The Biker's Doctor

Chapter Twelve

"What the hell were you doing there, Johnny? Now you have made a total mess, and Giuseppe knows it.” I overheard Detective Jones demanding, “I just spoke to him, and he was wondering why your partner Brian was telling him he needed a meeting first thing in the morning. What exactly was Johnny going to tell Giuseppe? The last thing we need is internal affairs sniffing around right now."

“Well, Brian is not about to tell Giuseppe anything now, is he?” The morose voice of Johnny echoed with a tormenting laugh.

Was what I was hearing real? My mouth ran dry, and a cold chill ran up the back of my spine like a knife. Johnny was talking with Detective Jones. Johnny, the murderer that I had seen at Brian's apartment, who had shot and killed him, was now at the same police station I was in, the parking lot of. Were John and Brian partners? Police partners?

Corruption was a clear indication of what was happening at the time. Please let me wake up from this nightmare. But I didn't. This was happening. This was real.

"And you left a f*****g witness. I have her address in Pacific Heights. You will need to clean this up. Take care of the bitch."

That was a clear, distinct, dreadful command from Detective Jones.

My stomach sank like I was on a whirlwind. I could not breathe. I told my body to close the distance between myself and the car, but it did not obey. Instead, I looked behind me and saw the two figures in the side alleyway of the police station. I needed to confirm what I was hearing was not part of a tired imagination.

Unfortunately, my sight confirmed everything. Detective Jones was standing with his hands raised in agitation, talking to another man I distinctly remembered. The shadow of the dark figure was unmistakable from when I had last seen him, inside Brian's apartment with a GLOCK 22 gun in his hand. There was a shiny piece of silver metal latched to Johnny's belt, which I had not seen at Brian's apartment: a police badge. Johnny was a detective, just like Detective Jones. The word ‘partner’ suddenly made more sense.

I froze, looking back at them. I hadn’t realised I had inched backward, and my Porsche was now behind me. I reached my hand for the door. The second they looked at me, though, the palm of my hand on my driver's side door went rigid. I met Johnny's gaze, and I could see that his mouth fell open in sheer shock at recognising me staring back at them and privy to their conversation. I nearly toppled headfirst into my car, breaking the stare in his direction.

'Take care of her…. My aunt’s address.' I repeated the words in my head, slamming the door to the Porsche shut with a thump. I think I knew exactly what that instruction meant. I witnessed a detective commit murder, murder his own partner in the police force. I was the witness whom they spoke of. They were going to kill me. That was what the words ‘take care of her’ had frightfully meant.

I have to get out of here. And right now.

My hands shook as I turned the car's ignition. I sped out of the police station car park, turning towards the highway. I was instinctively heading towards Lower San Francisco and Elenora’s. I looked over my shoulder to see if any police cars were following me. No, that was strange. They had seen me and therefore knew that I heard their plan 'to take care of me'. So, why were they not chasing after me at this very instant? What were they going to do?

What I did know was that we could not go back to my aunt’s house, simply because I had given her address to Detective Jones. I also could not go back to my apartment. They would also look for me there. My next thought was a hotel. I had very little cash on me, so I had to rely on my credit cards. I was smart enough to know that a detective could easily find whatever hotel I stopped at by the single swipe of a credit card. I needed to find a place to lie low, somewhere the police would not know to look for me. I could afford a barter train ticket with cash, but the stations might be the first place they send patrols to search.

I turned onto the four-lane highway, still checking my rearview mirror every few minutes, if not every second, in case I took my eyes off the road. I waited to see flashing lights attempting to pull me over, but several miles away from the station, nothing was coming up behind me. I was not going to give them a chance to catch up with me. They would be getting into their cars and coming after me any moment now. I kept the car as close to the speed limit as I could without going over to draw attention.

My mind focused on my father and what he would do to keep me safe at that moment. I knew where I had to go with a kind of savage clarity, driven by my survival instinct.

I have no idea who I can trust. I have to go to Dad's place. I have to go to the Red Gate Bar. I have to go to the Devil'sProtege's. I will be safe there.

My plan was simple. I would go to the bar and ask the members of the club to hide me, even at the back of the bar, if they had to. Right now, there are likely at least two detectives using a multitude of tools at their disposal to find me.

