Blood in the Water (Kairos) (13 page)

There’d be a party when they got back to the clubhouse from this run.  Paul wondered if Ashleigh would be there for this one.  It’d be a Saturday night, maybe she’d make it.  He didn’t think veterinary practices opened on Sundays as standard. Moira and Dolly would definitely be there, two mother hens clucking around, mother hens with razor blades cut into their spurs.  The club girls would certainly be ready to welcome their boys home and would be more than willing to help them all work out the strain of the long run and then exhaust them some more.  The change of flavor of pussy buffet had been interesting, but Paul had found himself choosing the curvy, blonde Katie over the anorexic brunette Leah or any of the other girls.

The ride to Florida took the better part of the day with a brief stop for lunch.  Eventually their final destination loomed into view, and they followed Terry’s lead and pulled into the gravel lot of the truck stop, still following the rig.  It was early evening and it would be a while before the cloaking darkness came.  Mindful of the daylight, the truck driver pulled up in the furthest reaches of the lot.  The contingent from the Priests parked within sight of the truck, but a distance away from it.  The truck driver ambled into the diner, leaving his cargo unattended.  Two vans pulled out of the interstate traffic into the truck stop.  One parked next to the rig, the other next to the Priests’ van.  Again they made a show of moving several boxes between the vans, but in reality the four riders were keeping a close eye on the other transfer taking place as two men from the second van herded the illegal immigrants who slithered out of a gap in the truck’s siding from one transport to the other and ensured that all the disguised packages of drugs were safely relocated.  Once both the real and fake transfers were complete, the next links in the chain didn’t hang around and took off into the traffic. 

Leaving the now completely legal cargo in the truck to the rest of its journey, Terry led them all back onto the Interstate in the direction of home, but only as far as the nearest motel and diner.  Paul swung off his bike.  Now that they were no longer on duty, he took a moment to work a few of the kinks out of his muscles after the long ride, and noticed that his brothers were doing the same.  They headed into the diner, which smelled like every other truck stop diner Paul had ever been in, a miasma of sweat, coffee and grease.  This particular establishment looked like it had been absorbed by a franchise.  The interior was color-coordinated, slick and clean; it was completely at odds with the familiar aroma and, in Paul’s opinion, utterly soulless.

The exhausted men slid into a booth, wincing at the lime green, solid plastic bench seats.  They were confident now that the day had been successful.  If they had been found out, the police would have stopped them by now.  They tried to get comfortable on the hard seats, but they were fighting a losing battle.  Even more disappointing than the furniture was the waitress who looked a little like a female version of Kong and who was obviously coming to the end of a long shift and made it clear that she did not want to speak to anyone, let alone any customers.  All five men were pleasantly surprised when their order turned up without a long delay, and figured it was highly likely that everything on the menu, including the coffee, was freeze-dried and microwaved.  Their suspicions were confirmed by the plastic texture of the tasteless food, but at least it was warm.

Terry was the first to finish his generic, rubberized burger.  “Fuck me.  That was so bad Maguire could have made eatin’ it a form of fuckin’ torture.”

Sinatra left half of his food uneaten and wiped his mouth with a wince.  “Who’s Maguire?”

Terry took a sip of what they’d been told was coffee.  “Maguire was the Rabids’ pet psychopath.”  His look of disgust turned into a wry smile as he looked at Paul.  “I heard he taught you everything he knows.”

Paul pushed his empty plate away.  “Yeah, well, I had a strong stomach and no one else wanted in.”

Dean was incredulous.  “Strong stomach?  The story of that guy you cut up into little itty bitty pieces is somethin’ they tell kids this side of the border to keep ‘em in line.  Behave or the bogeyman’ll come ’n’ slice ‘n’ dice you.”

Tag looked a little green around the edges.  “Pieces?”

Paul leaned back as he explained.  “Some guy had sold the club out.  Maguire had this thing about historical torture, and that night he was tryin’ out this Thousand Cuts shit from China.  You start with the face and sort of work down, but really it’s up to you what you slice off and when.  Eyelids, nose, dick; you take whatever you please at your own pace ‘til they bleed out.”

Terry let out a dry chuckle.  “What the ever livin’ fuck did your mama do to you, boy?”

Paul shrugged.  “Not a whole lot.”

Terry took another reluctant sip of coffee.  “Maguire was one scary motherfucker.  What happened to the old bastard?”

“He went Nomad.”  Paul replied.

