Neon Nights Chapter 17

“My boy Clyde Downs is in the house!" Marc said as they approached the tattooed man and Trailer.

The two men stared at each other, neither in a rush to make the next move.

"Officer McKinley," Clyde said in a mocking tone. "Detective, now, Clyde."

"Well, it appears a congratulations is long overdue!" "I didn't get your card."

"I didn't have time to send one from lock up. Not like they have a Hallmark store there."

"Where's Billy?" "Around," Clyde smirked.

Trailer looked uncomfortable. The heat made his shirt look like a towel left on a clothes hanger during a storm, and he swayed from side to side like he might crumble at any moment.

"Clyde, how do you and Jason know each other? I just told Detective Hill how funny this was seeing you when pills are overrunning this place.”

"We don't do that shit no more, man. Trailer and I are old friends. I was passing through town on my way to see the old lady down south and wanted to see my boy real quick and check out some of this ass around here."

"Didn't you say you were going to see your girlfriend?" Carly interjected.

He winked at her.

"She's into that kind of stuff, sweetheart." Carly rolled her eyes.

"Jason, how long have you known Clyde here? You're not a White Wave member, too, are you?" Marc said.

Trailer looked everywhere but Marc's eyes.

"Nope, he's just my boy, like he said,” Trailer mumbled.

Clyde walked over and straddled his jet-black Fat Boy with a snow- white Harley Davidson logo running along the fuel tank. There wasn’t much leather left on his vest that didn’t have a patch on it. Most represented some award or tribute in the White Wave gang, of which Clyde had been a long-standing member since being recruited by the founder Billy Adams while in prison on a five-year stint for assault and battery.

"Well, Detective, I gotta hit the road. I'll tell Billy I ran into you. I'm sure he'll be sorry he missed you."

"That makes two of us," Marc replied.

The biker turned the key, and the motorcycle roared to life, the pipes potentially the only thing louder than the music at the festival. Clyde clicked the bike into gear and smiled at the three of them as he wrenched the throttle back, sending power screaming to the back tire. Dirt and pebbles fired back into the woods behind him, and he tore off down the access road.

"That guy is bad news, Jason. I am certain you already know that, but I thought it would be worth letting you know in case you didn't."

"He's crazy all right, but I love him. Listen, I got shit to do now, so if you need nothing else, I gotta go."

Marc smiled.

"It's okay. We always know where to find you."

"Any idea how this all fits together yet?" Carly asked when they were alone again.

"No, but seeing Clyde here doesn't feel like a coincidence, and I trust Trailer about zero percent, too. Feels like he has to have some level of involvement."

"I'll run a background check on Trailer and see what we can find," she said.

"I'm going to stop by and see Billy at the White Wave bar." Carly crossed her arms and dug her heels into the dirt. "Nope," she said.

"What do you mean nope?"

"I mean … hell nope. You plan on bringing SWAT with you?" "Hell nope."

"Funny," she said, her expression unblinking.

"They aren't going to do anything to me, and I just want to look into Billy's eyes and get a read on him."

"I don't get you."

"Okay … well, I'm not sure what to say to that."

She put up her hands in a gesture meant to question his intelligence.

"I guess nothing, other than maybe you'll stop choosing things that are purposefully harmful when you have people that care about your well-being. It's not mandatory that you select the hardest or stupidest way to do something every time."

He laughed.

"Tell me how you really feel." She stayed stoic.

"That is how I feel. I said it because I meant it."

"They are going to be involved in this, Carly. Guaranteed. I need you to help me at the campground and find out what we missed. I'm going to put Billy on alert."

"You do whatever you think is best," she said and walked away without another word.

The night sky took the reins from the sun, and the world was bathed in a neon glow as fireworks exploded overhead and the millions of lights throughout the festival found their footing in the darkness.

Marc was exhausted and wanted nothing more than a shower and a thirty-second cuddle with his dog before he fell asleep.

He passed by push carts of vendors selling lighted trinkets of every considerable shape, size, and color. When he reached the top of the lawn area, he could fully comprehend the size and scope of the crowd in front of him. Cascading down the sea of grass was a swarm of people swaying in unison, undulating and rolling like a neon wave. Marc worked his way to the eastern side of the facility, where he saw a parade of at least fifty neon animals of all shapes and sizes ascending the staircase towards him. Everyone lining the walkway took a different approach to the train of animals.

Some bowed in reverence, some petted them, some hugged them, and some made crude gestures around the animal's "special places."

Don't see that every day.

Marc walked up to a sparkling new food truck called The Bowl Bunny, which featured an impressively drawn graphic of a cartoon rabbit lying under an apple tree, holding a carrot.

Bugs would have been honored … or insulted.

He ordered a quinoa bowl with every veggie they had and a harissa sauce over the top from a peppy girl wearing bunny ears, too much makeup, and a t-shirt with a fluffy tail. He picked up his food and

sat down in the open-air garden with a mix of palm trees, platforms people could sit or lay on, and, to Marc's surprise, actual tables and chairs.

Even animals wanted to be civilized sometimes.

