Biker (19 page)

Mazin fingered his fob. The Excursion beeped and flashed. “Step into my office,” he said, climbing up into the driver's seat using both a step-up and a hand hold.

Pratt stiffly got in the passenger's side, also using the hand hold. Mazin started the engine and turned the air conditioner on full blast. A police scanner hung beneath the dash on the passenger's side.

“I knew that chickenshit charge wasn't going to last. Sheriff's been combing the books looking for some other charge with which he could hold you. His pride is hurt 'cause you uncovered something he should have known about. By the way, he impounded your bike. Found a dead War Bonnet in a gulch.”

“What do I owe you, counselor?” Pratt said.

Mazin waved a hand, pointed toward the glove compartment. “Gratis. I owe Danny some favors. Open that up why don'tcha and hand me one.”

Pratt popped open the glove compartment. Inside was a miniature refrigerator holding a six-pack of Fat Tires. Pratt handed one to Mazin and took one himself.

“There's an opener on the lid there.”

Pratt removed the bottle opener from its clamp inside the glove compartment and opened his bottle. He handed the opener to Mazin.

Mazin held his bottle up. “To liberty.” They clicked bottles. “Danny gave me the short version but I'm not sure I know what this is all about. You mind bringing me up to speed?”

Pratt told the story of his search for Ginger's missing son, omitting nothing. Unlike law enforcement officers, Pratt had an instinctive and well-earned trust in criminal defense attorneys. They had always helped him. His best friend was a lawyer. And they knew how to keep their mouths shut. Like all good lawyers, Mazin was a good listener. He was silent for a minute when Pratt finished.

“That's unbelievable. This Moon sounds like a raging psychopath. What are you going to do now?”

“Well sir, I was hoping to go back out there and take another look around for the boy.”

“If what you say is true he's unlikely to trust anyone ever again.”

“Maybe. I have to try. I can't just leave him out there to forage like a wild animal.”

Neither put into words what both were thinking.

“How you feeling? You're moving pretty good for a man who fought a mountain lion.”

“If I slow down I'll stop moving.”

Mazin glanced at his Tag Heuer. “I've got to go. Drop you someplace?”

“Vern's, I guess.”

The same four choppers were at the curb outside. The same four Indians were at the same table playing with the same deck of cards. Vern saw Pratt enter and automatically reached for the bourbon. He had the shot poured by the time Pratt eased himself carefully onto a bar stool.

“I knew that chickenshit charge wasn't gonna stick,” Vern said. “DeWitt's all right 'less you cross him. How'd you get out so quick?”

“I got a good lawyer. Vern, I wonder if I could impose on you a little more.”

“Whatcha need?”

The four Indians at the table shot surreptitious glances Pratt's way. One of them detached himself and walked toward the bar. He was about six feet tall with thick bones, pepper-salt hair tied in a ponytail, sad eyes beneath patchy brows. He paused next to Pratt.

“Pratt, this here's Richard Longtree. What's up Rich?”

“Want to buy this man a drink.”

Pratt turned toward the man and stuck out his hand. “Josh Pratt.”

Longtree shook his hand ceremoniously. “That was slick, what you did, man, taking down a mountain lion. We didn't even know Moon was around.”

“I'm sure he's gone now,” Pratt said. “Half the country's going to be looking for him by the morning.”

Vern leaned on the bar, lowered his voice. “I got a friend whose brother's a deputy, says they pulled two bodies out of the ground out there this morning. One of 'em may be that missing fed guy.”

“What fed guy?” Pratt said.

“Couple years ago, federal marshal went on the Pingree Res looking for an AIM guy named Little Danny. He disappeared. No one's heard from Little Danny either.”

“I always figured Little Danny for the fed job,” Longtree said. “Maybe Moon killed 'em both.”

“Rich,” Pratt said, “I've got to take care of some business. Then I'll come over and join you guys for a drink.”

Longtree clapped a big hand on Pratt's shoulder, causing him to wince. “We'll be waiting.”

Longtree returned to his table. Pratt pulled out his cell phone. “Vern, I need to charge this.”

Vern held out his hand. “Give it here. I got a universal charger back in my office. You can pick one up at the Walgreens in Buffalo.”

