Biker (30 page)

In like Flynn.

CHAPTER 59

Pratt and Cass lay in the dark in the same position they had last night when the trouble began. This time Cass kept her mouth shut. Let it ride for now. Pratt liked the feel of her next to him, the snug curve of her hip. Let her think that with time he would warm to the idea of commitment. It could happen, he kept telling himself.

Lightning lanced through the night followed by cannon fire. The blinking light on the TV box had stopped. Rain lashed the windows. They were in for an old-fashioned goose drowner. Pratt tried out the thought of marital bliss: coming home from a long day tracking stolen cars or delivering summonses, the little lady greeting him on the stoop with an apron and a cocktail. More likely leather hot pants and a joint.

Pratt had no clue what domestic bliss looked like. His father was a one-man wrecking machine. Duane claimed to have been married, three, four, or five times. All questions about Pratt's mother were turned away with, “That bitch. You don't want to hear about her.”

When pressed Duane would smack him with the flat of his hand.

Light shifted in the stairwell, a sudden flickering and shadow dance cast upon the wood-paneled wall.

“Hey Pratt,” Munz stage-whispered down the stairs.

“Yeah?”

“Come up here a minute, would you?”

Cass was instantly awake. “What is it?”

“Nothing. Stay here. Keep that gun handy.”

Pratt pulled on his jeans and slipped his feet into his Velcroed Nevados. He put the Ruger in the fanny pack and buckled it around his waist. He ascended into a dark house lit by a handful of flickering candles and the occasional lightning flash. Munz stood at the top of the stairs in cargo pants, gun worn over his tucked-in shirt, pushing back against his belly. He looked strained. Pratt glanced at his watch. It was only eight-thirty but the skies were dark as a tunnel.

Munz shut the basement door and led the way into the kitchen, where a skylight admitted flashes of harsh white light.

“What?” Pratt said.

Munz set the candle holder on the granite-surfaced island. “It's about the boy.”

“What about him?”

“Is there a chance he's not Ginger's?”

This again.

Pratt shrugged. “There's only one way to find out, if we find him. With every passing day that seems more and more unlikely. I'm afraid this is a soul who is simply unequipped to exist in our world. Moon stole his life. Murder might have been kinder. I doubt very much we'll ever see him again, much less find him alive.”

Munz sagged against the counter and for a moment seemed far older than his forty-plus. “I pray that it is so. You've got to understand something, Josh. I love my wife. The moment I laid eyes on her I knew she was the girl for me. God, that sounds so clichéd, but it's true. Most women prattle on about soul mates without the slightest clue what they're looking for. Ginger's past never bothered me. The tats, they didn't bother me. She cut way down on the drinking.

“But this business with the kid terrifies me. I already raised two kids and got 'em out of the house. If they find this kid and God forbid, there's something wrong with him, I'd be for putting him in an institution. I'm afraid it's going to break up my marriage.”

Pratt shook his head. “Don't worry about something you can't control. Chances are we'll never see him again. But if he does somehow manage to survive, and we find him, I've already looked into counseling. People at the university would be eager to help.”

Munz reached into a cupboard over the sink and removed a flask of bourbon. He poured himself a couple of fingers in a juice glass, looked at Pratt. Pratt nodded.

They silently toasted. Pratt sipped his bourbon. Like lava pouring down his throat. The bourbon triggered an atavistic longing for a line of coke or meth to bring him fully up to speed. Pratt smiled. He would no sooner dive back into that barrel than he would take his own life.

“What?” Munz said.

“Oh, I was just thinking about the way I used to live. I can identify with Ginger. We both sort of came out of that biker scene and lived to tell about it.”

“I asked a doctor once if all that shit she did before she met me, the meth, the blow, the smack, whatever, might have brought on the Crohn's. Not likely.”

“Like it or not, she's the woman you fell in love with.”

“I'll drink to that.” Munz did so. He refilled his glass and held the bottle up for Pratt. Pratt shook his head.

“When'd the lights go out?”

“About two hours ago. Happens all the time. They should be up soon.”

“Have you heard from Flintstone in the past hour?”

