Nobody knew Buzzard’s real name. There was a reason for this; if you had aname like Horace Hieronymous Toozfetz, you probably wouldn’t go aroundadvertising it either. Some people might say that it’s a bit of anoverreaction to become an outlaw biker just because your parents gave you aname you didn’t like. Of course, the people who might say that hadn’t beencondemned to a youth of getting beaten up by the high school jocks everyday, year after year, with no hope whatsoever of ever getting laid. No, itwas too late for should haves or could haves; Buzzard was irrevocablyshaped by his upbringing, for good or ill.
Despite this, he was actually quite a good-natured fellow; a hard-assbrawler and a multiple felon, true, but nevertheless a quiet, dependablesort (as outlaws go), holding fewer grudges against the world at large thandoes, say, the average postal worker.
At the moment, Buzzard was cruising up Route 842 in rural Pennsylvania,feeling the sunshine on his shoulders and easing his ’53 Panhead choppercarefully around the hairpin turns. The telegram was a tiny, crumpled ballin his pocket. Buzzard had no idea how they had located him, and thetelegram offered no explanation. It said, simply, come home, stop, fatherdying, stop, Uncle Roy, stop.
The Reverend Wolfgang Amadeus Toozfetz was a hard and uncompromising man.He didn’t like many things, but he knew what he hated, and he had no doubtwhatsoever that God hated the same things. He was The Man in Charge ofStraightening Out The Universe (trumpets, please), and he bore hisGod-given burden upon his broad shoulders with unflagging tenacity.
How and why Horace’s mother had chosen the reverend for a husband hadalways been a mystery to Horace. She was a small, pretty, delicate woman,patient and quiet, honest and uncomplicated. The reverend’s bulldog actoverwhelmed her completely; he forbade her everything he could think of and berated her mercilessly for the smallest infractions, such as going tothe market without her luxurious, blond hair tied in the mandatory sexlessbun. He would inexplicably relent at random intervals, suddenly becomingpleasant and kind, but no sooner would she let down her guard than thereverend would revert to his former self, berating her in his mostterrible fire-and-brimstone voice about how God hated disobedient wives.Horace had always reviled himself for not protecting his mother, but he was only a small boy, and his courage wilted instantly before the reverend’s 6-foot, 4-inch frame.
The farmhouses and lush, green fields rolled lazily by. Cows and horsesmeandered around, occasionally pausing to munch on a green tuft of grass.Buzzard eased the long, lean bike to a halt at the stop sign, then turnedleft onto 82 north. Route 82 was a much straighter road, so he eased thethrottle open and accelerated to a leisurely 45 mph.
Horace’s mother had always shielded him from the reverend’s wrath by taking the heat upon herself. Horace mostly stayed out of his father’s way,performing his chores to the reverend’s exacting specifications and therebyavoiding attention. This continued until Horace was 16, when his mother took ill.
From the corner of his eye, Buzzard saw a German shepherd launch itselffrom the porch of a small, white house and bound across the lawn toward him. He slowed down a bit and whacked the shifter down into third. When the dog was about 10 feet away, he let out the clutch and rolled the throttle, throwing off the dog’s planned point of interception and rattling the window panes with a blast from his upswept fishtail drag pipes.
The doctors had been unable to find anything specifically wrong with Mrs.Toozfetz, but her condition continued to worsen daily. On a bitter fallday, under a steely gray sky, Horace’s mother finally died. The countycoroner had explained the cause of her death with the ambiguous phrase”natural causes,” but Horace knew that there was nothing natural about it;she had died of a broken heart. And he knew without a doubt who thereverend’s next target would be, now that he had been deprived of hisfavorite victim.
After the funeral, Horace had snuck out to his Uncle Roy’s barn, whereRoy’s son, Johnny, had secretly helped him restore an ancient 45 ciFlathead, which Horace had bought from an old widow for $150. (Uncle Royknew about the Flathead, but kept Horace’s secret. Being the reverend’syounger brother, Roy was aware of Horace’s harassed and abusive home lifeand took pity on him.) Horace had snuck out to work on the bike at everyopportunity, using the money that he?d earned by working at the hardwarestore after school. This had been a risky endeavor. Motorcycles were thework of the devil, and if the reverend had discovered it, he would havebeaten Horace to within an inch of his life.
