Bleeding Hearts (45 page)

‘I’ve been driving all night, what’s your excuse?’

We met and hugged, and this time it was me who lifted him off the ground.

‘Damn it, Spike, I don’t know where you came from, but you’re an angel straight from heaven.’

‘Man, you know where I come from: Lubbock, Texas. And the only angel I ever was was a hell’s angel. Oo-ee!’ He touched the bruise on my face. Then Bel came running up, and there was a hug and a kiss for her.

‘Why didn’t you stop before now?’ she asked.

‘I wanted to be sure those chimpanzees weren’t on our tails.’

‘Are you kidding? Did you see what you did to their car?’

‘Oh, but they’ve got friends. And you folks, looks like you’ve got enemies.’

‘And not many friends,’ I conceded.

‘But we only needed one.’ And Bel pecked Spike’s cheek again and squeezed his arm. He blushed, but covered it up by wiping his face with a red bandana. He had dark eyes and greasy hair and three days of beard growth.

‘Man,’ he said, ‘I been living in these clothes.’

‘Yeah, we can tell.’

He punched me in the chest. It was a playful punch, but it hit a raw spot. I winced and doubled over.

‘Jesus, Wild West, I’m sorry.’

Bel helped me upright and explained, ‘Michael got into a fight with one of the bad guys.’

‘I see you’ve got a story to tell me.’

‘We have,’ I said, now recovered. ‘And we’ve a few questions for you.’

Spike shrugged. ‘Let’s find a bar in town, somewhere to take the weight off.’ He thought of something. ‘You didn’t swap my Trans-Am for that Nazi shit, did you? The thing’s full of bullet holes!’

I thought of an answer. ‘Let’s get a beer first.’

‘Follow me.’

It turned out that Spike knew the Snoqualmie and North Bend area pretty well.

He’d hunted out here, he had old friends here, and he’d once crashed a car here, which put him on crutches for a month.

‘Good people,’ he said in the bar, ‘but some of them can be a bit strange. I don’t know, inbreeding or something. You know they filmed
Twin Peaks
here?’

My face remained blank, but Bel looked interested.

‘So what made you follow us?’ I asked.

Spike took a mouthful of Rainier. ‘Figure it out. I knew you were in trouble, Wild West. Jazz told me some of what Bel had told her. I got the kid to tap back into her computer and print me the same stuff she printed for you. I knew then why you were headed for Seattle, and I knew it could get serious. These cults are bad news. I had a friend got mixed up in one. He’s still in therapy. And don’t forget, I have a Trans-Am riding on this. So I thought maybe I’d tail along.

‘I got to tell you, though, it was coincidence I was there this morning, not inspiration or anything. I hit town first thing this morning, and I was cruising up and down Aurora looking for a motel I liked the look of. I have to tell you, I passed yours twice and never even considered it. What’s wrong, man, your credit no good in this town or what?’ He sniffed and leaned back in his seat. He’d crossed a foot over one leg, showing off scuffed silver-toed shitkicker boots. Very clearly, he was enjoying telling the story. ‘Anyway, as I was going up and down I was seeing these cars with suits in them. They didn’t look like Aurora types at all. They looked like the worst kind of normal. They were checking all the motels, not looking for rooms, that was obvious. They were asking for someone. I followed one of them into an office and got to hear the description he gave to the clerk: man and woman, English, in a Vee-Dub. Well, apart from the car, that seemed to fit. So I stopped looking for a room and started following. When I saw your Volkswagen, man, I knew I’d done something right.’

‘You can say that again,’ said Bel.

‘The Trans-Am got shot up,’ I said. ‘That’s why we’re in the camper.’

‘What happened to it?’

‘A man called Kline had his men spray it with bullets. A journalist who’d been helping us was driving at the time.’

‘Is he ... ?’

‘He’s okay, we think. He’s in hospital.’

‘So those sonsabitches shot up my car, huh?’ Spike had a determined look on his face. It was the sort of look he got every time he picked up an assault rifle. ‘We’ve got to total them, man.’

