Edward Winterhalder
&
Marc Teatum
ONE LIGHT COMING: A BIKER’S STORY
Book 3 of the Series
BLOCKHEAD CITY INC
Jenison, Michigan
Published by BLOCKHEAD CITY INC, PO Box 145, Jenison, MI 49429.
Hardcover Distributed Worldwide by Ingram Book Company
Copyright © 2011 by Edward Winterhalder and Marc Teatum. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner or form whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. For information about this subject, please contact Blockhead City Inc, PO Box 145, Jenison, MI 49429.
This book is a work of fiction. References to any person, event, establishment, organization or locale are only intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are used in a fictitious manner. All characters, motorcycle clubs, incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be considered as real.
Book dust jacket cover concept by Edward Winterhalder.
Manufactured in the United States of America.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Winterhalder, Edward, 1955 -
One light coming: A biker’s story
Teatum, Marc, 1957 -
One light coming: A biker’s story
p. cm.
1: Motorcycle clubs—Fiction. 2. Motorcycle gangs—Fiction.
3. Motorcyclists—Fiction. 4. Bikers—Fiction. 5. Massachusetts—Fiction.
6. Michigan—Fiction. 7. Winterhalder, Edward. 8. Teatum, Marc
I. Title: One light coming: A biker’s story.
LCCN: 2011910844
13-digit ISBN: 9781618421678
For more information: www.blockheadcity.com
Digital Edition: October 2011
Acknowledgements
From Edward Winterhalder:
For the crew I grew up with in Connecticut when I was a rebel without a clue, this book is for you. It seems just like yesterday, but it has been more than thirty-five years since we worked at Total Performance, partied at my apartment on Cherry Street, and hung out on the streets of North Haven, Wallingford and Northford. I am thankful that none of us ever “grew up” (and never will), and that we are as close now, as we were back then.
To Robert “Rocky” Harris, who passed away in 1981, thank you for introducing me to your son and his family in 2009—I still miss you brother, and always will.
To my brother Wil De Clercq, many thanks for your words and helping us hammer out the story line.
Thanks to Tom Pitoniak in Massachusetts for the copy editing and to Barb Gunia at Sans Serif in Michigan for the layout & design work.
Thanks to Marc Teatum for supplying the original concept, and for believing in me for the year it took to write this book.
From Marc Teatum:
Thanks, love and gratitude to Lisa and Sam, without whom life would not be worth living.
Thanks to my Father and my Mother, (who once told me that everyone has at least one book in them) for always being there.
Thanks to Larry ‘Sundance’ Berk and Paul ‘Studly’ Cote—true Brothers who know the road and understand.
Thanks to Ed for taking my original story and making it better; I owe you.
Other books by Edward Winterhalder
Out in Bad Standings: Inside the Bandidos Motorcycle Club
The Assimilation: Rock Machine to Bandidos
With Wil De Clercq
Biker Chicz of North America
With Wil De Clercq
All Roads Lead To Sturgis: A Biker’s Story
With James Richard Larson
The Mirror: A Biker’s Story
With James Richard Larson
Biker Chicks: The Magnetic Attraction of Women to Bad Boys and Motorbikes
With Arthur Veno & Wil De Clercq
________________________
DVD & VOD By Edward Winterhalder
Living On The Edge
RIDING WITH THE VIETNAM VETS MOTORCYCLE CLUB IN PENNSYLVANIA
Biker Chicz TV Series
Biker Chicz Documentary
The East Coast Biker Chicks MC
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
CHAPTER 1
The clanging from the bell of the old phone on the nightstand rang straight through his ears and echoed somewhere in the back of his skull. The disturbance to his sleep pattern was annoying as he slowly stirred. Every time the phone rings at some ungodly hour it’s usually nothing but trouble, he thought, presuming that this time was not going to be an exception.
His first reaction was to hurl the offending instrument through the bedroom window, but at the last moment he changed his mind; it was mostly curiosity to discover who would be calling.
“What?” he groaned, “This better be good!”
“Jake? I didn’t wake you, did I?”
When she spoke, her voice brought back a tidal wave of memories, most of which were close to his heart—more like memories from heartbreak hotel.
He glanced at the digital clock on his dresser, which glowed back at him like the last embers of a campfire in the dead of night. It was 5:45 AM.
“I need to get up anyway.”
“Oh, baby, I‘m sorry,” she moaned into his ear.
Every time a woman out of your past calls you baby this early in a conversation, you just know they’re going to ask for help, he thought. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to have answered the damn phone after all.
“What do you want, Karen?”
“Jake, I need your help. I’m in trouble.”
That didn’t take long, he thought.
“You’re the only one I could think of to call.”
He sat up on the edge of the bed and rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t gotten much sleep, as he had worked a double shift the day before, not getting into bed until past midnight.
“Where are you? What’s wrong?”
“I’m at the airport in Chicago. I have to get out of here. I just didn’t know who else to turn to. I mean, well, you know? I hope you’re not angry with me.”
The words rushed out of her like spring runoff through an opened floodgate; her anxiety was obvious.
“What about the good doctor? What’s he got to say?” Jake said, referring to her husband of almost a year—the rich son of a bitch who had lured her away from him.
“He’s the reason I’m running. He turned weird in a major way the past few months. He’s gotten so full of himself just because he can remake someone’s face. It’s the same as being God to him. I’m really scared. I need to get out of here and get away from him. For good!”
