by C R Trolson
In the booking office the jailer handed her a large zip-lock bag filled with her belt and boot laces. “I never thought you did it,” he confided. Another bag held her wallet, keys, some change, wadded bills, and a green stone that Reese thought looked familiar.
She grabbed her things, palming the stone. He wondered if it was the one missing from Ajax’s collection of jade fish. And why was she trying to keep him from seeing it? Had she stolen it from Ajax? That would be something.
She rubbed her eyes when they got outside. It was just dark. “You couldn’t have come up with a better alibi than we slept together?” she said.
“Not off the top of my head.”
“We did not fuck.”
“And you would know.”
“For your sake, I hope so.”
He hurried to catch up.
“You’re out of jail.”
“I know and I have you to thank,” she said and finger brushed the hair out of her face. “But as jails go, it’s not a bad one. I’ve seen worse.”
She kept walking. Her red hair purple in the orange streetlights. Her clothes wrinkled and limp. He remembered what the Chief had said. She did look dangerous.
It took him a block to tell her about Cheevy and Ramon. “This burg is worse than Columbia,” she said after he was done, “worse than Medellin.”
He wasn’t going to argue about that.
Sitting in the window of Thelma’s Deli, a block from the Sheraton, they spotted one lonely picnic basket, filled with a lunch for two and marked down for quick sale.
In her room, in front of the cozy fireplace, he watched her spread out the red checkered tablecloth that Thelma had folded on top of the basket. He pushed the button to the side of the hearth, starting the gas fire with a pop. After a few minutes, the ceramic logs glowed dull red.
He opened the bottle of Mitchell’s Pinot Noir she’d chosen.
He sat on the tiled hearth and filled the plastic wine glasses. The fire, the wine, and the table cloth should have added up to a sort of romantic atmosphere. But he did not feel romantic. Murders had that effect. He felt trapped. The sandwich tasted stale.
She took a bite of her turkey on a dutch crunch roll, chewed, swallowed, and said, “How bad was Father Ramon? The Chief didn’t give me any details.”
“Cut to ribbons.”
“Is that police talk?”
“Police talk? A fucking mess.”
“With my sickle?”
“And your fingerprints, dear.”
“So the Chief told me,” she said and wolfed down another bite. “And the kid, Cheevy? The first murder - when the Chief so graciously interrupted our….”
“Our whatever?” he said.
“Yes, when the Chief walked in on our whatever. That kid, Cheevy, the local vampire or vampire store owner or whatever the hell, what happened to him?”
“Somebody stuck a needle in his neck and drained the blood out of him. A suction device got the last few drops. Bone dry.”
“They sucked him dry?” She considered this. “I know the feeling.” She kept chewing. “The Chief said you were the last one to see him alive.”
“The last time I saw him was on the road to Ajax Rasmussen’s small but wonderful castle. You know, the charming one that sits on the hill.”
“Meaning?”
“What do you think it means when a murder victim is last seen entering your small but elegant castle? And is never seen alive again.”
“About as much as fingerprints on a stolen sickle,” she said.
“You’re standing up for him?”
“Loyalty. He’s paying me.”
“It’s called a lot of things,” he said. Her using the word “loyalty” was a joke. She was as suspicious of Ajax as he was. “He doesn’t have horses.”
“What?”
“No horses. I didn’t even see a dog. A place that size and no pets. No birds in the trees. No squirrels running around. Nothing.”
“Maybe he ate them,” she said and smiled, still chewing her sandwich. “And how do you know he doesn’t have any pets?”
“I dropped in on him today.”
“You do get around,” she said, taking another bite, halfway done with the sandwich. “What do you think of him?”
“He’s too old for you and he’s weird.” He told her about their conversation, but did not mention the vial he’d stolen or Ajax’s theory about Ramon’s death, his time continuum mumbo jumbo. Neither did he mention finding the newspaper clippings, his once promising career now irretrievably tanked. He did not mention the gold cross or the Freddie Kruger fingernail he’d swiped. He did not mention Ajax describing her as sublime, even though she was. He should tell her everything, he wanted to, but he did not trust her, and he felt strangely trapped again. Kissing her or anything else, seemed stupid. She was a suspect.