Now that Horace’s mother was dead, there was nothing to keep him in SouthCarolina any longer. He hastily packed all of his belongings onto the bike — a duffel bag full of clothes, some extra ignition points and spark plugs, aworn and dirty tool roll and $122.47 in small bills. He straddled the bike,kicked it to life, then eased it out of the barn and onto the main road. Henever looked back. The road ahead beckoned with promises of adventure andinfinite possibilities; his new life as a scooter gypsy had begun.
By the time Buzzard reached Coatesville, he decided to respect Uncle Roy’srequest and go back home. This would not be a happy run; the reverend,being the town preacher, had been a revered and respected figure in thecommunity. In small towns, everybody knows everybody else’s business, andpeople have long memories. Not being privy to all of the facts, everybodywould assume that Buzzard was guilty of the foulest betrayal — deserting hisloving father in his hour of need, an outlaw biker who deserved nothingless than 12 hours on the rack. Nevertheless, Buzzard decided to go. Hehad lived for 34 years with the strange burden of his unresolvedrelationship with his father, and he was determined to seize this lastopportunity for closure.
Early the next morning, Buzzard was in his garage, strapping a large Armysurplus duffel bag to the chopper’s tall, dagger-shaped sissy bar, crisscrossing the bungee cords back and forth. Having decided to go, he was eager to get started as early as possible. He made a last-minute mechanical check of the bike, then began stuffing tools into the weather beaten leather fork bag.
In high school, Horace’s chief tormentor had been Bobby Plachette, starquarterback and captain of the football team. Horace had never been taughthow to fight, nor would it have mattered if he had been. Plachette wasthree years older than he was, and was significantly taller, stronger andfaster. No matter how discreetly Horace had tried to sneak home fromschool, at least twice per week he would hear, “Hey whore-ass, you can run,but you can’t hide!” coming from behind him. Then the inevitableass-whipping would begin. Horace lived in constant fear of it. It hadutterly destroyed his self-esteem, making it impossible for him to havefriends or date girls. It ruined his performance in school and made himyet more miserable at home. Horace dared not tell his father, though,because the reverend had a strict policy of non-violence (which heparadoxically enforced with a leather strap), and to let the reverend findout that he had been fighting would only have compounded Horace’s miseries.
Plachette had graduated just as Horace finished his freshman year.Although a star quarterback in his small-town high school, Plachette hadnot been quite good enough to win a college athletic scholarship. Becausethe teachers had breezed him through the system, Plachette’s poor academicperformance made it impossible for him to get into college on his ownmerit. At the ripe old age of 18, the erstwhile pampered star,beloved by all, had become just another penniless nobody, a washed-uphas been with no marketable skills and no future. He seemed poised tobecome either the town bully or the town drunk, (both positions for whichhe was eminently qualified), when something happened to change hislife. He became a cop.
Buzzard straddled the chopper and jumped hard on the starter pedal. Theperfectly tuned Panhead rumbled to life on the first kick. He backed thechoke off slightly and waited for a few minutes while the engine warmed up.
Horace was glad to have left town before having any serious run-ins withDeputy Plachette. A long series of lateral drifts had eventually led himto a small apartment in New Jersey and a reasonably steady job as alongshoreman at the port. He put plenty of miles on the Flathead, it beinghis only means of transportation, and the antique scoot soon began toattract the attention of the local motorcycle aficionados. Within a year,he was riding with the Jersey Renegades and had earned the name Buzzard,since by this time he was over 6 feet tall and lanky, with a prominent beak ofa nose protruding from underneath his long, ragged hair. It was through hisassociation with the Renegades that he eventually hooked up with his firstreal friend, an infamous young outlaw by the name of Ace Calhoun. Buzzardwould soon sell the Flathead to a local Harley dealership that wanted todisplay it out on the floor. He got enough money from the sale to buy anold Panhead, still a classic scoot, but a bike whose larger engine had morepossibilities than the already overworked 45.
