“It’s morning. Now talk.”
“I…” Ash rubbed her temple, racing to find the right words. “I wanted to ask about getting Dad home sooner. For Thanksgiving dinner.”
“He stays twenty-four hours. No exceptions.”
“But—”
“No exceptions.” Candace ripped the door open. Icy air flooded the van. Cheeto fussed, then wrapped himself in the blanket. Candace sneered at him and then faced Ash. “I’m giving you and your father one last chance. You hear me?”
Ash glared back.
“Wipe that ugly look off your face.”
Ash held her glare.
“Here’s how your day’s gonna play out,” Candace said. “You and your boy toy here will drive home right now. No detours, no passing Go, just straight home. Then you, him, Trent, and Lauren will remain there until sunset. I suggest you enjoy the holiday and save some leftovers for your father. Whatever you do, stay in the house. And know this: I’ll have two people watching your house. If they catch you leaving, your father hits the highway.”
Thunder cracked through the void in Ash’s chest. She opened her mouth to argue, but Candace talked over her.
“I also have people stationed at the creek till sunset. If you or anyone else goes up there, same deal with the highway. So if you have any special plans, cancel them. Do I make myself clear?”
Ash said nothing.
“Do I make myself clear?”
“Snare isn’t the one trapping people. You are.”
Candace smirked. “Keep talking. See how many words it takes to talk your father into a wheelchair.” She leaned in, nose-to-nose with Ash. “I’m done shitting around.”
Ash needed to act now. Do something. If she didn’t, she’d basically be under house arrest till sunset. Her eyes fell on the pistol-shaped bulge in Candace’s pocket. She could snatch it, but then what? Even if Ash succeeded in shooting Candace, the neighbors would hear and call the cops. Things would get worse.
There had to be a better way. She needed to think fast.
“I’m leaving,” Candace said. “Let me ask again. Are we clear?”
The pressure squeezed in on her. Ash couldn’t risk endangering her father. With no clever reason to stall, she sighed.
“Yeah,” she said, hating herself. “We’re clear.”
“Good.” Candace turned away. “Happy fucking Thanksgiving.”
46
Trent eyed the turkey in the oven, wondering what was burning hotter—the bird or Dad’s knees. It pained him to think Dad was out there suffering while Ash and Cheeto spent all day in the living room overanalyzing the Trader list. Sure, Candace supposedly was having the house watched, but Trent couldn’t just sit around scared.
Not with sunset coming in three hours.
Not with his family’s health at stake.
Not when he knew who had Snare’s eyes.
“What about the hippocampus?” Cheeto blurted. The orange-haired freak was getting on Trent’s nerves. He kept shouting things and accomplishing nothing. “Maybe that’s what MacReady traded.”
“It’s a weird part to trade,” Ash said.
“All these trades are weird,” he said. “This might be it, though.”
“Enough with the guessing games!” Trent snapped. He hobbled into the living room and stooped over the coffee table. “You’ve been staring at this shit for hours.”
“We might have something,” Cheeto said, gesturing at the list. “MacReady’s ‘HIP’ might stand for hippocampus. It’s part of the brain.”
“But somebody traded the brain,” Trent said, pointing toward WKBRA at the bottom of the list. “That ‘BRA’ has to mean brain.”
“Could mean brainstem if the stem is separate.” Cheeto scrolled through his phone. “Or it could be the brachial artery. Or even the brachial plexus.”
“Why not just call the owner?” Trent asked, growing impatient.
“Already did,” Ash said. “Lady hung up when I mentioned the Traders.”
“Then you’re wasting time. We can’t dick around anymore. We gotta get leverage over Candace.”
“How?” she asked. “By taking Mick hostage? All nine hundred pounds of him?”
“Not Mick.” Trent leaned forward and tapped the list. “Rosita Werner.”
“Which one’s she?” Cheeto asked.
“Co-owner of the burrito shop. She has the eyes.”
Ash sighed. “Trent, I get why you want her, but how does that help us? Why would Candace care?”
