Chapter 2 - William Asked the Wrong Question
William arrived before sunrise.
No motorcycle.
No leather vest.
Just an old Ford pickup and a face that looked as though he had not slept.
He inspected the door.
The breaker panel.
The parking lot.
Then he asked:
“Did Ryan touch you?”
“No.”
“Threaten you specifically?”
“He told me I had nobody.”
William’s jaw tightened.
“What?”
“That’s what he said.”
Clare poured him coffee.
“You know him.”
William stared into the cup.
“I know the name.”
“That isn't the same answer.”
“No.”
The sun had just begun turning the Nevada horizon pale orange.
William looked older in that light.
Fifty-eight.
Gray beard.
Heavy shoulders.
Tattooed forearms he usually kept covered when families came into the café.
For years Clare had heard stories about William Carter.
Most came from travelers.
Some called him a biker.
Some called him a former outlaw.
One man once whispered that William had been president of a motorcycle club before Clare was born.
Clare never asked.
William never volunteered.
To her, he was simply the man who gave her extra shifts when her mother’s medical bills exploded and refused to accept repayment for the motel room he paid for after her apartment flooded.
He could be frightening.
He had never frightened her.
Until now.
“Should I call the sheriff?” she asked.
“Yes.”
That surprised her.
She expected:
I'll handle it.
Instead William said:
“Tell them everything.”
Clare studied him.
“What's Ryan after?”
William took a long drink.
Then asked:
“When that pickup came back, did it stop?”
“No.”
“Anybody get out?”
“No.”
“Could you see the plate?”
“No.”
He asked about the camera next.
Not Ryan.
Not the threats.
The camera.
Clare felt something tighten in her stomach.
“You expected somebody to be filming.”
William’s eyes lifted.
“No.”
“You asked too fast.”
He looked toward the window.
“Clare.”
“What?”
“If Ryan comes back, you do not protect this café.”
“I wasn't planning to.”
“You walk away.”
“Fine.”
“You don't argue.”
“William—”
“You don't wait for me.”
That was when she became angry.
“Would you stop talking like I’m twelve?”
He looked at her.
“I’m talking like somebody who knows what a room full of men can become.”
The words hung between them.
Not theory.
Memory.
Before Clare could ask what he meant, the front bell rang.
Both of them turned.
Hank walked in carrying his thermos.
He looked at William.
Then at Clare.
Then said:
“That black truck was parked two miles east when I left.”
William stood.
“Where?”
“Old weigh station.”
“Driver?”
“Couldn't see him.”
William walked toward his office.
Clare followed.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling somebody.”
“The sheriff?”
“No.”
He stopped at the doorway.
“Mary’s ride is tomorrow.”
Clare knew the name.
Mary Carter.
William’s wife.
Dead nine years.
Every September, dozens of motorcycles crossed Nevada in her memory and raised money for rural hospice care.
Clare had worked every ride.
“What does Mary’s ride have to do with Ryan?”
William looked at her for a moment.
Then said:
May you like
“That's what worries me.”
Because Ryan had chosen the one weekend of the year when everybody knew exactly how many bikers would be coming to the Desert Star.
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