A white flickering light emanated from within Scalise’s trailer. A television was the only provider of discernable light and could be seen through the loosely hung torn screen of a filthy window. Simmons banged again, this time with more force than before. The sound carried and a dog barked in the distance.
“Whoever the hell is banging on my door in the middle of the night better have damned good reason!” a thick voice yelled from within.
They waited. Neither agent spoke. Nick heard the creak of a chair and the distinctive sound of a recliner’s foot rest being slammed into place. Footsteps banged the unstable movement of the man’s gait. One foot louder than the other, but each one struck the flooring with enough force that shockwaves reverberated along the thin off-yellow vinyl siding of the trailer’s walls.
The door swung wide. Antonio Scalise stood staring at the two agents through the dirt-covered screen of his closed storm door. His large frame and massive gut occupied the poorly lit threshold. His greasy black hair was matted down and looked as though he hadn’t showered in days. And by the rank odor trickling out its assault on their sense of smell, Nick guessed it may have been more like a week.
Scalise squinted hard, ping ponging his eyes back and forth between the agents. His gaze held a fraction of a second longer on Simmons and with each pass his glance focused more on what lay beneath her neckline. Scalise pushed the thick-lensed glasses higher up the wide expanse of his nose and into place. Nick observed as the amplified eyes of Scalise widened at the sudden recognition of the man who’d arrested him several years ago.
“You son of a bitch! You come to my house in the middle of the goddamned night! I better see some kind of warrant! Harassment! I’ll sue you blind! When I’m done with—I’ll have both your badges—,” Scalise bellowed. His rapid fire verbal onslaught took a physical toll and his ruddy cheeks flushed with blotches of red.
“We’re here to protect you. So, lower your voice and let us in,” Nick said.
“You’re not coming in my house! That’s the last thing you’ll ever do. You can tell me whatever it is you’ve gots ta say from where you’re st-st-stan-d-d-d-d-in,” Scalise ranted, spitting the words.
Nick had forgotten Antonio’s little quirk. He suddenly remembered Scalise had a stutter. An impediment worsened at moments of intense anger or frustration. Nick had exploited the weakness numerous times during his four plus hours of interrogation with the corpulent pervert.
“I don’t like seeing you again either, but we have reason to believe that someone is coming for you. You’re not safe,” Nick said.
“You’re going to p-p-pr-pro-t-tect me? You’re the asshole that t-t-tr-tried t-t-to ruin my life!”
“Not much to ruin, you fat sack of crap! You don’t want our help? Fine. Good luck with what little time you have left on this earth,” Simmons interjected.
Nick turned, smiling broadly at the fiery redhead. He was awestruck at her tenacity and wit, saying the words he’d wanted to say but didn’t.
He whispered, “You’ve got a hell of a bedside manner. Thankfully we’re on the same team.”
Simmons smiled at the backhanded compliment but never broke eye contact with the flustered obese man.
“Wait. I don’t understand. Who’s out to get me? I didn’t do nuthin’ to nobody,” Scalise said.
“I’d beg to differ, but we’re not her to talk about your past inclinations,” Nick said.
Nick noticed that Scalise seemed to reset after the admonishment by Simmons. The blotchiness of his meaty jowls faded back to the unhealthy glow of a man not accustomed to sunlight. He was impressed at her ability to redirect and had the suspicion she’d used this tactic in the past with equal success.
“We’d be happy to explain,” Simmons said.
Antonio Scalise stared blankly.
“It’d probably be a better idea to have this conversation inside and out of the earshot of your nosy neighbors,” Nick added.
“I guess that makes sense. But don’t be snoopin’ around my damn place!” Scalise snarled.
Nick smiled, “Don’t worry Antonio; we’ve got much bigger fish to catch right now.”
Scalise looked back into his trailer and hesitated only for a second before shoving hard against the handle to the storm door. The door latch clanged and the hinges grinded a resistant screech. The door looked as though it were going to separate from the frame as it swung wide, and the unhinged pneumatic door closer failed to stop the momentum. The door banged loudly against the outside of the mobile home.