When the engine’s cooling fins were warm to the touch, Buzzard eased thebike out of the driveway and onto the road. Interstate 95 was the straightest shot down to South Carolina. Although it was a crowded and unpleasant highway,this was a Monday and most of the lemmings were at work. He decided that itwould be OK as long as he stayed off of the road during rush hour. And withthat, he sped away.
Buzzard roared down the mostly empty interstate. The traffic petered outonce he got past the airport, and he screwed it on through Maryland andinto Virginia.
In Virginia, an ugly storm was massing. From the east, a crescent lineslashed the sky, a telltale parabolic border delimiting the boundarybetween cool and warm air, clear sky in front and dark clouds behind. Acold front was moving in. Buzzard twisted the wick, hoping to outrun thestorm, but to no avail. Soon the sky was bible-black, and threatened toregurgitate itself upon man and beast. A cold wind picked up and small bits of highway trash danced across the road, caught in tiny, invisible whirlwinds. The thunder began to rumble, drowning out even the blast of the chrome drag pipes. By the time Buzzard got to Richmond, the rain was pouring down. A million tiny needles pelted his soaking leathers and stung his face and neck. It was all his poor headlight could do to penetrate the gray murk and feebly illuminate a few square feet of rain-drenched pavement. Buzzard grimly pressed on, left hand wiping the rain from his wraparound glasses, determined to make North Carolina by nightfall. But cold fronts pass quickly; within a half hour the wind dieddown and the storm dissipated as suddenly as it had appeared. The sun cameout, for which Buzzard was eternally grateful, warming his cold and clammyflesh.
Buzzard crossed the border into North Carolina by dusk. He checked into asmall motel, hungrily devoured a burger and fries at the hamburger standacross the street, then retired to his room. It was a cheesy little motel. The paint job was piss yellow and the Art Deco furniture was straight outof the ?50s, but it was comfortable and dry, and that was all he wanted.He hung his leathers from a coat hanger in front of the window to dry, thenslept the exhausted sleep that awaits every rider at the end of a long,hard road.
The next day he awoke full of enthusiasm. The sun was out and the birdswere singing. It was the kind of day made by God especially for riding. The coldfront had brought with it a mass of cool, dry air, lowering the temperatureto a comfortable 70 degrees. The leathers were stiff and hard but dry, andBuzzard pulled them on quickly, eager to get started. He checked out at thefront desk, ate an omelet at a local diner and blasted off onto thehighway, heading south once again.
Markham, South Carolina, remained a one-horse town, for the most partuntouched by time. Old people sat on rocking chairs on porches, looking asthough they had sat there since the beginning of time and would continue tosit there until the sun grew cold. Main Street consisted of a generalstore, a gas station, a tiny bar and grill and a small church where, untilrecently, the Reverend Wolfgang A. Toozfetz had preached every Sunday. Thetown was small enough that everyone knew everyone else, and since Markhamdidn’t connect anywhere with anywhere, the appearance of any strange face(let alone Buzzard’s) was enough to cause a stir.
Buzzard rumbled over the horizon like a ragged and bearded messiah, a madprophet from the mountains covered in leather and tattoos, riding upon aterrible chrome steed that drank gasoline and belched flames from theblackened depths of its fiery asshole, a grim harbinger come to deliver TheWord. His appearance on the scene was as disruptive as Attila the Hunriding his horse into the middle of the New York Stock Exchange. Housewivesstopped and stared, children pointed excitedly, old people scowled indisapproval from their rockers. Buzzard ignored all of this, casuallyblasting down Main Street toward Uncle Roy’s house (assuming, of course,that Uncle Roy still lived there), rattling windows on either side of thestreet and setting off car alarms.
