“Boot,” Kevin’s voice came over the radio.
“You’re going to have to honk it, Murphy,” Dixon said into his headset as he glanced at the stopwatch on the clipboard and wrote the number down. “You’re almost a full second behind.”
Kevin and Dixon’s communications were terse and business like, Dixon only speaking if spoken to. Kevin would call out markers as he traveled around the Green Hell, the seventeen mile loop in the Siuslaw National Forest that the Cutthroat ‘99’s had marked out years before, and Dixon would write down the times. Kevin had lost a lot of time at Kink, a nasty, tight, right-hander that would spit you into the weeds without a second thought if you got in the marbles.
Dixon listened to Kevin grunt, the Yamaha YZF-R1M barking and growling as Kevin banged the bike down through the gears, followed by the rise and fall of the banshee-like wail as the big bike clawed for speed on the exit.
“Cut me some slack, Montague,” Kevin complained. “This bitch is a handful.”
Dixon chuckled. Kevin had traded up from his trusty 2007 Honda CBR1000RR to the Yamaha and he was trying to master the bike. He’d lost twice last year, the aging Honda no longer able to compete against the newer bikes. This was his second trip around the Hell at speed on the new bike, and he’d knocked six seconds off his first pass and was now within a second of his best time, the track record in the over seven-fifty class.
When he got back to the start they would talk about the bike and Dixon would tinker, adjusting preload, damping, rebound rates and tire pressure, trying to squeeze every bit of speed possible out of it.
“Finger,” Kevin said, and once again Dixon could hear the bike banging down the gears then wail back up to speed. “Goddamn does this thing have brakes. I can’t get used to how deep into the corner you can go, and holy fuck, since the exhaust and ECU flash, does this bitch pull.”
“Hooray for ABS and traction control,” Dixon chuckled as he wrote the number down. “I have you right on.” Using a stopwatch, he couldn’t really tell if Kevin was faster or slower. That would have to wait for the sophisticated timing equipment at the race, but there was no doubt that once they got the bike dialed in and Kevin adjusted to the feel of the machine, he’d be faster than on his Honda. A lot faster.
They would probably make one more run then call it a night. It was mentally exhausting out on the Hell, and after two or three runs the mistakes started. That’s when the speeds went down and somebody got hurt.
Dixon was waiting for the call at Wiggles, the final timing marker, when he heard the crash. “Kevin!” he screamed while his headset roared and banged as Kevin slid and tumbled along the road. “Kevin!” he cried again, his heart in his throat. He could hear Kevin breathing in the silence, but nothing else. “Kevin, speak to me, pal! Kevin! Fuck!”
He dashed the two-dozen steps to the support truck, slamming the Dodge into gear the minute the engine raced. He floored the truck, the rear tires howling as he pulled onto the road, racing to where his friend had gone down. The lights of the truck speared into the darkness as he drove recklessly fast, slowing way down when he reached Wiggles. He knew Kevin had gone down between Wiggles and Finger and didn’t want to run over the man if he were still in the road, and to give him time to see him if he weren’t.
“Fuck!” he snarled, banging his hand on the wheel when he reached Finger. He pulled over to the side, stabbed the throttle and spun the truck around in the road, before driving back the way he came, moving even more slowly this time as he strained to peer into the darkness to the side of the road. There were no houses, no streetlights, and no people this far out in the forest. It made it perfect for illegal street racing, but he’d give anything right now to have more light.
He slammed on the brakes, the truck lurching to a halt, when he saw the scrapes and gouges in the pavement. Grabbing his light, he bailed out of the truck and ran to the side of the road. He swept the light, hoping he wouldn’t see Kevin while simultaneously hoping he would. The brilliant beam glinted off something a vibrant blue. He snapped the beam back.
“Oh…no,” he breathed as he hurried down the slight embankment. Kevin was lying in a heap next to a tree, his body twisted into a position no man could replicate. Dixon knew not to move him, but he knelt beside the broken man and carefully reached under his helmet and pressed two fingers to his neck.
Dixon stood, his teeth clinched tight, Kevin already beyond the help of mortal men. The light resting on his friend, seeing Kevin twisted and bent, Dix could feel his control slipping, so he flicked the light to the bike so he didn’t have to think about his dead friend a moment. The new Yamaha was an unrecognizable twisted lump of silver and blue among the trees.
He stood for many long moments then swallowed hard as he walked slowly back to the truck. He didn’t want to leave but there was no cell service this far out. He sat in the truck for a long time, staring into the darkness as he gathered himself. This was a shitty detail, but had to be done, and he was going to need help. Putting the truck in gear he reset the trip odometer, so he could find the crash site again, and drove out of the forest and back to civilization.
When he was close enough to highway 126 to get a signal, he pulled the truck to a stop. Steeling himself, he dialed the phone.
“Cale,” the voice on the phone said.
There was no easy way to break this. “Kevin’s dead,” Dix said, gritting his teeth hard to stop the tears.
“What?” Cale cried. “How?”
“Twenty minutes or so ago on the Hell. I need help.”
“Oh my God!”
“Yeah.”
The two men were quiet a moment. It’s always tough when you lose a brother. “I need an hour to get shit together,” Cale said softly. “Where?”
“Between Wiggles and Finger.”
“Okay. You doing okay?”
