by Joe Ide
“Dammit,” he breathed.
“What?” Ava said.
He thought about Warren. Why had he come back to Coronado Springs? Why take all those risks just to get the man that arrested you? True, Cannon had beaten him badly but surely Warren had been beaten many times before. What made this different? Criminals have a general hatred for cops, born out of fear and the threat of being locked up. But in Isaiah’s experience, they didn’t blame any particular cop for their misfortunes. Arrest was a cost of doing business. They blamed the witnesses who betrayed them. That was personal. But the witnesses who testified against Warren were perfunctory. A man who saw him leaving the scene. A woman who heard someone screaming.
Isaiah’s mind began flipping through the pages of Warren’s file. His memory wasn’t photographic, but it was close. He remembered narratives, high emotions and personal stories. He found them more telling than facts. He formed character studies and linked background with behavior to understand motives. At Warren’s trial, his public defender used the “excuse defense” to lessen his responsibility. His lawyer brought in witness after witness. Psychiatrists, social workers, relatives and next-door neighbors testified about Warren’s early experiences. Warren vehemently objected to the tactic. At one point, he threatened his lawyer and had to be led from the room.
It must have been terrible for him, Isaiah thought. Having your life exposed would be an ordeal for anyone, but especially for a man with so many secrets, so much shame, so many things not to be remembered, not to be spoken of. To have your bed-wetting, your poverty, your inept social skills, your menial jobs, your shocking lack of impulse control, your borderline intelligence and sexual humiliation revealed to the whole world. To be described as an isolated, psychopathic deviant who lived on the fringes of normal society. To have stories told about your mother chaining you to a doghouse with a water dish and a bag of airline peanuts, and how she drove you out to Red Rim Canyon and left you there to die and how her boyfriend raped you continuously for three years. There were stories about the neighborhood kids laughing at you because you had lice in your hair and scabs on your face and paying gangsters in commissary food so they wouldn’t bend you over a bunk bed and begging your half brother for money that never came, and spending eleven years of your life in prison and never having a single visitor.
It must have increased Warren’s rage exponentially, Isaiah thought. He’d seen that kind of thing on the street. A kid killing someone for exposing him as a weakling, a faggot, a mama’s boy or just being afraid. In the hood, self-respect was worth a prison sentence or sometimes, even death. You had to strike back, no matter what the risk or consequence. It would be even more critical for an isolated, psychopathic deviant who was already angry and hateful in the extreme, whose sense of self hung by a single strand of cobweb. The person who revealed you, who shamed you in front of the world, deserved to die, whatever the danger. A sudden recognition made Isaiah’s insides clench.
“Ava?” Isaiah said. “Is Gretta short for Margaret?”
“It can be. Why do you ask?”
He remembered the name on Billy’s mailbox. ABBETT. He could see the court documents as clearly as if they were right in front of him. The public defender and attorney of record for Warren Long was MARGARET ABBETT.
“Don’t ask questions. Drive to Billy’s right now!”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Get to the Living Room
When Crowe and Warren arrived at EX’s house, the lights were on. Maybe the daughter was there too. Crowe grinned. “This is gonna be good.” They were skulking around the house looking for an entry point when they heard a girl’s voice. They peeked through a parting in the curtains and saw her, elbowing each other to get a better look. Warren inhaled through his teeth. Crowe drew in a sharp breath, his fingernails on the windowsill digging into the paint. It was her. The perfect girl. Mid-teens, slim, pale skin, medium brown hair, no makeup. She was wearing an oversize sweatshirt and jeans. She was a normal girl. A nice girl. She had a nice family too. Crowe wished he knew her name. She was taking things out of drawers and putting them into a backpack while she talked on the phone.
“We’re going to Sugar Mountain,” she said. “Me and my mom are going to camp.” She laughed. “No, she’s not making me, I like being with her. What? No, that’s not weird.”
The mother came in. “Irene, aren’t you ready yet? We don’t want to hike in the dark.” Warren was mumbling, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. Crowe hardly looked at the mother. He wanted the Perfect Girl. He wanted Irene. He was having a hard time keeping it together. His hunger for horror, helplessness and screaming, open mouths had imploded. He had to fight the impulse to crash through the window and cut those bitches up now. Warren had bared his teeth. He looked like he was going to chew through the window frame.
