Stroke of Midnight (15 page)

For the life of him, Rider couldn't figure out what was wrong with the bus. Sure, the radiator had overheated, but time and a little water would have solved the problem. The fan belt was shot, but still, a bus driver should have had enough road knowledge to fix something minor like that. It didn't add up. And why did the old buzzard keep looking over his shoulder and making the flashlight jump? The fellas weren't coming out of the tavern anytime soon. As long as he went in there with a representative knot of money in his pocket, then hey… everything would remain jakey.

Then there was that pretty girl who looked at him like she did. Made him want to buy her dinner at the next local diner, which was a foolish thought. As though a girl like her would be caught dead on the back of a bike, much less sit and eat with him. He knew better than that, and knew what the old folks on the bus were probably telling her. He focused on the engine, trying to see if the block had cracked from the heat. She was so damned pretty, so clean… had a voice that would make a man forget time. But those dark, troubled, mysterious eyes of hers drew him. They were the eyes of innocence, but also the eyes of someone trapped, and set in a face so pretty that a couple times he'd forgotten to breathe when she'd looked at him.

But all of that was stupid, anyhow. She wasn't his type. It had to be the heat, the road, and the boredom.

First off, she was too short, maybe five foot nuthin', a little bitty thing. She had no boobs to speak of, just a petite rise in her calico dress that didn't even offer a real cleavage—she was no Marianne. Her hips were very nice, he'd give her that… and, yeah, so okay, the perfect shape of her behind did nearly hypnotize him when she'd walked away, but she didn't have the full package he usually went for.

For instance, she didn't even wear makeup; no lipstick covered her lush, honey-brown mouth. Her long dark lashes didn't have that black stuff that came out of a tube caking them. All the women he knew wore that, even his mother. This babe wasn't even a blonde, he reminded himself. Far from it… far enough away to possibly get his ass kicked by the fellas if he treated her too nice, especially in this neck of the woods. Plus, she looked like she'd never been anywhere in the world… probably had the address to where she was going pinned to the hem of her dress, like a kid. Couldn't have been more than seventeen, maybe eighteen—if he stretched it—and with his luck, he'd get picked up by some sheriff on a statutory charge… were he so crazy to even attempt anything. So, what was the point? It had to be road dust and Jack Daniel's talking to him. Damn, it was hot out here.

Problem was, she'd come down off the bus again and had floated in his direction with a tray in hand and money in her fist. He could tell by the way one hand was balled up tight, like she didn't want to drop something important. He sighed. Then why'd she have to stand so close waiting for him to look up, smelling all good and like lavender? And dammit, why did she smile so sweetly, and flash him the whitest, most perfect row of teeth he'd ever seen when he bumped his noggin to stand?

He rubbed his head and looked at her hard. "You pass the hat?"

She nodded and extended her hand. "Two hundred and fifty for your trouble," she said shyly. "Thank you so much."

"Well, don't thank me yet," he muttered, taking the wad of bills from her. He paused as his fingers met her palm, the softness of it made him draw his hand away fast. He couldn't look at her, so he sent his attention to the bus driver. "Give it a try," he told him. "Gun the motor and see if this old battle-axe turns over. I don't know what the hell's wrong with it."

But the bus driver didn't move. He glanced at the tavern, and then at Rider.

"Okay, fine," Rider said, handing half the money back to the young woman before him. "Get on the bus, tell your driver to gun the motor, and if it doesn't turn over you can just pay me for taking the time to look at it."

She nodded and left the tray by his feet, and quickly fled back up the bus steps.

"Satisfied?" he grumbled to the driver. "So would you go try the engine?" Old people got on his nerves, especially tourists!

But before the driver could get up the steps, gunshots rang out. Rider turned and stared at the tavern. He heard several bike engines engage; voices escalate; glass break; grunts and snaps; more rounds fired. Shouts became frenzied yells, then turned into bloodcurdling screams. Voices of men carried on the night air and made him freeze where he stood, paralyzed as a hundred emotions slammed into him at once. Shit! Crazy Pete, or maybe Razor, had lost his cool. Maybe it was the bartender, but it wasn't a shotgun blast, it was a revolver. Snake was wild, but he wasn't out of his mind and Bull's Eye didn't make a move without Snake's okay. There was only one option. Run.

He snatched his guitar and headed toward his bike. He was
not
doing time if the fellas had held up the bar. He was not going to be locked in a cage because one of them had tripped out and had killed an old man for some change or a free bottle for the road. Hell no, he wasn't going to rely on some old bus passengers to vouch for his honor—they'd swear it was a set-up. They'd tell the authorities he'd kept them occupied while his boys robbed the joint. He'd be an accessory to sure murder; the robbery was secondary. They'd give them all the chair.

