The Canefield Killer - A John Riley Novel

Chapter 1

WARNING: This story contains strong language, depictions of violence, depictions of sexual assault, sexual harassment and grooming, depictions of substance abuse, and depictions of racism that are not accepted or tolerated and may be upsetting to some readers. Reader discretion is advised.

On a better day, Riley would have seen the pickup before it jerked into his lane travelling at half his speed. As it was, he didn't see the truck until it was inches from his right shoulder.

Riley threw his weight to the left, taking the motorcycle across the painted line onto the gravel at the side of the freeway at just over 90 miles an hour. A spray of gravel shot up behind the bike as the rear wheel tried to find purchase then started to slide to the left, spinning the bike around.

Instinct took over, and Riley released his hold on the bike, kicking himself away from it. He never saw the bike hit the ground. Riley's shoulder took most of the impact and then he rolled. The world was a blur of grey and blue as he spun; his face inches from the road then staring up at the sky. There was a sickening thud and scratching of gravel on the helmet as his head bounced off the ground.

As soon as he stopped moving Riley jumped to his feet, hoping he hadn't broken anything, ready to move if another car was bearing down on him. He was in the clear, the only car near him was a blue SUV pulling over on the shoulder. He could see the white pick-up getting smaller down the freeway, and his own bike was a good fifty feet to his left.

Riley ran to his Ducati and lifted it up, struggling in the gravel for purchase as he did. He looked the bike over, it had huge scratches down the side, the fairing was broken and hanging off the bike; the mirror and blinker light were broken and dangling loose. He turned the key and tried the engine.

The bike protested and then started with a roar.

"Hey! Are you OK? I saw everything, man. That guy's drunk. Or something." The SUV driver was standing at Riley's side, one hand outstretched, but not quite touching, Riley's shoulder.

Riley nodded. Talking through the helmet wasn't worth the hoarse voice and his ears were still ringing from the fall. As he pulled off his gloves and fished inside his pocket, he could feel the dull thud of a migraine headache starting in the back of his head. He pulled a badge on a stainless-steel chain from his pocket and pulled it over the helmet. Keeping the bike propped up against his leg, Riley rummaged in the magnetic bag on the tank and came out with his gun, which went into his rear waistband.

"Call nine one one!" Riley shouted to the man and swung his leg over the bike.

With a quick check over his shoulder, Riley took the bike back on to the freeway and opened the throttle. The engine sounded rough, and he was probably doing more harm than good as he bullied the speedometer up to 120, but he had to catch the pickup. He rounded a corner in the freeway and cursed under his helmet, slowing the bike down as he drove through a fog of burning rubber.

Sitting at the bottom of the freeway divider was the white pickup truck. Stalled in the slow lanes was a small white car, facing the wrong direction now and with no discernable front end. A man was waving wildly at Riley with a flare in his hand.

Riley took the bike off the road again and this time rested it down gently. He glanced at the pickup below him.

The car first, he thought, pulling off the helmet.

As Riley started to move the sound of an engine retching reached him: the pickup driver planning an escape. The white car was sitting in the far right lane of the freeway, facing the oncoming traffic, but the man had laid out more flares, and now Riley could see the same blue SUV pulling up again.