Erlan drove straight through, 20 hours west from Minneapolis to Tall Timber, Montana. He arrived as people were leaving the viewing.

Ranks of motorcycles lined the funeral home’s drive. A handful of chromed choppers with the tear-drop fuel tanks favored by the Road Killers, a score of factory classics in gunmetal drab that the X-Khans rode, and a couple dozen exotic frames hand-built by the Alder Boys to prove themselves worthy of the club.

A line of battered old school buses - the favored transportation of the Church of the Universal Branch - were parked along the street, crowds of Branch members lined up to board them.

Erlan parked behind the last bus. He rubbed his burning eyes and pulled on his cut – a leather jacket with the alder tree and club motto, Dust to Dust, stitched on the back.

His mouth tasted like mice had moved in. He’d only stopped in Fargo for gas, and again in Billings, where he’d squeezed into his old leather riding pants, stiff from disuse. The leathers creaked as he climbed down from the cab and walked past the crowd. He ignored all the eyes that followed him, his jaw clenched. It looked like the cult business was still booming.
His mother stood in front of the funeral home and waved, one hand holding down a wide-brimmed black hat against the breeze. She hurried across the well-sprinkled lawn toward him, the hem of her long dress darkening as it soaked up water, black-painted toe nails revealed by swirls of cloth.

Sapphire Jacobsen was a dedicated bare-footer, despite being banned at several local stores, and Erlan’s heart lifted to see she was true to her cause despite the solemn occasion. She stopped a few feet away, frowning at the garish advertisements covering the side of the U-Move van.

"What is that thing? I thought you’d get a mini-van or something," Sapphire said.
"All they had on short notice."
"If you had a cell phone, it wouldn’t have been short notice."
"Don’t start," said Erlan.
She looked Erlan up and down. "You’re getting thick. Have you been eating meat?" Sapphire stood on tip toes to give him a hug and sniffed around his neck. "You’ve been eating meat."
"Only what I catch and kill myself. It’s hard in the city. I have to get by on stray kittens and the occasional panda escaped from the zoo."
"You’d better not!" Sapphire said.

Erlan grinned. “How’s work treating you?"
"Somehow the old farts keep getting younger. I can’t be me getting older.”

To Erlan she had not changed at all - hardly a gray hair in her brunette curls, still slender from teaching yoga to retirees who flocked to the local hot springs.
Sapphire came close again and held the back of her fingers against his forehead. "Has it started yet?"
Erlan scoffed. “Don’t get your hopes up."
"Its been three days." She shook her head. "Should have started by now."
"You think since he’s dead,” Erlan said, his voice tight, “all the old man’s fairy tales will finally come true?"

Sapphire just hung her head and tied a black band around the arm of his jacket. Her fingers were stained purple from canning something, probably black raspberry jam this time of year. Erlan could almost smell it, could see her by the stove with all the jars and pots of boiling water, crying over the latest thing his father had done.

Sapphire pushed him toward the corner of the building, her face sad. "Go around back. They’ve got a bike for you there."
Erlan walked across the wet lawn, hot sun beating down on his bare head, feeling guilty and pissed off about it.
#
Five custom cycles were parked in a row along the funeral home’s back driveway. Erlan recognized three of them, but the others were unfamiliar. Alone in front of the back door, a vintage Harley-Davidson Knucklehead gleamed in the sunlight, with a flatbed sidecar attached to one side.

