Man Made Murder (Blood Road Trilogy Book 1) (2 page)

They rode out of town, the truck’s headlights picking out the details of the cut on the rider’s back: Black Sun Riders in gothic script, the “Black Sun” and the “Riders” framing a skeleton on a chopper, its bony fingers gripping ape hangers with a giant full moon picked out in white stitching behind him.

Dean lit another cigarette, cranked down the truck’s window, turned up the radio to compete with the wind—John Fogarty singing about going up around the bend.

As the bike picked up speed and Dean pressed the gas to keep up, the wind turned the ends of his hair into whips. He squinted and took another drag.

It wasn’t just the interview and the record label and the frustration he needed the pot for. He was actually scared, feeling like they had something in their grip, and they were about to chuck it without being sure they had something better to take its place. Shawn could stomach risk, though you wouldn’t know it from his practicality—passing up the opportunity to get the car he really wanted in their early days for that hulk of a van instead. That green piece of shit had hauled their equipment all over the northeast the first few years, and Dean had only caught Shawn craning his neck to look at the sporty cars they passed on the road
every
time they passed one. He’d never said a word about wishing he’d made another choice though. Eventually he’d gotten his car. That was Shawn: put up with discomfort in the near-term to get to what you wanted in the end.

Once they’d done this thing, doing their best to fuck up their contract—however it turned out, he expected Shawn would never say a word about how they could have done it differently.

Ashes swirled in his face as he took one last good pull before flicking it out the window. A trail of sparks skittered in his side mirror.

Another two miles out, the bike slowed, its turn signal beating like a heart. When the bike banked onto a dark narrow road with no sign, Dean followed. His guitar case jostled as the truck’s tires bumped over ruts and rocks. The bike crept ahead, dodging the worst parts of the road, the path curving through tall, dead pines with sharp black branches and winding through moonlight. He followed the beacon of the bike’s taillight to a crooked one-story house that leaned on its foundation. The truck’s headlights picked out weeds growing up through the porch boards, pickets in the railing hanging free, a few disappearing into the undergrowth edging the porch’s posts.

The biker cut his engine.

A dog’s bark came from out back, like he was happy someone finally stopped by.

The house’s windows were dark, the wooden frames sun-faded and paint-peeled so they looked like old bones.

“You got the cash?” the biker asked as Dean let himself down from the pickup, onto the dirt drive.

“How much?”

“Twenty for a lid.”

“What is it, skunk?” He followed the biker onto the porch, his calf brushing a spiny weed growing where a chunk of step was missing.

“It might not be what you rock stars are used to, but it’ll get the job done.” The biker glanced over his shoulder, catching Dean’s eyes. “Saw the guitar cases.”

“Yeah.”

“Anything I would have heard of?” the biker asked as he pushed on the front door, unsticking it from its frame—no lock, just a shaky collection of wood, one of its lower panels cracked. The door scraped the floor as it swung open, and the biker held out an arm.

Dean stepped through to the dark room, thin moonlight playing through the windows to hit against the back wall. No bulky shapes of furniture, no pictures hanging.

The biker pushed the door closed and flipped the switch nearby. It made a firm
click
, but nothing happened. “Sorry. Power’s out again.”

Dean swept his gaze toward the ceiling. Exposed wires dangled from a fixture. An uneasy sensation prickled, but what was the worst that was going to happen—the biker robs him and steals his guitar? That’d be a sight, the bike racing away with the beat-up Sears special strapped to his back. Teddy’d already come by the house earlier to pick up the good guitars so he could inspect and restring them before they got loaded for the tour.

The place reminded him of a flop he’d visited in San Francisco, except that place had had bodies curled and sprawled and slumped on the floor. Maybe everyone was out.

The dog had shut up for a minute, but it started up again, as though now that they were in the house, it knew they’d surely be coming out the back to see him.

“Don’t mind the fucking mutt. Made the mistake of feeding him once, now he’s always around.”

The floor sloped toward them, a few floorboards rucking against each other. “You live here?” Dean asked.

“I don’t live anywhere. Come in. Relax.” He clapped Dean’s shoulder. “I’ve got the stuff in the bedroom.”

