by G. M. Ford
Terror fueled me. I nearly popped a temple vein trying to break the cuffs on my wrists, but that injection-molded nylon would have held an elephant. All I accomplished was to reduce myself to a sweating ball of agony.
I stopped struggling and tried to compose myself. I swallowed a whimper and started to feel around with my manacled hands. The hand I’d injured on Brother Biggs’s head sent splinters of pain running up my arm, but I kept at it anyway.
There was no carpet, just stamped metal. I pulled my knees up as far as I was able and tried to scrunch myself around in a half circle. Made it about halfway around before getting stuck. My hands dropped into the indentation where the spare tire had once been.
I put my feet up against the inside of the fender and pushed myself in that direction. I kept pushing until my knees dropped into the spare tire cavity. I was panting like a terrier. Never been so hot in my life. I wanted to stop. To rest. But didn’t dare.
Sliding my knees into the cavity allowed me to pull my knees beneath myself. Took every ounce of strength I possessed to force myself into the kneeling position. The inside of the trunk lid pressed hard against the back of my neck. I began to move my head forward and back, up and down. The bag on my head was moving slowly, an inch at a time. I groaned and kept at it.
After what seemed like an hour, the bag finally dropped free and I could see. I was facing backwards, on my knees out in the middle of the trunk, bent at the waist with my back against the inside of the trunk lid.
I tried to straighten my back but felt the trunk lid pressing me down. I took several deep breaths, and then began to heave upward with all the power my back could muster. I felt the trunk lid buckle outward a bit and redoubled my efforts. In the second before I ran out of strength, the trunk latch broke and the lid flopped open, bringing a great rush of sunlight and air flowing into the trunk cavity.
That was when the Lincoln’s driver noticed the trunk was open and slammed on the brakes. I watched in mouth-breather amazement as the guy in the car behind us failed to get stopped in time and rear-ended the Lincoln, sending me slamming back into the trunk lid.
I pulled one foot down under me and launched myself out of the trunk, landing in the middle of the hood of the car behind. Another metal-crunching jolt sent me bouncing up onto the car’s roof.
I looked around. We were on a four-lane street, in between what seemed like endless strip malls. Cars on both sides of the divider were pulling over. People getting out to see what this idiot was doing sitting on the roof of a car.
Before I could fully collect my wits, the Lincoln roared off up the street, trunk lid wagging up and down like a tongue. When I looked away from the Lincoln, I was surrounded by gawkers. “You okay, buddy?” somebody asked.
“No,” I said. “I think somebody better call the cops.”
Sergeant Roscoe Templeton waited for the emergency room personnel to complete their examination and pronounce me bruised but unbroken before he started with the sarcasm.
“Nice to see how you could take care of yourself,” he said.
I was feeling pretty contrite and considerably past the snappy rejoinder stage of things, so all I said was, “I fucked up.”
Roscoe smirked. “While I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the first time, it damn near was the last.”
“Not just today,” I said, buttoning my shirt. “I made a bad misjudgment. Sticking my nose into something that was none of my business. It’s a bad habit of mine and now I’ve put other people in jeopardy. I’m gonna have to figure out how to fix this.”
“I’ve got a few suggestions,” he said.
“I’m all ears,” I assured him.
“We rescued your travel bag from the rental car, which means they may or may not know who you are and where you came from. They know where the IAFIS query came from, so Seattle’s going to be at the top of their look list.”
I nodded and pulled on a boot. “What about the guys who snatched me?”
He made a disgusted face. “Plates on both cars were stolen. Both cars wiped clean, and even if we could put names on them, they’d be alibied up the ass.” He spread his hands in resignation. “It’s going nowhere.”
I nodded again.
“If this Susan Orris is a friend of yours . . .” he began.
I waved him off. “They’re not going to find her,” I said.
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
He nodded toward the door. “I’ve got two uniforms outside. They’re going to take you to the airport and put you on a plane. I suggest you fly somewhere other than Seattle. Who knows, it might give the Castiglione clan pause to wonder and gain you a little time.”
“Can I use your phone?” I asked.
It was fifty degrees and raining sideways when I climbed into Carl’s van at Portland International Airport. Before I approached, I’d circled the short-term parking lot twice, nice and slow, making sure we didn’t have any unwanted company.
Carl’s Mercedes van was eighty grand worth of handicapped conversion paradise. I pulled open the door, dropped my bag over the seat, and buckled myself in.
“You need anything else? Other than being picked up at an airport two hundred miles from home,” Carl asked. “Open heart surgery? A colonoscopy? Just say the word.”
“I really screwed up this time,” I said.
“You mean as opposed to all the other times.”
“For real, this time.”
Nothing Carl liked better than busting my chops, but something in my manner brought him up short.
“You’re serious.”
I checked my watch. “About five hours ago, I came as close to getting my ass killed as I ever have in my life.”
“You wanna tell me about it?”
“Let’s get out of here first,” I said.
Carl dropped the van into drive and headed for the tollbooth.
I kept my head on a swivel as we exited the lot and headed east toward the freeway.
“You expecting company?” Carl asked.
