The Mormon Candidate - a Novel (33 page)

On the plus side, t
he
Ghost
likely
assumed
that Ben w
as dead at the bottom of the
hill
, which meant that o
nly one of them was aware that this was a race
.

A couple of minutes into his mad dash downhill, Ben noticed the blinking red light on the instrument cluster. It was the ABS indicator,
p
ositioned prominently
because
the GS was one of only few motorcycles that allowed the rider to disable the ABS for off-road excursions.
This
was
done by pressing
a designated button,
but then
the indicator light would be solid, not blinking.
A blinking light indicated a problem.

A tight turn was coming up, and he downshifted, pu
tting
the ABS indicator out of his mind.
Right now he had to c
atch the Ghost
.
He focused
his
diminished
mental and physical
capacities
on the mechanics of
steering the GS through the curves and the fast
straight
away
sections in-between at
maxim
um
speed
s.

A
sign popped up by the road
side,
indicating
that
an
intersection
was coming up
in one mile
.

As far as he could remember, t
he
next sharp t
urn
was the last, followed by
a flat stretch of road that ran
parallel to a stream
that was gushing with runoff from recent rains
.
He was finally recovering from the trauma at the
overlook
, his reflexes sharpening as he executed each step, keeping the speed high on the approach to the turn.

Downshift.

Lean into the
curve
.

Start to accelerate halfway through.

Let the GS straighten up from the turn.

Hug
the
edge
of the road.

Complete turn.

Rush forward.

The rear
light
of
the
Ducati appeared
far
ahead,
near
the intersection.
Ben
could see the
white back of the riding jacket as the Ghost
lean
ed
forward on the low-hanging handlebar.

Yes!

Ben rolled the throttle all the way, pushing the GS to its limit, the RPM reaching redline before he up-shifted. Bowing forward over the gas tank, he tucked his head behind the small windshield, the instruments under his chin
showing his speed approaching 60, 70, 8
0
mph
, the ABS indicator blinking, the wind screaming.

There were two of them
, b
abies
, following an adult
deer
out of
the woods, cross
ing
the road for the water.

Ben
let go of the throttle. For a brief moment he expected them to sprint across and be gone
from
his path. But the sound of the GS must have startled them, and they froze.

Squeezing the brake lever on
the
handlebar,
he felt the front wheel lock and begin to slip.

Of course!

T
he blinking light
!

The
ABS malfunction
!

Once the front wheel lost traction, it was too late to recover.
All that was left for
Ben
to do was avoid a head-on collision
with the deer
.

He
kicked down
the foot brake to lock the rear wheel and, using his body as a counterweight, manipulated the heavy bike to enter a sideway slide
while coming down on the left. Leading
with
the wheels, Ben and the GS
came down together,
slid side
ways
,
and
clipp
ed
the
grown
deer at
the
legs,
sen
ding it
up and over.

The slide down the road
was almost surreal in its smoothness until something—
a pothole or a crack in the asphalt
—tore Ben from
the
GS
. He
began to tumble over and over. The world became a spinning slideshow, and there was nothing he could do
to stop it.
He wanted
it
to be over, but also feared getting smashed by the
motorcycle,
which was moving in the same direction
.

He finally came to rest on the shoulder of the road
and
immediately popped up and looked around, expecting to see the GS hurtling toward him. But the bike was
on its side f
a
rther back, its movement halted by the foot pegs and other protruding parts that, most likely, were now either bent or broken.

“Shit
!
”
His voice sounded
very loud
inside
the
helmet
. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

His hands flexed
without pain
. His legs bent and straightened. His arms too. He
wrig
gled his toes inside the boots.

Everything worked.

But e
verything hurt too.

He dropped flat on his back,
lifted
the
helmet’s
face shield
,
and breathed deeply to fight off a tide of nausea.

Feeling better, he sat up and took stock of his body. Nothing seemed to be broken, and the pains were of the bruising variety, not of torn muscles or ligaments, both of which he had experienced at one point or another. His riding boots
were scraped bad
ly, the soles torn off
, attached only near the toes. Hi
s BMW riding pants and jacket w
ere
scraped
at the joints—knees, elbows,
shoulders
—and the underlying armor peeked out
in some places
.
Removing the helmet, he found
a
dent
the size of an egg.

