The Lion, The Lamb, The Hunted

by Kaufman, Andrew E.

  By the time they got us to the E.R., they’d managed to slow the bleeding but couldn’t make it stop completely. Desmopressin has its limitations for certain people; apparently, I’m one of them. Next line of defense: Factor Concentrate, a stronger agent that would hopefully shut down the flow.

  After several minutes, it did. They closed the wound, then took me to radiology to check for internal bleeding. Thankfully, everything came up negative. I was out of the woods. Such a tiny hole, and yet so dangerous.

  A tiny hole that could kill me.

  Luckily, I hadn’t lost enough blood to cause any serious problems, but it was a reminder of just how fragile I was, how vulnerable.

  After checking my vitals to be sure I was stable, they parked me in the waiting room. I sat there wringing my hands, worrying about CJ, and trying to process the past few hours. Someone had just tried to kill us.

  But who, damn it?

  I wasn’t sure—all I did know was this wouldn’t be the last of it. Whoever was coming after us would continue until the job was done, until we were out of the picture.

  I buried my head in my hands for a moment, then I heard my name. Looked up and saw the doctor gazing down at me, his expression one of concern. Just over his shoulder, I spotted the last person I wanted to see right now: Baker heading toward us at a rapid clip, his expression revealing not a trace of concern, only that suspicious glare I was growing accustomed to.

  “Mr. Bannister?” the doctor repeated.

  I took my attention away from Baker and gave it to the doctor.

  “Your friend’s going to be okay,” he said. “A pretty severe concussion and a nasty laceration on the side of her head, but all in all, she came out of it pretty well.”

  “Thank God,” I said, standing up. “Any idea when she’ll be released?”

  “I want to keep her overnight for observation, but she won’t have it.”

  I grinned a little, not a bit surprised. I thought it might take more than a whack on her head to curb CJ’s stubborn streak.

  “We’ll have her out of here in a while,” he assured, then left me there with Baker, who was studying me with crossed arms and conspicuous contempt.

  “Well, well, well,” Baker said. “Murder scenes. Hit and runs. You sure do get around, partner.”

  “Partner?” I replied. “Gosh, and we haven’t even been on our first date.”

  “You’re funny,” he said, “but no time to joke, son. Looks like you got yourself in the middle of another mess.”

  “I assure you it wasn’t intentional.”

  “So you say…” he replied, nodding. “Curious, though, isn’t it?”

  “What is?”

  “Barely here a week, and already you’ve had more excitement than most folks around here get in a lifetime. Kind of funny.”

  “Hilarious,” I said. I was tired and my head hurt.

  “Care to tell me what happened, son?”

  I rubbed the back of my neck. “With all due respect, sheriff, isn’t it your job to figure that out?”

  “Wasn’t asking you to solve the crime,” he said, almost snarling at me. “I think you know what I meant.”

  “I do, but in all honesty, it’s been a rough evening, and you’ve given me plenty of reason to get defensive.”

  “And you’ve given me plenty of reason to be suspicious.”

  I dug my hands in my pockets and gave him the benefit of full eye contact. “Are you accusing me of something, sheriff?”

  “I didn’t say that—”

  “Then what are you saying? If you think I’ve committed some sort of crime, I’d like to know what it is.”

  “Just that things have gone sort of…awry…since you came here, and it’s my job to figure out why.”

  “So let me make sure I understand you correctly: you seriously think I’m somehow the cause of all this?”

  A vague nod, keeping eye contact, “Could be. In some manner.”

  “Can you define in some manner for me?”

  “If I knew that, I’d have this all figured out, now, wouldn’t I?”

  I moved in closer so we were face to face, gave him a burning glare. “You’re playing games with me, sheriff, and I don’t like it.”

  Keeping his eyes locked on mine, over-pronouncing each word now, “I’m doing my job, son, and whether or not you like it really isn’t my concern. And since it is my job, I’m just gonna go ahead and keep on doing it. If that’s okay with you.”

  “It’s not the doing your job part I have a problem with; it’s the part where you harass innocent citizens.”

  His lips spread into a smile, but it was cutting and unpleasant. “I did a little checking on you. Quite a colorful past.”

  I said nothing.

  “A nasty drug overdose.” He pursed his lips and shook his head with mock dismay. “Shame, shame, shame.”

  I did my best to conceal my surprise, but what I really wanted to do was smack the stupid-assed grin off his face.

  Just then, the ER door swung open and an orderly pushed CJ out in a wheelchair.

  “Hey,” I said, “how are you doing?”

  She rubbed the side of her head and frowned. “You know, I think I’ve been better. Hey, Sheriff.”

  “Ms. Norris.”

  CJ looked from Baker’s face to mine, and I could tell she sensed the tension. “God, I hate hospitals,” she said to me. “Can we get out of here?”

  “Absolutely,” I replied, then nodded to the orderly; he began to push the wheelchair toward the exit.

  Baker stood like a stone statue, eyes trained on me. “Son, you’re not going anywhere until I get a statement.”

  I heaved a sigh, then looked at CJ and said, “I’ll just be a minute.”