“Maybe,” I said. “We probably ought to do a few cut-outs on the way back. Just to make sure we don’t have any unwanted visitors.”
We rode the next twenty minutes in silence. Wasn’t till we were driving over the Columbia River that Carl asked, “Anything special I’m supposed to be keeping an eye out for?”
“Why don’t we take the next exit and see if anybody gets off with us.”
He stared at the side of my head for a long moment. “You’re really jumpy,” he said as he took the exit ramp.
I pointed at the Chevron gas station coming up on the right. “Let’s turn around there,” I said.
“You wanna tell me what’s goin’ on?” he asked as we eased around the pumps.
A plumbing supply truck ground past us, and then a battered eighteen-wheeler full of sawdust. Satisfied we weren’t being followed, I said, “Let’s go. I’ll tell you on the way.”
We pulled off the interstate three more times in the hour it took me to tell the story. He just sat there and listened.
“What are you gonna do?” he asked when I’d finally finished.
“I’ve gotta fix it,” I said.
“You got a plan?”
“Not yet.”
“You gonna tell the Townsend broad?”
“Don’t see how I can avoid it.”
“Me neither.”
“But I’d like to have some sort of plan in place before I do.”
“So’s you won’t have to walk up and say, ‘Oh by the way, Mrs. Townsend—or Calder or Hollister or whoever the hell you are—just for my own amusement, I seem to have stirred up your past to the point where there’s going to be people showing up to kill you, pretty soon here.’”
I winced. “She’s got a good thing going for herself,” I said. “She’s not recognizable as Theresa Calder. As long as I don’t lead them to her, she should be fine.”
“You think they can find you?”
“Probably,�
�� I said. “I rented a car in my own name.”
“And they know where the IAFIS inquiry came from?”
“Right . . . which puts Rebecca into the equation too.”
We were cruising through the southern outskirts of Olympia. An hour from home. “Remember where this all started?” Carl asked.
“The two guys in the car trunk under my old man’s coat.”
“You any closer to finding out who offed them than you were when you started?”
“Not as far as I can tell.”
“And those two bozos—Biggs and his buddy.”
“Chauncey Bostick,” I filled in.
“Where do they fit into this?”
“No idea.”
We rode another twenty miles in silence. Just south of Tacoma now.
“She’s gotta die,” I said finally.
Carl looked horrified. “Rebecca?”
“Theresa Calder has to be dead and buried.”
“There is no Theresa Calder.”
“That’s gonna make it harder.”
I had Carl leave me off down the street from my house. I waited until he drove off and then tiptoed along the north side of the Morrisons’ yard, staying close to the giant boxwood hedge that separated our properties.
I used to do this when I was a kid, sneaking out of the house to meet Rebecca, after my curfew. Either the gap between the Morrisons’ hedge and my stone wall had somehow gotten smaller, or I’d gotten quite a bit bigger.
I forced myself through the tangle of branches, threw my bag over the wall, and then, with great difficulty, climbed on top and jumped. I landed with a resounding thud, and then fell forward onto my face. Some things improve with age. Jumping from high places wasn’t one of them. Had to sit there in the wet grass for a few seconds getting my senses back together before walking around to the side of the house, where a pair of old-fashioned cellar doors angled out from the house like buckteeth.
I couldn’t remember the last time anybody’d opened these doors, but I remembered where we used to hide the key. It was still there, under the one-eared ceramic rabbit head—dirt-clogged and rusty, but still there.
Took me a couple of minutes to clean up the lock and key, but eventually I got the right-hand door to open and slid down the concrete ramp into the cellar.
I chained the cellar doors from the inside and headed right for the front of the house. I crept up the stairs, let myself into the front hallway, and opened the closet. The 12-gauge Mossberg Slugster was in the back corner where I left it. I gave it a quick check. Still had a full load. My pulse rate slackened.
Me and Mr. Mossberg searched the whole house. Upstairs and down. Attic included. Looked in closets and under beds. Inside ancient cedar chests. Checked all door and window locks. Satisfied that I was alone, I turned off all the lights, activated the security system, and closed the gate.
Feeling better lasted for about thirty seconds. First thing I saw when I walked into my TV room was the phone light blinking. The old phone that had, at one time, belonged to my father. The phone I only keep because some asshole invented a scam called “bundling” wherein companies get you to use services you don’t actually need or want so that you can get the stuff you really want cheaper. Whoever thought that shit up ought to get the Nobel Prize.
Thing was, I hadn’t made or received a call on that phone for at least five years. Worse yet, barring a wrong number, I could only think of three people who had that number, and I’d just spent three hours in a van with one of them, so it probably wasn’t him. I leaned the shotgun against the couch and reached for the phone.
The receiver felt humongous in my hand, like I was talking into a swim fin. I pushed the button. Tom Waits singing about waltzing Matilda. CLICK. I felt cold all over. It was Rebecca going to a lot of trouble not to be traced. We used to do this a lot, way back when. Back when her mother made it as difficult as possible for us to see each other. We had a set of signals that told us where to meet and when. “Wasted and wounded. Ain’t what the moon did. Got what I paid for now” meant: call me as soon as you get this. Ring twice and then hang up. If I don’t immediately call you back, meet me in the parking lot of the Blue Moon Tavern as soon as you can get here. He’s not much of a talker, but I took Mr. Mossberg along with me anyway.