Scalise muttered something about meaning to fix his door as he retreated into the trailer, allowing the agents to enter his cluttered abode. The three now stood in what could only be described as the living room. A strong aroma hung in the air. A pungent combination of cat piss and cigarettes attacked Nick’s nostrils. He took shallow breaths to negate the sour ingestion of tainted oxygen, but to no avail.
“Tell me what’s going on and be quick about it,” Scalise said.
“Trust me, we don’t want to be taking up any more of your precious time than needed,” Simmons said sarcastically.
“We’re tracking a killer and the long and short of it is we believe he’s targeted you,” Nick said.
“Me? Why?” Scalise asked, scratching flakes of dandruff out of his scalp.
“This killer has taken an interest in Agent Lawrence.”
“Good.” Scalise spat the words as he eyed him intensely.
“No. Not good. Because the killer isn’t going after Agent Lawrence directly. He seems to be going after people involved in Agent Lawrence’s cases. In particular, people that he’s arrested who beat the system. You fit a short list of people that meet that criteria, Mr. Scalise,” Simmons said.
“You bastard! First you destroy my life and then you b-b-b-br-bring this d-d-down on me?”
“We’re not going down that road again, Mr. Scalise,” Simmons said firmly.
Scalise huffed and began teetering back and forth as if suddenly unbalanced. To Nick the overweight pedophile looked like a weeble-wobble punching bag of his childhood. Nick felt a sudden desire to punch the wide face of the man in front of him. He refrained from indulging and let the rage subside as he watched several trickles of sweat race down the man’s forehead. It was cold in the trailer but apparently not to the four-hundred-pound man.
“So, what are you going to do about it? Do you have a plan to catch this asshole?” Scalise asked.
“Watch and wait,” Simmons said.
“Watch? And what? Wait for him to kill me?”
“Watch you. Watch your house. And yes, wait,” Nick said.
“That’s it? A killer’s out there somewhere and you’re just going to sit around on your asses and wait? My tax dollars hard at work,” Scalise said, unnerved.
Simmons made a show of surveying the home. “I don’t think your tax dollars are doing much for our salaries.”
“Screw you lady!” Scalise fired back.
“As to sitting around waiting. Well, that’s the thing. We don’t know who this killer is. So, we really have no choice,” Simmons said.
“Jesus,” Scalise said through labored breaths.
“How many doors?” Simmons asked.
“Huh?” Scalise asked, lost in thought.
“How many doors does this place have?”
“Oh. Um… two.”
Scalise wiped the moisture from his brow and transferred it to his stained gray sweatpants, adding to the collection of other stains. “Only one locks. The front.”
“So, the back door doesn’t lock?” Nick asked.
“I haven’t gotten around to fixin’ it yet. It’s on my list of things to do.”
“Been busy cleaning?” Simmons said sarcastically, surveying the filth.
“Screw off!” Scalise said weakly.
“Just lock the door after we leave. We’re going to be close by keeping watch,” Nick said.
“Don’t change up your routine. We don’t want to tip
our hand. Not sure we’ll get another opportunity like this.” Simmons turned to leave.
“So that’s that? I don’t get a gun or something?” Scalise asked, mashing his wet palms together nervously.
“No Antonio, you do not get a gun. But don’t worry, we’ve got that covered,” Simmons answered.
Nick said nothing, eyeing the fat man intently and recalling the depravity of his unpunished crimes. He turned and followed behind Simmons.
“P-p-pl-please keep me safe,” Scalise called out softly as the door closed.
Nick let the heat from the Jetta’s vents warm them as it idled. He’d positioned the compact car kitty-corner across from the dilapidated home of Antonio Scalise. The Jetta’s black exterior gave them an additional layer of concealment coupled with its stealthy position between an overfilled dumpster and broken-down tow truck. The location gave him a three-point visual of Scalise’s double-wide to include both the front and back doors. The poorly maintained, dirt covered road leading into the trailer park would serve as an early warning if anybody approached in a vehicle.
