Man Made Murder (Blood Road Trilogy Book 1) (9 page)

“I swear you were there at rehearsals.”

“Not the same.” He stretched his arm out.

Dean threw back another swallow before handing it off. “You do this every time.” Handing over the bottle made the blood noises rush back in.

After a pull off the JD, Nick said, “How
did
you get bit by a dog?”

Dean dropped his head. Every breath in turned the volume up on the rushing blood; exhaling pushed it back down, but not completely out. It was ready to come back the next time he opened his lungs.

He said, “I was dumb enough to pet it.”

“That’ll teach ya.”

Dean drew air through his nose. Cigarette smoke and bourbon fumes, deodorant and dried sweat. Underneath, something warm and spicy, like the feel of liquor in his chest.

His teeth throbbed, under his gums. He canted forward, arm out for the bottle. Eyes going straight for the pulse at Nick’s throat, the quick little beat against his skin. He dragged his gaze down as his fingers closed on the bottle.

He took three long swallows, shutting up the pounding in his eardrums.

“Maybe I should’ve brought two,” Nick said.

“Sorry.” Once it was out of his hands again, he fumbled another cigarette out of his pack, back on his feet. Pacing. He stopped to cup his hand around the lighter’s flame, suck-started the cancer stick, and closed his eyes as he breathed in a thick lungful of smoke.

Last night had him all fucked up. He’d give anything to be able to go backward in time, tell the guys, “Yeah, I’m game. I’ll go for a beer.” That’s all he’d had to have done. One measly meaningless fucking decision made differently and he’d be standing in the shadows off to the side of the stage right now, enjoying Thieves.

At the squeak of the bus door, Nick sat up and Dean lifted his head.

Teddy stepped up, looking over the railing. “Jesus. Mike’s been yelling all over the place for you, D. He said he told you not to go anywhere. WKRB’s on the line, threatening to hang up if you don’t get your ass on the phone yesterday.”

“Shit.” He needed another interview right now like he needed a second asshole.

Nick waved an arm without getting up:
Go, go
.

“Come on,” Teddy said, “before Mike blows his top.”

People pressed in as soon as he was through the back door—roadies and staff and hangers-on and who the fuck knew else. Teddy parted the crowd with his sheer size, leading him to an office where Mike said, “Here he is,” into a clunky receiver before shoving it at Dean.

“Hello,” Dean said.

“Heeeey,” came a voice through the line. “Dean Thibodeaux from Man Made Murder. How are ya?” So they were live, no quick chat with the producer before being switched over.

“Folks want to know why you’re all beat up,” the voice said.

Dean pressed his fingers to his eyes. His bruised cheek throbbed. Word fucking traveled fast. “You heard about that, huh?”

“That’s the word we’re getting from people who’ve seen you walking around over there. What happened?”

Dean dragged out the dog story again, the “stupid enough to pet it” excuse, adding, “Dogs normally like me, though. I don’t have anything against dogs. This one, though, he must’ve had something against me. Maybe he doesn’t like our music.” Automatically switching into interview mode.

“Maybe he just confused you for a giant steak,” the deejay said.

“Must have.”

“Hey, we have the new album here.”

“All right. You gonna play it?”

“I’m queuing the single as we speak.”

“Just the single? Man, I hope callers light up your lines demanding the whole thing.”

The deejay laughed. “You guys have a good show. And watch out for those dogs.”

When Dean hung up, Mike said, “You guys are the biggest pains in my ass.”

“As well as your main source of income,” Dean said. “Have you thought about blood pressure pills?” If they’d wanted a laid-back tour manager, though, they’d have hired one. Mike’s state of agitation got them places on time, got them paid on time, got shit done. He was a thorn in their feet ninety percent of the time, but they’d tried using people they got along with easier, and it wound up being more of an aggravation in the end than getting groused at by Mike.

“Try not to disappear before the fucking show starts,” Mike said as Dean headed out of the office.

C
arl circled
the blocks near but not in sight of the bar, not getting more than a glimpse of the bikes out front with each pass. He’d gone to a gas station for a soft drink, a fresh pack of cigarettes, and the bathroom. He had the radio playing, a commercial segueing into Man Made Murder’s new single, the deejay announcing their tour over the intro—New York City tonight, but catch them right here in December when they end their tour back home.

