The Brotherhood of the Wheel (54 page)

“Go on now,” Jimmie muttered through dry lips and a raw, soot-caked throat. He matched death's gaze and did not blink this time. “Git.”

The Horned Man and his hounds retreated into the deep shadows of the ancient woods and were gone.

 

TWENTY-SIX

“10-42”

There was no body to lay to rest, so Ava had constructed a little shrine of smooth stones to act as a marker for Agnes's grave. She placed the stones between Alana and Julia, near the wildflowers Agnes loved so much. Ava thought she would have liked that. She stood before the stones. It was a real spring day; the sun was warm and birds sang. She wanted to cry, but something held her from it, some knowledge that Agnes would not have wanted it.

Dennis sat in his wheelchair. He held a photograph of himself and his young bride, and he struggled to remain in the now, but Ava knew that he was already slipping across time again to a place where he and Agnes were together, would always be together.

Ava turned to look at the crowd that had come for the impromptu memorial. Folks like Barb and Carl, who had known Agnes for decades, and strangers who had become friends in the heat of battle: the trucker, Jimmie Aussapile, his arms and hands bandaged from the fire, and his companions, Max, Lovina, and Heck. Heck was also covered in bandages, and only recently up from his bed. Even Lexi and Cole, recovering from their own hellish ordeals, had come, for her more than for a woman they had never even met.

“I have no idea what to say,” Ava said, pushing her glasses back up on the bridge of her nose. “Thank you. Thank you for coming. Agnes was the most amazing person I've ever met. She saved my life, saved the lives of everyone here. She taught me what I could do; she believed in me even when I didn't. And she died as she lived—with courage, determination, and the knowledge that some things in this world are worth fighting for, worth dying for. I'm a better person for having had the privilege of knowing her. The world owes her a debt that it will never know, never be able to repay.”

Ava looked up at the turret of the house that overlooked the backyard and the garden. Something had drawn her attention to the open window there for just a second. She thought she saw a figure standing there—a slender woman in white lace, pale, like old porcelain. But whatever it was she thought she'd seen past the fluttering transparent white curtains was gone now. She glanced at Dennis and saw the tears streaming down his cheeks. He began to sob.

“Thank you again for being here,” she said. “I wish I had more to say.”

*   *   *

The service was breaking up. Ava had wheeled Dennis inside and was caring for him. There was talk of gathering at Buddy's for food. Jimmie walked up and shook Carl's hand and hugged Barb.

“Whatever Chasseur did to the town, it's gone, too,” Carl said. “People can come and go again. It's pretty great.”

“I guess you two will be headed on down the road, then,” Jimmie said. Barb and Carl looked at each other, and Barb smiled. “I think we're going to stay, at least for a while,” she said. “There are good people here, and more of them are staying than leaving. It's nice to have a choice now, though. Thank you, Jimmie.”

“Don't thank me,” Jimmie said, smiling. “No way we could have pulled this off without you two. Thank you. The wheel turns.”

“The wheel turns,” they both said. “If you ever want a cup of coffee or a plate of grub on the house, you come see us, Jimmie,” Barb said, and hugged him again.

Inside the house, Ava walked down the stairs from Dennis's room to find Lexi and Cole waiting for her, holding hands.

“This place is yours now, huh?” Lexi said. “Pretty cool. Very Addams Family.”

“Actually, mine's down the road a ways,” Ava said. “It needs some work, but I have time.”

“You staying?” Cole asked her. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Ava said, nodding. “I'm supposed to be here. I need to build that house back up, take care of it. I'll take care of this one, too, until a proper owner comes along, and look after Dennis—Agnes would have wanted that.”

“You want us to tell your folks anything?” Cole asked. “Still no cell service out here. I doubt GPS works, either.”

“It doesn't,” Ava said. “The houses like their privacy. I'll get out to see Mom and Dad soon. Just tell them I'm okay … and I'm happy.” She nodded toward Lexi's and Cole's hands. “I'm happy for you guys, too. Truly.”

“You're not mad?” Lexi said. “You know, Ava, you used to be … um—”

“A bitch?” Ava said. “Yeah, I still am.” They all laughed, for what it was worth. “This place shows you what you are, what you can be. I see it in you two as well. Listen to it, believe it. Take good care of each other.”

