Page 3 of Thunder Road

Contacting the spirits drained energy, and the longer the connection or the more difficult the spirit was to reach, the faster the medium was depleted. Simon had learned the hard way to manage his gift so that he didn’t end up flat on his back or so tired that it took days to recover.

Pete grinned. “How’s Vic adapting to married life?”

“We’re both finding it’s not quite as different as we expected.” Simon finished his coffee and set the insulated cup aside. “At least so far.”

“I’m the wrong person to know,” Pete said. “Still footloose and fancy-free.”

“Don’t let Mikki hear you say that.”

“Mikki’s the one who’s allergic to weddings. I’m working on him.”

Pete stayed up front while Simon went to the office and checked his schedule. He had several readings for customers in the morning, a meeting at the Grand Strand Sculpture Gardens after lunch to discuss a Halloween event, and a reminder to leave early for dinner with Vic.

“We got a call from a guy named Carter Edwards, the president of one of the motorcycle clubs,” Pete said from the doorway. “He wants you to contact some of their members who have passed away.”

“Accidents? Unusual circumstances?”

“He didn’t say,” Pete replied. “But he seemed really nervous. Like it was a big deal to him.”

“Fine. Go ahead and set something up. I’m intrigued.” Few things involving the dead constituted a true emergency that couldn’t wait. Simon had a hunch that the request was more than it seemed, and he had learned to go with his intuition.

“He asked to talk to you as soon as possible. You have an open spot marked ‘office’ this morning—can you meet with him then?” Pete asked.

“Yeah. This time. Don’t want to make a habit of it.”

“I’ll let him know,” Pete said.

“Did you get the name of the club?”

Pete handed him a sheet from the phone notepad. “They’re the Low Rangers. I looked them up—his number and the club website are on the paper. Already did a little checking. Fromwhat I found, back in the eighties they were quite a wild bunch—got in trouble with the law, raised some hell, were the bad boys of the Grand Strand.

“Then they went straight, after some of their members died in rumbles or went to prison,” Pete went on. “Now they do charity fundraisers, holiday food bank drives, help out at senior centers, and volunteer to rehabilitate rescue dogs. Vic could probably tell you more.”

Simon thought through what Pete said because his sixth sense pinged. “So the members cleaned up their act and do a lot of things that could be viewed as absolution,” he mused. “When you said members died, was that in fights with other clubs, accidents, cops, or what?”

Pete leaned against the counter. “It depends on who wrote the story. All of those have been mentioned, especially in the early days. But one article claimed that the Low Rangers allegedly made a deal withsomethingback in the day to save the club members from dying in a gang war. The price has been one life a year ever since.”

Simon raised his eyebrows. “One life a year? For how long?”

“Since the eighties,” Pete replied. “So of course I had to verify, and I found a list of names and dates. They all check out as being real people, real club members, and really dead—or rather missing and presumed dead.”

“Cause of death?”

“Vanished without a trace; never seen again.” Pete shot him a self-satisfied smile at his research skills. “Sounds like a bad bargain to me.”

Simon caught his breath. “That matches a lot of dangerous stories. Demon deal, Wild Hunt.”

“Those came to mind.”

“Forty-some people gone missing? Maybe dead. Why does anyone join the club? Why don’t they all quit?” Simon’s mind reeled.

“The Low Rangers draw from cyclists with a rough past,” Pete said. “They’ve always been a criminal gang—except now they’re reformed outlaws. All of them have done jail time. They aren’t choir boys, but they’re also not looking for trouble anymore. I guess people join to make up for their past. The legends say that the peace arrangement forged by the Rangers is why there hasn’t been a gang war since then in Myrtle Beach.”

“It makes sense,” Simon replied. “And I could see the club as welcoming. Back in the day, there were monasteries that offered a chance to do good work within a community that would maintain accountability. People could contribute without being out in the larger world by making wine, copying manuscripts, that sort of thing.”

“Not as many options now,” Pete agreed. “And there’s a fatalistic romance to taking your chances over being the next sacrifice for a good cause, especially if you don’t think your life is worth much otherwise.”

Simon believed the club members’ lives had value, but he understood why someone who had a lifelong run of bad circumstances could conclude otherwise.

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