We the unwilling
He closed his eyes, dropped it in his pocket, point blank refused to think about it now. He didn’t trust himself to say anything to Hendricks. He couldn’t say where that might lead if he did. He would come back.
He found the handcuffs where he’d dropped them at the bottom of the stairs and cuffed Hendricks’ wrist to the metal pole he’d been cuffed to earlier himself. He didn’t need to worry about Adamson—he’d be lucky to come out of it with anything less than serious brain damage. That’s if there was a brain to damage in the first place, of course. Even if he did come around, his first priority would be getting even with Hendricks and good luck to him.
Evan collected up the sledgehammer and crowbar and all the other tools and dumped them in the tunnel. Then he locked the door and left the key in the lock so that nobody could unlock it from the other side, before heading upstairs into the house and out of this God forsaken hell hole.
***
‘YOU’RE REALLY TRYING MY patience,’ Guillory said when she finally answered her cell phone. In the background, a man’s voice complained. Evan couldn’t stop himself wondering if it was her husband or just a boyfriend.
‘I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.’
Guillory snorted rather than articulated I should be so lucky. A hand covered the phone on the other end, a muffled conversation behind it.
‘This better be good,’ Guillory said coming back on the line.
‘It’s better than good. It’s what careers are made of.’
‘I doubt that very much. You sound strange. What do you want?’
‘Guess where I am.’
There was a weary sigh. Four in the morning isn’t the time for games.
‘I have absolutely no idea, and if I sound like someone who actually gives a shit’—there was a pause as the penny dropped—‘No. I don’t believe it. You better not be …’
Evan stifled a yawn. It had been a long night.
‘I am. And I suggest you get your ass over here too. You just wait until you see what’s hidden in the basement downstairs—you know, the empty basement. Better tell your husband or boyfriend you won’t be back tonight. See you in five, and don’t bother bringing Donut.’
He cut the call before Guillory had a chance to reply and went to see if he could find a cold beer. Surely even murderous psychopaths got thirsty sometimes.
Chapter 45
TRUSSED UP IN HIS best suit and a black tie, Evan looked almost presentable when he knocked on Linda Clayton’s door a week later to accompany her to the funeral. His face looked a bit more human, and now it had more, what you’d call, character. His nose had been set again—it would never be quite the same as before—and his chewed ear was on the mend. Jacobson had done some excellent work on the front teeth that Hendricks’ head butt had loosened. He would have a mean-looking scar on his forearm, which would impress the ladies, and he was still walking with a limp. However, it was a small price to pay for what he had achieved. He was more than happy to pay it.
Linda Clayton had finally got the answers and closure she craved. After the initial shock had worn off, the improvement in her was a joy to see. He couldn’t believe how good he felt about himself for being the cause of the transformation. The gossip mongers had got their comeuppance, a figurative poke in the eye, when the awful truth about Robbie Clayton’s fate had come to light. The gruesome aspects of the case had guaranteed it attracted national media coverage. As a result, the previously recalcitrant life insurance company had paid out with heart-warming alacrity. Linda had insisted on pressing a generous chunk of it onto him, despite his protestations. On top of that, the media interest had generated more enquiries than Evan could handle.
Hendricks had been patched up and was in a secure hospital wing, taking his meals through a straw and contemplating the rest of his life behind bars. His buddy, Adamson, was still in his Hendricks-induced coma. It was fair to say that it was of no concern to anybody whether he pulled through or not, although plenty of people thought it would be best to pull the plug and save the tax dollars.
Guillory came out of it smelling of roses and Evan was happy to let her take most of the credit. The kudos she enjoyed was matched in equal measure by the decline in Faulkner’s reputation. Scandal-hungry journalists quickly unearthed the Faulkner-Hendricks connection. He had a rough time of it, even though there was never any suggestion that he had been involved in any way.
The same couldn’t be said about the unexplained fire that broke out and burned the two barns to the ground, destroying the secret chambers forever. Whoever did it probably experienced something similar to what the allied troops must have felt blowing up the Nazi gas chambers—a sense of putting the lid on one more example of man’s limitless capacity for cruelty towards his fellow man. It seemed the emergency services encountered some unusually heavy traffic on the way over—apparently, they also had a problem with their siren—and by the time they got there, there was nothing left.
Then a neighbor said they saw a car that looked a lot like Faulkner’s in the vicinity at about the time the fire must have started. The police department went through the motions of sending somebody over to talk to him. A lot of tongues wagged but, in the end, no one really gave a damn. It cut down on the number of enquiries from people looking to buy the place, now that the crazies would have to start afresh and build their own torture chamber from scratch. Most people just thought good riddance.
There’d been no sign of McIntyre. Evan liked to think he’d had second thoughts about taking him on without blindsiding him first—especially if he’d read the exaggerated accounts of Evan’s bloody, hand-to-hand struggle with Hendricks.
