Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Dante
Rundas and Theron are sitting on their bikes outside the clubhouse waiting for me. After killing the motor and walking the bike back while I’m still seated, I kick out the stand and park next to them.
“Where’re Jaecar and Artim?”
His back stiff with disapproval, Rundas fills me in. “At the inn. Seeing if there are any bottles left lying around. Where the fuck is Tempest? She said everything would be sorted by now.”
Always the most intuitive, Theron can read my face in the dark. “Something happened to Tempest.” Not a question. A sorrowful stillness descends over us. I can hear Artim and Jaecar sifting through the pile of empty bottles in the recycling bin.
“Tempest is dead.”
It takes Rundas a moment to process this before he reacts. Getting off his bike, he kicks the toe of his boot at the ground dirt, scattering pebbles and grit into the air.
“Ah, fuck it. Screw this. Do we even need her? We did fine riding in Canada. No probs.”
Theron waits to take his lead from me. He’s cautious, not knowing how I’m going to react.
Whirling around, Rundas confronts me. “What did Muohta want to show you? Is Tempest dead in the forest?”
I’m only going to tell this story once.
Whistling sharply to get the other two riders’ attention, I stomp into the clubhouse. It’s been a while. The place looks rough.
And the bar is empty. That’s… deeply fucking problematic, to say the least.
Perching on one of the bar stools, I wait until the other four riders have joined me.
“Muohta called me into the forest for a reason. Tempest left everything to her niece. Luna Blackwood. Little Luna cut across Ben’s land and went and got her ankle caught in an old snare. I gave her a lift home. Tempest is dead. That’s what Luna told me. But I have to ride out again to make sure.”
“Tempest can’t be dead.” Jaecar is adamant. “She knew the score. She always took precautions. This Luna woman has to be some grifter with a good angle.”
A sneer makes my lip curl. “A grifter who just happens to have the keys to the house and the inn? I saw the bunch of keys—the same one Tempest always used to carry everywhere with her—hanging by the door. Luna is legit.”
Never taking his eyes off me, Rundas interrupts the mutters of disbelief coming from the rest of the crew. “Why are you riding out again?”
Fair question. As veep of the MC, Rundas is able to control himself better than the others. He’s in charge when I’m not around.
“Luna mentioned an attorney. It behooves me to make double sure about Tempest’s death by paying the gentleman a visit.”
“You want me to ride out with you?” Rundas checks, but he already knows what my reply is going to be.
“No. I will go quicker on my own.”
“Shit, dude.” Artim chuckles. “Rather you than me. I hate crossing over with no land bridge. It goes so hard on the patches and the leather.”
Standing up, I have a final few words to say.
“Look after Luna. Maintain the perimeter. Constant vigilance.”
Only Theron is brave enough to say it. “What happens if he has already been here?”
“Luna arrived a couple of days ago, so I doubt it. It’s more likely that he is still on the mainland.”
“Just like Tempest’s corpse,” Jaecar mutters under his breath.
Ignoring him, I head out again, making sure to keep the revs low so no one clocks the noise.
Artim is right, it is an effort to cross over without the land bridge. A mental effort, not a physical one.
Looking at the moon, I check to see if I’ve got enough time. It’s just past midnight. Should be good.
Following one of the many meandering tracks that go down to the water, I know the place to cross even with my eyes shut. It’s shallow enough for me to wade and isolated enough for me not to be observed. I have to do this in secret.
Listening and looking first is second nature to me now. Only when I am sure that I am alone do I lift my bike onto my shoulders and wade into the water. I’m sure the water is cold, but then again, so am I.
At the deepest point of the crossing, I hoist the bike in the air by holding a wheel in each hand. As my head sinks under the water, I use the brightness of the moon as a beacon to guide me.
Luna. She is as beautiful as the moon she’s named after. Maybe more so. With her luminous skin and sunset red hair, I imagine her creamy white thighs spreading open for me and I get hungry.