Buzzard hadn’t been sure that he would be able to remember the way, but now that he was there, everything came back to him in a rush. Within minutes,he was cruising down Uncle Roy’s tree-lined street, and damn if that wasn’told Roy himself out in the front yard! The little brick house with thegreen shutters was just as Buzzard remembered. Uncle Roy was older, ofcourse, and grayer, and he looked much smaller than Buzzard remembered, buthe was definitely Uncle Roy. Roy heard the chopper roaring up the streetand stiffened apprehensively as he turned around, then took two full stepsbackward when he saw the grim figure bearing down upon him. Buzzard waved,and Roy stared, nonplussed. Buzzard pulled into the driveway, flicked thekickstand down and killed the engine. He felt a lump rise suddenly in histhroat; here before him was the only man who had ever shown him anyaffection or kindness. All Buzzard managed to say, somewhat lamely, was,”Uncle Roy… I got your telegram… I came right away.”
Roy was stunned. That cute little boy, so fresh in his memory, had turnedinto this big hairy monster, some half-human werewolf in greasy leathersand muddy boots. But he was that boy, home at last. After a long pause, Roygasped, “Horace! Horace, my boy! I… I didn’t think you would come…”Buzzard dismounted and stepped squarely into a bear hug. “Horace, it’s beenso long, we have so much to catch up on. Come on in, your cousin John’sinside.”
That evening, Buzzard was sitting at a small, round table near the back ofthe Markham Road House Pub, drinking a beer and talking excitedly with hiscousin about all that had transpired in the past 18 years. John wasmarried with two kids and had settled down to a quiet life as a countrymechanic, the only one in Markham. The reverend had stoically borne hispublic humiliation after Buzzard ran away, and neither Roy nor John hadever mentioned the Flathead. There didn’t seem to be any point. Thereverend had continued preaching at the church until he was diagnosed withbone cancer at the age of 64. He had managed to live a fairly normal lifefor 18 months after that, but the treatments soon stopped working and hisincreasingly ill health forced him into early retirement. They had sent himhome from the hospital once it became apparent that there was nothing morethey could do, and the reverend, at present, was in his own home, under thecare of a nurse, slipping in and out of consciousness and awaiting theinevitable end. Roy had hired a private investigator to find Buzzard’saddress and had then sent the telegram that was still crumpled up inBuzzard’s pocket.
“Well,” said Buzzard, “I came this far, so I guess the only right thing tado is stick around a while and hope I get at least one chance ta set thingsstraight before he goes.”
John nodded in silent agreement and took a sip from his beer. “Of course,you can stay with me or my dad as long as you want.”
“Thanks cuz,” Buzzard replied, “that means a lot to me.”
Then, from over his left shoulder, Buzzard heard something that he thought he?d never hear again. “Hey whore-ass! You can run, but you can’t hide!”
Buzzard whirled around and stood up in one fluid motion, fists clenched and teeth bared. Standing before him was a pudgy, middle-aged man in a uniform, armed, swaggering and arrogant. He was older and out of shape, but he was definitely Bobby Plachette. And he had a gold, star-shaped badgepinned to the breast pocket of his uniform…
Holy creeping shit. Sheriff Plachette.
Buzzard stood a half-head taller than Plachette, and his hard, knottedmuscles were wrapped like bundles of steel cable around his lanky frame from years of working at the docks. Plachette, by contrast, had obviouslyspent those years sitting in his cruiser eating donuts. Buzzard could easily break him in half now.
And here was the final absurdity: In spite of all this, Buzzard could still feel that old fear knotting his stomach and rising in his throat. It was as if Plachette’s very voice had the power to yank him backward in time andturn him into Horace Toozfetz again, a scared little boy being stomped intothe dirt.
The sheriff stuck his thumbs into his gun belt and swaggered around. “Yessiree,” he said, “when one of my men saw that motor-sickle parked outsideRoy Toozfetz’ house, I went in there an’ I sez, ‘Roy, we don’t cotton tooutlaws an’ drifters ’round these parts. Whoever owns this hunka junk, I’mgonna lock ‘im up fer vagrancy.’ Then ol’ Roy sez, ‘You ain’t gotta dothat, sheriff. It belongs to my nephew Horace.’ That’s how I knowed you wuzback in town, an’ I figgered I’d find you here.”
