Biker (17 page)

After awhile he carefully got off the bike, nerves like arcing sunspots. The ground lurched beneath him and he swayed, caught himself. Even his hair hurt. Using the seat for support, he stepped up onto the curb and walked slowly to the front door.

Using both hands to spread the pain evenly, he opened the door, pulling it back with his whole body to avoid bending his arms, and sidled inside. The interior was cool and dark, long bar running three quarters the length of the room on the left, booths on the right, pool table in back. Four bikers occupied a round table in the back. They were all Indians. They all had long black hair fastened in a braid. Their colors said Lakota Nation. They glanced at Pratt. Two of them did double-takes.

Pratt eased himself up on one of the sofas and planted his elbows gingerly on the bar. The bartender, an ancient ginseng root, floated his way. The bartender had a sloping forehead over a sharply pointed nose and a receding chin, giving him the profile of an arrowhead. He wore a faded blue bandanna around his forehead, keeping his long salt and pepper hair out of his face. “Vern” was stitched across his green bowling shirt in red. He stopped in front of Pratt. He had gray-blue eyes.

“What the hell happened to you?” Vern croaked in a nicotine-stained voice.

“I got in a fight with a mountain lion. May I have a glass of water?”

The old man drew water in a Coke glass and set it on the bar in front of Pratt. “Hang on. I got a first aid kit in the back.”

Pratt put up a hand. “And a shot of Jack before you go.”

Vern wordlessly poured the shot and ambled toward the rear of the building. Pratt held the amber liquid up to the light—the Budweiser Clydesdales in their endless plod around the lamp, and downed it. Like a miniature depth bomb, it fell into his gut and detonated spreading heat. He could hardly wait for the bartender to return so he could have another.

Vern returned at a measured pace holding a big cardboard box. He set it on the counter and opened it. “You ought to get them gouges looked at. Could be septic.”

Pratt flexed his left shoulder, causing a thermonuclear detonation that left him gasping. “You got a doctor in town?”

Vern removed two rolls of bandages and a container filled with iodine. He grabbed Pratt's arm in one hand and drew the moistened applicator through the grooves in his flesh, imparting white-hot sting that made Pratt want to shout,
I'm alive
!

“Mountain lion,” Vern said.

Pratt barked. “It sounds crazy!”

Vern shot him a suspicious look. “Where the fuck you find a mountain lion?'

“Do you know Eugene Moon?” Pratt said.

Vern shrank back as if he'd almost stepped on a rattler. He looked around. He leaned in close. His breath smelled like citrus with telltale alcohol. “Mister, I don't have a thing to do with Moon. Ahmina patch you up but then you got to hit the road. Them drinks are on me.”

“I'm a private investigator,” Pratt said. “Moon did this to me. He left me for dead with a fucking mountain lion.”

Vern peered at Pratt hard with his arrowhead face. “Mister, when you put it that way I don't doubt you. Any enemy of Moon's a friend of mine. Vern Lovejoy.” He stuck out his hand.

“Josh Pratt.” Pratt winced from the grooves on his hands. “Can I have another shot then?”

Vern poured the shot. Pratt peeled off his shirt and went to work with the iodine.

“Give me a minute I'll get Dr. Keith down here. He's a mighty fine veterinarian, that's the best I can do.”

Pratt nodded and tossed back the shot.

CHAPTER 30

Dr. Keith was eighty if he was a day. He had a face like a russet potato beneath a rumpled campaign hat and wore a safari jacket with breast pockets and shoulder straps. He ushered Pratt into the back room, a combination storage shed and office, and bade Pratt sit in an ancient captain's chair while he cleaned up Pratt's wounds, stitched shut the rips and administered a shot of antibiotics.

“When's the last time you had a tetanus booster?” the doctor asked.

“Two years ago.”

“Then you should be good then, although I would advise you to take it easy for a few days, give these cuts a chance to patch over.”

“That ain't gonna happen, Doc. I got things to do.”

“Up to you. Vern says you tangled with a mountain lion. Your injuries are consistent with such a diagnosis so I must ask myself, how did this come about? Normally I would be obligated to report your injuries to Sheriff Archie DeWitt. So what's your explanation, son?”

