by Jude Hardin
“Nope. A deal’s a deal. I taught you how to fish, so—”
“I said maybe I would tell you. I’ve decided against it. In fact, it was a lie. I made it up. Just take me back home, to Leitha’s.”
“If it was a lie, why did you run away?”
“Leitha was going to ground me for a whole week. Just because I called her a bitch.”
“And why did you call her that? Because of Mark Toohey, right?”
“I love him. Leitha just doesn’t understand.”
“Toohey’s a scumbag,” I said. “If I take you home, I want you to promise to do what Leitha says. And, I want you to promise to stay away from Mark Toohey.”
“I promise.”
She was full of shit. I didn’t know what to believe, but if she wanted to go home I had no choice other than to take her there. My twenty-four-hour guardianship paper would expire in a few hours. I called Leitha’s home number, no answer. I tried her cell and she picked up on the third ring.
“Now she says she wants to come home,” I said. “Says she lied about someone trying to kill her.”
“I’m at work right now,” Leitha said. Her voice sounded happy. “I have a short shift tonight. You could—”
“How about I just drop her off in the morning? Eight or nine?” It was a long drive to Leitha’s house, and the beers had made me sleepy. It would be safer to wait until morning, and there was always a chance she might open up with some more information between now and then.
“Great. I’ll fix you guys breakfast. Can I talk to Brittney?”
I handed Brittney the phone.
“I want to come home tonight,” Brittney said. She was quiet for a minute while Leitha responded, then hung up without saying goodbye. She tossed my phone on the table. “You can’t hold me prisoner. I’ll hitchhike home if I have to.”
“There’s the road,” I said. She got up and walked away, calling my bluff. I caught up with her and grabbed her arm.
“Let me go, you son of a bitch.”
“What the hell’s your problem?” I said. “I’m responsible for you until I deliver you to Leitha. You understand that?”
“I don’t want to sleep at your girlfriend’s house.”
I hadn’t told her about the little fight Juliet and I had while she was in the shower. I gave her the illusion of victory. “All right,” I said. “We’ll stay here. You can take the bed, I’ll take the couch. Just don’t try to sneak out, okay?”
She calmed down some. “Can we go fishing again in the morning?”
“We’ll see.”
We watched television for a while, and then I made Brittney go to bed. I put on a nicotine patch, sat up and drank a few beers until I fell asleep on the couch, knowing my back would pay the price.
CHAPTER NINE
The living room window exploded.
I heard another shot, followed by glass raining on the galley table.
I reached into the storage compartment under the couch, pulled out my .357, and belly-crawled through the curtain partition to the bedroom.
I tapped Brittney on the shoulder.
“Hey. You okay?” I said.
She didn’t answer. I nudged her again.
“Just five more minutes, Leitha,” she said.
She was okay.
I didn’t turn the lights on, in case the shooters were still out there. All I needed was to be a nice silhouette target, a sitting duck for maybe some drunken kids who’d been shooting frogs down by the lake. Did they know they could have killed us?
I padded to the kitchen, peeked through the blinds, saw taillights winding up Lake Barkley Road. The car was an old Chevy station wagon, white, a ’63 or ’64. I grabbed my binoculars, but fog had settled in and I couldn’t make out the numbers on the plates.
I found my car keys and wallet, opened the camper’s hatch and stepped out barefoot onto my yard of damp and uncomfortable pine needles. I took a quick glance at the windows. Totaled.
The old Chevy was out of sight now, probably a mile away. I had to at least get the plate numbers.
I fired up Jimmy, slung a ton of gravel on my way out to Lake Barkley Road.
I switched on the fog lights, not much help. Visibility was about ten feet. I accelerated to sixty, downshifted into the curves, hoped I wouldn’t meet a brick wall in the form of a logging truck or something.
I made it to the blinking red light at the intersection of Lake Barkley Road and State Road 13. I looked both ways, saw nothing but a smoky white veil.
