Kill Her Again

by Robert Gregory Browne

  “All right,” he said. “Go.”

  “Thank you.”

  Pope shook his head and stared out his window at those ever-present prison lights.

  “Just do us all a favor and catch the motherfucker.”

  1 2

  They used the tried-and-true dog-walker ploy.

  They waited in two unmarked vans, parked about a block and a half from the strike zone, Anna cramped in back with Royer, who still had the remnants of an angry scowl on his face.

  Despite their close proximity, he had managed to avoid saying a word to her since she’d returned from the Oasis. It occurred to her that they wouldn’t even be here if she hadn’t spotted Evan in the first place, but doubted that this meant much to Royer. Their partnership, such as it was, was over.

  Anna shifted uncomfortably. The air in this godforsaken town had not gotten any cooler and she figured the temperature inside the van was a good two degrees hotter than it was outside. Sweat tricked down her back and along her armpits, and judging by the smell, she wasn’t the only one feeling the heat.

  Even the Oasis would be better than this.

  Although he was ignoring her, Royer had made it clear to Worthington that he thought this operation was a mistake. Back at the Fairweather house, he’d urged the deputy to wait for him to call in a bureau strike team, a suggestion that hadn’t set well with anyone present.

  “What exactly are you trying to tell us?” Worthington had asked, to which Royer had no reply. Next to these rugged, sun-baked deputies, he looked like a prissy prep school kid, and as they all silently piled into the vans, it was Royer who was the appendage, the excess baggage. And though she tried to resist, the thought of this had made Anna smile.

  The carny encampment was little more than a collection of tents, trailers, old motor homes, and beat-up cars, parked haphazardly on a dusty vacant lot next to the high school campus. Several big-rig trucks emblazoned with the words O’FARRELL AMUSEMENTS were lined up against the curb across the street.

  Just beyond the encampment stood the dark silhouettes of the trucks’ contents-the arcade stands and rickety metal rides that dominated the school’s football field.

  Under the fading moonlight it looked to Anna like an extension of the junkyard behind the Fairweather home. There was, she thought, a sad, almost pathetic poetry to it all. Traveling carnivals were quickly becoming a thing of the past, and this one looked as if it had overshot retirement by several hard-worn years.

  The dog walker, a lean female deputy dressed in civilian clothes and sporting an iPod, was walking her German shepherd along the encampment’s side of the street. A typical local out for a pre-dawn stroll.

  She paused a moment to let the dog sniff at the base of a lamp post, then raised a hand to her left ear to adjust an earbud.

  The van’s radio crackled. “Looks like I’ve struck gold here, Jake.”

  Worthington, who sat up front with Chavez, raised his mic. “What’ve you got?”

  “Black Ford Mustang with a flame on the side. Parked between two motor homes.”

  “That’s our guy,” Worthington said. “You see any movement inside the trailers?”

  “Not a thing. What do you want me to do?”

  “Get back to the van. We’re going in.”

  They went in fast and hard, in two teams of four, each of the deputies moving with a speed and agility that put the lie to Royer’s unspoken assumption that they weren’t skilled enough to handle such an operation.

  Each team took one of the motor homes parked near the Mustang, two covering the windows as the other two made swift entry through flimsy aluminum doors, weapons and flashlights raised.

  Chavez accompanied Worthington into the second motor home as Anna and Royer circled it outside. Screams and shouts filled the air, and seconds later lights began coming to life all over the yard. Doors and canvas flaps flew open as alarmed carnies poked their heads out of their motor homes and tents to find out what the hell was going on.

  The two motor homes in question were quickly flushed out, a couple of dazed and confused occupants emerging from each, only half-dressed and blinking. A male and female from one, two females from the other, all looking disoriented.

  And not a Tommy Lee wannabe among them.

  Or bearded lady, for that matter. Just four frightened people, wondering what they’d done wrong.

