The following is an excerpt from the round-robin murder mystery,
Not far from where Route 24 crosses the Mackinaw blacktop sits a little patch of ground. It's not unlike so many other similar patches of ground, except in one respect: a wonderful bar once stood there. Nowadays, the building's just a burnt-out shell of its former self, but back in the late '70s the Dew Drop Inn was a popular hangout. Locals from as far away as Bloomington and Peoria invariably came by as part of their regular Friday night circuit. Everyone was welcome, of course, farmers as well as sodbusters, but the Dew Drop Inn catered most especially to bikers. So much so that it became almost like a clubhouse to the Prairie Dawgs, a tightly-knit fraternity of biker enthusiasts. Now, once a year, just before Halloween, the old crowd gathers for a reunion.
Bikers are a funny lot, and not just because they don't fit in comfortably to any one simple niche. They come from all walks of life, and are just as serious about their sport as, say, 'Vette owners, or Jeep enthusiasts. And though they sometimes look the part, they're not really rebels. Nor are they ruffians. Oh, some are, to be sure — and they get all the headlines — but nowadays, most of the Dawgs are just family men like you and me, with mortgages and kids of their own. One of their number — Carl Lynn — is even a cop, a sergeant with the county sheriff's department. Another, the son of a local mayor. A third, an employee at a local hospital. For the old gang, biking is now just one part of a larger picture called the "good old days," memories that grow fuzzier and fuzzier with each passing year.
And like any gathering of men who are just a little bit beyond their prime — soldiers, athletes, bowlers — the stories of the good-times-past grow richer and more fantastic with each telling. Thus, it should have come as no surprise to anyone that when Franklin Peeves pulled up at the site of the old Dew Drop Inn, spewing out wild tales of having seen the White White Witch, that no one believed him.
And who could blame them? Franklin was a spoiled brat, always had been. And as if that weren't enough to make him suspect, ever since his father — Joel "Pet" Peeves — was elected mayor of Peoria, Franklin had had a bit of a credibility problem. No sooner had he parked his hog and taken off his helmet, than he started in with his tale.
"I seen her," he said, breathless. "Not five minutes ago!"
Everyone was seated around a campfire enjoying the heat of the burning logs. There were six or seven of them, each clutching a bottle of beer. An ice chest sat within easy reach a few feet away. In keeping with tradition, the fire had been built exactly on the spot where the pool table once stood in the old bar. Their bikes were parked behind them, off to one side, over by where the bathrooms used to be. Though most of the Dawgs swore by their Harleys, the lineup included a Kawasaki and a Yamaha. Every once in a while you'd see a Greeves or a Bridgestone, but not tonight.
"I'm not kidding. I seen her!"
"Who?"
"The Witch."
Carl laughed. The police from three neighboring counties had been on the lookout trying to arrest this girl for four years running now. Seeing her was one thing, catching her quite another.
"I even got one of her leaflets," Franklin Peeves said, pulling it out of his pocket for all to see.
They read it by the flickering light of the campfire. It was just like the ones they'd seen or heard about before. On it was written but a single word: REVENGE!
He continued. "Followed her for about half a mile, I did. Then I lost her over by the Snodweavers' place. She's fast on that Harley, damn fast!"
"They say she murdered ole Mortimer," one of the boys said, throwing another log on the fire. On the back of the man's jacket, in big gold letters, was printed his streetname — Digger. He used to work at the Springdale Cemetery before it got shut down.
"Man deserved to die if you ask me," Lucifer Matthewson chimed in. "Mux was a pig."
All the bikers respected Lucifer. He was one of THE Matthewsons, from up around Trivoli. His great-great-great uncle Byron died in the Civil War, had his name carved in stone on that monument standing in downtown Peoria.
"Doesn't sound like something a woman would do," Digger retorted.
"What the hell you know about women anyway, Digger? You're on your third wife yourself, aren't you?" Franklin said, looking down his nose at the other man.