Lexi hugged her, then Cole. Then they were gone. Ava stood in the foyer, the ticking of the grandfather clock the only sound. The spring sun came in through the open door that only a few days ago had been barred and locked. She had stumbled through that door terrified and helpless before the powers of darkness and fear. The sun warmed her face, caressed her cheek like a gentle hand. Ava embraced it and smiled all the way down to her core.

*   *   *

Good-byes were said in the parking lot of Buddy's Roadhouse following another amazing meal. Jimmie was happy to see a station wagon with Nebraska tags, towing a pop-up camper, roll down the two-lane. Not too far behind was a Kansas state trooper looking very confused that he had never noticed this little town in his jurisdiction before.

“We're going to miss you guys,” Barb said.

“Hell, with that cooking, you won't be missing me for long,” Jimmie said. “I'll be back through, promise. And if y'all have any trouble you send me the word, and me and the other Brethren will come running.”

“You know,” Ava said, as she shook Lovina's hand, “you could stay. The Mother's house likes you; you could claim it, repair it. And I sure could use the help.”

Lovina smiled broadly. “You're doing great,” she said. “Agnes would be proud of you. But I don't think I'm quite ready to settle down just yet. Besides, my name doesn't start with an ‘A'”

Ava laughed. “Okay,” she said. “But don't be a stranger.”

“It's nice to know I have a retirement option,” Lovina said. “Don't worry, I'm sure we'll be back. Take care, Ava.”

The crowd drifted back inside the roadhouse. The jukebox was blaring “All my Rowdy Friends are Coming Over Tonight,” by Hank Williams, Jr. The music muted as the door banged shut. Finally, it was down to the four of them—Lovina, Max, Heck, and Jimmie.

“This has been a hell of a run,” Lovina said, shaking Jimmie's hand. Jimmie pulled her to him and they hugged.

“Thank you, Lovina,” Jimmie said. “I'd be honored to ride shotgun with you anytime. You're one of us now—you know that, right? You need anything, you call me.”

Lovina nodded. “Goes both ways, Jimmie,” she said. “Now, get on home to that baby quick—and let me know the exact weight. Heck, Max, and I got a bet going.”

Jimmie laughed.

Lovina hugged Heck tight. He grunted a little bit in pain. “Sissy-ass marine,” she said, smiling.

“Take care, New Orleans,” Heck said.

Lovina walked to the door of her Charger and opened it. She looked back at Max, who had been standing very still and quiet. “You need a ride to DC, right?” Lovina asked.

Max's face spread into a wide smile. “Yes, yes, I do, actually,” she said.

“Never seen DC,” Lovina said. “And I want to know more about this ‘road magic.' Come on, I'll give you a ride.”

Max squeaked a little and hugged Jimmie tight. “Thank you for all this, Jimmie,” she said. “It's been amazing. I never dreamed…”

“What I said to Lovina goes for you, too, Max,” Jimmie said, hugging the small woman tightly. “You can ride with me any day. You're one of us now; you earned it. Don't ever forget that. Be safe.”

Max climbed into the black Charger. “We saved the universe,” she said brightly. “Any chance we could get Krystal burgers?” The door shut, and Jimmie couldn't hear Lovina's reply. Lovina turned the ignition, and the Charger rumbled to life. Lovina nodded slowly to Heck and Jimmie through her open window. They nodded back, slowly—the knowing badass nod. All three laughed at the realization. The car glided out of the lot, spitting a few gravels as it went, and shot down the two-lane. In less than a minute, they were out of sight.

“You good to ride that thing home?” Jimmie asked Heck as he slowly climbed onto his T5 Blackie.

“I still got arms and legs, so yeah,” Heck said. “I'm cool.”

“You're damn lucky you didn't get burned to a crispy critter in that fire,” Jimmie said. “Don't push that luck, Heck.”

“Yeah,” Heck said with a dry chuckle. “Lucky. I'm good, Jimmie, promise.”

“You did good. Ale would have been proud of you. I'm proud of you.”

“So, we square on the whole squire thing?” Heck asked. “So I can get home and get on with dealing with Cherokee Mike?”

“Go home,” Jimmie said. “You're not a Brother yet, but you're on your way. You are definitely on your way, squire.”

