Deep Kill (The Micah Dunn Mysteries)

by Malcolm Shuman

  Ten

  I parked on the other side of Esplanade, facing west, and waited. Across the neutral ground I could make out the front door of the bar, where a few men lounged. A couple of cars passed but nobody stopped. A man came walking down the sidewalk toward the corner. It was too dark to see him clearly, and he was at least a hundred feet away. I hesitated, and then, leaving my key in the ignition, opened my door and got out. I was halfway across the street when somebody called out. The voice came from behind me, and I turned to see a figure silhouetted on the other side of my car. I halted in the middle of the street, caught in the headlights of an oncoming car, and as I stepped back onto the neutral ground the figure fired.

  I flattened myself onto the ground as the oncoming car rolled past, its driver unaware of what had happened. By the time it had gone I was up on my elbow, gun in hand, but the silhouette on the other side was gone. There was the sound of a car starting.

  I raced to my own car. Dropping the revolver onto the seat, I twisted the ignition key and the engine roared to life. I nosed out onto the boulevard and right at the next corner, where a pair of taillights were disappearing north. I gunned my motor, catching up in two blocks. Then a truck pulled out of a side street, blocking me. I swore under my breath.

  But it didn’t matter, because in the few seconds I’d been close to his bumper I’d gotten a good view of his car, a late-model mud-colored Monte Carlo. Better yet, I had his tag number, and the memory of a sticker that said he belonged to the Friends of the Police, one of a myriad of phony benevolent organizations that for a twenty-dollar contribution handed out stickers to suckers who thought it would buy them out of a ticket. Or who, conversely, wanted to impress the gullible with their ties to the law.

  I figured my man was among the latter. I let him go, and went back home. But I was too hyped up to sleep, and besides, I was mad. Maybe too mad to be rational, or I wouldn’t have done what I did.

  Which was to rummage in my drawer for the alligator clips and copper wire I’d taken from a small-time break-in artist, along with the jimmy and glass cutter and the roll of tape.

  It was just before twelve, still plenty of traffic in the streets and a good chance of my being seen. So I’d have to scope out the situation and see whether the odds were in my favor.

  I drove past the Church of the Deliverance. One of the second-floor windows was lit, but otherwise the place seemed quiet. The neighborhood was silent, with only a few people out. A white man would attract attention, so my best chance was fast in, fast out. I parked by the interstate and walked away from my car quickly, before some panhandler steered toward me for a handout. I had a dark coat on, and I kept the collar up to hide as much of my face as possible, likewise pulling down the dark-colored hat I’d snatched from a shelf. I seldom used it, but it had a soft felt crown, which cushioned blows, and its brim could be turned down to hide my features.

  It was only a block from the freeway to the church. If I saw anybody outside it would be a no go, and my anger would have to find some other outlet. But as I drew near I saw that the big building was as silent as it appeared at first glance.

  My guess was that there was a back door, and maybe some windows. I’d seen the ADT sign in front, and I doubted they’d have a different kind of alarm at the back.

  I walked quickly into the shadows that hugged the side of the building and along the narrow path that I knew must lead somewhere. At the rear corner was a door, and over the door was a single safety light that had burned out, leaving the area in blackness.

  I took out my penlight and played it on the top of the door. Sure enough, there was a contact alarm. I went around to the back, almost colliding with a garbage can. The air reeked of rotting vegetables, and there was a heavy odor of mold. Too late, I realized I was standing in water, and I felt the wetness seeping into my socks.

  But the way out was obvious, for just over my head was a fire escape and when I pulled, the rusty mechanism came down within reach and I stepped up, out of the morass.

  On the second floor was a door out onto the fire escape, obviously a fire outlet, and I was relieved to see that its top half was a glass panel. Moving carefully upward so as not to set off any creaks, I came to the door and found what I suspected: the glass was armed with aluminum strips. Working carefully, I attached one set of jumper wires to bypass the circuit and then, after taping the glass so that the panel wouldn’t fall, I used the glass cutters to remove a section. I peered through into what looked like a hallway, but it was too dark to clearly see what was inside.

