Lawyer Trap

18





DAY THREE–SEPTEMBER 7

WEDNESDAY NIGHT


After dark, Draven drove around Pueblo with Gretchen seated next to him, her leg pressed against his. Country-western played on the radio. She showed him where each of the bikers lived. Draven wasn’t sure yet whether he’d kill them, screw them up, or just leave them alone.

Maybe he’d let Gretchen decide.

“Do you want them dead or just messed up?” he asked.

She pondered it.

“Dead,” she said. “I’ve pictured it in my mind a hundred times. I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, though.”

Draven considered the pros and cons both ways.

“It probably isn’t,” he said. “At least not right off the bat. But if we don’t kill them, they can’t know you’re involved.”

She exhaled and fidgeted in the seat.

“I’m not afraid of them,” she said.

“Well, you should be. Which one do you hate the most?”

She answered immediately.

“Two Bits,” she said. “The guy you flushed.”

“Fine. We’ll start with him.”

They parked down the street from Two-Bits’ crappy little rental house and drank Jack Daniels from Draven’s flask in the dark as they waited for the a*shole to return home.

Lightning crackled in the distance and then it rained.

Gretchen ran her finger down the scar on Draven’s face.

“So how’d you get this?” she asked.

He shrugged.

“Hell if I know,” he said.

She kissed it.

“I like it,” she said.

He smiled.

“Good, because I don’t think it’s going to wash off or anything.” He played with her hair. “What about you? You got any scars?”

“I’m not telling,” she said. “You have to check for yourself.”

“Careful,” he said. “I will.”

She unbuttoned her blouse.

“Do it then.”

He laughed.

“It’s too dark,” he said. “I can’t see anything.”

She took his hand and put it on her breast.

“Just feel for them, then.”

Not more than ten seconds later a headlight came down the street, jiggling and bobbing, unmistakably a motorcycle. Then the deep roar of the engine cut through the rain.

“Company,” Draven said.

Draven waited until the a*shole killed the engine and stepped off the bike. Then he walked out of the shadows and cut the jerk off before he reached the front door.

“You pissed all over my carpet,” Draven said. “That wasn’t very nice.”

The biker tried to focus.

Too drunk to place him.

Then the confusion dropped off his face and he charged.

Even in the rain he smelled like alcohol and smoke.

Draven punched him in the face repeatedly until he fell to the ground. Then he straddled him and punched him another ten times, until his knuckles bled. The man withered under him, hardly able to even moan.

“This is your only warning,” Draven said. “Tell your friends too.”

He was standing up when a figure appeared.

Gretchen.

Carrying a rock in her right hand, the size of a softball.

She brought it down on the biker’s head as hard as she could.

The guy’s skull cracked.

Then he gurgled and stopped moving.

“Shit!” Draven said. “What are you doing?”

Gretchen just stood there, frozen.

He looked around.

Then grabbed her by the arm and pulled her towards the car.

“Come on!” he said.

She dropped the rock.

He stopped long enough to pick it up.

Ten miles away, out in the sticks, he threw it out the window.