Racing From Death: A Nikki Latrelle Mystery

by Sasscer Hill

  Chapter 42

  I fluttered to the surface inside an elevator. Cheswick’s long arm propped me up. My head spun. A throbbing pain burned the side of my neck. How long had I been out?

  Next to Cheswick, Duvayne stared up at the indicator lights. The elevator was headed down, passing the second floor.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, my voice a thin rasp.

  Cheswick tightened his hold. “Shut up.”

  Duvayne remained silent.

  The doors opened at the first floor. The area near the elevators was deserted. The main entrance to the grandstand lay directly ahead without a ticket taker or program seller in sight. A babble of voices and excited cries came from behind the elevator banks. The race must be in full swing.

  I shifted my weight, kicked Cheswick’s shin, tried to break loose. He grabbed my shoulder, pulling me tight against him. My weak scream would never be heard over the noise. I could probably run naked through the grandstand and not be noticed.

  But we weren’t going through the grandstand. They manhandled me to the right, through a door labeled, “Track Staff Only.”

  No. I smashed a heel onto Cheswick’s foot. He laughed and gripped me harder. “Cut that shit out.” Duvayne grabbed my hair, yanking viciously.

  “John, hold her a minute.” Cheswick shoved me at Duvayne, then ripped off my shoulder bag. Dumping the contents, he found Tim’s notebook and slid it into his waistband. He snatched up my phone, turned it off, then loaded my stuff back, and thrust the bag at Duvayne.

  “Let me have her.” Cheswick grabbed my arms with both his hands. He held me so high my feet bounced along the floor as he rushed down an empty hallway.

  Duvayne slammed a door open, and Cheswick whisked me through a cold, musty storeroom filled with supplies. No people, no voices. Ahead, a loading dock. We passed a Dumpster, and Duvayne tossed my purse inside.

  Then I saw the liquor truck and screamed, struggling harder.

  “I’ll knock you out.” Duvayne threatened with a meaty fist.

  They half carried, half-dragged me to the vehicle. In the distance hoof beats pounded, and the roar from the grandstand crescendoed.

  I wasn’t going in that truck! I kicked and twisted like a wild thing, bit Cheswick’s arm. Cursing, they wrestled me to the rear doors, threw me inside.

  I hit the metal floor hard, my head slamming against the edge of a wooden pallet. The doors crashed shut and what sounded like a chain rattled on the handles outside. Then a metallic click, like a padlock. I fingered my head, wincing with pain. Blood leaked from my scalp behind my right ear.

  An overhead bulb dimly lit the interior. Aside from the pallet, only the remnants of a cardboard carton lay in the truck. The words, “Pseudoephedrine - Product of India” were visible on a torn strip.

  The engine turned over. The truck rammed forward and threw me against the rear doors. I grabbed a metal handle and twisted it down. Locked.

  At least they hadn’t tied me up. I crawled to the pallet. Long nails held its solid, one-by-four inch boards together. If I could pry one loose, it would make a weapon. I kicked and wrenched frantically until my fingers were bloody and stuck with splinters. The damn pallet was built like a house.

  Think!

  I slid a boot between two boards and turned my foot, trying to lever the wood apart. One of the nails began to give. I alternated pulling with my hands and prying with my foot. Two nails finally gave way at one end. I started on the other. I got the board loose, tried holding it with both hands – like a baseball bat.

  I shuffled back to the doors on my knees, and sagged against a side wall. Breathing slowly, dark thoughts filled my head. I’d known Cheswick was a creep from the get go. Why had I been so blind about Duvayne?

  These two must be behind the deaths of Paco and Susan. Why else would they be so desperate? I’d found out Cheswick had used his sons to deal drugs, sent them to their deaths. Then I’d told him! Could I have done anything more stupid?

  My senses sharpened as the truck jerked to a halt. I gripped the board. Voices sounded outside. Something clicked, rattled, and the doors creaked open. Cheswick leaned in to pull me out. I slammed the wood at his head. He jerked to the side and the blow hit his shoulder. Scooting past him before he could grab me, I jumped from the truck, ready to run.

  A metal click to my left.

  “Forget it, honey. I’ll do you right here.” The large barrel of a handgun pointed at me. Duvayne held its rubber grips with both hands.