  Royer and two deputies pointed weapons at them, Royer shouting, “Get down! Down on your knees, hands locked behind your head.”

  The four did as they were told, one of the women starting to cry. Anna heard a banging sound from inside the motor home near her, then Worthington emerged, and he didn’t look happy.

  “Shit,” he said, spitting the word out as if it had assaulted his tongue. He shone his light into the Mustang, then moved to the two women he and Chavez had just chased outside.

  “Where’s the man who owns this car?”

  One of the women, the one who was crying, stammered, “H-he’s not here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I–I’m not sure-he went out after we dropped the awnings.”

  “After you what?”

  “After we closed for the night.”

  “Sonofabitch,” Worthington said, looking as if he wanted to put a fist into the side of the motor home.

  But then his gaze shifted abruptly, leveling on a spot past Anna’s shoulder, his eyes widening just enough to tell her that something was up.

  She turned and saw a tall man in white boxer shorts scrambling out of a tent several yards away, and even from this distance she could see the dark patch of a tattoo on his neck.

  Tommy Lee, aka Rick.

  And he didn’t stop to wish them all a good morning.

  Raising her weapon, Anna shouted, “Freeze!” and wasn’t surprised when he ignored her.

  A split second later her feet were moving and she was running after him as he tore around the side of the tent.

  Picking up speed, she followed, but then the pain in her tweaked ankle returned, her gate faltering as the suspect rounded a corner and disappeared behind another motor home.

  “Stop!” she shouted, but knew it was a wasted effort.

  Pushing past the pain, she flew around the motor home, emerged onto a clearing, and spotted Rick about halfway across it, his long, muscular legs propelling him like a gazelle toward a dark cluster of trees at the edge of the property.

  There were houses beyond the trees, and Anna knew that if he managed to reach them, he might be impossible to find again-not to mention the potential threat he posed to the occupants.

  She had to catch him, but her ankle hurt and her breath was starting to come up short and she wasn’t sure she could.

  No sooner had she thought this than someone blew past her. It was-to her surprise-Royer, moving like a blur through the darkness toward Rick, effortlessly closing the gap between them.

  If Rick was the gazelle, Royer was definitely the cheetah, and just before Rick reached the trees, Royer took a flying leap and tackled him, dust billowing as the two hit the ground hard and rolled.

  Royer came up first, slamming a fist into Rick’s face-twice in rapid succession-then flopped him over and cuffed his hands behind his back.

  Then he was on his feet, SIG Sauer in hand, pointing it at the back of Rick’s head. “Where’s the girl, you son of a bitch!”

  Rick spit dirt, his mouth bleeding. “Fuck you.”

  “Where is she?” Royer punctuated the question with a kick to the ribs.

  Rick howled, rolling into the pain, his body involuntarily curling into the fetal position.

  Royer pressed his SIG against Rick’s temple, making it clear what his intentions were. “Last chance, asshole.”

  “All right, all right,” Rick gasped. “She’s in the tent. Back in the tent.”

  Without a word, Anna did a 180, saw Worthington and another deputy coming up fast, and signaled for them to turn around.

  “In the tent,” she shou
ted. “She’s in the tent!”

  Still huffing for breath, she picked up her heels and ran, following them back to the encampment.

  By the time they got there, one of the deputies was already emerging from Rick’s battered tent, a young girl in bra and panties squirming in his grip, tears in her eyes.

  “Please,” she begged. “Please don’t tell my mom…”

  “What’s this?” Worthington asked. “Where’s the kid?”

  “This is all I got,” the deputy told him.

  The girl, a high schooler wearing too much makeup, was sobbing now, mascara running down her cheeks. “Please… You can’t tell her about this; she’ll kill me…”

  Ignoring the plea, Worthington pushed in close. “What’s your name?”

  The girl hitched a breath, eyes blinking blackened tears at him. “Are you gonna call my mom?”

  “Your name,” Worthington snapped.

