Page 6 of Spooked
Bullet cackles. “You’ve got a fuckin’ phone, Bro.”
I do. But I also have to try to remember how to take photos. My job is,was, to protect the club. I usually don’t have time, reason, or need to document my life through pictures. I suppose it’s just point and snap, and hope for the best.
One thing’s for certain. When I take on a job, I do it to the best of my ability and beyond. I’m determined to get SD Construction all that they need.
Bullet, Shooter and I shoot the shit for a while, then, knowing they’re busy, I take my leave. As I exit the company office building, I’m certain this is work that’s been conjured out of nowhere just to placate me. If every other firm in the vicinity turned this job down, then I doubt SDC has any expectation of taking it on. Then again, beggars can’t be choosers, and I’d rather be doing something, anything, than nothing at all.
Tomorrow I’m going to go to this ruined mansion and document every fucking brick, every stone, every wall. If nothing else, it will keep me occupied and away from the compound for the day. My club should feel like home, but right now, being there makes me feel less than useless.
CHAPTER FOUR
HOUND
Since the accident, I haven’t slept well. Even out of the hospital, without nurses checking me every five minutes, I still can’t relax and sleep. Last night was no exception. The pains in my leg keep me from being able to find a comfortable position, and there’s always a constant dull throb in my head. That fact I keep to myself, not wanting to admit even to myself that I might have a lasting brain injury.
Although unrested, I awake the next morning feeling better than I have for a long while.I’ve something to do. A direction to go in.I’m even polite and refrain from snapping anyone’s head off when I go down to the clubhouse and partake of the breakfast Sam and the other old ladies have lovingly prepared.
Stomach full, I head out in the blazing sunlight, putting on sunglasses to shield my eyes and slipping a ball cap on. Then, with more than a tinge of envy, I hop/swing on my crutches as I pass my brothers getting their bikes ready for a ride. Heading on down to the compound entrance, I make my way to the rear of the shop where the club’s four-wheel vehicles are stored. With the Arizona weather, most of us use our bikes year-round, and there’s not really a reason for any of us to own cages. A few brothers have tricked-out trucks, and most of the old ladies havetheir own cars, even the ones who have their own motorcycles, due to the need to ferry kids and grandkids around. Like the majority of my brothers, I don’t own anything other than my hog, so I appreciate that the club has a couple of SUVs available for anyone’s use.
It’s my left leg that was shattered, so I have full use of my right. The only problem I have getting into the cage is trying to stow my crutches and then manoeuvring myself to get into the driver’s seat with a left leg unable to bear weight or bend.
Sweat appears on my forehead, having achieved the task. I take a couple of moments to catch my breath and use them to check the file I’d been given, then program the address I need into the navigation system. Despite being in a cage, I feel a sense of independence and freedom as I select drive, then make my way out of the compound, heavy metal on the radio turned up loud.
In this day and age, I trust the GPS to guide me, and just obey its instructions without really taking notice of the destination I’m heading to. I’m neither surprised nor disappointed as the road takes me into the foothills of the Catalina Mountains and into a forested area.Damn.I must have passed the entrance, as I know I’ve headed long past where the GPS had told me I’d arrived. I do a convoluted three-point, well, probably closer to a five-point turn on the narrow road, and head back the way I’d come. Driving more slowly, I peer through the trees, and eventually, on my left, see an opening more by luck than anything. Backing up a few feet, I steer the car in that direction, then swear as I come up to a chained and padlocked gate.
The lock doesn’t bother me. Shooter had given me a set of keys yesterday, and one is certain to fit. But it’s the effort it’s going to take to get out of the car, traverse the uneven ground, and open a gate that looks like it hasn’t been touched in ages.Undergrowth has grown up around it, entwining itself around the rails and providing a natural deterrent to keep people out.
My optimism that I might not be in the right place fades as I see a broken sign hanging lopsided from a post.Sullivan House.It announces exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Shit, fuck and damnation.For a second, I’m tempted to call for help, but I’ve been enough of a drag on the club recently, unable to do my job or hold my own. This is a task that’s been assigned to me, and me only. I’ll be damned if I give up at the first hurdle.
I do pause to take a picture of what I’m faced with. After all, Bullet and Shooter had asked for a complete portfolio on the house, and they need to know the lengths I’ve gone through to satisfy them.Maybe they’ll grovel after the event. Opening my door, I reverse the process I used to get inside. Crutches under me, I pick my way carefully across the rutted track. Feeling unbalanced and wary of crashing over if my crutch slips into a hole, I approach the gate, momentarily hoping I don’t have the right key on the ring I’m carrying. But luck is, or maybe not, on my side, as the padlock opens with a few backward and forward jiggling motions. Not so much the gate, that’s stuck, held in place by the greenery.
I start to examine it, wondering if I need to return for a machete to hack my way through, but notice, although voluminous, the individual vines aren’t thick. New growth, by the look of it. Recalling the picture I’d seen taken of the house, someone must have passed this way within the past few months or not much more. My knife should be able to handle it.
