Iron Goddess (10 page)

When they parked near the ER entrance, Shea stashed her Glock in the glove box. Wendy helped her limp into the emergency waiting room. The heady smell of antiseptic hung in the air.

The same woman with the pale lavender bouffant hair sat behind the check-in desk. Her brow crinkled when she looked up at Shea. “Weren't you here yesterday?”

“Yeah. Tore up my leg in a motorcycle accident a little bit ago.” Shea gave the woman her personal information.

“Have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.”

Jessica arrived twenty minutes later, right as a nurse named Bruce, sporting Harry Potter glasses, showed up with a wheelchair. Shea gave Jess a quick hug, taking a moment to enjoy the scent of her perfume. “Glad you came.”

Shea sat in the wheelchair and Bruce wheeled her into one of the ER rooms, with her sister and girlfriend trailing behind.

“You need help getting on the bed?” asked Bruce.

With his help, Shea climbed onto the bed and lay back. Jessica and Wendy stared at each other in awkward silence, while Bruce took Shea's vitals and asked the usual medical intake questions.

“The doctor should be in soon.” Bruce shut the sliding glass door behind him as he vanished down the hall.

“Jessica, meet my sister, Wendy. Wendy, this is my girlfriend, Jessica.”

“So, you're my sister's old lady?” said Wendy with a smirk.

Jessica looked at her, horrified. “Old lady?”

Shea shook her head. “Biker lingo, darling. It means we're in a relationship.”

“Oh yeah, right. I knew that.” Jessica blushed. “How'd this happen?”

“The leg? An elk jumped out in front of me. I laid down the bike to avoid hitting it.”

Wendy raised an eyebrow. “You said it happened when you were running away from the Jaguars.”

“Jaguars? I think you mean mountain lions. There aren't any jaguars this far north,” said Jessica.

“Not that kind of jaguar, honey,” said Wendy. “We're talking about Mexican gangsters who traffic heroin for the Santa Cruz drug cartel.” Angry tears filled her eyes. “And kidnap little girls.”

“We'll get her back, Wen.” Shea put her hand on her sister's arm.

“A Mexican drug gang has your niece?” asked Jessica. “I thought you said the girl's father had her.”

“We got a ransom demand from the kidnappers,” Shea said. “Me and a few of the Thundermen thought we could rescue Annie.”

“From Mexican gangsters? Are you insane? Have you told the cops what you know?”

“No!” Wendy shook her head. “We tell the cops, they'll kill her.”

“I don't like this, Shea. You'll get yourself killed.” Jessica looked angry. “Look at your leg, for crying out loud.”

“Don't worry, sweetie. We'll find a way to pay the ransom and get her back. No more heroics. I promise.”

A little while later, Dr. Sossaman, the same doctor who'd treated Derek, walked in. “Ms. Stevens, I didn't expect to see you again so soon.”

“That makes two of us,” she said.

“What brings you back?”

She pointed to her leg wrapped in the bloodstained remnants of Wendy's nightshirt. “Laid my bike down in gravel.”

“Ouch! Let's get that off and take a look.” She untied the strips used to secure the shirt and held one end of the makeshift bandage. “This will hurt a bit.”

Shea's leg trembled as the doctor unwrapped the improvised bandage. When she got to the point where the T-shirt was pulling off her chewed-up flesh, the pain forced a string of obscenities from Shea's lips. She gripped the edge of the hospital bed, struggling for breath.

Jessica took her hand. Shea struggled to compose herself while the doc examined the wound.

“Not too much dirt or debris, but I want to rinse it with saline to make sure we got it all out.”

Dr. Sossaman injected a local anesthetic at several spots along the length of the wound. “This should help.” She picked up a bottle with a long tapered tube on top and let a stream of saline flow onto the wound.

Despite the anesthetic, the saltwater trickling over the exposed nerves burned like fire. Shea clinched her teeth. “Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.”

“It'll leave an ugly scar, but you should live.” The doctor squeezed ointment onto a large bandage and covered the wound.

Shea smirked. “Just adding to my collection.”

Dr. Sossaman wrote out a prescription for oxycodone and handed it to her. “Take one of these every four to six hours as needed for the pain.”

“Thanks. Any word on how my friend Derek is doing?”

“He's still up in ICU, last I heard. I think Dr. Rinku Patel is taking care of him.”

“How do I get there from the ER?” Shea's recent trauma muddled her memory of her previous visit.

She pointed. “Around the corner, take your first right, then down the hall to the elevators. ICU's on the third floor. Follow the signs.”

“Thanks.”

After settling up with the hospital cashier, Shea hobbled down the corridor, with Wendy and Jessica in tow.

“Where're we going?” asked Jessica.

“To see a friend.” Her leg hurt less than it had. Maybe the local was kicking in.

At the ICU nurses' station, she checked in with an RN named Marcy, according to her name badge.

“How's Derek Williams doing?”

Marcy looked up his information on the computer in front of her. “Are you family?”

