"Well, well. Look who we have here. Anna W. Strong."
Harris.
No. Don't look around. Don't stop. Kill him. He's a murderer.
I take another step forward.
"Anna? What's wrong with you?"
The guy in the window finds his voice. "Help me. The bitch is nuts. Look at her eyes."
I sense Harris come closer. He can't know. It stops me. I straighten. Close my eyes. Calm the wild beating of my heart. Jaw relaxes, fists unclench.
When Harris touches my arm, the human Anna is back in control.
"What are you doing here?" He jabs a thumb toward the guy in the window. "I know it's not him. He hasn't been charged with anything. Yet."
"David and I-" I let the explanation hang, drag my eyes toward the window where the guy is being pulled back inside by a couple of cops.
He isn't protesting.
"Who is he? What's he done?"
Harris waits until the cops inside yell that they've got him before answering. "His name is Joe Black. A couple of hours ago, he murdered his wife and her boyfriend. We got a tip that he rides with the Angels. Took a chance we'd find him here."
He turns and motions for me to follow. I do, reluctantly, processing the fact that I knew Black had spilled blood before Harris' words confirmed it.
When we're back in front of the bar, I ask, "Why are you here, Harris? Out of your jurisdiction, isn't it?"
He shrugs without answering, instead issuing instructions to the cops holding Black. They cuff him, read him his rights and shove him into a waiting patrol car. The rest of the cops still have their guns trained on the Angels, all facedown on the dirt.
Harris snaps an order and the cops withdraw to their waiting cars.
I watch as the bikers climb silently to their feet and shuffle back into the bar. No one so much as glances in Harris' direction. They've danced this dance before. They know how cops operate. If they'd done anything less than cooperate, the cops would have torn the bar apart. They'd have searched every biker. Guns, dope, illegal contraband. They know what's at stake. Better to take a little shit from the cops than let things go too far. Unwritten biker code: the good of the many outweighs the good of the one.
In a minute, the music is back on, so loud the building shakes.
The patrol cars pull out. The Ford with Black follows. Harris and I are left alone in the parking lot. He turns his attention to me.
"You didn't answer my question. What are you doing here?"
Harris is about five feet ten inches of bulldog. Past experience has shown that there's no way to blow him off. I don't bother to mention that I'd asked him the same question a minute before. And that he'd ignored it. Instead I reply, "David and I had a job. He's on his way downtown with the guy now."
He looks around. "I don't see your car."
"What are you, a detective? I was just about to call for a ride."
He shakes his head. "Your partner left you here? I know you're a pain in the butt, but I can't see that overgrown Boy Scout dumping your ass in a biker bar even if you deserved it. Which I have no doubt you did. So what's the story? Why'd you stay behind?"
There's no way to explain why I stayed-especially to a human. I'm not sure I can explain it to myself. "Look, you got me. I pissed David off and he left."
Harris looks surprised at the answer. And aggravated. Which aggravates me. "David knows I can take care of myself. I don't need anyone to protect me."
The cynical twist of Harris' mouth takes a downturn. "I'll take you back to town. Get in the car."
His condescending tone sparks a maelstrom of indignation. The instinct to show him just how well I can protect myself is drowned by the more rational desire to get home. I need to think through what happened tonight. I need to talk about it with Lance and see if he has an explanation for a human exerting such influence over me. I might have killed Black if Harris hadn't appeared. I wanted to. Why? Because I knew he was a killer?
How did I know?
How could I have known? The smell of blood could have meant he was a victim not a killer. And yet, I had no doubt which he was.
Harris is at the car, holding open the door, tapping his foot and frowning like an annoyed parent who caught his kid out after curfew.
It takes all my willpower to resist the desire to grab his foot and dump him on his impatient ass.
I shrug off the impulse.
He's a human. A cop, no less.
And I can use the ride.
"Okay, okay. Let's go."
