The Brotherhood of the Wheel (20 page)

Heck peeled a couple of hundreds off from a wad of bills in his pocket and dropped them on the table before he strode out.

Jimmie looked at the money, looked at the mess, and took another drink of his coffee. “Ale would have done something exactly like that a long time ago,” he said to no one in particular. He found Heck outside smoking a cigarette, leaning against the wall of the convenience store. Jimmie stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets and leaned back next to him. The headlights of departing semitrucks washed over them. The lot smelled of diesel and greasy fast food.

“How long you been back in the world?” Jimmie asked.

“Long enough to fucking know better,” Heck said, blowing the smoke out his nostrils.

“Don't always work like that,” Jimmie said.

“Don't give me any of that PTSD, VA Hospital bullshit,” Heck said. “I'm just a fuck-up with a very bad temper. Adds to my charm.” He offered Jimmie a Lucky Strike.

“No thanks,” Jimmie said. “More of a cigar man these days. You sound like you've been down this road before. The VA tell you it was PTSD?”

“Something like that,” Heck said. “It was a tidy label to hang my substance abuse, alcoholism, and violence issues off, don't you think? I didn't stick around to tell them I disagreed with the diagnosis. Look, I'm okay. I've always been this way. Over there just … framed it for me … explained it in simple terms. It … showed me.”

They were silent for a moment. Heck dropped his cigarette and crushed it out with his boot. He reached into his jacket. “And that,” Heck said, “makes as perfect a segue as I can imagine for this.” He handed Jimmie a sealed envelope, slightly crushed and folded. “For you. Enjoy.”

“What's this?” Jimmie said, smoothing out the envelope and tearing it open. He pulled the single sheet of paper out of it and began to read it in the glow of a neon sign advertising Coors beer.

“Oh, yeah,” Heck said, snapping his fingers. “I'm supposed to present myself to you as your squire, or some shit, of the Brethren—whatever that is. What is that, exactly?”

Jimmie's frown slid lower and lower as he read.
Oh, Elizabeth, no!
He lowered the paper and looked at Heck.

“I'm not going to get down on my knee or nothing,” Heck said.

“Thanks for that,” Jimmie said. He looked at the young biker, who raised and lowered his eyebrows like Groucho Marx and grinned. Jimmie sighed, spit some tobacco juice on the greasy pavement, and then said, “I accept you as my squire.” He sounded as if he was repeating a prepared response—a traditional reply. “I'll do my best to teach you the ways of the Brethren, to put your feet upon the Road and stand with you against all enemies, and to prepare you to stand alone when my time is at an end. I will armor you with honor and arm you with truth. I will teach you until my dying breath. This I swear.”

There was an awkward silence for a moment as Jimmie slipped the letter into his pocket. Another semi, a tanker truck, hissed and rumbled as it pulled out of the lot and headed back onto the road.

“So what is it?” Heck asked. “This Brethren … thing?”

“That,” Jimmie said with a sigh, “is a long story.”

 

EIGHT

“10-93”

The first thing that registered in her slowly awakening mind was the sensation of crisp, clean sheets and the smell of baby powder. Ava opened her eyes slowly, blinking at the bright sunlight spilling into the bedroom she was in. She was alive. It took a moment to process what had come before blissful oblivion—the shadow people, the screams of her friends, running in the dizzying dark—it had all been real. Her whole body ached as she sat up in the bed. It was an antique four-poster made of dark cherry. Next to the bed was a night table with a glass of water, a King James Bible, and Ava's wallet, phone, and keys. Across the room, draped over a rocking chair, were her clothes and the bloody tote bag she had taken from Alana. Seeing the blood brought the memory of her best friend being torn apart to the front of her mind, eclipsing her thoughts. It made her wince, made her brain and stomach clench.

The bedroom door opened, and the old British woman who had saved her last night entered the room. “Good, we're up,” the lady said. “How are you feeling, dear?”

“Okay,” Ava said. “What time is it? How long was I asleep?”

“About two days,” the old woman said. “I'm sure you're famished. Would you like me to prepare you some food?”

“Two days?” Ava asked. “Have the police been out? Have any of my friends shown up?”