  As Cheswick climbed from the truck, my head dropped in defeat. I let the board clatter to the pavement.

  Tight-faced with anger, Cheswick backhanded me across the mouth. The blow left me reeling. Tasting blood. Duvayne hurried toward a building, leaving Cheswick to drag me in his wake.

  Movement flickered beyond the fence. Half hidden among the branches of a pine – a face? I blinked, saw nothing.

  Cheswick pushed me into a concrete-floored bay. A spray gun lay on the floor. I’d seen this before – the body shop at the bottling plant. Cheswick shoved me through a door into some kind of storage room, where John Duvayne threw folders into a box. Next to him a paper shredder whirred and a flurry of confetti shot from a side spout into a trash can.

  I stared about as Cheswick dragged me through this room. Looked like it had been recently picked clean. A few tatters of cardboard and shreds of bubble wrap littered the floor. Except for a soda and snack machine on the back wall, the room was empty.

  Next to the snack dispenser, a metal door opened, and two men stepped into the room. They pulled elaborate safety masks off their faces as they moved toward the soda machine.

  “Help me!” I shouted.

  One man spun, stared at us, then quickly dropped his gaze to the floor. He shoved trembling hands into his pant’s pockets. The other man never turned around, just stuffed change into the machine and pressed buttons.

  “Jake, you blow out the lab like I said?” Duvayne asked.

  “Yes, sir,” The man at the soda machine turned to face Duvayne.

  One of the stretch-Hummer guys. The one with the wide shoulders and carefully groomed Fu Manchu beard.

  “What about that last batch? You finish it?”

  “Yes, Mr. Duvayne,” said Jake.

  Such careful deference to Bobby’s father. Cheswick wasn’t in charge here,

  Duvayne was.

  “Then load it up. Trucks outside. And Jake,” Duvayne said as the two men headed for the rear door. “Is everyone else gone?”

  “The workers, yeah. I sent them home, just like you asked.”

  “You,” Duvayne said, pointing at the man who’d been unable to meet my gaze.

  “Y-yes, sir,” he stuttered.

  “Take the rest of the day off.”

  “Chicken shit,” Cheswick muttered, as he watched the guy scurry from the room. Laughing, he shifted his grip on me.

  Duvayne turned to Cheswick. “Get her in there, Chuck. You know what to do.”

  Chapter 43

  I slumped and dragged my feet as Cheswick wrestled me toward the back wall. Behind us, Duvayne ignored my struggles and continued boxing his files.

  “Damn it, Jake, give me a hand,” Cheswick shouted. “Should have knocked the bitch out.”

  Jake grabbed my arm. I searched his face for some sign of kindness or remorse, but his eyes were flat and empty. The two men propelled me to the door, where a red eye glowed from a key pad mounted on the wall. Jake worked a combination of numbers and the lock released with a hollow click.

  A noxious odor like ammonia and nail-polish remover curled around us when Jake opened the door. Fumes stung my eyes, made them water and squeeze shut. The roar of the exhaust fans filled my ears, but I could still hear Cheswick.

  “Thought you blew this place out.”

  “Man, you shoulda been here earlier,” said Jake. “The levels are safe now.”

  “Not for long.” Cheswick’s chuckle as he shoved me through the doorframe raised hairs on t
he back of my neck.

  I blinked, trying to focus. The rectangular room wasn’t that large, maybe 15 by 20 feet. Against a nearby wall, tools, beakers, cans and jars were strewn on a wooden workbench. Ahead, a long metal table held cartons of clear plastic vials filled with crystals.

  A meth lab.

  At the room’s far end a device resembling a giant crab pot squatted on dark, iron legs. It looked large enough to boil a human. Gauges and wires sprouted from its pockmarked, grimy surface. Large buckets and metal canisters with nozzles littered the floor beneath it. A blue pipe suspended from the ceiling, one end curving down, opening over the cooker like a single nostril sniffing for dinner.

  As they pulled me toward this monstrosity, a man bent over buckets, hosing them out. A stream of water flowed across the cement floor before disappearing into a rusted grate. The man wore a mask. A plastic hood covered his hair. He started violently when our movements caught his attention.

