Chapter 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The room was as expected: neat but just south of clean.

He put his duffle bag on the bed, stripped his clothing, and went into the bathroom. The shower head was too strong, the water like needles on his skin, but strong was always better than weak.

With the water burrowing into the top of his head and running over his face, he felt himself relax under the heat.

His thoughts turned to Piper and the doppelg?nger mockup of the wedding she’d been so excited to show him. Regret flooded his body. He’d let the whole thing spiral out of control, and he needed to call her immediately. She needed to know the truth, and with each passing minute, it would only get worse when he actually told her.

Drying off with a scratchy towel, he sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the dead silence of the building. He picked up his cell.

He dialed Piper’s number, but when he put it to his ear, there was no sound. Looking at the screen, he heard three beeps, and the call was dropped. Where there were usually reception bars, the screen now read No Service.

He got dressed, knowing there had been reception back in the sheriff’s department parking lot. He could drive there later and call.

No . He decided it would be impossible to even enjoy dinner without getting this conversation out of the way.

He went outside, climbed into the SUV, and drove south into town, keeping one eye on his cell phone. At the Dusty Thorn, the No Service indicator disappeared, and two bars came up, so he pulled over.

He looked over at the jet-black windows of the saloon and the bikes parked a few yards from his front bumper, ignored it all, and dialed Piper.

Shifting into park, he listened to the digital trill ring through the speakers five, then six times, then another five times without going to voicemail.

Damn technology.

He hung up and typed out a message.

Hi.

Deciding what to write, he figured a text message was not the place to explain himself, so he kept it vanilla.

I’m up in Doyle. Staying at a place called The Lamb. Things are going well. Reception is bad. I tried to call, but it didn’t work. I’ll give you a ring later or tomorrow. I love you.

He sent the message and put the phone down. Outside, a biker was coming up the sidewalk toward him.

A shot of adrenaline spiked his pulse. It was Snake.

He had a knife hanging off a studded belt, probably another strapped to his leg inside the riding boots he wore. The compound leader’s lips moved in an angry conversation with himself. He spit on the sidewalk, then laughed, then cursed and spit again. He slowed at one of the bikes, then stopped dead as if having a premonition. He lifted his head and locked gazes with Wolf through the windshield.

His demeanor relaxed. He swerved through two motorcycles and walked over to Wolf’s SUV, stopping at his window and knocking on the glass.

Wolf lowered the window, twisting his hips to readily pull his gun if need be.

Snake grabbed the window of Wolf’s door, his fingers curling inside. He smelled of cigarettes and beer.

“Fancy seeing you here, Detective Wolf.”

“Snake.”

“You guys find Hunt?”

“Not yet. You?”

Snake pointedly didn’t answer the question.

“You didn’t give us any information on the truck or the license plate,” Wolf said.

Snake shrugged, the blue-inked serpents on his veiny, muscular neck writhing as he did.

“It’s alright. We know about the truck and got the license plate anyway and updated the APB. We’ll find him soon enough.”

Snake’s eyes remained calm, his lip turned up in the hint of a smile. “What are you doing here?”

“Just making a phone call. Receptions shoddy around here.”

“It is.” He looked down the road, back the way Wolf had come. “You getting a bite to eat inside? They have a great burger.”

“I don’t think so.”

Snake shrugged again .

“What happened to Irving Hunt?” Wolf asked.

“Who’s that?”

“Lawrence’s son, the one who’s gone missing, and from what I’m gathering, the reason why he came and shot your men, stole your money, and is on the run.”

Snake pushed back, shaking his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Wolf nodded. “Okay.”

“Welp.” Snake slapped his roof and turned to walk away. “See you around.” He got on his bike, lifted the kickstand, fired up the engine, and accelerated away.

“Apparently so,” Wolf said under his breath as he watched Snake’s image recede into the distance at high speed. A minute later, the man was gone around a bend, the noise of his engine disappearing behind the sound of Wolf’s air conditioner.

