Page 64 of Race With The Devil

EPILOGUE

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It was at last warm enough to break ground on the new Hang Town Ranch in Arizona.

Because we were located on Mescal Mesa near Knoxie’s homestead—he’d given us fifteen acres to thank us for helping Lyric—the possibility of snow stuck around through April. We were located so close to the Citadel, the construction hangar on Mescal Mesa, that I could fly my Piper in and out of their decrepit field, then walk home. Unity had bubbled about the groundbreaking ceremony for months and the day was here. Our friends gathered on the bluff where the outdoor training ring was being built, contractors laying down fake turf while we goofed off.

The building of our house was actually taking a back seat to the training facility, so just the framework had been accomplished while Unity and I lived in a trailer. Bobo Segrist and Wild Man had dragged a wood-fired grill up the road and were barbecuing cod and shrimp atop a pile of rocks like they were king of the hill. Speed and Fox were stringing up a bunch of caution tape between a couple of gnarled juniper trees so that Slushy would have something to cut for the groundbreaking ceremony. He’d been wandering around agitated for an hour carrying a giant pair of scissors. He’d eventually sat down in a lawn chair and was now petting the ears of my brown and white Newfoundland, Paddington. There were seven other permanent resident dogs in St. Louis who would transfer to Arizona when the sale went through.

“I love opening ceremonies,” said Slushy for the hundredth time.

Ford said, “He just loves cutting the ribbon. Slushy, how long’s Woodstock going to be in the big house for?”

A Bare Boner, Tim Woodstock, had been sent away on a third strike for punching a Domino’s delivery guy because his pizza didn’t have garlic knots on it. Woodstock had proudly shown everyone his mug shot. He’d been wearing a T-shirt that said “I’m out of my mind. Please leave a message.” So the perennial Prospect, Sock Monkey, had been finally patched in, leaving a Prospect opening for guess who. Me. I was still on pins and needles wondering what else the club had in store for me other than cleaning toilets at the Bum Steer and guarding the rides at out-of-town meetings. Oh, and only riding the pink and purple chopper belonging to Sapphire, Faux Pas’ teenaged daughter.

They knew I was going to med school in addition to overseeing the new Hang Town Ranch, and so far, I think they were going easy on me. I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Thank God for the direction and help of Unity, who had quit Doggie Style to open a grooming parlor and boarding kennel at the ranch. She had brought a couple of her cannabusiness sponsors with her, proud to be associated with an enterprise that helped dogs and underprivileged people. My old assistants in St. Louis, Curly and Josie, were buttoning up that operation and would be here any day. I’d need another trailer for them.

“Two years, tops,” said Slushy. “Which means that with overcrowding from illegal immigrants, he’s out in ten months. Still, that’s a long time to miss a productive member.”

Ford grinned at me. Damn, that man was handsome. That’s the only word you could use. Handsome, like his half-brother Lytton. Ford Illuminati was just born to control an empire. “We’re gaining another productive member of society.”

I ran my hand through my hair and said modestly, “Well, I don’t know how much you’re gaining in me. I can give someone CPR, or a PET scan if I had the equipment. Maybe brain surgery eventually.”

Maddy poo-poohed me. “Oh, it’s not brain surgery or anything,” she mocked.

Lytton said, “You did the hugest service to the club by getting rid of that evil chemist, Tutti Morgan.” Lytton was also known as Dr. Driving Hawk due to his PhD in chemistry. “His fake weed Spice concoction was literally sheer poison. I can’t believe that shit is legal, but recreational pot isn’t.”

Maddy said, “Oh, Tanner. I have a little more information from Dr. Stofferahn on the body parts you brought back, if you want to hear.”

The murder of Lavinia Dock seemed like ages ago, but I knew I’d always be curious if I didn’t hear her out. Unity was safely a hundred yards away directing the installation of fake turf, so she didn’t need to be traumatized all over again. “Sure.”

“She had blunt force trauma to the head prior to being shoved over the edge. And, of course, her hands being cuffed meant she couldn’t break her fall. But listen to this weirdness. She died of a heart attack before hitting the bottom. I know how the heart reacts when it’s startled."

“Yeah,” I said. “She could’ve been so unprepared for him to shove her off, even if she was handcuffed. Restraint adds another layer of stress to cardiac arrest. It’s like capture myopathy.”

“Right,” said Maddy.

“That’s why I’ll never restrain or cuff Unity in any way.”

“Good point,” said Maddy. “Fear can be deadly.”

Lytton snorted. “I respect your decision, but I wouldn’t get far with June if I didn’t cuff her.”

Slushy made a lip fart. He seemed to become very cynical when anyone mentioned sex or love. He’d recently become separated once again from Yvonne Serpico, Roman’s mother. “I’ve got news for you. Even if Tutti Morgan had lived, they would’ve charged him under the Kingpin Statute, which is ginormous. They just have to prove four things, which in his case would’ve been as easy as pissing a bed. First, he had to have committed a series of three or more drug offenses. Done. Then, he has to commit them while working with at least five people. Done. Did he organize and supervise those people?”

“Done,” said Lytton.

Slushy shot him with a finger gun. “And last. Did he make substantial income from the business?”

Ford said, “You saved a lot of people’s lives by getting rid of him. He had some psychotic murderous bent to kill unknown people with his concoctions.”

Maddy added, “And the ATF determined that Mexican drug dealers had cut her open, thinking she was a drug mule.”

“I will tell you,” said Santiago Slayer, approaching us slightly weaving, holding a plastic champagne glass, of all things. Of course, he wouldn’t take the red beer cups the rest of us had. But I had no idea where he’d found a champagne glass. “23andMe sent me back the DNA results.”

Slushy grinned. “Oh yeah? Did they tell you you’re related to Ferdinand III, the King of Castile?”

Slayer frowned, sticking out his lower lip. “What? No, no. The DNA sampling cannot go back that far. Although, if it could, I am sure I’d be related to—“