Page 21 of Spooked (31 Days of Trick or Treat: Biker & Mobster #13)

“Hound,” he says in an almost hypnotic tone.

“Listen to me. You know my heritage?” I know some of it, but I can’t summon up a reply, so he answers his own question.

“I’m mixed race, Anglo and Navajo. Spent most of my childhood here in Tucson, enjoying the Anglo lifestyle.

I had game consoles, played football, ate fast food, and was a typical teenage boy.

Then my dad died, and I returned to the reservation with my mom.

” He chuckles softly. “Fuck, you can bet I rebelled against it. It was like going back to the Stone Age, but slowly the place took hold of me, seeped into my bones until I acknowledged my Native roots, and along with that, some of the beliefs of the tribe my mom was born into.” He pauses, comes and kneels in front of me, then places his hand on my chin, forcing my head to face him.

“Hound, listen to me. I learned that most stories had a basis in truth and saw enough to realise there are things that we can’t explain, living on the edge of our consciousness.

Some spirits are only too real and frighten even me. ”

“Spirits?” I hang on his word, then think he must be fucking with me, getting me to admit to what I’ve seen, then share a joke about it with the rest of the club. Old Hound is losing his mind. You’ll never guess what he just told me.

But there’s no mirth in his eyes, and he remains totally serious as he retakes his seat.

“It wasn’t easy melding the Anglo and Native parts of me.

I had to find a way to live with them both.

Once I met Mariana and we had the kids, I became more settled.

But prior to that, and before you came to the club, I used to disappear for months on vision quests. You know what they are?”

All I can do is shake my head.

“It’s where I had let the Navajo part of me take me over, tapped into my spiritual side, felt the world wash away from me as I let the spirits in.

” He chuckles softly. “Some people would say I was mad, but the club gave me the time, knew I needed to ground myself every now and again.” He sighs.

“I still get back to the reservation from time to time, but once I was married, my wife and family were all that I needed to ground me. But, Hound, I’ve seen things no white man would ever understand.

If you think you’ve seen a ghost, believe me, I’m not the one to mock you or disagree.

” He shudders, and I swear I see goosebumps rise on his arms. “Yee naaldlooshi, skinwalkers. Like my tribe, I swear that they’re real. ”

He's not mocking me. The opposite, he’s opening up in ways that give me ammunition to turn the tables and make fun of him. But I don’t. “I need coffee.”

As I start to reach for my crutches, he stops me. “I’ve got it.”

I take the time while he’s in my kitchen to analyse his words.

I’m going crazy keeping this all to myself.

But can I really trust him? I study the man, answer him automatically when he asks how I want my drink doctored, and consider how he’s always been a steady member of the club—an established fixture long before I joined.

Though other brothers aren’t against having a joke at someone else’s expense, Mouse has never started shit that I can recall.

I may be doing him a disservice to doubt his sincerity.

Weighing my options in my mind, I either consider he’s a brother who won’t let me down or laugh at the preposterous nature of the story I could relate to him, or I can politely tell him everything’s alright, see him go, and continue suffering in lonely, tortured silence.

Feeling I’ve got no choice, first I ask, “What day is it?”

“October thirtieth,” he responds, with an eyebrow raised.

“Groundhog day.”

He snorts. “Not as far as I know. Care to expand?”

Drawing in a deep breath, I shudder as I let it out. “You’re not going to believe this.”

“Try me.” After passing me my coffee and opening another soda for himself, Mouse sits once again on the chair opposite mine.

Heaving a loud sigh, I preface my story by being straight.

“When I came out of the coma, the doctor told me I’d suffered a traumatic brain injury, and that it could affect my head in a myriad of different ways.

” I huff and dismissively wave my hands.

“I ignored his warning, of course. Thought I knew best.” Another rush of air leaves my mouth.

“To be honest, Mouse, now it’s my greatest fear.

That what I think has happened over the past couple of days could be all as a result of fucked-up damaged wiring in my head. ”

“Tell me,” he says, simply, his eyes focused as though he’s taking every word in.

Taking both a deep breath and the plunge I hope I don’t come to regret, I tell Mouse everything.

Going to the house, the pictures I took, returning to Bullet’s office, meeting Maeve, taking her back to the house, and the things that we saw.