“I’m not sure I can help you, Karen.”
“Before I married him. I mean, like, when we were still together, you once told me you could make both of us disappear. Remember, Jake? Remember? Can you help me do it now? I really need to disappear in a major way. I think my life is in danger!”
She now seemed on the verge of hysteria.
“Are you hurt? Has he done anything to you?”
“Yes and no. It’s complicated. I’ll explain it all to you when I see you. I just need to get out of here without him finding me. Will you help me, Jake, please?”
Although he would much rather have been having any conversation but this one, Jake was not the type to turn down a woman in distress—especially one who once had been a major part of his life.
“Okay, okay. I just need a few minutes. Give me the number where you’re at.”
Just then a prerecorded computer voice broke in demanding more money for another two minutes of phone time, but Karen managed to give him the number before being disconnected.
As Jake put the handset back in the cradle he scribbled down the number on a small pad next to the phone, and then dropped back down on the bed leaving his legs dangling over the edge. He closed his eyes, not to go back to sleep, but to think—to try to sort out Karen’s cry for help. He really didn’t need this complication in his life, for things were just getting close to being fine and dandy again.
His mind slid back to a place in time not so long ago. He and Karen had been great together for what seemed like an eternity. He had fallen madly in love with her, and he thought she was madly in love with him. At least she said she was, but things change. The day that Karen walked out was a day he wished he had never seen.
Karen Watson was the executive assistant for the freight forwarding company he worked for. Ocean Land & Air Transport shipped art—very fine art. Her desk was next to the president’s office and her position required a lot of contact with clients of the company, which was not surprising. Her looks alone were enough to seal a deal, even though a potential customer could have gotten a better price elsewhere.
Without high heels Karen stood five-foot, ten-inches and her trim figure was a walking advertisement for whatever gym she chose to work out in. The stylish auburn hair she sported was usually kept just past her shoulders. She had flawless, milky white skin that she deliberately kept free from getting too much sun. Mesmerizing green eyes were set in a high cheekbone face—and completing the package was a smile that could disarm a rattlesnake.
Jake Axelrod built crates at Ocean Land & Air Transport for the really expensive art; the insurance premiums on the art were more than his annual rent budget. He was a carpenter, and a real good carpenter at that. Jake had a way with tools that raised his work out of the realm of craft and into an art itself. He had been doing it for years and liked the independence that this job in particular gave him. Jake also liked the diversity that the work offered him. Unlike a carpenter paid an hourly wage to spend day after day building cookie-cutter houses, Jake built special crates to house paintings, lithographs, ceramics, and sculptures by artists with names like Pollock, Warhol, Turner, Delacroix, Duchamp, Magritte, and Oldenburg, to name a few.
Each piece of art coming through the business had to be considered individually. It had to be safe and it had to get from one point to another without a scratch, dent, rip, chip, or tear. Since Jake had been a child, he had been taught to take pride in what he did—it’s done right or not at all. After each job was completed, he would sign his work with a set of initials made from a steel punch that his maternal grandfather, Bill, had given him. It was Grandpa Bill who had been the inspiration for Jake to become a carpenter. Grandpa Bill had taught him a lot, more than anything he was able to learn in his high school woodworking course. He polished his skills working as an apprentice to a cabinetmaker, although he put in some time framing new houses—one has to pay his dues, after all.
It had been one of Karen’s first days on the job when they bumped into each other at the coffee truck that appeared in the driveway every morning. Their eyes met, they said hi, and then they talked for nearly thirty minutes before they both got in trouble for not being back at their job on time.
When Jake took her for their first ride together after work the next night, Karen seemed to be custom made for Jake’s 1975 Shovelhead—she took to riding like a duck takes to water. Her legs held tight to him while they wound their way out of Boston and north along Revere Beach, in search of a few cold beers. They did it again, over and over, until they both realized a year had passed. It never ceased to amaze him that a woman as classy, bright, and thoroughly gorgeous as Karen would be interested in him.
Jake felt himself start to nod off again and with a jolt he forced himself to open his eyes for the second time that morning. He had to be at work by seven o’clock and it was now five minutes after six. Plenty of time for a coffee, some toast, and to call Karen back. He sat up, took a deep breath, and dragged himself to the kitchen. After loading the coffeepot with water and enough coffee grounds to wake the dead or fuel a jet, he headed to the bathroom and stepped into a lukewarm shower. As he adjusted the temperature dial to get hotter water, his thoughts returned to Karen.
She had first met Dr. John Cerrone when he came to the office looking to crate and store part of his art collection. He had made a small fortune in the stock market, and was also a very successful plastic surgeon who was obsessed with making his world better looking. There was no harm in that, Jake had thought at the time—everyone had to do things his or her own way. Still, tampering with God’s handiwork to appease the vanity of the rich and famous seemed somehow perverse. Not that Jake was a religious person—he just believed that if your nose was too big and your breasts too small, having them changed wasn’t going to improve your personality or character. Maybe it made you happier for a while, but Jake wasn’t sure.
Dr. Cerrone came by the office at least once a week in the beginning, making sure his collection was being taken care of properly. Just by looking at him, you could see that he had lots of money. Custom-made suits, Italian shoes, expensive jewelry, and fancy European luxury cars were his trademarks. One of Jake’s co-workers had been the first to notice that the doctor seemed to always pay a good deal of attention to Karen whenever he came by. But that wasn’t unusual, for everybody paid a good deal of attention to Karen; if not, they were either blind or in a coma.
