Page 31 of Property of Saint

What do I do now?No longer tired and now fully awake, I’m already feeling bored. Did Saint forget to restrain me when he left the room, or is my newfound freedom an invitation to explore?

Whatever. I’m no meek mouse. I’m a trained investigator and bodyguard, and I’m well able to protect myself. I’ll take advantage of the opportunity offered to me.

Again, I stare into the mirror.What would I do if there were no people downstairs, the front door wide open… Would I just walk out onto the street?It’s actually not an easy question to answer. My injuries don’t make me easily recognisable; my purse and identity joined the conflagration that ended my car. Which means I’ve no way to prove who I may or may not be, especially as Phillipa Owens has been declared dead. And no money to start over, my bank accounts would be frozen by now. Placing my palms to my temples, I press in hard, trying to stop the ache that my thought processes cause. Truthfully, I’ve no idea what I should even be thinking, let alone doing now. Even if I find an open door and a clear path to freedom, I’ve no idea whether I want to start a new life or try to pick up the strands of my old one.

The only thing I am sure of is that I’m not going to wait here like a victim. If it turns out I’m not allowed on my own in the clubroom, or if they think that, at a snail’s pace, I’m trying to escape and I end up hastening my own demise, well, so be it. There’s also the slight chance that I can humanise myself and make them less likely to kill me. Slight chance? Slim to nothing more like, but anything is worth a try.

Straightening my back, I invade Saint’s drawers, then shrug the clean oversized tee that I’ve found around me, and pull up the too-large sweats I discover, rolling the waistband over and over until the bottom of the legs at least clear the floor. Satisfied I’m decent at least, using the crutches, I open the door to the hallway, and, once I’m sure the way is clear, progress toward the stairwell. As I near it, voices flow up to me, but distant and indistinct. I immediately forgo any thought of any attempt to escape.

Straining my ears, I try to see if I can distinguish Saint’s voice, knowing I’d feel easier if he were there to greet me, terrified to come face-to-face with Freak. But the sounds are a murmur, punctuated by the click of balls from the pool table, the giggle of women, and the heavy beat of rock music.

I edge down carefully, trying not to topple over on my crutches while also being quiet, hoping to get a good view of what I’m walking into before committing myself to enter the fray. I’m three-quarters of the way down when there’s a heavy banging, the noise immediately identifiable as men knocking on an external door.

Freezing, I wait. The music turns off, there are multiple comments, of “what the fuck?” Then a scrabbling which makes me grin, picturing men hiding anything incriminating. Finally, after the loud knocking comes again, footsteps now easily heard over the silence are followed by the banging of an opening door.

“What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

I know that voice. It’s Bullseye.

Risking peering over the banister, I see a man wearing a badge, trying to peer around the large form of the Kings of Anarchy prez. “Wanna talk to a Jeremiah Henley.”

“Jeremiah?” I suspect Bullseye’s brows have raised to his hairline from his posture. “What fucking handle is that?”

“Don’t fuck with me, boy,” the sheriff sneers out disrespectfully. “You know fucking well who I’m talking about.” He shakes his head, then spells it out. “Goes by the name of Saint.”

There are chuckles all around the room, a gentle ribbing about a biker who’s called Jeremiah, while I’m trying to consolidate my rescuer with such an innocuous name.

The sheriff starts losing his patience. “Where the fuck is he?”

“You got an appointment?” At Bullseye’s words, the room erupts into laughter.

“I’ll be back with a warrant with his name on it if I don’t talk to him now,” the sheriff spits out, obviously unimpressed.

Then the man who’s saved me twice now steps into sight. “I’m Saint.” He moves closer to the lawman. “Won’t answer to any other name. Now what the fuck do you want to talk to me about?”

I can’t resist leaning over to get a better view of the proceedings. It’s clear to see how the sheriff puffs his chest out, and, pointing to Saint, instructs, “I’d like you to accompany me down to the precinct.”

Nonchalantly, Saint folds his arms over his chest and plants his feet wide apart. “Am I under arrest? And if so, may I ask, for what fuckin’ crime?”

Suddenly, half a dozen bikers are at Saint’s back, and Bullseye is standing alongside him. The sheriff visibly starts to lose some of his confidence. He clears his throat and stutters, “You, you…” He falters, shakes his head, then continues more firmly, “You’ve been identified as being at a crime scene.”

“At a crime scene?” One of the club’s officers steps forward. “As a witness or accused of committing a crime?”

“I just need him to come down to the station to talk?—”

“Not gonna happen,” Bullseye interrupts. “Unless you’ve got that warrant you said you could get.”

Interested, I try to move forward to get a better sight of the proceedings and nearly lose one of my crutches in the process. Managing the save makes my heart beat in my chest as I realise the implications of attracting the sheriff’s attention. My face made the news enough when I was thought to be alive. Now dead? It would be showing up all over the place. If I wanted to save myself from the Kings, maybe this would be the time, but now the opportunity has presented itself, the last thing I want to do is to make my presence known. Don’t ask me why, even I can’t analyse my feelings just now.

As my heart rate slows, I realise I’ve missed some of the argument. It’s the sheriff’s voice I hear who’s clearly lost patience.

“Bullseye? Either you tell your man to come with me to answer some questions, or I will return, not only with a warrant for his arrest but also with one to conduct a search of every inch of your clubhouse.”

Oh shit.That threat again makes my heart pound. They are sure to find me in that case… unless the Kings get rid of me first.

“I’ve got a lot of respect for the law.” Bullseye’s assertion rings hollow to my ears, and also to a number of his brothers as measured by the chuckles that go around. Undeterred, he continues, “But I ain’t letting any brother of mine be taken in for ‘questioning,’” he waggles his fingers, “without knowing on what grounds, and what kind of legal support he might need.”

The sheriff huffs, shakes his head, then states, “Would it help if I confirm we want to question him as a witness, rather than being implicated in any crime. We’ve reason to believe he’s a possible witness to a fatal accident.”

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