“Because she’s all rah-rah about protecting the Traders. Plus, Bill Werner will throw a shit-fit if we nab his wife. That’ll get us leverage.”
“Maybe.” Ash squinted, evidently deep in thought. “It’ll be tough, though. The Werners always host Thanksgiving at their shop. Rosita won’t be alone.”
“Then we’ll get her alone.” Trent thumped his cane. “Once we grab Rosita, we’ll hit the highway and call Candace.”
“Then what?”
“Then we’ll threaten to drive the burrito queen outta the zone. If we’re convincing enough, Dad’ll get cut loose. Once he’s safe, we’ll follow through on our threat.”
“Follow through?” Ash said. “Are you implying—?”
“Whoa, whoa, wait.” Cheeto sat up. “You gonna blind her?”
“Damn straight,” Trent said. “My son deserves those eyes.”
“Dude,” Cheeto said. “Blinding an innocent lady? That’s some cold shit.”
Trent gripped his cane, wanting to whack Cheeto for questioning him. The guy just didn’t get it. Maybe if he had a kid instead of a Tinder profile, he would. “My son is eight, Cheeto. Eight. He’ll get ninety years out of those eyes. Ninety. Can you even count that high?”
“Don’t insult me, man.”
“Then don’t insult me by saying Jake deserves to stay blind.”
“Nobody deserves that,” Cheeto said.
“Well, Jake is. Three months and counting!”
“Enough,” Ash said. “Both of you, chill.”
“Chill?” Trent said. “Time’s running out, and we should just chill?”
“She’s right, dude.” Cheeto pushed hair from his face. He looked like he’d been up all night. Probably out drinking and drugging. Maybe even got lucky with Ash. If you could call that lucky. “Another thing. If you get caught, kidnapping carries a twenty-year sentence.”
“Oh, you’re a fucking lawyer now?”
Cheeto shrugged. “Just facts, dude.”
“Here’s a fact for you, dude. Candace abducted our father. Now we need a counter-punch.” Trent looked to Ash for support. “My plan is win-win. We get Dad, and Jake gets the eyes. It’s our only move.”
Ash slowly nodded.
“You’re not actually considering this?” Cheeto asked, shaking her shoulder. “Say it ain’t so, Ashes.”
“Shut up, I’m thinking.”
“Listen.” Cheeto slid an arm around her. The way he reeled her in against him confirmed Trent’s suspicion about them banging. “I love breaking rules as much as anybody, but this is nuts. You get caught, you’ll never have a career from prison.”
“Won’t have one if we sit here, either.”
“We’ll figure something out,” he said. “But don’t kidnap this lady. That’s not you.”
“I’m getting those eyes,” Trent said. His head throbbed harder than his busted leg. “This is the nicest way of doing it. Or would you rather kill Rosita? I could just ring her doorbell and wham!” He swung his cane overhead and nicked the ceiling. He wasn’t expecting the impact, and it knocked him off balance. He grabbed a nearby bookcase to keep from falling.
Cheeto smirked. “Good luck with that.”
“He won’t need luck,” Ash said, rising from the couch. “Trent, let’s get her.”
“No!” Cheeto said, taking her arm. “It’s not worth it. If you get caught—”
“We won’t get caught,” Trent said.
“Exactly,” Cheeto said,
yanking Ash down to the couch. “Cause you’re not doing it.”
“The hell we aren’t.” Trent hobbled to the front door and ripped it open. “Come on, Ash.”
“Wait!” Cheeto said. “There’s still time.”
“Not for me,” Trent said, and stepped outside.
47
Fire.
Knees. On. Fire.
Karl could barely think beyond that. Bad as he needed to cook up an escape plan, the pain kept flushing away his thoughts. Usually when he hurt himself—a cut, bruise, whatever—the pain dulled over time. Here it didn’t. Here it tugged as if Snare had buried harpoons in his knees. One minute she pulled hard, then she took a breather. But quickly she found her second wind and—
“Arggh!” Karl roared through the tape sealing his mouth.
He’d lost track of time. Lost track of reality. In the dark storage unit, he couldn’t tell day from night, life from death. It could be midnight, noon, late July, his own funeral—anyone’s guess.