He blinked and looked at his phone. The message he’d sent to Piper had been marked Read.

Waiting for a response, his stomach groaned again. After sitting for another two minutes, feeling eyes watching beyond the glass of the Dusty Thorn, he finally decided to ditch his efforts. He shifted into drive, turned around, and went back to the motel.

Parking the SUV, he went to his room and looked out the window to the diner across the street. The two motorcycles were gone, which was good because he wasn’t in the mood for yet another biker confrontation. He just needed food. And fast.

He put his badge in his pocket, tucked the Glock in the back of his pants, pulled his shirt over it, and went back out.

The owner of the motel sat outside the office on a plastic chair, puffing a pipe.

Wolf passed him as he walked through the parking lot, nodding a greeting.

“Off to get a meal over at D’s?”

“Yes, sir,” Wolf said. “Per your recommendation.”

“Tell Savannah hi for me.”

“Okay,” he said. “Will do.” But he was thinking about Piper again. She had read his message but hadn’t responded. Did that mean she had seen him call and not answered?

Wolf continued walking, crossing the traffic-less street and entering the diner.

A digital bell dinged as he walked into steamy air that smelled of hamburgers.

The place was well-lit, with sixties country music coming from speakers overhead. Rows of booths stretched out to the right and left along the glass, while a long counter in the middle held attached stools. Everything gleamed silver with original-looking chrome. Neon signs hung on the walls, bent in the shapes of french fries and hamburgers.

An elderly couple sat at a booth to the right, eating silently, but it was otherwise empty of patrons.

“Hi, just one?” A woman appeared in front of him. She was in her sixties, gray hair drawn into a bun at the back of her head, held there by a pencil.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

She rounded the counter, grabbed a menu, and dropped it on the floor. When she bent down to grab it, the pencil fell out of her hair, and she cursed under her breath as she picked it up.

Now red-faced, she led him in the opposite direction of the couple to a booth. He followed in the scent of her flowery perfume .

“Here okay?” she asked.

“Sure.”

He squeezed past her, taking the opposite side of the table to watch the entrance. As he lowered himself to the bench, he saw her looking at his lower back.

Her mouth dropped open, eyes bulging briefly at the sight of his weapon.

Cutting off any misinterpretation, he pulled the badge from his pocket. “I’m a cop.”

Her eyes widened further, not the reassured expression Wolf was expecting. One eye was bloodshot below the pupil, the lower lid swollen.

He picked up the menu. “What happened to your eye? Everything going okay there?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah.”

She put a hand up to her face, then lowered it. “Oh. Yeah. Just…fell.” But her breathing looked quicker now. She turned to leave. “I’ll be back with some water.”

“I’ll take a Sprite, too,” he said.

She left with quick steps, going to fill the drinks behind the bar.

“You got it,” she said. She dropped one of the plastic cups, which clunked along the floor behind the counter. Again, she cursed and picked it up.

A minute later, she brought the drinks and put them in front of him. “Had a chance to look at the menu?”

He had not, but he handed the laminated sheet back to her and said, “I’ll take a cheeseburger, medium, cheddar, please, with fries.”

“Coming right up.”

She took the menu and disappeared through a swivel door into the kitchen. It had a circular window, and a man’s face came into view. He eyed him and then disappeared.

A second later, the same man came out from behind the kitchen. He was younger than Wolf, a head shorter, with blond hair shaved almost to the scalp on the top and sides. He wore frayed shorts and a food-stained gray T-shirt that had Grateful Dead’s Steal Your Face skull on it.

Without pause, the man went to the elderly couple’s table, took their drinks, refilled them behind the bar, and returned the cups. The old woman smiled and thanked him, the old man concentrated on his food.

“You okay on your drink?” he asked Wolf.

“Yeah, fine. Thanks.”

“Food’s cooking.” He walked back into the kitchen.

