Chapter 3

Heart

Dawn’s approaching, the sun rising into the cloudless sky, throwing the mountains into relief and gradually illuminating my way. Pain blasts through me with every step. When I’d stumbled in the darkness, I’d put my left foot down hard.

I’m dragging my leg. It’s becoming harder to ignore the bolts of agony slicing through me with each forward motion, barely able to put weight on it at all now. I try swallowing some painkillers, but without anything to wash them down, they stick in my dry throat. For that sole reason, I regret not bringing water with me, not wanting pain to force me to stop. My brain keeps instructing that I must keep on moving, knowing at some point my sense of self-preservation will make it hard to resist turning back. But I won’t be doing that. There’s nothing left for me now, nothing to live for. I’m ready to die.

Of course, it would have been easier to swallow all my tablets at once and simply pass away in my sleep, but something prevented me from taking the coward’s way out. A part of me doesn’t want my brothers to learn I’d given up, that I’d taken my own life. I don’t want them to bear any blame for sending me away. In my twisted mind it makes perfect sense that doing it this way, I’ll either never be found, or it would be assumed I’d simply got lost and died an unfortunate death.

Forced to pause when I take another uneven step, I check the phone to see the time, noting there’s no phone signal here at all, the realisation bringing a small frown to my face. I’ve no way of calling for help, there’s now no way for me to be located in time. But that’s what I wanted.

Pushing on in the same direction, I take another step, and then another. Cursing my throbbing leg, not sure how much longer I can carry on, and hoping I’m even now far enough away. Spying some rocks up ahead of me, I decide it’s a good enough spot to wait up for a moment. I might not have traversed the distance I wanted, but from here it would be the devil’s own job getting back, dragging my limb so badly injured in the crash.

At last at the rocks, I find a comfortable perch and start massaging my weak, barely healed muscles. I’m thirsty, tired, and starting to get hungry, and for the first time I wonder how long this will take. Will dehydration and heat exhaustion make me start hallucinating? Or can I just curl up into a ball and wait for my life to fade, my final thoughts of my wife.

I sit, my head full of Crystal, remembering the good times we had, knowing it’s impossible to go on without her. The sun starts to appear over the mountains, and as the day brightens, my thoughts grow dark.

I startle when the phone starts vibrating in my pocket, then I laugh, thinking the delirium has started. I’ve got no signal, I’ve already checked that. Knowing there’s no point answering a phantom call, I ignore it until it rings off. What a strange delusion to have. Then it chimes and shakes again, and again, until it eventually stops. And then once more. Part of me is still hardwired to think it might be important, part of me is amused, as why should I give a damn at this point? And as there’s no signal. It can’t be a real call.

A couple of minutes pass, then it rings and vibrates once more.

Do ghosts contact you by phone? Is there some mystical signal they can tap into? I wish it would stop, the interruption is disturbing the serenity of my surroundings. Someone’s insistent, and it’s starting to annoy me. Why can’t I just die in peace? I glance at the caller id, but it’s from a number I don’t recognise—well of course not, it’s not really ringing… And that’s when I see I somehow have got some signal, though it’s only one bar. A few steps on and even that might disappear. My hand hovers for a moment, then my innate brain takes over and I find without having a fucking clue as to why, that I’m accepting the call.

“Good morning, Mr Norman. I’m sorry for interrupting you this early.”

My real name. Not many people call me that. I take the phone away from my ear and regard it with annoyance, tempted just to press the red key. But I find myself holding it close once again and asking, “And you are?” My voice sounds gravelly, dry and unused.

“I’m the detective handling your accident and your wife’s death.”

“She was murdered.” Saying it aloud and so starkly with all the harsh nature around me sounds right. Someone took her life, and now I’m going to give mine to join her.

“I’m aware of that. But we’ve just found some evidence that moves the case on.”

I say nothing to prompt more, I know all I need to. My brothers had my back. While I’d lain unconscious, the man responsible for killing Crystal was killed. All the cops can do now is catch up. And as they do so, hopefully they’ll find nothing to link his death to my club. My chest tightens as I realise somewhere deep inside I still care, and don’t want to bring trouble down on the men that I’d left behind.