They went around the side of the house and the sliding glass door. Crowe pulled on the handle and it opened. He nearly laughed. They went in and Crowe drew the Bowie knife. Warren had lost his in the woods. He’d gone to the sporting goods store, but the knives were too small. He spent his last money on a Gränsfors Bruks Wildlife Hatchet. It was ugly, heavy and crude. The business end was the color of a lead pencil and shaped like a medieval fighting axe. The old guy behind the counter said, “Take a whack at a two-by-four and you’ll cut it in half.”
Billy was in his basement room, sulking. Grow the fuck up, Ava had said. Grow the fuck up? Um, excuse me, Miss, but how did you get onto Crowe in the first place? Didn’t the kid who needed to grow the fuck up break out of a hospital for you and steal government records so you’d have something to do? Fuck you, Ava, you beautiful, amazing girl. I would marry you in a heartbeat.
Billy heard footsteps. He looked up at the ceiling. Someone was in the house, a stranger, he could tell by the footsteps. The intruder was stepping too softly, going too slow. Wait, no, there were two of them. “Oh, shit,” Billy said. It’s the killers! Mom and Irene were in mortal danger. Billy hurried up the stairs and into the hallway. There they were. At the far end, just coming out of the living room, the two of them bigger than life, bigger than death. Startled, they froze. Crowe had his Bowie knife. Warren had a fucking axe.
“Mom! Irene!” Billy shouted. “Get out of the house!” He hoped they’d heard him. Lead the killers away from them, Billy! The men charged. Billy didn’t run, he backed up, baiting them—and then he took off. He led them through the dining room toward the den. He remembered his hidden weapons. The killers’ footsteps were close and loud. The nunchaku was in the den but he couldn’t stop for it. Where were Mom and Irene? Had they left already? A hand grabbed the back of Billy’s shirt.
“Got you!” Crowe snarled. Billy twisted away. The closest weapon was the Crosman air gun. It was in the living room, stuck under a couch cushion. He made a turn back into the hallway. Crowe’s hand grabbed him by the shirt again and yanked him around. Billy saw a face worse than any fiend, hellion or swamp creature he’d ever seen. Crowe was so flushed, his face was a bruise, his nostrils flaring in and out, his eyes looked ulcerated, hatred oozing from them like pus. Warren was behind him, another fucking beast screaming something indecipherable.
Crowe had Billy by his T-shirt. He pulled him close with one hand and raised the knife with the other. Billy ducked, stuck out his arms and shimmied out of his shirt. The living room, get to the living room! He ran in, deked around the love seat and leaped over the coffee table to the couch. Fuck. He landed on the goddamn couch. He had to scramble to right himself and get his hand under the cushions. He found the air gun. It was long and heavy, the sight catching on the upholstery. Crowe came in screaming and waving the Bowie. Billy remembered. The gun had to be pumped to get air pressure! The more pressure, the more powerful the shot. Five pumps was good, ten was better. First pump. Crowe was halfway across the living room. Second pump. Crowe was at the coffee table. Third pump. Crowe was lunging at him. There was barely enough time to raise the barrel and pull the trigger. The pellet hit Crowe in t
he eye. He cried out and fell to the floor, but an instant later, there was Warren, raising that axe. No time for pumps. Billy tried to dart past him. Warren took a swing. Billy leaned sideways, the heavy blade missing him by an inch. The swing had left Warren off balance. Billy tried to go around him again, but Warren dropped the weapon, grabbed Billy and slung him across the floor. He slid like a dust mop and conked his head on the iron leg of the BarcaLounger. It felt like his skull was fractured. Warren had paused to catch his breath. Billy stumbled down the hall. Mom and Irene might appear at any moment. He had to stop Warren, not elude him. He got to the basement door. Warren came toward him. He looked like God had dropped him into a tree shredder.
“Come on, shithead,” Billy said. “You let a girl kick your ass. Try me.”
Warren screamed savagely and rushed him. Billy didn’t move. When Warren was five feet away, he turned quickly and raced down the basement stairs. He looked up at Warren’s silhouette framed in the doorway. Billy’s dizziness was worse, his eyes were getting cloudy. He put a hand on a support post to keep his balance. “Come on, you stupid idiot. What are you waiting for?”