It wasn’t long before he heard the rumors that Karen was taking the doctor out for long lunches on the company credit card—but schmoozing wealthy clients seemed to be part of her job description. After a year of being on the back of Jake’s Harley, she started trading the biker lifestyle in for limo rides to the theater and dinners at a downtown restaurant with a skyline view the majority of people only get to see on television. While it didn’t sit well with Jake, he wasn’t the possessive, jealous type.
When the good doctor was recruited for a job to head a cosmetic unit at a big hospital in Chicago, he asked Karen to make the move with him. The night she told Jake she was moving to the Windy City with Cerrone, they had gotten into one hell of an argument. Jake had never taken Karen for a gold digger, but the reality of the situation, losing her to a guy with money, was for him a kick right between the eyes.
What am I suppose to do? I’m not getting any younger, you know? There are things out there, Jake, and he says he wants to give them to me, she had tried to explain.
Yeah, I know, a big penthouse can’t compete with the simple life. All I’ve got is a rental crib on the beach and my bike. But you know as well as I do that he’s just after some arm candy to add to his collection, something that looks good to parade in front of his friends and colleagues, Jake had fired back, regretting the words as soon as they had spilled from his mouth.
Karen had replied with icy silence, which was worse than any words, turned on her heels, and stormed out of his apartment; for good measure she slammed the door behind her. It was the last he saw of her and that was almost a year ago.
For a final wake-up, welcome-to-the-real-world jolt, Jake turned off the hot water, letting the cold water do its job. He dried himself and decided to skip shaving. He returned to the kitchen, where the aroma of strong coffee was calling his name.
Wandering over to the sliding glass door of his apartment, he looked out over the ocean through his clear blue eyes, running his hands through his wet, almost shoulder-length light brown hair. The glass of the door acted like a mirror, reflecting his mean and lean, muscular body. Wide cheekbones and a chin that was well defined gave his face a chiseled, exotic tinge. At an even six feet tall and one hundred and ninety pounds, Jake was never the largest guy in the room, but because he did manual labor all day long, he was fit as a fiddle. No fat, all muscle. He never had the need to join a gym when the workout craze hit years ago. When you lift a half dozen two-by-fours a hundred times a week, why would I pay fifty dollars a month to go to Wilbur’s Wonderful World of Fitness? he would say.
Over the roof of his neighbor’s house across the street, Jake’s modest apartment looked out to the ocean, which was just two blocks away. It was an ocean view, even if it was slightly obscured. Jake slid the door open and felt the warmth of the morning sun on his face and the reassuring smell of salt air. As the sun started its daily trek across the sky, its beams of sunshine highlighted the scars on his arms; most were the result of traveling through life on a slightly rough road—well, perhaps a bit more than just slightly.
Jake lived in Nahant, a small seaside town just north of Boston littered with narrow roads. His apartment sat solidly above a two-car garage that stopped at the curb and faced the street. The landlord lived in the main house, which was located directly behind and above Jake’s place. The whole community was built in the hills that tiered away from the ocean.
The apartment was small but it fit him perfectly. The living room had a tan leather couch, an easy chair, and a coffee table—in the corner was a freestanding fireplace. A compact stereo and equally small bookcase were the only other things in the room, which was decorated in early American biker. The only wall decoration was a framed poster from The Wild One of Marlon Brando leaning on his Triumph. The sliding glass doors that led to a porch overhanging the garage entrance dominated one of the other walls. On the other side of the room was an eat-in kitchen that was just large enough to have four friends sit around the table for a game of poker.
After filling his cup for the second time to get another hit of caffeine, Jake grabbed the cordless phone and went out onto the porch. Sitting down on one of the sun-bleached plastic deck chairs facing the ocean, he dialed the number Karen had given him thirty minutes ago. She answered after just one ring.
“Okay, listen up. Do exactly as I say, no more, no less. Do you still have a couple of credit cards?”
“Of course I do. My husband specialized in plastic, remember? But I’ve also got a little over two thousand in cash on me.”
“Very funny. I want you to withdraw the maximum cash advance from every ATM you can find in the airport. If you get turned down more than twice, don’t use the card again. Then go and buy a one-way ticket to Los Angeles, and throw it in the trash. When you’ve done that, go into the ladies’ room and wait until you find someone who looks like they can use some money. Pay them to get you a ticket on the next flight here, under their name, using cash only.”
Jake fired off the instructions without drawing a breath.
“Did you drive to the airport?”
“Yes. The car’s in the short term parking area.”
“Okay, move the car into one of the long-term areas; try to bury it in the middle of the lot. Then find your way down to the maintenance area and look for some more folks that look like they could use some money. Sell them your credit cards. Get as much money you can for each. Tell them you’re pissed off at your husband and you want to get even. Tell them you won’t be reporting the cards stolen until day after tomorrow,” he said, then continued.
“Call me back when you know which airline and what flight you’ll be taking. Then go into the bathroom and make yourself as plain and unobtrusive as possible. Find a crowded place and sit tight until just before your flight is slated to leave and walk onto the plane. Take your seat, pretend to fall asleep, and don’t talk to anyone. Travel light to make it easier. I’ll meet you at the airport. You got all that?”
