chapter forty

Dave didn’t stop—didn’t look back. The dark feelings were like a demon, and he wanted to create as much distance as he possibly could. Ten miles past the memories, he approached a dimly lit sign: Golden Tower Motel—Vacancy. It was sleazy, but for tonight it would do. He was too tired and wet to continue—and where was he to go? He was on a journey now with no destination, no end.

He steered his bike into the parking lot and stopped near the office. When he pushed open the door, the lobby was empty. The place reeked of rancid smoke and mildew. What looked to be a secondhand shower curtain hung between the front office and a back room. A TV blared behind the curtain.

Dave pressed the bell on the counter and waited. Within a few seconds the curtain parted, and a heavyset woman, dressed in a nurse’s uniform, waddled through the opening. Her makeup was thick and her voice low—almost the tone of a man. With steely eyes she surveyed Dave and the trail of water he’d tracked through the door. Next, she glanced toward his bike waiting in the rain.

“Can I help you?”

“I need a room, please.”

She moved close to the counter, her eyes reading the stranger.

“All I have left is two double beds.”

“That’ll be fine.”

“It’s $145 plus tax.”

The price was ridiculous for the run-down dump, but Dave was too tired to argue. “I’ll take it.”

She pushed a guest sheet fastened to a clipboard in his direction. “Fill this out.”

Her tone was demanding, and under other circumstances he would have turned and walked out the door. Tonight he took the clipboard, scribbled in the information, and pushed it back to her.

“Here you go.”

She scanned the scrawled answers. “How do you want to pay?”

Dave reached into his back pocket and removed his wallet. It was soaked completely through—the bills were matted and pressed together into one lump. Rather than create a spectacle by separating them now, he pulled out his American Express Gold card and dropped it in front of the woman.

She snatched it from the counter, her eyes darting from the name on the card to the sheet that Dave had filled out. She then studied the picture of the man on the card. It had been taken two years earlier. It showed a smiling man with short hair, a clean-shaven face, and an expensive suit. She compared it to the biker standing before her—dirty, long hair, stubbled beard, and bloodshot eyes. She looked suspicious; he didn’t care.

She moved to the machine and swiped the card. Her forehead lifted in surprise when the approval flashed onto the screen. She scribbled the number on a pad and then reached under the counter and into a box of keys.

“I don’t want any problems,” she said as she slapped a key onto the counter and slid it over. “Room 107, around the corner. You’ve only paid for a single, so no one else is allowed in the room—no other bikers.”

Too exhausted to respond to the mistrusting woman, Dave grabbed the key and headed out the door. He pulled his bike around the corner in the direction that she had pointed and found Room 107 on the lower floor. He shoved his key into the lock and then pushed himself inside. When he clicked the light switch, nothing happened. In the darkness, he moved to the outline of a lamp on the desk near the bed and fumbled for the knob. As it turned, the light flickered on.

The room was cleaner than he had expected, though the furniture was certainly dated. He slumped onto the nearest bed and pulled off his boots and socks. His feet were red and swollen. He walked barefoot to the bathroom and twisted on the shower before moving back to the bed to peel off the rest of his saturated clothing. Since there were two double beds, he sat down on the one closest to the door—the one where he’d left his wet boots and socks. It didn’t matter if the bedspread got soaked through with his wet clothing, he reasoned—he would sleep in the other bed. It would serve them right for overcharging customers.

He pulled off his jacket and draped it over the chair near the space heater on the wall. He turned the temperature dial to the hottest setting—the fan kicked on. Next he stripped off his shirt and undershirt and tossed them beside his boots.

A wave of exhaustion was rolling over him—not just physical, but mental and emotional fatigue as well. He sagged onto the edge of the bed, thoughts of Megan still resonating. He pushed them away . . . not now, no more pain today.

Steam billowed from the bathroom door. He didn’t care—there would be plenty of hot water, it would wait. He started to undo his belt and felt his wallet in his back pocket. He pulled it out from his pants and removed its saturated contents. Too exhausted to consider otherwise, he peeled apart the wet bills and credit cards and laid them across the bedspread to dry.

The slamming knock at the door startled him. He didn’t move. Again, several loud raps rattled the door.

Most motel rooms had a small viewer that allowed the person on the inside to see who was standing on the outside. This one didn’t. Dave shot a glance at the security door chain that dangled loosely against the doorjamb. It had not been set. He moved to the door and touched the knob. He listened intently, not sure if it was safe to open.

The door rattled with knocks again—this time he heard voices.

“Open up the door, now. This is the police!”

• • •

Dave twisted the knob and pulled the door open a crack. Outside a drawn firearm was aimed at his head.

“Down on the ground, now!” the officer yelled.

He obeyed and dropped to the floor.

“What’s going on?” Dave grunted as his arms were twisted behind him and a pair of handcuffs tightened into place around his wrists. “Look, there’s been a mistake, you have the wrong guy.”

A second officer entered the room, his weapon drawn, to sweep the place for additional suspects. He dashed toward the steaming bathroom and burst inside.

The first officer held his gun in place and began to read Dave his rights.

“You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. Should you choose not to—”

“I told you this is a mistake. You have the wrong person,” Dave interrupted. “I just checked in—ask the lady at the front desk.”

The policeman, unfazed by the interruption, continued his monologue.

“ . . . Knowing and understanding your rights as I have explained them to you, are you willing to answer questions without an attorney present?”