The old woman pulled a chair next to the bed. She patted Ava's hand. “No,” she said. “No police, and, I am sorry to tell you, no friends have come to my door. I am sorry, dear.”

Ava felt the panic swell in her chest, clench her throat. “How can … how can people get murdered and the police don't even … What were those things, those shadow things?”

The old woman nodded. “I know, dear. Very little in this place makes much sense at first. I will try to help you as best I can. First, I'd caution you against trying to take too much in too quickly. You've already had so many terrible shocks for a person your age. To answer your question, there are no police here in town. We try to handle any such problems that pop up ourselves.”

“‘We,'” Ava said. “Who is ‘we,' and who are you?”

“It was a bit too busy the other night for formal introductions,” the old lady said. She offered her hand to Ava. “My name is Agnes, Agnes Dee Cottington, formerly of London and now a resident of Four Houses. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“I'm Ava James. Thank you again for saving me last night,” Ava said, shaking Agnes's hand. Nice to meet you.”

Agnes handed Ava the glass of water and leaned back in her chair. “The ‘we' I was referring to are the other citizens of Four Houses. We tend to look out for one another and deal with our problems together.”

“But those things wandering around your town—the police or the state troopers have to do something about that! My friends and I are going to be noticed missing in a few days, at the latest.”

“Yes,” Agnes said, an odd sadness in her voice. “You will, assuredly.”

Ava groaned and pulled herself up out of the bed. She was wearing a very old-lady-looking nightgown. She felt as if she had strained or pulled a few muscles in the frantic running a few nights ago. “If it's been two days, I'm sure they're looking for us by now. May I please use your phone? My cell doesn't get reception out here. My folks must be out of their minds.”

“I know, dear,” Agnes said. Again the sadness, almost regret, like discussing a recently deceased loved one. Weird. Then again, older folks tended to dwell on the morbid, in Ava's experience.

“May I use your phone, to call them, call the police?” Ava asked again as she examined her clothes—grass and oil stains and the stale odor of fear sweat mingled with a whisper of her body spray. Gross.

“I would be happy to allow you to,” Agnes said, “if we had one. I'm afraid there is no phone service here in town. I truly wish there were, dear.”

“No cops, no phone?” Ava said, sniffing her T-shirt. She wrinkled her nose and tossed it back in the chair. I don't suppose you have any clothes I might be able to wear? Mine are kind of ick.”

Agnes smiled. “Of course, dear. I think some of Julia's clothes will fit you. You look about the same size. I'll see what I can find. We do have hot and cold running water and an indoor bathroom, if you were concerned about our lack of amenities. Please, freshen up, and I'll find you some clothing.”

The shower was heaven. The hot water eased some of her aches and dismissed others entirely. She washed her blond hair and brushed it out with a beautiful antique silver hairbrush that was on a table next to the basin sink. She wrapped a thick, clean towel about herself, wadded up her nasty underwear, and carried it in her hand as she padded back across the hall to the bedroom. Agnes was looking out one of the turret windows in the corner, the bright sunlight washing across her face. She seemed lost in thought. At the foot of the bed was an oak blanket chest, and on top of it was a cardboard box with the name Julia written on it in thick black marker. On top of the box were Ava's nerd glasses.

“You found them!” Ava said, picking up her glasses and putting them on. “Great! Thank you. Is everything okay, Agnes?”

The old woman's smile reappeared as she turned from the light.

“Yes, dear. As well as it can be, given the circumstances. Your glasses were on the front porch. You must have lost them in the scuffle. Look through the box and see if you can find anything to wear.”

Ava opened the box and retrieved a purple pair of high-top Converse athletic shoes. They looked about her size. “So, um, who's Julia? Daughter, granddaughter?” Agnes sat on the edge of the bed, and Ava noticed that the bed had been made while she was in the shower.

“Julia stayed with us for a time. I always thought of her as a daughter,” Agnes said.

“‘Us'?” Ava asked as she lifted a thin white summer dress out of the box, clutching her towel to her with the other hand.

“My husband, Dennis, and I,” Agnes said as she walked to the door. “Dennis is downstairs having tea. I'll introduce you once we get you dressed, dear.”

“Where is Julia now?” Ava asked.

