would have to be hosed down and cleaned thoroughly, but at least the visible pieces were out. Finally, I clasped Dougal by the arm and pulled him to his feet.
“Come on, Braveheart, it’s past your bedtime. One more little ride and you’ll never have to get on a motorcycle again. At least not on mine.”
I was halted by Redfern’s voice.
“One more thing, Cornwall. Where will I find you in the morning? I have a few more questions about Julian Barnfeather’s death.” A narrow smile budded on his lips but died on the vine.
“I can be found every weekday morning, except Wednesday, right across the road at the Public Library.”
Simon chose that moment to stick his head out from Dougal’s jacket again and cry, “Par-tay! Reefer time!”
This time, I recognized my own voice. If the subject matter hadn’t been such a threat to my freedom, I would have enjoyed the sight of Redfern’s face. It was probably one of the few times in his life he was struck speechless.
I followed Dougal into his house, where I retrieved my extra helmet and cautioned him that Simon’s imprudent words regarding marijuana were apt to land us in a whole heap of trouble with Redfern who, unless he was lower on the food chain than a puffball, was going to start regarding us with suspicion. A former big-city cop likely had radar where drugs were concerned.
Since Simon’s ill-advised words were not uttered in his voice, Dougal remained unconcerned now that he was back in his own house with the door closed on the scary universe. Actually, I thought he had done well on his first excursion in almost a year and told him so. He gave me a dirty look and told me to please let the door hit me on the butt on the way out. He pulled a joint out of, yep, his jacket pocket, and went to lie down on the couch and watch the Discovery channel on his sixty-inch TV. I started to tell him to change his clothes and take a shower first, but decided I didn’t give a rat’s ass about his furniture. Simon was still entombed in his jacket, and I cared even less about that.
I took a pasta salad and two pears from his fridge before heading out.
Dougal lived south of the cemetery, while my humble home was due north. Therefore, I had to ride through the town centre again after I left Dougal, keeping my speed to the posted fifty. No cops lurked and the warm air still held a strong whiff of eau de skunk, but that might have been me.
My right shoulder had grazed the pavement and was further strained trying to lift the bike back up. It throbbed with every vibration of the motor, and I was glad to dismount behind the trailer. I was pretty sure I had some road rash on my thigh, as well, since my bottom half was protected only by thin silk, a serious no-no when riding a motorcycle. The fabric had split and seemed to be sticking to my skin in spots, signalling the ruin of my only realtor outfit. I was trying to remember if I had any antibiotic ointment among my meagre medical supplies when I heard loud noises coming from Rae’s trailer.
Rae kept pretty regular hours, but once in a while she would entertain a client later in the evening, though always before midnight in deference to her neighbours. I couldn’t see my watch but figured it had to be at least nine-thirty.
I started to hurry past her trailer, not wanting to hear the sounds of whatever the hell was going on in there, but my steps slowed as a woman’s voice cried out in agony. Then, she screamed, “Stop! Please stop. You’re hurting me.” I heard fists on flesh and something heavy hit the wall. More screams followed the sound of furniture overturning.
Dropping the bag of food, I ran around the front of Rae’s trailer and tried the door. It was locked. I hammered on it, shouting, “Stop that. I’ve called the police and they’ll be here any minute. Leave her alone.” The cries of pain and distress continued.
I was reaching for my BlackBerry when I was seized roughly from behind and tossed aside. As I lay on the ground, stunned, I saw two men forcing Rae’s door open. One had long, stringy grey hair and, in profile, I saw a hawk-like nose jutting from the lined face. I recognized Ewan Quigley from Hemp Hollow’s third trailer, but the other man was a stranger — tall, dressed head to toe in black leather and a silver-studded belt with a snake’s head buckle as big as a saucer. The snake’s ruby eyes glittered in the light streaming from Rae’s windows.
With the door torn away, Ewan rushed in immediately, but the second man turned and looked at me. He growled, with a voice sandpapered down from years of smoke or drink, “Get out of here.”
I finally found a smidgeon of courage. “But Rae is hurt. I’m calling the police and an ambulance.”
He pointed a grease-grimed finger at me. “We’ll look after Rae. And don’t call the police or you’ll be one very sorry little girl.” The upper part of his face was shaded by a leather biker’s cap, the lower covered in black stubble.
I believed him. I lingered at the doorway until I heard Rae say she was all right. When I heard a man pleading for mercy and dragging sounds coming back toward the door, I scuttled over to my own trailer. With trembling fingers, I managed to unlock the door and barricade myself in by shoving a chair under the handle. Leaving the lights off, I parted the curtains an inch and saw a naked man with a bundle of clothes in his arms being hauled away by the biker. I hoped his body wouldn’t be found in the river with rocks tied to his feet. Being a witness to a crime was not a long-term vocation.
A few seconds later, Ewan led Rae out and across to his trailer. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and seemed to be walking steadily enough. When the two reached the Quigley’s trailer, the door opened and a woman was silhouetted against the lighted interior before the door closed again.
For another hour, I peered through the curtain into the dark night, but didn’t see the leather-clad man or Rae’s attacker again. Finally, shaky with exhaustion, I replaced the torn silk trousers with old sweat pants and fell into bed. Throughout the night, I jumped at every owl hoot and rustle in the grass.
If I had to sleep in a tent on my swamp land, I was not going to spend another month living amongst that nest of criminals. Quigley and his pals were up to no good, and Rae, for all her lofty dreams, attracted the worst scum walking upright. It was only a matter of time before her lifestyle either earned her a prostitution charge or landed her in the cemetery. Maybe my life sucked, but I didn’t want to die, at least not until I completed my mission of retribution.
With arms wrapped around a scarred wooden baseball bat, and my eyes wide open, I waited for the night to end.
Chapter
ELEVEN
I was late for work Monday morning and deeply pissed when I got there. The rose-tinged tendrils of friggin’ dawn had already touched the treetops before I gave up any hope of sleep and crept out to use Rae’s hose at the back of her trailer to rinse off the Savage. The early light was bright enough to confirm I had missed plenty of gory skunk bits with the twig. That done, with some gagging involved, I went back into my trailer and dropped the ruined silk trousers into a garbage bag along with the matching top. The leather jacket I draped over a bush behind my trailer until I could figure out how to remove the smell.
Since Secret Valley’s shower facilities weren’t open until ten o’clock, I shoved my bedding into another garbage bag, gathered an old denim jacket and some clothes for work, and headed over to Dougal’s. Letting myself in with the key he had given me when I first became his drudge, I discovered Dougal snoring on his living room couch, still wearing the jacket from the night before. Simon appeared to have escaped, and I saw small puddles leading away in the direction of the solarium. I left