‘Not so fast,’ I said. ‘You haven’t heard our story yet. Maybe when you have, you won’t be so enthusiastic.’

‘Then let’s get some more beers in and tell me all about it.’

We got in more beers.

‘This guy called Kline,’ said Spike, ‘I’ve got to waste him, man. I’ve never met him, he doesn’t know me from shit, and yet I just
know
I’ve got to waste him. I won’t rest easy till I do.’

It wasn’t just the beer talking; it was all the drugs he’d been taking on the road, drugs to keep him awake, drugs to push the accelerator harder, and drugs to hold it all together. I could see that in anywhere between five minutes and a couple of hours he was going to come crashing down.

‘I need some sleep,’ I said. ‘My brain’s stopped working. I was awake all night. Why don’t we head out into the country, find a quiet spot, and recharge a little?’

‘Hey,’ said Spike, ‘I know just the place.’

He led us out of Snoqualmie on the North Bend road, but then turned off and up a forest track. He was kicking up so much dust I thought our engine would die on us, but the VW just kept on going. The track got narrower, then narrower still. At first it had been a logging track, wide enough for a transporter, but now the trees were scraping both sides of the van, and there was grass growing through the gravel. I counted eight miles of this before we emerged into a clearing. So far since coming off the main road we hadn’t seen a single signpost, and no signs of habitation: no electricity pylons or phone lines or mailbox or anything.

But here was a big log house, fairly new and with a lawn surrounding it, beyond which lay impenetrable forest. Spike sounded his horn a few times, but no one came out of the house. We went up to the front door together. There was a note taped there, which Spike read out.

“‘Dear Friend, If you’ve travelled this far, then you probably know us, so you also probably won’t be surprised that we’re not here. We’re in Portland for a few days and will be back Thursday or Friday. You’re welcome to camp. There’s a stream if you know where to find it. Love and peace, Marnie and Paul.”’

‘Friends of mine,’ Spike said. There were potted plants all around the outside of the house, and he tapped a few playfully with his toe. ‘We go back a long way.’

‘This is fine,’ I said. ‘We’ve got tents in the van, and the van itself is good for sleeping in.’ He was bending down, lifting the plants and looking at them, sniffing them. ‘We even have a stove ...’ My voice died away as he turned a small plant pot upside down and eased the earth and shrub out on to the palm of his hand. There, embedded in the soil and the thin white roots of the plant, was a house-key. Spike winked at me.

‘Friends know where to find the key.’

Inside, the house was fantastic, almost too bright for my liking. Sun streamed through huge louvred windows in the roof. There was unpainted pine everywhere. The walls and furniture were made of it, and the ceiling was panelled with pine tongue-and-groove. There was one large living room, complete with a central stove. Then there were doors off to bedrooms, bathrooms and a kitchen.

‘The bathroom has a whirlpool spa,’ Spike informed us. He flopped on a white sofa. ‘Man, this is the life.’

I didn’t want to sit down. I didn’t want to touch anything for fear of contaminating it. I was amazed to see that when Spike got up again he hadn’t left black smudges on the white material.

Bel had examined the place like a sceptical would-be buyer. She picked up a wastepaper basket and showed it to me.

‘They’ve cleaned the inside of it,’ she said. And so they had.

‘Hey,’ said Spike, ‘you want trash, you come back to my place. This is perfect for our purpose.’

‘And what is our purpose?’ I asked.

‘Follow me and find out.’

He led us back down to the pick-up. I noticed it had a rifle rack behind the bench-seat, but the rack was empty. Spike had opened the door of the cab so we could see in. It wasn’t a pretty sight. The ashtray was brim-full, with cigarette ends lying on the floor where they’d been stubbed out. There was enough lettuce and tomato to make a family a salad. I guessed Spike had been fuelled by service-station subs. There were empty cans and dirty socks and a begrimed T-shirt and maps and cassettes lying everywhere.

‘Nice,’ I said, ‘we’ll take it.’

Spike just smiled and swept everything off the bench-seat on to the floor.

‘Put some carpet down there and it’ll all look spick and span.’