Which is easier than it sounds balanced on just one leg, and it takes me about three times as long as it would have if I had use of both lower limbs. But eventually I’ve cleared it, and managed to push the reluctant gate open, which protests the movement with loud creaks.
Now it’s back to the car, re-stowing my crutches and situating myself inside, something that takes far more effort than it should.
Minutes later, I’m driving along a paved road that has definitely seen better days. Weeds are numerous, and potholes abound, making me glad the club owns the four-wheel-drive SUV and that it’s not in my name. If the suspension gets jacked, then we have the skills to replace it.
The road winds through the low-hanging trees, some lower branches and leaves brushing against the windshield, but I carefully make my way on, slowly, as I don’t want to damage the glass. I’m peering ahead when the vegetation clears and the house comes into sight.
House is too informal a name for it. Just like the picture had shown, it’s an imposing mansion, the style of which is not common in Arizona, where adobe buildings are more the norm. Sweeping around the weed-covered semi-circular driveway, I pull up at the front door. After staring at the impressive portal in wonder, I get out of the car, crutches supporting me as I try to hold my phone in one hand to take the pictures that will show the state of the building in front of me.
To my amateurish eyes, it looks sound, as if it’s survived a couple of hundred years and will live for two hundred more. The frontage is impressive, with columns supporting the elaborate canopy. The double front door, topping the three marble steps, is both welcoming and forbidding at the same time. It feels like a consequential moment as I clamber up the stairs, select the correct key, insert it into the lock and turn it. After a shove and a groan, the door opens to reveal an aged, but still ornate interior. For a second, I almost expect a butler to approach me, to ask for my card and tell me to wait while he goes to find the lady or master of the house.
I chuckle to myself as there’s no welcome except for silence, cobwebs and dust. Looking down, I see the black-and-white marble-tiled floor of the central hall, then around to see rooms off to each side. In the centre is a sweeping wooden staircase leading to the second floor. Although divested of most of the furniture and covered with the obvious signs of years of neglect, it still somehow manages to look elegant. I snap a few photos, thinking it would be a shame to tear this place down, while the sensible part of me wonders who, in this day and age, would want to maintain a house of this size in such an isolated spot. Then again, if demolished, what good use could be made of the plot?
The windows are unshuttered. Sunshine, filtered by the trees outside, illuminates my surroundings as I set out to explore. On the first floor, I encounter a reception room, peeling wallpaper, and several gaps in the wood parquet floor that I’m careful to keep my crutches out of. There’s a mouldy couch, and two armchairs, so old-fashioned I deduce it’s been deserted for a decade or more. Next, I come to a dining room. A huge table that can seat at least a dozen guests dominates the room. Off the hall is also a kitchen, with outdated appliances galore, nothing to salvage, nothing old enough to go into a museum, or sufficiently modern to be sold secondhand. The last room is a library, with shelves upon shelves of musty-smelling books. The kind that I recall being described as “bought by the yard”, that is, ones purchased not for their contents, but for appearances, to make the house owner seem learned.
My phone clicks and clicks as I capture each image, wanting Bullet and Shooter to have enough information to make a professional decision on the future of this house. As I survey my surroundings, I feel privileged, as though I’m party to a private tour of a house under the guardianship of a historical society. Stories of the past drip from these walls. I imagine balls in thehallway, spilling out into the reception rooms. Women in elegant long dresses, men in tuxedos. Breathing in, I can almost smell the odour of cigar smoke.
I find only one anomaly on the first floor. During my second visit to the lounge, in the corner, I see a heap of half-burned items. Curtains, if I’m not mistaken. Another sniff in the air, and I’m sure I can sense the lingering hint of gas.Has someone tried to start a fire here?Whether deliberate or not, it doesn’t seem to have spread too far. There’s little to no damage to the structure of the house. Nevertheless, I faithfully use my phone to record the scene.
Having completed my photographic inventory of the first floor, I carefully start my upward ascent of the stairs, testing each step before I put my full weight on it. There are creaks, but nothing major that would suggest the structure is unsound. As I rise, I admire the Palladian windows and dentil mouldings. In its heyday, this place would have been worth a fortune. It’s hardly any stretch of the imagination to hear voices and music of people partying downstairs, staff moving unseen between floors, and all kinds of decadent enjoyment. A twenties’ ball, celebrations after the First World War, and maybe the second. I’m certain this house holds a myriad of memories if only its walls could talk.
On the second floor, corridors spread out to the right and left of the impressive staircase, and a less elaborate stairway leads to the upper third floor, presumably where the servants spent their time when not attending to their mistresses and masters. I find six impressive bedrooms. Entering the first, I hold tight onto the doorframe, as there’s a huge hole in the floor, thanking the gods that I’d proceeded carefully. If I’d fallen through, I’d have undone all the hard work the surgeons had achieved on my left leg and probably damaged my right as well, let alone picking up any other injuries to add to my collection. Checking my phone, I notice I have no signal, so I’d be fucked if I incapacitated myself.