There was a smell, among the earthy must and mildew, underneath the untended aging wood and plaster. Something almost sharp. It made him think of steel, a blade. It made his hand move to his pocket, but he didn’t have his buck knife with him. He’d only been going to do the radio show. He didn’t generally feel the need to carry a knife in Podunk, New Hampshire.

The biker’s boots echoed down the hall.

Dean walked farther into the front room, stepping over the hump in the floor. His toe sent an empty soda can skittering, his shoulders pulling tight at the noise.

The walls were sprayed with graffiti, the kind bored kids left when they got a hold of a can of spray paint. No art in it, just memorials to the fact that they existed:
We were here
they all said, one way or another.
Jimbo ’72. Hell no, we won’t go. Cara & Michael 4-eva.

No one here gets out alive.

The dog’s pitch grew higher, more urgent.

A door off the room led to the kitchen. From where he stood, Dean could make out cabinets with their doors missing and a gap in the counter like a missing tooth where a stove might once have been. A tree grew against the window, one of its branches reaching through broken glass like an arm.

He stepped back, knocking over a glass bottle with a dull clatter. Looking over his shoulder, the glint of something caught his eye. Crouching, he lifted a thin silver bracelet, dangling it over his finger. He didn’t know much about jewelry, but it felt like it was worth something.

Letting it slide back to the floor, he straightened. It was cooler inside the house than out, like the place was an icebox, keeping the cold in. He looked at the ceiling again, cracks crossing the plaster, a dark hole near the corner exposing part of the wooden skeleton above his head.

He was starting to think he didn’t want to be here, didn’t really need to get high this badly. He hadn’t handed over any money. He was free to walk out the door and go get drunk instead. The guys were probably just pulling up to Shorty’s right now. He was just going to be sitting on a bus for five hours come morning. With enough aspirin, orange juice, and road vibrations, he’d be over a hangover in time for sound check.

He turned, and the biker came around the corner, almost walking into him. Putting him off-balance.

It felt intentional, the way he’d pushed right in, but as the biker raised a hand, a sandwich bag tumbled in his grip, hanging from his thumb and finger. The thin plastic caught the moonlight like rippled water.

Dean reached for his wallet.

“Need papers?” the biker asked.

“Yeah.”

“Consider me your one-stop shop.” He put the baggie in Dean’s hand while he reached inside his jacket. “These are on the house even.”

Dean had a finger in his billfold, the other hand weighing the weed, his thumb rubbing the surface of the baggie—and the biker flipped the packet of rolling papers into the air with his thumbnail. It turned as it rose before arced back down, landing between their feet.

“Whoops,” the biker said.

He just stood there.

Dean added the baggie to his wallet hand and bent to scoop the packet of papers off the floor.

The biker’s hand dropped to the hilt of the knife strapped to his thigh.

The biker’s weight shifted to one foot.

Dean’s brain matched the movement with the consequences too slowly—it was only starting to send his muscles the signal to
move
when the toe of the biker’s boot caught him under the ribs.

The blow twisted him. The baggie slid off his wallet. He caught the floor with the flat of his hand, hard, the impact jarring his wrist.

The biker’s boot swung back again.

Dean got a knee under him and pushed forward, clutching his wallet, his eyes locked on the front door. The closest path to it meant squeezing between the biker and the wall.

The biker’s kick grazed his flank as he pushed against the rucked-up boards.

The biker’s punch caught him in the side of the head.

His shoulder hit the wall.

Adrenaline spiked, bristling his nerves, but his reactions were half a beat behind. He brought an arm up to shield himself, but the biker’s leather-gloved hand caught his face, cranking it aside, grinding his cheekbone against the wall.

Leather and dust and lightly mildewed wallpaper assaulted Dean’s nostrils. Gritting his teeth, he clutched the biker’s wrist. The grip on his face clamped down harder as the biker pushed in closer, crowding him.

Dean swung the fist holding the wallet around. Connected with the biker’s leather. The biker grabbed a fistful of Dean’s denim jacket and wrenched it off his shoulder.

Dean brought his knee up, fast and hard, digging his other heel into the floor to keep his balance.

