The Artist 2 Toby's Back

By Howard R Music

After spending several months in a coma after being shot in the back of the head, Toby awakens in the hospital with one eye, a plate in his head, and no memory. A friend, C.J., who was with him when he was shot visits and tells him he was a hero who saved four girls from sex slavery, and that he was a biker with a custom motorcycle. Toby was relieved because he worried he might have been a homeless person or something really scuzzy like a lawyer. Eventually his memory returns, but he discovers he had been a killer for a businessman who had been trafficking women, which was depressing to say the least. While undergoing therapy he meets a woman who was institutionalized after she claimed her daughter had come up missing after being taken by CPS (Child Protective Services.) Toby believes her and agrees to help find the man who took the girl when he is released. However, his efforts are complicated when his former employer sends a couple of shooters, and a Mexican biker gang from South Texas to finish the botched hit on him. Another aggravation is a young woman who is looking for the same man that she believes murdered her sister. She's a fox, but keeps getting in his way. A strange life for a man who just wanted to be an artist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Howard R Music
• Release date: Jul 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310176975

Howard R Music

I've been a motorcyclist all my adult life. Enjoy writing, and have had short stories, poems, cartoons, and illustrations published in many motorcycle publications. I also write music and perform in various places in Denton, Texas, which is well known for it's eclectic music scene. I currently ride a 2001 Harley Sportster, which is a blast to ride on Texas back roads.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Dwayne Cutler waved to the guard as he passed on his way out of the small, gated community in which he lived, and pulled up to the stop sign at the rural asphalt road on his FXLR Harley, a bike the old timers would call a Superglide.

Dwayne didn't care much for the addition with its McMansions, individual pools, tennis courts, and pompous residents, but it had been drummed into him by his wealthy parents since he was a child that he had to keep up appearances, and since the family business he had inherited made him a lot of money, he went along. His own spacious house meant little to him, but what he did like was the three-car garage, which he used to store his six Harley Davidsons.

There was a full-dressed touring machine with a 103-cubic-inch dual cam motor that he rode when he traveled out of state. His custom chopper, complete with a hard-tail frame, extended front end, wide rear tire, and tiny seat that made it torturous to ride more than a few miles, was mostly trailered to parades and shows behind his only car, a Lincoln Continental, one of the few luxury cars in Warren County equipped with a hitch. Three of his bikes were antiques: A stock 1936 Harley Knucklehead which had been restored with original parts, that he loved to ride, but only during times of little traffic because he feared crashing the cherry machine. In a moment of impetuousness, he'd bought a 1970 Harley Shovelhead with a bored and stroked motor, with the intention of getting into drag racing, only to discover he didn't have the time to invest that the sport required. Then there was a 1958 XLCH Sportster that he was in the process of restoring. It was temperamental, with a high compression engine that was a challenge to get running, but, like his '36 Knucklehead, the nostalgic ritual of kick-starting the fire-breathing V-twin that rattled windows three blocks away never ceased to get his blood flowing.

Like most bikers, his garage was littered with spare parts and paraphernalia he'd picked up or traded for. There was a 1956 Harley Panhead engine that he hoped to eventually fit in to an original frame. A farrowing from a 60s FLH hung on one wall, and a 70s Sportster gas tank was on a shelf next to a set of Shovelhead engine cylinders. A transmission from a 50s Matchless motorcycle (an English brand that went out of business in 1966) gathered dust in one corner, alongside a gas tank from an Allstate scooter that was manufactured by the Italian company Puch, which was imported and sold by Sears in the 1960s. The chrome on the tank was pitted and rusted and virtually useless, but Dwayne thought it was cool and never tired of looking at it and wondering how many hardcore bikers had cut their teeth on such humble machines.

Satisfied the road was clear, Dwayne revved the engine and shot out onto the asphalt, going through the gears at neck-snapping speed. A thin smile formed over clenched teeth as his eyes focused behind his dark glasses on the tree-lined road that blurred under his spinning wheels. The cool, early morning air felt good blasting against his leather jacket. It was an older, low mileage motorcycle with an original Evolution motor; he'd purchased it used from a man who seldom rode the bike. Dwayne had outfitted the engine with a higher lift cam, a high performance carburetor, and head valves and springs, which increased the horsepower substantially. Higher viscosity racing oil had been added to the front forks and the rear shocks were custom units, which made for a stiffer ride but gave the bike nimble handling. The handlebars were low behind the narrow windscreen and shield mounted on the front end. A Japanese crotch-rocket or maybe even an Italian Ducati right out of the box would handle better, but neither had the allure, the mystique, or deep throated roar of an American Harley. Unlike his dressed-out touring bike with its fuel-injected engine, he was able to perform most of the maintenance himself on the Superglide, which he enjoyed. In fact, Dwayne lamented that his business took up so much of his time, keeping him away from his beloved machines.

