Savior Ch. 01

"Boot," Stewart's voice came over the radio.

"You're going to have to honk it, Taylor," I murmured into the mic attached to my headset. I'd configured the light on my head so it cast a wide beam, allowing me to see the stopwatch attached to the clipboard as well as the sheet I was using to track Stu's times. I wrote the number down, only worrying about the minutes and seconds, not bothering with the tenths, hundredths, or thousandths. "You're still over two full seconds behind."

Our communications were curt and business like, and I only spoke if I had something to say. Stu was calling out markers as he hauled ass around the Green Hell, the 17.2-mile loop in the Siuslaw National Forest that the Bayport Riders had marked out nearly thirty years before, and I was writing down the times. He'd lost a lot of time at Kink on this run, a nasty, tight, right-hander that would spit you into the weeds without warning if you went in too hot and got in the marbles.

Stu grunted, his terse vocalization activating the VOX—Voice Operated Exchange—microphone in his helmet, allowing me to hear the YZF-R1M barking and howling as Stu banged the Yamaha down through the gears.

"Cut me some slack, Tauper," he complained over the rise and fall of the banshee-like wail as the big bike clawed for speed on the exit. "This bitch is a real handful."

I chuckled. Stu had recently traded up from his trusty 2011 Honda CBR1000RR to the Yamaha, and he was working to master the bike. Despite his skill, the aging Honda was no longer able to compete against the newer bikes, and he hadn't finished in the top five any time during the last two years. This was his second trip around the Hell at speed on the new bike. He was six seconds ahead of his pace during his first lap and was now within a couple of seconds or so of third place in the over seven-fifty class.

He'd been riding the bike for about a month to get a feel for the machine, but this was our first attempt to really dial the bike in. There was no place on the Hell where the bike could reach its top speed of better than one-eighty, so before we arrived for testing, I'd changed out the rear sprocket for more acceleration out of the corners at the expense of top speed. After his first lap, using his feedback, I'd suggested adjustments to the suspension's preload, damping, and rebound rates, something easily changed on the electronic suspension, and raised the tire pressure two pounds in the front and a pound in the back. Now he was out again to see if my tinkering had made the machine faster. His increasing confidence on the bike probably had more to do with his increased pace than anything I did. There was no way I'd hit the sweet spot perfectly with only one adjustment, and I was certain the Yamaha had much more to give.

"Finger," Stu grunted, and once again I heard the bike bang down a couple of gears in my headset before wailing back up to speed. "Goddamn does this thing have brakes. I can't get used to how deep into the corner I can go, and holy fuck, since the new exhaust, ECU flash, and the extra tooth on the back does this bitch pull, but I still have too much top end and I think we need to go up another tooth."

"Hooray for ABS and traction control," I muttered as I wrote the number down. "I still have you around two seconds off the podium."

Using a stopwatch I couldn't really tell if Stu was faster or slower. That'd have to wait for the sophisticated timing equipment during the race, but there was no doubt that once we got the bike dialed in, and Stu adjusted to the feel of the machine, he'd be faster than on his Honda. A lot faster.

Depending on how he felt, I might make a few more adjustments to the suspension, and maybe change out the rear sprocket to give him more acceleration, before he made one more run, but then we were calling it a night. It was mentally and physically exhausting out on the Hell, and after two or three runs the mistakes started. That's when the speeds started going down and somebody got hurt.

I was waiting for the call at Wiggles, the final timing marker, when I heard the crash.

"Stu!" I yelled as I listened to the roars, bangs, and grunts as Stu slid and tumbled along the road. "Stu!" I cried again, my heart in my throat. For a moment could hear Stu's labored breathing before his microphone cut off in the quiet. "Stu, speak to me, pal! Stewart! Can you hear me? Talk to me, buddy! Fuck!"

I spun and ran the two-dozen steps to the support truck, throwing the clipboard into the passenger seat as I flung myself under the wheel. The equipment would have wait. I twisted the key, and the moment the engine caught, I jerked the truck into gear. My right foot against the floor, the rear tires howling and the engine screaming, I spun the truck onto the road, racing to where Stu had gone down.