Left or right? State road 13 snakes east and west along the St. John’s River. A left turn would take me through Orangedale, populated only by a few tobacco and soybean farms, strictly rural. A right would take me through Hallows Cove, what we call “town,” and then on up to Jacksonville.
I took a right. I didn’t think I’d seen the old Chevy before, and I had a hunch it probably came down from Jacksonville.
I motored into town, ignoring the 35-mph speed limit, second-gearing it through the red lights. I caught up with the white Chevy Impala station wagon at the intersection of 13 and Cypress, where it had stopped for the red light.
The car was a mammoth relic, an antique from the days when gas was thirty-five cents a gallon. It would have been a nice thing for me to own, to pull my house around with if I ever had the occasion. From the same era and all.
I shook all those irrelevant thoughts and looked down at the license plate: W-H-A-L-E. The A was hidden by a mud splatter, but the tag made sense. The Great White Whale.
The light turned green and The Whale heaved forward, greasy puffs of black smoke from its exhaust mingling with the fog. I tailgated it through Remington Park, switching my brights on and off in an effort to get it to pull over.
It sped up, and I followed suit.
Then, in my rearview mirror, I saw a sight any sane driver wearing nothing but Sponge Bob boxers and a shoulder holster would naturally dread: the flashing blue strobes of a Florida state trooper.
I pulled into the lot of The Parkside Motel, known affectionately among locals as the “Come and Go.” I gripped the steering wheel as the trooper ambled my way, didn’t want him to get edgy when he saw my unconcealed weapon.
The cop was short and thin and walked with the authority only a badge and a gun can give you.
“Step out of the vehicle,” he said. His right hand rested on the butt of his 9-mm Glock.
I did as instructed. I heard a few cars passing on 13 and was happy now that the fog was so thick.
“Hands on the car.”
Again I complied, felt my holster go light when he lifted my piece. He cuffed me. Didn’t say good morning or read me my rights or anything.
“Am I being arrested?”
“I’ll ask the questions, sir.” At least he was being polite now. I guess he could afford to be, now that my wrists were chained together and pinched like sausage links.
“Have you been drinking tonight?”
“No sir.” It was a lie. But it had been a couple hours since I’d had anything, and I certainly wasn’t drunk. Adrenaline from chasing The Whale had burned off any residual alcohol in my system.
“Driver’s license, registration, proof of insurance,” he demanded.
“In the glove box,” I said, giving consent for search and seizure.
He reached in, opened the glove compartment, pulled out my wallet and a couple of envelopes. He shuffled through my IDs and credit cards.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’re a private detective?”
“You didn’t ask. Sir.”
“Not a wiseass are you?”
“No sir.” Another lie.
“The address on your driver’s license and your PI license is a post office box. Where do you live?”
“Lot twenty-seven, over at Joe’s.”
“Joe’s?”
I was starting not to like this guy more and more. What kind of cop didn’t know about Joe’s? I reminded myself that the State boys moved around a lot, and h
e was probably new to the area.
“Joe’s Fish Camp,” I said. “Over on Lake Barkley. I have an old Airstream parked over there.”
“You pull a camper with the Jimmy?”
“The camper’s not going anywhere. The bearings are shot. No exterior lights. If I ever decide to move, I’ll just sell it. Or keep it for a weekend place.”
The trooper relaxed a little, and I even saw his thin lips creak toward a smile. “So what brings you out this morning, so early, with the nice undies?”
“The bad guy got away,” I said. I told him about my camper being shot at, gave him The Whale’s description and plates.
“For some reason, I believe you,” he said. “Have you called in a police report yet?”
“It just now happened.”
“When you get home, call the Clay County Sheriff’s Department. They’ll send someone out.”
No shit, Sherlock.
He uncuffed me and I shook some circulation back into my hands. He gave me back my wallet and the envelopes and my gun. Told me to drive safely.
When I got back to my camper, I walked to the bedroom and switched on the reading lamp to check on Brittney.
She was gone.