Munz frowned, pulled out his cell phone and pushed buttons. He put it to his ear and frowned. “The cell phones are out. Nothing. No signal.”

Pratt reached into his pocket, pulled out his own cell phone and confirmed. The lights were out. Cell phone service was out. As if some
brujo
had sacrificed a lawyer and brought the storm.

“Shouldn't there be somebody out front?” Pratt said, walking toward the front door.

Munz strode fast to keep up. “I looked about a half hour ago but I didn't see anyone. I just figured they were on patrol.”

Pratt paused at the front door and peered out the mullioned window. Rain reduced everything to a washed-out dark gray and concealed all movement. Pratt opened the door. A blast of cool moisture assaulted him. The agents' car rested at the curb, dark and inscrutable.

Pratt reached for an umbrella in the stand next to the door. “Wait here.” He stepped out beneath the porte cochere and popped the black brolly. Clutching the umbrella just beneath the brace, he stepped out into the driveway. The wind tried to yank the umbrella from his grip. Pratt stepped down to the drive.

Rapid percussions echoed down the long drive, the sound of automatic gunfire.

CHAPTER 60

Pratt looked around. Where was Flintstone? A flash of lightning illuminated the black Chrysler. It appeared to be empty. Munz came out on the stoop.

“That's gunfire!”

“It came from up toward the road. Shit!” Pratt was dying to know what happened but he dared not leave the ladies. Someone ran around the corner of the house into the drive. In the rain and dark Pratt nearly shot him. Bonner did a massive double-take.

“Don't shoot! It's Bonner!”

Pratt lowered his pistol. He hadn't even remembered pulling it. “Did you hear that?”

“Yeah. The radios are down. Foucalt and Stuart are on perimeter. Our transceivers are still working. I'd sure like to know what happened.”

“I'm going up there,” Pratt said. Somebody had to do it. If something had happened to the deputy they had to know.

“Don't be stupid,” Bonner said. “I'll go.”

“No. Your job is here protecting the women. If I'm not back in fifteen minutes …” He let it die.

“Wait a minute!” Bonner said. He opened the Chrysler's trunk and removed a heavy device that looked like binoculars with a head strap. “You know how to use this?”

“Show me,” Pratt said.

Bonner fitted the device over Pratt's head and switched it on. An electronic hum reverberated between Pratt's ears as the landscape suddenly stood forth in an unnatural green. He could see each raindrop as it zipped by. He could see the outlines of the towering blue spruce.

Pratt made the “okay” sign with thumb and forefinger and trotted down the drive holding his pistol before him in both hands. The driveway curved to the right, concealing the end. An old oak lay across the drive, felled by the wind. Pratt stepped gingerly over it and pounded on, sticking to the side of the pavement, where every footfall created a little wave. He rounded the bend and saw the deputy's car at the end of the drive through the closed gate. He paused and took in the scene. The only motion came from the rain and the trees sighing in the wind.

Pratt slowed down and approached cautiously, rounding one of the massive stone pillars on the outside. Concealed by the pillar, he looked at the scene. The patrol car's windshield was punctured with dozens of bullet holes. An old Chevy pick-up rested with its butt in the air, nose in the ditch nearby, the driver's door open. A dude sprawled out the driver's side with his head on the tarmac staring sightlessly into the black sky, his legs still in the truck.

Pratt crept up on the deputy's door, hunkering low. The door was ajar and one booted foot rested on the ground. Pratt got up to the door and looked inside. The deputy lay across his bench seat, face pulped, hand curled around his service automatic. The deputy had worn horn-rimmed glasses, which had split, one lens jutting up at an angle. Brass lay on the seat and on the dash. His vest hadn't saved him. Whoever had opened up on him unloaded several clips through the cruiser's windshield. It was some kind of miracle the deputy was able to shoot one of his assailants, if that's what had happened.

Pratt opened the door wider. The rain and wind drowned out all sound. He tried the deputy's transceiver. Dead. Pratt found it awkward to maneuver his head inside the cab with the night vision goggles but he could see the radio had caught a ricochet.

