The Best Bad Dream (7 page)

Who was she kidding? She was a nurse. She knew nothing about how to escape from jail. Jennifer burst into tears. She was no heroine. She wasn't going to escape. She was going to die.

It was the first time she had let herself think that thought. Now she said it out loud, to convince herself of its terrible reality.

“You are going to die,” she said, and the sound of her own voice, low and trembling, was a shock to her.

It was true, wasn't it? She was going to die. They had brought her here to kill her.

Why?

She shed a few more tears, and then a strange calm came over her. She began to think, rather than panic.

Okay, she wasn't going to be able to go up into a handy air shaft, and she wasn't going to be able to dig a tunnel, either. She wasn't strong enough. And she probably didn't have enough time, even if she'd been built like a lady weightlifter.

But she was smart.

And so the thing to do was think. Think . . .

For example, if they were bringing only good-looking women here, then you would assume they were some kind of sex slave traffickers. Yeah, and they had to wait to take them away because . . . uh, because they had to set up the various houses of ill repute they were sending them to. Some girls would go to Asia, and maybe some to South America or Mexico. And that took time, and boats, and payoffs to authorities.

Maybe that was it.

But sex slaves? Didn't that mean really young kids? Maybe not. There were all kinds of people who wanted all kinds of sex.

She was twenty-four years old and she looked great in a bikini, and maybe some sick fucking drug czar wanted a good-looking Chinese girl that he could fuck until she was half-dead.

She began to feel her skin itch.

She had to talk to Gerri, figure out why they had been marked and if it was Lucky who had done it. Hadn't he mentioned to Michelle that he used to frequent some whorehouse? What was it called? The Jackalope Ranch, that was it.

Maybe she was there now. Maybe she was waiting her turn to be thrust into a life of prostitution.

She got up from her bed and moved back over to the corner of the cell door.

“Gerri,” she whispered.

No answer. Gerri must be sound asleep.

“Gerri,” she cried out now. “Wake the fuck up!”

“Huh? What—”

“It's me, Jennifer.”

“Geez, girlfriend, it's the middle of the night.”

“You can sleep when you're dead, Ger.”

“What the fuck? All right, what is it?”

“I want to know something.”

“Yeah, fine, we've established that. So, like what?”

“Are you . . . a hot chick?”

There was an outraged sigh.

“For this you wake me up inna middle of the fucking night? What you want to do, have some sex talk?”

“No, Gerri,” Jennifer said, forgetting all about whispering. “Sorry, not interested. I said it wrong. How old are you?”

“Twenty-four, baby.”

“And do you have a nice body?”

“You sick girl. We are in deep shit and you want to play lesbo games.”

“No, I want to know if you and I could be candidates for sex slavery.”

There, she had finally said it.

“Shit, I hope not,” Gerri said.

“And Mary, was she young, too?”

“Yeah, she was. Very young. Christ, maybe that's it. They sending us off to some foreign country to be whores.”

Jennifer sat down on the edge of the table in her cell.

“It could be that. It's the most logical thing.”

“Yeah, but I thought they did that mainly with little Asian girls. Like ten or twelve years old.”

“Yeah, me, too,” Jennifer said. “But in our new world of sexual diversity anything is possible. Besides, I'm Asian.”

There was a long silence from Gerri, and finally Jennifer heard her start to cry.

“I'm sorry,” Jennifer said. “I'm just trying to find some reason for all of this. Maybe if we find it we can somehow use what we know to get out of here.”

“Yeah, I get it, girl,” Gerri said. “But if they are really all about having us be sex slaves, there ain't nothing we can do. They got drugs, baby. I seen ‘em before. They knock you out and they rape you. And you ain't got a thing to say about it. And when they all done with you, they cut you up and throw yo ass away.”

Jennifer shook her head, and went quietly back to her bed.

She remembered something she'd heard in college. Knowledge shall set you free. Well, not all the time, baby. Not all the time.

