She helped cut his hair and trim his beard. One of the younger boys had made him a new vest with a new patch and the colors for the Losers. Debbie said they had something real special for him the next morning.

Chains couldn’t sleep with excitement.

At dawn he awoke to the sound of what might have been a hundred cycles out in the parking lot, all revving their engines at the same time. He jumped up out of bed, threw on some pants, and walked out, bare-chested, covered in tattoos, and barefoot, and looked down at all those good old boys looking up at the second balcony, revving their Harleys over and over. A few more doors at the Super 8 opened but closed quick.

Chains wasn’t able to dress fast enough, Debbie helping him find his boots, combing his long stringy hair and beard, and holding open his leather jacket. He slid into the vest himself.

“How do I look?” he said.

“Like Chains-Goddamn-LeDoux.”

He kissed the woman, who he’d laid maybe a million times but who now seemed unfamiliar, hard on the mouth. He walked out on the second-floor balcony and raised his hands, the dozens of Losers revving and hollering until he walked down the steps into the parking lot and a path was cleared through so many faces he didn’t know, young men who looked at him with admiration and respect.

He saw a few of the old faces, those who’d come to visit, written him letters, and kept him going on club business. Frank Miller had his arms wide when Chains got close and embraced him in a big hug of brotherhood and friendship, patting his back and saying, “You ready?”

“Hell-fucking-yes.”

Behind him stood his old Harley 1200 Super Glide, painted an electric black with an evil jester’s face on the tank. The saddle shone and the chrome gleamed in the early-morning light. Chains walked to it, touched the handlebars for the first time in twenty years, and started to weep. A big man with lots of ink on his face and across his throat approached Chains and offered his hand. He wouldn’t see Big Doug here. Big Doug had died in ’99 from lung cancer.

Chains threw his leg over the bike, rested his foot on the kick-starter, and fired up the engine. All the Born Loser boys yelled. Up high on the second-floor balcony, Debbie waved. She was crying, too. She said this was it, she couldn’t see him again.

She’d gotten married to a good man who she said ran the meat section at a Kroger in Southaven.

The world had changed.

But Chains hadn’t.

“Let’s go fuck some shit up and raise some hell,” he said.

Not one goddamn bit.

Happy Birthday, America, and all you motherfuckers, too,” Big Doug said, toasting the Born Losers late that night. They’d been outside the clubhouse for most of the day, shooting guns at bottles and cans, smoking weed, and drinking tequila. Jason was so drunk, it was hard to stand, make his way to the jukebox, and find the Flying Burrito Brothers and punch up “At the Dark End of the Street,” one of his favorites. He’d come to the party late, having spent most of the night at the fair, winning Jean an armload of stuffed animals, taking her on swirling neon rides, and driving her home on his bike, a long, intimate kiss before they said good night. She knew Jason was headed back to the clubhouse to see how the boys were doing and she wanted no part of it.

He was having a pretty good time until Hank Stillwell ran through the haze of dope smoke and started yelling through the music that some crazy nigger had killed his baby. The music stopped and the silence of it all was something. Big Doug had to run up to him, pin Stillwell’s arms against his side, and tell him to slow down. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Stillwell said some black man had forced his Lori and her friend Diane into his car and rode them out to Jericho Road. where he’d done it. “He raped Diane and shot my baby,” he said. “Sweet Jesus! God!”

Big Doug hadn’t let go of his arms, not pinning him anymore but hugging him tight. “We got you, bud,” he said. “We got you.”

“She died,” he said. “She died out there in the middle of some field.”

Chains hadn’t said another word, the whole club getting to their feet, including Jason and the women. Almost everybody was drunk, high, or both.

Everybody had come down from that tall buzz, knowing that one of their brothers had lost a child. A monster was still out there somewhere, rolling through the hills of Tibhehah County, their home turf, looking for more girls, thinking he could do as he pleased without any retribution.

“What’d he look like?” Big Doug said.

“Shit,” Stillwell said, “I don’t know. He’s black. He’s stealing white children. He’s raping and killing. God!”

Big Doug still held him. Long Tall Sally poured a shot of tequila and brought it to where they stood wrapped together. Stillwell knocked the first one out her hand. But she didn’t flinch, Big Doug telling her to do it again, pour out another, and her setting it in Stillwell’s hand. He took that one, gulped it down, and then another, and Chains had some reds he placed direct in Stillwell’s mouth and within ten minutes he was stoned and glassy-eyed but talking about murder and vengeance and then stories about when Lori was born in Tupelo and how proud he’d been. “God,” he said. “She came to see me today. She asked me for money and I turned her away. I told her she was dressed like a whore.”

Jason had heard it. He could not look the man in the eye. Someone had found Stillwell a chair as he kept talking. LeDoux marched out of the room, most of the gang following him, to the line of motorcycles. He was giving orders now, telling the boys they were going to ride down into Sugar Ditch and not leave until the blacks gave up their man. “Or we’ll burn down every last shack.”

Stillwell was alone with Sally. She kneeled and cried with him.

“I tried to talk to Diane Tull’s father,” he said. “I told him we needed to find this man who did this. But his wife wouldn’t let him go. Some people ain’t got no nuts. That’s why we ride together. A man fucks with one of us and he’s fucked with all of us.”

He was slurring a lot.

Jason looked to Sally. Sally was crying, rubbing Stillwell’s back.

From the open door of the clubhouse, Jason heard, “Burn the fucking place down. We ain’t coming back until we found this bastard and hung him high.”

The screams and yells brought a coldness to Jason’s stomach, sobering him up quick. He felt light-headed and weak, watching Stillwell crumple in on himself, nearly off the chair, the tiny circles on his back from Sally.

Big Doug appeared big and determined in the doorway. He looked right at Jason and lifted his chin. “Come on,” he said. “You’re a part of us now.”