He couldn’t remember feeling as good for years. Life felt like there was something worth living for again. He hadn’t realized how much the sleazy work he’d fallen into had been dragging him down. Still, he wasn’t completely out of the woods.
***
AFTER THE SERVICE A few people went back to Linda’s house. Kate Guillory was one of them, looking good in a dark pant suit and white blouse. Evan was relieved that the odious Ryder didn’t feel the need to pay his respects. Guillory cornered him after most people had left, a small, almost untouched glass of white wine in her hand.
‘You’re not so bad for a pee—sorry, ex-peeper,’ she said, amusement in her denim blue eyes. ‘I honestly never thought it would turn out like this when I put Linda on to you. You surprised me.’
She sipped her drink, took hold of his chin and turned his head, cocked hers.
‘Not sure about the ear, though.’
He shrugged—an all part of the everyday rough and tumble gesture—very aware of the time it took her to let go his chin.
‘What are you looking at me like that for?’ she said, her head still cocked.
‘It’s nothing. I haven’t seen you wearing lipstick before, that’s all.’
‘That’s because I was working. I’m not working now.’
Those were the words that came out of her mouth, but it seemed to him what was said was something very different: I’m surprised you noticed.
He nodded.
‘Right. Nice color, by the way. I suppose I should thank you for the kick up the ass.’
‘Long overdue kick up the ass, you mean.’
‘You got it. Thank you. And if there’s any more old cases you’re having trouble with, you be sure to let me know.’
She laughed, that same deep, throaty sound he’d noticed in the hospital, a sound you don’t expect to hear from a cop.
‘Don’t get carried away now. Anyway, I’ve got to run.’ She pressed her glass into his hand. ‘Put that in the kitchen for me, will you?’
Then it was just Evan and Linda.
‘You’re very thoughtful,’ she said, laying a hand on his arm.
She considered him with her clear blue eyes, so different from when he first met her. It seemed like every woman in the room wanted to dissect him today—first Guillory and now
Linda.
‘I suppose. I’ve got a lot to think about.’
He dropped his eyes, didn’t want to get into a conversation about himself. Not now, on an emotionally charged day like today. But it wasn’t his call. Never was. She looked at him for a while longer but he wouldn’t meet her gaze.
‘You also look like a load’s been lifted. It’s called hope.’
He looked up sharply. She was smiling triumphantly at his reaction.
‘Ha! Not as green as I’m cabbage-looking, eh?’
‘Is it really that obvious?’
‘No, of course not. You’re a man, you’re tough. You don’t wear your heart on your sleeve. You’re a closed book. Shall I go on?’
He shook his head. ‘No need. You’re right.’
‘Of course I’m right. What you’ve done for me makes you wonder if the same thing will ever happen for you. It gives you faith in yourself.’
She paused and took his silence as tacit agreement.
‘You’ve never told me what happened, you don’t have to. Kate hinted at it and I can put the rest of it together. And now you feel you can deal with it, whatever you find out. You’ve always known how you wanted things to turn out, but now you’re not afraid of the other possibilities.’
She was right. It wasn’t just what he’d achieved for her. Surviving the nightmare in Hendricks’ do-it-yourself crypt, coming within a hair’s breadth of a drawn-out, solitary death, made him realize he could now deal with whatever adversity and misfortune life threw at him.
Which was lucky, because he had a strong premonition life was at this very moment gathering up its ammunition.
‘That’s not all though, is it?’ she said, the smile slipping from her face like he’d flicked off the light switch.
‘No.’
He hesitated. He absolutely didn’t want to talk about himself, but he needed to get it off his chest, needed to tell somebody, before he went crazy. So he showed her what he’d found in Hendricks’ basement, told her what had been eating him up ever since.
She listened in silence, lips parted, eyes wide, as he took her through the whole story, all the way back to a place where it sometimes felt his life had come to an abrupt halt. She put her hand on his knee, very different emotions behind the gesture to when Barbara Schneider did it.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I was going to go back there when everything dies down, have a better look around.’
‘But then Matt Faulkner, sorry, somebody’—she gave him a mischievous grin—‘burned down the barns.’
He shrugged like it was no big deal. It didn’t fool anybody.
‘Anyway, I don’t want to talk or think about it anymore today. I’m exhausted.’
‘Okay. Like you said, it’s probably nothing. One of those spiteful coincidences fate loves to torment you with. Hendricks and his buddy were both in the military. Presumably it belongs to one of them.’
The mischievous grin popped back onto her face. For an uncomfortable second he had another flashback to his afternoon with Barbara Schneider, but then it was gone.
‘I’ve just had a great idea,’ she said.
‘Let’s see how much of a dent we can put in that lot.’ He flicked his eyes at the table.
‘Are you some kind of mind reader now?’
‘Not me. But I can see a heck of a lot of booze sitting over there and we’re the only ones left to drink it.’ He tapped the side of his nose with his finger. ‘I’m a detective, remember.’
He fetched himself a beer and she said she’d have the same, forget the glass. She insisted on a toast, wouldn’t be put off. He knew what was coming, hoped he’d be up to it, because it seemed life had just got a whole lot more complicated.