“I had a disagreement with a mountain lion.”

The doctor sat back and stared at Pratt through round lenses that appeared opaque as they reflected the desk lamp. “A-huh. And how did this come about?”

“Doc, you wouldn't believe me if I told you.”

“Try me. Now I'm not charging you a fee, so the least you can do is level with me. How in hell did this happen?”

Pratt told the doctor about his search for the missing son, leaving out the part where he actually found Eric. He didn't want that to get out before he had a chance to talk to Ginger. He glanced at the phone. Just what was he going to tell her?

Your son has been irreparably damaged by his deranged father
.

After he finished, Dr. Keith pursed his lips, reached into his black bag and removed a small sterling silver flask. He unscrewed the cap and upended the bottle, handing it to Pratt. “Brandy?”

Pratt took a swig, feeling the fiery liquid land on the whiskey base.
Whoa
. Enough of that shit.

“Eugene Moon. I have heard that name before. It seems he's a local legend, some kind of bad guy. I have treated dogs alleged to have belonged to him. Sadly they had to be euthanized. Well, young sir, this is most certainly a matter for Sheriff Archie DeWitt.”

Doc Keith reached for the ancient black Bakelite phone with a rotary dial. Pratt placed his bandaged hand on the doctor's wrist. “Doc, I really wish you'd hold off on that. I can't hang around. I've got to get to Madison ASAP. I don't know how I'm even going to do that. I'm gonna have to ride that Indian. You got anything I can take for the pain that's subscription-based?”

“You mean prescription. You've been up a long time too. You need to rest before you go running off, young sir. The way you're wincing, 'pears you've got a cracked rib, am I right?”

“Right as rain, Doc. Can't do it. Gotta go. What do you have for pain killers?”

“How about PCP? You look like you might have tried it.”

“Not in a long time, Doc. No I don't think so. Don't you have any morphine?”

“You want me to pump you full of morphine so you can ride all night. That doesn't strike me as a good idea.”

“Doc, I'm afraid Eugene Moon is going to kill two nice ladies.”

“Then you had better notify the police.”

Pratt stared at the doctor for a second then picked up the phone. He called Cass' number from memory. Cass answered on the fifth ring, laughing. Pratt heard music in the background.

“Cass,” he said.

“Oh my God! It's you!” Cass turned away from the phone. “Turn the music down,” she said urgently. “How are you? What's going on?”

“I'm all right. Listen. I believe Moon is headed your way.”

“What?”

“I think both you and Ginger are in danger and you both need to get the hell out of your respective homes and hole up somewhere else for a few days and not tell anybody.”

“You're scaring me, Pratt. What's going on?”

“I found Moon. I can't go into it right now. I'm heading back there tonight. I should get there sometime tomorrow around midday if I can rent a car. As soon as I'm done talking to you I'm going to notify the Madison PD and the FBI.”

Pratt heard Ginger asking Cass what was going on and to speak with him. Cass shushed her.

“The police can't stop him,” Cass said with despairing finality.

“If he can't find you, he can't hurt you. Don't even tell Ginger's husband.”

“Like that's gonna fly. She wants to talk to you.”

Pratt did not know how to avoid that conversation. Ginger came on the phone weak and breathless.

“Did you find him?”

And there it was.

“I have every reason to believe he's alive.”

“
Did you find him
?”

“No. I'll give you a full report as soon as I get there.”

“Godspeed,” she said before hanging up.

CHAPTER 31

Pratt eased out his wallet and checked the bills. Amazingly, Moon hadn't touched his money. He had eight hundred sixty bucks.

Dr. Keith shook his head. “You don't have to pay me.”

“I need a vehicle, Doc. Where can I buy a vehicle on short notice?”

Doc peered at him from beneath a hedgerow of white eyebrow. “First of all, I would not suggest you go running off anywhere, young man, until you've had some rest and given those meds a little time to work themselves out of your system. I would advise you not to operate a vehicle.”

Pratt spread his bandaged hands. “Can't do it, Doc. Gotta roll. Some lives may depend on it. Moon's a killer.”