Luna Blackwood is a woman for all appetites. And I’m sure she’s really good at satisfying them, too. Part of me longs for her hands to brush against my skin again, but this time she would be doing it to please me and not just so she can hang onto the bike.
Reaching the banks of the creek, I wade ashore with my bike aloft. This is the most dangerous part of crossing over. Someone could have decided to pull over in their vehicle for any number of reasons.
To read their GPS, smoke a spliff, or make out in the backseat.
Breathing in the night air, I check before lowering the bike down.
I am alone.
Pushing the bike to the nearest road, I check the tires for creek debris before straddling the seat and pressing the ignition. Feels good to be able to rev the engine to my black heart’s content without upsetting any islanders.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m heading south to pay a visit to Mr. Bryant, the lawyer. There should be a motel along the highway where I can spend the day en route.
The hunt makes my blood hot. Minneapolis, I’m coming for you. It’s been years since I was Stateside. It’s much easier to do what I like to do in Canada.
What were you doing here in the States, Tempest? What were you looking for?
I’m about to find out. The motorcycle eats up the miles as I ride as fast as the engine allows.
Ducking into a biker bar with a pool table that is adjacent the freeway, I put my money down to play a game and make sure to lose by one pocket. Lose money and the winner becomes an instant friend.
“Good game, brother.” The biker offers to buy me a beer.
“Nah, I gotta bounce. Say, my burner’s out. Can you look up a name and address on your phone for me, my man?”
Turns out, there’s only one lawyer called Mr. Bryant in town. He’s a fancy-pants “estate planner attorney.” That tells me one thing: Tempest wanted her last will and testament to be taken seriously. Shit.
Memorizing the route from the guy’s GPS, I split before he can ask me for a rematch. A man can only pretend to lose once before it starts to make him look like a pussy.
No one wants to look like a pussy in a biker bar.
Bryant has one of those modern glass window first floor offices. It’s got CCTV on every corner. Lucky for me, my registration is fake. Kicking the stand forward, I get off the bike and casually walk to the door.
I pretend to be reading the office hours printed on the window while I check for witnesses. I’m in no mood for a black-and-white with a flashing roof light and sirens to follow me all the way back to the Lake of the Woods.
Cracking the handle, I push the door open. Five seconds later, I’ve gone through Bryant’s desk and found his home address printed on a padded courier envelope.
Another five seconds later, and I’m back on the bike, headed out. Pulling over at a bus stop, I nod to the shift worker standing under the shelter.
“Hey buddy, my phone’s flat. Please can you direct me to—” I repeat the address I memorized.
The shift worker whistles. “Ooh, you don’t want to go there, dude. It’s a high class neighborhood. Plenty of security and nervous gun owners.”
But he gives me directions sure enough. Minneapolis seems friendly so far. I guess Luna must fit in here.
Her ability to change from sunshine to stormy, and then back again, amuses me.
Time for me to pump every last scrap of information out of Bryant so I can get back to Landslide.
I have a burning desire to renew my acquaintance with Miss Blackwood…
Collecting my scattered thoughts, because I need to focus if I want this to go down smoothly, I ride forth—Mr. William Bryant in my sights.
I get a faint scent when I hang a left onto the lawyer’s street, similar to the one in the office. Penetrating such suburban bliss is alien to me. Here’s hoping dear William is catching up on paperwork in his den, or else I will have to wait for the family to go to bed.
No one wants a nightmare like me.
Cutting the engine and coasting the bike with my feet, I ride past all the security cameras and nosy neighbors with my head beam off. Pulling onto the grassy verge of a conveniently placed dog park, I run through the layout in my mind.
Extracting information out of someone is never a walk in the park, not even for someone like me. But the element of surprise will help.
How much does this street love its neat lawns and rose bushes? Heh. It’s all I can notice as I flicker past the houses in the blink of an eye. Prowling around the back of the Bryant residence, I make sure to avoid the motion-sensitive patio lights and lasers.