“Too old for me? What?”
“He’s interested in you.”
This amused her greatly. “You’re jealous. Love struck. I knew it. Fucking jealous. Well, he is rich. He is debonair. He has a sexy smile.”
“Love struck after two kisses?” He shook his head, but she was right. Her smile now and the way her hair smelled like vanilla from three feet away even after jail. The green flashing eyes. “Ajax Rasmussen killed Cheevy and Ramon. He killed Ramon with your sickle to set you up for it. What do you think of your employer now?”
“Set me up? That’s absurd. Why, Mr. Detective, would a billionaire go to the trouble of setting up a common girl like me?”
“He wants you here. He doesn’t want you to leave. What better way to keep you tied up than as a murder suspect.”
“Tied up? Interesting thought, but I’m free to go. You said so. You did a wonderful job on the Chief. I’m free. Of course, if you hadn’t butted in I could have sued for false arrest. I still might. So, Ajax kills two losers and shops me for one of them to keep me under his thumb, but I’m free to go. He killed for nothing. That’s stupid. And Ajax is not known for being stupid.”
“Maybe Ajax is smarter than you think.”
“And why is that?”
“Because you’re still here, aren’t you? And you aren’t leaving until you find out what he’s up to. He’s got you where he wants you.”
“And where’s that, Reese? He didn’t have to kill anyone to keep me here. Or to tie me up. I’m working for the man. I’ve got a job to do.”
He didn’t like her taunting him with Ajax. He wanted to get through to her. He wanted her to know how dangerous Ajax was. But maybe she did and was drawn to it. He could feel the pressure building in his temples. “Ajax isn’t exactly what he says he is.”
“He’s a little weird, So?”
“You’ve almost got me convinced,” he said. “That was a passionate defense of your employer and what ever else he is.”
“Let’s just drop it. Unless you have more proof than your intuition. And I think you are confusing that with,” she laughed, “your love-struckness. Is that a word?”
“Fine. It’s dropped.” He tasted a pickle and tried a spoonful of potato salad. “I’m still not sure how you two hooked up.”
“How I hooked up with who?”
“With Ajax.”
She jabbed the last bit of sandwich in her mouth and slowly licked the mayonnaise off her fingers, keeping her eyes on his. “That’s not dropping it, and I did tell you. I told you last night.”
“You spared the details.”
“Details you want is it?” She told him about her Romanian campaign. He wondered why she held back the little part about her killing three men and decapitating them.
“That’s the whole story?”
“The high points.”
“The Chief told me you were PNG’d out of Romania.”
“PNG’d?”
At dinner last night, she’d ordered in French and mentioned she spoke five languages, including Latin. “Persona non grata. I speak Latin, too.”
“The Chief has a big mouth.”
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“He talks. Three dead soldiers?”
“Three very bad boys.”
“Did you kill them?”
“I gut shot two. The third got lucky.”
“That’s not easy to do,” he said. But, looking at her now, that cold flashing competence in her eyes, the icy intelligence just below the surface, he knew that most things came easy to her, even killing.
“And you would know, wouldn’t you Reese?”
“I would know.”
“I’ve hunted on four continents. For food, mostly. When you are camped in the middle of a stone age jungle, usually the only woman, you’d better know how to handle yourself. It was me or them and I got lucky. All three were half-drunk. Plum brandy. The national past time.” She smiled. “They had their minds on something other than self defense.”
“I’ll bet they did.”
“Any more questions?”
“Nope.”
“And what about you? The Chief told me about Homer Wermels. Your obsession with proving Ajax was behind him, was using him. He has you labeled as a head-case.”
“Head-case?” He spent the next ten minutes telling her nearly everything about the Anaheim Vampire, leaving out the part about Homer almost killing him. He spent too much time talking about the death of Melissa Cunningham, but it seemed to move her. He also shared his thoughts on Ajax Rasmussen, how Ajax was more than likely behind Homer’s killing spree.