"What I meant was, shooting a man in the back with an arrow, cutting off another man's head and putting it in that infernal pumpkin chucker, takes a lot of stones. Just don't sound like a woman to me."
"That's where you're wrong," Lucifer observed. "Women got more range than us men. More breadth. The kind ones are gentler; the evil ones, meaner. Still, the Rassendeals have pissed off a lot of people over the years. Why blame her?"
"Same goes for Mux," Digger said. "He's got more enemies than Pet's got peeves."
"Leave my father out of this!"
"Or what?" Digger taunted. "You'll have your daddy come by and give me a lecture on morality? Or send over one of his crews to put up some speed-bumps in my neighborhood?"
Those were fighting words and Franklin balled up his fist into a knot and went after the other man. He got in the first punch before Digger even knew what hit him. But it would also be his last, because Franklin Peeves was no match for Digger McGrue.
They both fell to the ground, Digger wailing away at Peeves. But before he could do much damage, Lucifer pulled the cemetery man off, while Carl stepped in to hold back Peeves. Even at their age — early forties — fighting was still a part of the biker's code.
Nursing a split lip, Franklin said, "I think she wants to be caught."
"What makes you say that?" Carl asked, loosening his grip on Franklin's arm a bit.
"Used to be she rode just once in a while. You know, July 4th, Labor Day, Halloween. Now I understand she's been out riding every night. Reports are coming in from everywhere. You said so yourself."
"So what kinda revenge you think she's looking for?" Digger asked.
"Who's to say? Maybe ole Mortimer molested her."
"That's a real possibility," Carl agreed. He'd heard the rumors about Mux.
"But then why's she riding around naked? Girl like that could catch her death."
Everyone laughed and the tension was broken. The ice chest was opened, and the beer again began to flow.
"You know, though — she might even be one of us."
A few sideways glances and everyone laughed again. The alcohol was beginning to speak.
"No, what I mean is — she's a biker. Maybe she's from the old club. You know, the Prairie Dawgs."
Franklin's explanation was greeted with skepticism, and groans were heard from all around. Back in the days before the bar burned to the ground, back in the days when they were all still a lot younger, the Dawgs had been a biker's club. It had numbered about 24 in its heyday — boys and girls alike — and they rode all over Tazewell and Woodford counties harassing their neighbors. Now there were only about six or seven of them left for these annual get-togethers.
"I see what you mean, Peeves," Digger said. "But if that's the case, it's got to be a pretty short list. There's only about three or four of them gals that fit the bill. 'Less, of course, Betty lost a lot of weight."
Chuckles again, this time followed by catcalls and a loud "Moo."
"Now wait a minute," Franklin said. "Don't be so quick to laugh. This gal's outsmarted every cop in the county. Including you, Carl. If we catch her, there might even be a reward. My daddy tells me the Reverend Roylott of that Deferred Judgment Church came by his office a while back asking for money, money to help track down this Witch. Wanted to hire that lady detective, Cassie Canine."
"Kuh-NINE, not Kay-nine," one of the drunker ones said. "Anyway, what do you need a reward for? Your family's loaded."
"Oh, shut up!" Franklin Peeves snapped. "My daddy's got the money, not me. Anyhow, my daddy sent him packing and Kuh-NINE had to settle for whatever Roylott and his people raised going door to door. But I'll bet you if Roylott and those fanatics he calls a Church can afford to hire Kuh-NINE, they can afford to spring for a reward. My daddy says . . . "
"Your daddy. Hell, if he plays his cards right, he'll be able to step right into the seat vacated by the late great Mortimer Mux. Election's next month and everyone knows your daddy's not happy just simply being mayor."