He remembered when he’d been into them, a few albums ago. Or,
probably
a few albums ago. He hadn’t kept up. Hadn’t kept up with much of anything the past couple years.

He turned the volume up—“Can’t Win for Dyin’.”

Yeah, that’s how he felt too.

Maybe he should stop driving past the road that would take him back to the interstate. He needed a hot shower, a good week’s worth of sleep. The thought of catching some of that sleep in his own bed, in the cool dark of the apartment he and Tim shared, it pulled at him, making him feel the weight of all this chasing that much more keenly.
I was out of my mind there for a while
, he’d say, and Tim would pop the top on a cheap can of beer and say,
It’s about fucking time you realized it
.

Instead, he pulled up along Main Street—different spot, different direction, different vantage point. The streetlights were coming on, weak in the lingering daylight. He shut off the engine, and the radio blipped off in the middle of the outro.

Shops were closing. The diner had shut its lights out an hour ago. The convenience store’s windows glowed with warmth, and across from it, the bar was fading into shadow.

Carl scooted down, bracing his knee against the dash. It was light enough out that smoke wouldn’t draw attention, and he lit up while he could, using a match from the book the gas jockey had passed him with the fresh pack. He shook it out and dropped it in the ashtray.

With nothing but time on his hands, he thought about buying the new Man Made Murder album. You know—why not? Tim would be surprised, seeing him show interest in something. Maybe he’d go out to a movie with Tim, even one of those shitty slasher films. He’d done that once, thinking
It’s just a movie. It’s not real. I can handle
it. But no—as the young girls screamed and the guy in the jumpsuit came relentlessly after them, he’d had to get up and leave, and throw up in the men’s room. He hadn’t told Tim about the throwing up, just met him in the lobby when the show let out.

But once this was done, maybe he could stomach it. He could watch it as someone who’d vanquished that kind of evil.

It’d be a new start, when he got home.

If he got home.

He wondered if they allowed music in prison. Maybe inmates could have radios, or maybe they’d have one in the rec area or something. If that was the case, he could handle it.

If his problem was taken care of, he could put up with just about anything.

His worst fear was that he’d fuck up what he was trying to do, and go to jail anyway. Stuck behind bars for three, five, ten years while that asshole walked free. That had to not happen.

That had to definitely
not
happen.

The bar’s front door opened.

Carl dropped his knee, pulled himself up by the steering wheel.

The wiry guy from earlier came out with a broom, the door falling shut behind him. He swept it over the sidewalk, walking the length of the building, a cigarette jammed in the corner of his mouth. He’d stripped down to his tee shirt. Some kind of tattoo showed on his bony arm.

Carl slipped down in the seat until he was watching through the open spaces in the steering wheel. The wiry guy leaned on the broom, taking the cigarette from his mouth, blowing a stream of smoke. He looked up the road, down it, eyes not falling on anything in particular. Carl brought himself down another half inch, his knees jamming under the dash.

The wiry guy squinted in the smoke as he dragged on his cigarette. Carl’s hand twitched, holding the last of his own smoke between two fingers resting on the gearshift.

The guy ground the butt on the sidewalk, let himself back into the bar. The door swung shut behind him.

Carl pulled himself up. With his eyes still on the bar, he stubbed his own cigarette out.

Evening had started to settle in, a few stars glittering in the darkest part of the night sky.

Maybe the guy had locked the door behind him, maybe he hadn’t. There was only one way to find out. He leaned over the passenger seat, planting one hand on the manila folder, and reached beneath it, fingers feeling along carpet. It was easier to get to this time—either it hadn’t shifted as much in his slow driving or the last turn onto Main Street had brought it toward the front.

He straightened with the gun in his hand. Leaned against the wheel to shove it in his waistband. Was just reaching for the door handle when the bar opened again.

His hand stilled.