“Mr Norman, we’ve managed to discover who rented the truck that ran you off the road.” There’s a sound like a clearing of a throat. “It was...” There’s a pause as if the words are hard to say. “It was…a man named Archer.”

Again I say nothing. I already know Detective Archer was responsible for running us off the road. Do I say I know who Archer was? Or wait to be told—if this detective will come clean and admit it.

“Mr Norman. We don’t know much more at the moment. Archer was connected to the Herrera family, and it would help me to know if you’ve come up against them at all? We all know they don’t like to be crossed.”

I’m thinking hard, remembering not to let on what I know, wondering whether Drummer needs to know the police aren’t letting the case drop.

“Mr Norman? Are you still there?”

“I’m here. So you’re going to be questioning Archer?” They can’t. He’s dead. But I’ll pretend and play along as I should.

“That’s my other news. There’s nothing to prove he was driving the truck, just that he rented it. But the other thing is, there was a house explosion in Tucson a couple of months back. Set by an expert, as the whole place was incinerated.”

That would be Slick. A small smile fleetingly comes to my lips. He knows his trade.

“We’ve only just managed to put the pieces together, and one of the bodies, well, body parts that is, we’ve identified as belonging to Archer.”

What do they know? Here it comes. Here’s where I learn if there’s anything pointing back to the Satan’s Devils. If there is, I’ll need to get the information to Drummer. Thank fuck I’ve got some kind of signal here, or at least, for the moment.

“Was it an accident or deliberate?” I ask, thinking to find out info that might help Prez and my brothers. “And if deliberate, who took him out?” I’m holding my breath as I wait for the answer.

Another clearing of a throat. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

I sigh, looking out into the barren land around me, not a sign of civilisation in sight. Nothing for Drummer, no information. I can go on without calling him, my conscience clear and my endeavour undisturbed.

“Look, Mr Norman. I’d like to meet up with you so we can go over what we know and try to piece everything together. You still have no memory of the accident, I suppose?”

“It wasn’t an accident,” I growl. “And no, I don’t.” I don’t remember losing control and killing my wife. Oh, Archer might have been driving the truck, but obviously I hadn’t seen the threat coming, and that’s down to me. I hadn’t corrected the bike, I hadn’t… Oh fuck, Crystal, I’m so fucking sorry. Making an effort, I try to suppress my sob.

“Where are you now, Mr Norman? Can you come into the precinct today, or meet me somewhere in town?” The voice sounds anxious, obviously I hadn’t been successful in hiding my grief.

But no is the answer. And I’ll never be putting in an appearance. “I’m not in Tucson. I’m in California.”

“When will you be back?” The detective asks sharply.

“I can’t tell you that.” When they find my dead body, someone might care enough to take it home. Or the vultures might pick my bones clean, leaving nothing to find.

Maybe the tone of my voice gives something away, but the next question surprises me. “Mr Norman, Dale. Is it all right to call you that?”

For some unknown reason, I don’t want the last name I’m called to be that of a man I haven’t been for so many years. I want to hear the name that I earned after I was given my patch, the name my wife gave me. “Heart. Call me Heart.”

“Heart.” There’s a pause. “Are you alright?”

No, I’m really not. I’m as far from alright as it’s possible to get. “My fuckin’ wife’s dead,” I spit out. “How do you fuckin’ think I’m feelin’?”

The other end of the phone goes quiet, and I’m about to hang up when more comes. “Heart. Don’t give up.” I’m about to blast a sneering reply when words come down the line, tumbling out one after the other in a rush. “Never give up. I know it’s no consolation, but I’ve been where you are, and it is possible to move forward, though I can’t lie and say it’s not fucking hard every step of the way. Sometimes the only thing we can do for someone we’ve lost is to keep them alive by living ourselves. You give up on yourself, you give up on Crystal.”

“I’m not giving up.” I’m giving in to my pain.

“You’re in the middle of Death Valley. And not close to a road.”

Fuck! The fucking cop’s traced my cell. The first thought going through my head is fear that I might not be allowed to die today, and that’s followed by one that takes me by surprise. Maybe this isn’t my time.

How, I’ve no fucking idea, but the detective seems to have put it together. “Believe me, Heart. It’s not easy, but you can move past this. You’ve lost your wife and you can’t see a way out of your pain. I understand that. It will never go away completely, but you can learn to live with it. I know, Heart. I know.”

