The Deer Effect by Susan Wingate

The Deer Effect - Chapter Twenty-three

TWENTY-THREE

“THERE.” THE TALLER ONE YELLED over the Harleys’ clattering engines, pointing with his right arm as they passed it. He indicated a narrow dirt road off the main artery they drove as they ran north, out of town, into a glitzy area at the tip of the island where yachters spent summers and celebrities occasioned.

The road looked more like a path not intended for motor vehicles, more like for walking.

They came to a slow stop on the side and circled back.

“Let's see what this leads to.”

Both men looked young. Too young for such an attempt to cover the truth, to cover their guilt. But, there they were, pulling off the main thoroughfare and down a gravelly, loamy, narrow wooded road full of twists that bent south then north and once more to the south. They were hoping to find a proper burial ground.

The bikers moved with caution as they bumped over jagged rotting branches and stones. Crushing ochre pinecones and lichen of the palest green along the way causing the woodsy perfume to burst in a spicy balm that filled the air leaving a trail for anyone who might be pursuing them.

The biker in front lifted off his seat, standing fully on his pedals, and the man behind him copied. They rode slowly, for fear of losing traction and being knocked down onto the rough terrain.

After nearly a mile, they spotted an old rusted-out car. The rust looked as though someone had dusted it with dry, crushed ginger. In the body style appeared to be made in the 1950s.

What seemed odd to the boys was its cover, an old mottled Army-grade canvas whose original green was now bruised with black mold and warted with mushrooms and an odd array of fungi.

Rough weather had yanked the neglected canvas off in such a manner that it hung off the car’s shoulders like a harlot's blouse. A mullion splitting the glass made the window appear like two dark eyes, the hood ornament a nose, and the grill a stupid smile.

As they approached the broken down heap, they slowed then finally stopped next to the car. The silence roared in their ears.

They hadn't spoken. They hadn't needed to. Their breathing said everything. A fine mist ghosted in front of their faces waited like bubbles that would soon contain words.

“Like minds.” The taller man spoke in a whisper.

“What're we doin'?”

“Same thing whoever left that old hunk of garbage was doing.”

“What's that?”

“We're dumping your bike.”

“The hell we are!” The shorter man unsnapped his chin strap and twisted his helmet off his head. His hair was coiled upward and stuck there.

“Yours hit her,” the taller man reasoned. “She's dead. You do the math, ace.”

“This is just wrong.” The redhead replaced his helmet, leaving the chin straps detached.

“We'll double up.”

“I don't want to leave my bike here.” He scratched at his bister locks. “Hell! I don't want to leave my bike, period!” His chin trembled.

“Look. Shut your face. Yours has evidence all over it. Probably skin and blood.” The thought of it made the taller man sick. “Definitely tracks. We're leaving your bike or I'll go straight to the cops and turn your butt in!”

“Oh man. This is just flippin’ lousy.”

“Yeah. Tell it to her. Hell, tell it to the judge.”

The shorter guy got off his bike and rolled it deeper into the bedding of rubble—stones, twigs, mud and a scrap of oxidized chicken wire laced with barbed wire.

The taller guy walked alongside him. “Put it over here.” He pointed toward the back end of the abandoned car. “Under the tarp.”

“Great.” The other guy shook his head in disgust. His straggled hair that appeared crimson in the dark forest. “Just great.”

His friend lifted the car's cover by pinching it between his first finger and thumb. “Let me, priss.” The redhead slid his bike up next to the car and then angrily pulled the tarp out of the other guy's hand, up and over his bike, causing a spray of moisture to kick back into their faces.

“Good God, you idiot!”

“Whatever. Look. You'd be sore too if it was your bike we were leaving under there.”

They glared at each other before turning back to the remaining bike. The redhead followed. The taller man mounted the saddle and ordered, “Get on.”