Harley Jean Davidson 03 - Evil Elvis

by Virginia Brown

  “They haven’t noticed you’re missing. I think it’s time.”

  Harley realized they were in what had been Elvis’s office. Now it was a tourist spot, with a running video of Elvis being interviewed behind the desk, talking about his stint in the Army. It was an old black and white film that flickered, but Elvis was so young and handsome and shy that it was one of the best interviews of him she’d ever seen.

  If only she could get some of the duct tape off her mouth, she could mutter where they were so the cops listening to her wire would know she was in deep trouble. She wiggled next to the desk and scraped her face against the side. It didn’t seem to help much. Keeping one eye on the killer looking out the window, she rubbed against the edge of the desk until her cheek burned. When the Elvis looked around, she stopped.

  Another chuckle came from his direction. “The first thing I did was get rid of that wire. It’s in the bushes where the cops can’t see it, but it’s still recording the vigil so they won’t realize you’re missing for a little while longer. I’m missing a chance to get rid of that pervert in the leather skirt, though. This would be a perfect opportunity to kill him as well, but he’s still standing too close to the crowd. Everyone’s looking at him in that ridiculous getup, and the risk’s too great. But tonight you were easy enough.”

  Harley just stared at him. Her wire was gone. Damn, damn, damn! Real fear oozed through her veins. No one had missed her, which meant no one was looking for her. Once he got her away from Graceland she was doomed. Of course, if he got too panicky he might kill her right here and leave her body on the cold floor. It’d be easy enough. He still wore the guard’s uniform.

  He couldn’t be the one who’d asked her to move back a little bit, because she hadn’t smelled that awful aftershave. Were there two killers? Maybe this guy and Hughes?

  They both had motives, insane as they were. One for vengeance, the other for triumph. It couldn’t be for money. There’d been no demands made and nothing that she could see to gain, unless Rhett Sandler had come up with something about the payroll computer being hacked.

  A burst of noise made the fake Elvis turn back to look out the window again. Harley worked at the restraints on her wrists while rubbing her face against the corner of the desk.

  She finally got a corner of the duct tape over her mouth free. She scrubbed harder at the corner of the tape until it only covered half her mouth.

  Her head still throbbed and her stomach sat at the bottom of her throat. The Elvis had turned to look outside again, and she sensed his growing tension. One of her Catholic school prayers came to mind, the Our Father whirling round and round in her head. If she was going to die, it wouldn’t hurt to remind God that she tried to be good. Most of the time. Some of the time.

  Okay, infrequently, but most of her sins were venial ones. Surely He’d take that into account? Then, just to be on the safe side, she reminded the Earth Mother that she didn’t litter or defile the earth. Diva would be so proud. She firmly believed that Native American respect for the earth and environment went hand in hand with a strong belief in a Higher Power.

  Then the deadly Elvis turned back to stride toward her, and all thought went completely out of her head. Fear took over, a thudding apprehension making her numb. She strained at the stuff binding her wrists. It didn’t loosen. Then instinct took over. When Elvis leaned over her, she did the only thing she could. She hit him squarely in the crotch with both feet. It worked.

  He went down like a sack of potatoes, bent over and retching. Harley knew she’d only disabled him temporarily. When he recovered, he’d most likely be in a nasty mood.

  She skidded across the floor like an inchworm until she reached the door. Miraculously, she somehow got to her feet.

  Behind her, Elvis groaned, but the retching had stopped. She had to do something quick. So she banged her head against the glass window of the door, buffered a little by the blinds. It didn’t break. She hit it again, harder this time. Her eyes crossed but the window burst with a loud sound. An alarm immediately blared with a whoop whoop sound.

  Sticking her head close to the gaping hole, she hollered as loud as she could, “Help! Help! Fire! Fire!” The last came from the safety course Mr. Penney had insisted the employees take. The reasoning was that people often ignored the cry for help, but usually responded pretty fast to the Fire! thing. Not that anyone would hear her over the shrieking alarm. Thankfully, someone did. Not the undercover cops she expected, but Yogi. He hit the door with his shoulder, but the deadlock held. Panicked now, Harley bent to try to turn the little knob with her chin. That didn’t work. Elvis’s gasping had stopped. She turned her head sideways and used her teeth. That worked. Yogi burst into the office.

  “Are you all right?” he asked as he brushed past her.

  Harley had seen murder in his eyes, and she said Yes as fast as she could with her teeth and mouth still smarting.

  Yogi barely listened. He bore down on the Elvis, knocked him back to his knees and kicked him. Hard. Elvis grunted and tried to get up, but Yogi kept kicking him in the stomach, the face, his rib cage.

  This is a pacifist? Yogi? Harley yelled at him to stop before he killed him, but Yogi ignored her. He kept making growling sounds deep in his throat, sounding like King when he cornered one of those big leathery rawhide toys he liked to chew into a soggy lump.

  She hopped on her bound feet toward her father. Maybe she could distract him from killing the guy, though it did seem rather justified. From long experience, however, she knew the cops wouldn’t agree. They usually looked askance at that sort of thing.