He kept to the right as much as possible, because these rural roads of Kentucky were narrow and winding and you had to be careful if you didn't want to end up as a hood ornament. Cutler thought about turning onto Highway 3225 and crossing over the Barren River Bridge on his way into Bowling Green. It was scenic and one of his favorite routes, but he was running late, so instead he took 234 into downtown where his office was located. It was inside an old three-story building he owned that was built in the 1870s, as were most of the ornate structures in the original business district. The city had been the provisional capital of Confederate Kentucky, a contentious issue at the time as the populace was deeply divided about the conflict, and had suffered greatly when Union forces attacked and occupied the state. There were still to this day people bitter about the Northern Aggression, as it was in most states that suffered through the humiliation of Reconstruction. Now, Bowling Green was the third largest city in Kentucky, and home to the Chevrolet Corvette, an American icon, which had been manufactured there since 1981.

Dwayne rolled through the city limits and then into the old downtown area, which was alive with tourists who came to visit the shops and museums and enjoy the forested rivers and lakes, and perhaps take a boat ride into nearby Mammoth Cave. There was a parking spot across the street from his office where he could see his bike from inside the building, so he wheeled in and backed the idling machine against the curb. Reluctantly, Cutler killed the engine, stepped off, and locked the front forks. He slipped off his soft, leather gloves and placed them between the handlebars and small farrowing, then stretched his arms while looking across the street at the building he'd purchased several years ago. It still had the original windows and glass that was wavy, containing tiny bubbles in some places like old bottles. The brick was trimmed with hand cut stone that arched over the windows and door. His father had tried to talk him into buying a new building at an industrial park developed near the city limits, but he had refused. He hated the modern cookie-cutter buildings constructed of cement blocks or concrete tilt-walls, and their huge glass enclosures that, to him, resembled government institutions rather than civilian architecture. Most of his business was conducted by email, phone, or Skype, so he saw no need to waste money in order to impress people who would never see his office, anyway. Besides, he preferred the old buildings, which, unlike modern construction, had individual touches that set each one apart.

He walked across the street towards his building, which had Cutler Enterprises painted on the large show window. Below it were the names of an engineer who rented the first floor offices, and a custom homebuilder that resided on the second. He hopped up on the raised sidewalk and opened the heavy oak door with its engraved brass door handle. Inside, the original oaken doors and trim glowed softly under the lights mounted on the stamped metal ceiling, which was ten feet above the refinished hardwood floor.

Good morning, Mr. Cutler, said the engineer's secretary, who was carrying a handful of papers to the office of her boss. She was a well-built woman of thirty-five who refused to call him by his first name, though he had told her several times it was okay. Did you have a nice ride?

It was great, he answered. You should come along sometime.

She smiled, but kept walking.

Dwayne admired her backside as she strolled away. Thank God for short, tight skirts and high heels, he thought as he made his way up the stairs, which were highly polished to match the trim and floors. His office was on the top floor. It wasn't as spacious as the lower floors, but offered more privacy, and he could look out the window and see his motorcycles when he was able to ride to work.

Good morning, Dwayne, his secretary smiled, as she looked up from the computer screen on her desk where she was sitting. Unlike the homebuilder's secretary, his had no problem using his first name. She, Mrs. Myra Ferguson, was older with four kids, two of which were in college. Her husband was a coal mining engineer. Her girlish figure was long gone, which suited Dwayne. Getting involved with another's secretary was fine with him, but he wanted no unnecessary complications at his own business. Myra was good at her job and loyal to him, and that was all that mattered.

Good morning, Myra, he answered. Great day, isn't it?

It certainly is. Mrs. Ferguson looked through some papers on her desk. The contracts from Binco in New York are on your desk, she continued. And that proposal from North Carolina, Nutricorp, I believe, is here somewhere.

No hurry, it's not that important.

Oh, Myra interrupted, as Dwayne started for his office. A package came from UPS first thing this morning. I put it on your desk.