His guy strode out, looking neither left nor right, moving straight for his Triumph. He grabbed the clutch, swinging his leg over, the key in his other hand heading for the ignition. He straightened his ride, nudging the stand back. His foot kicked down. The bike swung away from the sidewalk, the biker picking his feet up, gaining speed quickly.

Carl turned his own key. Got himself backed up, did a wide U-turn across the main drag, and followed, the red taillight far ahead of him, zigging and then disappearing around a curve.

He caught sight of it in a few seconds, pushing the Cougar harder, his focus bouncing between the red light ahead and the trees rushing past on either side of the road.

“Where the fuck were you?” he said to the distant taillight. His foot moved off the gas instinctively as another curve rushed toward him. He forced it back down, afraid to get farther behind. He gripped the wheel through the bend, grinding his teeth together, his shoulders tense. They eased down a little as the road straightened again.

He ached for a cigarette right now.

The scenery sped by, as dark as when he’d arrived. He had no idea where he was, figured he could deal with that later. Or the cops would sort it out. He just hoped he didn’t rocket past any cop cars right now.

Long stretches of woods were broken by the occasional yard , the occasional church here and there. What looked like a volunteer fire post flashed by. He adjusted himself, getting a little more comfortable—taking off had caught him off guard. He flicked a look toward his mirrors, making sure there weren’t any flashing blue and reds behind him. There wasn’t anything behind him.

The bike banked, hardly slowing as it rounded a turn onto another road. Carl tossed a prayer toward the St. Michael medal and did the same, tires fighting to stick to the road. Back on the gas, he registered, barely, the houses flying by. Another turn, sharper this time. He took it slower, praying no one was flying down the road as he entered the intersection. His wheels straightened. He picked up speed.

They drove for an achingly long time, Carl’s fingers stiffening, his knee jumpy. The radio was singing about running with the devil through the Cougar’s speakers. Carl didn’t know the band, but he could appreciate the sentiment.

After miles of emptiness, houses showed up in groups, followed by long stretches of them. Suddenly they got bigger—bulky boxes with strips of yard on one side, a driveway between them, the occasional chain-link fence enclosing a property.

On the radio, The Who were asking “Who Are You?” and one side of Carl’s mouth curved upward. The WHAK deejay was soundtracking his chase just fine.

Four-way stops slowed the biker. Carl kept two blocks back at each one. A car turned between them, slowing his race from one sign to the next.

Up ahead, the bike banked onto a side street.

He rode right up on the bumper of the car in his way, swerving around it as soon as the other lane was clear. He jumped onto the cross street.

He leaned toward the windshield to the gallop of Heart’s “Barracuda,” all his focus on the taillight ahead, swooping right at another intersection.

Small houses now, single-story boxes, more yard between them but not a lot. Fences skirting some, toys scattered on grass. Someone had a boat on a trailer in their driveway, someone else a Jeep.

The bike slowed. Carl eased off, keeping back. Spent an extra half second at a four-way to leave some space.

The bike pulled over at a sidewalk.

Carl passed, going twenty, eyes flicking from the biker dismounting to the gray-sided house, noting the dark windows, the old powder-blue pickup parked under the carport. At the end of the block, he turned, turned again, came all the way back around until he was at the intersection, looking down toward the house.

The biker was on the front porch, bending sideways at the waist to peer into a window, his hand a salute against the glass.

Another circle around, and the biker was walking away from the window on the other side of the door, one fist twisting in the other. His knife jutted from the scabbard on his thigh.

Another circle, and the biker was nowhere in sight, but the bike still sat parked on the street. The house was as dark as it had been on the last pass.

Carl put on his turn signal and went down the street. Slowed one house before the bike and nudged the tires up near the curb, beneath the reaching branches of an oak.

He shut off the engine and listened. Couldn’t hear anything through his windows.

Across the street, light flickered in a window. A TV. The target house, though, remained dark.

Carl got out and pushed his door quietly shut. He approached the edge of the house’s yard. A hedge separating the yard from its neighbor scratched his jeans as he stayed close to the perimeter, watching the windows. He kept his back hunched, ready to duck. He reached behind him and made sure the gun was still there, even though he could feel its weight in his waistband. He just needed reassurance.