After he finished, she asked, “You really have a baseball card with your name on it? I’ve never met anyone with their own card.”
“Yes.”
“I’d like one.”
“Why?”
“To show it to people. They’d be impressed I once knew someone like you. And it might be worth good money someday. Stranger things have happened.”
Her use of “knew” didn’t give him a long shelf life. A simple mistake, he hoped. “Okay, you’ve had your fun. I’ve also been in two or three tabloids. Front page. It was crazy for a while.”
“Not as crazy as you thinking that Ajax is involved with a psychotic killing thirteen girls in LA. Not to mention Cheevy and Father Ramon. Or framing me for murder. You haven’t told me why, though. Or offered proof.”
“I don’t know why,” he said. “Why are you working for Ajax after he nearly got you killed? Digging up Indian skeletons is not exactly the limelight.”
“I have to eat don’t I? And what makes you think I want the limelight?”
“According to the Chief, you’re a world class archeologist. You have a list of degrees a yard long. You wear clean clothes. You are obsessive and goal oriented.”
“I wear clean clothes? More police talk?”
“You’re a hot shot. A show dog. That’s police talk.”
“He’s going to back a dig in Pakistan.” She explained the proposed dig with fire in her eyes. She had it bad was his first thought. He saw her walking over any number of retired homicide cops to get at Alexander the Great.
“And if you find Alexander’s long lost tomb, you’ll have, for an archeologist, hit the big time. You’ll be out of the bush leagues. You’ll be out of the bush.”
“Bigger than King Tut.”
“And you’ll be center stage.”
“Only if I find something, Reese. Only if after four or five years of dodging bullets and flies the size of a horse, camel spiders and camel jockeys, I dig something up. Otherwise, I’ll be center chump.”
“You’ll keep Ajax sweet.”
“I might even sleep with him.”
He said nothing
“Think of that.”
He had. He was thinking about it now. And he would probably be thinking about it tomorrow. “I hope you make it to Pakistan.” He hoped she made it out of Santa Marina.
She ignored him. Her eyes went back to normal. Laser green, the brown flecks like far off planets. She abruptly asked, “You want your cheesecake?”
“What?”
“Your cheesecake,” she pointed to his plate. “You haven’t really touched the sandwich or the fruit and I want to know if you’re going to eat your cheesecake.”
He handed it to her. “I’ve been thinking. Alexander the Great has a long reach. He’s been dead how long? And he’s still touching you.”
“That’s why he was great.”
“Be careful with Ajax.”
“Oh,” she said, not a bit seriously, “I plan to be.” She ate daintily, almost as if to show him she was still a woman, stopping occasionally to sip wine. “Thelma’s sandwiches are kinda dry but she can sure whip up a cheesecake.”
“Tell her that when you take the basket back,” he said. He couldn’t believe she was being so blase’ about Ajax. She was working for him because he was backing her trip to Pakistan. She didn’t care who he’d killed.
“You’re pouting,” she said.
“I’m not pouting.” He wasn’t. He was worried about her. He’d seen it before. She was too calm. The girl who files her nails as they drag the river for the husband’s body.
“Well. I’m feeling great.”
He looked at the bottle. “You should be.”
“If I drink any more you might have to arrest me,” she said and raised her eyebrows, challenging him. “I’m taking a shower.”
She rose slowly and walked to the bathroom door. When she turned on the light, she touched the top of the door with her fingers and slowly ground her hips, a grind as good as any stripper’s.
“You’re drunk,” he said. She laughed and slammed the door. She really was something. Ajax had been right, she was easily capable of murder, or anything else she thought she could get away with.
18
7 a.m.. The mission. She looked over the tarp covered ditch. Condensation had formed a small pool in the center of the sagging canvas. The fog was still heavy, parting occasionally to show glimpses of the twin towers, giving the graveyard a dreamy quality. Her skin felt cool and misty.
