Orb

by Arp, David E. ;

  He didn’t want to say it, but they weren’t looking for a friend. A friend doesn’t cut his friend’s throat. “Meshach is the only name we have.”

  Liz looked between them again. “Really, like the man from the fire? Strange name for this day and time anyway. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of that name outside of the Scriptures.”

  “Was your son in the armed services? Law enforcement? Did his current job have security risks he might have mentioned?” Wes said.

  She shook her head at each question. “He worked on slot machines.”

  Wes went through the info in his mind. “Does the name Marlin Sands ring a bell? Lane sent him a text just before, well, that evening.”

  “Yes, Lane went to school with Marlin. The detective mentioned Marlin this morning, but he didn’t say anything about a text. Like I told him, I believe Marlin runs a pawnshop for his father, off the strip, or casino alley if you will, on the north side. What kind of text?”

  “He typed ‘never guess who I saw?’ That’s why I think Lane knew the man in question.”

  “Where did Lane go to high school?” Jess said.

  “Canyon Springs. Not far from here.”

  “Could we look at yearbooks, old photos, baseball and football team pictures? That type of thing,” Wes asked.

  “Well,” Liz stood. “Lane didn’t play sports because of me, or his dad, actually. He took a job working for a local landscaping company when he got old enough to drive. As you can see, we don’t have much. I never remarried and would have never made it without Lane. Come on. You’re welcome to look at anything I’ve got if it will help catch the man who murdered my son.”

  They followed the woman down a short hallway into a small bedroom. A single bed covered with a blue comforter sat under the only window opposite of the door. A six-drawer chest made of oak stood to the left. On top of the chest, closest to the head of the bed, sat a small wooden box full of change, two Titleist golf balls, and one red tee. In the corner, a metal desk held an older model computer with a huge, bulky monitor. The floor was tiled in brown linoleum. An area rug with a bright southwest theme covered the center of the room.

  Wes stroked the top of the oak chest. Smooth. Well-built.

  “Lane made that in shop when he was a senior. He loved woodworking.” Liz turned and pointed at a corkboard on the wall between the door and the computer. “That’s a picture of Lane and his girl, Olivia. She sure loved my son. Poor thing is a wreck.”

  Lane looked his youth, blond hair and lots of it, high cheekbones and green eyes. The girl looked of Spanish descent, eyes as black as her long hair. The picture caught a great moment. Her chin was raised, eyes bright and fixed upon the man she obviously loved.

  What would it be like to have a woman look at him like that?

  Liz opened the bi-fold door to the closet. The usual line of shirts and pants hung from the bar. A set of golf clubs rested against the wall to one side. An assortment of shoes and boots lined the wall on the floor. She pointed to the shelf. “I can’t reach them, but help yourself.”

  Wes grabbed a stack of three yearbooks and one photo album.

  Liz tapped Wes’s elbow and pointed again. “Grab that shoebox too. It’s full of old pictures. You can take any or all if you must, but I want them back.”

  Wes complied, grabbing the items, and placed everything on the bed. “No, ma’am, all we need to do is take pictures. These new iPhones have great lenses.”

  “Well, you help yourself then. I’m going to sit this out if you don’t mind.” She walked to the doorway and stopped. “I wonder why the New Orleans detective didn’t ask to look at pictures?”

  “Well,” Wes said, “I don’t think they’ve put all the pieces together yet. I promise you we’ll be communicating anything we find with them when the time comes.”

  Jess watched her walk away then turned to Wes. “Poor woman is heart-broken.”

  “I know. Let’s get this done and go.”

  Jess scanned through the yearbooks.

  Wes sorted the pictures. Lane on a tricycle, holding a small catfish, standing next to a black and white pony, on the golf course leaning on a driver next to another kid. Most of the pictures included the man who had to be his father. They looked alike.

  The photos could be stacked, thumbed like a deck of cards, and the sequence would take the viewer through Lane’s life, from toddler into manhood. About halfway through, the poses with fish, ponies, and dad abruptly stopped. Cancer took the male influence.

  Not a dozen pictures depicted kids other than Lane. Two were poor snaps of a Cub Scout or Webelo Troop on an outing in the desert.

  Wes wrapped up his end of the project and placed the shoebox back on the shelf. “Not much here.”

  Jess used her iPhone and took pictures, turning pages in a yearbook one by one. “Not in these either. No one stands out at first glance. Meshach is over six feet tall and could have been full-grown or close to it by the time he was a senior, but none of the athletes in any sport fit his description. I’m just taking pictures of groups of kids. I had an idea too. Several websites exist where you can search for old school mates. Might be a good place for Tony’s skills. Look in the yearbooks of other local schools.”