Chapter Ten

In the morning Jack headed up to Taos and spent two hours talking to the people of the pueblo. The pueblo was an interesting place, and the round kiva prayer building was a spot he wished he could spend time in. Unfortunately, the Taos Indians gave him no answers. Not one person had seen anything. That is, they hadn't seen anything of Jennifer. An Indian sculptress named Rada Mankiller had met a couple from Blue Wolf. She even had their card, and she gave it to Jack. On it were the names Phil and Dee Dee Holden. They were from Columbus, Ohio. They had come up to look at the art but found it too expensive. Rada Mankiller said that they had told her they loved her pots but they could get a “pot for a lot cheaper at Target in Columbus. It was even Indian, sort of . . . anyway, it had an arrow on it and it only cost 29.95, plus tax.”

Jack thanked her and headed back down the hill. He needed to get to Blue Wolf and find the Holdens. But it so happened that he still had to pass right by the doors of Lucky Avila's El Coyote. He found a spot in the hills just across from the converted motel and watched the action at Lucky's place for a while. He had done some research on him in the morning, and found that Lucky was a kind of renaissance crook. He had robbed Good Humor trucks when he
was a kid, sold porno pictures of his classmates at Sacramento High School, and blackmailed his minister at the Faith Catholic Church. All the while he had been playing lead guitar in a heavy metal band called Headripper and had been known to have four or five girlfriends whom he kept at a commune he called the Playpen.

Now he was loaded with dough and flying high. Lucky was the Scarface of the Southwest. He had fast cars, gorgeous (if mentally challenged) women, and boats to pull along behind his massive SUVs. He'd also built a barn and several other residences behind the main house at El Coyote. These cabins were where his gang members lived.

His Achilles’ heel, as Michelle had said, was that he apparently dealt meth. And like most meth dealers he couldn't resist using his own product. The word Jack got from reading old police reports about him was that he'd become even more mercurial and violent than he'd ever been.

He sounded sick enough, Jack thought, to take Jennifer Wu.

She could be held prisoner right now in one of the outbuildings that Jack was observing through his Hasselblads.

Still, he doubted it. Anyone who went to all the trouble to kidnap someone surely wouldn't be dumb enough to hide her right on their own grounds.

Jack watched for three hours before anything happened.

He saw Lucky Avila lead a group of six fellow Sons of Satan out of the gate and down the highway.

Jack followed them.

Two miles down the road, Jack watched as Lucky and his boys pulled into the parking lot of a local restaurant, the Red Sombrero.

Jack waited until they'd been inside the restaurant for five minutes, then parked and went inside.

As he entered the Red Sombrero he saw the Sons of Satan standing by a back door. They were complaining loudly to the Mexican waiter, a little man with a ratty moustache.

“You have it wrong, sir,” Lucky said, in a mocking way.

“I do not have it wrong,” the waiter said. “The back patio is already booked,
sir.”
He wanted to show he wasn't intimidated by six assholes dressed in black leather jackets, with faces like Visigoths and attitudes to match.

Jack moved between two other diners and got closer to the bikers. They didn't notice him at all because they were busy staring with venomous hatred at the short, bald keeper of the gate.

“Yeah, you're right about one thing, asshole,” Lucky Avila said. “The room is already booked. It's booked by us, dickhead. Who the fuck is out there now?”

The waiter sighed and looked down at his schedule.

“That would be the group from Blue Wolf Lodge,” he said.

Lucky Avila looked as though he would gag.

“Hey, fuck those dipshits,” Lucky said. “Tell ’em to shove off.”

“I'm sorry, sir,” the host said. “They use the patio every year for their council meeting.”

“Yeah?” said Lucky. “And when does the freaking council get their asses out of our seats?”

“I'm afraid they've reserved the room for the entire night. They'll be out there until ten thirty, or perhaps even later.”

“No,” Lucky said. “They won't be.”

The other Sons growled at the little man, and one of them, a short, wide guy named Zollie who looked like Yosemite Sam, knocked a painting of a black bull standing in a sea of flowers from the wall.

“I think we should, like, trash the Sombrero,” he said.

The other Sons mumbled agreement. But Lucky Avila only smiled, shook his head, and then pushed the waiter out of the way. He kicked the door open and crashed the festivities on the patio.

Jack eased around behind the gang and watched the collision. Bikers versus New Agers.

The first thing Jack noticed was that the Blue Wolf crew was the same aging group he'd seen when he first came into town. The ones who had been so surprisingly nimble as they worked out in the park.

Jack felt his hair bristle. If this was going to be a physical conflict the Blue Wolfers were going to lose, and lose badly.