They fist-bumped and then hugged. Heck climbed onto the bike. He slid his helmet on and paused to look at the dented, blackened Oni mask for a moment.

“Hey, you okay?” Jimmie asked. “Whatever you need, I'm here for you, okay. Anytime.”

Heck smiled; it was a ghostly thing.

“You're not alone,” Jimmie said. The words seemed to strike Heck like a physical blow. He looked up at Jimmie with lost, pleading eyes for just a second—eyes full of pain and fear, and something Jimmie couldn't quite comprehend.

Heck beat it all back down again. He grinned, nodded. “I know,” he said. “I know, and I'm thankful, Jimmie, more than you can know.” Heck started the bike with a kick, wincing in pain for a second. He looked back at Jimmie. “‘A civilization lives or dies based on the safety of its roads.'”

“What?” Jimmie said.

“A cultu vivit, nec moritur a viis suis salutem,”
Heck said. “That Latin phrase, my first homework. It says something kind of like that, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jimmie said, a smile growing on his face. “Something like that. You got it right, Heck.”

“Nice to get something right for a change,” the biker said. He slid the steel demon mask over his face. “Keep it between the lines, Jimmie.” He roared off without a backward glance.

Jimmie was alone in the parking lot; a warm breeze kissed him as if to say, ‘Thank you.' He sighed and walked to the semi. He climbed in and checked the clock on his laptop in the cab. No way in hell he'd make it in time to pick up his load in Arizona—no way. He slid some chaw into his cheek, adjusted his cap and headset, and started the rig. The big engine bellowed like a bull. He snapped on his music; it was Tom Cochrane singing “Life Is a Highway.” He rested his hand on the shotgun gearshift, slid the truck into gear, and slowly rolled out of the parking lot.

He would make it, make his run—he'd get his load, get his paycheck. He had a mortgage to pay, diapers to buy, college to plan. His family was alive, the world was alive. It was seventeen hours to Arizona; he'd make it there in ten. There was always a way.

He accelerated along the two-lane and saw a young girl, a hitchhiker in a white sundress and a jean jacket, on the side of the road ahead. She was smiling in the warm afternoon sunlight. She raised her pale hand to wave; then she was gone in the wake of diesel and dust.

Jimmie grinned and shifted gears. The song of the highway, the hum of the engine, took him, carried him. The promise of the road stretched out before him. “Break 2-3, break, 2-3,” he said into his mike. “This is Paladin. I'm 10-24 and clear, c'mon.”

And the wheels turned, on and on.

 

TWENTY-SEVEN

“10-07”

“What the hell were you thinking, Cecil?” Deputy Director Guy Revees asked Cecil Dann. Reeves had a properly intimidating desk for a man in his position, a vast moat of mirror-polished mahogany. The window behind him gave a great view of downtown DC. Dann was sitting on the side of the desk where you were supposed to be impressed or terrified or both.

“I was thinking about saving lives, Guy,” Dann said calmly. Two years ago, Jenna had had a very deadly, very close call with ovarian cancer. Since then, there were very few things in this world that Cecil Dann allowed to rile him too much. Losing his job wasn't even on the radar.

“Have you actually read this shit?” Reeves asked, holding up a report encased in a shiny plastic protector.

“Yeah,” Dann said. “I wrote it. It's all true, Guy.”

“Immortal serial killers, Black-Eyed Kids who are the husks of missing children, vigilante truckers, and my favorite part—where you screw the pooch and shut down a high-rated, nationally viewed, live fucking TV show to save the world from some imaginary fucking asshole with antlers—who the fuck
is
he? Mr. Moose?

“Look, Cecil, we've been friends since Quantico. I buried this report, but if word of all this happy horseshit gets out … do you have any idea what they will do to you, to your career?”

“It's all true,” Dann said. “It's crazy as shit, and I know that, but it's also the truth. It's also a fact that my unit has taken down two of our most wanted highway killers in the last week—the Marquis and the Pagan. Even if you don't believe the report, believe the results.”

“Results?” Reeves reached into his desk and pulled out a bottle of multicolored antacid tablets, dumping a handful of them into his palm. He began to pop them into his mouth like M&Ms as he continued talking. “There is no body. You said your contacts told you this Emile Chasseur died in a fire, so we have absolutely nothing to prove a damn—”