I pushed the lumbering, damnedably slow Dodge as hard as I dared. I was badly overdriving my headlamps, but I knew this road like I knew my own face, though I was traveling in the opposite direction of normal. Driving recklessly fast, the big V8 engine whooping and roaring as I alternately lifted and floored it, I used the whole road as I raced through the night.

Stu hadn't called Wiggles, and as I reached the sensuously curving section of road, I braked hard to rapidly burn off speed. Stu had gone down between Wiggles and Finger and I didn't want to run over the man if he were still in the road... and I needed to give myself enough time to see him on shoulder if he weren't.

"Fuck!" I snarled, banging my hand on the wheel when I reached Finger.

I pulled onto the grassy shoulder and stabbed the throttle as I cranked the wheel hard right, spinning the truck around in the road. My heart pounding in my chest, my jaws clenched so tightly my teeth were in danger of cracking, I began driving back the way I came, moving even more slowly this time. Creeping along at barely twenty miles-per-hour, I strained to peer into the near total darkness outside the range of the truck's headlamps. There were no houses, no streetlights, and no people this far out in the forest. It made the road perfect for illegal street racing, but I'd give almost anything right now to have more light.

The minor roads in the Siuslaw National Forest were little used but well maintained and marked by the Forest Service, which may have been the only reason I noticed the scrapes and gouges in the tarmac. I slammed on the brakes, the truck almost stopping as I angled the truck to track the scars with the headlamps until they disappeared off the side of the road. I pulled to the edge of the road, slammed the truck into park, and yanked the large flashlight that stayed in the truck from its charger. Clicking the light on, I bailed from the truck and hurried to the front of the vehicle, trying to see something, anything illuminated by the truck's powerful headlamps.

My shadow, cast from the truck's lights, loomed over the grass like a specter of death, but I saw nothing. Slowly walking along the edge of the road, I swept the bright beam from the flashlight, filling in my shadow, simultaneously hoping I wouldn't find Stu while dreading I would. I'd taken about ten steps when the flashlight's beam glinted off something a vibrant blue, and I whipped the light back.

"Oh... no," I breathed as I hurried down the slight embankment.

Stu was lying in a heap next to a tree, his body twisted into a position no man could replicate. I knew not to move him, but as I reached him, I knelt beside the broken man and carefully reached under his helmet. I pressed two fingers to his neck but felt nothing.

I held my fingers against his flesh for a long moment, hoping, praying, I'd feel a throb, no matter how faint, before I slowly withdrew my fingers. My teeth clinched tight, I slowly stood, Stu beyond the help of mortal men. The twisted and bent body illuminated by the flashlight, I could feel my control slipping. I flicked the beam to the bike so I didn't have to think about my dead friend for a moment, the new Yamaha an unrecognizable twisted lump of silver and blue among the trees.

I stood for many long moments, staring at the remains of the bike, swallowing hard as I battled my emotions, before turning and slowly walking back to the truck. I didn't want to leave Stu, but there was no cell service this far into the forest, and I needed help. I sat in the truck for a long time, staring into the darkness as I tried to collect myself. This was a shitty detail, but it had to be done. My lips pursed tight, I placed the truck in gear, reset the trip odometer so I could find the crash site again, and drove out of the forest and back to civilization.

I divided my attention between the road and my cell as I drove. When I was close enough to highway 34 to get a signal, I pulled the truck to a stop on the side of the road. The truck idling, I steeled myself and dialed the phone.

"Doug," the voice on the phone said.

There was no easy way to break the news. "Stu's dead," I growled, grinding my teeth hard.

"What?" Doug cried. "How?"

"Twenty minutes or so ago on the Hell. I need help," I replied, my voice completely devoid of emotion. I couldn't allow myself to feel anything... at least not yet.

"Oh my God!"

"Yeah."

There was a long moment of silence. It's always tough when you lose a brother. "I need an hour to get shit together," Doug said softly. "Where?"

"Between Wiggles and Finger."

"Okay. How you holding up, brother?"

"I'm holding my shit together," I said. It was true, if just. Stu was one of my two closest friends.

"Hang tough, brother," Doug said after a pause, and I could hear the pain in his voice. "We're coming."

"Thank you," I murmured before I ended the call.