All eyes were upon Buzzard and the sheriff. Buzzard looked around, thenback at the sheriff and said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “I’m hereto see my father, so why don’t you just fuck off?”
“Don’t get smart with me, boy, I’ll whip yer ass good. If ya wanted ta seeyer father, ya coulda seed him long before now. Like I sez, we don’t likedrifters around these parts. If you’re not outta here before the sun comesup tomorra morning, I’ll lock ya up fer vagrancy.”
Buzzard’s face twisted into a lethal snarl. The fact was, Plachette was armed and Buzzard wasn’t. “I ain’t goin’ noplace until I get ta talk to myfather,” Buzzard spat.
“Just remember, whore-ass,” Plachette replied, “sunrise tomorra.” Then heturned around and, chuckling to himself, swaggered out.
Buzzard deflated back into his seat and the other patrons went back totheir business. “How the hell did that asshole become sheriff?” Buzzard asked.
“Well,” said John, “you remember when he became a deputy?”Buzzard nodded.
Once in uniform, Plachette had discovered that he had a great affinity forthat line of work. All those years he’d been bullying people for free, andnow that he had a gun and a badge, he was getting paid to do it.
Not many years later, a small-time drug ring had moved its operation toMarkham to escape the heat that the new police chief of Charlotte wasbringing down in the city. The theory was this: Since drug problems weremore or less unheard of in small towns, the gangsters would have moreleeway to operate, free of the threat of a large, well-funded police force.This theory proved to be correct. Then-Sheriff Ed Channing was getting oninto his 60s and had little stomach for getting shot right before hewas due to retire.
Deputy Plachette and another deputy with the ironic name of Fred Manley had taken matters into their own hands, initiating a two-man crusade againstthe gang. They ticketed the gangsters’ cars from one end of the county tothe other, obtained search warrants on any pretense, and even sent thecounty building inspector to cite them for numerous trumped-upbuilding code violations. Within a year the gangsters decided thatthere was even more heat in Markham than there had been in Charlotte. Theirgoal, after all, was to make money, not to lock horns with redneck cops, sothey folded up shop one day and left Markham for good.
Plachette had once again become a town hero. Even those who disapproved ofhis methods had to admit that they were pleased with his results. Plachettewas elected sheriff by a landslide the following year, and Ed Channingquietly retired. Plachette, of course, was still a bully, and there werethose in town who called him a thug and worse, but in the end the people ofMarkham chose to cast their chips with a man who knew how to get thingsdone. He had been the sheriff ever since.
Buzzard had no respect for the badge as a symbol. Long years on the outlawcircuit had instilled in him that a cop’s authority, like that of any otherthug, is measured solely by his power to enforce it. Fortunately forBuzzard, Markham’s entire police force at present consisted of only twodeputies, plus the sheriff. Still not good odds, though, especially withall three of them armed. What Buzzard needed now was an equalizer, andthere was only one equalizer currently available…Ace Calhoun.
Buzzard was absolutely certain that Ace would come, that wasn’t whatworried him. He was in a quandary because it would be easier to call Acethan it would be to restrain him, and there was no way to predict what sortof savage hell might break loose once the genie was out of the bottle. Acewas a force of nature, inexorable and swift, and Buzzard was like a shamanwho knows that he can summon a storm but is not at all confident of hisability to control it once it arrives. Finally, however, desperation wonout over prudence. Buzzard excused himself and went to the pay phone at theback of the bar, dropped in several quarters and dialed a number.
“Hey, Ace? Buzzard… Yeah, I’m in Markham. Listen, I’m in a bind here. Ican’t stay on too long, but I’ll give you the story real quick…”
Potato, potato, potato.
