Babychain Blues

By Tony Masero

It was twenty-five years later and yet things were eerily turning in a full circle for Cole Junger.
On the surface he was an ordinary guy, a simple man living a simple life in Rivers Bend but it had not always been that way for Cole.
The random chance that brought him to young Caitlin May’s door was proving to be the lynch pin for a catastrophe. If only he could have stayed out of it but something about the poor kid had drawn him. Some forgotten sense of responsibility or maybe of a duty earned overseas.
It all went back to his old friend Benny and getting disastrously involved with a lone crazed biker. After that the baby they had brought along and two unsuspecting hikers out in the wild woods. That and a whole parcel of stolen cash money and precious stones.
Cole had hoped to have left it all behind him now but some bad people never forget and there was one sure thing and that was that the past was about to rise up and come at him with the overwhelming impact of a tidal wave.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tony Masero
• Release date: Nov 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310602863

Tony Masero

It’s not such a big step from pictures to writing.And that’s how it started out for me. I’ve illustrated more Western book covers than I care to mention and been doing it for a long time. No hardship, I hasten to add, I love the genre and have since a kid, although originally I made my name painting the cover art for other people, now at least, I manage to create covers for my own books.A long-term closet writer, only comparatively recently, with a family grown and the availability of self-publishing have I managed to be able to write and get my stories out there.As I did when illustrating, research counts a lot and has inspired many of my Westerns and Thrillers to have a basis in historical fact or at least weave their tale around the seeds of factual content.Having such a visual background, mostly it’s a matter of describing the pictures I see in my head and translating them to the written page. I guess that’s why one of my early four-star reviewers described the book like a ‘Western movie, fast paced and full of action.’I enjoy writing them; I hope folks enjoy reading the results.

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BABYCHAIN BLUES

TONY MASERO

(Writing as Michael D’Asti)

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. Publishers Note: This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events other than historical are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real person, places, or events is coincidental.

Copyright 2013 © Tony Masero

Smashwords Edition

Chapter One

1973

It was a regular pain in the ass.

The damned road had been washed out and that meant a detour.

The loop ran off Interstate 90 and on the map had appeared to be a little used and safe route into the western slopes of the Cascade Mountains and all that lay beyond.

It was a good day. The storm that had forced the sudden flash flood down the ravine had passed a week since and the sky was overcast but clear of more heavy rain.

Beside the river, which had now reverted back to its normal sized stream, there was nothing but a long sweeping beach of pale stones and flood debris. The beach that was composed of round, fist-sized stones, fell in a white and gray tumble down from the bare hillside. Up there, above them on the crest, stood old-growth forests of fir, some of them big; ten and fourteen foot in diameter. Wave upon wave of them, rolling away into the wilderness of the Olallie Park and on through Washington State clear through to Canada.

The cracked and shattered black top above the stone beach had been sealed off with hazard barricades and the detour along the far riverbank was only passable by hiking pedestrians who could make it across the shallow ford.

Dave and Benny looked and felt kind of stupid.

Dave Bulver was pushing the two ‘klunker’ mountain bikes whilst Benny struggled with the bike’s baby carriage over the rocks. He had insisted they bring the child even though Dave had thought it insane at the time. He had to agree now though that Benny had been right, it was certainly a great way to disguise their load.

Dave looked across at his companion as he fought with the two-wheel carriage over the rocks. He was big enough to handle the task that was for sure. The giant, densely muscled black man stood just under six feet tall, he must weigh about two twenty-five Dave estimated. Big, dumb Benny, as strong as an ox and yet silent as a mouse. Leastways ever since his voice box had been shot out at Khe Sanh.

The same VC mortar round had hit them both, he had received shrapnel in his shin and just below the knee and Benny had his voice sliced away by a metal fragment. It had meant a Purple Heart and invalided out of the Marines but neither of them had objected to that, there was nothing in The Nam that warranted anything but grief. That had been five years ago. They had stayed buddied up after that and got along just fine until now. Dave did the thinking and talking and Benny the heavy work. Both of them making their way on the fringes, neither able nor willing to slot back into a normal life in the 'real world’.

Another summer of love, Dave snorted a laugh to himself at the thought.

A scraggy bearded motorcycle rider was coming towards them over the sea of stones. The fellow looked the part and was decked out in a cut-down raggedy-assed sleeveless jeans jacket, tee shirt and a knotted red Mexican bandana wrapped around his head. He kept his booted feet spread wide to maintain his balance and puttered the bike carefully over the bumpy terrain trying to avoid a tumble on the smooth stones. The fellow stared at them intently and it unnerved Dave a little. Why the interest? He wondered.