The iPhone survived in the inside breast-pocket of
his
jacket, protected by the chest padding that lined the jacket. He considered calling for help but decided to
try getting out of there
without alerting anyone to the fact that he was stuck on a side road, alone and defenseless. The attempt on his life, right after meeting the two Mormons, had changed everything. It had not been a coincidence that Zachariah’s widow had asked to meet at the Camp David
Scenic Overlook
—an isolated spot that was ideal for an
“
accident.
”
Was Porter involved in setting it up? Were there other rogue
trooper
s at the
s
tate
p
olice?
The last thing he wanted to do was give them a second chance.

Limping back to the bike,
Ben
noticed that the engine was still on and
turned the key to shut it off.

F
a
rther back, up the road,
the two fawns st
ood by the doe, most likely their mother,
who was lying motionless on the road. They smelled her face
, but still she didn’t move.

His camera bag was near the bike, the shoulder straps torn. He unz
ipped it and pulled out the Can
on. It appeared undamaged, thanks to the heavy padding in the bag. He turned it on and snapped a
few
photo
s
of the two fawns.
The camera worked fine.

Feeling inside the b
ag, he found the roll of duct
tape, the fix-it-all every adventurous motorcyclist never travelled without. He used it to
tape the soles of
his boots and parts of the jacket and pants.

The effort of lifting up the GS came with a lot of grunting, and when it was upright, he taped up the broken signal lights and cracked windshield. The gearing lever was bent inward, and he pulled it back out. The left side of the handlebar had formed a right angle over the gas tank.
Planting a boot against the front of the engine, he muscled it back to semi-straight. The clutch lever seemed to work fine.

The top case was missing
from the rear rack
. He couldn’t see it on the road, where lines of scratches in the black asphalt and pieces of plastic told of the GS
’s
long slide.
Scanning the area, he noticed it on the oppos
ite side, farther than where he had ended up. It must have been torn off the rack and
had
flown over him in the direction they were moving. He retrieved it and secured it to the rear rack with long strips of tape.

The fawns scattered as he approached. The doe, a full-size white-tail deer, was still alive, its eyes following hi
m. The legs were broken, the
belly was bleeding from a long tear
, and the
mouth
was
open
, the lips trembling.

Was it
in pain?

Most likely.

He had to do something
, but killing it wasn’t possible
. He couldn’t
kill a living thing
.

The sound of running water
gave him an idea
. He took off his riding jacket, lay it flat next to the doe’s back, and rolled her over onto it. Grasping the
sleeves, he dragged it off the road, across the gravel shoulder, down a short embankment, and into the shallow stream. He maneuvered around so that the injured deer was lying in the cold water
,
yet its head was out, resting
on the grass.

Ben
knelt and
petted
the head.

A few minutes later, the water reduced its body temperature enough to render the
injured doe unconscious.

It was over.

W
hen Ben
finally pulled into the garage,
wet and cold on his mangled GS,
Keera’s Mustang was already there.
As he was getting off the bike, she appeared, saw
him
, and covered her mouth.
T
hat was the extent of her reaction.
Keera had a sharp tongue and knew how to use it to inflict real damage when
circumstances
warranted
it. B
ut
she was all love
when it really matter
ed.

She helped him take off the wet jacket, riding pants
,
and taped-up boots, and
supported him up the stairs and in
to the bathroom, where he sat on the ledge of the bath while she filled it
and made him swallow a
couple of
pills. The rest was a fog of hot water, dull aches, and Keera gently scrubbing him with a
sponge
. The last thing he remembered was falling asleep in her arms under the bedcovers.

Part IV
:

The Lawyer

Chapter 40

Ben woke up
and felt warm
lips
on
his forehead
. I
n that brief transition from sleep to waking
,
he
thought
the
y
were
the doe’s lips, trembling as it descended into oblivion. But when he opened his eyes, there was Keera, all dressed up,
emitting her morning aroma—a mix of
shampoo
,
perfume
,
and toothpaste.