Swamp Monster

by C. A. Newsome

  He dumped a wastebasket on the carpet. “Use this.”

  She dragged handfuls of wire and plastic gobbledygook into the container, scooting back when the cubby was clear. Dick rapped the bottom, a pointless gesture. They already knew it was hollow.

  “Joints are tight,” he said. “No obvious way for the bottom to lift or retract.”

  “I suppose you can’t pry it up.”

  “Not my first choice. I don’t want to damage the contents.”

  Jenny scanned the leaves and vines decorating the face. “Maybe there’s a hidden catch? That would be kind of Hollywood, but Andrew was a showman.”

  Dick gave a vine an experimental push. “The carvings are pegged on. See if they move.”

  Any catch was likely to be stuck after thirty years but it was safer not to say so. “Move how?”

  “See if they depress or twist in either direction, or if they slide. Take the left. Start at the bottom and work up.”

  Jenny tugged the bits of wood, wondering what would happen when Dick didn’t find what he expected, how long she could string things out, and if she would have any warning when he decided it was time to dispose of her.

  “Ha!” Dick sat back on his heels, his grin triumphant.

  “What did you find?” Jenny asked.

  “This leaf twisted. Move out of the way. I need to see if anything changed.”

  The interior of the cabinet remained seamless .

  “Maybe there’s more than one catch you need to find?”

  Dick jerked his chin at a leaf. “Check the matching carving on your side.”

  That one didn’t twist, but the one above it did. No change. Dick’s brow drew down, his eyes turning mean.

  Jenny kept a deferential tone in her voice as she spoke. “Andrew had an odd sense of humor. No telling how many catches there are, or what combination is needed to open them.”

  “Combination?”

  “You might need to twist them in a certain order, or make a pattern. Maybe the tips of the leaves need to point up, or right, or down. The possibilities are endless.”

  “Too much trouble. Time to break out the tools.”

  2:59 p.m.

  Peter sat in his car, in a spot that allowed him to see the side door of the Johnson’s house and a sizable portion of the back yard. Perfect for watching grass grow, his main activity for the past hour.

  It had been a long shot to think Jenny was ransacking a house that looked perfectly fine on the outside. He’d kept telling himself that as he ran plates of cars parked on Clifton Hills Avenue, working his way down the half-mile to DePaul Cristo Rey High School. He stopped when a Ford Fusion in the parking lot came back registered to Dick Brewer.

  The high school abutted a greenway that ran behind the Johnson property, the perfect way to approach the house unseen. Jenny and Brewer were in there. He could smell it. But was Jenny operating under duress or her own steam?

  He stared at the house. Tore open a Snickers bar and took a bite, followed it with a swig of flat, lukewarm Pepsi. His phone vibrated. Terry. He’d hated drafting the Scooby Gang for official business, but this wasn’t official and Terry was his best shot at locating Brewer. “What’ve you got?”

  “I called Commodore. He doesn’t know where Dick is—”

  “You didn’t tell him why you were looking?”

  “Of course not. He did say Dick was rehabbing a home off Blue Rock. Steve and I drove around and found it. Nice of him to put a company sign in the yard.”

  “Good work.”

  “Dick left a guy named Mike Weller working the site. I told him we need to talk to his boss. He says Dick drove out to Indiana to pick up custom cabinets and expected to be gone all day, and not to bother him.”

  “Can he get Brewer on the phone?”

  “Mike says he’s under instruction not to call.”

  “Put him on.”

  A rough, irritated voice said, “This guy says you’re a cop. How do I know you aren’t gassing me?”

  “You can call District Five and ask them to patch you through to me. That will waste at least five minutes I don’t have. Why would your boss say not to bug him?”

  “You ask your boss why he does things?”

  “Good point. He gamble?”

  “What business is that of yours?”

  “If your cabinet maker is in Indiana, he had to drive past the casinos. That’s the best reason I can think of to tell your crew not to call.”

  Mike was silent. He’d hit a nerve.