The only productive thing he could do was roll along the ground. When he reached the metal door, he hammered his head against it, hoping someone outside would hear him. Thud. Thud. Thud. He kept knocking until his head ached as badly as his knees.
Skull throbbing, he rolled back to the center of the storage unit. He bumped something brittle. Cardboard. A box. He bumped it again and heard a clattering noise—maybe there was something useful inside? He rolled onto his hip so his back faced the cardboard box. He punched backward with his elbow again and again. He put a good dent in it, until another box toppled from overhead.
It landed with a metallic crash. Once the jingling stopped, Karl rolled over and reached back with his cuffed hands. He felt spoons. Forks, too. Candace stored banquet supplies here, it seemed. Maybe he could find a knife to cut the extension cord wrapping his ankles. When he rolled over, something pierced his thigh.
“Arrgggghhh!”
Something hard and pointed was stuck in his leg. Seemed he’d found a knife, although not the way he’d wanted to.
His heart racing, he rolled onto his chest. The blade slid free of his leg. He didn’t sense any serious blood loss, only a faint stinging. He rolled onto his side, his back toward the utensils. He extended his cuffed hands outward, searching along the concrete floor. His thumb grazed a serrated edge. He found the handle and secured the steak knife in his hand.
Here’s my chance. Bending his legs backward, he aimed the knife toward the cord securing his ankles. He rubbed the blade against—
“Urrgh!”
Again his knees erupted.
Typical Snare. Always working against him.
That was okay, though. Even if he couldn’t slice through the extension cord, there was more than one use for a knife.
He just hoped he’d get his chance before sunset.
48
Ash drove. She didn’t trust anyone else. With all the craziness Trent was spouting, he might’ve driven the van through the burrito shop and killed everyone inside. Cheeto was no better. He lectured her from the backseat, demanding she turn around. Trent told him ten times over to shut up. The two of them ranted back and forth. If the drive had lasted longer than a minute, she’d have choked them both.
Snow began squalling as she swung the van into the cramped parking lot behind the town’s trio of restaurants. Her stomach crimped at the sight of her favorite dumpster, but she steeled herself. She parked so the van’s back door faced the burrito shop’s rear exit.
“Stay put,” she said when Trent unbuckled his seat belt. She looked over her shoulder at Cheeto, who was trembling against a drum case. “Both of you be ready.”
“What’s your plan?” Trent asked.
“Whatever it is, I’m not doing it,” Cheeto said.
“Then why’d you even come?”
“To talk you guys out of it.”
Ash rolled her eyes. “Just be ready when I come back.”
Her phone buzzed. She checked it.
Candace calling.
Shit. Her thumb trembled over the screen. She accepted the call. “What, Candace?”
“You just cost your father his knees.”
“No, wait—”
The line went dead.
“Dammit!” Trent pounded the dash. “She knows, doesn’t she?”
“I warned you guys,” Cheeto said, flinging a demo CD in frustration. “Now what?”
“Now we gotta hurry,” Ash said.
Soon as she stepped out, icy wind pierced her jacket. Her flesh stiffened as she rushed through the snowfall and rounded the sidewalk. As she approached the front door, she threw her head back. Squared her shoulders. Her stride grew powerful, like every footfall could crack concrete. She intended to rock the burrito shop like a cheap nightclub.
Behind the glass door, two dozen members of the Werner family sat among booths and tables. Little snots younger than Jake ran to the front counter and grabbed tacos off decorated trays.
Ash shoved the door open.
Mariachi music chimed through the ceiling speakers. The place reeked of cheap turkey. Heads turned as the door clapped shut behind her. An obese, gray-haired geezer who resembled Bill Werner filled his plate with quesadilla wedges before turning. Upon seeing Ash, his expression crinkled with annoyance.
“This is a private party.” He shook a limp quesadilla at her. “Shop’s closed.”
“Where’s Rosita?” Ash said, scanning the tables. “I need to talk to her. It’s important.”