Probably forced off the road by the washout, Dave thought. Still, it didn’t explain the attention.

Maybe he was another Vet, Dave rationalized, there were quite a few of them hiding out up here in the woods and not managing it too well, some of them going over onto the wild side after all they’d seen and done in South East Asia. Most couldn’t trust themselves any longer with the rest of humanity. They lived on a fine edge, still spending sleepless nights keeping company with a k-bar knife and ready to gut whatever came close in the dark.

The way this one stared at him out of those red-rimmed eyes unnerved Dave though. It was kind of creepy, challenging almost. Although Dave reckoned it could well be that he was high, maybe on acid or weed, and that was the explanation.

The Suzuki bounced on, coming nearer, the guy never taking his suspicious eyes from them. His intended route would clearly take him close by and alongside them.

Behind the biker and some way back in the distance, Dave could see a couple of hippy backpacking hikers trailing along towards them. Longhaired, bearded fellows with open, bronzed and healthy looking faces. Dressed in beads, fringed buckskin shirts and denim pants with tall rucksacks on their backs and long hunting knives in scabbards at their sides painted with anti-nuclear war logos. They looked like they’d stepped out of a mountain man documentary and appeared innocent enough, a couple of pretty regular woodsmen types getting back to nature out in the woods.

Not saying a word, the staring biker arrived alongside and Dave studied the bike as he passed. A Suzuki Cyclone motocross. Clean and neat; too clean. Not a single sign of any Hell’s Angels spray paint or decals of death and destruction. Could always be a Sunday morning Angel out for a drive, Dave rationalized. The rest of the week maybe the guy sat behind a desk and sold insurance or something. Then again, the fellow could easily have stolen the wheels the way he looked.

Dave’s heart sunk when he saw the helmet strapped to the rear postilion seat and realized the fellow’s interest. It was a State Trooper’s motorcycle helmet. The guy was an off-duty cop!

Dave kept his features fixed and stared straight ahead until the trooper had passed by with one last hard look at them both.

‘He was a cop,’ whispered Dave and Benny’s eyes widened, he was about to turn around and take a look but Dave hissed at him. ‘Don’t! Come on, let’s get up this damned hill and away from the road.’

The baby was whining as Benny heaved the pram over the rocks, the vibrations bouncing the big wheels around. It was a nylon walled vehicle with large plastic windows on each side and down the curved front. A long antenna waved above the sloping roof with a scrap of material tied to the mast as a warning to high-sided vehicles that a baby carriage was there.

The two hippy hikers passed them with a wave.

‘Hey, man. How you doing?’ the fair-haired one called, grinning broadly. He was a big, strapping fellow with an easy smile and manner.

‘Just fine,’ Dave answered.

‘Taking the little one out for a stroll?’

‘You bet,’ Dave said, eager to hurry on.

‘Cool,’ said the guy. ‘Let those babes breath the good air, I can dig that.’

His friend, a tall, slender and dark-haired, simple looking fellow had a large joint burning and he sucked deeply and blew a pillar of smoke in their direction, then he smiled serenely and made a peace sign before moving off.

So much for ‘good air’, Dave considered.

They made for the hillside, pushing the pace and only slowed by the damned carriage and two bikes.

They were half way up the hill when they heard the motor behind them.

It was running fast and Dave looked around to see the biker climbing the hillside and bounding after them over the rough ground. The driver was throwing caution to the wind and bouncing and veering wildly as he forced the vehicle up the slope.

‘He’s coming for us,’ said Dave.

There was no way they could outrun the bike in the open, they were still too far below the summit to hide amongst the trees. Both of them stopped and turned to face the oncoming trooper hoping to fake it out.

Dave noticed with a shock of surprise that the guy now had a gun out and held it in one hand, his wrist balanced on the handlebars.

The rider throttled up the max six thousand revs and came on, leaping the two hundred and thirty pounds of bike up towards them in roaring jerks as he zigzagged up the climb. It was a heavy looking Magnum handgun that he raised whilst his free hand kept a hold on the steering. The trooper fired. The sound of the shot was lost amidst the heavy revs of the roaring bike, its noise echoing and tearing through the length of the valley.

Dave heard Benny make a gulping sound and sigh, he looked across and saw his friend take a step back as the bullet struck. The big man staggered, then regained his balance and almost casually, stuck out his foot and braked the pram before reaching inside.

Dave knew what he was going for.

He heard the bike skip and whine as it closed, the sound cutting through the wail of the baby that had now reached a hiccupping high-pitched scream of terror.