It seemed to Buzzard that he had hardly closed his eyes when he wassuddenly awakened by that sound he knew so well. It was Ace, rumbling slowly up the street. Buzzard could tell that Ace was going easy on the throttle to keep his fiberglass-baffled pipes from barking and waking up the neighborhood. He?d probably eaten a fistful of cartwheels and then ridden like a maniac all night to get to Markham before the citizens (and cops) woke up. Buzzard swung his legs over the side of Roy’s couch and levered himself upright. He banged one shin against the wooden coffee table in the dark and whispered a stream of obscenities under his breath. Pausing momentarily to rub his injured leg, he stumbled hastily through the front door. Outside it was cool and dark, with the first red rays of dawn just beginning to streak the eastern sky. Buzzard waved to flag Ace down, and Ace coasted the last 20 feet, tires crunching softly on the gravel-covered driveway. He killed the engine and dismounted, staggering alittle. Even in the dark, he looked stiff and exhausted. Buzzard claspedhis friend’s shoulder warmly. “You OK, bro?”
“Yeah,” replied Ace. “I just need some sleep.”
“OK, let’s get yer bike outta sight and then you can crash inside.”
Buzzard swung open the door of the little red barn. He got behind Ace’sbike and together they pushed it inside next to Buzzard’s on the hay-strewndirt floor. Ace clicked a padlock into place on the bike’s triple tree,then followed Buzzard inside the house. Buzzard decided to take the floorand let Ace have the couch, and Ace collapsed like a marionette whosestrings have been cut. He would sleep like a dead man until at least noon.
Buzzard went back to sleep himself and was awakened again by the phone. Itstopped after two rings, meaning that Uncle Roy had probably answered it inthe bedroom. The clock on the wall said 10. Buzzard looked over at Ace,who was still sound asleep. Good, Buzzard thought, he was glad that thephone hadn’t disturbed Ace. He would need the rest.
A few minutes later, Roy came creaking down the old wooden steps. He wasabout to say something to Buzzard when he stopped, mouth open, surprised tosee that his living room now contained not one but two outlaws, as thoughnew ones had sprouted from the floor like mushrooms during the night.Buzzard put his finger to his lips, then motioned Roy into the kitchen where they could talk without waking Ace.
In a whisper, Buzzard hastily described his run-in with the sheriff andexplained that Ace was a friend who had come to help him get out of Markhamin one piece.
“You boys aren’t gonna do anything foolish, are you?” Roy asked worriedly.
“No, of course not. I didn’t come here lookin’ for trouble, you know that. But I’m a grown man now, and badge or no badge, I ain’t about ta take no crap from the likes of Bobby Plachette.”
“OK,” said Roy, “just be careful. Anyway, that was the nurse on the phone.She says your father’s awake and feels good enough to take visitors.”
This was the moment that Buzzard had simultaneously hoped for and dreadedmuch of his adult life. He took a deep breath and said, “Alright, let’sgo.”
“What about your friend?”
“He’s had a long night. Let him sleep it off.”
Buzzard followed Roy to his battered old pickup truck and slipped intothe passenger seat. He hoped they wouldn’t have the ill fortune to getpulled over by one of the sheriff’s men during the short ride to thereverend’s house. The sun was, after all, up, and Buzzard had missed hisdeadline. Roy didn’t look at all worried, which probably meant that thethought had not even occurred to him. Being a respectable tax-payingcitizen, Roy was not accustomed to worrying about things like being stalkedby cops, and Buzzard decided not to disturb his peace of mind by mentioningit. Roy threw the old rattletrap in gear and eased it gently onto theroad.
Within minutes they were at the reverend’s house. Buzzard knew the waywell; as a boy he had walked the short distance countless times to meetJohnny in the barn and work on the old Flathead. Roy parked the truck infront of the gray stone house, then walked up the short flagstone path tothe front door, with Buzzard following two steps behind. Roy pulled thestorm door open and knocked on the weathered oak door behind it. Buzzardwas vaguely surprised that everything looked so much smaller than heremembered. The door was eventually opened by a stocky, middle-aged womanin a nurse’s uniform. She seemed momentarily taken aback by Buzzard’suncivilized appearance, but she knew Roy, and so said nothing. The nurseled Roy and Buzzard down a short hallway that looked exactly the same asit had when Buzzard was a boy. The faded floral wallpaper had not beenchanged in 18 years, and pictures of all-but-forgotten relativeslined the walls. She led them up the stairs to the reverend’s bedroom andsaid through the door, “Reverend, your brother is here to see you.”