Thanks, he answered, opening the door and walking into his private office. Without the computer on his antique roll-top desk, a person walking in for the first time would think he'd entered a time warp. The interior had been restored to its original condition. Even his file cabinets were ancient hardwood. The furniture had been refurbished with leather to appear as authentic as when produced at the factory. The couch with its hand-carved curved feet and soft, black leather was seven feet long and perfect for a nap. A heavy floor safe, manufactured in 1880, stood against the wall next to a mahogany bookshelf, which itself was a hundred years old.

Dwayne removed his leather jacket and hung it on an old-fashioned hall tree, which had two metal pans at the bottom where moisture from wet umbrellas could be collected. He walked over to the tall windows that overlooked the street and the park across from his building. The chrome on his Harley glinted in the sunlight, and he wished he could continue his ride, but there were things that needed his attention, and Cutler wasn't one to shirk his duties.

Reluctantly, he turned away from the window and noticed a brown paper wrapped box tied with string on his desk. He seldom received packages, as most of his correspondence was electronic. The few that were sent to him were generally schematics, blueprints, or proposals that needed his signature. This box was odd in that it was wrapped in paper and string, an outdated practice that he hadn't seen in years. Also, the return address was in Oklahoma, a state where he seldom did business. He picked it up. It was heavy, but didn't rattle. Placing it back on the desk, he pulled out a knife from his back pocket, flicked open the blade with his thumb, cut the string, and sliced open the paper. It was sealed with ribbed pressure tape and he had to cut this away as well.

Opening it, he saw that the inside was packed tight with foam peanuts. He dug away some of the peanuts, which spilled onto the desk as he reached inside. There was a clear plastic bag that was tied with a wire wrap. Frustrated with the densely packed foam particles, he grabbed the top of the bag and pulled it out, scattering more of the peanuts, some of which fell to the floor. Though clear, the bag was double wrapped, and moisture was condensed on the inside.

Dwayne held the bag up into the light, and could see what appeared to be red hair matted against the plastic. He turned it, and then recoiled in horror when he saw a blue eye that was partially covered by a drooping lid, and a pale tongue which hung out of an open mouth. There was a small hole in a disfigured ear, and red fluid had collected at the bottom of the bag. He dropped the bag inside the box and stumbled into his leather chair.

Toby's back! he breathed hoarsely.

Chapter 2

Surely you're not going to ride that thing!

Toby looked up at the nurse from his wheelchair where she had pushed him out in front of the state hospital. Toby could walk though he used a cane, but there was a rule that patients should be wheeled out of the facility. He thought it silly but didn't protest, as he had grown fond of the woman, Andrea Combs, in the eight months he'd spent in her care, and the wheelchair prolonged their last moments together. It's what I do, Andrea.

Nurse Combs reached out and stroked his hair. John, you're not well.

Though his given name was Toby, a fact he rediscovered as his memory started coming back, he'd been registered in the hospital as John Smith in an attempt to hide him from his enemies. He kept up the ruse, though he didn't like deceiving her, but there were things she didn't need to know. Of course I am. You're a miracle worker.

She squeezed his shoulder as he smiled at her. Near the curb sat two motorcycles, C.J.'s Harley and Toby's own custom bike with the S&S engine, the one he'd ridden when he left his native Kentucky for Texas. C.J. was a Texas musician who had been touring with a group of out-of-state riders he'd met along the way. He was cheerful and likeable and, enjoying the company of the others as well, Toby tagged along.

However, it turned out that C.J. had a past, and almost immediately the fun ended when they crossed paths with a gang of Mexicans traffickers, who not only had a grudge against the musician, but were also smuggling kidnapped, underaged American girls across the border to be used as sex slaves. Freeing the girls cost two of the touring riders, Pat and Donna, a married couple from Arkansas, their lives, and Toby his left eye.

No, that wasn't exactly true. Toby had a past, as well, and it caught up with him one night outside an obscure bar in rural north Texas where a gunman shot him in the back of the head. The slug exited his left eye socket, destroying the eyeball as well as part of his brain, which put him in a coma for three months.

He reached up and touched his black eye-patch, which was embossed with a silver eagle. As a kid, he'd fantasized about being a pirate, and now he looked like one. At least, he thought he'd wanted to be a swashbuckler. Sometimes his mind played tricks on him.

A cold wind blew skittering leaves and a few pieces of discarded paper along the cropped grass and ruffled his long hair. He used to wear it short, but now he let it grow to hide the scars from the bullet wound and the subsequent surgeries which left a plate in the back of his head where the skull had shattered. He'd let his beard and moustache grow out as well. It had taken some getting used to, but he was finally becoming accustomed to it, and liked the idea of not shaving.

