year of her vehicle. Pratt put nothing past him. He drew comfort from the lump of metal at his waist.

They crossed the river at Sauk City. The town was chock-a-block with bikers, choppers lined up outside every tavern, dozens of them slowly cruising the two main drags. Pratt slumped in shadow as they drove with the windows open. At the red light a skinhead on a Warrior pulled up next to Cass.

“Hey pretty mama! Whatchoo doin' out here?”

Pratt leaned forward in his Gargoyles and gave the man a hard look.

“Whoops. My bad.”

Cass headed north alongside the Wisconsin River as Pratt straightened up and pulled out a dog-eared copy of the
Wisconsin Atlas
. “Turn left in two miles at Factory Road.” They passed the deserted Baraboo munitions plant, hundreds of acres fenced off and filled with bunkers.

The road cut west through rolling farmhand toward the blue Baraboo Hills. All other traffic disappeared. Pratt directed Cass through two more turns. The road wound through cottonwood and alder. Through the trees Pratt saw an old red barn lit by the setting sun.

“There it is. Pull in at that mailbox.”

The mailbox sprouted from a milk canister filled with concrete. Next to it screwed into a solid wood fence post was a sign. PRIVATE-NO TRESPASSING!

The eastern sky turned velvet. The farmhouse was set a hundred yards back from the road, a typical two-story wood frame job with a front porch and a slanted exterior cellar entrance. The barn was trash, leaving only a few vertical piles and a floor that had rotted through.

Cass pulled up in front of the house and shut off the engine. The silence was shocking.

“What a dump,” Cass said.

“Bloom got it from some druggie he represented.” The druggie begged Bloom to get his ass out to the farm and clean out the refrigerator before the cops came. Bloom found several eight balls and a half pound of killer weed which he dutifully relocated to his own house. He called up Pratt and they had a victory celebration.

Pratt went up the creaking wooden steps to the front door, opened the shredded screen door and inserted the key Bloom had given him. He had to joggle it around for several minutes before it clicked. He opened the door and stepped inside. The interior was musty and smelled as if it had been closed off for a long time.

He flipped a switch. The electricity had been shut off. There was a pump in the backyard from which they could draw shivery groundwater. Pratt expected Cass to squawk. The air weighed heavily. Pratt wished he had a laptop, then realized there would be no service. He felt cut-off without his computer.

Pratt went back out. Cass came up the porch stairs with her bag and stepped inside.

“Phew! Let's open some windows.”

Pratt went around the ground floor opening windows with intact screens—at least nobody had broken out the glass—while Cass went upstairs to investigate the tiny bedrooms. There was a Coleman lantern in the kitchen with fuel in it. Pratt lit it and carried it with him.

Pratt was bone-tired. He actually dreaded Cass' teasing. Men would kill to have her. He remembered a time when he seldom went to bed before two a.m. He'd turned his life around in more ways than one.

“There's no water!” Cass said from upstairs.

“There's a pump in the back. I'll bring some in for drinking and washing.”

“Great. I'm going to crash.”

Thank you Jesus
.

A moment later something flew out of the bedroom and smashed against the wall with the sound of breaking glass.

Pratt went up the steep stair. “What the fuck?”

Lying on the landing was a shattered picture frame holding a picture of Jesus and the Holy Heart. The bedroom door was shut. Pratt decided to let it be. He stooped, picked up the shattered print, carefully placing each piece of broken glass on top, took it downstairs and threw it in a paper bag he found beneath the kitchen sink.

Was that bad, trashing Christ's picture? Was it bad of him to have thrown it out?

Lord, I sure could use that rulebook
.

He went out to the truck and brought in the victuals and his overnighter. As he was walking back to the truck his cell phone rang. He pulled it out. The little screen showed Bloom. A minute fracture opened in the evening's perfect stillness. Pratt flipped the cell open.

“What's up, Danny?”

“Danny can't come to the phone right now,” said a voice as dry and cool as a root cellar.

CHAPTER 48

A lead fist sunk into Pratt's gut. Bloom was dead. A crushing mantle of guilt settled on his shoulders. Diesel rage seethed. Pratt looked around half expecting to see a shadow lurking in the trees. It was a beautiful sundown, sky violet against the deep dark of the hills. A red cardinal perched on a limb at the edge of the yard. A hawk circled over the Baraboo Hills.

“Where are you?” Pratt said softly, as if he might wake Cass.

“Now you see me, now you don't,” Moon said.

“Call it off, Moon. The feds, DEA and half the state are looking for you. Your only hope is to get out of the country as fast as possible.” Pratt's hand went to the Ruger in his fanny pack.

“They can't stop me, Pratt. They've been trying for years. But you! You! What a warrior. What a worthy opponent. I am astonished at your perseverance and ingenuity! I salute you, Pratt. How the hell did you get out of that well?”

“I've got powers too, Moon. I was born with a caul on my face. I'm the seventh son of a seventh son. I've got a black cat bone and I know how to use it.”

Silence.

“It's me you want,” Pratt continued. “I'm the one who burned your crew, stole your crystal, chased your pet freak away. Meet me and we'll settle it just between us. Those women have nothing to do with it.” It hurt to refer to the boy that way but Pratt couldn't afford to give Moon any emotional leverage.

“Don't they?” Moon hissed and for the first time emotion crept into his voice. “I told that bitch what I'd do if she ever betrayed me.”

“She didn't betray you. She's dying. She just wants to see her son.”

“She's not dying fast enough to suit me, and as for her son, I doubt Eric could survive more than a night or two by himself in the wild.”

“How could you do it, Moon?”

“I got kids all over. I won't miss him.”

“You'll burn in hell for this.”

Moon chuckled. “So they say, but I won't die. Haven't you heard? I'm immortal. I've got the second sight. You tell those two bitches to enjoy it while it lasts. You too, Pratt.”

The cell went dead.

Pratt dialed Calloway.

Calloway answered on the fourth ring. “What the fuck, Pratt. It's eight-thirty.”

“Moon just phoned me on Danny Bloom's phone. I'm afraid Bloom's dead.”

Calloway's annoyance evaporated. “What did he say?”

“He said he intends to carry out his threat against Cass and Ginger Munz. You've got to send people over to Bloom's house. It's adjacent to the zoo. Two thirteen Lafayette Street.”

“I'm on it. Where you at?”

“We're in a safe place, Heinz. I've got Cass with me.”