“Yes, I got it. Thanks, Jake. I appreciate this.”
Jake hung up without saying another word. His whole day had just been turned upside down. He would have to call work and tell them a family emergency came up and he’d have to take the day off. It wouldn’t go over big, because there was a ton of work waiting for him, but he did put in a double shift yesterday. Screw them, he thought. Right now his priority was helping Karen, but something gnawed at his gut and it wasn’t a good feeling.
CHAPTER 2
It was a bright and sunny morning that found Jake waiting at Boston’s Logan International Airport. Cars, buses, and taxicabs scurried past him as he sat with the rear wheel of his bike resting at the curb just outside the arrival doors of the United Airlines terminal. The late spring air was filled with the combined smells of diesel, auto, and jet fuel; there was a slight breeze generated by the constantly moving traffic. Off to Jake’s left, a uniformed Massachusetts state trooper in an unmarked car had been watching Jake for at least ten minutes.
From behind his sunglasses, Jake could tell the cop was checking out the chrome on the otherwise shiny black Shovelhead. Watching the trooper talk into his radio, Jake figured that the cop was running a check on the bike’s registration. After a few minutes, the trooper emerged from his cruiser, and with a swagger, strode over toward Jake.
“You know you’re not supposed to be sitting here,” he said flatly.
Jake just looked up and initiated the battle-of-the-stares; Jake behind his dark shades and the lawman behind a pair of mirrored lenses, the kind that many cops seem to favor.
“That’s a great looking scoot,” the trooper continued, “but you’re going to have to move on now.”
Just as Jake swung his legs over the motor, thinking that once again he was waiting on a woman who might be more trouble than she was worth, he heard a familiar voice.
“Jake! Over here!”
Jake glanced over his shoulder to the beauty that was waving at him just outside the arrival doors. She looked even more dazzling than he remembered; the cop couldn’t help but notice, too. Karen wore a pair of cutoff jean shorts rolled and cuffed up to her ass, black leather boots, and a white T-shirt under a black linen jacket. Her auburn hair had gotten longer, almost halfway down her back, and it was moving sensually in the breeze.
“Buddy, that sure was worth waiting for. Make it quick. I’ll watch the bike,” the lawman said.
Jake took off his sunglasses for a moment, and it was then he noticed the tattoo on the officer’s thickly muscled left forearm that read RIDE HARD, DIE FREE.
“Thanks,” Jake said, replacing the sunglasses as he crossed the street to meet Karen at the curb, dodging a few kamikaze taxis in the process.
“Hi, baby. It’s good to see you,” she whispered, fluttering her eyelashes like a butterfly and surprising him with a kiss.
He stared into her hazel eyes.
“It’s good to see you, too. So much for being inconspicuous.”
After a moment, he picked up her leather duffel bag.
“Is this all you’ve got?”
“No, there’s some more over there,” she said, pointing to a skycap standing next to two matching leather trunks pretending to be suitcases.
“Christ! I thought I told you to travel light and low-key.”
“I did. This is stuff I just had to have. A girl needs certain things she can’t do without, like …”
“Give me fifty dollars,” Jake interjected impatiently, and whistled for a cab.
Karen fished a single bill out of her small handbag and gave it to Jake as a Brown & White Cab car pulled up to the curb like a NASCAR driver making a pit stop. Jake leaned his head into the balding middle-aged driver’s compartment and scanned the hack license for a name and number, burning the info into his photographic memory bank.
“Listen here, Mr. Rich Brunner. Take these two trunks to this address by the end of your shift and leave them on the porch,” Jake said, scrawling the destination on a scrap of paper.
As he handed it to the driver Jake leaned in closer.
“If they are not there by the time we get there tonight, I’m going to find out where you live and come after you. Got it, sport?”
The driver silently nodded in agreement as Jake stuffed the fifty into his shirt.
When they got to the big twin, Jake handed Karen the spare brain bucket he had brought along. He swung a leg over the bike, and with a twist of the throttle and two jumps on the kick starter, the motor roared to life. Karen climbed on behind him with a level of competence that drew smiles from both Jake and the state trooper.
“See you in the movies,” Jake said to the trooper over the roar of the motor.
“Ride safe” was his reply, as Jake kicked the shifter into first gear and pulled away from the curb.
Within ten minutes, Jake and Karen were out of the airport and heading north on Revere Beach Parkway alongside the ocean. The smell of the salt air and Karen’s arms tightly wrapped around his waist felt good, but the way her legs held on to him was even better.
“I could go for a cold beer,” Karen yelled into his right ear.
She must have read Jake’s mind, for that’s exactly what he had been thinking.
Jake nodded acknowledgment as he guided his bike into the rear parking lot of the Cove Lounge, a bar one block from the Atlantic Ocean that was a favorite of both independent Harley riders and motorcycle club members who lived in the Boston area. As Jake and Karen climbed the back stairs, he nodded to the prospect who was keeping watch over a pair of club bikes parked below. They made their way through the afternoon crowd and found a pair of stools near the middle of the bar while the jukebox played a classic Warren Winters rock tune in the background.
“Not quite what you’re used to, I suppose,” Jake said as he signaled the bartender for two drafts.
“Oh, please don’t start off like that. I’m coming back, remember?” Karen answered.