“Yeah, he's my cousin,” Shea lied. “Why?”

“I'm sorry to tell you this, but Mr. Williams is in a coma.”

Sorrow consumed Shea. “What happened?”

“He had a seizure due to extreme blood loss.”

“He gonna live?”

“We're doing everything we can for him.” Marcy gave her an apologetic smile. Shea didn't want sympathy. She needed reassurances he would come out of this alive.

A husky man with dark skin, a wreath of graying hair, and dressed in a white lab coat sat on the other side of the nurses' station typing at a computer. Shea hobbled over there. “Dr. Patel?”

Marcy chased after her. “Ma'am, the doctor is occupied at the moment.”

Shea ignored her and planted herself in front of the doctor. “Are you Patel?”

“Yes,” he said with a slight Indian accent. “Can I help you?”

“You're taking care of my friend Derek Williams. He was shot.”

He scratched the top of his balding head. “Yes, I remember.”

“Is he gonna make it?”

“He's in a coma right now.”

“When will he come out of it?”

“It's hard to say. He's had a terrible trauma. He lost so much blood, his whole system has been impacted—his heart, his brain.”

“Did he say anything? Did he say how he got shot?”

“Not that I'm aware of. The police visited with him shortly before he went into the coma. I don't know if he told them anything or not.”

Anger and sorrow pressed on her chest, making it hard to breathe.
What had he said to me? “They made me?” Who? Who made him?

“Is there anything else I can do for you? I am very busy.”

“No. Thanks.”

Pressing against the crush of emotions, she walked to Derek's room and sat next to his bed. A large ventilator tube was taped over his mouth. A tangle of IVs and vital monitor leads were attached all over his body. On the plus side, his face had more color than when she'd seen him last. Seeing him, her leg hurt less. “Hey, kiddo, you gotta wake up and tell me who did this to you, so I can go kick their ass.”

Jessica kneeled down. “You okay, babe?”

Shea forced a grim smile. “I'll be all right.”

“Someone shot your friend?” Wendy's eyes darted around the room.

“Yeah. You know something about it?”

“No, why would I know anything?” She shifted from one foot to another, as if there was someplace else she wanted to be. “You don't think Hunter shot him, do you?”

“Whoever shot Derek robbed my shop and took the good stuff. They know motorcycle gear.” Shea ran her fingers through her hair. “And Hunter? I don't trust him as far as I can spit. So yeah, he's high on my list of suspects.”

Wendy's phone rang. “Speak of the devil.”

Shea pointed to the door. “Take it out in the hall. The nurses don't allow phone calls in the ICU.”

Wendy rushed out of the room and down the hall to answer the call.

Shea took a final look at Derek. “Get better, kid.” A lump formed in her throat. Her eyes met Jessica's. “Let's go see what Hunter is saying to Wendy.”

Shea and Jessica caught up to Wendy, who was by the elevators yelling at Hunter on the phone.

“What the fuck were you thinking, Hunter?”

Shea grabbed the phone from her. “Hey, asshole! Remember me?”

“Well, look who's still alive. I thought for sure the wetbacks got you.”

Her grip tightened. “Almost did, thanks to you.”

“Payback's a bitch, ain't it?”

“I guess you'll find out. You notice the security camera at the warehouse? They're gonna know you took their hex.”

“That's why I want Wendy here. Club's on lockdown.”

Shea looked at Wendy. “He wants you at the Church.”

Wendy leaned over and yelled at the phone. “Tell him to go fuck himself.”

“Hear that, asshole? You screwed things up. I only hope Annie's still alive.”

“Long as I got their dope, they ain't doing nothing to Annie.”

“You'd bet your child's life on that?”

He didn't say anything. Maybe he realized he wasn't so smart after all.

“What's your plan to get Annie back now?” she demanded.

“We'll pay the ransom.” Defeat dampened the tone of his voice. “But there ain't no way we can get four million dollars. A few hundred thousand, maybe.”

“I tried negotiating with the kidnapper. He ain't budging.”

“Try harder.”

“You try harder to get the four million. We only have one shot at this, so don't fuck it up.”

“You giving me orders, bitch?” he asked, getting back a little of his fire.

She hung up and tossed Wendy the phone.

“The kidnappers want four million dollars?” asked Jessica. “That's insane! Who has that kind of money?”

“The Confederate Thunder. At least the kidnappers think they do.”

“Why would they have four million dollars?”

“Because they are the biggest crank dealers in the state.”

“He gonna get the ransom?” Wendy asked when the elevator doors opened.

“So he says,” said Shea, keeping a wary eye on her sister.

“What about the Jaguars' heroin? They'll want that back, too, right?” Agitation and fear colored Wendy's face.

“I reckon. I'm surprised we haven't heard from the kidnapper about it. Maybe he don't know yet.” A new possibility occurred to Shea. “Or maybe the Jaguars ain't the ones who got Annie.”