  The girl flinched, taking a moment to find her voice again. “Wendy. Wendy Johanson.”

  “How long have you been with this guy, Wendy?”

  “Are you gonna-”

  “Just answer the goddamn question.”

  Fresh tears filled her eyes and she lowered her gaze. “I met him at the arcade last night. He runs the coin toss.”

  Worthington grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. “That isn’t what I asked you. How long have you been with him? All night?”

  She shook her head. “No. He had to work. We hooked up around two.”

  “Did he have a little girl with him?”

  Her face went blank. “What?”

  “A girl. A four-year-old girl.”

  “Why? Is he married or something? He said he wasn’t-”

  “Answer me.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “He was alone. I don’t know anything about a little girl.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “I’m not stupid. I think I would’ve noticed if he was dragging a kid around with him. Why are you asking me this? What did he do?”

  Worthington just stared at her for a long moment, and Anna thought he might be weighing the girl’s words, trying to decide if she was telling the truth. But Anna herself had no doubts. This kid was clueless. Just another of a string of restless teenagers Mr. Rock and Roll had talked into sharing his sleeping bag.

  “Shit,” Worthington said finally, then looked at the deputy. “Put her in the van and call her mom.”

  “No!” the girl cried. “She’ll kill me!”

  “Maybe next time you’ll think twice about fucking around with a guy old enough to be your father.” He turned again to the deputy. “And while you’re at it, radio Marcus, tell him to round up some volunteers. We’re gonna tear this place apart.”

  The deputy glanced around at the gathering crowd of angry carnies. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

  “We don’t have a choice,” Worthington said, then turned, looking off in the direction they’d come from. “Where the hell is my suspect?”

  As if on cue, Royer emerged from behind a motor home, pushing Rick in front of him.

  “Right here,” he said.

  They were both covered with dirt and Rick’s face looked as if it had been worked over a bit more. Either that or those two punches had done a helluva lot of damage.

  Worthington nodded, his gaze locking on Rick’s.

  “Put him in the tent,” he said.

  1 3

  Pope was dozing in his chair by the window when his cell phone rang for the third time that morning.

  Groaning, he snatched it off the table next to him and stared bleary-eyed at the screen.

  Sharkey again.

  Shit.

  Glancing at the bed, he noted that Evan hadn’t stirred. The only sign of life was the gentle rise and fall of the boy’s small chest. Pope marveled at his ability to sleep despite the mountain of crap that had fallen on him in the last handful of hours.

  Pope himself had never been much for sleep. Not even when he was Evan’s age. He used to drive his parents nuts, never clocking out for more than four or five hours a night. And lately, despite all of the pot he consumed, he’d managed to pare that down to two or three. It wasn’t enough, he knew, but he continued to function in his own pathetic way.

  His phone rang again.

  Reluctantly scraping a thumb across the keypad, he clicked it on.

  “What’s up, Sharkey?”

  “Me, unfortunately. Any guesses why?”

  “I’m a hypnotist, not a mind reader.”

  “He wants to see you. Again.”

  Pope let out another groan. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “If I were, I’d still be in bed. Get your ass upstairs. I don’t wanna have to come get you.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “I don’t know and I didn’t ask, but we’ll find out soon enough.”

  Pope glanced at Evan. “It’ll have to wait. I’ve got company.”

  “She’ll keep.”

  Pope checked the clock near his bed. Just past five. Outside, the sky was beginning to show just a hint of light.

  Where the hell was that social worker?

  “It’s not that easy,” he said. “Give me an hour or so and-”

  “ Now,” Sharkey told him. And the tone was not friendly.

  Fuck.

  Pope was about to suggest that Sharkey and his boss go straight to hell, but knew that wouldn’t be wise. Over the last couple years, thanks to a woefully bad string of luck, Pope had managed to dig himself into a two-hundred-thousand-dollar hole with Anderson Troy. A debt that had more or less turned Pope into an indentured slave.

