Zero Day (John Puller, #1)(89)

It struck Puller what he was looking at. “A firehouse?”

“Used to be. Hasn’t been used for that since they domed over the Bunker. At least that’s what I was told as a kid.”

“So what do they use it for now?”

The next instant Puller heard the motorcycle start up. Actually, it was more than one motorcycle.

“Harley club,” said Cole. “Of which Dickie Strauss is a member. They call it Xanadu. Some of them might not even know what it means. But it helps keep most of these boys out of trouble.”

“And Treadwell too? He had a Harley. Is that where the tat sleeve came from?”

“I don’t know about the tat sleeve. And no, not everyone in the club has one.”

“But it would have been nice to know that Dickie and Treadwell belonged to the same club.”

“We just found out that it might have been Dickie that ran out of the Halversons’ place. Until then, I had no reason to suspect he was involved.”

“But maybe the motorcycle gang was connected to Treadwell’s death.”

“It’s a club, Puller, not a gang. Most of the members are older guys. They have families and bills to pay.”

She pulled the car to a stop in front of the old firehouse and they got out. Through the open doorways Puller could see an old fire truck with rotted wheels in one bay, and the ubiquitous fire pole just beyond it. Wooden lockers lined both sides of the wall, and there was old firefighting equipment stacked in piles.

In the other bay were a half dozen vintage Harleys. Puller counted five men inside, two on their Harleys and revving the motors and the others tinkering with their machines.

“How come those guys aren’t out working?”

“Probably because they can’t find jobs.”

“So they just sit around playing with their expensive rides?”

“Most of these bikes are twenty years old, Puller. Nobody’s playing with anything. I know most of those men. They work hard. But when there’s no work, what do you do? County unemployment rate is nearly twenty percent, and that’s folks who are still looking. Lots of people have just given up.”

“Do they keep their bikes here?”

“Sometimes, why?”

“You said the people who live here are scavengers.”

“Yeah, but they don’t touch the motorcycle club stuff.”

“Why not?”

“Because the club members help them.”

“How?”

“They collect food, blankets, and hire some of the guys to work for them when they have jobs lined up. Most of the club members have special skills: mechanics, plumbers, electricians, carpenters. Like I said, hard workers. They’ll go by the houses and fix stuff for the families free of charge.”

“Bunch of Good Samaritans.”

“We do have them here in Drake.”

They walked up the cracked concrete drive to the front of the firehouse. Several of the men looked up. Puller saw Dickie Strauss walk out of a back room, stop, and stare at them. He was wiping his greasy hands on a work rag.

Cole said, “Hey, Dickie, we’d like to talk to you.”

Dickie turned and ran toward the back of the building.

“Hey,” shouted Cole. “Stop! We just want to talk.”

Puller had already moved forward, into the building.

Two guys who’d been working on their Harleys blocked Puller’s way. They were both built like fireplugs, older than Puller, with tie-dyed bandanas and overly confident expressions. Their hands were huge and the pronounced cords of muscles in their forearms showed they performed physically hard labor for their daily bread.

Puller held up his badge. “Out of the way. Now.”

One of the men said, “This is private property. Let me see your warrant.”

Cole said, “Let him by.”

Puller had one eye on the fleeing Dickie and the other on the lead bandana.

“I need to talk to him,” said Puller. “Just talk.”

“And I just need to see your warrant.”

“This place is abandoned.”

“Does it look abandoned to you, slick?” asked the other man.

Cole was about to pull her gun when the lead bandana put a hand on Puller’s shoulder. A second later he was facedown on the concrete floor. His stunned expression revealed that he had no idea how he got there. The other man yelled and swung at Puller. Puller grabbed the man’s arm, cranked it down, whipsawed it around, and the man joined his buddy on the cement. When they tried to move, Puller said, “If you get up I will put you both in the hospital. And I don’t want to do that. This is not your fight.”

Both men collapsed back down and stayed there.

Puller had just straightened up when Dickie’s huge friend, Frank, rushed at him from a darkened corner of the building. His nose was bandaged and he had two black eyes from the previous collision with Puller’s head. He was holding a long board.

“Payback,” snarled Frank.

He was about to swing it against Puller’s head when the shot whipped past him and carried a chunk of the board with it. The impact knocked the wood out of Frank’s hands.

Frank, Puller, and the other Harley guys looked over at Cole. Her Cobra was now pointed at Frank’s crotch.

“Your choice,” said Cole. “Do you want kids or not?”