“And I need to use your phone to call my old lady.”

Vern handed him the phone. Pratt dialed Cass.

“Where are you?” she demanded. “I was worried sick about you! Then that lawyer called and said you'd been arrested!”

Pratt heard Ginger's querulous voice in the background. “I'm out now. I wonder if you'd come get me. I'm in Hog Tail, Wyoming.”

“Jesus, Pratt. That's the ass end of the universe! Are you all right?”

“I'm a little torn up. I'm really in no condition to ride.” Pratt wanted Cass for another reason. He suspected Eric might react more favorably to a woman. He could be wrong. He wasn't about to leave without taking another crack at finding the kid. The boy had been on his mind since their encounter. How could he survive out there on his own, without the most rudimentary skills?

“If I leave now I can be there in the morning.”

“You'd have to drive straight through. I don't want you to do that.”

“No prob. I got shit to stay up.”

“Cass, no. I have some shit to take care of anyway. Leave now but don't try to make it in one sitting. It'd be a real bummer if you crashed. I'll still be here tomorrow night.”

“Did you find him?”

“I'm not sure.”

“What's that supposed to mean? Ginger wants to talk to you.”

“I can't talk to her right now. Cass, just come get me. I'll explain everything.”

“What am I supposed to tell Ginger?”

“Moon is looking for her. He's looking for both of you.”

“They've hired a private security firm.”

“Who?”

“Flintstone.

“They're very good,” Pratt said. “Ginger should be all right.”

“Okay, baby. I'll leave in an hour. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Pratt automatically answered, feeling like a fraud.

CHAPTER 35

The Indians seated at the round table regarded Pratt with awe. They solemnly shook his hand, drawing strength through the skin. He was something out of the old times when adolescents were sent into the wilderness on their dream quest armed with a knife and a bow. Only by proving themselves in elemental struggle with nature could they become men and warriors. Now the young men drank and did drugs and hung around the reservations waiting for their welfare checks.

Pratt read awe in their eyes and felt unworthy.

“That Moon,” Longtree said. “He was always trouble, even when he was a little boy.”

“You knew him?” Pratt said.

“Oh yeah. He was the class bully out at Crazy Horse Middle School. You know how hard it is to get expelled from a reservation school?”

A thin man named Pat said, “He was rapin' girls in junior high.”

The other two Indians were Burt and Paul.

“He was always a freak,” Paul said. “He was into Satanism and death metal before he decided to become an authentic Injun.”

“Claimed he had second sight,” Longtree said.

Burt asked Pratt about the Sturgis shooting.

“I wasn't there,” Pratt said.

“Last thing the rally needs,” Pat said.

“This won't hurt the rally,” Longtree said. “Just means they're gonna eighty-six the Skulls and the Vandals.”

“Ain't no loss,” Burt said. The others nodded solemnly. None of them had gone to the rally anyway.

As Pratt finished a second shot Dr. Keith entered beneath the wheezing air conditioning unit carrying his little black bag. Pratt excused himself and met the doctor at the bar.

“Sorry you got arrested,” Dr. Keith said, setting his black bag on the bar. “Sorry about that, but the sheriff had me dead to rights as I was leaving the other night. It's one thing not to volunteer information, quite another when the sheriff's got you dead to rights.”

Pratt eased himself down on a stool. “I understand, Doc. So they went out there?”

“Oh yeah,” Dr. Keith said, sitting on a stool and opening his bag. “Found two bodies. One of 'em might be that missing fed. I think back to that day when I ran into Moon about to unload his truck up in the high country I can't help but wonder maybe it was that federal agent. Take your shirt off, son.”

Pratt peeled off his shirt. A couple field hands burnt red by the sun glanced at him as they took up two bar stools toward the back. A silent TV monitor over the bar showed a baseball game. Vern drew two drafts without being asked and carried them down the bar.

Dr. Keith poked and prodded, checked the seams, took out his stethoscope and held the welcome cool against Pratt's back. Had Pratt cough several times, looked in his eyes. “Son, you have got the constitution of a dray horse. You could just as easily gone into shock and died out there. If I was younger I might try and write you up for some medical magazine. Those antibiotics seem to be doing the trick. How you feeling?”