  With a resigned sigh, he said, “I’ll be right up.”

  “That’s a good boy.”

  Sharkey clicked off.

  Pope looked at Evan again, wondering if he should call Jake, see if social services was making any progress. He figured there wasn’t much chance of the boy waking up while he was gone, but didn’t really want to leave him alone.

  Before he could stop himself, he was thinking about Ben again. About the good times, when he and Susan would stand over their son’s crib, watching him sleep, thinking they were the luckiest couple in the world, having a child so perfect. So beautiful.

  And later, when Ben was five-a young genius, Pope was sure-all those trips to the hospital, no longer the perfect son, but prone to a myriad of ailments that the doctors had trouble diagnosing.

  Little did anyone know that it was Susan they should have been examining. Susan who had been causing Ben pain. A classic case of Munchhausen by proxy. A mental illness that had led directly to their son’s death.

  It was an accident, Susan later told investigators in a teary-eyed confession-a confession Pope wouldn’t have believed she’d made if he hadn’t seen the tape himself. After years of systematically abusing their son, of turning him into a sick little boy in a twisted attempt to gain sympathy and attention, she had finally gone too far. Setting the station wagon on fire, then claiming she’d been carjacked had been a desperate attempt to cover up the crime.

  An attempt that had almost worked.

  Pope supposed he should have sympathy for Susan, but he didn’t. Just the opposite, in fact. Hating her somehow made it easier to cope. Made him feel less guilty that he hadn’t seen the signs, hadn’t realized the truth before it was too late.

  Pope’s gut burned. At times like this, he would normally distract himself with a game or a beautiful woman or a bowl of dope, but none of those were an option right now. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, he was responsible for someone, and he cursed Jake for making that happen.

  There was no telling what Troy wanted or how long it would take. The only option was to find a substitute babysitter. Someone he could trust. Or, at least, rely on.

  Moving to the phone by his bed, he punched in a two-digit code. A moment later a familiar voice answered the call.

  “Room service.”

>   “Hey, Kel, it’s me, Danny.”

  Pope had been expecting another face-to-face with Troy, but it was more than that. Much more.

  Troy had gone a bit overboard with the hired muscle-mostly because he had no real friends-but Pope rarely saw them all assembled in the same room at the same time.

  Sharkey was here, looking sleepy and miffed, along with Arturo, and the so-called twin defenders, Joshua and Jonah, whom Pope always thought of as a single entity. He’d never seen them apart.

  Then there was the strange creature who sat in a corner of the room, observing them all from a distance as if close contact might somehow contaminate him.

  The Ghost.

  He always wore dark suits and orange-tinted glasses-something about light-sensitive eyes-and reminded Pope of an undertaker.

  Pope wasn’t sure what the guy did, exactly, or why they called him that, but he could make a pretty good guess, and his presence here did not bring on thoughts of happiness and light.

  It was times like this that Pope wondered how the hell he had ever allowed himself to fall in with this sorry lot.

  But who was he kidding? He knew all too well how it had happened. The debt he owed Troy had not been accumulated over a single night, and was not the result of a single bad hand, but rather a string of horrendous hands that stretched the entire two-year span of time that Pope had been haunting the Oasis. He was hopelessly addicted to poker in all of its forms, and was notoriously bad at playing the game.

  It would be years before he worked off his debt. Most of his take from Metamorphosis — a show that had been all Troy’s idea in lieu of an actual cash payback-went straight to the man himself, including interest. The rest went to room and board. And whether he liked it or not, Pope was locked into a payment plan that wouldn’t be changing anytime soon.

  Or would it?

  The way everyone was staring at him, he couldn’t be sure. He glanced down at the carpet just to make sure he wasn’t standing on plastic, and made a mental note to keep Arturo within his line of sight.

  “So,” he said to Troy, who was once again sprawled on the sofa. “Still having problems with Nigel Fromme?”