Bryant’s got this place lit better than a correctional center. Good for him. Unfortunately for him, however, my eyes see the world a little different.
Sniffing at the patio door connecting to the master bedroom suite, I know it’s empty—and the door is not locked.
The sound of the shower faucets blasting tells me that Mrs. Bryant is making herself scented and clean for bed… because she wants to offer her husband sex.
She’s got the detachable shower head in her left hand as she blasts the hood of her clitoris with the jet of warm water. A rueful smile curls the corners of my mouth as I sense her right hand priming the trigger finger to work the pulsing nub to an orgasm. On any other night, I would make a detour.
At least Mr. Bryant has got that to look forward to.
Slipping out into the corridor, I saunter past four closed doors—two on each side. Behind one door is a teenage girl. She’s playing on her phone, excited about something. Beyond the corridor passage is the massive living area. Must be a bummer to heat the space in winter.
True to form, William Bryant is puttering around in his man cave. He’s got a documentary about wild animals streaming, but he’s not paying much attention to it. I can hear his thumbs tapping frantically on his phone keyboard.
It’s always best to approach someone from the side. Come at them from the front, and they can react in a million different ways. Appear from the back, and you run the risk of the prey having a heart attack.
“William Bryant.” It is not a question. Before he can scream, I have my hand over his mouth like a tight, icy bandage.
Staring into his shocked, bulging eyes, I speak.
“I’m not here to kill you or your family. Believe me, and we can have ourselves a polite conversation. Choose to think that I am lying, and I will hurt you.”
I remove my hand from Bryant’s mouth. He nods, too scared to speak. Moving him to the lounge chair, I push him to sit down. The mechanism activates and the chair tilts back as if he’s seeing a dentist. Bryant gives a little squawk of surprise but stays put.
“When did Tempest Aherne ask you to plan her estate?”
The details bubble out of him like a foaming beer keg.
“Miz Aherne asked me to plan her estate about a year ago. It… it was difficult, because she had no fixed address where I could contact her. No phone. Nothing. She would call my office and leave me with dribs and drabs of information about her niece—”
“What about the house on Landslide? That’s a fixed address.”
The lawyer looks confused. “Miz Aherne was based here in Minneapolis—I think—for the entirety of the process. She would leave to ascertain some facts and then come back and give them to me. She… she was very anxious to get it done… very worried about something. Which was entirely understandable in hindsight.”
I have no doubt.
“Who contacted you to tell you Tempest was dead?”
Frowning at the memory, Bryant shakes his head. “The coroner’s office of course. It was all perfectly legal, I assure you.”
Yep. Bryant sure does like his ‘t’s crossed and ‘i’s dotted.
“But how did the coroner know to contact you?”
“It’s in Miz Aherne’s file… Can I please show you?”
Jerking my head, I let the man stand. He hustles over to a filing cabinet—old school—and withdraws a green folder. Sifting through the paperwork, he finds what he was looking for.
“I have to warn you, the picture is quite graphic. Was Miz Aherne a relation of yours?”
Ignoring him, I grab the A4-size photograph.
It's an image of a woman’s back. The skin has a matte, lifeless quality, even though the photo is in black and white. Tattooed on the skin, indelible and precise, are Bryant’s contact details.
It’s a fresh tattoo with crisp, clear delineation. None of those bleeding lines that old tatts get after a few years.
“You see?” Bryant is singing like he’s at the opera, giving me all the information I need. “I can tell you I had some explaining to do to the police!”
“And why is that?”
Gesturing to the file, the lawyer grimaces.
“Because Miz Aherne was murdered. Some bastard slashed her throat, leaving her to die in a puddle of her own blood. If the police hadn’t confirmed it as murder, I would swear it was a suicide.
Otherwise, I mean, it’s like the woman could foresee her own death. ”
I flick through the file, my face expressionless.
I’m finished here.
Bryant gasps as I move swiftly to the door. Turning, I nod to let him know he did good.
“Go fuck your wife, William.”
I’m out of here.