  “I don’t think your boss is at the slots. I think he’s still in town, somewhere he shouldn’t be, and it’s very important that I find him.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “Maybe. I’m betting you have a way to let him know there’s an emergency on the job so he’ll take a call even when he’s not answering his phone.”

  “If you’re so hot to find out where he is, why don’t you get the phone company to trace him?”

  “This isn’t television. I only get to do that when your boss robs a bank. Your boss rob a bank?”

  “What’s this about, anyway?”

  “Right now he’s suspected of something seriously bad. If you contact him and we prove he’s not where I believe he is, You’ll clear him of any suspicion. You’d be doing him a favor.”

  “A favor that will get me fired.”

  “Tell you what. If you can come up with an emergency that would get him to your job site and I’m wrong, I’ll tell him we pressured you, and I’ll give you a hundred bucks.” A safe bet since the Ford Fusion made it a thousand to one Brewer wasn’t anywhere near Indiana.

  “No shit? Do I still get the hundred bucks if he’s where you think he is?”

  “You’ll be a hero and I’ll hook you up with a hot reporter.”

  “I’d rather have the hundred bucks.”

  “Take what you can get, Weller. What would get him there in a hurry?”

  There was silence on the line while Mike thought. “I could say someone stole his equipment when I ran to the store. That would do it.”

  “That’ll work.”

  “Then I’ll say I called the cops, but since it’s not my equipment and I’m not the property owner, the asshole cop decided maybe I’m trespassing and he’s trying to arrest me.”

  Weller was entitled to a minor revenge. “Even better. Tell him the asshole cop’s name is Hodgkins.”

  “And if he arrests me, the job site will be unprotected because the door is busted open.”

  “I think you got it. Let me talk to Terry.”

  Terry came back on the line. Peter said,“You catch that?”

  “We shall lure our quarry from his lair.”

  Peter hoped he wasn’t making a colossal mistake. “I’m leaving him in your hands. Call me as soon as he talks to Brewer.”

  A white Caddy pulled in front of the Johnson house and parked. Peter bolted from his car, disastrous scenarios ripping through his brain faster than bullets in a firing squad. His execution if he didn’t do something.

  Susan opened the door, stretched her legs languidly and stood, iPhone in hand. Peter had a millisecond to register someone in the passenger seat.

  “Get back in your car and go. Now.”

  She smiled, tilting her head. “Officer Dourson. How pleasant to see you here.”

  “I mean it, Susan. You’re interfering with a police operation.”

  Susan’s eyes went wide, the way they did when she dug in her heels. She swiveled her head in a wide arc to make her point. “I don’t see an operation. I only see you.” Her iPhone came up. “Perhaps you’d like to tell my avid viewers all about it?”

  3:06 p.m.

  As Jenny handed Dick a chisel, his pocket buzzed. He drew out his phone, glanced at the screen, swore, tapped the screen, held the phone to his ear.

  “You’d better be missing a limb.... You’ve got to be fucking kidding. Put him on the phone.... Look, asshole, Mike Waller works for me—What do you mean, ‘who
am I?’ … Hold your damn horses. I’ll be there in twenty minutes, and I’ll show you who I am, that’s a promise.”

  He shoved the phone violently into his pocket.

  Jenny held her breath, eyes down and motionless like a terrified forest creature in the path of an angry predator.

  3:07 p.m.

  Peter wanted to close his eyes and count to ten, or even three. His phone rang. He held up one finger in a “wait” gesture, keeping his eyes on Susan as he took the call.

  “Mission accomplished,” Steve said. “Mike wants to know when he gets his hundred bucks.”

  “He gets it when he sees his boss and his boss isn’t wearing handcuffs. Hang around until I call back.” He had less than thirty seconds before Brewer came tearing out the side door.

  Something shifted in Peter’s periphery. A wizened woman exited the Caddy, hung with enough jewelry to stock a pawn shop. She quavered, “Miss Susan, aren’t we going to do my interview?”

  Peter imagined a blank wall and schooled his expression into cop face, “Put the phone down.”