She pressed her hands to the bus window. "Oh, my God! What's happening? We have to get to a phone and call the police!"

"Calm yourself, child," Mrs. Parker said, eating the remains of her apple slowly. "They were animals, anyway."

"What?" Tara looked around the bus at the placid faces that stared at her. "There's an innocent bartender in there! I heard gunshots, a man being murdered! Didn't you hear that?"

"Oh, it's not murder, honey," an elderly man said with a smile. "It's just an old place getting a little life back into it, is all. That's why we came, and they had so much vitality. It's the everlasting cycle of life." He nodded toward the tavern, and then glanced at the other passengers. "They'll be pleased. We did good this time."

"You think tonight will be the night they'll fulfill the promise?" Mrs. Parker asked, excitement brimming in her eyes.

"Fifteen strong, young males," the bus driver said with a smile as he entered the bus and came up the aisle. "Plus a girl? Yes. I think that would be enough to convince them we're ready."

New terror slammed into Tara as she looked at the insane expressions around her. Her heart almost seized when the bus driver reached for her. Brandishing the glass pitcher, a scream filled her lungs, then rent the air, and she swung it madly with her eyes closed tight. She could feel strong arms grasp her waist. Madness entered her ears above her screams as she left the bus floor kicking, yelling, clawing, fighting, but still moving forward and down a flight of steps. The old people were saying not to fight it, give in and be thankful that this was happening while her body was still young. Tears blinded her, choking her, drowning her cries. Her grandmother's visions were coming true. The nightmares she'd lived with all her life were coming true. She looked up and saw a man with a guitar on his bike, stomping his pedal.

"Don't leave me!" she shrieked, sobs wracking her body as she continued to fight. "Oh, God, they're crazy, don't let them take me inside!
Man with a good heart
, please, for the love of God, don't leave me!"

CHAPTER 2

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A young woman's screams cut into his consciousness. Rider turned his head and glanced over his shoulder. His motor was running, the sound of it almost deafening. But what he saw was surreal, happened instantaneously and in slow motion at the same time. Crazy Pete's body was hurled out a window, shattering glass, landing almost at his feet. Rider looked down. Pete's jugular was ripped open. His body was still twitching. Blood spurted and turned the ground at Rider's feet muddy brown. He looked up and saw the girl over the bus driver's shoulder. Her hands were reaching toward him. Tears were streaming down her face. The bus driver was taking her into the middle of hell.

His guitar hit the ground. A .357 Dirty Harry was somehow in his hand. His arm was outstretched, and it trembled as he clenched the Magnum. He was going to jail, and wasn't even sure why. The center of the bus driver's skull had a bull's-eye on it, dead aim.

Blood and death and the stench of terror filled his nose and clung to the back of his throat, leaving a metallic taste as he swallowed thickly. Rider hocked and spat, but kept his gaze fastened on the man carrying the woman. The bus driver looked up. Their eyes met. Rider said nothing as he fired the first shot at the bus driver's feet. He stopped walking and smiled. The girl was still struggling. Old folks began coming off the bus.

His heart was racing; his ears were ringing. They were eyewitnesses who would remember things wrong. They were witnesses who were feeble, would not understand, and wouldn't give good testimony. Sweat was stinging his eyes.

The old people were shouting confusing things. One of them yelled, "Leave her. We have more than enough." What the hell did that mean?
Put her down
! his mind screamed, but his voice was lodged in his throat. Crazy Pete had freaking bled to death at his feet. Where was Snake! Another old bastard told the bus driver, "Don't be foolish. If he kills you, you'll miss the promise. She's so skinny, she won't yield much, anyway."

The girl was dropped, and she ran in Rider's direction before he could process what had been said. The inside of the tavern was suddenly too quiet. Ten bikes still sat in a row, undisturbed. When she came to Rider, he pushed her behind him, driven by instinct. He backed up, keeping her an arm's length in back of him. His motor was still idling. He couldn't turn away. He saw something in his peripheral vision that made him stare at the broken window, but he also kept the bus driver in his sideline view.

What appeared to be two gleaming red eyes flashed past the window. The metallic taste of death scored his throat. He shoved the young girl. "Get on the bike!" She ran ahead of him, and then leaned down for the guitar. "Leave it!"

She picked it up anyway and slipped the strap over her shoulders, and elbowed it to cover her back. More of those glowing orbs appeared in the window. The old folks were smiling, laughing, walking toward the tavern. Rider jogged backward, half hopping, half jumping, his eyes never leaving the window as he slid into his seat in front of the girl while still blindly pointing the barrel of his weapon in the direction of the bus driver's head. Instantly, he snapped his arm back, revved the engine—the gun affixed as a part of his hand—and left dust.