A raspy voice croaked, “Send him in, send him in.” The nurse stepped aside, and Roy led Buzzard into the room.
Buzzard couldn’t believe his eyes. The father he remembered had been ahuge, terrifying mountain of a man — tall, broad and built like a bull. Theman before him was an emaciated scarecrow, wrinkled and gray, old and sick.But that was nothing compared to the shock the reverend received whenRoy put his hand on the huge, hairy outlaw’s grimy shoulder and said,”Wolf, Horace is here to see you…your son. I’ll leave you two alone.”Then he turned and left the room.
The bedroom was as unchanged as the rest of the house. The bed with itswooden headboard was positioned between two antique wooden night tables,under a window that had been opened to admit the warm sun and a pleasantbreeze. Both night tables were strewn with all sorts of pills, and the roomhad the vaguely antiseptic odor of a hospital. “Horace?” the old mancroaked. He sounded as if there were loose nuts and bolts rattling aroundinside his shrunken chest. “How can you be Horace? Horace was a goodChristian boy.”
“No, it’s me, dad.”
“It’s really you?” The reverend paused, then scowled. “I suppose you’ve got a motor-sickle or some such damned contraption to go with those rags you’rewearing.”
“It’s parked at Uncle Roy’s house,” Buzzard replied.
“Well, I don’t know if you’re really Horace or not,” said the reverend,”but it doesn’t matter anyhow. You may be the son of the devil, but you’reno son of mine.”
“Nothing’s changed, then, in all this time?”
“I raised my son to be faithful and obedient. He would never have abandoned me to join some…some heathen homosexual leather cult.” The reverendlooked at Buzzard with the most profound loathing that Buzzard had everseen. “Go back to whatever hell hole you crawled out of…back to yourdope-smoking, fornicating friends. That’s where you belong, not here,worrying God-fearing folk. Don’t come back to darken my doorway any more.God hates disobedient sons most of all.”
Buzzard cursed silently at a life that he had long ago left behind. Hegrowled, “My mother was sweet and beautiful and kind. You killed her, youbastard, just as surely as if you’d stabbed her in the heart. You wouldhave done the same to me too, and we both know it. So now you’re going todie an old man, lonely and bitter, and no one will mourn you. Was it worthit? Is this the way you want to end your life? No, don’t bother answering.I hope whatever God you believe in has mercy on your soul.” Without waitingfor a reply, Buzzard turned his back on the reverend and walked out.
By mid-afternoon, Ace had revived. He ate a ravenous meal (which Roygraciously supplied), then went out to the barn to talk strategy withBuzzard. A confrontation with the sheriff seemed inevitable, since therewas only one road in and out of town. It was possible that they could sneakout under cover of darkness, but that would be difficult with Buzzard’sopen pipes, and would also expose them to the possibility of an ambush onsome back country road. Ace had packed a small arsenal, but it would stillbe three against two. Besides, Buzzard was not eager to get into ashoot out with the cops; it was just too risky. In addition, beating up a copis one thing, but shooting a cop is quite another. Even if Buzzard andAce won the shoot out, they would still lose in the long run. They wouldbecome cop killers, America’s most wanted, with their faces plastered onthe walls of every post office in the country.
No, it would be better to keep the guns out of it. The outlaws at least had the advantage of being able to stage the confrontation on their own terms,to choose the time and terrain. The best place would be somewhere withplenty of innocent bystanders. Then the cops wouldn’t be able to use theirguns, either. The odds would still be three to two against, but the outlawshad the element of surprise. The cops were looking for Buzzard, and theyhad never seen Ace.
So now Buzzard and Ace were back in the Road House, nervously sipping beerand waiting for the show to begin. Buzzard had parked his chopper outfront as bait. Ace had parked his out back, hidden between two largedelivery trucks. Initially the bartender had protested, but he saw thelight when Ace offered to rearrange his dental work for him. He decided tolet the law handle it, which was what was going to happen anyway as soon asthe sheriff saw the chopper parked out front. Buzzard sat at the bar whileAce hid in the shadows at a table in the corner. It was shortly after 5 and the after work crowd was starting to fill the small pub; store managersin starched shirts and ties, working men in jeans and boots. Soon the barwas bustling with activity. People were talking, smoking, laughing andeating, ordering mugs and pitchers of beer.