“Coming back? What makes you think I want you back?”
She was obviously stunned by Jake’s off-the-cuff reply.
“I just thought that I’d, that you, that,” she stammered.
“Look, I said I would help you disappear. But I don’t think I can start back up with you where we left off, as if nothing had happened.”
The bartender dropped the two cold brews in front of them.
“Thanks, Jesse,” Jake said, “How you been?”
“Been this, been that. You know how it goes,” the bartender said, and went back to watching the television that was mounted above the far end of the bar.
Jake took a gulp from his glass and set it down on the bar.
“That’s fine. Well, whatever you can do I’ll be grateful for,” Karen said ruefully, staring down at her glass.
“I just don’t want to get tore up again. I care enough for you to help now. But don’t look too far down the road.”
“I get your message. It’s just that after what we’ve been through, I guess I just expected you to ...”
“I’ve got to make some phone calls to see if I can get the ball rolling to get you a new ID. Sit tight for a few,” Jake said, cutting her off in mid sentence.
He launched himself off the barstool and strode to the pay phone near the back door.
Although he was a guy who basically kept his nose clean—Jake had never served time and his brushes with the law had come from nothing more than a few speeding tickets and an occasional fight—he did have a few friends who had connections and some who were connected. He punched in the phone number and waited, keeping an eye on Karen as he turned around and leaned against the wall. Sometimes just looking at her made him lose his breath, for she was a very beautiful woman by any standard.
He thought she might even be worth whatever trouble she was likely to cause him, and he knew she could cause a lot. She had a body and face that men would fight for, and a head on her shoulders to boot. Karen had been educated in a small urban college, and she kept herself informed enough to have opinions on what was going on in the world.
She was, for him, the best of both worlds, and he started to feel guilty for the harsh way he had spoken to her. But then again, she had walked out on him, not the other way around. He thought he had gotten over her, but maybe not.
“What?” a gravelly male voice barked at him, right after the sixth ring and just as Jake was about to hang up.
“Hey, Jughead, it’s Jake.”
“Hey, dude, what’s going on? I haven’t seen you since the Halloween party.”
“Yeah, it’s been a while. How ya been doing?”
“I’m okay, I suppose. Could be better” Jughead said.
“It could always be better, no?” Jake said, segueing into some small talk, because this phone call was not going to be like ordering Chinese takeout. You don’t just blurt out the type of request he was going to be making.
“Hey, man, I need to know if you’re still in the name game,” Jake said, finally getting to the point.
“Jughead’s the name and names are my game. What can I do for you?”
Jake turned his back to the bar and lowered his voice.
“I need a game changer.”
“Something kind of fancy?”
“No, nothing fancy, just something standard for a twenty-five to thirty-year-old.”
“Is this for you?”
“No. It’s for a woman.”
“Shouldn’t be much of a problem, but it may take a while.”
“Whatever. I’m not looking for favors or anything. Just don’t take me to the cleaners, okay?”
“Cost of the game is still the same, young man. Five hundred.”
“That’s fine.”
“How do I reach you?”
“I’m still at the same number.”
“I’ll call you when I’m done,” Jughead said, and hung up without further ado.
Relieved that he was able to expedite the situation he found himself in with Karen, Jake dropped the handset back into the cradle. On his way back to the bar, he paused and took a deep breath, for some guy talking to Karen had already taken his stool. It was no surprise, for Karen attracted men just as moths are drawn to the proverbial flame.
“Some things don’t change,” he muttered to himself as he approached the bar. Nudging aside a guy that could have doubled for a fireplug on steroids, Jake took his place between them, next to Karen. Although the intruder had a big neck and body, it didn’t take a stock market analyst to see that other than the bulk, there wasn’t much muscle.
“Excuse me, but she already has a date,” Jake said.
“Hey, don’t get touchy, man.”
“That’s fine by me. I just want you to know your company is unwanted here, okay? Why don’t you rejoin your buddies so me and my sweetie can finish our beers in peace,” Jake said, staring the intruder straight in the eye. The fireplug seemed to have trouble making up his mind whether to walk away or prove how stupid he was.
“If you feel froggy, go ahead and jump. It’s your call, partner,” Jake added.
The fireplug snickered and drew himself up from a slouch to his full height.
“He isn’t kidding, mister. No need to prove your manhood,” she said.
She smiled sweetly, hoping to help defuse the situation.
“And even though you are kinda cute, I think I’m gonna leave with him,” she said, nodding in Jake’s direction.
Karen breathed a sigh of relief as the fireplug returned to the table where his two buddies were sitting. The last thing she wanted was for Jake to get into a fight with some jerk over her. Been there, done that, she thought.
Jake downed the rest of his beer—Karen followed suit. He tossed a ten-dollar bill onto the bar for the beers.
“See you later, Jesse.”
“Take care, Jake. Come again,” the bartender said, as he scooped up the money and empty glasses.
Jake took Karen by the arm and steered her to the back exit. As they descended the stairs Jake glanced around to reconnoiter the parking lot for anybody who might have followed him and Karen from the airport. He still wasn’t sure what kind of trouble she was in or with whom, actually. He’d been lied to by Karen before, and once you lose trust in someone, it’s hard to get it back.
With one strong kick the Shovelhead burst to life, and he and Karen climbed aboard his Harley. He slammed the shifter into first gear and they took off like a rodeo bull busting out of its pen, showering the parking lot in a small cloud of dirt and gravel.
