Bertie’s eyes felt like they were going to pop out of her head. Giggles started welling up inside her and she had to swallow hard to keep them down.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Mudgett. Um, yes, I do know what you’re talking about. I’ll make sure that there are no more comments like that. Yes, I can see where that would be disturbing. Uh, I’ve got to go to work now. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”
She fled, leaving Mr. Mudgett standing there, sorrow etched into his features.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Bertie’s apartment was set back from the street with a fence surrounding it front and back. The house was very well-built, a pre-World War II fortress, making it a quiet oasis in the babel and bluster of a big city night. And even in Los Angeles, the noise levels abate somewhat in the early morning hours during what most people would call “the middle of the night.”
It was in these still, pre-dawn hours that Bertie suddenly sat upright in bed and said, “Bodies. Oh my God, bodies. Cully!”
She wrestled her way out of the tangle of blankets and ran into the living room where Cully was sitting up in the sofa bed, shaking his head to clear it, and mumbling “Wha? What’s wrong? Cheeze, Bert, it’s 3:15, what’s the matter?”
Without thinking, she crawled under the covers with him, moving Bling to one side with her hip and pulling Cully back down.
“Shhh,” she whispered in his ear, “we don’t want Mr. Mudgett to think we’re having sex.” When she’d told Cully about the landlord’s request for quieter sex they’d broken into laughter, an almost hysterical bout that had lasted for several minutes. They’d calm down and then one of them would whisper “no licking” and they’d start back up again.
But Cully wasn’t laughing. “C’mon, Bert, I’m tired. What’s going on?”
She huddled next to him and pulled the blankets over their heads. Bling thought this might be a great new game and crawled up closer to be included.
“I remember,” Bertie said softly. “I remember what’s been bothering me about those sheds.” She stopped, unable to resist a dramatic pause even at 3ish in the morning.
Cully sighed. “What?”
“Barrels. Big, metal barrels. There are a bunch of them pushed up against the sheds on Buddy’s property.”
Cully was quiet for so long Bertie thought he’d gone back to sleep. “OK, I must be missing the point. Barrels?”
“Don’t you ever watch TV? Yes, barrels. Any time there are barrels in a TV show, that means there are – “ Bertie’s voice lowered even more – “bodies! What else could Buddy be hiding out there in the middle of nowhere in barrels?”
Cully went quiet again. Bling, having decided that nothing much was going to happen, did two or three turns and then settled down to go back to sleep again, nestled into Cully’s armpit.
“So who did Buddy kill to put in the barrels? Some greenies who weren’t hoeing hard enough in the pea patch? Bert, I might be willing to believe that he murdered Rowley Poke, maybe, but I don’t think he’s the Jack the Ripper of the corn fields.”
It was Bertie’s turn to be silent. “Well, we’ll see, won’t we, when we go out there this weekend,” she said finally. With great dignity, she removed the covers from her head, gave Bling a pat on the head, and returned to her bed to lay steaming and stewing for the rest of the night over Cully’s blindness.
***
Bertie was starting to feel schizophrenic. At home, Buddy Laird was her suspect of choice; at work, it was Howard Schompe. And that didn’t take into account secondary suspects like Irene Poke, Annabelle Johnson, the Big J himself and anyone else who Bertie didn’t have a clue existed. At work, she was obsessed by Howard; at home, by Buddy.
She sat tight for the rest of the week, keeping an eye on Howard, when he wasn’t keeping an eye on her, and being ignored by Cully at home.
They’d decided to visit the Laird homestead Saturday because of the usual Friday night traffic overload and the increased likelihood that Buddy would party on a Saturday night, after overseeing The End’s volunteerathon on Saturday mornings.
The drive to Buddy’s seemed to take forever, but finally they were on the last paved road before the dirt driveway to his house. Bertie had changed clothes three times to get just the right black outfit until Cully growled that it wasn’t a walk down the runway.