  Susan held the phone steady. “Public street, public servant. I have every right to be here. My viewers will love this.”

  A tiny dog snarled. A crotchety voice demanded, “This is a nice street. Take your ruckus elsewhere.”

  Tiny teeth tugged at Peter’s slacks.

  Marilyn Edling of the pedophile claims. With her killer Chihuahua.

  3:08 p.m.

  Jenny stood behind Dick at the side door, the harangue of an angry woman penetrating the walls. He thrust his canvas bag at her.

  “Hold this. You don’t talk to anyone. If we see anyone, you do anything funny, I shoot them, then you.”

  A hand clamped on Jenny’s upper arm, he edged out, peered around a bush. Snorted.

  “What is it?” She whispered.

  “Nothing to worry about,” he said, dragging Jenny behind the house. “Nice and easy, back the way we came.”The gun’s muzzle pressed through his jacket pocket and into her back, prodding her over the wall. “As soon as I take care of business, we’ll come back.”

  After so many hours spent reading this lunatic, Jenny doubted that. Now that he believed they’d found Malachi’s motherlode, she was a loose end, something to snip off.

  They passed into the shadows under the trees, her heart pounding like a trapped sparrow in a net. She reminded herself that the houses were too close for him to kill her now. Too many people home on a Saturday. They’d hear the shot.

  She was safe while they were in public, as long as no one forced his hand. Once they were back at the car, he’d zip tie her hands and her ankles again, and that would be all she wrote.

  Whatever you do, don’t get in the car.

  3:19 p.m.

  Jenny smelled asphalt beyond the trees. The parking lot had to be near. She wondered what time it was, and if anyone would be around.

  If she was lucky, there would be people, lots of people, and she could act. But she didn’t hear motors, she didn’t hear voices. Too quiet.

  The heavy canvas bag occupied her arms while Dick kept a proprietary hand at her back. Someone coming face to face with them might wonder why she carried the heavy load, but they wouldn’t notice the gun. Dick could fire a shot into her spine and no one would know where it came from.

  The trees thinned. Sunlight glinted off Dick’s windshield, less than a hundred feet away.

  Whatever you do, don’t get in the car.

  Right now, she didn’t know how to avoid it.

  You’ll know when the time comes.

  Believe it.

  3:21 p.m.

  Thank God Mrs. Edling had gone home once she recognized him. But Susan remained, arms folded, lipsticked mouth twisting in a full-on tirade. Peter’s head pounded with an adrenaline-induced headache as he scrambled his brain for a way to remove her from his scene before she alerted Brewer.

  “—enough that you’ve scared off half my prospects? Must you follow me around? I’m trying to make a living! I’m a member of the Fourth Estate! I have rights and—”

  How long had it taken to send Edling and her vicious dog home? Two minutes? Three? He needed to end this, now. Explanations would take time and only inflame Susan’s love of drama.

  When all else fails, lie.

  “If you get back in your car right now and leave, do your interview from anywhere but this neighborhood—”

  “This location is my brand for this story—”

  “I’ll give you an exclusive when it’s all over.” Peter mentally crossed his fingers that Susan read detective novels and actually believed this was how it worked.

  Susan closed her mouth on whatever she had been about to say and narrowed her eyes. “Promise? Tell-your-mother-on-you promise?”

  Peter looked at his watch. “This offer expires in ten seconds.”

  “Get in the car, Ada Belle. You can tell me all about your nights of passion with Elvis at Starbucks. I’ll buy you a latte.”

  “A caramel latte?”

  “You can have unicorn sprinkles on it if you want.”

  During the course of this debacle, Peter had slowly circled Susan, forcing her to turn with him so he could look past her and keep an eye on Heenan’s house. Now he could see the front, but he’d lost his unobstructed view of the side door.

  Susan, with her cheerleader lungs in fighting form, made enough noise to raise the dead. Had Brewer been watching from inside the house? Peter hadn’t seen the drapes move, but he’d been distracted.