With every passing moment the crowd quieted as they noticed the tattooed outsider crashing their party. The longer Ash stood around, the more likely someone would throw her out or call the cops.
Rosita wasn’t in the dining area. Neither was her husband, thankfully. That meant there was only one place they could be.
Ash darted behind the counter. Voices rose in protest. When she shoved the kitchen door aside, a wave of bad nostalgia struck her. The high-ceilinged kitchen represented a miserable period of high school life—one that had ended with her setting fire to the place. Now, however, it looked polished after the renovations. Two steel prep counters stretched through the heart of the room. Rosita hunched over the rear one, loading up tortillas. Without looking up, she called out something in Spanish. She seemed agitated. When she did look up, she fumbled a handful of diced tomatoes.
“Out!” she said. “Out, before I call the cops!”
“Listen, it’s important.” Ash hurried over. “It’s about your eyes.”
Rosita froze.
The kitchen door burst open. In rushed the gray-haired man, still holding his quesadilla. “Rose, who’s this street rat? Should I call the police or what?”
Rosita lifted a hand. “No, Dave. If I need help, I’ll yell.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
The man glared at Ash before he left.
Ash turned to Rosita. “Like I said, it’s about your eyes.”
“What about them?”
Ash nodded toward the rear exit. “Let’s talk outside.”
“No. Talk here. It’s freezing out.”
“Better we freeze than be overheard. Come on, I’ll keep it short.”
Rosita peeled her plastic gloves off and flung them down on the counter. She grabbed a dirty white peacoat off a wall hook and tugged it on, muttering to herself.
Ash took a deep breath and opened the back door. The van waited ten feet away, exhaust rising from the tailpipe. She tried to signal Trent when Rosita marched out, pulling her coat around her torso.
“What’s this about?” The wind tossed Rosita’s hair across her forehead. She had to shout to be heard over the gusts. “Who told you about my eyes?”
“Candace.”
“Really?” Rosita grabbed her phone. “Then she’ll get an earful. Bill’s with her right now. I’ll have him—”
The van’s back door snapped open.
Trent poked his head out.
“Ash, now!”
&nbs
p; Ash barreled into Rosita, driving her toward the van. Caught off guard, Rosita stumbled forward, knocking into the open door. Neither Trent nor Cheeto emerged to help, so in desperation Ash hooked her elbow around the woman’s neck and wrestled her toward the interior.
Rosita kept her balance, however, and spun with surprising strength. For a thin old bitch, she was no pushover. Ash fought to maintain her hold, but without two hands to secure the woman, she lost her grip. Rosita sprang free and lunged toward the restaurant.
Ash couldn’t afford to let the woman escape. Not with Dad’s clock ticking toward zero. She snagged a fistful of Rosita’s peacoat. The woman tore sideways, dragging Ash off balance. They staggered toward the Downhill Diner. Toward the dumpster.
Ash seized up. Lost her footing. Fell to her knees.
Rosita twisted again.
Ash tightened her grip, but it made no difference. Her fingers slid. Faster and looser, till she held nothing. She swiped at air before her knuckles smacked the foul metal container. The impact shuddered through her, dropping her—body and spirit—all at once. Yet again, the dumpster had defeated her.
Rosita turned to run when a swish cut the air.
A thud sounded as Trent’s cane connected with the top of Rosita’s head.
Then came another thud as Rosita collapsed beside the dumpster, crumpled, unmoving.
Ash lay there, her knuckles throbbing, breathing in the trashy fumes until she felt a tap on her arm.
“Hurry,” Trent said. “Unless you want to push Dad’s wheelchair.”
49
The storage door rose with a squeal. Cold air whistled through, chilling the sweat on Karl’s face. Despite the torching pain in his knees, he shivered in the unheated room.
Light leaked in. Pale, but bright enough to blind him after God knew how many hours of darkness. Beyond the rising door, he saw three sets of legs. Two were fidgeting, as if they had to use the toilet. Karl knew the feeling. He’d considered wetting himself for hours but refused for fear his pants would freeze to his legs.
Bad Parts Page 17