  Reaching in with one hand, I found the lead wire to the top contact alarm. I attached one alligator clip and put the other clip on the wire leading to the second contact.

  I felt inside the door and found a barrel bolt, which I slid back. Pulling from the outside, I found to my relief that the barrel bolt had been the only lock holding the door closed. In a second I was inside the hallway.

  I took a few moments to assess the situation. Faint light glowed at the end of the corridor, and from somewhere far away I heard music that might have been reggae. The hall smelled musty; as I advanced the odor of incense tickled my nose. I came to a door on the right and put my ear against it, but there were no sounds from inside. I made my way to the end of the corridor and looked down the stairwell. The music was louder now, and I heard someone cough. I started down the stairs slowly, my body tense, and halfway down I froze.

  There was a man seated at a table, his back to me, his feet propped up on a chair. On the table in front of him was a half eaten sandwich and a flashlight, and the radio was on a shelf at the other side of the room. He was nodding, and even as I watched his head dropped to his chest.

  I backed my way to the top of the stairs and considered.

  There was another door, across from the first one, and I decided to check it. When I did I heard human sounds inside.

  One was the wordless voice of a woman, and there wasn’t much doubt what was going on. I waited, patient, and her voice mounted to a passionate wail. Floorboards and bedsprings creaked, and I heard a sigh.

  But damn it, who was she with?

  Then I heard a man’s low voice, speaking softly, and though I could not make out the words, I knew.

  It was Condon, the man I had come to see.

  I took a deep breath and slowly turned the doorknob. Not surprisingly, the door was locked. It was a simple household lock, though, the kind a dime store skeleton key would unfasten, and I silently reached into my pocket for the little felt key case I had brought for just such a contingency. I found the key I needed, slipped it quietly into the keyhole, and waited. A second later I heard the tinkle of female laughter and figured they were getting ready to start again. I twisted the key quickly, feeling it turn in the lock, and froze.

  Five seconds passed and Condon’s chuckle floated out from under the door. They hadn’t heard.

  I turned the knob again, and this time the door opened a crack. With the glow from outside behind me it was now or never, so I wedged the penlight in the strap of my wristwatch so it would shine where I pointed my gun, shoved the door open the rest of the way, and jumped inside.

  Condon was halfway out of the bed by the time I reached him, but when he felt the cold muzzle of the gun against his throat he froze. The girl was gasping, and I sensed a scream coming so I shone the penlight in her eyes.

  “Don’t scream, don’t yell,” I told her. “If you do, you’re dead.”

  She stared at me from eyes the size of saucers, not bothering to pull the sheet up over her nakedness.

  “Now,” I said. “Nobody’s going to get hurt. I just want you both to do exactly what I say. Is that understood?”

  The girl nodded, but Condon only stared at me malevolently.

  I pushed the gun barrel into the flesh under his jaw.

  “Is that understood?”

  He exhaled slightly, and I felt the tension start to go out of the muscles in his neck.

  “Whatever,” he said
.

  “I want you, Reverend, to get down on your belly on the floor,” I ordered. “Now.” A jab with the pistol sent him down onto his hands and knees and then flat onto the floorboards. I turned to the woman. “Take the sheet and twist it into a rope and tie his hands,” I ordered her. When I was satisfied, I shot my light on the other sheet. “Now that one. Tie his legs.”

  She did as she was told, working silently, her big breasts swinging lustily in the darkness.

  “Okay,” I said. “Now just stand there.” I ran the light along the wall, finding a door that had the look of a closet. I walked over quickly and jerked it open. There was enough room for her and I motioned her over.

  “The Reverend and I have some things to discuss,” I said. “So you go inside. Don’t come out until I say to.”

  She scampered over and fitted herself inside. I closed the door after her and then went back to the man on the floor. The room was thick with incense, but underlying it all was the pungent odor of human sweat. I sat down on the bed and regarded my victim.