Doc nodded. “I've heard that. Seen him once up at Fisher's Lake.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Three, four years. I was out hiking with my Molly. I saw he had some old pick-up truck backed up to the cliff and it looked to me he was looking to unload something. Trail's kinda narrow so I came right up on him. He had that truck back there on a fire trail. The look he gave me, well, I'm sure glad I had Molly with me. It was like staring into two pits of dry ice. Molly's a rotty-bulldog mix. She is one ugly critter and highly protective.”

“You heard anything about Moon recently? Like he might be running a meth lab?”

Dr. Keith shook his head. “No sir. The sheriff and I meet for coffee regularly. I'm certain he'd tell me about something like that, nor would Sheriff Archie tolerate such a thing in his county. Why? Was he?”

“Yeah. Place is gonna need a hazmat team.”

Pratt didn't want the little valley crawling with cops. They might scare Eric off, or worse. Nor could he tell them about the boy. That information had been purchased by Ginger. Pratt had no idea how to handle it. He needed expert advice. The last thing Eric needed were sheriff's deputies tramping the hills with dogs. But now it looked like that's what he was going to get. He knew how these things worked.

“Doc, I need a vehicle. Where can I rent or purchase a car around here?”

Dr. Keith scratched his white head. “The nearest car dealers would be over at Buffalo. Used to be Mason's Autos down on Main Street, but they got closed down when the government took over Chrysler.”

“What about Vern?”

“Vern won't let go of his F-150, but you might ask him about that old Rambler he's got out back, if it's running. Also, you don't mind, you smell like the coyote cage at the zoo. You might think about a shower, you get the chance.”

Pratt was so taped, doped and drunk he nearly slid off the chair. Dr. Keith took him by the arm and led him to a cot in a corner next to a stack of Cutty Sarks and eased him on down.

“I gave you a little something to help you relax. Best not fight it, son. You're in no condition to go anywhere. Don't worry I'm going to tell the Sheriff. I won't do it until you're bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Don't see where it would do any good anyway.”

Pratt tried to tell the doctor about the dead War Bonnet in the gulch but he was slipping down a black ice luge. He dove into unconsciousness like a rock dropping into a pond. Sploosh. He dreamt of being stuck in a cavern with the Minotaur, and of ill-treated dogs. He was running along the interstate, semis roaring past five feet away, screaming and crying, “Daddy!” He was in the pen. Big ruckus in the cafeteria. The bulls tased him and tossed him into solitary.

Long time in solitary.

CHAPTER 32

Pratt came back to consciousness by degrees. First he was aware of the scraping of furniture in another room, muted voices. The smell of dust and sawdust. Orange light through his lids. He lay there feeling good until he shifted and all the cuts and bruises woke up, 911 calls from the furthest reaches of his extremities. He opened his eyes and stared at the dim light on the desk. The clock said nine a.m. He'd been out for twelve hours.

The slightest movement reminded him where he was. He was wrapped like King Tut. Moon had had a fourteen-hour head start. Pratt cranked himself to a sitting position, got his feet on the floor, leaned on a wooden liquor case and slowly stood. He stiff-walked to the bathroom, to its rust-stained porcelain sink, and gave himself a sponge bath with paper towels and a sliver of soap. He dropped three ibuprofens. He looked at himself in the cracked mirror. He was ready for his zombie close-up. Pratt found a box of Vern's Place T-shirts, rust with yellow lettering, and eased his way into an XL, which hung on his lean frame like a flag. Pratt went over to the ancient desk and sat in the creaking captain's chair, on a well-worn sponge cushion. Even his ass hurt. He fished out his cell phone. Still dead. The charger was with his bike.

Pratt reached for the ancient black dial phone and saw the note: “Pratt—back at ten. Milk in fridge, cereal beneath bar. Vern.”

Pratt dialed Detective Heinz Calloway's number from memory. It rang once.

“Calloway.”

“Heinz, it's Josh Pratt.”

“What's goin' on? You involved in that shoot-out at the Buffalo Chip?”

“No. Listen. That guy I asked you about, Eugene Moon? I found him. He tried to kill me. He told me he's heading back there to kill Cass Rubio and Ginger Munz.” He told Calloway everything except the boy.

“What about that kid you're looking for?” Calloway ineluctably asked.

“Still searching.” Not a lie, exactly.