  “Yes, you’re correct. We’ll give him a call tonight. You done?”

  “I am.” She closed the last book and handed it to Wes. “Lane was typical. Not many pictures of him. Looked like a happy kid, though. He wasn’t a jock or a nerd. Just there.”

  Wes replaced the books and turned off the light on the way out. He remembered kids he went to school with who were there, in the background. He talked to them, liked them, but outside of class, if they didn’t have something to do with sports, they didn’t hang out. Just the way it was.

  They found Liz in the green chair, sitting in silence, legs pulled up and arms wrapped around her knees.

  “Liz, we’ve got what we need. I’m going to leave my card for you, in case you remember something. I’ll call if I have news. Anything we find we’ll turn over to the authorities of course.” He held his business card so she could see it and placed it on the piano top.

  The evening sun shone bright, but the room sat in a pall of unlit gloom. The poor woman was on the edge of losing it.

  Jess knelt in front of her. “Can we do something for you? Do you have someone who can stay with you?”

  When she didn’t reply, Jess looked at Wes. “I’m not leaving. I’ll call you in the morning.”

  20

  Thursday afternoon, Venice

  Meshach locked his new ride and surveyed the area as he walked down the narrow path onto the cypress landing toward his camp house. Shanteel’s place appeared to be vacant. No car. His boat sat in the slip next to the other three. Two men stood on the deck of the first camp. Smoke billowed from a black barbeque grill. It was that time of the day.

  Too far for conversation, one guy waved by raising his glass of whatever. Meshach nodded then ignored him. He didn’t want a spur-of-the-moment invitation to decline.

  As he ascended the stairs to his house, he noticed a smudge on the toe of each wooden step. Not a smudge, but a slight scuff exposing un-weathered wood. Something narrow and heavy had been dragged on the stairs. He slowed, did another quick scan of the area, and reached around to the small of his back with his right hand to touch the .45 tucked in his belt.

  At the door, he checked for the tattletale, a small length of blue thread from the sheet covering the anchor he’d trapped in the door when he left that morning. It was gone.

  He palmed the pistol and thumbed back the hammer.

  Opening the screen door, he turned the knob. Locked. No sign of forced entry. Both of the windows within sight were intact, but something didn’t smell right. He tried to think. Was the object taken in or out of the house and if out, what weighed enough to cause the damage?

  The key slid into the lock with little more than a click. He turned the knob and eased open the door.

  The
air conditioning hummed. Panes of glass in the French doors framed new patio furniture on the deck outside. Scott had pulled cardboard encased furniture up the steps into the house.

  Meshach slammed the front door, secured the .45 and placed the pistol on the island next to the sink. He took a long deep breath then let it out. Scott’s lucky he wasn’t caught in the act. Since when does someone, owner or not, enter an occupied rental uninvited, other than a hotel room for cleaning?

  He checked each room. Nothing looked out of place. His bed and backpack remained as he’d left them. Each cache of money was undisturbed.

  Back in the kitchen, he turned on his computer and eyed the new patio additions. Scott used the cash Meshach gave him well. He’d up-graded to a slate-topped table and added two outdoor recliners to the mix. If the next tenant decided to throw an anchor on the table, it wouldn’t make such a racket.

  The broken glass from the previous piece had been swept up.

  He logged on. Lamech hadn’t posted squat.

  What is he waiting for? The right time? Meshach thought all along Lamech was a go-between, not the boss. The longer this went on, the more convinced he was.

  It wasn’t Meshach’s right time Lamech waited on. The job would be over if he had anything to say about it.

  He typed interesting trip to paris eye out appreciated paused then reread it twice before posting it.

  He checked the weather—forty percent chance of thunderstorms tonight, fifty Friday and sixty Saturday. In Louisiana, that meant rain, period. That’s about right. He’d bet money Lamech would give him the go-ahead when the weather beat its worst.

  He hated waiting.

  Someone knocked on the front door. He grabbed the .45 and peeked around the corner. He had to look twice. Hair in a tight bun, white blouse, and modest black shorts gave Shanteel a schoolteacher look.

  The woman was like waking up from a bad dream only to lay back, close your eyes, and discover the nightmare had only paused and continued to play.

  Where had she come from? He glanced behind her house again, no car.

  She knocked a second time, but more persistent. “Helloooo.”

  He’d heard that croon before. She knew he was home.

  He opened the door.

  “Hi,” she said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

  “Hi, back.”

  She held up two bottles of beer and looked toward her house and back. “I saw you drive up. What happened to your car?”