His chopper tore up dirt road, making everything on either side of him a blur. He could feel his heart beating a hole out of the center of his chest, and hers thudding through his back. She'd buried her face so hard against his shoulder that it felt as if she were one of his shoulder blades. He could barely breathe, her arms were wrapped so tightly around his waist. That didn't matter, just as long as she took every lean and pivot with him and didn't make them wipe out. He wasn't sure how fast they were going; that didn't matter, either, until his engine coughed. Gas!

"No, baby, be good to Poppa. Please, girl, not now. Stay with me."

"Find a church," the girl clinging to him yelled. "We have to find sanctuary!"

He'd kidnapped an underage church girl? God, just make his bike keep eating up road. He'd give up drinking, smoking, making love to women whose names he didn't know… just one small act of mercy, that's all he asked.

"I'll take you to a church, and that's where you get off, love. You never saw me, cool?" And a church out here would have some vehicle he could siphon for petro.

He could feel her nod in agreement against his back, and his eyes scanned the blur of horizon. Everything was flat. It was pitch-black on the open road. Not a steeple in sight. His engine was beginning to knock. This was supposed to be God's country, Middle America, where was a damned church! Then his black and chrome baby sputtered, gave up the ghost, and simply died.

Tears of frustration stung his eyes as he coasted to a gentle stop. "Oh, screw
me
!" He jumped off his bike, made the stand come down with the heel of his boot, and did something he'd never done—kicked the front tire hard and pointed the gun at his engine. "You lousy, good for nuthin' whore! I'll kill you for dying on me like this! No, baby, not when I need you most!"

Then he dropped his arm, closed his eyes, raked his fingers through his hair, and walked in a circle. Trapped.

"We can't stay out in the open," a soft voice said.

He heard the girl dismount, her sandals hitting the ground as she neared him and touched his arm. He nodded, went to his bike, and spat.

Shoving his gun in the back waistband of his jeans he walked his bike into the tall grass. With his luck, some farmer had put up an electrified fence he wouldn't see until it was too late. What did it matter? He was going to prison sooner or later to fry, anyway. The only thing that helped was the fact that she seemed to be assisting, or at least had offered a good suggestion. But everything was just too damned crazy to sort out. Suddenly, he couldn't breathe.

Rider put both hands on the leather seat of his bike and heaved in air. Two soft palms rubbed his back. His road dogs had been butchered. He'd seen something that looked like it had slithered out of a horror movie. Not just one, mind you, but several. Old people were in on the deal, somehow… a young woman had been a temporary hostage, was gonna be sacrificed. He looked up fast, spun on her, making her back up. He only had one question.

"What the hell is going on?"

"It's hard to explain."

"Who are you to them, and what ambushed me and my squad?"

"The undead."

He blinked twice, drew his gun and leveled it at her. "Stop this crazy bullshit, and talk to me! In a minute, every highway patrolman in the state is going to converge on a scene where a bunch of bikers are gonna take the weight. We were just stopping for a drink and some grub. Whatever they find—"

"I know," she said, seeming unafraid of him. "That's why we must run."

Her eyes held such empathy that he couldn't stop looking at her. It took his brain a moment to transmit the command to his arm to put the gun away, but finally he did. She had knowledge of something he couldn't wrap his mind around. She'd seen it, too. So, if they both had the same story, then maybe they wouldn't put him away with the criminally insane.

"We have to find hallowed ground," she said again more firmly. "Soon."

He wasn't sure why he trusted her, but she was the only alibi he had at the moment. More than that, she was the only one in the world who'd been an eyewitness to the unthinkable. Neither said a word as they found a small path. She was at his side looking straight ahead. His eyes scanned everything, but he kept his gun hidden. All he needed was for some farmer to see a silver barrel, then shoot first and ask questions later.

"How do you know this is the right way?" he asked after they'd walked about a hundred yards.

"I'm a seer. I can sense the direction."

He'd heard about things like this, but wasn't buying it.

"Well, Madame Seer, tell me then, why didn't you see the firestorm coming our way?"

Her voice was patient as she spoke calmly. "I was on the bus because my mother came to me after she died. She said to go to my grandmother's… she'd have good medicine to help me. I was to learn the old ways from her, and to stay out of harm's way. I could feel evil coming." She stopped walking and looked at him hard. "I didn't know exactly when, or how, but I had a feeling—just like you can smell things."

He stopped walking.

"The cigarettes and other substances are hurting your sinuses. But your nose is still better than the average man's. You're supposed to be a tracker, a nose… a man with a good heart."

All he could do was stare at her.

"Where are you from?" she asked, her eyes holding his in a gentle gaze.