The back door swung open and the Alder Boy council came out, wheeling a coffin on a gurney. They lowered it onto the Knucklehead’s sidecar. The men wore their AB jackets and black shirts underneath, with dark jeans or riding leathers. Erlan walked up, hands squeezed into his pockets, unsure what kind of reception he’d get.
"Well, look who turned up," said the closest man.
Mani was the MC’s treasurer and legal council. He was shorter than Erlan, skinny, and wore a straw cowboy hat with a sweat-stained band. He grabbed Erlan’s hand, pulled him close enough to thump his back a couple of times. "Shit boy, you’ve filled out."
Able was the club’s head mechanic and tech man. He was young, bald as an egg, and heavy set. He tapped his watch, frowning. "This here is why there are cell phones, man, so people can get in fucking touch." Then he cracked a smile and threw both arms around Erlan.
"I’m here, aren’t I?" wheezed Erlan. There was plenty of muscle under Able’s soft exterior.
Porter, formerly the club’s weapon’s man and enforcer, stood with his arms crossed. Erlan didn’t know what his role was now in the MC’s kinder, gentler incarnation.
"Dumb Shit," said Porter, by way of a greeting.
"Former Dumb Shit," said Erlan, indicating the patch on his jacket. He’d done his trial and become a fully patched member before things went sideways. Porter looked like he might be thinking about smiling, and the idea made him nauseous.
The club vice president, a huge man with the unlikely name of Luscious Pryce, brushed Porter aside, his crooked teeth concealed behind a tight-lipped grin. He was known as the club’s diplomat. People lost interest in fighting once they saw the size of him.
Lush hugged Erlan, lifting his feet off the ground. "Good to see you, boy,” he said, and dropped him. “You’re a bit ripe.”
"Arby’s,” said Erlan. “And I’ve been driving for the last twenty hours straight."
Boxer, the club president, stood at the end. He was the smallest guy there, a few inches over five feet, but muscled like a fighter. He shook Erlan’s hand with a quick, hard grip.
"You look like your old man now. Thought I was seeing a ghost."
Erlan glanced down at the casket beside them. Light walnut with handles of oil-rubbed bronze, top and sides carved with intertwining patterns of branches and leaves, sanded to a glass-like finish. The thing was too beautiful to bury.
"That’s him then," said Erlan.
They all stood for a moment, silent.
"Lot of Road Killers out front," said Erlan. "Kahns too. Expecting any trouble?"
"Might be some. Less chance now that you’re here."
Erlan eyed him. “What’s that mean?”
"Club needs an Alderman,” said Boxer. “Position might as well be hereditary."
"You’re measuring me for figurehead? Get out."
Boxer took a step into Erlan’s personal space, his eyes narrowed. "The patch-overs will test our grip, and soon. You need to step up."
Erlan leaned in a bit, put an innocent look on his face. "Alderman is an old man’s job. I haven’t got the decades for it."
Boxer showed Erlan his teeth. "Kid...," he began, but was cut off by the smooth rumble of Lush’s voice.
"Not the time, boys. We got to roll with the Dustman one last time." Erlan looked from Lush to the coffin and nodded. Boxer backed off.
"You got a bike for me?" Erlan asked.
"Right there," said Boxer, leaving Erlan standing alone beside the Knucklehead with his father’s coffin.

Boxer had gotten his nickname in Iraq. He was good at getting his enemies into a corner, boxing them in.
Erlan grimaced and climbed onto the Knucklehead’s saddle. He ran his hand over the carved wood casket. He had an urge to open the lid, partly to see the body for himself, partly to piss them off. But the memory of the look on Sapphire’s face stopped him. Luscious was right. This really wasn’t the time.
"Hey," Erlan shouted at them, "Who gets him?"
"We do," Boxer called back.
Erlan nodded and kicked the Knucklehead over, revved it until the engine settled in. Then he headed slowly out of the back lot, the council trailing behind.
They picked up the motorcycles and buses. A scattering of cars pulled into line behind, mostly pickups driven by townies who did business with the AB or the Branch, and a rusting news van from the local cable network. A flock of crows even flapped up from the ditches and swooped above the whole procession.
Erlan turned east, away from the tall pines and the Branch compound with its spacious cemetery in the high meadows. The Knucklehead growled impatiently between his legs as he rode slowly down onto the broad, sunlit prairie.

Erlan adjusted his mirrors so they reflected only the open country to either side, but the rumbling of the procession behind was inescapable, like an avalanche bearing down from the snow-capped mountains.

Next Chapter: Cemetary