Warren bellowed and pounded down the stairs. “OH, FUCK!” he shouted. He tripped forward, falling headfirst down the stairway. Billy had paid attention to the DEER CROSSING sign and stepped over the trip wire. Warren had not. He bumped down the stairs on his belly, hit bottom, catching most of the impact in his hands. Fuck, he was strong. Warren got up looking more pissed than before. He picked up the axe. “You clumsy shit,” Billy said. “What the hell is wrong with you?” He went out the other door into the dark. He couldn’t keep his balance; his vision was going in and out.
Warren went after the little fuck, crossing the room and through the door. He found himself in a big space, piles of junk everywhere. Shit. The kid could be hiding anywhere. Then he heard him on the other side of the water heater.
“I’m sorry, did I lose you, asshole?” the kid shouted. “Are you tired or something?”
“I’m gonna chop the shit out of you!” Warren shouted back.
“The hell you will. You couldn’t chop a carrot with that stupid thing.”
Warren howled like his inner wolf. He went around the water heater and into an open aisle. At the end, he saw a single dim light bulb hanging over a staircase. The kid had an escape hatch. “I’m coming for you, fuck shit! You ain’t getting no place!” He ran toward the stairs, about to take them two at a time. He slammed into something as hard as cement. There was the shock of pain. He rebounded, staggered and fell. He curled up, holding his head and screaming. He waited to get his bearings. He got up, reached out and touched the—it’s a fucking wall! There weren’t any stairs, it was a goddamn painting of stairs. This was too much. On top of everything else, he’d broken his nose and his front teeth were loose. The pain was coming from everywhere. That’s it, he decided. Time to get the fuck out of here.
He heard Crowe say, “Are you down here?”
“Yeah,” Warren said.
Crowe appeared. His right eyeball was red and swollen, black and green bruising around the edges. He was really excited. “The mom and the girl have left.”
“All this and we fucking missed them?” Warren said.
“You don’t understand. Don’t you remember? The girl said they’re going camping! They’ll be in the woods all by themselves! Imagine what we could do!” He waited for Warren’s fantasies to fill up his empty brain cavity.
Warren said, “Help me up.”
Chapter Thirty
Witches’ Tree
Billy clambered out of the steamer trunk. His head was killing him. He touched the spot where he’d hit the BarcaLounger. There was blood on his fingers. Were Mom and Irene okay? He used the handrail to get up the stairs. He entered the hall, stopped and listened. Not a sound. He went down the hallway, looking into the rooms. “Mom? Irene?” he called. He saw blood on the carpet. He felt like throwing up. The pain and dizziness were overtaking him, his vision narrowing. He sat down on the floor, drew his knees up to his chest and closed his eyes.
The Spark jolted to a stop in Billy’s driveway. Isaiah and Ava jumped out. The front door was locked. They raced around to the back of the house. The sliding glass door was wide open. Isaiah held his arm out to keep Ava from running in. They entered cautiously, stopping to listen. Nothing. They moved through the living room. The coffee table was tipped over. A lamp on the floor. Some kind of gun was on the sofa.
They entered the hall and saw Billy sitting on the floor. He was very still and had his head on his knees. They ran to him.
“Billy? Are you okay?” Ava said. Slowly he looked up. He had an ugly gash on his head; he seemed barely conscious. “Oh, God, I’ll get some ice,” she said and hurried off.
“What happened?” Isaiah said. “Where are Irene and Gretta?” Billy raised his head and put it down again.
Isaiah went from room to room. There was no one stabbed or dead on the floor. Okay, Isaiah, think it through. Billy had struggled with the killers, Irene and Gretta were gone. Had they been kidnapped or did they escape? He went into the kitchen. There was blood in the sink, bloody towels on the counter and bloody footprints on the tile floor. Two sets, sneakers. There were no other prints. Isaiah followed the tracks out the kitchen door and into the backyard. Judging from the distance between the prints, the killers were moving fast. The prints faded and were gone. It looked like Gretta and Irene had gotten away, but how had they missed the action in the house? Isaiah sighed. It was obvious. The driveway came all the way into the backyard. Gretta and Irene loaded their stuff back here to save themselves a few trips. They might have been outside when everything happened or maybe they’d left already.