  The eyes behind the mask fixed on mine, and my heart hammered with recognition.

  Jake released his hold on me and glanced at the guy. “You can take that crap off, if you want. It’s safe now.”

  The man shook his head no.

  “I know it’s you.” My voice rose into a pleading cry. “Bobby, help me!”

  He remained silent, staring at me through the white mask as the door clicked open and John Duvayne entered the room.

  “Don’t bother cleaning those.” Duvayne waved at the buckets. “There won’t be anything left after this place blows, anyway.”

  Bobby turned a lever on the nozzle, shutting off the water. He dropped the hose, pulled off his mask and the plastic hood. His hands shook as he removed a leather smock. Beneath it, the ruby studded cross glimmered on his chest.

  “You had to bring her, too?”

  “They’ve been nothing but trouble since they got here.” Cheswick’s hold on me tightened. “This one was working for that investigator before she even came to Virginia.”

  “That’s not true,” I cried, then remembered. Amarilla. She’d seen Cormack with me at Paco’s funeral.

  Cheswick glanced at Jake. “Tie her up.”

  “No,” said Bobby.

  On the far side of the squat cooker, Nike shoes and the lower half of a pair of jeans protruded from behind a bunch of multi-gallon plastic jugs. Bound ankles were tied to one of the iron legs.

  “Lorna,” I screamed, pulling from Cheswick’s grasp and stumbling forward.

  I thought the jeans moved, then Cheswick and Jake overwhelmed me, shoving me to the floor, binding my hands behind my back with nylon rope, dragging and tying me to one of the black metal legs.

  Cheswick’s lips curved in an unpleasant grin. “Bobby, get the duct tape.”

  “No,” Bobby said, again.

  “Do it,” said Duvayne. “Stop acting like a baby.”

  Cheswick smirked, enjoying the younger man’s discomfort.

  “Lorna,” I called through the metal legs, turning toward her as much as the tight ropes allowed.

  A jug wobbled and matted red hair appeared over the plastic containers as Lorna managed to sit up. Her eyes were huge, her mouth covered with gray tape, her face bruised and filthy.

  “Don’t let them do this!” I yelled at Bobby.

  “Shut her up.” Duvayne’s voice bellowed across the room. He was like a bull, inflated with rage, ready to smash any obstacle blocking his path.

  “Listen to me, boy.” He raised a huge fist at his son.

  Bobby shrank back, cowering. I knew Lorna and I were lost.

  Chapter 44

  Bobby turned from his father and stared straight ahead as he moved toward the workbench, his body stiff, feet dragging.

  Jake pushed a rolling cart to the long table and loaded boxes of crystal meth. He lifted the second carton, revealing a roll of gray tape. He snagged the tape and held it out to Bobby, who stopped moving altogether.

  I waited for Duvayne to shout at his son, but he was measuring ammonia into a beaker. Next to him Cheswick drained a large can into a bucket. Jake shrugged and dropped the tape on the table. He rolled the cart out of the lab, leaving the door open behind him.

  “Lorna,” I called, just loud enough that she could hear me over the fans. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, her face pinched and white. Tears left streaks in the grime on her cheeks. Her gaze slid to Bobby, who walked toward me now, gripping the tape, refusing to look at us. As he got closer, Lorna moaned behind her gag, her eyes beseeching, locked on Bobby. He ignored her. Pretended not to see my frantic struggle with the nylon rope.

  A dull clunk, followed by a loud thud came from outside the lab. The rolling cart burst into the room, barreling across the floor, heading straight toward John Duvayne and Cheswick. The two men attempted to grab it before it crashed and spilled vials of meth.

  The cart smashed into Cheswick. He staggered and tried to catch a carton of vials sliding over the edge. He grabbed the box, holding it aloft as he fell to the floor on his back.

  A figure appeared in the doorway. I stared, astonished to see Mike Talbot, his face flushed, his eyes blazing, almost triumphant. He still gripped that damn shovel and held it up almost like a sword. Dirt crumbled off the blade onto the floor. Red Virginia clay and grass stains smeared the legs of his pants.

  “I found her!” He shouted. I knew it, but no one would listen.”