It takes me a while to relate, but I leave nothing out.

I’m bolstered that he simply looks interested.

There’s no sign of judgment or scoffing.

I even explain how I fell down the stairs, only to come to having apparently fallen exiting my house.

How I ended up in the hospital yet again, and the next morning I revisited Bullet’s office to go through the whole thing again.

Only, this time, Maeve didn’t appear. I’m overly emotional with tears running down my face as I get to the end of my story.

I can’t even be bothered to care. I sound ridiculous, even to myself, and expect Mouse to start making the arrangements to get me immediately admitted to the nut house.

Instead, he surprises me. Leaning forward, he places his deep tan coloured hand over mine for a second. “Bro, fuck, that’s a lot to be dealing with. Give me a moment to unpack it, yeah?”

He sits back, closing his eyes as if meditating.

He’s our original tech guru, accustomed to dealing with computers and programming, finding information, and making connections where others might see none.

While his tool is a computer, it looks to me like he’s currently sifting through everything I’ve said in his mind, analysing, rearranging, trying out various algorithms to come up with an answer.

I give him space. He doesn’t disappoint.

“Maeve Sullivan exists as I said.” Suddenly, he sits forward, his hands on his knees.

“And get this. You and she were admitted to the hospital at almost the same time. You were in a coma, she is still.” He raises his eyes to mine.

“What if you met on some spiritual plane? You heard a message she was trying to convey?”

“You’re talking nonsense,” I retort. “Fuck, Mouse, it doesn’t make sense. Met on a spiritual plane? You’re talking out of your ass.”

“I am?” Mouse cocks an eyebrow at me. And despite the circumstances, I have to smile.

Although, to my logical mind, it’s something I’m inclined to dismiss out of hand.

But there are coincidences I can’t ignore.

Like that Maeve and I were brought to the same medical facility almost simultaneously.

How could my imagination have conjured a real, albeit unconscious, person up?

Racking my brains, I’m absolutely certain I’ve never heard of those names before, and Bullet mentioned nothing about them, of that I’m sure.

Mouse suddenly stands. He passes me my crutches. “Come on, I’ve got an idea.”

Bewildered, I get myself upright. “Where we going?”

Jerking his head toward the door, he gives me an explanation. “To the clubhouse, or to my office, to be precise. I like fitting puzzle pieces together, and you’ve just given me a doozy.”

I’ve just admitted to him I’m fucked in the head, that I’ve been seeing ghosts.

While he might be the one brother in the club who wouldn’t straight out laugh at me, or send for a straitjacket, I’ve no fucking idea why he thinks his computers can help.

Unless he has those gadgets you see on paranormal television shows, the ones where they investigate reported hauntings.

Narrowing my eyes as I follow after him, I wouldn’t actually be surprised if he sent me back to the house with motion detectors or whatever gimmicks they use.

He slows his pace so I can keep up with him, and when he holds the door to the clubhouse open for me, I step/hop inside.

It’s midafternoon, and there’s a prospect half-heartedly cleaning the bar.

Tommy, perched on his scooter is fondly looking on as Olivia and Gwen play with their babies in the corner kitted out for kids.

They hardly look up as we enter, just giving a brief acknowledgment with a wave of their hands.

Ignoring them, Mouse heads straight on, leading me to his office.

Apart from regularly updated equipment, I doubt his domain has changed in the thirty-odd years he’s been at the club.

It’s dark as the blackout blinds are always drawn.

Discreet lighting minimises any glare on the screens, and there, on his desk, is his ever-overflowing ashtray, and next to that, one rolled blunt, and the makings for more.

Pointing me to the chair in front of the desk, he goes to his that’s behind it.

It comes as no surprise that his first action is to light the blunt, his next to take a deep drag, drawing the smoke in, holding it in his lungs before breathing it out.

He offers it to me, but I decline. My head doesn’t need to get more fucked than it is.

Whatever senses I’ve got left, I still want around me.

At the click of a few keys, screens flicker to life, and I’m entranced as Mouse gets to work.

Watching his hands fly over the keyboard is like seeing a virtuoso pianist in action, his long fingers gliding, frantically tapping, then pausing while his brow scrunches as he reads through results.

Rejecting what he finds with a small shake of his head, his lips thin as his hands dance on.