Franklin nodded his head, but didn't reply. It was no secret, really. They called his daddy the Speed-Bump Mayor, and with good reason. You see, Mayor Joel "Pet" Peeves was embarrassed by the town that had elected him mayor. The river was brown, and everyone knows what else is brown. And there were cows, actual cows, grazing in the fields just outside of town. And God knows, those cows are what might have made the river brown to begin with. And there wasn't a bible on every school desk or a basketball hoop alongside every driveway, and the city councilmen never did their homework, but there were those darn speed-bumps. They had made the national news one night and now Mayor Joel "Pet" Peeves was a household name throughout the state. Of all the other contenders, he stood first in line now for Mortimer Mux's seat.
Lucifer intruded upon Franklin's thoughts. "Before they put out a bounty on that sweet girl, they'll probably first come up with a reward for any information leading to the arrest and conviction of Rassendeal's killer. You know, like CAT did with those jackrock incidents."
"What does CAT know?" Digger said, downing another beer. "If Porklips builds that megahog farm, CAT'll be the laughingstock of the Fortune 500. I can just see the headlines in the Wall Street Journal now: 'CAT's Finances Stink — Big Cleanup To Come'."
At first there was an explosion of laughter, but then Sergeant Carl Lynn became deadly serious. "There's your motive, boys."
"For killing Mux?"
"Rassendeal too."
"Just how many beers have you had, Carl?"
"Forget Mux already," Franklin interrupted, "and Rassendeal too. I know which way the Witch was headed when I lost her. If we put our heads together, we ought to be able to track her down."
"Yeah, as if you were still sober enough to drive."
"I don't mean tonight, you fool. I mean tomorrow. There are seven of us, remember? If she's riding every night now, we can stake her out tomorrow night!"
"Peeves is right," Carl said. "We got a map down at the station house with every reported sighting flagged on it. Stake out a few key intersections and a couple of blacktops and we ought to be able to get her!"
"It's settled then," the boys shouted, clinking their bottles with drunken gusto. "Long Live the Prairie Dawgs!"
* * *
She cored the apple with surgical precision, the circular tool glinting under the bright kitchen lights.
Each time the sharpened tool took another victim, it rang hollowly against the wooden cutting board. Peel and seeds dropped carelessly to the floor. Apple juice sprayed across the counter, making her hands slippery. Blood dripped from the spot where she'd nicked herself earlier.
The moon sagged against the horizon, making her kitchen window a mirror against the night. The woman looked at herself in the reflection and smiled. She was naked. Next to her on the floor was a stack of leaflets. Each one read the same: REVENGE! After what happened last night in Springfield, tonight's ride was a must.
Missy didn't claim to be a Mortimer Mux fan — didn't like his politics, plus he gave her the creeps — but then again, she didn't want to see the man dead either. Now, on account of the note the killer had left behind, he'd practically made her a suspect. This would just not do. Missy had no alibi, and the police were already out looking for her.
But it got worse. It had been in the papers that the Reverend Roylott and his Council of Concerned Citizens had been out raising money to hire Cassie Canine to track her down, that Cassie herself had called in Sam Sheafhecker to do some snooping around. Only the man was a dunce, didn't have the brains to find her on his own. Missy saw this as a good omen. For, whatever else she might have thought of Cassie Canine, the woman was making at best only a half-hearted attempt to find her.
Missy laughed; she couldn't help herself. But it was a kind of wicked laugh. The sort a witch might make. Missy was no witch, of course — though that's what the papers called her — and certainly not a warlock like her old friend Lucifer — no, Missy was just an ordinary country girl. An ordinary country girl with a lot of pent up anger. And tonight she had almost been caught. By one of her own, no less. She wondered whether Franklin had recognized her.
Missy shook her head. If he had, the police would already be here. Her secret was still safe. But for how long?
Missy reached into her sink and pulled out another apple. A dozen or more were still floating there in the water, getting clean.
She reached for her tool.
Whomp!
Seeds and juice flew everywhere. A tiny chunk landed on her cheek, next to her mouth. A fleck of appleskin was still attached.
She reached out for it with her tongue and urged it past her expectant lips. The tiny morsel slid down her throat bringing tears of joy to her eyes.
Gosh, it was great to be alive!