The biker slammed him hard against the wall. Dean’s teeth snapped together with a click. But he found his chance to twist and drop, slipping out of the biker’s grabbing hands like a wild cat. He launched himself toward the kitchen doorway, fingertips ghosting the floorboards because he didn’t have time to straighten back up.

The biker’s blade made a
snick
against its leather sheath.

The back of Dean’s jacket jerked, the biker catching hold of the collar. Dean wrenched free. Something plastic crumpled under his foot. His arms flailed. His wallet slid into the kitchen. The trash skittered out from under his foot as he aimed for the back door—just a rickety wooden storm door, its screen torn.

The dog’s barking rose, fast and sharp.

The biker growled, his boots scrabbling over torn linoleum as he grabbed Dean’s jacket again, yanking Dean back like a yo-yo at the end of its string.

Gasping, Dean let the biker have the jacket, dragging himself right out of it. All he cared about was the fucking door.

He crashed through it in his shirtsleeves. His feet tangled in the drop to the cinder block steps.

The dog was in the middle of the yard, its eyes luminous green in the moonlight.

He hit the ground with one knee, feeling the impact all the way to his teeth. Got halfway up and
oofed
as the wind flew out of him.

The biker’s weight buckled his elbow, sending him flat on his chest in the dirt.

The dog bolted toward them.

The biker wrenched Dean’s arm backward, twisting it high. He cried out.

Humid breaths hit the side of his face—the dog standing over him, its matted fur smelling like swamp and dead things.

Fingers gripped Dean’s hair, dragging his head back.

The edge of cold steel touched his neck.

The weight on him shifted, and the dog barked, three percussive shouts that jarred Dean’s skull.

The knife pressed. The fingers gripped harder. “Don’t be a pain in the ass,” the biker said. “This can go easy, or it can go really fucking slow.”

Dean clawed the dirt. The backyard was littered with junk, some of it glinting just out of reach.

The knife slid back into its sheath on the biker’s thigh. Dean wondered if there was any chance he could reach it.

“Ain’t nothing personal,” came the hot growl at his ear. Damp breath curled over his skin, bristling the hairs at his nape. A thumb jabbed below his skull.

The dog’s front leg bumped his head, its paw stepping on his hair.

He grasped behind him with his free hand, finding his own shirt, the biker’s leather. The biker’s body angled off him at the hips, putting the knife out of reach. But he kept trying for it anyway.

Pain like white-hot fire shot down his shoulder and coursed up the back of his skull. It tingled like electricity along his jaw. His mouth jumped open. The yell in his chest was knocked right back there with the surprise of the pain. He dug at the ground with his fingers, knife mission forgotten. Panic and the weight of the biker pushed on his lungs, squeezing the breath out of him. He needed to get out from underneath.

The dog’s bark jarred every bone in his skull.

His flesh tore just below his ear with a wet sound that stiffened his toes, made his guts sink cold and heavy.

He needed to focus. He needed to get the fuck
out
of there.

He wrenched his hips, grinding one painfully into the dirt, and threw his elbow back, hard, connecting with the biker.

The biker didn’t so much as grunt.

He slammed his elbow back again, ignoring the sick slide of the biker’s teeth against tendons in his neck, the pain needle-sharp where nerves had been torn into. A tooth hit one just right and his legs jolted like he’d touched a live wire. He yelled out and flattened his hand on the ground, trying to get leverage to twist free.

The teeth sank deeper. Dean clenched his teeth. His insides bucked. A helpless moan dragged out of him as he stretched to grab hold of a sad clump of weedy grass in the dirt.

The dog stepped over his arm and a weather-beaten can of WD-40. Dean pulled with his strength, the grass ripping from the dirt by its roots. Something glinted just past the half-upended clod.

Ignoring the head rush sluicing through his scalp, he dug his fingers in what was left of the clump of grass and dragged himself half an inch forward. The biker’s grip clamped hard on his skull. And he hummed as he feasted—a low, contented sound that vibrated against Dean’s neck.

Dean stretched toward the shard of glass. His fingertips brushed its edge.

With a growl through his clenched teeth, he pulled himself—and the biker on top of him—another half inch. The biker’s cheekbone ground his jaw.