“Of course, but like I told you . . .” Dave turned his head to see the office lady standing outside the open motel room door, watching the events unfold. Upon hearing the commotion, half a dozen other spectators had exited their rooms and were gawking as well.

The second policeman returned from the bathroom, his gun now replaced in his holster.

“The place is empty. He’s alone—at least for now.” Then he noticed the rows of neatly laid out bills and credit cards spread incriminatingly across the bed. He moved closer and picked a card up, the same one that Dave had shown the motel clerk.

“My, oh, my, what do we have here?”

Dave, with his face against the floor and hands cuffed behind his back, remained confused. “Please,” he pleaded, “what’s this all about?” He arched his head to meet the policeman’s glance.

“Crackdown on fraud and burglary,” the man in blue replied. “Seems we’ve had a bit of a problem with bikers running an identity theft ring—and this neighborhood has been ground zero. So, it begs the question, when are your friends arriving?”

“Friends? I’m alone. I promise. I’m not involved!”

The man studied the photo and then glanced to Dave on the floor. “Of course not,” he said, his words sopping with sarcasm.

To Dave it was becoming clear: the nervous glances when he was checking in, the comparison of the pictures.

“Look, those credit cards are mine. I swear.”

“Really? Will you pinky swear?” His tone mocked.

“I promise I—”

The man cut Dave’s sentence in half, didn’t give him time to continue. The closer he leaned, the more aggravated he became. “Look, buddy, I’ve been on shift for ten hours now, and I just can’t listen to any more of this crap. I don’t know where you come from, but stealing credit cards is a crime in California.” He turned to his partner with disgust. “Nick, load him in the car!”

Dave was jerked to his feet and herded out of the door.

“Let me at least get dressed,” he pleaded, still barefoot and with no shirt.

While the first officer stuffed Dave into the backseat of the squad car, the second snatched Dave’s shirt from the bed, his wet boots from the floor, and the leather jacket from the chair. He rolled them into a bundle and then tossed them into the back of the waiting squad car.

• • •

Dave arrived with the officers at the Corte Madera Police Station on Doherty Drive, north of San Francisco. The thought of putting back on the wet shirt was repulsive, but once his handcuffs had been removed so they could fingerprint him, he stretched it back onto his body. He was cuffed again, his mug shots were taken, his statement was noted, his record filed. He tried again to plead his case with the intake sergeant but found him even less caring than the two officers who had brought him in.

After the booking was complete, he was led by two more men down a long, narrow hall and past two security checkpoints. At each one, an armed policeman behind thick Plexiglas buzzed them through self-locking steel doors.

Once inside, they approached a row of holding cells. All held at least one accused perpetrator, some two. A steel-barred door opened with a buzz and a clank at the same time that Dave’s handcuffs were released. He was escorted inside, and the door locked behind him.

“How long will I be here?” he asked as the escorting officers retreated from the direction they had come.

“You’ll be the first to know,” one guard replied to the other, rather than addressing Dave. “The first to know.” Both laughed at the comment, then vanished behind the locked steel door.

• • •

The man lying on the cot was big. Dave presumed he was sleeping, but once the officers had disappeared, he rolled over and sat up on the edge of the bed. His eyes were cold and bloodshot, his stare icy.

Dave stared back, not sure how to respond or what to say. Only the man’s eyes moved, sizing Dave up, like a wild animal assessing the fight in its prey.

Without saying a word, Dave backed to the cot on the opposite side of the cell and sat down. He kept his eye on the man, who was still staring, perhaps still deciding what move to make next.

When the man finally spoke, his voice was like steel.

“What are you doing with my jacket?”

Dave wasn’t sure that he’d understood. “What?”

“Are you deaf? I want my jacket back.” The man stood. He was about Dave’s height, perhaps slightly taller. His shoulders were broad.

Dave stood as well. “Look, this jacket was a gift from my wife. It’s not yours.”

“You calling me a liar?” The man took a step toward him.

Dave held his ground.

The man’s eyes burned with hatred. “I’m telling you for the last time, give me my jacket. Now!”

It was not just a jacket. It was a gift from Megan, a piece of her—one of the last pieces he held. Vicious threat or not, there was no way he would part with it.

Dave took a step forward, now just inches away from the man. He stood tall and with broadened shoulders, hoping to intimidate. “I’m telling you, man, this is my jacket, not yours, and I’m not giving it to you, or to anybody, for that matter. If you want it, you’ll have to take it, but it’ll be over my dead body!”

He hoped his aggressiveness would cause the guy to back down, even frighten him. Regardless, his words weren’t an act. When he said over my dead body, he meant each and every syllable. Whatever it took, he was keeping the jacket.

“Dead body? You saying I’ll have to kill you first?” The man didn’t seem fazed by Dave’s boldness. He turned back toward his own cot. As he did, Dave breathed a silent sigh of relief.

The man’s next move was so quick it caught Dave completely by surprise. In one motion the man jolted back, his clenched fist catching Dave in the lower jaw. “Killing you won’t be a problem,” he said as a second fist pelted Dave in the abdomen. The blows stunned. He gasped for air, not able to breathe in or out. He was dazed—shocked—bent over, but still standing. The man continued to growl, but it was hard to make out the garbled words.

“ . . . kill you? If you want me to kill you . . . I’ll kill you . . .”

The next blow caught Dave in the face as he fought for air. He dropped to the concrete floor in a crumpled ball beside his cot as everything in the room faded to black.