There were only five other people in the place. Two of them were a couple who only had eyes for each other. A bomb could have gone off, and they would still be locked in each other's gaze. He was acutely aware that he was alone now. Two guys sweated profusely in the corner, racing each other to the bottoms of their eight-dollar bottles of water and fighting over who got to be closer to the misting machine. The girl sitting by herself in the middle looked like she was in a daze. Not uncommon from what he had seen so far at the show, but this was different. He kept his eye on her as he shoveled through the food, which, to his surprise, was delicious.

Something wasn't right with her.

Suddenly a crowd piled into the tent as dozens of people poured in with their food, dancing and shouting. Marc's eyes stayed fixed on the girl, who started to fall apart in the blink of an eye. The sway turned into a rock, her face lost all color, and her eyes began to roll back into her skull.

Marc jumped up from his chair and bounded across the distance between them, knocking over two people and their food as she slunk down off the chair and slammed onto the ground.

He watched with horror as a spasm gripped her chest.

Her lips turned a deep violet, and her eyes rushed away to a far-off place.

A growing crowd circled them as Marc knelt over her body. The air grew thin as sweaty, panting bodies craned their necks to watch the show.

"Back up, and someone get me an EMT!" Marc shouted.

All the training they had done as a department for these types of scenarios came racing back to him and he got to work on the girl. He ground his knuckles into her upper lip. No response. He moved the knuckles to the sternum and buried them hard into the bone.

A slight movement.

He checked her pulse, which was as faint as a whisper. He pulled the Naloxone out of his pocket, placed the spray in her nose, and deployed the opioid reversal drug into her nostrils.

Nothing.

He started rescue breathing and chest compressions. Two agonizing minutes passed.

Another spray.

The crowd fell silent and collectively seemed to hold its breath as the seconds ticked by.

Finally, the woman lurched and emitted a loud gasp for air as she returned to the land of the living. Marc rolled her onto her side and watched as her eyes started to come back into focus, eyes that wouldn't be able to un-see the places she had just been.

A commotion arose at the entrance as a team of three EMTs came rushing in, clearing the crowd and creating more space around her.

"How many sprays?" asked the lead paramedic, a wiry man in his fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and chiseled features.

"Two."

"CPR?"

"Yes, two minutes," Marc said.

The team got to work, stabilizing her on an orange board, administering an oxygen mask, and taking her vitals. Marc backed away from the fray as a slew of onlookers patted him on the back. He slapped their hands away and pushed back anyone in his path, his field of vision drenched in red like a can of paint that had fallen down the side of a building.

If this was it for him, his last time with a badge, he would do everything in his power to burn the people behind this pill to the ground.

When he got home, he stormed straight for the bathroom, squatted down, and opened the cabinet door. He moved the towels out of the way and stared. He slumped onto his butt and pressed his back against the wall.

There was no reason to keep it in the house, but knowing it was there was like a life preserver when the seas got rough.

Today was 237 days.

The high-flying part was over.

The cloak of invincibility was gone, and the raw parts were exposed again. The dragon wasn't killed; the knight had just knocked him out. He picked the bottle up from the back of the cabinet and locked his eyes on it.

Day 238 was far from guaranteed.

No sooner had he unscrewed the cap than he was jolted by a knock at the door.

There were only a few people that it might be at this hour of the night, and he didn't want to see any of them.

The knock came again, harder this time. They weren't going away, and he knew it.

He screwed the top back on, put the bottle back behind the towels, and walked back across the house to the front door. Carly was mid- knock when he pulled the door open, causing her to stumble forward a step.

"What the hell took you so long to answer?" she asked. "I had to get my gun."

"Because someone knocked on your door?" "It's late."

"Are you a nineteen-year-old girl from a horror movie?" "What if you were a sex predator or a burglar?"

Carly fought back a smile.

"Well, I just wanted to check on you on my way home, that's all. I heard it was a tough night."

Clark barreled down the hallway and slammed into her legs, making his need to be acknowledged unavoidable. Carly obliged, scratching him hard between the ears and then under the chin.

"News gets around fast. I was just on my way to bed. I feel … what’s the word …”

"Defeated?" she asked. "No."

"Drained?" "Warmer." "Disgusted?"

"Are you in some sort of alliteration club that I don't know about?" he asked her.

"Okay, funny guy. Before I use all my options, why don't you tell me what you're feeling?"

"Shitty."

"They won't let us use bad words in the club, you know." He smoothed his hands across his face and laughed.

“I'll keep that in mind if I get an invite." "Seriously though, are you okay tonight?" "No, but I will be."

"Good enough for me," she said.

Silence hung there as they stared at one another. "Thank you," he said.

"For what?"

"This. Stopping to check on me."

She shifted her feet and looked down at the ground before looking back at him.

"I do what I can. You're okay for the night, right? I don't need you falling off the train."

"It's called ‘the wagon.’" "It's not the 1800s."

"Sometimes you can't argue with tradition," he said.

She paused to say something else and thought better of it, instead turning to walk down the two porch steps.

"Damn, what did I say?" he said, raising his hands from his sides.

"Nothing. It's just that we have a big day tomorrow, and we both need some sleep. If this is your last rodeo, I want you to be good and rested, cowboy."

He feigned a tip of his cap. "Yes, ma'am."

"You're damn right," she said with a smile and a curtsy.

Then she got into her car and headed down the driveway into the night.