I nod. "Okay, sounds good."
"How's the supply list?"
"Done. Sheila approved it."
"I had to make two corrections," Sheila says. "You overestimated on buns and underestimated on coleslaw. Nobody ever estimates coleslaw right. It's the silent killer of barbecue planning."
"Coleslaw has ruined more cookouts than rain," Tex says, pointing at me with his water glass. "You run out of coleslaw and suddenly you're the guy who didn't plan. Nobody says 'great brisket, shame about the coleslaw.' They say 'no coleslaw?' and they look at you like you've personally failed them. Coleslaw is a covenant, Stormy. Sheila understands this. That's why she runs things."
"I don't run things," Sheila says. "I make corrections. There's a difference."
"There is no difference and we all know it."
I smile at him. The panic is still there underneath, a low hum that hasn't stopped since he walked out the door this morning. But it's quieter now. He's here and he's rambling on about coleslaw. He didn't drive to Alabama to confront Ron. He's here with me where he belongs.
I walk around the bar to where he's standing. I don't say anything. I just move to stand next to him, my shoulder against his arm, the way I've been doing since the night everything changed. He shifts his weight slightly toward me while his hand finds the small of my back, rests there, protective.
We don't talk about what he and Mickey discussed. We don't talk about Ron or the bike or what comes next.
We'll deal with it when it gets here.
Because the one thing I know for sure is that it's coming.
Chapter 24: Tex
Mickey shows up right on schedule, in jeans and a windbreaker. He's already got a plate of ribs in one hand and a flashlight in the other.
"Sheila said these were mine," he says, holding up the plate.
"She saves you a plate every Friday. You know this."
"I sure do. One of the reasons why I became a cop. The benefits are terrible but the rib situation is excellent." He sets the plate on the bar and looks at me. The joking drops. "Where's the motorcycle?"
"Second floor. Landing at the top of the stairs."
"And Stormy?"
"Cleaning the kitchen for the third time today." I pause. "He knows you're here and why."
Mickey nods and waves the flashlight. "Show me."
We go upstairs. The Sportster is where it's been since before the hurricane. Parked on the second-floor landing, covered with a drop cloth that Stormy put over it weeks ago. I haven't thought much about the bike. It's been background noise, a piece of the story I was waiting for Stormy to explain when he was ready. Now I know what it is. It's the escape vehicle. The last thing Stormy grabbed before he pushed it down a gravel driveway in the dark.
I pull the drop cloth off. The Sportster sits there under the hallway light, black and chrome. A little rough around the edges from the rebuild Ron was doing on it. A working bike, not a showpiece.
Mickey crouches down. He clicks the flashlight on and starts at the front, moving systematically, the way cops movethrough evidence. Methodical and thorough. He runs his hands along the frame, checking joints, welds, anywhere a small item could be attached. He checks under the seat, inside the tail section, along the undercarriage.
"What are you looking for?" I ask.
"Small box. Probably black or gray. Couple inches long. It'll have its own cellular connection, not Bluetooth like an AirTag. These dedicated GPS units run about fifty bucks on Amazon. They've got their own SIM card, their own battery, some of them last months on a single charge. You buy a subscription, download an app, and you can track the thing from anywhere in the country in real time."
"Jesus Christ."
"Yeah. People put them on fleet vehicles, rental equipment, or anything they want to keep tabs on. They're very popular with stalkers, abusive partners, and anyone else who wants to control someone's movement." He's on his back now, flashlight aimed up into the frame. "This guy sounds like the type who tracks everything he owns. If the bike was his project, the tracker was probably on it before the kid ever touched it."
He goes quiet. The flashlight moves along the inside of the frame, slow, section by section. I stand there and watch and my pulse is loud in my ears.
"Got it," he says.