Her new boyfriend had started screaming around midnight.
Before that, she’d come out of the shower and found him sleeping, his mouth slightly open. She’d put a blanket over him. He’d looked cute, even if he was crazy.
She’d been lying next to him, sleeping good, exhausted from not sleeping and everything else when the first scream jumped her out of bed. When she finally got the light on, he was grabbing at his shirt, ripping the buttons off, stark terror on that handsome face. His eyes were wide open, but he wasn’t seeing a thing. He dug his fingers into his undershirt and ripped it open. She saw the scars, long pink slashes, the scalloping of teeth.
She shook him and slapped him twice before his eyes focused on her, and he finally stumbled into the bathroom.
When he came out, his shirt around him like a tattered shawl, he put on his jacket, furtive and disoriented, a chunk out of his armor, quickly mumbled good-bye and left.
Though she’d wanted to hug him and ask him what was wrong, she let him go without speaking, too shocked, actually, to speak. Someone had certainly torn up Mr. Tarrant, and she guessed that someone had been the Anaheim Vampire. The Chief had said that Lamb had put Reese in the hospital for awhile. And Reese, in spite of his bravado, was still very much scared. She knew the look.
Well, everyone had their scars and their secrets. She had a few of her own. She now wondered why she wasn’t upset that he’d gone to sleep without even making a pass at her. Maybe she was growing up. Maybe she was getting old. Reese was definitely getting old.
Besides, she still wasn’t sure if Reese was a kleptomaniac, a cross stealer. Of course, after what she’d seen last night, his freaking out, kleptomania might be the least of his problems. It had to be either Reese or Ajax who’d stolen her cross. Some choice. Or maybe she was imagining it all, an even prettier picture. If you can imagine an Indian princess, maybe you can imagine a gold cross.
But what about Reese’s imagination? Ajax killing all those people and trying to set her up for Ramon? Well, they made a good pair. They had
a lot in common. Dementia heading the list. Ajax, no matter what the public thought, was not exactly running under full sail.
She pulled back the tarp. Well, well. Skeleton two was gone. She wasn’t imagining that. Night winds had blown under the tarp and scattered the dust along the ditch, a thin film of it like ash from a long dead fire.
The bit of dust clinging to the bones’ imprint left a blurred image, a smudge of eternal sleep. After photographing the death silhouette, she leveled the bottom of the ditch. She did not take another sample. She did not separate the dust from the dirt. At this point, it did not matter. She was positive she’d find another skeleton.
She worked slowly and methodically. She found the top of the third stake a foot below the bottom of the ditch, in line with the other stakes.
She dug a trench two feet deep and about a foot away from where she reckoned the edge of the body would be. As she worked the loosely-clotted soil, she searched for artifacts and bone fragments, surprised the soil was so clean.
In four hours she had the site prepared.
The original ditch was now three feet wider than it had been and about four feet deep, the sides sloped gradually against cave-ins. A trench circled the inner pedestal of dirt like a castle moat. The bones inside this dirt matrix were safe from the sun, safe from the air, safe from anyone who might walk by.
Her muscles ached but felt good. The workout had cleared her mind. She rested her hand on the splintered stake and closed her eyes.
She took a deep breath. Her heart slowed. Her skin warmed. She felt hot wind on her face, a stiff breeze over glowing coals. She looked up. In the trees, perhaps fifty feet away, stood a teenage girl dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. The girl had long brown hair and could have been a younger twin of the Indian girl she’d seen yesterday. But this wasn’t a dream. She blinked her eyes. The girl remained.
This girl now looked at her with brown, slightly oval eyes, and then pointed to Ajax’s mansion, her mouth opened in a silent scream. And then she heard the girl screaming clearly, a ragged cut of sound, breaking the air, low-pitched and pain filled.
She blinked and rubbed her eyes. She saw her face, the straight, white teeth, an ethereal wisdom to her smile. And then she was gone, vanished, the sound of her scream cut-off as if it had never existed.