  Damn Susan. Brewer could still be inside, waiting him out, or he could have slipped out while Susan had her hissy fit. Peter had no way to know unless he returned to Brewer’s car. But then he lost his chance to catch Brewer in the house red-handed. Brewer could say he’d been anywhere, doing anything, and there went probable cause for a search warrant. He’d owe Waller a hundred bucks for nothing.

  Stay or go? If he were Brewer, he’d wait to see what Peter did. He’d wait all night, job site emergency or not. Peter’s best bet was to drive away, circle around and wait for Brewer to poke his head up.

  As he walked to his car, Susan pulled out. She wasn’t heading back to Ludlow Avenue. She was driving toward the school.

  As the white Caddy disappeared around a curve in the road, Peter’s phone vibrated. The text from Lia read:

  Dick @ car w/ Jenny

  Day 22, Afternoon, continued

  Saturday, May 11, 2019

  3:22 p.m.

  She shouldn’t be here, in this parking lot with Chewy straining against his leash and whining for attention. Bringing the dogs had been a poor decision and it was too late to stash them in the car. Gypsy squirmed in the Moby wrap. Lia distracted her with a treat while she kept her eyes on the couple emerging from the woods.

  Peter took too much on himself and he couldn’t be everywhere. When he’d called to say he’d found Dick’s car and was surveilling the house, she’d decided to watch his back. Just in case Dick sneaked past him.

  Which he wouldn’t. That’s what she’d thought, foolishly. She hadn’t told Peter, deciding in this case to ask forgiveness later because permission was out of the question.

  Except for the Ford, the lot had been vacant when she arrived. Typical for a Saturday, she suspected. She’d scanned the woods, straining her eyes to penetrate the trees as she wondered how Peter handled hours of nothing on a stakeout.

  He handled it by not being alone.

  She’d brought the dogs for cover, with the parking lot as the perfect place to run Chewy through badly-needed obedience drills. And working Chewy saved her from dying of tedium, or at least it had. Then his concentration had blown.

  Tired of performing, Chewy kept dragging her toward the Ford. She gave in, taking a quick look at the woods as they reached the driver’s side. Chewy sniffed at a tire and lifted a leg.

  She yanked the lead, harder than she intended. “Leave it!” Chewy gave her a wounded look. She knelt and ruffled the ears he kept shaggy because
he hated the groomer.

  “Sorry little man, but that’s vandalism. And if this car becomes evidence, your DNA can’t be on it.”

  Gypsy pawed at the Moby wrap, wanting down. Another month before she was safe from parvo, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep her strapped up. Lia reached into her back pocket and withdrew the remains of Susan’s scarf.

  It was the one thing guaranteed to keep Gypsy happy.

  Movement in the trees caught the corner of her eye. “Heel,” she commanded softly, leading Chewy behind a dumpster.

  Dick Brewer emerged from the trees, accompanied by the woman in Susan’s video. Jenny appeared to be fine, though she struggled with a large bag Dick could have easily carried with one hand.

  Where was Peter? Lia grabbed her phone, fumbled the lock screen while resisting Chewy’s leash tugs, got an error message.

  Stupid fingerprint sensor.

  The screen responded as Dick and Jenny approached the parking lot. She dashed off the text, knowing they’d be gone before Peter arrived. Stupid, stupid, stupid, she came to watch Peter’s back but never made a plan.

  What now?

  Stall them. Brazen out a chance encounter. Pray Peter shows up before things go sideways. Brewer wouldn’t hurt her in public, surely.

  She slipped her pepper spray in the bottom fold of the Moby wrap where it would be easy to grab, then pulled the top fold over Gypsy’s head, tucking the scarf in to keep her happy. With a smile pasted on her face, she struck out to meet them.

  3:23 p.m.

  A dog barked. Across the parking lot, a schnauzer dragged a woman. The woman waved.

  “Hey, Dick, who’s your friend?”

  The gun jabbed Jenny’s kidney. Dick’s voice hissed in her ear, “One word, I shoot you both.” He waved back.