“Yeah,” Dix said, anything but. Kevin was one of his two closest friends.
“Hang tough, brother,” Cale said, trying to give him strength, though Dix could hear the pain in the man’s voice. “We’re coming.”
***
Ninety minutes later, Dix could see lights approaching on the road. It was probably the club, but he didn’t want any witnesses to what had happened here this night, and had parked the truck a hundred yards away from the crash site.
The Cutthroat van eased to a stop beside the truck. “Where?” Cale Johnson, President of the Cutthroat ’99s asked, another truck pulling to a stop behind the van.
“Up there,” Dix said with a jerk of his head before he turned and started walking, the van and truck creeping along beside him. He kept his light in the road until he saw the scars, then pointed the light into the woods.
“Jesus,” Thad murmured as he stepped out of passenger side the van, the destroyed bike and Kevin clearly visible in Dix’s light. Thaddeus Lymongood took Dix’s arm and turned him to face him. “You okay?” Dix was his best friend and he knew Dix would be taking it hard. They all were, but they weren’t here when it happened.
“Yeah,” Dix replied softly.
Thad stared at Dix. He could read the lie in his eyes, but said nothing. “What happened?” he asked as the other four members of the club clustered around. None of them wanted to be here, but they had to move the body and mangled bike. The police in Douglas, Oregon, were wise to what the Cutthroats were doing, but they never knew when or where their street races were held, and they had to keep it that way. They kept the racing out of the town, but a crashed bike in the middle of national forest would bring scrutiny. With the first race of the season so close, they couldn’t have that.
“Don’t know,” Dix said softly. “There’s no reason to crash here.”
While there were no true straights on the Green Hell, this was one of the straighter sections of the track. This should have been one of the last places where someone would go down.
“Do you think something happened to the bike?”
“Don’t know. He didn’t say anything was wrong. One second he was bitching about how he still wasn’t going in deep enough on the brakes, then the next…” He let the words trail off, unable to continue. “The bike sounded fine on the radio.”
“Fuck. Let’s just do this. Goddamnit!” Chuck growled as he stepped from the road.
They placed a blanket over Kevin out of respect then set to work hauling the mangled bike out of the woods. It took them over an hour to wench the bike up onto the trailer and pick up all the pieces, saying only what they had to in order to complete the work.
Bike loaded, they carefully, and with as much respect as possible, placed Kevin in the van.
“This is so fucked,” Dix said softly.
“Go home, Dix. We’ll take it from here,” Cale said softly, placing a hand on Dix’s shoulder. “You don’t need to see this.”
“No. We all knew the risks and what would happen. But it’s still fucked.”
“That it is, brother. That it is. “Thad, ride with Dix.”
Thad crawled behind the wheel of Kevin’s truck as Dix sat down. “It’s not your fault,” Thad said as he dropped in behind the van and other truck.
“I know,” Dix said softly.
“Do you?”
“Yeah.”
“We all know the risks, you most of all. We agreed what we would do if something like this ever happened. It sucks, but it has to be done to protect the club. Kevin was my friend, too. He’d understand.”
“What about Vicki?” Dix asked. “Will she understand?”
Thad nodded. “Marla, Jen and Steph are with her now. She’s hurting. But she knew it could happen, just like the rest of us. We’ll help her, take care of her until she gets back on her feet. You know that.”
“I know.”
Thad knew Dix was in shock, as any of the brothers would be, as they were. They had been running this race since 1999 when the club was founded, and this was the first time they were going to have to execute their emergency plan. There had been crashes, and plenty of them, but this was the first fatality. The Green Hell was an unforgiving bitch and one mistake could cost you, as it had cost Kevin everything.
***
They hauled the remains of the crash thirty miles to a deserted section of road. The national forest was crisscrossed with roads, some paved, many not. They had picked this spot after a thorough scouring of the surrounding area, a hairpin right with a near sheer drop to a rocky bottom with no guardrail.
This section of the country was a mecca for bikers, where riders came to enjoy the twisting, winding roads and beautiful views. Inexperienced riders occasionally ran out of skill, piling their bikes up in a sudden switchback, or crossing the centerline and hitting an oncoming car. Other, more experienced riders often tested their skill with the same result. Lane County police were used to motorcycle crashes, and though rarely fatal, they did happen.
Cale backed the trailer, pushing it into the weeds until the end was hanging over the edge of the sixty-foot drop. Grunting and straining, the six men muscled the wad of metal off the end of the trailer, letting it tumble and roll until it hit bottom. That was the easy part.
They stood around several minutes, saying nothing as they summoned their courage. Finally, Dix and Cale carefully lifted Kevin out of the van and, teeth gritted hard, dropped him over the edge. The six men stood silent, lips pursed, mouths hard, occasionally wiping a tear. They had never had to do this before, and each silently prayed they never would again.
Dix couldn’t take it anymore and broke the silent vigil by turning and storming to Kevin’s truck. He was going to return it, pay his condolences to Vicki, then he was going home and getting drunk out of his mind.
“Go with him,” Cale said softly to Thad. “Make sure he gets home.” As Dix and Thad left, Cale looked at his feet. “I’ll call the cops in the morning, report him missing, and tell them where to look. Jesus, this is fucked up.”
The rest of the Cutthroats nodded in silent agreement.