Warpath

by Ryan Sayles

  “Yeah? What’s up?” I say, sticking a smoke in my lips and walking out into the sun.

  “Hey, Richard. I think we should back off of the whole thing.” He sounds tired. Flat. “How about I cut you a check and we call it good?”

  “Why? What’s changed?”

  “Nothing.” Nervous now. My gut starts to swim and with these few sentences I get a picture of what’s going on right now. Not good.

  “Petticoat, am I on speaker phone?”

  “No. Why would you even ask that?”

  “Shut up then and stop acting like you’re setting me up. Got it?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Only yes or no answers for now on. Did you email the rapist like I told you not to?”

  Hemming and hawing. “Damn it, Petticoat, did you or did you not email the rapist?”

  Like a wrecking ball of stupid: “Yes.”

  “Is he there with you now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he have a weapon to your head?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Start answering the questions with yes or no but add in details about cutting me a check. He needs to think you’re working this out. Is he white?”

  “Yes. I can write it now but I’ll need you to hold onto to it for a week. Is that, okay?”

  “Blonde hair?”

  “No.”

  “Brown?”

  “Yes. I can do that. No problem.”

  “Brown eyes?”

  “No.”

  “Blue eyes?”

  “Again, no. That will be a problem.”

  “Green.”

  “Yes. More like it. Yes.”

  “Tall?”

  “Richard, I have to go.” Those five words soaked in absolute fright. Slow time. Muffled sounds start across the phone line. Muffled struggling sounds.

  “Petticoat, are you at your office?”

  “Yes! Richard he’s onto us! Ric—”

  A wet sound comes across the line. Some gurgling. The phone drops. What I’d call the sound of writhing on carpet. I hear someone try to pick up the phone and drop it. The quiet thump of it hitting something soft. Could be the carpet again. Could be flesh.

  Now I’m in the car. Speeding.

  The phone picks up. Breathing. Listening. Just quiet. Listening.

  “Hello, rapist,” I say.

  “Mmmmm...Ricky, is it? You have such deep voice,” he says in a slithering tone. “Raspy.”

  “Thanks. I smoke. Is Petticoat dead?”

  “I prefer to think of it as joining his wife.”

  “You just killed your cash cow.”

  “Cash cow? Please,” he says. “It was over the moment he hired you. Blackmail works best when it is done quietly. This is easier, I think.”

  Three more miles.

  “So, you killed Mickey Cantu as well?”

  Quiet. Even his breathing stops. Then, “Who knows? Who knows...” His voice trails off like he’s thinking. I can hear him cluck a time or two.

  “So is that a yes?”

  Instead, he says, “Do you know why I’m staying on the phone with you as you obviously race towards me, Dick?”

  “Don’t call me Dick, pervert. Men who can’t get laid voluntarily don’t get to disrespect me.”

  “Trying to antagonize me. Delicious.”

  “When did Cantu get you in on this? Why you? Are you also a burglar? Did you two work together before?”

  Laughter. And that’s all. Laughter.

  “Pussy, when I get my hands on you—”

  “So tough. So very, very tough for a man lying there, boozed unconscious as I came inside your home. You looked like such a baby, Dick. A baby who burped its milk all over itself and no one loved it enough to clean it.”

  “We’ll work that out.”

  I hear a whoosh as the rapist’s breathing gets harder. He sounds labored.

  “Out of breath? Did Petticoat whip your ass before you killed him?”

  “No. I’m lugging around his secretary.”

  I floor it. Run a red light and an old pickup truck dodges off to the side, mashing the horn as it goes.

  “Let the woman go,” is all I can say as I navigate the final leg with abject fury.

  “Let her go? Dick, that’s just plainly stupid. I’ve worked this hard to get her. Besides, she’s already stuffed in my trunk. Do you know how much work it would be to open it, untie her, help her out and then what? Apologize? How awkward. No, no, no. She’s mine.”

  “I will fucking kill you.”

  “You’ll never get your hands on me, Dick.”