"Kentucky," he murmured, not sure why just looking at her made his voice drop to a reverent whisper.

She smiled. "Land of Tomorrow… my people, the Cherokee, named your state. That's what it means in our language, and that's where they said the tracker guardian with the music from his heart would come from." She shook her head and softly chuckled. "I just didn't think he'd look like you."

She took off his guitar and handed it to him. "This is a part of your destiny. That's why I couldn't leave it."

Now she was scaring him.

"All right. Point the way to a church," he muttered, accepting his guitar and slinging it over his back.

She just nodded and resumed walking. He followed her, numb.

It was a little clapboard structure painted gray and washed light blue in the moonlight. As soon as they stepped into the front yard, she sighed and dropped to her knees. They'd walked nearly two and a half miles in the dark toward nothing he could put his finger on. But for some strange reason, he also felt safe.

"So, what do we do now? Wait for daylight, or something?" He couldn't see squat in the darkness, save the light from the moon. But his eyes were adjusting as he urgently searched for a gas source.

She shook her head and glanced around. "They won't believe us."

"You got that right," he muttered, going toward a beat-up Ford that he'd finally made out. But her plan had merit. He could hot-wire the car, or maybe siphon some gas if it wasn't dead, too. No, screw taking the car. He was not leaving his bike.

Rider glanced around for a garden hose and to see if there was a container that could hold fuel. But he stopped when he saw this woman, whose name he still did not know, on her knees putting fistfuls of dirt in the pockets of her dress. "What the
hell
are you doing?"

"Getting hallowed earth to place a ring around us near the bike," she said calmly. "You'll need some to pack in your bullets, too, if what's after us is what I'm sure it is." She stood and gazed at him with such serenity that for a moment he was speechless.

"How about Plan B? I siphon this tank, and—"

"No, no! You must
never
steal from holy places."

He looked up at the sky and opened his arms wide. "Why are you torturing me? I know I've lived a wild life, but, hey, I'm only human."

"If you want to stay that way," she said in a tense tone, "you'd better listen to me and follow my lead."

"Listen, sister," he said, his nerves frayed beyond patience, "this is why I don't do religion—any of them. It breeds fanatics like we saw on the bus. Crazy people."

"It doesn't matter what religion or faith, as long as you believe," she snapped, gathering her dirt-filled skirt up as she stood.

He looked at this crazy woman before him who didn't know him from a can of paint, but had gone with him, trusted him—even with a gun in his hand—and who now had her white lace panties showing in a churchyard with dirt in her skirt. She was like nothing he'd ever encountered. Beautiful didn't describe her. It took him a moment to collect his thoughts as he continued to stare at her. He had to remember that his boys were either dead or in jail, most likely, and he was about to follow some religious nutcase down a dark road.

"It doesn't matter what culture," she said, pressing her point and not looking at him. Her gaze was on the stars. "There is good. There is evil. Tonight we have to make a stand."

She began walking back the way they'd come. For some unknown reason he found himself following her again. This was
not
the adventure he'd banked on.

"What's your name?" The question came out quietly as he tried to sort out what had just happened.

"Tara," she said. Her voice was so soft he almost hadn't caught it.

"Tell me you're not a minor."

He waited. She smiled.

"I'm eighteen. In some states I am, in some states I'm not. Like everything else, I'm caught in mid-transition."

"Yeah, well… I know what that's like—being trapped."

She let out a long breath and sighed. "I could feel that something wasn't right when the bus broke down. In my soul I knew it was starting." Her gaze went to the moon. "But I knew if I went inside to help someone, I'd be all right. It's always that way. Do you know what I mean? Good wins over evil."

What could he say? He truly didn't know what she meant. But he oddly liked the sound of her voice, no matter how strange what she said was.

"I knew you were a good egg, when I looked in your face," he admitted and resumed walking. "The fellas can get a little rowdy and out of hand, and I could tell you weren't the type that…" He paused and began the balance of what he had to say a different way. "I knew you didn't deserve how they were gonna behave." He fell quiet when she held his gaze. It nearly made him stop walking again. "I also knew when I heard you screaming that I couldn't leave you, don't ask me why."

He shook his head and looked forward at the dark path. Crazy Pete's face flashed into his mind. "I had a dead body at my feet. Never seen anything like it. Me and Pete never got along, but that's a whole nuther thing. I knew he was stupid enough to pull a knife, or make someone have to off him one day in self-defense… but to be sliced with his own bowie, or Razor's… damn."

He started walking faster. "Like I said, don't ask me why I couldn't leave you, but things weren't adding up… Then you called me, something familiar clicked—I can't even explain it. But I didn't kidnap you—be sure to tell them that, if we get caught."