Okay, Isaiah thought. So Crowe and Warren break into the house to attack the women, but Billy gets in the way. There’s a fight. Billy is injured and out of action. In the meantime, Gretta and Irene leave on their camping trip. Were they followed? He went back inside. Billy was groaning, his eyes were closed. Ava had an ice pack wrapped in a tea towel pressed against his head.
“I called 911. He’s in really bad shape,” she said.
“Billy, where did Gretta and Irene go?” Isaiah said.
Billy’s head was wobbling. “Sugar Mountain.”
“The paramedics will be here in a couple of minutes. Do you think you can hang on?”
“I want to…go with you,” Billy said.
“No, you have a concussion,” Ava said. “Stay put, okay?” She kissed his cheek. Isaiah ran off and she followed.
They raced out to Ava’s car. Isaiah did a quick GPS. Sugar Mountain was two hours away, a straight shot south on 185, toward Tahoe. It was late afternoon. In a couple of hours, the forest would be darker than a subway tunnel, and two unarmed, unsuspecting women would be alone in the woods with a pair of unconscionable maniacs.
They got into the car, Isaiah behind the wheel. “Uh-oh,” Ava said. An SUV was racing toward them, siren screaming, lights flashing blue, red, blue, red. The Spark’s puny engine had less than a hundred horsepower. Cannon’s vehicle had at least three times that. It was also equipped with four-wheel drive, halogen spotlights and a push bumper for executing the PIT maneuver.
“We’ll never get away,” Ava said.
Cannon hunched over the steering wheel. Gretta had left a message for him. Isaiah, Billy and Ava were at the house. Isaiah said something about serial killers, but she didn’t believe him. Cannon knew he was driving too fast but he wanted that goddamn Isaiah, that slick son of a bitch who’d told him a bunch of bullshit and made a fool out of him. He saw Isaiah and Ava come out of the house. They saw him and hurriedly got in a tiny white car. A Spark. His niece had one.
“You’re fucked,” Cannon said. He was driving a Ford Interceptor, made especially for law enforcement. No way they were outrunning him in a little buzz fart. Isaiah started backing out of the driveway, saw Cannon coming and stopped. He put it in drive and took off around the side of the house. Cannon chuckled. He w
as trying to get cute. Cannon approached the house, cranked the wheel, yanked on the emergency brake. The car slid sideways. He let go of the brake, punched the accelerator, bumping over the curb, following Isaiah into the narrow corridor between the house and the neighbor’s fence. The Spark slipped through easily. The Interceptor was a foot and a half wider, scraping stucco off the house and knocking boards out of the fence. Cannon was trailing so close he could read the Spark’s license plate.
The Spark came out of the corridor and crossed the brick patio. There’s nothing back there but trees. If Isaiah crashes, that’s on him. The buzz fart zipped through a space between a birdbath and a wrought-iron picnic bench. As soon as it was clear, Isaiah made a sharp U-turn, tearing up a flower bed, throwing up dirt and manure. Cannon missed the birdbath, but the right fender slammed into the picnic bench. The wooden seat broke apart, the frame mangled, stuck under the skid plate, sheets of sparks flying as it scraped across the bricks. The frame hit something and was wrenched off.
The Spark came out of the U-turn and drove into the narrow corridor on the other side of the house. Cannon made the same turn, the Interceptor fishtailing. Isaiah had improved his lead but not enough to matter. He was out of the corridor, driving over the front lawn, slowing as the car bumped over the curb and took off down the street. The Interceptor came out of the corridor seconds after the Spark and started across the lawn—Billy came staggering out of the house, waving his arms. He was right in front of the car!
“GET OUT OF THE FUCKING WAY!” Cannon screamed. He swerved so close the fender brushed Billy back, knocking him down. Cannon stomped the brakes, skidding across the lawn and into the street before the car stopped. He jumped out and rushed to Billy. “Goddamn you, Billy! What the hell were you doing?” He kneeled beside the kid. He was pale as tracing paper, semiconscious and bleeding from the head. Oh, shit. Did you hit him, Cannon? He got on his radio, called for an ambulance, but the dispatcher said it was nearly there. Isaiah must have called before he left. Cannon couldn’t believe Billy would do something so extreme. Jump in front of a moving car just so Isaiah could escape? What was wrong with this kid? What was his story? Why did he do such crazy things? The paramedics arrived. They did a quick triage, fitted Billy with a cervical collar and put him on a spinal board. Cannon hovered over him.