Buzzard suddenly saw the bartender crane his neck to look out the window at something, and he could see the red and blue lights reflecting off themirror behind the bar. Show time. The sheriff burst in, flanked by twoyoung-looking deputies, and shouted at Buzzard, “I thought I told you tagit outta town!” The room was suddenly deathly quiet.
“I don’t want no trouble sheriff,” Buzzard said. “I got what I came for.I’ll hit the road just as soon as I finish my beer, and you’ll never see mehere again.”
The sheriff smiled a shark-toothed smile. “Too late, whore-ass,” he said.”I told ya ta hit the road last night. Now yer gonna get what’s comin’ toya.”
Buzzard smiled. “OK, don’t say I didn’t give ya no chance.”
They never even saw Ace coming. He moved like lightning, melting out of the shadows like a lizard and swinging a small, shot-filled sap. He struck eachdeputy a precise blow on the base of the skull; just enough force to causeunconsciousness but not enough to do any permanent damage. They crumpled tothe floor like paper dolls. This threw the room into confusion. Somewanted to help the sheriff, others wanted to flee and a few just wanted towatch the show like gawkers at a traffic accident. Between them, there wastoo much chaos for anyone to do anything. The sheriff looked over hisshoulder, then back again, and fumbled for his gun. But the bar was packedwith patrons and there was no way to get a clear shot. Before he knew whatwas happening, he was hit simultaneously from the front and the rear, andhis gun and nightstick had both been wrestled away from him.
Ace took the weapons and stepped away, leaving Buzzard alone with thesheriff. Plachette realized with horror that he was not facing a frightenedboy named Horace. He was facing a huge, savage outlaw named Buzzard, andhis knees felt suddenly weak. Buzzard’s hairy lips parted, exposing sharp,white teeth, and he said, very quietly, “You can run but you can’t hide.”
There is a strange thing that sometimes happens to even the most savage ofmen when they see their nemesis brought low, and realize that he ispathetic and small. They are suddenly filled not with anger but with anawful, towering pity, and they realize that to sink to the level of theiradversary would be wrong, that the right thing to do is to be the biggerman. Unfortunately for the sheriff, none of these things happened toBuzzard.
Buzzard kicked his ass all the way out the door, then grabbed him by thehair and dragged him back inside. He kicked his ass up the bar, then kickedit back down the bar. He beat Plachette until he was exhausted fromswinging his arms. Then he let his adversary fall face down into thespilled beer, spit and cigarette butts that covered the sticky floor.
When he finally looked up from his work, he saw that Ace had been busyhandcuffing the deputies to the shiny brass bar rail and stuffing theirservice revolvers into the various pockets of his riding jacket, keepingone handy just to make sure that none of the patrons would decide to try tobe a hero. Buzzard handcuffed the unconscious sheriff to the bar railbeside his men, and Ace went to work severing the telephone line. This wasprobably unnecessary since all the law there was to summon was at presentlying unconscious on the floor, but better safe than sorry. The outlawsthen ran for the door and the crowd parted to make way. Once outside,Buzzard tapped Ace on the shoulder and said, “We better take the scenicroute. Bastards’ll be lookin’ for us.”
Ace nodded in agreement. Then he smiled and said, “Lead the way, Horace.”
Buzzard smiled back and replied, “You better not break my balls about that, Francis.”
Ace ran around the back of the building while Buzzard ran out front. Thegawkers in the bar were crowding around the windows to watch Buzzardstraddle his bike and kick it to life. Seconds later, he heard the sound ofAce’s Evo starting up. Buzzard pulled out of the parking lot, rear tirescreeching, and Ace blasted out right behind him. Together they roared away into the reddening dusk, under the cloudless sky, in the wind and glad to be free.