Benny’s hand came out with the cut-down shotgun. His black face twisted into a grimace of pain and silent intent. Blood was pouring from his left tit just below the collarbone but with a snarl of anger on his normally placid features, he couched the gun against his waist pumped in a shell and fired, the gun bucking as he loosed off.

The charging biker fired his .357 at the same time. Both men hit their targets. Benny tumbled over backwards onto the stones, dropping the shotgun and grasping the pram wheels in one large hand, holding it fast and stopping the carriage from getting away and going rolling downhill.

The biker stopped like he’d slammed into an invisible stone wall. His bike slid sideways, the buckshot ripping open his shirtfront and tossing him aside as the bike flew away from under him. He hit the ground hard, spread out, slid downhill a little then lay spread-eagled on the stones.

Dave raced over to the fallen figure of Benny and knelt beside him.

‘Oh, shit! Benny. No! No, no, no.’

Benny still clung onto the carriage wheel, his dark eyes fixed on Dave as his body went into shudders of shock. The whole head, usually sitting so steady on the bull neck, trembled of its own accord and Dave could see Benny fighting to stay conscious.

‘Oh, my man,’ moaned Dave, his open hands held out helplessly. ‘There ain’t nothing I can do.’

Two .357 slugs at close range had torn right through his body and were a death sentence even for a big strong guy like Benny. Dave put his hands over the wounds, aimlessly trying to stop the flow of blood.

Benny snorted, his nostrils dilating as he panted for control. He brushed Dave’s hands aside and struggled to reach into the top pocket of his shirt. He brought out a crushed and bloody packet of cigarettes and a book of matches and between them a folded slip of paper. Benny compressed his lips together, stared hard at Dave and thrust out the handful, he opened his mouth wide as if to speak but only a long expiration of air escaped. Benny’s head fell away and it flopped down limp and with a heavy thump on the stones as he died.

Bitterly, Dave looked down at the dead body of his friend. In a strangely distinctive rush of isolation, he heard the baby crying, the sound of the breeze blowing through the trees above them and the putter of the still active motorbike. There was a smell of hot metal and spilt oil.

Slowly, Dave got to his feet.

Dead-eyed, Dave looked across at the sprawled figure of the biker. The man lay on his back with his head facing down the slope. He was waving his arms feebly and making soft gurgling noises. Stiffly, Dave strode over to the man, stepping sideways on the steep slope as he went.

Dave stood over the trooper, his face a cold mask, the features frozen and fixed. Maybe the trooper had known who they were and what they had done but there was no need to have come in with guns blazing. No need to kill Benny without a word.

Dave slid the .45 auto from its resting place in the waistband under his jacket at the back of his pants.

The biker was looking at him with glazed eyes, it was uncertain if he could distinguish who or what was standing over him. His shirtfront was a mess of welling blood and chewed flesh. Obscurely, Dave noticed it was steaming in the chill air.

Dave pointed the pistol at the glazed man’s eyes and pulled the trigger. Then he pulled it again.

He turned away, not giving the fellow a second glance. There was nothing disturbing about it for Dave; he had seen plenty of the same and much worse in Vietnam. Instinctively he picked up the shed brass and put the cases in his pocket.

Slipping the .45 back in his waistband he strolled back to Benny. Standing there he discarded the cigarettes and matches and opened the slip of paper.

‘If anything happin to me I ask u tek care of baby,’ he read between the bloody thumbprints in Benny’s childlike scrawl.

Sadly, Dave looked across at the infant, red-faced and still crying behind its plastic window.

‘Damn it!’ he mumbled. ‘You would wish that on me, wouldn’t you, partner?’

‘You alright, fella?’

Dave heard the call and turned to see the two hippies racing up the hill towards him.

‘What the hell went on here, bro?’ the fair headed one panted. ‘We heard them shots and came running. You okay? Oh, man….’ He sighed as he saw the two bodies.

‘Not cool,’ said his somber dark-haired companion, shaking his head in dismay. ‘That is definitely not cool.’

‘The biker, right?’ asked fair hair. ‘He went ape-shit, didn’t he? I saw it in his eyes, man was loco. Definitely missing some vital parts in his consciousness. He drew down on you, didn’t he?’ The boy was gabbling, obviously distressed by all the blood. ‘Look at that, that’s too bad. And you with a baby and all. This is all too way out there, man.’

‘So un-cool,’ repeated his friend, who seemed to possess only a limited vocabulary.

‘What are you going to do, man? Dude’s got a policeman’s helmet on his bike. He’s the law.’

‘Damned pig fuzz,’ observed his friend in distaste.

‘Listen boys,’ Dave said. He was quite calm he noted, no raised voice or