Terry paused, looking confused. “But the Rabids don’t have a Nomad charter, last I heard.”

Paul nodded.  “They don’t.  Jimmy and Giles were worried if they kept callin’ him up for those jobs that one day he wouldn’t be able to come back from the Dark Side.  They asked him to think about retirin’, but he didn’t want to.”

Terry snorted his amusement.  “I got news for Jimmy and Giles.  Maguire didn’t just have a holiday home on the Dark Side; he had a whole fuckin’ estate there.  That guy was never this side of the line.”

Paul nodded in agreement.  “True.  Put it this way, then, they were worried he’d start goin’ off doin’ his own thing outside club sanctions.”

Dean was stroking the scruff of his goatee.  “They ain’t worried he’s doin’ that now?”

Paul shook his head.  “It’d’ve made the news by now if he had.  He didn’t just like to kill, he liked to be creative.  You said yourself; it’s the sort of shit that makes good headlines.”  Even as he spoke Paul began to consider Maguire’s exit from the club in light of the devious mission that had been awarded to him.  Maybe there was more to Maguire being allowed to become the sole nomad of the Rabid Dogs.  Maguire had never sent regular postcards or remembered birthdays, but he’d called once or twice and Paul realized he hadn’t heard from him in a while.

Terry stretched and yawned.  “Don’t know about you guys, but I ain’t been able to feel my ass for the last half hour.  I’m gonna find me a bed for the night.”

Dean slid out from his place in the booth and tugged his wallet out of his pocket by the chain.  He pulled a few bills out and tossed them onto the table.  “Sounds like a plan.  Fuck if I won’t have nightmares.  You are one scary fucker.” He directed at Paul with a grin.

Paul put his palm over his heart in mock offence as he also stood.  “Me?  I’m just a big fluffy puddy tat.”

“Yeah,” Sinatra chimed in as he and Paul also tossed bills onto the pile, “And I’m fuckin’ Tweety Pie.”

“Now, now, boys.”  Terry admonished.  “No fallin’ out, or there’ll be no more candy.”

“Fuck candy.”  Tag muttered.  “I’ll be happy if the pancakes in this place ain’t made from ground up tires.” 

The five men wandered over to the motel which faced the diner across the parking lot to arrange rooms for the night, all hoping whatever was served for breakfast at the diner was a damn sight better than the burgers.

Chapter Six

The electronic chirping emanating from Paul’s phone pulled him from a deep sleep.  He didn’t want to keep anyone waiting, but the lingering stiffness in his muscles from the long ride the previous day demanded that some time be spent under the hot spray of the shower, especially since today would mean many more hours in the saddle.  Thankfully the motel beds appeared to have been outside the remit of whichever chain had taken over it and the diner.  Despite being on the small side for his frame, the mattress was comfortable and the noise from the interstate and parking lot had been muted enough not to be intrusive. 

The only thing that had disturbed Paul’s sleep at all had been a vivid, Technicolor dream in the small hours of the morning.  Paul didn’t lose any sleep over the blood that he spilled for his clubs, but he did occasionally have nightmares about the decrepit trailer that he’d grown up in.  In the dreams he was a young boy again, although he was alone, the door was locked and the windows were blacked out and there was never any way to escape.  He always woke with a panicky dread in the pit of his stomach, feeling that he would be trapped there forever. 

This dream had started as his nightmares did, but as he reached the part where he was scraping his fingers bloody trying to pry a window open, the door opened.  The sunlight streaming in from the outside blinded him and prevented him from seeing who had opened the door.  For a moment, the dream terror had heightened as whoever it was stepped in and shut the door behind them.  It was at that point he realized that the person who had walked into the trailer was Ashleigh and that he was no longer the young version of himself, but his present-day self.  As he looked around wondering what she would make of the trailer, he found that they were no longer there but in the bedroom of the house he was renting in Louisiana.  When he turned back to face Ashleigh, she was naked and walking towards him looking utterly wanton. 

Paul had woken thrusting against the sheets following the succession of images of a willing and enthusiastic Ashleigh that had paraded through his subconscious.  In the moments between asleep and awake he had been convinced she was there in the bed with him and had been more disappointed than was healthy to find that she wasn’t and to remember that he was almost a day’s ride from home.  He’d tossed and turned, trying to chase down the remnants of peaceful unconsciousness.  After a while he’d given in and taken himself in hand to release the tension and pressure in his body before he could rest easy again.  The sleep that had followed had been one of the deepest he’d ever experienced.