  It was more like fifteen. When we finally got into the car, CJ said, “What the hell was that about? It looked like you were about to clock the sheriff.”

  She had no idea.

  “Long story. Tell you about it later. For now, let’s get you home and into bed.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  I had no intention of leaving CJ alone. She had a head injury, and it was abundantly clear that neither of us was safe. There’s strength in numbers, and in my way of thinking, we were better off together than apart. After stopping at the motel and gathering up my belongings, we headed to her place. I put her to bed and settled myself on her couch.

  I was lying upright and writing shelter shelter shelter . At number twenty-two, I glanced up and found CJ standing in the doorway, staring at me, the moonlight catching part of her face.

  I turned the notebook over a little too quickly.

  “What are you doing?”

  I forced my voice to sound casual. “Just writing some things down, trying to make sense of everything. Why aren’t you in bed? You should be sleeping.”

  “Can’t,” she said, still staring at the pad in my lap.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Somebody tried to kill us tonight, that’s what’s wrong.” She came over, sat by my feet, moved a lock of hair away from her face. The bruise on her forehead looked nasty. She said, “I have a feeling you know what this is all about. Wanna tell me?”

  I paused a moment, thinking before speaking, and then, “Someone wants me dead.”

  “I figured that after our little game of demolition derby.”

  “No, before tonight, even. Someone’s been trying to rattle my cage ever since I got into town.”

  “Rattle it? How?”

  I reached down into my bag and pulled out the note. “Somebody stuck this under the door of my motel room.”

  She read it, pursed her mouth, and then, “Who do you think did it? And what exactly were they hoping to accomplish?”

  “To mess with my head, I’m guessing. I’ve been doing a lot of digging lately. Someone wants me to stop.”

  “And they thought this would do it?”

  “That’s just part of it.” I took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Someone c
ame into my room while I was sleeping the other day. And left me another message.”

  She held out her hand. “Let me see it.”

  “I can’t. They wrote it on the bathroom mirror.”

  “The mirror,” she repeated, as if doing so would help her understand better. “What did it say?”

  I ran my fingers through my hair. “You spy, now you die.”

  She stood up, starting pacing, then stopped and turned toward me. “Why didn’t you tell me about all this?”

  “Because I didn’t want to scare you. But after tonight, I knew I had no choice.”

  “You should have told me.”

  “Okay.”

  She placed her hands on her hips. “No. You really should have.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  She stared at me for a moment, came back to the couch, sat down, then stared at the floor instead. She whispered, “Jesus Christ.”

  “I know.”

  “What the hell do we do now?”

  “We stick together. At least that way we can watch each other’s backs.”

  “Okay. Then what?”

  “I don’t know. But I think we’d have an easier time figuring out our next move if we got some sleep.”

  “Yeah—that’s just not gonna happen. I mean, seriously, Pat. After hearing all this, you honestly think I can sleep?”

  “I’m exhausted, and you have a concussion, for crying out loud. Neither of us is in any shape to make logical decisions right now. Get back in bed. We’ll figure things out in the morning.”

  She didn’t get up, didn’t say anything.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “I’m thinking.”

  “Stop thinking and get some sleep. At least try.”

  She was about to say something but stopped herself, then got up and headed back toward her room.

  I leaned back and closed my eyes, trying to imagine how to get us out of this mess.

  But I didn’t get far, because CJ screamed from the other room. I jumped off the couch and ran to her, found her standing in the bathroom doorway, visibly shaken, eyes opened wide.

  Hanging from the shower curtain rod by a strand of rope around its neck was a small doll, no bigger than my fist. A little boy doll. Dripping with what appeared to be blood, and a note tacked to its chest that read:

  Kill me.

  I put my hand on CJ’s back. She startled and let out a gasp.

  “Pack up your things,” I said, “We’re getting out of here.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Nowhere to hide. No place safe, not even CJ’s house.

  The hanging doll pretty much clinched it. Someone had been there before we’d ever arrived. That meant they knew we were coming, and that meant whoever was running this campaign of terror was tracking our every move—not only one step behind us, but one step ahead of us, too.

  My rental car was still drivable, more or less. It had suffered substantial damage to the side and rear during our dance with death, and now had an annoying rattle. But we were alive. My insurance would take care of the rest.

  I stared out at the open road as the headlights carved a path into darkness, without so much as a clue as to where we were going or what to do next. CJ rode open-eyed next to me: any chance of sleep now fell into the slim-to-none category.

  “Any ideas?” I said.

  “Yeah. I’ve got lots of them. Which one would you like?”

  “How about where to stay for the night?”

  “Sorry, that went out the window around the same time the strangled Kewpie doll showed up in my bathroom.”

  “How about a motel?”

  She allowed herself a mild laugh, but nothing about it showed any amusement. “Not in Corvine, that’s for sure. There’s only three, it wouldn’t take them long to figure out which one we were at.”

  “Okay. How about somewhere off the beaten path?”

  She yawned. “There’s a little hole-in-the-wall town called Jerome about twenty miles up ahead. There’s a motel, I think. Can’t guarantee it’ll be livable. Or even clean.”