  “Traded it. Where’s yours?”

  “Having it detailed. Too bad about your ride. The one out back looks used.”

  “It is,” he said.

  “I only meant…I don’t know. Are you going to invite me in or what?” She held up the beer again, as though the suds would sweeten the offer.

  He thought or what sounded good, but he nudged open the screen door with his foot.

  Her walk looked choreographed. Moving that many body parts in sync over and over with every step took effort and practice.

  She passed him a beer on the way in and took a survey of the room. “Looks like our place. The layout I mean.” She pulled out a barstool and made herself at home at the island across from him.

  “Shanteel, what can I do for you?”

  “You can start by opening this.” She slid her beer across the counter and propped her chin on her fists, elbows on the table.

  He twisted off the top and handed the lukewarm bottle back. Cold beer wasn’t his favorite. Warm beer didn’t rank anywhere on the chart.

  “So?” she said, taking a sip.

  “So what?” He laid the .45 on the counter and set his unopened beer down next to it.

  She thumped her bottle down hard enough for the beer to foam and ooze over the snout. She eyed the pistol. “You’re so exasperating.”

  “Look…Shanteel…you knocked on my door. Let me demonstrate how this works. Start a knock-knock joke.”

  She stared, blinked. “Excuse me. Start one?”

  “Shanteel. You start it. Go ahead. Say knock-knock.”

  A sigh accompanied rolled eyes. “Knock-knock.”

  “Who’s there?”

  “You’re not funny.” After another noisy sip at the foam, she used the bottle to indicate the .45. “I’ve got one just like it. My…a friend gave it to me.”

  “The cop?” Meshach leaned against the counter.

  She couldn’t talk without another sip of beer first. “How do you know about him?”

  “I saw him slap you.”

  “And you just watched?” Now she was huffy.

  Meshach laughed at her. “Quite the show. Besides, it looked to me like Barney is the one who needed to be rescued. What’s he to you anyway?”

  This time she threw her head back and took a big drink. Her eyes rapidly scanned the ceiling. He knew the exercise. She was busy searching each quadrant of her brain for the best lie to tell. He could see her thinking about the answer that would better her chances of what, a one-night stand or a happy-ever-after with her big hunk?

  Wasn’t happening.

  She pinched off the flow of beer with the smack of her lips and gave a satisfied sigh. “What happened to your eye?”

  She could change the subject without blinking.

  “My dad knocked it out for me.”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “OK, he didn’t.”

  “Did he really?” Her eyes narrowed, furrowing the dark, painted brows.

  “You said he didn’t.”

  Now she was stumped.

  Meshach pushed off the counter and stepped to the sink. “Look, you believe what you want to. I don’t care one way or the other. I told you he did, and you said he didn’t.”

  She eyed him and took a sip. “I don’t think I like you.”

  Now they were getting somewhere.

  With one swift motion, she flung the beer bottle at him.

  Before she’d finished the move, Meshach grabbed her by the front of her white shirt and jerked her out of the chair. He held her on her back, stretched out on top of the island.

  “Listen.”

  She kicked and screamed, and he shook her once, hard enough to make her quit thrashing. Then he leaned over her, breath to hot breath. Her blazing eyes searched his face and focused on his good eye. Her lips curled, baring teeth he had no doubt she’d sink into him if given the chance.

  He moved slowly, deliberately, rubbing his unshaved-cheek against hers. Her chest rose and fell. With each rapid pant came the odor of cheap beer. Her heart pounded like a trapped rabbit’s. His lips touched her lips, her chin and cheek, then, floating on his hot breath, he skimmed the softness of her neck to the peach fuzz on her bare earlobe.

  A quick tremor rippled through her.

  He turned loose of her throat and dragged the back of his hand across her thin shoulder, down the sleeve and onto the goose bumps covering her arm.

  “I don’t like you either,” he whispered for her ears only.

  He released her and stood.

  She took one deep breath, squalled, flipped to her stomach like a feral cat and grabbed his .45. Before he could blink, she had the hammer back. The muzzle came up only inches from his face. He jerked his head right, out of the line of fire, and swept his right hand left for the automatic. As he gripped the pistol, thrusting it toward the ceiling, pain seared the end of his little finger.

  Shanteel spun off the countertop and darted for the entryway. She scooted through the screen door and down the steps at a run.

  Meshach eased the hammer back to release his lacerated and bloody fingertip.

  He’d looked at death many times. How exhilarating.

  21

  Thursday night

  Meshach sat in the dark living room watching Shanteel’s house through the open patio doors. His backpack at his feet contained the computer, the cash, all of it. