Jake Caldwell Thrillers

by Weaver, James

  Jake’s limbs tingled, anxious and jittery. Watching Janey holding their father’s hand and talking about the good things she remembered made him want to hit something hard. He’d rather be out with Bear looking for Halle, rather be sitting with Maggie. Hell, chasing some scumbag who skipped out of paying Keats down a dark alley would be better than sitting in this death room.

  Janey blathered about Christmas when she was five years old. She thanked Stony for getting her the Tiny Town dollhouse she’d wanted, even though they didn’t have any at Walmart in town. She wondered where he’d gotten it, how hard he must have scoured the earth for it. Jake wouldn’t tell her he and Nicky got her the dollhouse. He and Nicky lifted the keys to the truck when Stony passed out. He and Nicky drove to Sedalia when they weren’t even old enough for a license. He and Nicky switched price tags on the dollhouse with something less expensive, so it fell within the range of the meager dollars they’d scraped together. He and Nicky wrapped it and put it under the tree. Stony took credit for it and the two boys were smart enough to keep quiet.

  He couldn’t take the lovefest anymore and pushed off the window ledge to leave.

  “Jake,” she said. “You can talk to him, you know? He can hear you.”

  “He doesn’t want to hear anything I have to say.” Jake grasped the footboard rail like he was trying to crush it with his bare hands.

  “Sure he does. If you just…”

  A low croak emanated from Stony. Janey stopped mid-sentence and they both leaned in when the sound repeated. Stony struggled to say something. His emaciated jaw fished open and shut, his eyes clamped as the sound came out again. Janey reached over and grabbed a cloth, dropping the end in a glass of water on a rolling tray. She wrung out a little and wiped it across Stony’s cracked lips. Their father brought his lips together and drank in the few drops Janey offered. His eyes opened to a slit and his wandering pupils settled on Janey.

  “Janey,” he said, whispering, struggling. “My little Janey girl.”

  Janey sobbed, dropping her head to his shoulder for a minute. Jake stayed at the foot of the bed while she pulled herself together. When she raised her head, she stroked his cheek.

  “I’m here, Papa,” she said. “We’re both here.”

  Stony’s eyes cracked opened, a sliver of a dull glaze. His head rotated slightly toward Jake. His eyes crimped shut again, and a single tear rolled out and slid down his yellowed cheek.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Sorry for what, Papa?” Janey asked.

  “Sorry,” Stony repeated. His eyes unclenched and his jaw hung open. Jake held his breath. Was this it? Seconds later, the labored breathing came back. He slept again, the wet trail of the single tear clinging to the side of his weathered face.

  “What do you think he was sorry for?” Janey asked, stroking their father’s cheek.

  “Lots of things,” Jake said. “Most things.”

  Janey’s dark eyes flared. “It is never too late to apologize for wrongs done.” A phrase their mother used to say all the time. How in the hell did Janey even know about it?

  “Just because he said it, doesn’t mean I have to accept it.”

  “He’s dying, Jake. What’s done is done. You don’t have much longer to forgive him.”

  He resisted the urge to slide on the jagged gold ring and punch Stony with it for dredging up this shit Jake had buried years ago. Instead, he unclenched the bed frame and walked out the door before Janey could say anything else. As he clumped up the hallway toward the exit, it occurred to him that today was the first time he ever heard his father say, “I’m sorry” and the first tear he ever saw from the man’s eyes. Too little, too late. One of Stony’s favorite aphorisms.

  He reached Maggie’s car. Inside, his large hands rubbed the steering wheel like a worry stone. He closed his eyes, Stony’s gaunt face looming large, the words “I’m sorry” tumbling out of his mouth and the tear rolling down his cheek. Jake pounded the dashboard with a fist, started the car and darted out of the Hospice House parking lot. The old bastard actually made Jake feel sorry for him.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Halle’s throat burned from screaming, the image of Bub’s bloody stumps sitting at Shane’s feet forever carved in her brain. Her fear from being chased through the woods, kidnapped and locked in some house in the middle of nowhere was nothing compared to the unparalleled terror of Shane’s sadistic brutality. Bub may have been a piece of garbage, but even he didn’t deserve the fate she delivered him. Dear God, forgive her.

  She gripped a long, rusty nail in her shaking hand, lodged between her first and middle fingers, under a pillow. Her fingertips were raw and bloody from working the nail up from the floorboard under the bed. If Shane came in and wanted to do anything to her, he’d be in for one hell of a surprise. If she could get it through his eye and into his brain, he’d drop hard like a stone. She had to wait for the right moment, lay still and act like she’d been shocked into a catatonic state. Although acting wouldn’t be too hard given the circumstances.

  A knock at the door jolted her awake. Her brain swam as it clawed itself back from sleep. How long had she been out? Through her window, the eastern sun floated in the distance, maybe ten in the morning. She focused on the golden knob rotating slowly and ran her raw thumb over the base of the nail, pushing it against her fingers and locking it in place.

  “Halle?” Willie asked, poking his head through the door opening, his tone quiet and innocent. Was he afraid to come in? He slinked through the door and crossed the room, squatting at the side of the bed. She focused on the wall as if he weren’t there, looking through him.

  “Halle?” he repeated. “You in there? Listen, I know that was crazy with Bub. I know it’s a lot to take in and it don’t look like you’re doing it too well.”

  A lot to take in? Was he freaking serious? Bub…in half…her fault. She squeezed the image from her head, her fear turning to anger when the bloody mess wouldn’t go away, tightening her grip on the nail. Willie dropped his forehead on the side of the bed. She could use the nail. He wasn’t looking, but her hand trembled, wanting nothing more than to let the spike of metal go. If she used it, was she any better than Shane?

  “Do you believe in God, Willie?”

  Willie jerked his head up as if surprised she spoke. “Why?”

  “Do you?”

  Willie leaned forward on the bed, searching the quilted pattern for an answer. “I’d like to think there is a God. That he created the Earth and there’s a hell for those who deserve it.”

  “Does Shane deserve it?”

  He glanced sideways at her. “I’m not gonna answer that.”

  “Do you deserve it?”

  “I don’t know,” he said after a beat. “I always worry that what I’m doing is gonna condemn me, but I don’t know what the hell else to do. I’m trapped here, same as you.”

  Halle reached out and rested her hand on his. “I wonder if I deserve it. I don’t want to die, Willie.”

  “I got an idea,” Willie said, placing his other hand on hers. “I got an idea, but I can’t do it with you like this. I think I can get us both out of this alive, but I need your help.”

  Help her? It seemed impossible. To get past Shane and the monster of a bodyguard would be miracle enough. But then there would be the creepy guy from the patio and at least three other people carrying big guns. Who knew how many others there were. She could stab Willie through those stupid brown eyes and try to escape on her own, but she wouldn’t make it to the front door. Willie was her only possible ticket out of here. She had no choice but to trust him.

  Halle pushed herself up on to one elbow. “What’s your idea?”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  It neared eleven in the morning when Jake turned into Maggie’s driveway. He fought off Stony’s skeletal image with a single hot tear leaking out of those clenched eyes. He pulled in behind Bear’s truck and stepped out.

  Bear and
Maggie talked on her front porch. Bear held a glass of tea in one hand and Maggie’s hand in the other. Her red, puffy eyes found Jake as he climbed the front steps.

  “Any word?” Jake asked.

  “No. You go see your dad?” she asked. Jake nodded and offered a tight-lipped smile. Only Maggie, with her daughter missing, would have the kindness of heart to ask.

  Jake handed her the keys to her car. “I took Janey and we went together. Now you’re not stranded.”

  She stood. “I’m going to make a few more calls to Halle’s friends. See if they’ve heard anything.”

  Jake took her hand as she passed and kissed her on her cheek. She returned the kiss and disappeared into the house.

  “She’s holding together better than I would,” Bear said.

  “She’s strong. Stronger than me. Maybe her daughter has the same steel in her.”

  “She does. Everything okay with Stony?”

  “Stony’s dying. The sooner the better.” Jake climbed on the porch and dropped into a rocker. “Get anything from the guy at the jail?”

  “You mean the guy who slammed a shiv into Howie’s skull? Nah. He ain’t sayin’ anything.”

  Bear set his glass on the wicker table between them and leaned forward.

  “Who is he?” Jake asked.

  “Don’t know. Nobody in my office recognizes him. Can’t run fingerprints on him because the scumbag burned them off somewhere in his miserable existence. I shot his picture around to some folks in Kansas City and St. Louis. They’re going to check around and see if anybody knows him. He’s tied to Shane, I know it.”

  “How?”

  “Guy pulled into town last night and did donuts in the middle of Main Street. Had a bag of weed sitting on the dashboard and gave up without a fight. He wanted to get in the jail cell with Howie.”

  “How soon after the lawyer left did this guy show up?”

  “Thirty minutes, maybe,” Bear said. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Yup. Old Shane got nervous. How’d he get the shiv into the cell?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Could be half a dozen guys. Somebody in my crew is playing both sides of the fence. No doubt about it.”

  “Any idea who?” Jake asked. Bear shook his head. “Get anything from the house?”

  “It was Royce Weather’s place,” Bear said. “Royce died and his wife left town a couple of years ago. My guys scoured the house and the woods around it. Verified somebody did a cook there recently. Pretty clean considering the usual shit we find. We’re checking for prints. Didn’t find anything in the woods other than Halle’s iPod and the Devil Ice. The one lead we had tying this to Langston was Howie and he’s stuck on a slab in the morgue.”

  “We can still use him as a lead,” Jake said.

  “Ayuh. Howie was in Willie Banks’ crew. We’re trying to find Willie, his brother and Bub Sievers. My guys are checking the usual places but haven’t found anything yet.”

  “Wish I could do something.”

  “You can,” Bear said. “Come with me over to Willie’s trailer. We’ll toss it and see what we can come up with. The little taint jockey is tied up in this thing somehow. If we can link him to the cook house, we can link him to Halle.”

  Jake didn’t want to ask the question, like it would be some kind of bad luck. But he needed Bear’s opinion.

  “Think she’s still alive?”

  Bear pressed his lips together. He peered through the front door at Maggie sitting on the couch with the phone pressed to her ear.

  “I sure as hell hope so, partner. I sure as hell hope so. I got a bad feeling we’re running out of time.”

  Keats’ deadline loomed. If Bear only knew how short time really was.

  * * *

  Willie paced the floor of the den, smoking and thinking. He couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. The image of Shane beating on Bub while Antonio and some other mountain man held Bub down stuck in his brain, playing an unwelcome loop. Shane bombarded Bub with questions about his plans on skipping town, each question drawing another face strike whether Bub answered it or not. How the hell had Shane found out about that? Was his truck bugged? After twenty minutes, Bub’s face held the consistency of raw hamburger, and he dipped in and out of consciousness.

  The barrage of vicious swings should’ve worn Shane down, but with each punch he grew more agitated and ferocious. The last ripped Bub’s three hundred pounds from the captor’s hold and he crashed to the floor, his head bouncing off the hardwood.

  “Fucking run on me, will you?” Shane screamed, lashing out a boot and cracking Bub in the side of the head. Shane’s once slicked-back hair flapped over his brow, his eyes wide and mad. “I’ll show you what happens to pieces of shit who run from me. Steal from me.”

  Shane scanned the room but couldn’t seem to locate what he wanted. His eyes settled on Willie for a minute, but Willie turned away quickly. He wanted to get the hell out of there, but there was no telling what Shane would do if he ran. He forced himself to stay anchored to the wall, pressing into the paint. Shane locked in on something past Willie on the patio outside. He walked through the door and came back in moments later with an ax in hand.

  “No,” Bub groaned from the floor. His beaten eyes swollen to mere slits, but wide enough to grasp what was about to happen.

  “Gag and drag this asshole outside.” Shane removed his shirt and threw it on the couch. His bodyguards stuffed a rag in Bub’s mouth and grabbed his arms, dragging him across the floor. Shane followed, his lean, ripped frame holding the ax like a Samurai warrior. Willie stayed at the wall, afraid to move. With each thunk, Willie’s knees gave way a little at a time and he slid down the paneled wall. Bub’s muffled screams forced their way through Willie’s hands covering his ears. By the time the horror stopped, Willie sat on the floor, heart pounding and sick to his stomach.

  Thirty minutes later, he paced, waiting for Shane to come back, his plan with Halle rolling through his head. It was a long shot and worthless if he was the next one to get the ax. As Willie crushed his cigarette into the ashtray on the coffee table, Shane returned, freshly showered and wearing a new set of jeans with his patented, tight gray T-shirt. He must have a dozen of those things. He crossed the room and poured a drink from the crystal carafe on the bar. Shane’s cell rang while he poured.

  “Yeah,” Shane said, setting the bottle down, brow furrowed. “Who is it? What did he want? You get a plate? Okay, make the call and track it down. Call me when you find out.” He hung up the phone and tossed it on the bar. “Want a drink, Willie?” This time Willie didn’t refuse. Shane poured and handed it to him.

  “Thanks.” Willie took the glass, gripping it tight so his trembling hands didn’t drop it. He sat on the couch and gulped the amber liquid, which burned all the way to his stomach.

  “You see anyone poking around town asking about me?” Shane asked. Willie’s cheeks tightened. Bub’s bloody corpse made him worried about his omission to Shane about the stranger beating Bub and the Sterretts, and he shook his head.

  Shane took a chair on the other side of the coffee table. “Sorry about that back there with Bub. Had to be done.”

  “Did it?” Willie asked, focusing on the ashtray on the table rather than face Shane’s gaze. Bub may have been a dirtball, but he was Willie’s friend all the same. In any case, no man should have to die that way. It was fucking medieval.

  “I won’t tolerate desertion or theft, Willie. Little Halle in there told me what Bub said and you confirmed it. I figure it had to be Bub who stole the money from the warehouse. Hell, even if he didn’t, it was a matter of time before he did something stupid and exposed everything you and I have worked hard to build. The message had to be sent. You think anyone in my organization will dare question me after that?”

  “No, sir,” Willie said. Not if they like their legs attached. He sipped the Scotch, face scrunching as it worked its way down. “You could’ve just shot him, though.”

>   Shane laughed. He took a swig of his drink. “You scared of me, Willie?”

  “Most definitely,” Willie replied, bobbing his head like a rooster. A little wood carving of a deer sat on the table. He pictured the deer in the woods with its legs chopped off, Shane bare-chested and holding a blood-dripping ax.

  “You worried I’m going to hurt you?”

  “A little.”

  “Don’t. You’ve been straight with me and I know you’d never betray me. I’m not going to hurt you; I’m going to promote you.”

  Willie’s eyes narrowed in confusion. What the hell? From worried Shane would take him out next to a light at the end of the tunnel. Where the light led remained to be seen.

  “I want to expand your territory,” Shane said. “I’ve got a new product line I’m delving into. Easier to make, more profitable, and nowhere near as high on the radar of local law enforcement as meth.”

  Shit. A new product line? So much for making a big score and fading into the sunset. Then again, something with high profitability and lower risk would still allow him to make his escape in a few years. “What is it?”

  “Cannibinoids,” Shane said.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “You hear of K2, Spice, synthetic marijuana?”

  “Yeah, never tried it though.”

  “Don’t,” Shane said. “There’s a reason they label the packages ‘not for human consumption.’ Doesn’t mean we can’t make a profit off it because there’s plenty of idiots out there wanting to get high on the stuff.”

  “Why mess with dope?”

  “It’s not dope. You basically get the chemical, spray it on some natural herbs, bag it up in a colorful package which draws the kids’ attention and bingo. Costs nothing to make and you sell it for ten bucks a gram.”