  “The crime scene. You’ve left DNA there.”

  Silence at that.

  “You’re not too clever when you spit on people.” No comment to that one. “I’ve already got the sample in the lab.”

  A long huff. “All right, Dick. I’m going to hang up. Good luck sifting through the ashes at Petticoat’s, then.”

  “What?”

  “Ta-ta.” Click. Silence.

  Who ends a phone call with ta-ta? Really?

  I turn the corner at ninety miles an hour and stop. Hit the steering wheel with a fist and hear the mounting bolts shake with the impact.

  Inferno. The whole second floor of Petticoat’s building, burning with a rage I feel as I realize I can do nothing. This guy has won.

  30

  Officers on scene. Hose draggers. The blaze was pretty good; he meant to cover his tracks well.

  One charred male body inside, I told them it was probably Petticoat. The arson dick arrives and we talk. Introduced himself as Detective Greene. No idea who he is. He’s efficient and brusque the way school principals from the ’50s were; straight answers, no fluff, stares me down from over the rim of his eyeglasses and I think he might spank me if I zig when I should zag.

  “I’ll need a statement,” Greene says.

  “Sure.”

  I tell him about the DNA I have being tested, give him the old SAPD case number for the Petticoat rape. Tell him about the break-in, the print, the spit. All being tested.

  “Hopefully this will ID the guy.”

  “Yeah.”

  Then of course, there’s the secretary. I describe her the best I can when I saw her half-undressed and getting ready to take it, which mostly comes down to average sized boobs but they were nice. I’m sure Clevenger will put that out on an APB.

  PD canvasses the area to get a description of the rapist, his car, which direction he headed in, anything. One officer comes back and said two teenage girls having a late lunch down the street saw a green car tearing ass away from here. Then the fire burst through the windows and they stopped paying attention to anything else.

  Greene orders them to trace Petticoat’s phone but as I’m walking around I see one smashed, lying in a puddle twenty feet from the front door of the building. I’m sure that’s it. Tell the cops to ask anyone if they saw what car was parked there last. Was it green? There are two cars parked next to the space so I wait for those owners to come along so I can ask them but they never show. They might be at work. They might not want to go get their car and drive through the crowd of blue. I tell Greene and he tasks a uniform to run the plates, wait there.

  I assume the secretary is already dead. I have to hope that. The rapist is taking her from crime scene number one to crime scene number two. Crime scene number two always has a body count. And since this guy has no respect for women anyways and he has already killed at crime scene number one, that girl’s life, if not over already, will be miserable and agonizing until she is mercifully detached from this world. But I swear, if the rapist ruins her and then lets her live, I’ll peel him apart over the course of a few weeks. I’ll make him eat himself to stay alive. Hannibal Lecter will turn away from what I’ll do because it will be too upsetting.

  The sun begins to hide from us as the fire quiets down to embers and weak smoke. To the west, our best source of light starts to snuggle into the opposite side of the earth and
damn it for doing so. Everywhere in the metro green cars being driven by a single white male are getting pulled over and rubber glove inspected. I’d love to be in on that just for the chance of pulling over the right guy. I’d never report it; I’d just release the secretary and keep the driver. Work my magic.

  Finally I look at Greene and say I’ve got some place to be. I walk off, dial Clevenger.

  He answers with, “Hey, man, that you near the arson?”

  I laugh just enough to release the day’s tensions. “Of course. That’s my rapist’s handiwork. Sewing up loose ends and cutting new ones.”

  “What happened?”

  I tell him. When I’m done he says, “Keep your head down low, brother.”

  “Sure. One thing. I need a favor.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “I need you to have a records dump for Joe & Barry’s Family Pawn. It’s south of the river. If you can, give me a work-up on anybody who turns up connected to the place.”

  “You think either Joe or Barry is connected to Petticoat?”

  “Don’t know. That is the pawnshop Mickey Cantu would use as a fence. It’s what he knew, so I imagine he went back there to get them prepped for that deal.”