Having showered and dressed, he swiftly crossed the lot to the diner.  In the brightness of the early day he tried to shake away the images from his dream.  Just remembering those lurid flashes was making his cock swell.  He tried to remind himself that she was more trouble than a quick fuck was worth and a dangerous complication, given the planning he was supposed to be doing.  He wasn’t sure whether he was anticipating seeing her at the clubhouse that evening with dread or excitement.

Terry was the only one of the group sitting in the booth they’d occupied the previous night.  He was already grimacing over a cup of what Paul presumed was masquerading as coffee.  Paul slid onto the seat, which was hard enough to have him looking forward to several hours on his bike. 

“Mornin’,” Terry grunted. 

Paul figured the lack of adequate caffeine was probably behind his grouchy greeting.  He was about to reply when Terry’s eyes flicked to a point over Paul’s left shoulder.  When he twisted around he saw Dean and Sinatra pushing through the door.  When he looked out of the window to his right he saw Tag languidly smoking a cigarette as he sauntered over.  Dean and Sinatra were seated and everyone had made their greetings by the time Tag had finished his smoke and joined them.

The waitress that came over to take their order was substantially younger and far better looking than the witch that had served them the evening before.  Although she had a bright smile and a twinkle in her eye for the five men, they all agreed that it didn’t make up for the plastic food and the weak coffee.  Paul made an effort to finish whatever had been on his plate that could laughably referred to as food, but couldn’t quite bring himself to eat it all.  He knew they’d be pushing hard to get home and wouldn’t be making many stops where he could grab another bite, but it was practically an insult to his stomach to ingest the substances.  Everyone else appeared to feel the same way, as no one cleared their plates.  Eager to get back to some home cooking, they all threw a few bills in a pile on the table and stood, ready to be back on the road.

“I gotta use the john.  See you at the bikes.”  Dean had disappeared almost before anyone had time to register what he’d said.

Still subdued thanks to the feebly caffeinated hot water, Paul, Terry, Tag and Sinatra made their way over to their bikes and the van. 

They were all settled, saddlebags checked and helmets buckled when Terry twisted around in his seat.  “Where the fuck is Dean?”

It was another five minutes before Dean came jogging out of the diner, a wide smile on his face.  He fastened his helmet and swung onto his bike, seemingly oblivious to the impatience of his brothers.

“So,” Terry asked tersely, “She alright, then?”

“Oh yeah,” Dean replied with a grin, “She appreciated the fuck out of her tip.”

Paul wondered why he was surprised that Dean had taken the time to fuck the waitress.  From what he’d seen so far, Dean was on the borderline of qualifying as a sex addict, even in the thick of the world of horny bikers with free pussy available.  Paul did have a limited amount of sympathy, since it had been obvious that so much as flirting with the dragon of the previous evening may well have resulted in Dean losing at least one limb.

~o0o~

Several hours and a couple of stops for coffee and more appetizing food later, they passed the marker for the state line of Louisiana.  The feeling of calm peace that stole over Paul as they passed the sign surprised him.  Texas was his home state, but he’d never felt this sense of homecoming after a long run.  He’d never looked forward to drawing up in front of the clubhouse as much, other than for the usual reasons of needing a hot shower and a cold drink.  Now he found himself eager to be back in the heart of the club, his club, the Priests.  He wanted to push the feeling aside.  The direction his mind was taking him was useful for sustaining his cover, but he was falling in too deep to be able to maintain objectivity.  He felt the comradeship, the familiarity, the acceptance stealing over him and he didn’t have the heart to stop the tide.  That feeling of being home was more seductive than anything he’d experienced before, a siren’s song that could only end up with his ship being lured off course and wrecked on jagged rocks.

The feeling of tranquility only intensified as the sign that marked the town limits of Absolution came into view.  Unfortunately it didn’t last long.  The sign and the landscaping below it were masking a parked police cruiser.  As soon as the bikes had passed the marker, the vehicle pulled out with a quick blare of its siren.  Paul wondered why the fuck anyone would be attempting to pull them over now, when the drop was good and made.  He cursed the poor timing given that they were within sniffing distance of home.  He tried to tamp down his frustration as he prepared for a night in the local cells at the very least.  They pulled over, still within sight of the town welcome sign.  The cruiser ground to a halt on the dirt bank in front of them.  A tall, slim man with black hair, black moustache and a police issue jacket unfolded himself from the driver’s door.  Paul unclipped his helmet and prepared for bullshit.