Fifteen minutes later, at a deserted spot along the beach, Jake pulled over and shut the V-twin down.
“Why are we stopping here?” Karen asked.
Jake draped his helmet on the handlebars and headed for the seawall that held back the beach sand from invading the paved surface separating the homes from the ocean. He stared out into his own space and didn’t notice Karen had joined him.
“Jake. Are you okay?”
After a beat he turned to face her, and looked into her glittering green eyes.
“Tell me. What exactly went wrong out there in Chicago? I don’t hear from you in a year and when I do it’s only to help you out of a jam.”
Karen turned her head to face the ocean, as if the unending vista and soon-to-disappear sun might give her some strength. As the sun slowly sank below the horizon it cast a glow along the top of her hair, giving her an almost saintly look. She took a deep breath as if searching for a place to begin.
“He just got to be too strange. All his days were spent remaking what God gave people. The length of their nose wasn’t right or a chin that wasn’t straight enough. When people walked into his office, they wanted to be made better looking. They didn’t like the vision God had created. They wanted one that they created, one that better matched the pictures in the glamour magazines, on television, in music videos or the movies. And he could do that for them. It was his decision as to how much or how little to do,” Karen said, briefly pausing to brush away some golden sand from the seawall.
“It wasn’t long before I realized that he thought he was God, with the ability to control someone’s future. His patients and colleagues even treated him like that. But the stress of having to live up to what everyone else thought of him got to be too much. He got depressed and started to write out prescriptions to himself for all sorts of antidepressants, and then started taking them like candy every day.”
“Did he ever suggest that you needed to be changed? Did he ever hurt you in any way?”
“No, he never did. He never suggested that he work on me. It’s strange. With me, he couldn’t see anything that he wanted to change. And truthfully, in the end, that’s why I had to get out. He’d get strung out on pills and then rant and rave about all the work that he had done, how he made people better than God could. But there was one thing he couldn’t improve upon, and that was me. It really drove him nuts. He got more insane about it as time went on and it just got to be too weird. I told him I wanted out and he wouldn’t hear of it. You see, if I left, then it would mean he wasn’t perfect, wasn’t Godlike. And he just couldn’t take that. I guess I was just spending every day waiting for that other shoe to drop.”
With a slight quiver in her voice, Karen turned back to the setting sun and closed her eyes as she tried to pry a few more rays of heat from the large orange ball in the sky.
Jake kept looking at the sinking sun; it proved a perfect metaphor for what he was feeling.
“Look, like I said before, I just don’t want you to break my heart again. The phone call I made back at the bar was to set things in motion for you. It’s not going to happen overnight. We’ve got some time to kill before you’ll get the paperwork that will let you get on with a new life.”
“Don’t worry, Jake, I’m not going to bite you.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about.”
With nothing more said, Karen and Jake slowly walked back to the still warm Harley. They climbed aboard America’s freedom machine and hit the road. When they got to Jake’s apartment, they were greeted by Karen’s luggage sitting on the porch, not that Jake had harbored the slightest doubt the cabbie would do as instructed.
Jake and Karen spent the next few days enjoying each other’s company, doing all the things they once liked doing together. Long rides along the coast on his bike, walking barefoot on the beach, stopping at a rustic restaurant for lunch, or riding up to the mountains of New Hampshire filled the hours they were together.
And, of course, there was the sweet excitement of rediscovering how good they were with each other. In some ways it was as if the Dr. Cerrone interlude had never happened. The thoughts in their heads about what to do and how to do it seemed to run as smoothly as a well-tuned motor. There were no big issues to deal with. Each deferred to the other rather than seek to dominate. Jake had never been the possessive type, but he was protective of the women he had loved. He figured it all came down to respect. Respect for the other person’s wants, needs, and desires—and respect for the other person’s mind. In the grand scheme of relationships, this ability was rare, and they both knew it.
One day while heading back toward Boston in the shadows of a setting sun, after riding along the New Hampshire coast where they had been putting some scenic miles on the Harley’s odometer, the chemistry between them was as it had been in the beginning—extraordinary! When they finally got back to Jake’s place, he locked the bike in the garage and they headed upstairs hand in hand, giggling like a couple of teenagers. It had been a long time since the flames of romance and desire had burned inside him, and once inside, he soon had a cozy little fire going in the hearth.
From across the room, Karen gave Jake a demure glance, and slid out of her jeans and sweatshirt as if shedding skin. She left on the long black athletic shirt she wore as an undergarment and seductively approached Jake with the smooth grace of a panther ready to pounce on its prey. As his reluctance to get involved emotionally and physically dissolved quicker than a tablespoon of honey in a hot cup of tea, he removed his shirt and welcomed her into his arms. They both knew that this re-consummation of their relationship was long overdue and felt right as rain.
CHAPTER 3
The days soon turned into a week and a half, running into each other like the highways intersecting across this great land. Although Jake had reported for work the day after she came back into his life, he had found it difficult to focus on his job, and asked for a few weeks off while dealing with Karen and her situation. Not wanting to leave his employer in a lurch, he had arranged for a friend of his who was looking for work to fill in during his absence.
Midmorning breakfasts at a local diner and late-night partying with friends seemed to make the time fly by. Jake had almost forgotten about his phone call to Jughead when he heard the message on the answering machine one morning telling him that the requested paperwork was ready to be picked up.