She opened the laptop and pushed a few buttons. She was pretending not to notice the shotgun. A fuzzy closed-circuit tape began to play across the screen. Margot, the medical examiner’s office receptionist. Two guys in ski parkas standing in front of her desk.
“Ms. Orris is no longer with us,” Margot was saying.
“We’ll be needing to talk to her,” one of them said.
“Afraid I can’t help you.” Margot managed an insincere smile.
“You got a forwarding address?” the other one asked.
“That would be confidential information. State law forbids—”
“Who’s in charge here?” the first guy asked.
“Dr. Rebecca Duval.”
“We’d like a word wit her.”
“I’m afraid Dr. Duval is at a luncheon.”
“Listen—”
Margot cut him off. “Besides which, sir, you’d most definitely need to make an appointment if you wished to see Dr. Duval.”
Rebecca pushed a button. The video disappeared.
“They came by the lobby twice yesterday,” she said.
I opened my mouth to say something, but she waved me off. “They were sitting in my office when I got to work this morning.”
“I screwed up big time,” I said.
She snapped the laptop shut and sat back in the seat. “Who are those guys?”
“A couple of leg-breakers from Las Vegas.”
“I had to call security to get rid of them.”
“You got time for a long story?” I asked.
“Sounds like I better.”
I laid it out for her. Usually she’s got a thousand questions, and stops to correct my grammar a couple of times along the way, but not tonight. Tonight she just sat there and listened, until I stopped talking.
“What are we going to do?” she asked when I’d finished.
“I’m not sure,” I admitted.
“Does Alice Townsend know?”
“Not yet,” I said.
“You’re going to have to tell her.”
“Sorry I got you into this.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Leo. I make my own decisions.” She looked over and pinned me with her steeliest gaze. “You know . . . if this was just the two of us involved here, I’d think very seriously about going into the office tomorrow and admitting what I did. They wouldn’t fire me. Most I’d get would be a reprimand and a suspension. But . . .” She shook her head. “I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to Alice Townsend because of something we did.”
A long silence ensued.
“Theresa Calder has to die,” she said finally.
“Great minds think alike.”
She stuffed the laptop down between the seats and started the car. “You going to get out, or are you going home with me?”
“I didn’t realize I had a choice.”
“Things change,” she said as she dropped the transmission into drive. “Besides, we’re partners in crime now. Something good may as well come out of it.”
“Did the sex used to be that good?” I asked.
“Not even close.”
“I guess abstinence doth indeed make the heart grow fondler.”
She laughed and settled deeper into my shoulder. “You’re a man of means these days, Leo. Money changes everything.”
“From what I understand that was pretty much Tuesday Jo’s opinion.”
“You can’t blame a girl for trying to improve her station in life. She married her way up the social ladder, like Jackie Onassis and any number of other swell types. She just started on a lower rung. Finding yourself a good meal ticket is a major part of the American dream.” She waved a hand. “The white
picket fence and the orthodontist.”
“Such a romantic.”
She made a rude noise with her lips.
“You given any thought to what we’re going to do?”
She nodded. “We need a body.”
“What?”
“A body turning up would explain the IAFIS request, and put them off Alice’s scent for good. We’ll also need a chain of paperwork to move it through the Health and Safety Code.”
“I’m still back at we need a body.”
“Female. Caucasian. Between twenty-five and forty. Partially decomposed would be best. Decomposition makes getting an accurate age more art than science. A floater would be good, as long as it’s not too far along. The crabs get the fingers pretty early on.”
“I’m guessing we can’t count on Amazon here.”
“Probably not.”
“You perchance got one you can spare?”
“Not at the moment. Right now the only John Doe I’ve got in the bins is a male African American the size of a small car.”
“When they bring you a John Doe, how long do you give it before you . . . you know . . . do whatever you do with them?”
“Depends,” she said. “The younger they are, the longer I wait. Anyone with usable prints we send to IAFIS. That generally takes a week or so to get an answer. After that, we cremate about ninety-nine percent of them and spread their ashes on Puget Sound.”
“And the other one percent?”
“We bury them.”
“Who decides which?”
“I do,” she said. “Usually I only bury people who are never identified. In case . . . you know . . . something comes up later. But sometimes, especially with kids, I bury them, even if we know who they are. It just seems more respectful.”
She kissed me on the cheek and got out of bed. I watched her marvelous ass disappear into the closet. A moment later she reappeared, wearing a deep blue silk yukata covered with wide-eyed carp. “I told Margot I’d be in by one o’clock. I’ve got some toaster waffles in the fridge. You interested?”
“I’d nibble six or eight.”
“Soon as I get to the office, I’ll check with all the other coroners and medical examiners in the area. We’ve got a computer network that allows us to check each other’s inventories and missing persons reports. That way I can see if anybody has a Jane Doe who might work for our purposes.”