  The most coherent words I’d heard from this guy. But what was he talking about? Duvayne knew. His face paled.

  “Shut up, Talbot. You’re nuts!”

  “No. Catherine loved me.” Talbot turned to Bobby. “I loved her. We were going to go away, take you with us. Be a family.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Bobby asked, his voice shaking.

  Talbot pointed at Duvayne. “He murdered your mother. Buried her in the woods. I saw him do it! But I . . .” His voice faltered. “I . . . I got lost out there, couldn’t find her. No one would help me! They put me in that place.”

  He stared at his hands. “I’m sorry I took so long, Catherine.”

  He was obviously crazy, talking to a dead woman. If she was dead.

  “You’re wrong!” Bobby yelled. “My mother walked out on me.”

  “No,” said Talbot. “She would never have left you.”

  “Liar,” Duvayne shouted. “I’m gonna shut you up!”

  He lunged at Talbot, but dodged at the last second to avoid the shovel blade swinging toward his head. Talbot’s shovel missed, and Duvayne rammed a solid right punch into Talbot’s jaw. The skeletal man crumpled to the floor. Duvayne snatched the shovel, raised it high, and slammed it at Talbot’s head.

  I closed my eyes, heard a muffled scream from Lorna. Bobby yelled, and my eyes flew open as the younger man diverted the path of the metal blade with his shoulder. He grunted in pain as the shovel clattered to the floor.

  Panting, sweat dripping from his forehead, Bobby faced his father. “Is this true?”

  “Of course not. You can’t believe his crap.” Duvayne’s eyes smoldered.

  Behind them, Cheswick regained his footing and carefully set the box of meth crystals on the cart. “Look, Talbot’s just one more asshole to add to the party. Get on with it.”

  “No,” said Bobby. “You can’t.”

  Duvayne put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “We have to. You know that.” But Bobby jerked away.

  On the floor, Talbot moaned and rolled onto one side. He propped himself up on a bony elbow, holding out a dirt-stained hand to Bobby, the palm facing down.

  “Do you remember this?” A ruby glimmered from a gold ring circling the man’s little finger. The large stone glowed blood red, just like the one on Bobby’s cross.

  Duvayne shrank back, as if frightened.

  Bobby reached a trembling finger to the ring. “Where did you get this?”

  “From Catherine. I’ve been trying to tell you. I found her!” That triumphant flush bloomed on Talbot’s face again.

/>   Bobby backed away. Uncertainty clouded his eyes. He stared at his father.

  “You didn’t . . .”

  “Bobby.” My voice came out as a dry croak, barely audible. I took a breath and forced volume into the words. “You know it’s true! Look how he beats you. He probably beat your mother. For God’s sake, he’s going to kill us!”

  “That’s it,” said Duvayne. He grabbed the tape from the table and thrust it at his son. “Either you shut her up, or I’ll do her now and make you watch! You wouldn’t like that, would you?”

  Bobby snatched the tape, hurried toward me.

  Duvayne’s derisive voice chased behind. “You’re a sensitive pansy, just like your mother.”

  Bobby squatted on the floor before me. As he ripped off a strip of tape, the blade of a small knife winked at me from his right hand. He pressed the duct tape over my mouth, then ran his arms behind me, quickly sawing the nylon rope into pieces.

  “Get Lorna out,” he whispered, and pressed the knife’s handle into my palm.

  He stood abruptly, darted to the shovel, and hefted it in both hands. Spinning toward Duvayne, he slammed the blade into his father’s head.

  I tore off my gag, scuttled beneath the cooker and grabbed Lorna’s ankles. Adrenaline pumping wildly, I sliced the rope like butter, freed her hands, and pulled the tape from her mouth. She tried to speak, but couldn’t get the words out.

  I heard another thud and glanced up as Bobby smashed John again.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” I said.

  But Cheswick rushed us.

  Lorna, who was closer, scrambled awkwardly to her feet and watched him come. She let him grab her, then shoved her knee into his crotch, before tottering to the floor. But she found her voice.

  “You piece of shit,” she said, scooting backwards.

  The guy was resilient. He fought the pain, seemed to put it aside, and lunged at me. I raised the knife, thrusting it at him. Cheswick’s momentum drove the blade into his abdomen.