“Hey, dude. Everything’s set to go. I just need a picture for my photo album and then we will all be happy. Bring your friend by my place later today and we’ll wrap this up,” Jughead said, not going into any further detail.
Jake deleted the message and headed back into the kitchen, where he sat down at the table, picked up his coffee mug, and took a long, slow draw of the black liquid. Karen gave him a questioning glance as she nursed a cup of double-milk, no-sugar coffee.
“It’s time,” Jake said.
“What do you mean?”
“We’re going to meet someone today. He has your new ID ready. All he needs is a picture of you, and you’ll be ready to start a new life by day’s end.”
Karen didn’t react with the kind of enthusiasm one would expect from someone whose number-one problem in life was about to be resolved. Instead of being relieved that she was just a few hours away from putting her past behind her, she was quiet, almost sullen. She stared out the window at the vast expanse of ocean, lost in her own thoughts. Without warning, Karen suddenly launched herself from her chair and headed for the bathroom, leaving Jake alone at the table.
A few hours later, in the warmth of the midmorning sun, with the smell of salt water reminding them that the ocean was just a few miles away, Jake and Karen headed northeast out of Boston on Route 128. The Shovelhead was running perfectly as they rode in the right-hand lane with the rumble of the big motor underneath them. As with all motorcycle riders, they were in their own little world as they headed toward the historic fishing port of Gloucester.
Just after they passed the Danvers exit, a newer Chevy Tahoe came up behind them like a greyhound chasing a hare. Once it had closed in, the midsize SUV slowed down and stayed right behind the Harley for the next four miles. It was not unusual for cars to get close to Jake so that the occupants could check out his ride, for it was an exceptional-looking motorcycle. Most people just wanted to see their reflections in the chrome or get a better look at the custom yellow, red and orange flames that covered the gas tank—but this time something was different and it made Jake nervous.
What’s with this asshole, he thought, glancing at his left mirror for a split second. The SUV was right on his tail now. Just when he planned to clutch, downshift, twist the throttle, and make his move to leave the Tahoe in the dust, the driver sped up and pulled out into the left lane, as if to pass him. The vehicle shot ahead until it was just ahead of the Harley and then, without warning, started moving to the right, forcing Jake into the breakdown lane. When the driver of the Chevy hit his brakes and slowed to a crawl, Jake had just enough room between the Tahoe and the guardrail to avoid a collision. Twenty yards later Jake brought the Harley to an abrupt stop and dropped the kickstand, cursing all the while.
“You motherfucker! Are you out of your mind?” Jake screamed as he jumped off the bike, leaving Karen half on and half off the pillion seat.
The driver opened the door, got out, and quickly stepped to the front of the truck.
“Oh, shit,” Karen said, as she recognized the crazy driver.
“What did you think you were doing running away from me?” the man said to Karen, speaking right past Jake as if he weren’t even there.
“What the hell do you think you were doing? You could have killed us!” Jake screamed at the man, slightly trembling from the adrenaline pumping through his veins.
“I wasn’t going to kill you. If that were my intention, you’d already be dead. I have no interest in you, I just want her,” the driver said, pointing to a visibly shaken Karen, her green eyes frozen in fear.
He flashed Jake and Karen a grim smile. Jake glanced over his shoulder at Karen, but she kept her eyes riveted on the driver of the SUV.
“Don’t look so glum, baby. Daddy just wants to take you home where you belong. ”
Jake turned back to look at the smug-looking character, as he realized that this was her husband the doctor; the very man she had fled out of fear for her life. Or at least that was the story Jake had swallowed hook, line, and sinker.
“How did you find me? I mean …”
“It wasn’t hard. All I had to do was look at your credit card account and follow the trail,” Dr. Cerrone said, with a self-satisfied smirk, spittle forming on his lower lip.
Jake backed away from Cerrone, moving toward Karen, making sure he kept his eyes on the plastic surgeon.
“You stopped using your credit cards, didn’t you? Didn’t you? I told you to get rid of them when you were at the airport,” an incredulous Jake said to Karen over his shoulder.
“I did! The only one I kept was the one that was in my name only, from before he and I were together,” she said defensively.
What an idiot she was, he thought.
It appeared that she didn’t have the smarts to follow his directions, and now they were going to have to pay the price for it as Karen’s husband took a step toward them both.
“You’re coming with me,” he said, as he reached past Jake to grab her arm.
“Back off, doc,” Jake said, coming toe to toe with the man.
Dr. Cerrone was slightly taller than the biker, but projected very little body strength. Jake noticed that like most yuppies the doctor probably did some running for exercise, which was okay for pulmonary and cardio, but meant nothing when a physical confrontation came knocking on his door. The only good it would likely do him in an altercation was that he could probably outrun an opponent.
“Just walk away and everything will be fine. No need for anybody to get hurt,” Jake said.
“I don’t think so. Biker trash is not her style. She’s too high maintenance for a loser like you. There’s no way she’s not leaving here with me,” Cerrone said, while swinging a left fist in the direction of Jake’s face.
Jake could see it coming from a mile away. With his right hand, he grabbed Cerrone’s fist, stopping it in midair. As Jake slowly began to crush the fingers in his iron grasp, the pain on the doctor’s face started to grow like weeds in a vegetable patch. As he tried to wriggle free, he and Jake found themselves edging onto the roadway. An old pickup truck, which was barreling down the highway, swerved at the last second to avoid hitting them.