Outside the window, a hatchback Subaru pulled out from next to the restaurant. The older woman who had been waiting on him was behind the wheel, alone. She looked both ways and pulled out going south away from the building.

Wolf stared at the woman’s receding car, wondering why she had taken his order and left so hastily. She had been disheveled and nervous while waiting on Wolf. Had she just run away? From him? It certainly looked like it.

Outside, the motel manager across the street was getting up from his seat and walking back into his office. Done with his smoke break.

Say hi to… What was the name he’d used? Georgia? No.

Savannah. Say hi to Savannah for me. That was what he had said.

The kitchen door pushed open, and the guy with the Grateful Dead shirt came out and slid a plate in front of him. As he extended his arm, a tattoo on his right bicep came into view from under his shirtsleeve: a lightning bolt coming out of a small cloud.

“You need anything else?” the man asked. “Ketchup’s right there.”

Wolf stared at him.

“Sir?”

“No. Thanks.”

The man left, disappearing again through the back door. Wolf watched him walk away. There was a resemblance in the way the man walked when compared to the older woman. Their backsides both curled under and were of similar proportions, and their feet splayed outward with each step.

He pulled out his phone and found the photo he’d taken at Hunt’s house. He pinched and zoomed in on the kid next to Irv. The tattoo matched, and the blond hair, an unruly mess in the picture, was much shorter now, but there was no doubt the same person had just delivered his food. But the man was a good twenty years older now, at least.

Wolf put a fry in his mouth, thinking about the old woman’s face. It had been similar—they both had the same rounded eyes and small nose. They were related—Wolf would bet money on it. Mother and son? Aunt and nephew?

He didn’t know what to make of any of this, nor, he decided, did he care. Right now, he needed to eat, so he did.

The burger was cooked to perfection, juicy, with a thick bun. The fries crispy. Every bite drew him into the next and the next, and only in the middle of the meal did he start thinking about current events again.

That guy in the kitchen was Irving Hunt’s friend. He needed to talk to him .

The kitchen door swung open again, and the man came straight to Wolf’s table.

“Everything good?”

“Yeah,” Wolf said.

“Get you another drink?”

“Please.”

Wolf watched as he left with the cup and went behind the counter. When he came back, Wolf laid his badge and the phone showing the picture on the table.

“My name’s Dave Wolf,” Wolf said. “I’m a detective from Rocky Points. What’s your name?”

The man looked at the badge and set the drink down. He didn’t answer, though. He was lost in the photograph glowing on Wolf’s cell.

Wolf pushed the phone toward him and pointed at the screen. “Irving Hunt. And that’s you, right? I recognize the tattoo on your arm.”

The man stepped back. “Yeah, that’s me. Although a long time ago. What about it? Where’d you get this?”

“I didn’t get your name.”

“Mitch.”

“Mitch, what?”

“What can I do for you?” Mitch said.

Wolf nodded. Okay, no last name. “Nice to meet you, Mitch.” He held out a hand, and Mitch shook it, his hand greasy and warm.

Outside, the lighting dimmed, and wind rattled the window. A few drops of rain hit the glass.

“Where’d you get that?” Mitch asked again.

“It was a picture I found at Lawrence Hunt’s place, in Irv’s room.”

“Oh. ”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions about Irv.”

“Okay. Like what?”

Wolf pulled his badge and phone back toward him, pocketing both. “You two have known each other for a while, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“You grew up with him here?”

“Yeah.”

“I hear he was running with those bikers,” he gestured down the street.

Mitch didn’t reply, giving Wolf a look as if considering whether to trust him or not.

“Do you know what happened to him?” Wolf asked. “To Irv?”

Mitch shook his head, looking over at the elderly couple. The two ate obliviously.

“Was that your mother that just left?” Wolf asked.

“Huh? Oh, yeah.”

“Savannah, is it?”

Mitch’s eyes narrowed. “Savannah? Why do you say that?”

“The guy across the street running the motel told me her name. Said to say hi for him.”