CHAPTER TEN
I picked up my shorts and checked the pockets. The fishhook money clip was there, but the cash was gone. Nine hundred dollars. My life’s savings. “Fuck,” I said, and threw the shorts across the room. After I stomped around shouting expletives for a few more minutes, I put my clothes on and walked outside.
“Brittney,” I shouted. No answer. I figured she had hitched a ride, maybe to Leitha’s house, maybe to the Greyhound station for a ticket to the West Coast. With nine hundred dollars, she could have gone anywhere.
I tried to reach Leitha on the phone. No luck. I figured she was still asleep. She’d gotten off work at one and it was a little past seven now. I decided to drive on up there. Springfield was as good a place as any to start looking for Brittney again. If she didn’t go to Leitha’s, maybe she went to Mark Toohey’s place.
On the way I remembered the VHS-C tape I’d stolen from Brittney’s room. I’d put it in one of my pockets, and left those shorts at Juliet’s house in the dirty clothes hamper. I stopped by Juliet’s to get the tape.
A newer model Mercedes, white, with vanity plates that said GAS MAN was parked in her driveway. Juliet’s car wasn’t there, or maybe she had put it in the garage for once.
Everything that had happened earlier had me on edge. I pulled Little Bill from his holster, walked around the perimeter of the house. Everything seemed to be in order. I used my key to open the front door. The house was quiet. I made sure the alarm wasn’t on, walked to Juliet’s bedroom and into a nightmare.
Juliet sat up in bed, clutching the top sheet to cover herself. “Nicholas. What are you doing here?”
“Question is, what is he doing here?” I pointed Little Bill toward the guy lying beside Juliet. He was snoring. I felt like giving him an extra asshole, size .38.
Juliet got up, grabbed her bathrobe from the floor, quickly put it on and tied the belt. She stalked out of the bedroom. I followed her to the kitchen.
“Don’t you think it’s just a little rude to barge into my house like this?” she said.
“You gave me a key, remember? Last week you were practically begging me to move in with you. Don’t you think it’s a little rude to be fucking Mr. Anesthesiologist in the bed I helped you pay for?”
“How did you know—”
“I saw the plates on his goddamn Mercedes. Gas man. What else could it be? You fucking somebody from the utility company?”
She looked up at me with teary eyes. “Okay. Last week I wanted you to move in. And for the umpteenth time, you said no. I need some kind of commitment, Nicholas. Can’t you see that? On again, off again. That’s us. I just can’t take it—”
“You don’t have to take it anymore. We’re off again. Forever this time. You in love with that guy?”
She started crying. “I was drunk. I was mad at you. He... I’m in love with you, you jerk. I’m almost forty years old, Nicholas. I need—”
“You need a goddamn spanking,” I said. I put Little Bill in his holster, slammed the front door on my way out.
Now that my personal life was good and fucked up, I was determined to make sure my professional life wasn’t. I felt responsible for Brittney getting away from me. I should have taken her to Leitha’s last night. Soon as she said she wanted to go home, I should have taken her there.
I drove to Springfield, pulled into Leitha’s driveway. Her car was there. I tried her landline and cell, no answer at either. I mounted the porch, rang the doorbell, and then knocked hard. She should have been awake by now. She was expecting me to bring Brittney, and had even planned to cook breakfast for us. I found it odd that she didn’t answer the door. I needed to tell her Brittney was on the loose again.
I walked around back, opened a chain-link gate, followed some concrete stepping stones to the patio and a set of French doors. One of the panes near the lock had been broken, and the door was ajar.
I ran back to Jimmy and got the shotgun. I pushed Leitha’s back door open with my foot, stood back, and waited for a few seconds. Nothing happened. I walked through the door and into the master bedroom, the shotgun’s barrel leading the way.
The stench of human waste was so thick I could taste it. Leitha lay faceup on the bed, her arms and legs spread and tied to the frame with electrical cords. There was a pillowcase knotted tightly around her throat.
My face went numb. I leaned against the wall, shotgun in hand, my heart thumping and fluttering like a bird in a box.