The close encounter and the blast from the old pickup’s horn momentarily distracted Jake just enough for Cerrone to turn the table in his attempt to free himself from Jake’s crushing grip. In one swift move he grabbed Jake’s throat with his right hand, completely taking the biker by surprise. As Jake started to gasp for air, Cerrone loosened his grip a bit, then pulled his left hand free and brought both fists crashing down on the top of Jake’s head with the force of a sledgehammer.
The impact felt like it compressed Jake’s spine straight down to his toes. His legs buckled under as if they were made of rubber and his knees hit the pavement with a bone-jarring crash. It was one of the few times he’d ever misread an opponent, and the consequences would prove to be one of the most traumatic moments of his life.
As Jake tried to regain his senses, Cerrone grabbed Karen’s arm and started to pull her toward the Tahoe. Through his glassy eyes, Jake knew that he had to stop them from leaving. He staggered to his feet like a punch-drunk boxer and shuffled toward the struggling couple. But he didn’t fully have his bearings yet and started to fall forward. In a final attempt to prevent the doctor from abducting Karen, Jake grabbed the back of Cerrone’s shirt with both hands as he fell. Loosing his grip on the shirt, Jake reconnected with the pavement with a thud. Looking up, Jake saw the doctor twirl to his left and began to spin in place. With his right hand, Cerrone held tight on to Karen’s arm, and then as he turned, he pulled on her arm. All Jake could do was watch in horror as the doctor propelled Karen out in front of him, right into the oncoming traffic.
The first impact more than likely didn’t kill her. The small foreign sports car probably just broke her legs before she bounced off the windshield and was thrown over the roof. When she hit the roadway, it looked like she was barely aware of her surroundings, but it was almost a certainty that she saw the eighteen-wheel tractor trailer heading straight toward her. Within a split second the truck ran over her, crushing the upper midsection of her body, and sending her grotesquely ravaged body sliding and bouncing down the road. When she came to a blood-oozing halt in the breakdown lane fifty yards in front of Jake’s Harley, a shrieking sound was all Jake could manage. He had just witnessed the best part of his life get destroyed in a surreal scenario that would haunt him for the rest of his days. And that’s when Dr. Cerrone delivered his final blow, kicking Jake in the side of the head—within a second Jake’s world went totally dark.
The number of Massachusetts State Police patrol cars surrounding the death scene, with their emergency lights flashing, made that section of the highway look like Wal-Mart was running a fifty percent off everything sale. Jake just sat there in a daze, leaning on the guardrail, while an emergency medical technician checked him over. The man from Lyons Ambulance really couldn’t find anything wrong with him, except that Jake was nauseous, a little dizzy, and likely in shock.
As the medic went back to the ambulance, Jake’s attention returned to Dr. Cerrone, when he heard the man’s voice for the first time since the altercation. The doctor, who was facing Jake, was talking to a pair of state troopers. Surprised to see that Cerrone was obviously not under arrest, Jake headed in their direction to see what was going on. Noticing the irate biker headed his way, Cerrone pointed an accusing finger in Jake’s direction as he said to the troopers, “I don’t understand it. He pushed her. That son of a bitch pushed my wife out into the traffic.”
CHAPTER 4
The world seemed to have slipped into a slow-motion pantomime, as one of the state cops slapped a set of stainless steel bracelets on Jake before tossing him into the back of a squad car. While he sat there looking out at the people in their cars who were gawking as they slowly drove by, he wondered how long it had been since they replaced the cloth seats in the cruiser with these preformed plastic benches.
The ride from the scene of the nightmare to the regional headquarters for the state police made Jake think that this is what a Ping-Pong ball must feel like when it’s in an old coffee can rolling around in the trunk of a car. Twenty minutes later, Jake was pulled from the car and deposited into a locked interrogation room, his head still pounding from the kick to his head. Standing guard inside the room was a hulking state trooper who stood silently to the left of the only exit.
The room that held Jake was furnished with a plain four-legged metal table and two unpadded chairs. What he assumed to be the usual two-way mirror, part and parcel of interrogation rooms seen in every cop show on television, decorated the wall next to the door. From time to time Jake would get up, walk over to the mirror, and try to peer through the glass by putting his face right up to the surface. He shot a couple of glances at the trooper, who had an air of familiarity about him. Jake was trying to place the man, but his mind was too preoccupied with everything that had happened in the last few hours.
After what seemed like an eternity, the door swung open and a plainclothes detective—dressed in an old rumpled suit, white shirt, and loosened necktie—joined them. Nodding to the statue standing guard by the door, the aging gray-haired cop dragged himself into the room as if he’d rather be out fishing. He was clutching a pad of yellow lined paper, a file folder, and an old-fashioned cassette recorder. Either he hadn’t moved into the twenty-first century or else the state police were lagging behind the times.
“How are you doing?” the detective said to Jake, who now stopped pacing the floor.
“I’m okay, considering. Do you think we could lose the jewelry?”
“Turn around,” he commanded, as he deposited the notepad, file, and tape recorder on the table. He then removed the handcuffs and threw them on the table as if discarding a piece of refuse.
“Sit down, Mr. Axelrod,”