“Just glad to be alive, Doc.”

“Try not to rip these stitches.”

Vern came back. “Offer you gentlemen a beer?”

Pratt shrugged. “Why not.”

Dr. Keith nodded. “Might as well. I just got done helping McGillicuddy's cow give breech birth. How we got that tangle of limbs outta there I still don't know, but we had three people pushing and pulling at one point.”

Pratt hoisted his glass. Vern and Dr. Keith hoisted theirs. They clanked. They drank.

“Vern, do you know any trackers?”

“Lester,” the doc said.

“My cousin Lester can track a sheet of white paper in a blizzard.”

“Can you get Lester to meet me here in a day or so? I'll pay you two hundred and I'll pay Lester eight hundred.” Pratt figured it wouldn't hurt to give the sheriff's department another day to sift through the ranch.

“Boy that money sure do sound good to me and it'll sound good to Lester, but Moon, he ain't one to hang around, not without a reason.”

“Can you do it?”

Vern shrugged. “Let me give him a call.”

“Where can I book a room?”

Vern nodded toward the door, his Adam's apple doing a slow wobble. “Chic's Best Western straight up the street. Ain't nothin' else, 'less you want to crash on my sprung and beer-drenched sofa.”

Pratt grinned, feeling the stitches at his hairline draw tight. “I appreciate it, Vern, but I have an expense account.”

“Chic's ain't bad,” Vern said. “They got cable and an indoor pool.”

“Used to be the Buffalo Bill but that closed down years ago,” Dr. Keith said.

Again Pratt tried to pay Dr. Keith. Again the doc refused. Hungry and in need of a shower, Pratt excused himself, leaving his cell phone behind. He walked slowly down the baking Main Street toward the two-story Best Western at the edge of town, across the street from Frody's Bar and Grill, which appeared to be doing a bang-up business.

The pimply teenage girl behind the check-in desk blanched when Pratt entered the air-conditioned office. “What happened to you?” she said, chewing gum.

“Crashed my bike.”

“Wow.”

“Do you have a single?”

“You can have any room in the place, just about.”

Pratt gave her his credit card and checked into a second floor room in the rear. The girl supplied him with a toothbrush and a mini-tube of Colgate. Pratt went into the darkened room and turned the air conditioner up full blast. He switched the TV on to

Fox News and took a shower as hot as he could stand. Water stung his cuts and gouges from head to toe but it was worth it. He gently toweled himself off, sat on the springy bed and gingerly put on his shoes and socks. Had to find a thrift store or something. His underwear was getting rank.

It was eight-thirty, dusk by the time he stiff-legged across the highway to Frody's. The parking lot was nearly full. Inside ol' Waylon was wailing on the jukebox and the bar was busy. Three mesomorphs stood out with their baggy, low-hanging trou and Tapout hoodies. They watched Pratt make his way to a booth and sniggered.

A cute blond waitress brought Pratt a short menu. She tried not to stare. “Can I get you something to drink, sir?”

Pratt smiled. “I hit a deer,” he said. “How about a shot of Jack and a Hamm's back?”

As the waitress brought Pratt his drinks and a glass of water, one of the Tapouts said, “Hey Brianna! When you gonna go for a ride with me?”

Brianna didn't drop a beat. “In your dreams, Gus.”

“Hey Brianna,” said another one. “When you gonna take me and Cal for a ride?” They grinned and elbowed one another. The waitress ignored them as she set the drinks down.

“There you are. Are you ready to order?”

The one called Gus stepped away from the bar. “What happened to your friend, Bri? Did you cross your legs too fast?”

The trio guffawed. The bartender gave them a dirty look. Pratt ordered a steak and a salad. The food came quickly. Pratt ate like a starving dog. The steak was good but it hurt to chew. When he looked up the mesomorphs were gone.

Pratt left a generous tip, went outside, waited for a semi to pass, and herky-jerked across the highway inhaling diesel. He let himself into his chilled room, stripped, and was out in ten minutes.

He dreamed about Bosselman's, that sheer panic in his chest when he realized what had happened. He ran from gift shop to restaurant to showers searching for his wayward father.