I remembered visiting that bar so many times in the past. Over seven years ago, in fact. The last time that I was there was when my father was shot. It was not a place that I ever wanted to return to for that exact reason. I had thought about going there only once, and that was when my father was on his deathbed. I felt that his old club should know he was about to pass on in case they wanted to pay their respects to a man who was once one of their crew. Aunt Elenora, however, convinced me that the bar was dangerous and that the men who were there would not care that my father was in his last days. I disagreed with her but also saw her point. What did it matter if they had the chance to say goodbye to him or not? Going back there was not worth the risk of re-entering their world or inviting them into mine.

I recalled a room in the back of the bar where the manager, Geoff, sometimes spent late nights, or when a biker was in trouble. I had seen the little white cot used by several of the members to hide during times of emergencies, or in reality, when they had drunk too much to be able to drive safely.

That could be my hiding place until I figure out what to do next.

Panic coursed through me. What the hell was I actually going to do next? I tried to put that thought out of my mind, even if it was constant. Just one step at a time. Right now, somewhere safe, where the police wouldn't know to look for me. The Red Gate Bar.

I moved into the right lane with my indicator on. The highway was nearly abandoned at this hour. I hated traffic. It was a nice time in the early morning, like this, when one could avoid traffic almost entirely. A few delivery refrigeration trucks and other slow-trade vehicles were the only ones on the road at this early hour. So, few cars are a damn good thing because I am not at all a focused driver at the moment.

I thought about the warm and kind smile of Alicia when I had first come into the station, and later when she offered me a glass of water. I could reach out to her by calling the station and asking for her by name without giving my details. Alicia, the woman I met, seemed trustworthy and had been kind to me. But then I remembered how she had acted the same as Detective Jones when she heard Brian Stone’s full name. She also knows that Brian Stone was Johnny’s partner, the detective. Why did she not say something at the time? No, there was no one that I could trust right now, and nowhere that I could go except this one place.

I made the left turn at the exit that led to the wharf, which in turn led to the Red Gate Bar, and began to formulate what I would say when I reached my destination into some order. It has been over seven years since I was last there, so I doubt anyone would actually recognise me. The passers of that bar hardly looked at me then, so they wouldn’t recognise me now.

My father's name was a legend, and I could only hope that after so many years, it would still hold meaning. That kind of legend did not faze. I would ask to speak to the President, Jackson Detroit. He would remember me. My father saved his life. Uncle Jackson, I remembered the title as if he were family. Right now, I wish that he were. If Jackson were actually my uncle, I think that he would raze San Francisco to the ground to keep me safe. Too bad he is not a blood relative. Oh, God, I hope he does remember me. Please let that be the case.

I would have to remind him who I was and who my father was. I didn't want to ask for more help than to hide myself for a few days. I bet that they had people both in the police and on the street who could help me, but that was not the kind of help I wanted. I just needed to find a clean officer — and even a lawyer — who could unravel the corruption I had just witnessed in the San Francisco law department.

What had just happened came in torrents of painful waves. Brian had been murdered. Murdered. Murdered by the police. Murdered. The detective. The police had murdered him. It was an execution. I have no idea how far the corruption spreads.

I took the last exit and could see the neon lights of the bar in the distance. I parked my Porsche a reasonable distance away and got out, trying to calm my nerves with what I was about to do.

The bar was a classic dusty old dive at the city's edge. The neon light outlined a naked woman's figure above two double wooden doors.

The leaning Harley-Davidsons made a visual declaration of whose bar this was, the club's. My father's previous post. He spent more time here than he did at home with my mother and I. I don't think he regretted it until she passed away, and realised that he had to be a more present father.

I wonder how hard it had been for him to turn his back on this place, something that, at the time, he never considered he would do. How many countless nights had he ended up here? It was not just a bar to the club; it was an office where work was done through verbal transactions over hard liquor and pool games.

I looked around. Three men were outside, their eyes fixed on my expensive luxury car. The green 911 speedster did not suit being here. Then again, in my purple silk shirt and white skirt, I most assuredly did not look as if I belonged here either.

I clicked the keys to lock the doors. Like that would make a difference. This was a dangerous neighborhood and not a place to leave a Porsche unattended, but I didn't have much choice.

I took a final deep breath, gathering what remaining strength I had, and placed my hand to push the double doors open. It was too late to turn back now.