There’s something about the tone of voice, sympathy, but not the forced compassion from someone who hasn’t a fucking clue what I’m going through.

“How do you know?” Is it possible to be able to go on? It’s seems so much easier to simply give up.

“I’ve been where you are.” Something in the way the words said before are repeated makes me believe them. There’s a depth of emotion in the tone.

I look around at the barren landscape around me, as desolate as my broken heart. “There’s nothing left,” I whisper. “Nothing at all.” Part of me wonders why I’m still talking to the cop. All I need to do is end the call then switch off my phone. Throw it away, shatter it against the rocks so I can never be disturbed or traced again. But for some reason my hand is gripping it tight.

“She’s gone, Heart. She’s gone. And however much you want to, you can’t join her.”

I can. It’s easy. I just won’t go back. I’ll keep to my plan.

“What would she have wanted you to do, Heart? Would she have wanted you to just give up and stop living? Or carry on? Keeping her memory alive.”

I slam my hand down on the rock beside me. Why the fuck am I still on this call? Why am I being made to think of things I want to avoid? What would Crystal have said? I stand, kicking at the rock with my steel toe-capped boot. Shit!

“Heart?”

I didn’t need to have this conversation. Not today.

“I can get a team out to you if you can’t get back by yourself.”

How the fuck does this detective know what I was planning to do? I didn’t realise I’d asked the question out loud until I’m given the answer.

“Because, and I know I’m repeating it, but I understand how you’re feeling. And while you can’t see how it’s possible, you can survive.”

Christ, it’s getting hot in the sun. I stand facing the direction I had been walking and, without warning, a lone coyote appears, running across left to right in front of me. The hair on the back of my neck rises as something bugs me at the edge of my consciousness, a conversation I once had with Mouse. The substance disappears before I can take hold of it.

Then without realising I’ve turned, I’m now facing the other way with the words the detective said going through my head. Crystal wouldn’t have wanted me to go like this. As I wipe the sweat off my brow, I realise subconsciously I’ve already made a decision. I’ll try and get back. If I can’t, well, I’ll have made the attempt. What am I wasting but time? I can always change my mind. A few more days of suffering, there’ll be another chance around the corner. I give the cop something. “I’m not returning to Tucson.” And then, in case I’m misunderstood, add, “I’m on a road trip.”

There’s a sigh on the phone, then a brief period of silence. The detective appears to know I’ve been talked down from the ledge. For now. “Where are you heading to next?” is asked in a conversational tone.

I suppress my normal reaction to say nothing to the cops. It doesn’t bother me now that I’m no longer part of the club. It’s my business, not club business. And the answer is easy. I’ve already started on the route Crystal and I had planned, when Amy was old enough to be left. We talked about it for months, years even. Crystal hadn’t had a good upbringing, her mom usually too doped up to care for her. Vacations and even days out just didn’t happen. I’d promised her we’d see as much of the country as we could, starting with a road trip through Nevada and California. And that fatal trip to Tucson had been just the first planned to take her to the more local sites.

There’s nothing to stop me sharing. “Yosemite,” I answer.

“I’ve never been. But I’ve heard how beautiful it is. You hoping to get there before the snow?”

I’m thinking logically now. If I want to go over Tioga Pass as we’d planned, I’ll need to check out the weather conditions first. You can put snow chains on a car, but not on a bike. And I’ll have to stock up on more warm clothes. I’m amazed how quickly my brain’s latched on to the practicalities.

“Is it alright if I call again to keep you updated?”

Yeah. Because anything useful I learn I can feed back to Drum. Maybe there’s still something for me to do before I leave this life. The thought consolidates my resolve that I won’t, if I can help it, be dying today. Wait a little longer, Crystal.

“Don’t take risks, Heart. I didn’t know Crystal, but if I know anything about women, she’d want you to keep living.”

I’m not sure I’m doing much more than existing, but I am living her dream. Seeing the things she’d set her heart on. Experiencing the life she ought still to have.

I try to sound nonchalant. “Yeah, keep in touch.”

“You can ring to check up… On the case if you want.”

Nah, I’ll be deleting this number after the call.