  “I’ll go with you on that one.” I hear Clevenger sigh and think for a second. “You’ll need this secretary. If for nothing else, she can identify your rapist. Open and shut then.”

  It’s my turn to sigh and think for a second. “She’s dead. You know that, right?”

  “I don’t want to know it.”

  “We need to find her, but she might not even be with the guy. For all we know she’s in the building, still smoldering under a collapsed ceiling,” I say.

  “I don’t know which would be worse,” Clevenger says.

  “I do.”

  Clevenger and I say our goodbyes and hang up. I get in my car. Light a smoke. Pull out and drive down the road. I need to get to this building Candy man told me about.

  Half way to the building my cell rings. Unknown number.

  “Hello?”

  “Dick,” that mix of reptilian and queer comes crawling back across the line. “Would you like to retrieve the secretary?”

  “Yes.” I pull over and listen intently. Any background noise on the phone, any clue or hint as to where he is. “Let her go.”

  “I want a hand-off. Face to face, so I may look in your eyes instead of looking down at you passed out, drunk and soaked in vomit.”

  “Name it. I’ll be there.”

  “The Old Cecil’s Bar. Ten minutes. No cops.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “If I even think a cop is around, she’s dead. Her guts will spill out onto the sidewalk like I was kicking over a bucket. I will disappear forever. Do you understand my orders?” Orderzzzzzzzzzz.

  “Of course.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Dick. I’m better than you. You’ll always do well to remember that.”

  “You’re far more arrogant than me for sure, and I’m pretty fucking arrogant.” I crush out my smoke on the dash and set my mind to doing the same to him. “Ten minutes. Is she hurt?”

  Click. Silence.

  I call Clevenger.

  “What’s up, buddy?” he says.

  “Rapist called. Wants to hand-off the girl at the Old Cecil’s Bar in ten minutes. Said no cops.”

  “Well of course, no cops. I’ll call dispatch and get our ball rolling. PD will stay away then. I’d hate to not let him call the shots.”

  “I appreciate it. Un-marked only, and have them park a ways away. Play it so below the level James Dean would be jealous they’re being so cool.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “Also, he’s got something else in store. For me.”

  “How so?”

  “He’s gotten away scot-free. I’ve never even seen him, and now he wants a face-to-face meeting? Hand off a victim?”

  “Be careful,” Clevenger says. He can smell it just like I do. “Sounds like he wants to kill you.”

  “He’s going to have to get in line,” I say and pull up next to the Old Cecil’s Bar. Game on.

  31

  The thing about Old Cecil’s Bar is this: there is an old Old Cecil’s Bar, and a new Old Cecil’s Bar.

  The original one—the old old one—was in a building that was trying to earn historic status. During the city inspection of it so many structural problems were exposed, the building was emptied for renovations. Not too long ago Old Cecil’s Bar moved three blocks over to a better location. The original site still had Cecil’s marquee up and I arrive there.

  Anyway, I arrive and not more than thirty seconds later a man steps around the corner, looking respectable in decent khakis and a button-down shirt, on his arm the shivering secretary. They never look the way they sound.

  “I want to commend you for the fire over at Petticoat’s,” I say as I walk up to him. “It shows you’re not the biggest pussy in the world for only hurting women.”

  The rapist smiles. I absorb his every detail. Line, curve and mark. An eighth-inch scar near his mouth from where his childhood cat clawed at him? Got it. Crow’s feet around his eyes means he’s around forty and probably Irish? Got that, too. Nicotine stain on his front right tooth from where he smokes right-handed and mindlessly puts the cigarette on that side of his mouth.

  “I’m much more than some sex-starved pervert living in his mother’s basement,” he says. The secretary is so wild-eyed and frazzled I’m honestly surprised she can walk. Standing next to him, she trembles and is bolt-still. “I am holding all the cards here.”