“Hiya Terry.  How’s it hangin’?”

Paul experienced a sense of unease whenever an officer of the law was friendly.  In his experience, the more friendly they were, the more wary you had to be of them.

Terry had removed his own helmet and hooked it on his handlebars.  He was scrubbing his fingers through his hair.  “Same as always, long and loose.  Chief Hooper, I’d like to introduce you to our newest member.  Shark, this here is Chief Dayton Hooper of Absolution P.D.”

Paul nodded.  “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Your mama called you Shark?”  Chief Hooper asked with mock incredulity.

“You don’t wanna know what my mama called me.  It says ‘Paul Reardon’ on my file, though.”  Paul kept his tone even, following Terry’s unruffled lead.

“Well Paul, I’m sure these guys will fill you in on the deal if they haven’t already.  We all like to get along in Absolution.  You boys keep the noise down and I pretend I’m hard of hearing.”

“Gotcha.”  Paul nodded.  No wonder Terry was unperturbed by the interruption.

“You comin’ to the fundraiser next weekend?”  Terry asked the Chief with a smile.

“Sure am.  That shelter’s worth every dime.  Keep wonderin’ when we’re gonna see your girl on Animal Cops Absolution or some shit.  I do hope your Dolly is cookin’ up a batch of those peanut butter cookies for the bake stall.  That shit’s more addictive than crank.”

“She is.  I won’t be able to move in our house for cookies two days before.”

“Mmmm, I can taste them already.  Well boys, I’ll be seein’ you.  Good to meet ya, Paul.”  The Chief tipped an imaginary hat before heading back to his cruiser and pulling out onto the highway.

“Nothin’ like a bit of dick swingin’ to keep you from a cold beer.” Dean grumbled.

“Yeah.  Could’ve been a lot worse, though.”  Terry unhooked his helmet and prepared to put it back on.

“You think he’s ever gonna do more than pull us over to say ‘hi’?”  Tag asked.

“Only if we give his puppet master a reason to twitch the hand up his ass.”  Terry jammed his helmet back on and led them all back onto the road towards the clubhouse.

They made it through what little remained of the journey without incident.  By the time they pulled up at the end of the gravel driveway the sun was hanging low in the sky.  It had been a long ass day.  Paul’s hands were cramped to the point of numbness, his back was beginning to ache and the bike felt like it had become part of him, and not in good way.  This side of the run was much more extensive than the section that the Rabids handled.

Several of the club girls were hanging around outside the clubhouse, chatting and smoking.  They’d probably been there for a while, trying to get ahead of the competition inside.  Paul watched with a smirk as they visibly perked up at the sight of the returning members.  They drew themselves up to the fullest height that their heels could provide, sucked their stomachs in and pushed their tits out.  Paul had no intention of giving any pussy the time of day after such a long ride until he’d had at least one drink.  Dean had no such qualms and hooked an arm around the badly bleached blonde whose name Paul couldn’t quite remember.

The initial odors of cigarettes, weed, beer and bodies eased some of the tension of the ride from Paul’s shoulders as he walked into the clubhouse.  The lights were up but the room still seemed dim after the bright light of the day.  The aroma of cooking food hit his brain and his stomach about the same time that his eyes registered Moira and Dolly putting the finishing touches to the food they were laying out on the bar.  Jesus, but he was going to have to hit the gym even harder; these women were consummate feeders, the like of which he’d never encountered before.  Jimmy had been president of the Rabid Dogs as long as Paul had been a member, and he’d been single longer than that.  In the absence of any woman linked to a patch with enough standing to call seniority over the club girls, the transient pussy was left to organize itself, and that had resulted in a lot of takeout being shipped in.

Samuel was leaning on the bar, waiting for them along with Dizzy and the other patches; he motioned to Geoff who was behind the counter.  Geoff almost managed to set out five shots of whiskey and five beers by the time the exhausted men made it across the room.  Samuel waited until all five shot glasses had been slammed back onto the veneer surface before he spoke.

“You boys okay to join us in the Chapel before you grab a bite?”  He looked pointedly at Dean who uncurled his arm from around... Paul still couldn’t remember her name.

“Sure boss,” Paul answered for them.  They followed Terry, who had already started in the direction of the heavy double doors.  Grabbing his beer, the bottle sweating condensation from the fridge, Paul followed and sank into his usual seat at the table.  He was going to have to speak to Geoff about his post-run coffee requirement.