  “Yogi!” she hollered again, as close to his ear as she could get since he kept kicking the Elvis sprawled on the floor. “Stop or you’ll kill him!”

  Panting, Yogi said, “Sounds good to me.”

  “Agh!” she said back.

  About that time, the cavalry arrived. The first thing they did was pull Yogi away from the bloody thing on the floor. Someone turned on the lights, and she tried to see who the Elvis was since his mask had come off. He looked vaguely familiar, though it was hard to tell because of the swelling, blood, and shoe imprints on his face.

  Cops got busy, hauling the Elvis to his feet, slapping handcuffs on his wrists and reading him his rights. If not for Morgan, they may well have taken Yogi in, too. Assault and attempted murder charges wouldn’t help her father’s lifestyle. After convincing his fellow officers that Yogi had only acted in defense of his daughter, Morgan turned to look at her.

  “Hi there,” she said through swollen lips. “Fancy seeing you here.”

  “Why do you always go for the crotch?” He didn’t sound really mad about it. He must have been thinking of their first encounter, when she’d kicked him in the crotch, too.

  “It just seems the right thing to do,” she said.

  He smiled. “Rules according to Harley.”

  “Yep. Always seems to work.”

  “You know, I may just leave you tied up. It’s kind of sexy.”

  She lifted an eye brow. “I’m not really into the bondage thing.”

  “The longer I know you, the more it seems appropriate. Insurance against your uncanny ability to get in trouble.”

  Rather indignant, she said, “Trouble always finds me, I don’t go looking for it, you know.”

  “It’s the same thing. By the way, you’ve just been rescued again.”

  “Well, if I had to depend on my guards, I wouldn’t have gotten rescued at all! Breaking the window is what helped. That I did all by myself.”

  “So you did. Guess I’ll untie you, though it’s against my better judgment.”

  She tried to blow a raspberry but her lips didn’t cooperate. She settled for a glare instead.

  Just as Morgan got her wrists and ankles loose, a loud noise came from outside the door. “I’m one of her guards and I’m going in! Move out of my way or I’ll have to get ugly.”

  One of the cops stuck his head into the office. “There’s a woman�
�or guy—out here who says she’s—he’s?—a guard. Looks like Priscilla Presley.”

  “Let Priscilla in,” Morgan sounded amused.

  Tootsie burst into the room. His wig was askew, and he clattered across the floor on high heels. “Are you all right?” He looked anxious.

  Harley coughed. “I’m fine. Honest. Just a little bruised.”

  He still looked worried, but he calmed down a bit. Then he looked at the unmasked Elvis and his eyes got really big. “Jimmy Horton? You’re the killer?”

  Jimmy Horton. His face was so battered it was hard to tell if he was even human, but apparently Tootsie knew how. Horton glared at Tootsie. “If it wasn’t for you, my father never would have gone to prison, you queer!”

  “Sticks and stones. And it wasn’t me who got him into prison. He did it all by himself.”

  “He’d have made things right. You wouldn’t listen, you or that bastard Penney!”

  “Just how would he have made things right? He didn’t have any of the money left that he stole. He’d spent it all, down to a couple of thousand. Hardly enough to cover the couple hundred thousand he took.”

  “You didn’t give him a chance. You had to drag the cops into it. I had to watch while he went through a trial and got sent to that hell of prison. Every time I visit him, he’s got new bruises, new cuts. He doesn’t deserve that.”

  “You’ll forgive me if I don’t agree,” Tootsie said. “He committed a crime and a jury decided he’d done it. It wasn’t exactly a shock since he’d left so many clues.”

  “No one would have noticed if not for you!”

  Tootsie looked at him for a minute, and then asked, “So you think killing innocent people is a good payback?”

  “It ruined your business, didn’t it? It was too damned easy to hack into your computers and find out everything I needed to know. Seems like you aren’t the great computer whiz you pretend to be.”

  “But what did Lydia do to you?”

  Horton shrugged. “Nothing. I wanted to hurt Lester. It worked out pretty well.”

  Harley felt like smacking the smug bastard. She took a step forward, but Morgan grabbed her arm. “Don’t worry. He’ll get what’s coming to him.”

  Sneering, Horton said, “Not unless you can prove it. You won’t find any evidence that can convict me.”

  Morgan smiled. “I think the DNA we got from one of the crime scenes will be enough to send you to prison for a long, long time.”

  Horton stared at him, obviously stunned. “I made sure I didn’t leave any—”

  “Lydia caught you. She got skin under her fingernails when she tried to fight you off. You should have been more careful.” One of the officers took Horton roughly by the arm and shoved him toward the door. As they passed out the door, Tootsie swung his heavy purse and hit Horton a good clip on the chin. He tried to hit him again, but an officer caught his arm.

  “That’s enough, Priscilla.”

  The last thing Harley heard Horton say was that he’d have all their badges, that he hadn’t done anything wrong. She turned around to look at Morgan and Tootsie.

