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I didn’t even know I planned to leave until the shoes were on my feet. Apparently, I was going out. I wanted to see the garage and the leaky valve. Reassure myself. An accident made sense. Murder didn’t. Who would want to kill me?
Given the hour, I grabbed my red sweater before clucking my tongue. “Coming?” I asked my dog as I stood at the front door, eyeballing the cans of pepper spray. I ended up grabbing one for each hand.
Blade stood at the far end of the living room and whined.
“I know it’s dark. You don’t have to come. I just want a quick peek.”
The mournful noise almost changed my mind.
“Get the bed warm for me, baby. I’ll be right back.”
Closing and locking the front door, I moved quickly from my property to the fence, then the garage, setting off two cameras on my path. Only as I punched in my code did I pause to wonder how Brayden had gotten inside to save me. He’d told me about fixing the door to my house, which he’d admitted to kicking in. But what of this one? It didn’t appear busted.
Could it be that, feeling the poison, I’d tried to escape and opened the door, only to collapse? It would explain how my dog had gotten out, and Brayden had gotten in.
The side door to the garage opened easily, and I entered but hesitated before flipping on the switch. Gas and electricity didn’t mix. I took a big sniff and detected nothing. The rotten-egg smell of propane and natural gas was distinctive. Still, just in case, I headed for the roll-up door and heaved it high. It exposed me, but at least I could be assured of breathing fresh air. Only then did I finally turn on the lights.
Blinded by the sudden brightness, I blinked before I could glance around for the supposed leaky valve. Few things used propane in this space. I kept a few hand torches but those didn’t have enough in a canister to hurt. The only other thing that used gas was the heating unit for the garage, mounted into the wall for easy venting. I moved my fingers over the compact furnace with the ductwork sprawling out from it in a metal trifecta of conduits.
Someone had capped off the unit’s gas connection, and the red tag read today’s date with a brief description of the problem.Faulty hose. Didn’t sound like attempted murder to me. More like simple maintenance. Never mind the fact that I’d had the fucking thing serviced when I bought the place. Could be rodents had gotten to the gas line, or maybe I’d gotten a faulty hose. It happened.
Turning from the furnace, my gaze fell on the bike, looking even further along than I recalled. It truly went together like a dream. I barely remembered rebuilding the motor.
Once my eyes hit the bike, I had to approach, admiring the metallic sheen that had emerged from the filth. Not the silvery gray as expected. Even cleaned, the composition remained dark. A neat trick that seemed to preclude a need for paint.
I ran my fingers over the slick lines of it, impressed. In no time at all, I’d be ready to fire up the engine. I only waited on a few parts, the seat being the most important because I’d not found any damage other than a need for a good cleaning and oiling.
The wolf head hood at the front of the bike offered a menacing countenance that, like the body, didn’t appear to require paint. The dark metallic sheen was already glossy. Its lines sleek.
Riding it would be a rush. I couldn’t wait.
The bike remained firmly clamped, so I had no qualms about straddling it. The lack of a cushioned seat meant the bracket pushed against my crotch as I gingerly crouched and gripped the bars. At the contact, there was an instant tingle. I tilted my head back and relaxed. Tried to imagine the motor purring and the wind on my visor—not my face because the law said I had to wear a bobblehead helmet. Once I bought one. I’d hated all the styles I’d seen thus far.
The gruff yet familiar voice jolted. “Get off the bike. Can’t you see I’m working on it?”
CHAPTER16
How could I be dreaming?I’d just closed my eyes. No way had I fallen asleep sitting on the bare frame of the bike.
A glance showed me still sitting on the bracket and Mahoney scowling at me, part of the bike in his hands. The next piece to go on, as a matter of fact.
“Why won’t you go away?” I complained.
“I could say the same.” He crouched and ignored me to reattach the clamp that I’d pulled off days before.
“What are you doing?” I asked as he went back for another piece.
“Putting my bike together.”
“That’s my project.” A petulant reply.
“Wrong, lady. This’s my ride.”
“You abandoned your ride in the scrapyard. It became mine when I bought it.”
“Still persisting in that story?”
“Yes, because it’s true. You’re just a psychic ghost haunting my dreams because you have an interesting and tragic backstory.”
