The next ten days passed exactly like the previous week. A bus ride, a night in a bad to mediocre hotel, crappy road food, hotel gyms, and Grant constantly updating me on the buzz he was getting on the blogs and message boards.
The matches all went the same way, too. Grant was really getting into it now, feeding off the energy of the crowds.
I hated every second of getting out there with the crowd. I stared out from behind the thick sunglasses they’d given me, tried to peer through the lights to look for anything threatening.
When we got to Centreville, Virginia, I was low on supplies and bribed the roadies into unloading It for me. I went out on Route 29 until I found a Target that I just hoped would stock some of the Wild Friends nut butters I was currently living off of. I had found that I couldn’t talk myself into a chain restaurant or fast food burger more than once a week, and even then I felt sick about it.
Luckily, they did, and I sped back to the hotel with my backpack full of almond and peanut butter, a small sack of apples, and a case of beer for the roadies. I hated where I was and what I was doing. I hated that I hadn’t had the deck of the Belle under my feet for two weeks. I hated that I hadn’t seen Gen in that time.
But the one part of all of it I could control, like usual, was what I ate. So at the very least I was going to do that and try and keep myself sane.
Being back in the saddle helped. I should, by now, have taken back and apologized for every harsh word or thought I ever entertained about bikers. Well, the riding part, anyway. The one-percenter lifestyle was still a big lie, your basic criminal enterprise dressed up in costumes and fancy words about brotherhood and freedom.
But actually being on the bike, on the road, even in the early onset of winter? Nothing compared to how it felt to be that in control of my destiny. Part of me wanted to get back on Interstate 66, head down to 81, and see how much of the country I could see.
But that part was a hell of a lot smaller and less vocal than the part that wanted to finish this job, get paid, go home, and figure out what to make Gen for Christmas.
By the time I’d pulled back up to the hotel, given the road crew their case of Miller Lite, and gotten back to the room, Grant was napping.
But Daphne was waiting for me outside the hotel room with an envelope in her hand.
I held my shopping in one hand and my helmet in the other, so I looked at her rather than reaching for it.
“Really? Another one?”
She nodded and jerked her head to the room’s door. “Let’s go wake up Sleeping Beefcake.”
I unlocked the door, giving him a courtesy knock—three loud raps against the door—as I opened it. When I flipped the lights on he was only just waking up, stretched out on top of the covers in his jeans and sweatshirt.
“Do you two have the goddamn AC on in here?” Daphne shivered. It was true that the room was right around meat-hanging temperature. I was used to this kind of cold, having spent the past two winters on the Belle without a whole lot of working heat.
“Sorry,” I said, “habit.” Grant had turned over and pulled a pillow over his eyes, groaning at us to go away.
“Mail call,” I said. I went to the side of the bed and ripped the pillow off his head, chucking it against the wall. “Get up or get ready to eat a cold, wet washcloth,” I said. Daphne brought the letter over. I took it to the bathroom, got out my pocket knife, and carefully cut it open at the seal, tipping it over the sink.
All that slid out was another piece of printer paper. I grabbed a fresh Ziploc bag from my luggage and carefully picked it up, reading as I walked back out to Daphne and Grant.
“This is basically identical to the last one,” I muttered. “Some added stuff at the end about being patient, you haven’t listened, when you least expect it, blah blah.” I waved it in the air and Daphne reached for it, but I pulled it away.
“Prints,” I said. “There’s still the chance this becomes a police matter and we don’t want you getting popped for it, do we?” Using another Ziploc over my other hand I got the letter inside the bag and smoothed out so it could be passed around. I looked at it again. Something about it nagged me. Nothing much had changed except that paragraph at the end, which I reread.
You have ignored our warnings. And our previous letters on this tour. Be prepared for retribution when you least expect it. We are patient.
“Odd,” I said, as I turned the Ziploc over to Daphne. “It’s almost identical. Just got that added paragraph. And it mentions letters this tour. But this is only the second one.”
“Yeah well, you can’t expect idiots like this can count, right,” Daphne said. Grant laughed. Clearly they were ready to dismiss a discrepancy.
I wasn’t.
I didn’t know what it meant, but it didn’t make sense. Furthermore, it seemed like the threat had been revealed to be nothing but a bluff. Here we were in rural Virginia, where the threats were said to emanate from, doing the exact thing the threats said not to do.
And all that had happened was another letter, practically a cut and paste, with an added paragraph that didn’t quite fit.
“You know, Grant,” I said, “it sure seems to me like we’ve called their bluff. Tomorrow’s what, the fourth show in Virginia? And not a damn thing has happened.”
“You’re not quittin’ on me, are ya, Jack?” Grant, still sleepy-eyed, looked genuinely worried for a minute.
“He isn’t,” Daphne answered for me. “Is he?” A sharp look in my direction.
“Of course not. I’m on the job till the problem is rooted out or the tour’s over,” I said. What I meant was that I was on the job as long as I was still logging billable hours.
“Great,” Grant said. “Besides, we’re fucking killing it lately. Wouldn’t want to lose you as part of my corner.”
“I’m not part of your corner, Grant. I’m not part of the show.” The problem was, I had basically let myself become part of the show. And I didn’t see a way out of it. I held out my hand and took the letter back from Daphne, storing it carefully in a larger bag with the other one we’d gotten. I still didn’t like any part of this.
Grant yawned and stretched. “Is it dinner time?”
Daphne laughed and wandered outside, crooking a finger at me to follow, which I did.
I pulled the security latch out so the door wouldn’t lock, but we’d get some privacy. She looked up at me sharply.
“You’re thinking something.”
“I’m thinking a lot of things.”
“Gonna tell me what any of them are?”
“I don’t work for you,” I said. “And I’m not sure what it is I think yet.”
“The hell does that mean?”
I shrugged. “Investigative work does involve hunches. But usually a ‘hunch’ is based on seeing a missing piece of information.”
“That doesn’t make any damn sense.”
I thought over how I’d said it and realized it didn’t. “I mean…I see a hole where information should go. I realize that there is something I need to know and don’t, and can determine a vague outline of it…but not enough to make any intuitive leaps.”
“You’re no Sherlock Holmes, then, I take it.”
I snorted. “Sherlock had all of his cases meticulously plotted for him by a benevolent deity,” I said. “All of his clues carefully placed where he and only he could see them. I’m looking for stuff anyone can see, but not everyone would notice. I also lack a sidekick. World of difference.”
She laughed. “Fine. Don’t share it with me. But the company’s paying a lot of money for you, and hasn’t seen any results yet. It may not be my company, but on the road, it’s my responsibility.”
“I got it. And the instant I have anything actionable, I’ll loop you in. But I don’t.” Only a niggling suspicion that something isn’t right. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a phone call to make.”
“Oh? To your boss?”
“My girlfriend.”
“Same difference,” Daphne said, taking the last word as she wandered away. I didn’t contest it.