It took a moment for me to collect myself, but when I had my composure, I drove on, finding the first wide place in the road, and turned around. Resetting the trip odometer, I retraced my path, stopping briefly to pick up my tools, before continuing to the crash site. I verified the location, turned around, and then drove about a hundred yard along the road before pulling to a stop on the shoulder. I wanted to be far enough from the crash site that if anyone showed up and wondered why the Dodge pickup registered to the Bayport Riders Motorcycle Club was sitting on the side of the road in the dark, there would be nothing to see. I had to protect the secret of what happened here this night as much as I could.

I was sitting in the darkness staring at nothing, my mind a whirlpool of conflicting thoughts and emotions. As I waited for the rest of the club to arrive, I'd replayed what happened in my mind time and time again. Rather than gaining insight, all I got was static. I couldn't think clearly as grief and rage tugged me in opposite directions, remorse cutting into me like a saw blade.

Ahead I saw a faint glow and I glanced at the clock in the truck. It'd been nearly two hours since I'd placed the call to my brothers, and as my eyes returned to the windshield, lights appeared from around a bend in the road. It was probably the club, but I didn't start the truck or turn on the lights. If the lights drove on past, fine, but if the lights stopped, especially if they were attached to a cop car, I was out for a night drive to clear my head and had pulled over when I started feeling sleepy.

Doug's Silverado eased to a stop beside the Ram. "Where?" Douglas Meyer, President of the Bayport Riders Motorcycle Club asked as Steve's truck pulled to a stop behind Doug's.

I opened the door and stepped out of the Dodge, flashlight in hand. "Up there," I said with a jerk of my head before I turned, crossed the road, and started walking, the two trucks creeping along beside me. I kept my light trained on the road, looking for the scars. When I spotted them, I adjusted my path while angling my light into the woods.

"Jesus," Vince murmured as he stepped out of passenger side of Doug's vehicle, the destroyed bike and Stu clearly visible in my light. He took my arm and turned me away from the carnage to face him. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I grunted.

He stared at me. Vincent Lymongood had known me for more than twenty years and was my best friend. He could probably read the lie in my eyes but said nothing.

"What happened?" Doug asked as he and the other three members of the club clustered around.

None of us wanted to be here, not for this reason, but we had to move the body and mangled bike. The police in Bayport, Oregon, probably knew what the BRMC was doing, but so long as we kept our activities quiet, they didn't interfere. Our club brought a significant boost to the local economy twice a year, and a lesser boost the rest of the spring, summer, and fall. We also kept the racing out of the town, self-policed the visiting bikers, and we enjoyed a good reputation with the business community because of it. Technically, our events were held outside of the BPD's jurisdiction, and we worked hard to not put the local police in a difficult position by keeping the times and the exact location of our race secret. In the twenty-eight years the BRMC had been running the race, this was our first fatality. There was no way this wasn't going to bring scrutiny, but we had a contingency plan, and we were about to put it into place.

"Don't know," I replied softly. "There's no reason for him to have to crashed here."

While there were no true straights on the Green Hell, this was one of the straighter sections of the track, and one of the last places where someone should go down.

"Do you think something happened to the bike? Maybe he hit a deer?"

My lips thinned. Vince was asking the same question I'd been asking myself since the crash. In all the years of racing, nobody had even had a scare by an animal. They seemed to avoid the area when the shrieking, howling machines were screaming their war cry.

"Don't know. He didn't say anything was wrong. One second he was bitching about how he still wasn't going in deep enough on the brakes, then the next..." My words trailed off as I refused to think about what happened just after our last exchange. "The bike sounded fine on the radio."

Chuck flashed his light around. "No blood. If he hit an animal, if he didn't kill it outright, it couldn't have gone far."

"Fuck. Let's just do this. Goddammit!" Steve snapped as he stepped from the road.

I moved to help with Stu, but Dave and Chuck stepped in front of me, blocking my attempt. "We've got this," Dave growled, his voice thick with emotion, but I could still hear the kindness in his voice. They were trying to comfort me, to protect me, as much as they could. I hesitated, but Dave jerked his head in the direction of the mangled bike. "We've got this," he repeated. "Go help with the bike."