  “He’s nuts. Can he get off on an insanity plea?”

  “Doubtful,” Morgan said. “He was sane enough to plan a complicated series of murders. Besides, no prosecutor would allow it.”

  “Good. He deserves to fry. Is Tennessee a death penalty state?”

  “Vicious little thing, aren’t you.”

  Harley nodded. “Only when necessary.”

  Morgan grinned. “You’re something, you know that?”

  “Yes. It’s one of my better virtues.”

  Tootsie took her home. Her apartment was still a mess, but Frank seemed happy enough. He made chuckling noises in his glass tank, and nibbled on some ferret food.

  “Home sweet home.” Harley collapsed into one of her overstuffed chairs. It tilted to the right. A brief examination revealed a broken leg. One of the hazards of getting mixed up with a serial killer, she thought.

  “Sit up,” Tootsie said, and she looked at him.

  “What’s that?”

  “Neosporin, a warm washrag, and bandages. I’m going to clean you up and take care of your face. Then I’ll put some ice on your mouth. You look like a duck.”

  She sat up in the tilting chair and muttered, “Flattery will get you anywhere.” After Tootsie did his doctor routine and left, she went out onto her balcony and called for Sam. He didn’t answer. Where was he? Was he lost and gone forever? The thought depressed her and left tears in her eyes. She sniffled.

  “I’m getting to be too much like Cami,” she sighed, and went back inside. The sight of his litter box didn’t help. As late as it was, she decided to go down and look in the trap under the bushes to see if he’d been fooled into going for the can of tuna.

  He hadn’t. The trap had, however, snared a raccoon that didn’t look at all happy. It curled tiny fingers in the wire and stuck its nose through one of the small squares. Beady eyes looked at her hopefully. She tried not to notice.

  “Are you the little beast who gets into the garbage dump all the time? You make quite a mess, you know. I shouldn’t let you go.”

  She let it go, of course. It sprang out from the trap and attached itself to her leg. She screeched. That scared the raccoon so badly it fell off her leg. Then it took off for wherever it was urban raccoons went.

  A little shaken, Harley didn’t bother to reset the trap. Apparently Sam wasn’t coming back anytime soon. If at all.

  When she went back into the apartment building and stepped into the entrance hall, a door opened. Sarah Simon peered out through the narrow space between the chain-locked door and the door frame.

  “Did you lose a cat?”

  Harley’s stomach jumped. She nodded. “Yes. A loud Siamese. Have you seen him?”

  Sarah nodded. “He’s in my bathroom. Come and get him. He won’t use the newspapers.”

  Sam is used to more pleasant living arrangements, Harley thought as Sarah closed the door and undid the chain.

  Sarah’s apartment was piled high with magazines and newspapers. It was clean but cluttered, with stuff sitting everywhere. A big-screen TV sat against one wall, and a huge chair had been placed in front of it. Tables held more figurines and magazines.

  “How did you find him?” Harley asked as she followed Sarah through the maze toward the bathroom.

  “I didn’t. He found me. I heard him scratching on my window screen, and when I saw it was a cat and not a murderer I let him in. My cat died a few months ago, and I thought maybe the fairies sent me a new one.”

  “Uh huh,” Harley said. Sarah might be nuts, but at least she didn’t seem homicidal. It did explain a lot of her behavior.

  Sarah opened her bathroom door and Sam shot out like a rocket. His fur stood straight out and up, and he looked pissed. Halfway across the room and somewhere in the maze, he must have noticed Harley. He came back a little at a time. When he peered around a stack of Victoria magazines, he saw Harley and his eyes narrowed into blue slits. She couldn’t tell if he was happy to see her or just mad because she’d taken so long to come get him.

  “Are you sure that’s your cat?” Sarah asked doubtfully, and Harley nodded.

  “Oh yeah. I can tell by the bad attitude.”

  Sam minced over to her and hissed, then leaped up so that she had to grab him or risk his claws raking down her front. He started to purr and rub his whiskers against her face, and then dug his claws into her arm.

  “I think he’s ready to go home now,” Harley said as she carefully dislodged him from her forearm. “You don’t know how grateful I am that you took him in. If there’s ever anything you need, just let me know and I’ll do my best to help out.”

  “There is one thing,” Sarah said. “You could stop having murderous maniacs up to your apartment. The neighbors are talking.”

  “Will do.”

  Harley left, crooning to Sam as she went upstairs. As soon as she unlocked her door and stepped into th
e living room, he made a leap from her arms and a mad dash under her bed. She didn’t much blame him. It must have been an exhausting few days for him.

  Before she went to bed, Harley called Cami and told her Sam was back. “In good shape and as ornery as ever.”

  “Oh, I’m so relieved. Where was he?”

  “In a neighbor’s apartment. Sarah Simon. She thought the fairies brought him.”

  “What?”

  “True story. Oh, and the killer’s in jail. I’ll tell you all about it when I come out of the coma I’m planning, okay?”