‘To the future, whatever travails it might hold.’
‘Great word,’ he said, clinking beer bottles. ‘What’s it mean?’
THE END
Copyright © 2017
www.jamesharperbooks.com
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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
KENTUCKY VICE
EVAN BUCKLEY THRILLERS #2
Chapter 1
JESSE STARED IN HORROR at the photograph in his hand and felt sick to his stomach. In it, a man lounged dreamily in a red easy chair, shirt open to reveal his chest and stomach, his pants pulled down around his ankles.
Jesse flicked quickly through the other photos that had arrived earlier that morning, his hands shaking, palms slick, the tightening in his gut intensifying as he did so.
An attractive young woman wearing a skimpy cropped T-shirt over a sparkly thong knelt between the man’s splayed legs, her head busy in his lap. Roughly nine inches above her rooty, platinum blond hair was the man’s stupidly grinning face—Jesse’s own face, in fact—nestled snugly in a second girl’s ample cleavage. From the look of things, he’d had a really good time.
‘Where are you, Jesse?’ His wife Diane’s happy, sing-song voice floated down from upstairs. ‘I’ve got your anniversary present here.’
She started down the stairs at a fast clip.
‘I’m ...’
His throat had closed for the season, his voice packed up and gone away. She was almost at the bottom of the stairs already. Why the hell did she always have to run like an excited kid? He swallowed and tried to clear his throat.
‘I’m in the kitchen,’ he croaked.
What the hell was he going to do with these photos? Diane landed in the hallway with a heavy thump. Jesus Christ, you’d think she was six years old. His hands shook so badly he couldn’t get the photos back in the damn envelope. One missed and fell to the floor, landed face up.
Shit.
No time to pick it up. He kicked at it, towards the kitchen cabinet, but it stuck to the bottom of his shoe. He shook his foot frantically but it wouldn’t come off, like it was made from fly-paper or he had gum on the sole of his shoe. Ten feet away, just around the corner, Diane skipped down the hallway.
Guess what I’ve got for you-ou.
Relax.
He put his left foot on the photo, held it down, yanked his right foot free. He shoved the photo angrily with the edge of his shoe, pushed it out of sight, under the cabinet. A moment later Diane bounded into the room, bursting with fun in nothing but a sheer bra and panty set, just as he lifted his shirt tail and shoved the envelope down the back of his pants.
‘Ta-da.’
She threw her arms wide, her smile wider.
His eyes bulged.
Goddammit, don’t get horny now.
‘What are you up to?’ She craned her head towards him, her eyes narrowing. ‘You look guilty as sin.’ She wagged a finger at him and grinned slyly, licked her lips. ‘What have you been doing?’
‘Nothing.’
He swallowed again.
‘Are you sure? Your voice is all croaky. What are you hiding behind your back?’
‘Nothing.’ He held up his hands. ‘I was scratching an itch, is all.’
She advanced towards him slowly, hips swinging as the grin widened, her eyes full of mischief.
He scooted sideways so the kitchen table was between them. Wrong move. She thought he wanted to play.
‘Gonna make me work for it, are you? What do you think of your anniversary present?’
She did a little twirl, shaking her shoulder-length blond hair, then darted to the side of the table. He jumped the other way.
‘Not now, Diane. I’ve got to go to work.’
Big mistake.
She stood up straight, a po
ut on her face, her small fists on her hips. ‘You said you’ve got the day off. It’s our anniversary. You promised.’ The playful voice was gone, replaced by something more whiny.
And nothing good ever came after the you promised accusation.
‘I just got a text from Adams. I’ve got to go in. Sorry.’
‘Show me.’
He frowned. ‘Show you what?’
‘The text, dummy, what do you think?’
Whiny was morphing into semi-aggressive.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
His eyes flicked to his phone sitting on the kitchen cabinet. She caught the look and danced across the room, snatched it up before he could move.
It didn’t matter, he wasn’t paying any attention to the phone by then.
Panic overwhelmed him, little pinpricks of sweat popping out on his top lip. He stared in dismay at the corner of the photo he’d dropped, poking out from under the cabinet. It was inching its way out as he watched. Was there a draft coming from somewhere? A troop of ants carrying it? He couldn’t get to it without her getting hold of him. She always grabbed him by the ass and then she’d feel the envelope.
She hadn’t seen it yet, was too busy scrolling through his messages. She threw the phone onto the table in disgust.
‘There’s nothing from Adams.’
‘I deleted it.’
Her face twisted. ‘Yeah right. You’d cut off your right hand before you deleted anything. Mr. Jesse-OCD-Springer.’
Semi-aggressive was fast turning into sullen. A full-scale argument was just over the horizon. Sometimes following her mood changes was like trying to keep your eye on the ball in a tennis match.
The Evan Buckley Thrillers: Books 1 - 4 (Evan Buckley Thrillers Boxsets) Page 24