I stood a moment more, feeling I should help with Stu, when Dave nodded once before bending to gently pick up Stu's body. Grinding my teeth, I turned toward the two men clustered around the twisted wreck that had once been a motorcycle. It was hard work, but with three of us working together, we began dragging the bike out of the trees. Dave and Steve joined in after they'd carefully placed Stu in the back of Doug's truck. Because the bike was so badly mangled, we couldn't use the motorcycle lift in the back of the Ram, and it took all of us to muscle the bike onto the road and into the back of the Dodge.

We spent another forty minutes searching the area, picking up every piece of the Yamaha we could find, wanting to leave behind no evidence other than the scrapes on the road and the damage to the tree that anything had happened here. We spoke little, each of us lost in our thoughts, talking to each other only when we had to in order to complete the work.

"This is so fucked," I muttered as I flashed my light around the area, looking for anything we might have missed. Doug was beside me, his own light flicking back and forth until he bent and picked up a small blue piece of plastic. He shoved it into his pocket.

"Go home, Rand. We'll take it from here," he said softly, placing his hand on my shoulder. "You don't need to see this."

"No," I grunted. "We all knew the risks, and what could happen, but that doesn't mean it isn't still fucked."

"That it is, brother. That it is."

We spent another ten minutes looking after the last piece of debris was found, picking over the area as closely as possible. Anything left would be so small that it would be unlikely anyone would find it, and if they did, it was even more unlikely that they'd realized what it was or where it came from.

"I think this is good as it's going to get," Doug finally announced." He paused, his lips pursed in disgust over what he was going to say next. "Let's do this shit." He paused again. "Vince, why don't you ride with Rand."

Vince crawled behind the wheel of the support truck as I opened the passenger door and sat down. "It's not your fault," he said as he started the Dodge, accelerating slowly and dropping in line behind the other two trucks. Despite his gentle touch on the throttle, the bike thumped in the bed of the truck as it settled into a more stable position.

"I know," I whispered.

"Do you?"

"Yeah."

"We all know the risks, you most of all. We agreed what we'd do if something like this ever happened. It sucks, but it has to be done to protect the club. Stu was my friend, too. He'd understand."

"What about Vicki?" I asked. "Will she understand?"

Vince nodded. "Marla, Jen, and Steph are with her now. She's hurting, but she knew it could happen, just like the rest of us. We'll help her, take care of her until she gets back on her feet. You know that."

"I know."

The BRMC had been running this race since the club was founded back in the early nineties, long before I joined the club, and this was the first time we were going to have to execute our emergency plan. There'd been crashes, plenty of them, but this was the first fatality. The Green Hell was an unforgiving bitch where one mistake could cost you... as it had cost Stewart Taylor everything.

We hauled the remains of bike and man thirty miles from the crash site to a deserted section of road. The national forest was crisscrossed with roads, most paved, but many not. When the BRMC started the race, they'd thoroughly scoured the area before picking this spot, a hairpin right with no guardrail, where only a few dozen feet from the road was a near sheer sixty-foot drop to a rocky bottom.

This section of Oregon, with its roads that weaved their way through the National Forests, was a mecca for bikers, where riders came to enjoy the twisting, winding roads, and beautiful views. Inexperienced riders occasionally ran out of skill, piling their bikes up in a sudden switchback, or crossing the centerline and hitting an oncoming car. Other, more experienced riders, often tested their skill with the same result. The Lincoln, Lane, and Benton County Sheriff Departments, along with several others, were used to motorcycle crashes, and though rarely fatal, they did happen.

With a couple of members watching and directing, Vince backed the truck as close to the edge as we dared, pushing through weeds until the back of the truck was only eight or ten feet from the cliff. We stepped out of the truck, and then grunting and straining, the five of us muscled the wad of metal out of the truck and to the edge of the cliff before shoving it over the edge, letting it tumble and roll until it hit bottom. That was the easy part. We silently stood for a long moment, staring over the cliff, looking at the bike at the bottom in the beams of our flashlights as we tried to summon our courage for what we had to do next.

"Fuck," I growled as I turned from the edge. I wanted to get this over with and get the hell away from here.