Surely they must know this. But they didn't seem at all intimidated.

“Look who we have here,” said the white-haired leader who sat at the head of the table. “If it isn't the great outlaw himself, Lucky Avila. You're looking well, Lucky. Let me introduce myself. I'm Alex Williams, the president of the Blue Wolf council.”

The older man's hair was still thick, his voice strong.

“Like I give a shit who you are,” Lucky said. “Listen up, Williams. You guys have to leave. And I mean now!”

The old folks at the table looked up at the outlaw king and seemed amused. They smiled as if Lucky were joking with them.

“Really, and why is that?” Williams asked.

“Because,” Lucky said. “Me and my guys, we had the place reserved for two months.”

“Well, I'm afraid I've got you there,” Williams said. “Because we reserve the room one year in advance for our council meeting.”

“Fuck your reservation. We have an important dinner and business meeting scheduled for tonight, so I think you better take your little crew here and buzz off.”

“Sorry,” Alex Williams said, “we haven't even eaten our appetizers yet. But I do admire your aggressive stance, Lucky. Very manly.”

Williams thrust his hand toward Lucky, steady and strong, and Lucky seemed compelled to shake it. Jack watched as the older man's fingers enveloped Lucky's. The gang leader grimaced and tried to pull away, but found the old man's huge hand held him firmly in his grasp.

Panic crossed Lucky's face. He pulled backward as hard as he could, and then Alex Williams let go, catching him off guard. Lucky fell back against the wall, hard. He slid down it like a drunken cat.

The Sons of Satan looked stunned. They seemed lost, unable to make a move without their leader.

Jack watched as Lucky's face turned bright red.

“That was funny,” he snarled at Williams as he got up. “See how you like this.”

Contorting his face in anger, he raised his massive fist. But before he could strike the aged Blue Wolf president, Jack grabbed him and, a second later, had twisted his arm behind him and shoved his face up against the wall.

“We're gonna kill your ass, mister,” a huge biker named Terry said, moving toward Jack.

“Oh, yeah, you are one dead mother,” another biker, Popeye, added.

“That wouldn't be smart,” Jack said, releasing the pressure on the leader's arm a little. “I saw the bartender call the state police about two minutes ago. They're undoubtedly on their way here now. You haven't done anything chargeable yet. But if you hit Mr. Williams here you'll end up in jail, probably for a long, long stretch.”

“Yeah, but you twisted his—”

“It's all right, Terry,” Lucky said. “He had to do that to stop me. Mister, you just did us a big favor. What's your name?”

“Jack Morrison,” Jack said, using his undercover name. “Don't like to see a brother take a fall when he don't have to.”

“Who you ride with?” Lucky asked.

“Gypsy Jokers,” Jack said. “Out of Portland.”

“Come see me at the Coyote,” Lucky said. “We might do some business.”

Jack gave Lucky a little salute, and the biker turned and looked at Alex Williams.

“You were real lucky just now, old man,” he said.

“Sometimes it's better to be lucky, Lucky,” the old man said.

“Funny. But I got a feeling your luck ain't gonna hold,” Lucky added. Then he motioned to his men. “Out of here. Now.”

He nodded to Jack again and they all cleared out, like a pack of wild dogs.

Back at the patio, Alex Williams and the other Blue Wolf oldsters raised their glasses to Jack.

“To our benefactor and friend,” Alex said. “Thinks, Jack. We owe you one.”

“Nah,” Jack said. “Looked to me like you had the situation well under control.”

“Not at all. If Lucky had landed that blow he would have probably broken all the bones in my face.”

The others at the table nodded in agreement. Alex Williams introduced his dining partners.

“Jack, this is Ellen Garcia, one of the founders of Blue Wolf.”

Jack looked over at the white-haired Mexican woman whose right arm was in a sling.

“Nice to meet you, Jack,” she said. Though her face was lined, her blue eyes shone with intelligence and clarity.

“Good to meet you, too,” Jack said. “What happened to your arm?”

“Old age happened to it,” Ellen said. “But we've got some terrific new methods at Blue Wolf, and before long it's going to be just like new.”

Jack smiled and nodded, but wondered silently if she was just kidding herself. Still, he reminded himself, there were amazing new things happening every day. What did he really know about any of it?