I end the connection and check my phone. Would you fucking believe it? Even with all the shit in my head, it’s still got twenty percent battery. Par for the course. Over the past couple of months, I’ve been doing everything on autopilot. Having a signal for now, I call up the GPS and check my position, then turn to limp back in the direction I’d come.

One last moment of hesitation, a few seconds to reconsider if I’m making the right decision. Living is hard, dying out here not much easier. As I stand, undecided, I feel that hand on my shoulder, and a slight pressure toward Stovepipe Wells. In a gesture of long practice, I raise my arm to place my fingers over those touching me, feeling nothing but the sun-warmed leather of my cut underneath.

Not sure if I can do this without you, babe.

A wind blows up out of nowhere, tumbleweeds blow past my feet, turning over and over in the direction I’m facing as if it’s a sign from a ghost that I’m doing the right thing.

Until Crystal died, I’ve never believed in God, or a hereafter, always accepting that when you’re dead you’re dead and you’re not coming back. But even given my beliefs, I can’t imagine a world without something of Crystal in it, and pray there’s a part of her left that knows that every mile I’m travelling, every step I’m taking, it’s all for her.

Don’t leave me, babe.

I’m not sure I can even do this. My feet sore and tired, my leg giving me nothing but pain, and my skin burned red by the sun, placing one foot in front of the other is almost too much of an effort. I’m about to give up, this time not because of any suicidal desire, but from sheer exhaustion. My vision is blurred, but not enough that I don’t see the coyotes dogging my steps as if waiting for me to succumb. Is that the way I’ll end up? A meal for the pack? The thought they might not wait until I’m dead spurs me to make one last effort. My head is swimming, my thoughts jumbled and erratic.

A coyote comes alongside me. I eye him up, looking directly into his sea-green eyes, which seem to glow with satisfaction. Fuck this, I must be far gone.

The spirits are waiting.

I stagger and fall, the coyote comes up alongside.

You’re already a dead man walking.

Yeah, well I’m not going to lay down and die so you can have me for dinner, Mr Coyote. And if you can speak, why do you tell me what I already know?

Christ, I’m in a bad way if I’m imagining voices. And touch, sensation. A prod on my back that feels like a human hand.

Unsteadily, I get moving again, one foot unevenly in front of the other. I cover the last mile slowly, relieved when the motel eventually comes into sight.

I arrive back in early evening, pausing only to grab the courtesy bottle of water from the fridge before collapsing on the bed, drinking it all, but not before using it to wash down a handful of painkillers. The last distance I’d covered only on pure desperation, that hand on my back making me unwilling to give up. I have no appetite, no desire to drink or even to smoke. My body’s exhausted and my mind, for once, too drained to think. I settle back to enjoy another restless night, but as soon as my head hits the pillow I’m out like a light, sleeping dreamlessly for the first time in weeks, and for twenty-four hours straight.

I end up spending the remainder of the week in Stovepipe Wells, the original time I’d booked the room for, but not the purpose I’d planned, letting my body and mind recover from my self-imposed ordeal in the desert.

My dreams full of tumbleweeds and coyotes, making me remember Mouse and the time he went on what he called a vision quest to commune with nature. He’d departed uptight and tense, and had returned relaxed. Though he hadn’t shared the details, I’d known he’d seen visions and claimed they had cleansed his mind. I’m ashamed to recall how I’d mocked him, said it was the starvation he’d put himself through that made him hallucinate. But after that day in the desert, I’m no longer certain.

I’d felt Crystal’s presence. And saw signs she wanted me to continue.

Maybe it’s not time to join her yet. Not until I’ve seen everything she wanted to see.

Up until now I’ve relied on room service, but on my last day I decide to venture into the restaurant again, the first time I’d been outside since I’d returned. Leaving my room, I find a coyote waiting, barely a remarkable resemblance to the one who’d spoken to me in the desert. It walks alongside until the light of the building floods out over the ground. I pause as it steps away, seeming nervous to step onto the illuminated ground. The last thing I see before it’s swallowed up in the darkness are its yellow eyes reflecting the light and focused on me.

The spirits are waiting.

The coldly delivered words send a shiver down my spine.

Fuck. I must be in a bad way if I’m hearing animals talk when I’m stone-cold sober and not suffering exhaustion.