  “If you came here to rob me,” Condon began, but I cut him off with a toe against his ribs.

  “I came here to find out what’s going on,” I said. “And why you set me up today. I don’t like seeing lies about myself on the five o’clock news.” He started to protest and this time I gave him a little jab with my toe. “And I especially don’t like getting shot at.”

  “I don’t know anything—”

  “Bullshit!” I kicked him again. “I guess you didn’t tell Taylor Augustine to call me and set up a meeting. And I guess you didn’t have some two-bit gun-for-hire waiting in the bushes on Esplanade just now.”

  “Man, you’re crazy. I don’t kill people. I don’t have to.”

  “No? What do you do, just ruin their reputations?”

  “That was insurance. We just wanted you off the case. We wanted justice for Arthur Augustine.”

  I got off the bed slowly and squatted beside him, my mouth inches from his ear. “You know what, Condon? You’re a phony. All this religious crap, all this talk about justice. All you want is power. You want to be the man who deals, right? You don’t give a damn about Arthur Augustine. He was just an excuse, somebody to use.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Sure it’s true. Look at you. How old is the girl there? Fourteen? Fifteen? Want me to ask her? Want me to call the Picayune?”

  “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

  “It’s too late for me to worry about that.”

  He raised his head slightly, and I could see the sweat glistening on his face.

  “Okay, so I used you a little. Look, man, you’d do the same to me, don’t tell me anything else. But I didn’t try to kill you. I swear to God.”

  “Convince me.”

  But he didn’t have to: the door burst open then, and light flooded the room.

  “Drop it, mother!”

  It was my turn to freeze. I had half a second to make my decision, and even in that fraction it was clear I didn’t really have a decision to make. I let my gun fall to the floor.

  Something cold and round poked into my back and before I could protest, what felt like an anvil slammed me in the head and I fell forward into nothingness.

  Eleven

  I watched them drag somebody downstairs, one on either side, while Condon threw on his pants and a shirt. I heard a woman screaming next, and the sound seemed to go on forever, and I wanted to tell her to stop, but then I told myself it didn’t matter, no one was hurt, the man they were dragging away had just fainted and they were going to take good care of him.

  They went to a van that had been pulled up to the side entrance, and I saw them toss the man in like a sack of laundry. He was limp, and I wondered for a moment if he might be dead, but then unaccountably, pain lanced up from the back of my neck and I wanted to gag and I forgot about the man.

  An engine started somewhere nearby and I tried to turn my head to see where it was and found myself staring up at the roof of a van.

  That was when I realized I was the man they were dragging.

  The van lurched out into the street, and I felt more pain. The pain meant I was alive, but the question now was for how much longer.

  I was getting careless. I had reacted out of hurt pride and anger, and as a result I was being taken on what might well be a one-way ride.

  I sneaked a look through half closed eyes. I was on my back, so they were upside down in my vision, but the man in the right-hand passenger seat looked like Condon. I didn’t recognize the driver, but I guessed he was one of those who had burst into the room. The man next to me seemed familiar, and I figured I must have seen him earlier, when I’d met with his boss. He was resting a sawed-off shotgun on his knees, with the barrels disconcertingly close to my face.

  Somewhere above us a siren screamed, and I realized we were under the freeway. Somebody lit a cigarette. I coughed.

  “You awake?” A foot kicked me, and I grunted. “He awake.”

  Condon turned around and looked down at me over the back of the seat.

  “You got balls, you know that? Coming in like that. And with only one good arm too.” He shook his head. “But you’re kinda stupid. Smart man wouldn’t have done that.”

  I tried to roll onto my side, but a foot came down, keeping me on my back.

  “You know, a lot of folks disappear on the Manchac road,” Condon went on. “You wouldn’t ever be seen again. Or maybe across the river: there’s lots of bones in that swamp.”

  I closed my eyes against his taunts, trying to think of a plan. But the twin barrels told me I didn’t have any plan. I could hope for the thing not to go off, that was all, and that was more like a fantasy.