He was still smiling as he unhooked a couple of catches underneath the seat. Then he pulled at the bench-seat, sliding out the actual part you sat on. He pulled the whole thing out and stood it against the pick-up.

‘Well, well,’ I said.

There was a lot of storage space underneath the seat. Spike had filled the space with a lethal array of arms.

‘I think I thought of everything,’ he said.

Bel stuck in a hand and pulled out a cartridge belt. It was full of very long brass cartridges. She held it up like it was a python which had wrapped itself around her wrist.

‘Heavy artillery,’ I said.

‘The time for tiptoeing through the tulips is long past,’ Spike said, pulling out what looked like an Ingram, maybe a Cobray. Beneath it I could see some M16s. My mind boggled at what else he might have in there. ‘No dynamite,’ he said ruefully. ‘Otherwise I couldn’t have taken a chance on ramming that asshole. But I’ve some
plastique
if you’re in the mood.’ He put his face close to mine. It was a good-looking face, typically American in being well-fed but still hungry. He was wearing one of his sleeveless black T-shirts with black denims. ‘Gun heaven, Wild West, pure gun heaven.’

I hesitated for all of five seconds.

‘Let’s do it.’

We slept the rest of the daylight away. I emerged to find Spike dressed only in fresh T-shirt and shorts, chopping onions in the kitchen. He’d found a marijuana plant in the main bedroom and pinched off a few leaves. The aromas in the kitchen weren’t just cooking herbs. He held up the chopping-knife for me to see. It was a rubber-handled combat knife with a fat nine-inch blade, the last three inches of which were saw-toothed.

‘Chops vegetables great, Wild West.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’ I looked in the fridge and pulled out a carton of orange juice. I was a lot more comfortable about the place. The condemned man tends to worry less about the state of his cell. I shook the carton and drank from it.

‘Oh, man, cooties!’ Spike complained. ‘Glasses are in the cupboard over the sink.’

So I poured the rest of the juice into a glass, filling it to the brim. I’d drunk half the juice when Bel came in, wearing a long trucker’s T-shirt and not much else that I could see. She’d bought the shirt at a service station. It showed a chrome-fronted truck blowing out smoke like steam from a cartoon bull’s nose. There was a Confederate flag in the background and the legend ‘Ain’t No Chicken!’

Spike was trying not to look at her legs as she stood in front of the fridge, bending from the waist to see what there was.

‘Any juice?’

‘Here.’ I handed her my glass. ‘We’re on cootie-sharing terms,’ I told Spike.

‘Cosy,’ he said, still chopping. He scooped the onion into a pan and added oil. Bel went to watch. ‘Uncle Spike’s Texas-Style Chilli,’ he revealed. ‘So long as I can find all the ingredients.’ He opened a tin of tomatoes and poured the lot in, along with half a tube of puree. Then he added chilli powder and some other herbs, and finished with a drained tin of red kidney beans.

‘Can’t find any meat, but what the hell. How hot do you like it?’ He offered Bel a spoonful of the juice. She thought it was hot enough already.

‘Chicken,’ he said to her.

‘Well, Spike, why don’t you pour some into another pan, that can be my pan? Then you two boys can add as much fire as you like to your share. I’ll just sit and watch you tough it out when it comes time to eat.’ She patted his back. ‘It’s food, remember, not an arm-wrestling contest.’

Spike waited a few moments, then howled with laughter.

‘Bel, you’ve got more balls than half the guys I know. Move down to Texas and marry me.’ He got down on one knee and grabbed her hand. ‘I’m proposing right now, proposing to the woman of my dreams.’

She pushed him away with her bare toe and he sat back on the floor, arms behind him.

‘The Good Lord spare me from rejection!’

‘Sorry, Spike. Maybe one day when you’re older.’

‘Come on,’ I said, leading her through to the living area. There was a breakfast bar between it and the kitchen. We flopped on to the sofa while Spike sang a few bars of some country song, then decided to whistle it instead.

‘Bel,’ I said quietly, ‘I want you to stay here while Spike and I — ’

She leapt back up. ‘No way, José! I come this far and now you want to dump me?’