  About fifteen minutes later, we rolled into town—or something like one: a gas station, a drive-through liquor store, a drive-through post office, and drive-through cleaners. Seemed folks here didn’t like getting out of their cars much. The main road brought us to a bridge so old and rickety that I feared we might not live to see the other side.

  “I told you,” CJ said in a singsong voice.

  “I didn’t think it would be quite this bad.”

  If it hadn’t been for the sign, I might have mistaken the motel for an abandoned warehouse. The place looked dark. And empty.

  “Think they’re even still in business?” I asked. We walked toward something white hanging down from a rafter, which eventually revealed itself as an office sign.

  “There are two other cars in the lot,” she offered. “They have to belong to someone.”

  “Yeah, the two people who work here, probably.” I pulled on the door: locked. Peered inside. Saw nothing but darkness.

  “Push the button,” she said, nodding toward it.

  I did. Heard a buzzing sound inside. Looked at CJ.

  She shrugged. “It works. That’s a good sign.”

  “Or not.”

  A light flickered on, and a shadowy figure appeared toward the back.

  CJ said, “Hooray.” But the expression on her face—and tone of her voice—implied the opposite.

  More lights came on, and the shadowy figure became a man. He cupped his hand against the window and peered out at us, his eyes tired and squinty. He was a heavy-set guy in his fifties with messy hair, an unshaven face, and a neck that looked like a pile of pre-oven pizza dough. All nicely packaged in a wife-beater t-shirt with stains down the front.

  “Nice,” CJ muttered under her breath.

  “Zip it,” I muttered back.

  He opened the door, said nothing.

  “Have anything available?” I asked.

  He burped under his breath, motioned toward the parking lot, and said, “Does it look like we got a waiting list?”

  Then he walked back into the office. We took this as an invitation to follow.

  “All that and charm, too,” CJ whispered. “Catch me, I think I’m falling in love.”

  I elbowed her, then to Pizza Neck, “We need a couple of rooms.”

  “Well, it’s your lucky night. I just happen to have about twenty. Take your pick.”

  ***

  My room smelled nasty, like a cross between stale socks, stale air conditioning, and stale cigarette smoke. A few seconds after hitting the light switch, I heard a knock on the connecting door.

  “Hate it here,” CJ said, standing in the doorway, expression stoic, arms pulled tightly to her sides. She came in without waiting for an invitation. “Did you see the bathrooms.” It wasn’t a question; it was a declaration.

  “That bad?”

  “The dirt has dirt on it, and what’s not completely filthy is corroded. I’m calling this a serious case of the nasties. Who stays in a hole like this?”

  “Apparently we do.”

  “There you go throwing that logic at me. Don’t do that.”

  “It’s just for the night until we can figure out what to do next. And it’s not that bad.”

  “You’re right. It’s far worse. But hey, at least we get a free newspaper.” She lifted it off the bed as if it were a dead fish, then carefully laid the pages across the bedspread. “Which doubles as a bed condom, don’t you know…very handy.” She sat.

  I sat next to her. The paper crunched under my ass. She looked at me, and for the first time in a long time, started to laugh.

  I gave her a look. “What?’

  Still laughing. “This.”

  “You think it’s funny?”

  “No, I think it’s horribly pathetic, but if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry. And I don’t want you to see me curled up on the floor in a fetal position, twirling my hair. Not pretty.” She wa
s laughing harder now.

  Then I began to laugh too.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  I woke up to the sound of knocking. It took me a few seconds to realize it was coming from the partition between my room and CJ’s. I rolled out of bed, stepped into a pair of sweatpants, and pulled them up on my way to the door.

  CJ stood on the other side, wide awake, fully dressed, and holding the morning paper.

  “It’s four a.m.,” I said.

  “I actually never went to sleep.”

  “I actually don’t find that hard to believe.”

  “Sorry; it’s this place.”

  “That ought to help your concussion heal well. Just what the doctor ordered.” I returned to my bed, sat on the edge, rubbed my eyes. She followed me in.

  “I was thinking,” she said.

  “About how sleep is something you should try to get every day?”

  “Very funny. No.” She was busy spreading sheets of newspaper across the bed.

  “That sleep is something I should try to get every day?”

  She sat on the newspaper and began ticking points off on her fingers. “Samuels kills Jean. And we think he may have killed Nathan too. And framed Lucas. What’s the connection?”

  I thought for a moment and then, “You’ve been here for a long time, talked to lots of people about this case. Is there anything we’ve missed? Someone you’ve spoken to at any point that was somehow connected to Jean, maybe?”

  She chewed her lip for a long moment, then answered, “There’s one woman, but I honestly didn’t see a connection then, and I don’t see it now.”

  “Who?”

  “Her name is Ruth Johns. She called me several years ago and claimed her son-in-law was somehow involved in the Kingsley case. I never could make it fit.”

  “Why did she think he was involved?”

  “Well, she didn’t like the guy much, then her daughter fell off a boat on Chambray Lake and drowned. It was ruled an accident, but Ruth thought he killed her. Only she had nothing to prove it.”