  My body shifted as the van started up a freeway ramp.

  He was right: I hadn’t been smart. I’d let my temper take over. I’d been upset over Katherine, and so I’d shifted my anger to somebody I didn’t feel bad about confronting. The problem was that it had clouded my judgment, and now I was going to pay.

  Unless I could find some way out.

  The van shifted in and out of traffic, and somebody turned the radio to a rap station.

  “Condon,” I said, opening my eyes, “people know where I went. If I don’t show up again, people will come asking questions.”

  He stared down at me for a long second and then smiled. “You’re lying.”

  “Am I? Is it worth the risk?”

  “Mmm. Maybe so. Maybe it is, to get even with somebody that busts into my room and sticks a gun against me. Not to mention the embarrassment.”

  There wasn’t anything I could answer to that.

  For the next ten minutes we dodged in and out of traffic, and I tried to keep track of where we must be. From the gradual turn left, I judged it must be the 610 split, on the parish line. We were going east, toward Manchac, the desolate strip that wound between Lakes Ponchartrain and Maurepas and, coincidentally, led to Calvin Autry’s cabin.

  “At least you can tell me what it’s all about,” I said. “Why I’m so dangerous to you.”

  Condon chuckled, a rich, deep sound. “You’re not dangerous, bro. You just a bother, like a blister on my balls. You’re not important enough to be dangerous.”

  “Then why try to kill me?”

  He sighed. “How many times I have to tell you I didn’t try to kill you.” He snorted. “If I’d of tried, you’d be dead now.” He leered like a tiger contemplating its meal. “Instead of just the next best thing.”

  He turned the radio up, and for the rest of the ride I was treated to a combination of rap music and rock. It didn’t matter that it kept me from thinking, I couldn’t have figured a way out under the best of conditions.

  Twenty minutes later I felt us winding to the right, and I knew it wouldn’t be long. There was swamp of each side of us now; I didn’t have to see it because I knew the stretch well, and I could smell the dank odor of decaying vegetation. The rake of oncoming headlights
grew less frequent as the no-man’s-land swallowed us up.

  My only chance was to run for it. If I caught them by surprise I could make it over the rail while I was still alive. Once in the water I was probably safe—if I didn’t hit a log diving in. If I didn’t sink up to my knees in slime. If …

  After another ten minutes the van started to slow, and I began taking deep breaths, trying to prepare myself. The wheels hit the reflectors marking the shoulder, and for a second there was a bumping, then quick deceleration and a jerk as the driver set the parking brake.

  The headlights went out. If anyone passed, the van would just be an abandoned vehicle, waiting for the wrecker. The shotgun gave me a cold kiss on the cheek.

  “Up,” my guard said, and I heard both front doors open.

  I rolled onto my left side and the side door slid open. An onrush of cool air hit me in the face, making me flinch. Condon was standing in front of me, his face hidden by the darkness. The shotgun prodded my back and I slid my legs out the door, searching for a hold with my right hand.

  Searching … My hand touched something metal, and my fingers closed over it. A screwdriver somebody had left on the floor of the van. I dropped my feet to the pavement and stood up, keeping my hand close to my side.

  “Now,” Condon said, as the man behind me got out, “I think it’s time for a little lesson in Christian humility.”

  It was the other man, the driver, who came out of nowhere. I caught a glimpse of movement on my left, and a split second later saw his fist headed for my midsection. I backed away, into the shotgun, but not before I raised the screwdriver to belly height.

  My assailant’s fist rammed into the steel blade, and I felt his body shudder. He screamed, jerking his hand back, and I pulled on the handle of the screwdriver, trying to free my weapon, but, too deeply imbedded, it was yanked out of my hand.

  Condon frowned, unsure what had happened, and that was when I took the only chance I had: I did a quick spin right, pivoting away from the shotgun, and hooked my right leg behind my guard’s right knee. I pushed into him with my body, and he went backward, onto the cement. The shotgun roared, both barrels blasting into the night, and I felt the pellets fly past my head.