“She died, dear,” Agnes said, closing the door behind her.

*   *   *

Ava stepped out of the bedroom wearing the dress. She had found a large guy's jean jacket to wear over it and she had put on the purple Chucks, since she had no idea what had happened to her flats. There had been a green army-style courier bag in the box that had a few tampons in the ubiquitous white plastic wrapper with trails of ghostly blue print on it, about eighty cents of loose change, a few wadded, mummified tissues, and a credit-card receipt dated 2001. She had transferred her own stuff and most of the contents of the bloody tote bag to the satchel and slung it over her shoulder. She descended the staircase to the first floor of the mansion and found Agnes sitting at a dining table beside an elderly man. She was preparing his tea. The man had a sunken face with kind brown eyes behind thick glasses, a mop of snow-white hair, and large ears. He wore a blue-and-green plaid shirt with a tan sweater vest over it. Ava noticed a cane leaning against his chair. As she entered, the old man attempted to rise, but he couldn't.

“Julia?” the old man said. He had an English accent as well. Agnes helped him settle back into his chair. “No,” he said. “Forgive me, young lady.”

“Dennis,” Agnes said, “this is Ava, the girl I was telling you about who arrived in town the other night. She's going to be staying with us for a while. Ava, this is my husband, Dennis Cottington.”

“Hi,” Ava said. “Nice to meet you. Your wife is…”

“Brilliant,” Dennis said. His smile was almost infectious. “That she is, young lady, that she is.”

“A spot of tea?” Agnes asked, gesturing toward an empty chair beside Dennis. Ava sat, and Agnes began to pour her tea. “Those clothes look lovely on you, dear.”

“Thanks,” Ava said. She reached across the table and took a sugar cookie. “So how long have you guys been together?” she asked Dennis.

Agnes and Dennis looked at each other and almost burst into laughter. They settled for snickering a bit. “How old are you, Ava?” Dennis asked.

“Nineteen,” Ava said. “I'll be twenty in a few months.”

Dennis whistled and shook his head. “So young … This lovely woman here was the best thing I recall about being twenty. She agreed to be my bride over sixty-five years ago.”

“Wow!” Ava said around a mouthful of cookie. “That's really cool you two have been together so long.”

“I know I'm such a burden these days,” Dennis said, taking Agnes's hand. Agnes squeezed his hand and kissed him. “That's quite enough of that,” she said to him, her lips against his cheek. “We are a team, and nobody splits us up. Remember?”

“There was that one bloke,” Dennis said, chuckling. “That junior minister when we were with the Circus, who had it in for me because he was keen to take a run at your nickers? Remember him, love?”

“Keeley,” Agnes said, laughing at the name.

“Bloody Keeley,” Dennis said.

Ava didn't understand, but she was laughing with them.

“With his pinched little fist-face,” Agnes said, wiping away tears of laughter, “like a constipated bulldog. Oh, he was so awful to you, Denny! Didn't you push him off a ferry or something?”

“Punched him off one, actually,” Dennis said, leaning back in his chair and gushing masculine pride.

“So you guys worked at the circus?” Ava said, sipping her tea. “Like the Shriners or something?”

“Not that kind of circus, dear,” Agnes said. “Dennis and I worked for British intelligence for a time after the war. A division called MI6. Its nickname was the Circus, you see.”

“You guys were spies?” Ava said, her face lighting up. “Like James Bond?”

“Why do they always say that?” Dennis asked Agnes. “Always! You know, I had a chance once to sock Ian Fleming square in his besotted jaw. I should have done it, Aggie, I should have.”

“There, there,” Agnes said to her husband. She offered the teapot to Ava, who nodded. “It was nothing so … theatrical, dear,” she said while pouring. “It was a job, one Dennis and I enjoyed a great deal.”

“That's still really cool,” Ava said. “Is that where you learned to shoot, like the other night?”

Dennis looked at Agnes. “Shooting? You didn't say anything about shooting!”

“It was nothing, dear,” Agnes said. “Please don't get overwrought.”

Ava noticed Dennis's color getting a little red, almost purple, and Agnes was obviously upset by the change. “It really wasn't a big deal,” Ava said. “Agnes wasn't in any danger, sir.”