“Rock, paper, scissors to see who gets the first watch?” Simmons said.
“No need to bother. I’ve got it,” Nick replied.
“You really don’t sleep much?”
“Nope. Not since Afghanistan.”
Simmons nodded, but remained silent. Nick appreciated the quiet acceptance and respected her for not pressing him further on his statement.
“The Ferryman always makes his move at night?” Nick asked.
“Every case so far. With the exceptions for the outliers like your mother,” Simmons said.
Nick’s lips pursed, sealing in the pain of his mother’s death. He closed his eyes and tried to clear the thought from his mind. He felt Simmons fingers trace over his right hand that rested on the balled plastic of the car’s stick shift. She gave him a quick squeeze, gentle but firm enough to convey its meaning. A gesture of solidarity between the two who, until recently, had not shared so much in common. Nick opened his eyes and gave his new partner an appreciative smile. Simmons retracted her hand and reclined in the passenger seat, preparing to settle in for a long night.
Nick stared at Scalise’s pitiful residence. He watched as the flicker of light from his living room television danced out into the dark night. The low rumble of the engine in idle mixed with the heavy breathing of the woman next to him, an indication that sleep had taken her.
Chapter 21
The morning light forced its way through the windshield of the black Jetta, immediately elevating the temperature of the compact car’s interior compartment. Being awake when night gave way to day never came naturally. The transition was not subtle, and it caused his stomach to churn. The noise of it amplified by the quiet caused Simmons to stir. She rolled her body toward his and the movement exposed the subtle cleavage peeking out of her loosely buttoned shirt. The necklace she wore was exposed, and the dead eyes of the Ferryman’s token stared emptily back at him.
“Jesus, how long were you going to let me sleep?” Simmons yawned, looking at the digital display on the dashboard.
Nick shrugged. “Looked like you needed it more than me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Simmons wiped the sleep from her eyes and squinted as she turned to face him.
“Nothing. It’s just that you passed out pretty fast and slept hard. I figured your batteries needed recharging.”
Nick stepped out of the car. The ground had a light coating of frost, painting the brown dirt of the road in patches of white that looked like mold on stale bread. The ice crunched as it was compacted under his weight. Nick stretched, arcing his torso while reaching skyward with his arms. He inhaled deeply, allowing the cold air to revitalize him. A couple vigorous twists of his body relieved the tension in his back and neck, signified by the audible popping sounds. Satisfied that he was fully adapted to morning’s call, Nick reentered the vehicle.
Simmons was sitting up and smiling at him.
“What’s so funny?” Nick asked.
“It’s just crazy to me that a big guy like you picked this little car.”
“It came my way after a joint case with the DEA. A drug seizure vehicle. I figured it’s a little less conspicuous than a Crown Vic or Impala.” Nick patted the top of the dashboard like he was praising a dog. “She’s been good to me so far. Although not the most spacious accommodation for long nights of surveillance,” Nick said.
“Well, I think it’s safe to say that Fat Tony will be around to walk the earth for at least one more day,” Simmons said.
“Fat Tony? Geesh, for a behaviorist you really don’t mince words.”
“Life’s too short for political correctness. Plus, I’ve got a reputation to live up to. I don’t want to lose my hard-earned nickname.”
“Nickname?” Nick asked turning to face her. “Oh, I’ve gotta hear this!”
Simmons chuckled. “Cherry bomb.”
Nick laughed out loud. “Cherry bomb?”
Simmons shrugged sheepishly. “That’s what they affectionately call me. Cherry bomb.”
“Who’s they?” Nick asked.
“Pretty much anyone who’s ever worked with me. I’m actually surprised it didn’t follow me here to Austin. Hell, in the Dallas area even the local cops use it.”
“I’d be lying if I said it didn’t fit,” Nick said, still smiling broadly.
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” Simmons said with a coy smile that teetered on the brink of being flirtatious.