“Black is the new black when it comes to snooping, but it has to be the right black,” she sniffed, and closed the door to her bedroom.
Cully turned off the headlights and pulled to the side of the road before entering the driveway. The shabby little house was dark except for a small light shining out the kitchen window. Bertie guessed it was probably a light over the stove.
Cully drove about a half mile down the rural road and pulled into what looked like a service road that wound back into the scrub. He drove as far off the pavement as the tangled scrub would allow and shut the car down.
“Why did you pull in here? I’m not walking that far,” Bertie said.
“You want to leave the car in Buddy’s driveway while we snoop around his sheds? There’s no way to hide it. If he comes home he’ll see it, he can’t miss it.”
Bertie grumbled a little, but had to agree with his logic. The whole plan was already getting more complicated than she’d counted on.
He and Bertie sat for a minute or two, allowing their eyes to adjust to the dark and then started the trek back down the road to Buddy’s drive. A brilliant half-full moon occasionally showed its face from behind scudding clouds.
Bertie stopped suddenly in her tracks and Cully ran into her from behind.
“What’s up? Why did you stop?” he asked.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” she said.
“Why didn’t you go before we left?”
“I did, I’m nervous and I have to go again.”
She started toward a waist-high bush, the biggest object to hide behind in the field.
Cully grabbed her arm and hissed urgently, “No, Bertie, wait, don’t do it.”
Bertie jumped to one side and gave a quiet “eek!” “Why, what’s wrong. Is it a snake?”
“No, my mother says you can get a disease from peeing in the woods. Wait till we get somewhere where there’s a toilet.”
Bertie stood silently, stunned, then punched him in the arm. “Your mother? Your mother is a little Pittsburgh matron, what does she know about peeing in the woods? I bet she’s never peed in the woods in her life.”
Bertie stomped over to the tree, lowered her pants and let go. She rejoined Cully, who was now quietly sulking.
“Don’t blame me …” he said.
“Don’t worry, Cully, if I get a disease I won’t blame you and I’ll call your mother and tell her how right she was. Now, let’s go.”
It took them a half hour to reach the driveway, and another 10 minutes of a low, crouching walk to reach the house.
The sheds, gleaming in the moonlight, still looked a long way away. They started walking toward them, as low to the ground as possible. A slight wind rustled the scrubby bushes and ground covering.
The walk across the almost open field was agonizing. Every second Bertie expected to hear the reverberations of a shotgun blast and feel the sting of pellets in her behind. It was also murder on her hamstrings.
As they neared the outbuildings, Bertie realized there were more behind the ones visible from the house. “I don’t want to be here long enough to search all of these,” she whispered to Cully.
“We’ll do the best we can,” he whispered back. “Let’s split up. You go around that way, and I’ll go this way.”
“No!” Bertie screeched, loud enough to send an owl flapping noisily away from the roof of the nearest shed. “Are you nuts?” she asked in a lower voice. “That’s the second rule in scary movies, don’t split up.”
“OK, OK. What’s the first?”
Bertie looked at him, pity in her eyes. “You poor dodo-head. The first rule is: Don’t go into the base
ment.”
“Well, houses don’t have basements in Southern California, so we’re safe there. C’mon, then we’ll stay together.” He took her hand.
The first door they tried was locked, as was the second one and all the others. There were a few windows, but they were up high. Cully cupped his hands together to give Bertie a step to climb up and when she grabbed hold of a high-up window sill, he grasped her rump in both hands and shoved. She lost her balance and tumbled down on top of him. They both lay there in the dust, panting and in pain.
“What the hell, Bert?”
“What the hell to you! Why were you wriggling around so much?”
“As I said, your booster is bigger than it used to be, you’re heavy.”
“And the windows are too high, it’s not all my fault. Before I fell, though, I saw some pipes. I think it was piping, all coiled up.”
“Well, I think I might’ve hurt my back. This is a big bust, let’s get out of here.”
