Thanks, Jason.

I made it back to Coyote Crossing fast and reluctantly slowed the Harley coming down Main Street. I tried to imagine myself back in high school in a cool leather jacket and a pair of shades, all the girls checking out just how fucking cool I looked. I held that thought a second before the grin melted from my face. I wasn’t in high school anymore, and there were no girls looking at me.

Still, the wind felt mighty good.

The pickup truck that roared out of the alley from my right missed clipping the motorcycle’s back tire by two inches. I flinched, gassed it, hopped the Harley up onto the sidewalk as the pickup swerved back at me and pulled along side. I tried to look over and see who it was, but I suddenly had to dodge a mailbox and a newspaper machine. I wobbled on the bike, swerved back onto the street, ten feet in front of the truck. It came up behind me fast, and I cranked the accelerator and took off.

I glanced at the pickup in the mirror. A black Ford, fairly new. I tried to remember if any of the Jordan brothers had a truck like that, but I didn’t think so. I opened up the Harley for all she was worth and put some distance between me and the pickup. I was really flying now and got a little scared. All I had to do was hit a stray speck of dust at this speed, and I’d splatter myself all over the road.

I passed the Mona Lisa Motel and kept going. The speedometer said I was hauling ass at 110 mph. I glanced at the speedometer again to make sure, waited for a cartoon skull and crossbones to roll across.

I slowed a little, killed the lights. I came upon a stand of trees left of the road, a dozen or so scraggly scrub oaks. I pulled into the tall grass, parked behind the trunk of the biggest oak. Five seconds later the pickup flew by and didn’t slow. I counted to twenty slowly then got back on the road after them.

A minute later the old drive-in theater came into view. There was a big orange bonfire and about a dozen people milling around. The black pickup pulled in, circled the crowd once slowly then hit the road again and kept going. I wondered how long they’d drive before they gave up and came back.

Then I remembered Wayne telling me about the vagrants and a fire hazard. I rode the bike in slowly to have a look. I got within fifty feet of the people and stopped, put the kickstand down and climbed off. The vagrants were all Mexican, and I even saw my smoking buddy from the firehouse. They all stood to face me, and a couple carried makeshift weapons. The closest was a burly guy with a full beard. He carried a three-foot length of pipe.

I wondered if pulling my revolver would help or make matters worse. I decided to leave it holstered. They were clearly waiting for me to do something. I was waiting for me to do something too, but hell if I knew what.

Then my smoking buddy stepped forward. He had a younger guy in tow, a teenager with a thin pretend moustache and a shaved head. My smoking buddy mumbled Spanish to the kid.

“He says we are out of town,” the kid said. “Like you wanted.”

I didn’t know if the drive-in was officially in town or not, but it was good enough for me. “I’m not here to make trouble. Just be careful with the fire.”

The kid translated to smoking buddy who nodded and talked Spanish at the rest of the crowd. The tension seemed to sigh out of them and they went back to the fire, the level of conversation rising again. Smoking buddy motioned for me and the kid to sit with him at one of the half-rotted picnic tables near the concession stand. I nodded and followed along, sat down.

“Tell him I won’t bother you people,” I said to the kid. “But others will come along sooner or later. You can’t stay around here too long.”

He translated, and my smoking buddy nodded, scratched his moustache. The talk coming back the other direction lasted a minute.

“We are far away from where we were supposed to be dropped off,” the kid said. “We could call someone to come get us. We have a number. Enrique has a cell phone, but it doesn’t work.”

I shook my head and sighed. “We’ve never had cell reception around here, and all the phones in town are dead.”

The kid translated, and the other guy frowned and talked again.

The kid said, “We worry. The men can walk. We have endured worse hardships.” He gestured toward the concession stand. “But there are women and children.”

Women and children. Perfect. I stood, dusted myself off and headed for the concession stand, my new pals following. I opened the door, pushed my way inside. A dozen women sat against the wall. More than half held babies or toddlers in their laps. As a group they looked bedraggled, probably dehydrated and hungry.

Hell. What could I do with these people? What could anybody do? They don’t teach you this kind of thing at the academy. They threw a lot of civil codes and procedures at me, all in one ear and out the other. But nobody had taught me a damn thing about saving lost souls. You can’t arrest starvation or desperation. What these people must’ve been through, well, I couldn’t imagine. And I felt sorry for them, but I also wanted them to go away.

The cramped snack stand stank of sweat and diapers. I moved near the window for a breath of air, wracked my brain what I could do for these people, knowing damn well not a thing.

I leaned on the windowsill, tried to remember what this place was like back when they were showing movies. I loved the smell of popcorn. A chilidog and a Coke. Must’ve been nice. Mom and Dad had told me they’d brought me when I was two or three, put me in the back seat with a blanket. There would usually be a double feature, something for the kids at first, and then I’d drift off and the second movie would be for the adults. I didn’t remember, but I bet it was fun.

I looked up just in time to see the headlights swing into the Drive-in entrance. It was a black pickup truck. Jason’s Harley was parked in plain sight, no way they’d miss it.

“Son of a—oh, come on,” I muttered.

“Some sort of problem, señor?” the kid asked.

“That pickup truck means trouble.”

“For us?”

“For me,” I said. “Listen. Get out there and tell them I’m gone. Say some other police car came to pick me up, and I left the motorcycle here. Can you do that?”

“Si, señor.”

“Best get everyone out of here.” I motioned to the women and children. “Maybe they’ll come in for me or maybe not, but it could get ugly.” I let my hand rest on the revolver.

He nodded and translated. The kid and my smoking buddy herded the rest from the concession stand. I backed into the shadows, watched through the window. The truck parked three feet from the Harley Davidson. Damn.

One man got out of the driver’s side, another from the passenger side. Both held shotguns. Damn. Damn. Damn.

I pulled my revolver, watched and waited.

The guy who’d been in the driver’s seat looked only vaguely familiar, a broad-shouldered cowboy with messy brown hair and a square jaw, maybe a couple years older than me. I recognized the passenger immediately.

Blake Harper was a rat-faced string-bean, with hunched shoulders and a bony chest. His greasy hair fell into his eyes and down past the collar of his plaid shirt. Patchy Elvis sideburns. He looked so thin and brittle and bony, I thought one good punch would knock him into a thousand pieces.

Blake had been Luke Jordan’s toady little kiss-ass sidekick in high school. Back then, he’d been too cowardly to try anything too ambitious himself, mostly he just stood in the background and laughed at Luke’s stupid jokes while Luke pounded some freshman or snapped girls’ bra straps. Upon returning home, I’d heard Blake had moved up the food chain half a notch, ripping off cars stranded on the Interstate and stealing mail from people’s boxes. All of it rumors and nothing ever proved. Finally, Blake tied a chain to an ATM machine, tied the other end to his pickup and tried to take off. A security camera caught the whole thing, and he ended up serving a couple years.