The sun came out from behind one of the scattered clouds in the late winter sky, its rays gleaming off the polished motorcycles in front of him in stark contrast to the solemn, red brick building behind. It was three stories tall with white limestone trim that looked more like a prison than a hospital. The building was part of a sprawling complex of the North Texas State Hospital that housed mental patients, ranging from the mentally challenged to the criminally insane to drug addicted juveniles. Toby had spent his time in a small offshoot of the facility that treated those with brain injuries.

Toby gripped his cane and stood up from the chair. He'd carved the cane himself from a piece of oak he'd found in a woodshop in the hospital which was used by maintenance men for repairs, and sometimes as therapy for recovering patients. Toby had no memory of ever working with wood before, though the polished cane with its intricate designs appeared to have been done by a professional. But there were a lot of things he had no recollection of.

Be careful, said Andrea, as Toby stood to his feet.

I'm fine, he answered, leaning against the cane with his right hand.

I thought you bought a pickup, Andrea continued.

You don't need a truck to carry this, he said, holding his only luggage, a small tubular bag that was slung across his shoulder with a carrying strap, which he tied to his motorcycle with bungee cords when he traveled.

Are you sure you can do this?

He smiled at the woman. Her blond hair looked golden in the sun, and her blue eyes glistened with concern as she reached out and grasped his left arm. She was a few inches shorter than him, with wide hips and well-shaped muscular legs. Her breasts were full and luscious and he never tired of looking at them. You're just afraid I'll be late for medication time.

She frowned. She hated it when he made Nurse Ratchet jokes, the rigid, control freak nurse from the movie One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. With Andrea holding onto his left arm, they walked towards the motorcycles, where C.J. stood waiting. The guitar player had been with Toby the night he was shot. He'd been on the phone inside the bar when Toby walked outside to get some fresh air. While he was gazing at the stars, a man walked up behind him and pulled the trigger, though he had no recollection of the shooting. One moment he was enjoying a magnificent Texas night, and the next he was in the convalescent hospital with one eye and no memory.

Because C.J. had been rescued twice from the Mexican smugglers by Toby and their road companions, he felt responsible for Toby’s welfare, and had gotten him medical attention while they laid low after the shootout with the smugglers. He'd also taken care of Toby’s motorcycle and would visit the hospital occasionally to check on him.

Toby thought back to the day he came out of the coma. It was unbelievably confusing to wake up in a hospital bed hooked up to an IV and electronic monitors, with no idea how he'd gotten there. Though weak, Toby tried to pull the IV out of his arm and fight his way out of the bed, and had to be sedated to keep from further injuring himself.

I'm Dr. Bierstrom, the physician said, several hours later as the medication given his patient wore off. He was a slender man with a bit of a paunch. There were streaks of grey in his dark hair, though his eyebrows, which were thick and bushy, were totally black. Do you know how you were injured, Mr. Smith?

Toby glared at him with his good eye. There were bandages around his head and across the left side of his face. Smith? My name is Smith?

According to your admittance papers, Mr. John Smith.

Are these necessary? Toby remarked, looking at his hands, which were strapped to the bed rails.

You were quite combative when you awoke, but that is understandable, you were in a coma. The doctor laid the clipboard he'd been holding on the stand by the bed and began loosening the restraint on Toby's right wrist. A nurse standing by the door, a well-built woman with blonde hair, Nurse Combs stamped on her nametag, walked over and released the one on his left.

Why all these bandages? he asked, focusing on her ample chest.

You were shot in the back of the head. You lost your left eye and there was some brain damage, plus there was surgery to repair your cranium.

I'm blind in one eye and retarded?

The doctor picked up his clipboard. No, mental retardation is usually a birth defect. The left side of your brain controls the right side of your body, so there may be physical issues that require therapy. The brain is a remarkable organ. Even with major trauma it can, in layman's terms, rewire itself so that a patient can eventually live a relatively normal life.

Eventually?

Mr. Smith, recovery takes time. To be honest, we didn't think you would ever wake up, but you did, and were able to move as well. That's a good sign.

How long have I been here?

Three months.

Three months!

Be thankful, said Dr. Bierstrom. Some patients have lain in a coma for years.

Toby looked at the window. Why are the shades down?

We wanted it dim so as not to irritate your eye.

"As