“Wait, we can still look in those barrels. Are you up for it?”
Cully got up slowly, wincing in pain, then reached down to help Bertie.
“Let’s do it then and get the hell out of here.”
They tiptoed up to the closest barrel. It looked formidable.
“There should be some kind of hoop around the top with a fastener thingy,” Cully said, feeling around the top of the barrel. “Ah, here it is.” He unhooked the connection and looked at Bertie, whose face had turned visibly paler, even in the dim light.
“Are you sure you want me to take it off?” Cully asked.
“Yes, go ahead. I guess.”
He loosened the hoop and let it drop quietly to the ground, then reached for the lid of the barrel. He gave a little jerk and pulled.
They stared horrified into a viscous liquid that shook a little from Cully’s jerk on the lid. It made a horrible squishing noise as it hit one side of the barrel and then flowed back against the other side.
“Oh, my God, what’s that smell? I think I’m going to be sick,” Bertie said.
“I don’t know – “
The loud sound of a truck sorely in need of a muffler broke the quiet night air. Bertie let out a little shriek and let the lid drop back onto the barrel with a bang. They ran behind the shed and crouched behind it.
“Oh my gosh, Buddy came home early,” Bertie said, her voice squeaking from fear.
“Not just Buddy, it sounds like there are a bunch of trucks,” Cully said.
“What are we going to do?”
“How the hell should I know? Just sit tight for now; let’s see what they’re going to do.”
They leaned against the shed, trying to decipher the sounds that cut across the stillness of the night air. They could hear the banging and slamming of vehicle doors and the voices of several men and women.
“What are they doing?” Bertie asked.
“I can’t tell,” Cully replied, and started inching his head around the side of the shed.
“They’re standing around outside the house; I can’t see Buddy but his truck is there. Wait, here he comes; he’s carrying wood to the side of the house. There are a couple of guys helping him.”
“What are they going to do with wood; raise a barn?” Bertie asked.
“Not that kind of wood, firewood. They’re piling it up like they’re going to start a bonfire.”
“Oh, cheeze, they’re going to have a rally for the home team? Are there cheerleaders, too?” Bertie pushed up against Cully’s back and peered around him. Several of the men and women were holding beer bottles, laughing and talking while they watched the pile of wood grow.
Finally, a spark erupted into a flame, which grew into long fingers of fire reaching into the sky.
The group grew quiet, mesmerized by the conflagration. Slowly, they started circling the fire, reaching out to hold hands with each other. The sound of voices in a sonorous chant rose from the circle, Buddy’s voice leading them.
“From the end … comes the beginning … from the end … comes the beginning …”
Bertie clutched Cully’s hand and pulled back from the edge of the shed. “This is creepier than hell, Cully, c’mon let’s go, let’s get out of here.”
“Wait, Bert, let’s see what they’re going to do, maybe they’re going to sacrifice a virgin.”
“Cully, I mean it! Let’s go, please.”
“OK, I don’t think there are any virgins there anyway,” he said, letting Bertie pull him away. They crouched again, Bertie’s hamstrings screaming in protest, and started running away from the sheds and toward the car waiting for them about a half mile away.
Suddenly, a loud CRRAAACCK cut through the silence. Bertie screamed, caution giving away to terror.
“They’re shooting at us, Cully, run.”
They stood and ran down the slight slope to the open field and across it as fast as they could go, Cully limping from the fall.
There was a loud scream from the direction of Buddy’s house and Bertie fell, twisting her ankle. She jumped up and kept running, holding Cully’s hand, both of them making dot-dash hops as they ran.
They reached the car and Cully opened the door, pushing Bertie in and diving after her. Buddy’s little house was lit up like a Fourth of July firecracker now and a figure with a ponytail was pointing into the air. Fire seemed to spray from the raised hand with every explosion. Several other shadow figures danced and leaped around, participants in a pagan ritual.