“Not the Jaguars? If it ain't them, then who's got her?”

Shea shook her head. “I don't know. For now, Hunter needs to put the ransom together.”

“You said something about a church,” said Jessica. “What church?”

“It's what the Thunder calls their clubhouse,” Shea said. “Hunter wants everyone affiliated with the club there. The MC's on lockdown. Guess he's expecting blowback from the Jaguars.”

“All the more reason for you to let the cops handle it.” Jessica looked worried.

“We can't.” Shea stared at a smudge on the stainless steel doors. “They'll kill her.”

“And if you don't, they'll kill you.”

“It's a risk we gotta take. I grew up around punks like this. I can handle myself.” The doors opened. Wendy strolled out of the elevator toward the building's exit. Shea limped along as fast as she could, every step increasing the pain. Jessica put her arm around her and helped her to the parking lot. They found Wendy standing by her Mustang.

“Where are we going now?” asked Wendy.

“I wanna pick up my bike from the motel and go home.” Sympathy eroded Shea's resentment toward Wendy. “You're welcome to crash at our place if you want. Beats staying in that shitty motel or at the Church with your old man.”

Wendy offered a grim smile. “Thanks, I'd like that. I can give you a ride to the motel. I'll grab my stuff and you can pick up your bike.”

Jessica looked down at Shea's leg. “Can you ride?”

The anesthetic the doctor had injected into her leg was wearing off. But she didn't want to leave her bike at the motel any longer than necessary. “I'll manage.”

Jessica shrugged. “I'll head home and throw something together for dinner.” She kissed Shea. “Be careful. Keep the sunny side up.”

Despite the throbbing in her leg, Shea chuckled. “I think you mean, ‘Keep the shiny side up.' Biker talk for ‘Don't have an accident.' ”

She followed Wendy to her car and climbed into the passenger seat.

They arrived back at the motel at five in the afternoon. Shea retrieved her pistol from the glove box, wrestled herself out of the car, and hobbled toward her bike.

While Wendy grabbed her suitcase, Shea pulled on her helmet, zipped up her jacket, and threw her leg over the bike with a grunt. The engine roared to life and she hit the highway heading south to Sycamore Springs, with Wendy following behind in the Mustang.

The constant braking at intersections aggravated the stiffness and discomfort, making Shea want to grind her teeth. Once they got clear of the stoplights in Bradshaw City, the open road gave her leg a break.

The summer air, scented with the ginlike aroma of juniper, cooled while the late-afternoon sun dipped below the mountains. The sensation of flying low over the landscape calmed her. Wind therapy, as bikers called it. Her mind drifted, sorting out the chaos.

The kidnapper's Hispanic accent and threats of hanging Annie from a bridge had led Shea to believe he was a Jaguar. But then why hadn't he called about the stolen hex? And who had her bikes? Goblin had said one of the guys talked like a cop. Why would a member of the Jags team up with a cop for a heist? None of the pieces fit together.

She thought about Jessica's suggestion of calling the detectives.
God knows, I'm out of my depth.
Oscar Reyes had her business card and had probably seen her face on the security feed. How long before they tracked her down? Had she put Terrance and their employees at risk?

On the other hand, the kidnapper knew the detectives had met with them. If she told them what she knew, the kidnapper might find out. Then what would happen to Annie? She didn't want to think about it. Her best bet was to wait for Hunter to call to confirm he had the ransom.

Once she reached Sycamore Springs' Olde Towne, she stopped at the Rexall Drugs across the street from Iron Goddess. The lights were on in the motorcycle shop's showroom. She thought about checking in with Terrance, but her leg was getting worse by the minute. She wanted to pick up her pain meds, go home, and zone out.

Wendy poked her head out of the window of her car. “Why are we stopping?”

“Gotta pick up the pain meds for my leg.”

“Can't we get 'em tomorrow?” She looked impatient.

“Not if I wanna sleep tonight. Just chill. I'll be out in a minute.”

Shea limped past the unmanned front register and the displays for sunscreen and bath products.

“We're closed.” Her friend Aracelli was sweeping the floor near the pharmacy counter, her back to Shea. She turned around. “Oh, Shea! I was just locking up.”

“Do a favor for a friend?” Shea limped over to her.

“What'd you do to your leg?”

“Road rash.”

“Ouch!” Aracelli winced.

“You mind filling a prescription for pain meds before you close?”

“Sure.”

Shea reached into her outside jacket pocket. The prescription wasn't there. She checked the outside pocket on the other side. Empty. She checked the pockets inside her jacket and in her shredded jeans. It wasn't there either. “Crap!”

“What's wrong?”

“Can't find the damn scrip.”
Was it with the rest of the paperwork the hospital gave me?
“Never mind. I'll get it tomorrow.”

“Sorry. You want something over the counter?”

“No, I'll be all right.” She walked out wanting to kick something. If her leg hadn't hurt so much, she would have.

“Follow me,” she told Wendy as she hopped back onto her bike.