Leitha’s nipples had been burned off, probably with a cigar or cigarette, and a tilted cross had been carved into her forehead. Her eyes were open, glazed, and fixed. Her jaw was slack, the tip of her tongue sticking out. She’d lost control of her bowels and bladder.
I walked outside and vomited, my chest heaving and burning. I couldn’t get enough air. There just wasn’t enough.
I managed to calm down enough to phone the police. I sat in the cool grass under a sycamore tree until they arrived.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
By two that afternoon, Leitha was in the morgue and I was homeless.
I sat in the interrogation room, Sheriff’s Department Substation 4, wearing a nice set of orange coveralls too tight in the shoulders and too short in the legs. The clothes I’d been wearing were taken for evidence, my hands checked for gunshot residue and blood. Negative for both. I wasn’t under arrest, but they’d sealed off the Airstream and the perimeter of my lot pending arrival of an FBI forensics team. Somebody had tortured and killed Leitha. The cops figured the same someone had kidnapped Brittney. Since Brittney had last been seen at my place, the Clay County guys were in on the investigation.
“How you doing?” A homicide detective named Barry Fleming walked in and shut the door behind him. Fleming and I had history. He turned his back to me, straightened his tie in a mirror I knew was two-way.
“You got a video cam behind the mirror?” I said.
“Protocol. It’s nothing personal.”
I resented being treated like a suspect.
“Let’s walk outside,” I said. “Then we can talk. No tape recorders, no video.”
Fleming cut me in half with his eyes.
He made a signal to the mirror and we left the room. We walked down a long hallway to the emergency exit and I followed him into the sunlight. The deputies had a nice little patio setup out there. Barbecue grill, table with an umbrella, hot tub.
Fleming fished a pair of Ray Bans from a pocket. We stepped into the shade of the umbrella and sat at the table.
Fleming started: “What was your relationship with the victim?”
“The victim has a name. Her name is Leitha Ryan, in case you forgot. She hired me to find her runaway sister.”
“Why weren’t the police notified?”
I cocked my head to one side and
squinted, trying to see Fleming’s eyes through the dark glasses. “Leitha was afraid Brittney would be put back into foster care,” I said.
Fleming chuckled. “That would have been better for both of them. We’ve already gotten a prelim back from the M.E.’s office. Her nipples weren’t the only thing burned off.”
I rose, grabbed Homicide Detective Barry Fleming by his fat tie, lifted him like a marionette. His mouth opened in silent protest. His eyes bulged.
“You little fuckwad,” I said. “You think that shit’s funny? I should break your fucking neck right now. But I have work to do.”
I shoved him away. He tripped over a chair and landed on his ass in the hot tub.
I walked out and started my car, burned rubber leaving Substation 4’s parking lot.
All the tools I use to make a living were sealed up in the Airstream. Computer, cameras, binoculars, micro-cassettes, everything. And the cops had confiscated Little Bill and the rest of my handguns, as well as the shotgun with no name.
I needed cash, clothes. Some sort of weapon, at least one. And I needed a place to stay.
I drove to The Parkside Motel.
The day clerk looked up from the magazine he was reading when I stepped inside. His cheeks were red, hair bleached from the sun. He took one look at me and laughed.
“Nice suit, Mr. Colt.”
“I’m not in the mood, Patrick. I need a room.”
“By the hour, or—”
“Very funny,” I said. “I need a place to stay. Maybe for a week.”
“Cash or credit?”
“Neither. I’m broke.”
“I’ll have to clear it with Mrs. Mason, of course.”
“Do it.”
Julie Mason owned The Parkside. We weren’t exactly friends, but she owed me a favor.
Patrick walked to the back office. I heard him punching numbers into a phone before he shut the door. I picked up the book he had been reading, let it fall open to the marked page. It was a poem by M. W. Jones. I don’t know much about poetry, but this one didn’t seem to be very good. Patrick came back to the front desk.
“How can you read this crap?” I said.