  “Let her go,” I say, bracing. “She’s just some broad who was at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “I rather enjoy her scent. I think I’ll keep her here.” His lower lip never moves as he speaks. His tongue curls around his every word like a sexual examination before they’re allowed to leave his mouth.

  “If she gets hurt, I promise I will make this last longer than your sanity can go.”

  “So furious over a disposable woman you don’t know? I never understood the drive some men have towards protecting things that just aren’t worth their own weight in dog shit.”

  “Try me.”

  He chuckles at that, like it’s some inside joke. “Why do you think I asked for this meet?”

  “I figured you wanted this meet to turn yourself in,” I say, wondering where Clevenger’s boys are.

  The rapist always keeps one hand behind the secretary. I imagine he’s got a heater pressed to her back. I watch that shoulder; any flicker and I draw my iron here and lay an egg in his forehead.

  “I wanted to see you upright before we part ways,” he says. He smirks and radiates a sense of confidence that says he’s never been tested. He’s just always gotten away with whatever it is he does. I would love the opportunity to shatter that like cheap ceramic. “No cops, right, Dick?”

  “None.” Clevenger’s boys should be around here somewhere. Just waiting, waiting, waiting...

  “Very good,” the rapist slithers. “Glad I picked Old Cecil’s Bar and not the new one.”

  “Me too.” Now I know where Clevenger’s boys are. The sinking in my gut tells me so. “Funny story. I’d always get a beer here after I locked up a member of your kind.”

  “My kind, eh? I’m not a freak, Dick.”

  “Oh thank God. I’ll tell Mrs. Petticoat a normal man did that to her.”

  “You can tell her that, if you want,” he says, again with that unchallenged grin. “When you meet her in hell.”

  His arm still behind the secretary, that shoulder I’ve been watching, it moves.

  I go for mine and he’s faster than I’d like. He’s up in my shit, an inch away from me with the secretary mashed between us. I take my hand away from my gun; hold it open so he can see. He lets a contented sound exit through his thin lips and steps back just enough to not smell my breath.

  His smile is all teeth, precious and bleached white around the deep stains l
ike he has something to prove to high society. He gives me the type of smile I’m sure he wore when he slid off Mrs. Petticoat’s panties. The fulfillment. Glancing at her unconscious husband, bleeding from his forehead as he lay helpless to her.

  “See the contentment in my eye?” he asks. I judge the distance between us. “I have lived a life of success. This is the natural way of things for me, Dick.”

  His finger is so over-wrapped around the trigger he’s going to pull the shot.

  “A guy like you is a cockroach, albeit a platinum one.” His eyes crawl along my face like it was made of ice cream and he’s a sleazy, hungry fat kid. “You sneak crumbs, disappear when shit goes down and in general are loathed by all around you.”

  His wrist is small. His forearm doesn’t look like it could stand up in a round of golf. He’s holding the gun cockeyed to begin with and when it goes off that wrist is going to fail at its one job of keeping the weapon aimed on a steady platform.

  “That’s where Petticoat went wrong. If he’d known you were going to sneak around his back and try and switch the blackmailing on him he would have shit a brick. He would have kept paying me. But the cockroaches like you get greedy. And fast.”

  The gun is a small revolver. The hammer is forward. Double-action. He’s going to have to do more work to pull that trigger. He’ll slap it, yank it. Maybe pull down.

  “How do you feel being such a pathetic waste? I mean, I broke into your home and you were just lying there, shitting your pants. OD’ing.”

  “First,” I say, rolling my neck loose before this happens. “I did not shit my pants. I was having a medical episode. Secondly, I wasn’t backdooring Petticoat. I was trying to flush you out. And third, you know why Petticoat hired me?”

  The rapist giggles. Honestly giggles. “Why, sugar?”

  I hammer his gun and it clatters to the sidewalk, grab him by his throat and lift him off the ground. He eeks out a bitch scream before I squeeze too hard and it’s wonderful, watching that smug fulfillment leave his face. “Because he knew I’d kill you.” And I turn him upside down before I drill him into the concrete.