Pratt reached for the deputy's shoulder radio and pulled it close. He keyed it. Nothing but static. Pratt eased himself out of the cruiser, went around the back and approached the pick-up on the passenger's side. The door was open. There was nobody inside. Pratt went around the back of the truck and up to where the driver lay in the road. His long black braid snaked beneath the truck. Prison tats crawled up his neck. The driver wore a denim vest with a tiny War Bonnets patch.

There'd been a passenger. Filled with a sense of urgency Pratt cut off his inspection and headed back toward the house. Pratt ran on the mossy shoulder close to the trees so as not to present a clear profile. If he had night vision so could they. He approached the curve in the driveway and jerked to a stop as if he'd reached the end of his chain.

Wait a minute.

The hairs on Pratt's neck stood straight up. He backed into the woods, wet fir scratching him head to toe. He stopped with his back against a sycamore as ice water rolled down his back and peered through the glowing green landscape. Each tiny motion drew his attention. The wind howled, rain flew. It was like trying to find a pattern in a foaming sea. The tree erupted next to his head, sending a sharp splinter into his cheek. Simultaneously he heard the report of a big bore weapon so close it slammed his eardrums shut.

Instinctively Pratt sunk, whirled and fired. The Bonnet was standing six feet away. How had he missed? Pratt's bullet struck the Bonnet's Mac-10 below the barrel and it arced up and out of the man's hands. The Bonnet was not wearing goggles. In the split second before he jerked into the trees, Pratt registered it was the caveman from the Chip—the retailer.

The fucking goggles now restricted Pratt's vision. The caveman had juked beyond. Pratt whipped off the goggles and whirled wildly. A piece of the forest detached itself too close to identify. The caveman lunged at Pratt with a knife. Pratt instinctively swung the gun barrel down on the caveman's wrist with a satisfying crack. Pratt put the gun to the man's chest. The caveman lurched, staggering backward with each squeeze of the trigger. The caveman died with his mouth open, showing meth teeth like tombstones in a vandalized cemetery.

Pratt stared at the body. He'd never killed a man before. He didn't count Taco.

And Jesus said unto him,
Pratt, I don't know shit about combat, but doesn't this seem like a diversion?

Scooping up the night vision goggles, Pratt spent one second looking for the Mac-10. Fuck it. He had to get back to the house. Holding the pistol before him, Pratt booked.

He splashed back to the turnaround breathing hard. Fitting the goggles around his eyes, he turned them on. There was no sign of life. All lights in the house were off. The rain poured down. Angling into the wind, Pratt dashed to the black Chrysler and opened the passenger door.

The overwhelming smell of sheared copper smacked Pratt in the face. Bonner lay sideways across the seat, eyes open, gaping black maw where his throat had been cut.

CHAPTER 61

Blood pooled on the leather upholstery and ran onto the floor. Bonner's holster was empty. There was no sign of his gun. Pratt felt a presence at his elbow and looked. Munz had joined him.

Pratt stepped aside, allowing Munz to look. Munz bent down, gripped the door frame and looked. He jerked back. His face went white. “My God,” he said, taking an involuntary step back.

Pratt slammed the door. “Let's get back in the house.” Mind reeling. Moon could be anywhere. He might already be in the house. Pratt didn't wait. He ran. Munz ran right behind him, slammed the door and threw the dead bolt.

Munz drew his pistol, a Glock 17, and ratcheted a shell into the chamber.

Pratt put a hand up. He stood in a puddle of water. “Don't shoot your foot off. Or me. Is the safety on?”

“It's a Glock,” Munz said.

They spoke quietly, words drowned out by the storm.

“I'm turning on the alarm,” Munz said.

“The electricity's off.”

“Right! Right, damn it!”

Pratt looked down. The wet footprints on the hardwood floor belonged only to him and Munz. All the doors and windows were locked. If Moon were in the house he had to have broken something to get in. The wind picked up, louder than the tin cans they'd strung among the branches with pennies inside.

“Flashlights,” Pratt said. “We've got to make sure he's not in the house.”

“Oh shit,” Munz moaned softly, turning to the broad stair leading to the second floor.

Pratt followed. Munz reached the deck overlooking the living room and raced down the corridor to the master suite. Pratt followed him. Ginger lay asleep on her half of the king-sized bed, hair fanned across the pillow.