Cully gunned the engine and backed out at 40 miles an hour. He reached the rural road and slammed the car into drive, and headed toward a main road, light, civilization, and safety.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Cully punished his old car, pushing it up to speeds it hadn’t reached in decades. Bertie sat beside him, clutching the seat belt pulled taut against her body as Cully – his hands so tight on the steering wheel that the knuckles showed white through the skin – careened round corners. The quiet rural night was split by the sound of screaming tires, several years past their rubbery prime.
Bertie was almost babbling. “OhmyGod, theyweregoingtokillus, theysawusandtheywere goingtoshootus. Ican’tbelievewedidthis, thisisnothingtomessaroundin …”
Cully swerved into a closed gas station on the outskirts of a small town, pulling past the pumps and into the sickly fluorescent light emanating from windows high in a big garage door.
He slammed the gear shift into park, turned in his seat and slapped Bertie.
She gasped, and rubbed her cheek.
“You pig!” she said and slapped him back.
“Bert, you were hysterical, I had to do something!”
“You watch too many bad movies. You didn’t have to do that.”
They sat quietly rubbing their cheeks for a few minutes before Bertie said, “We were stupid. We could’ve been killed.”
“Maybe,” Cully said. “I’m not sure they even saw us. I think it was just a bunch of good ole boys – and girls – having a good time on a Saturday night.”
“But they had guns. Or at least Buddy did. You give a gun to a drunk and who knows what he’ll do. And that chanting …” Bertie shuddered. “I’m going to have nightmares about that, I know it. What do you think it meant?”
“Something about The End, obviously. The End is the beginning. A new career for Buddy? For the group? I just don’t know.” Cully went silent again.
“Cully, what do you think was in that barrel? Do you think it was a body?”
“Ummm, honestly? No. It smelled funky, but it smelled like something familiar. Some of it slopped on my hand. Here, smell.” He thrust his hand under Bertie’s nose. She flinched.
“Eww, no, I don’t want to …” She stopped. “Wait a minute, it smells like …” She sniffed his hand several times. “Mickey D’s. Oh my gosh, they robbed a McDonald’s and…no, it’s grease.”
He pulled his hand back and smelled it. “Yeah, I think you’re right.” He started laughing and Bertie joined in.
&nbs
p; “I think we stumbled on to Buddy’s used grease stash,” she said. “That actually makes sense.”
“Why would Buddy want grease?” Cully turned the key in the ignition and the old car fired up. He steered out of the closed gas station and onto the road again.
“C’mon, Cully, you’ve heard the news stories about grease from fast-food joints being recycled into an alternative fuel. Just think of the tons of grease scraped off grills every day in this country. And from deep friers. There are factories going up to convert it to biofuel.”
They drove in silence for several minutes.
“But why does Buddy have it in barrels on the back of his property? If it belongs to The End, it should be at the compound,” Cully said. “Shouldn’t it?”
“He’s stealing it. Buddy and his gang are stealing grease to sell for biofuel. I remember reading about it. It used to be just given away, but it’s become so valuable thieves steal it from the tanks in back of restaurants and fast-food places.”
“Really?” Cully asked dubiously.
“Yes! That’s how he got the money for his super-duper TV. If he was collecting grease for The End, it would be stored there, not at his house. And that’s why he hides his phone bills and address book. They contain his black market contacts. That could be why the sheds are full of piping and stuff; maybe they’re starting the refining process to up the profits.”
“Could be. What kind of world do we live in where there’s a black market for grease?” Cully shook his head in wonderment.
“Here’s a better question: Do we turn him into the cops?”
The lights of L.A. were looming on the horizon now. “How seriously do you think a cop would take a grease ring?” Cully said.
“That’s irrelevant for now. What we have is proof that Buddy’s crooked, but is he a murderer, too? If we turn him in for this, it could spook him enough to ditch any evidence of Rowley Poke’s murder.”
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