Mitch looked outside, then back at Wolf. “Okay. Look, I don’t know where Irv is.”

“What happened to your mother’s eye?”

“Her eye? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Wolf changed tack. “You’ve heard about Irv’s dad, right? About what he did the other night up at the biker compound?”

Mitch looked over at the couple again. His voice lowered. “I’ve heard. What of it? ”

“We found two bikers killed down south, and we believe Lawrence Hunt did it. We know he killed four of these guys the other night. We think he did it for revenge for what they did to his son.”

Mitch didn’t seem particularly mollified by Wolf’s news.

“We’d like to know where he is. Have you seen him?”

“No.”

“And you don’t know anything about Irv’s disappearance?”

Mitch’s eyes went to the window.

There was a rumbling noise outside that Wolf thought was thunder but now saw was a motorcycle. A biker with long hair and a beard pulled up and stopped in front of the diner windows. He jutted the bike out toward the road, then walked it back, his pipes snapping and popping. He wore a leather vest with the SOV insignia on its back. With a booted foot, he flipped down the kickstand, got off the bike, and approached the entrance.

Wind whipped across the table as the door opened with its electric chime. Wolf turned back, but Mitch was no longer standing next to him.

“Get you a table?” Mitch asked the man, picking up a menu from the counter.

The biker was tall, with tanned leathery skin. He pulled off a pair of sunglasses, revealing a set of pale gray eyes surrounded by tan lines. He looked right toward the elderly couple, who stared back at the man. Then he looked left, letting his gaze land and stay on Wolf for a beat.

“I’ll sit at the bar,” the biker said. He walked to a stool and sat. “Coke.”

Mitch nodded and got to work, pouring the drink and setting it in front of him .

“Get you some food?”

The man didn’t answer but pulled the menu toward him. He mumbled something and pushed it away. Mitch took it, then walked to Wolf’s table, dropped his check even though he wasn’t finished with his meal, and disappeared into the kitchen.

There was a wall with a mirror behind the bar counter, and Wolf sat watching the biker in its reflection. The man’s eyes never left Wolf’s.

Wolf nodded, then picked up his burger and continued to eat. It was cold now, and the fries, too. But he was hungry and finished it nonetheless, all the while feeling eyes on him.

Outside, the storm freshened. Drops on the window multiplied, and quicksilver streaks ran down the glass. Lightning flashed, and thunder shook the building.

The elderly couple remained where they were, sitting with empty plates, staring out the window, the man picking his teeth with a toothpick.

Wolf felt like he’d been onto something here, but if Mitch knew anything, there was no way he’d be talking with the biker here.

He left money on the table and got up.

Wolf approached the biker, entering an invisible cloud scented with cigarettes and body odor. The man was typing a message into his phone, but when he sensed Wolf, he quickly turned it face down on the counter. He turned, leaning on an elbow. His forearm was the color of charred wood, graffitied with faded-to-blue tattoos.

“What?” the biker asked.

“Hey. ”

The biker upturned his hands. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“I’m a cop from down south. I’m looking for Lawrence Hunt.”

“Oh. Okay.” His tone was Who gives a shit?

“He shot a couple of you guys down in my county. So, I’m up here looking for him.”

The man said nothing.

“I heard what he did up at your place last weekend,” Wolf said. “What was it? Saturday morning?”

The guy’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m sorry for the loss of your friends.”

“Yeah. Thanks, pig.”

Wolf looked out the window at the rain dousing the man’s bike. “You here to watch me? Or what?”

“A bit full of ourselves, are we?”

Wolf smiled. “Catch you around,” he said, turning toward the door.

“Sure,” the biker said.

Wolf looked toward the kitchen door on his way out, catching a watchful eye disappearing from the window.

He pushed the door open against a spray of rain. Before the door blew shut, he heard a snorting pig sound coming from inside.

Wolf ducked his head against the storm and walked back to the motel.