Biker by Mike; Baron Read Free Book Online

someone answered.
    â€œWho is it?” A woman’s voice, flat, impersonal.
    â€œIt’s Cass, Ginger. I brought the investigator.”
    â€œJust a minute.”
    The gate clicked open and swung inward, parting in the middle.

CHAPTER 8
    Trees arched over the winding blacktop creating a green filter, sunlight dappling the road. The trees thinned, and they emerged in a clearing in front of an overgrown wood lodge with a shake roof and vertical redwood boards. Vines climbed the stone façade on either side of the log portico. The driveway looped under the portico circling a ten-foot-pond with a fountain in the center spewing water straight up. Gently rounded bushes grew against the wall like green sentries. Flowers burst in profusion surrounding the turn-around. Two baskets overflowing with marigolds, pansies and hollyhocks hung over the main entrance.
    Cass parked under the log roof and got out. Pratt heard birds twittering, insects chirping, the susurrus of the breeze through the forest. He inhaled deeply the smell of pine.
    The smell of money.
    A woman opened the front door and Pratt’s first impression was of a gamin, Audrey Hepburn or Leslie Caron. A slight, feminine figure with a long ivory neck, short pageboy hair and a Mona Lisa smile.
    â€œCass,” she said.
    Cass stepped forward and enfolded the smaller woman in a crushing embrace. When Cass released Ginger, Pratt saw that she was holding a cane.
    â€œCome in,” the woman said smiling, revealing something of her true age. Pratt shut the door behind him.
    â€œGinger, this is Josh Pratt.”
    Ginger’s grip was surprisingly firm. “Cass has told me a great deal about you, Josh. Please, let’s go to the porch. I have iced tea.”
    Pratt wondered what Cass had said considering they’d known each other less than twenty-four hours.
    Ginger wore a blue terry cloth robe snugged around her waspish waist. She led them down a short hallway lined with photographs of the family: husband, Ginger, two grown-up step-kids. Horse trophies in a cabinet. Ginger led them onto a broad screened-in porch overlooking a deck and swimming pool, the green canopy of the forest. “Please sit.” Ginger made as if to pour iced tea from a glass pitcher. Cass took the pitcher from her. Ginger’s feet rested on a cougar skin.
    â€œYou sit,” Cass said.
    Ginger eased herself into a leather glider, carefully setting her cane over the armrest. Pratt sat opposite a low glass coffee table on a bamboo sofa with embroidered cushions.
    â€œCass tells me you want me to find your son.”
    â€œYes that’s right, Mr. Pratt. You know I don’t have long and I would like to see him before I go.”
    â€œShe’s full of shit,” Cass said, handing Pratt a glass of iced tea. “She’ll be around to kick our bones.”
    â€œI have to warn you that sixteen years is an awful long time. Chances are you’ll be wasting your money. And please call me Josh.”
    â€œI have to try.” She reached for a zippered leather binder and removed some snapshots. The first one, in faded color, showed an extremely young Ginger looking lovingly at a newborn baby.”
    â€œWhere’s the father?” Pratt asked.
    â€œHe was in jail when this photo was taken. He also had a thing about having his picture taken but I do have this.” She handed him a faded black and white showing four bikers outside an old farmhouse making obscene gestures toward the camera.
    â€œMoon’s the one with the shaved skull.”
    A muscular figure with a bony head, aviator shades, tribal tats circling his upper arms and a Fu Manchu. He wore a wife beater, jeans and black boots with silver buckles. The others all had facial hair. They all had tats.
    â€œThat was taken at a farm he used to rent. Moon cooked meth for a living. He was very good at it. He may still be at it if he’s still alive.”
    â€œWhat does your gut