Nick maintained his smile for only a moment longer before returning to his typical stoicism.
“I did a lot of thinking last night trying to piece this thing together,” Nick said.
“And what’d you come up with?”
“Zilch. Nada. I can’t think of one person I know in our profession that’d be capable of doing what this asshole’s done.”
“I know. That’s probably the biggest stretch for me too,” Simmons said as she fiddled with her pendent briefly before returning it to the recesses of her shirt. She buttoned her blouse, sealing away the necklace while simultaneously masking her gentle curves.
Nick averted his eyes but caught a knowing glance from Simmons.
“Drop me at the office. I’m fresh faced and bushy tailed. You, on the other hand, are not. I want you to take a few hours to decompress and sleep.”
“But—,” Nick started.
“But nothing. No more arguing. I need you to be at your best so that we can get some fresh perspective on this. Don’t worry, you’re not going to miss anything crucial. I’m just going to be doing a little administrative housekeeping. I’ve got to pop over and meet up with Spangler to pick up the files on Mullins and your mother.”
Nick’s head spun at the mention of his mother. Dizzied by the thought, he realized Simmons was right. There was no way he’d be effective later if he didn’t take some time and shut down for a bit.
“All right. You win,” Nick conceded.
Nick eased the Jetta forward from its hiding place, making his way around the dumpster and onto the dirt roadway of the dead-end street that was home to Antonio Scalise. The crunch and pop of the wheels’ rotation along the unpaved surface sang out the end of their first night’s surveillance.
Nick plodded his way up the wooden steps of his front porch. The cold air nipped at his exposed skin and he gripped the wooden railing for balance. He entered his quaint, yet adequate, home and was greeted by the contrasting warmth. The thermostat read 72, but this temperature had little to do with the setting and more to do with the natural warmth provided by the Texas sun. The living room was brightly lit by the tendrils of sunlight penetrating through the horizontal slits of the cherrywood blinds.
He felt the exhaustion of the last two days take hold and his body went slack. Nick thoughtlessly tossed his jacket onto the back of a chair, foregoing the hook that was only an arm’s reach away, and collapsed face first into the couch’s expanse. His motor functi
ons, operating on delay, did not seem to respond to his mental commands as he fumbled with great effort to retrieve the phone from his pocket. He wanted to call Anaya and check in.
After much more effort than should’ve been required, Nick successfully yanked the phone free. The coin, the Ferryman’s gift, slipped out and rolled across the marbled white tile, spiraling until it came to a stop, landing faceup. Nick stared as the orbital cavities of the etched skull stared blankly back at him. The weight of this silent staring contest bore down on him heavily. His eyelids fluttered in futile resistance and then succumbed. The phone fell from his hand, the call never placed, as he slipped into a deep sleep with the hope of awaking from this nightmare.
Chapter 22
Nick shot up, slamming the ridge of his foot against the oak leg of the coffee table. A line of drool snapped its connection from the left side of his face to the indented floral-design couch pillow. He vigorously rubbed his head, disoriented to his surroundings. It was dark. The small hand on the wall clock was on the five and the seconds ticked by noisily in the stillness. Nick had no idea if it was morning or night. He illuminated the backlight function on his G-shock watch. The numbers glowed their green response, 17:03.
He rubbed his foot, taking away the sting of his clumsy awakening. Nick retrieved the phone from its resting place on the floor and the coin that lay next to it. He depressed the button on the side of the black Samsung. Nothing. It was dead. He discontentedly rose from the couch and staggered to the kitchen. He plugged in the phone, started recharging the dead battery, and clicked the power button on the Keurig located nearby on the counter. With the whir of the heating coils beginning their task, Nick shuffled off toward the bathroom, disrobing as he strode.
The steam from the shower’s warm water cleared his fog. Refreshed, he stepped from the bathroom into the dark bedroom. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust but he caught something move by the bed. Nick dove toward the dresser where he had placed his duty weapon.
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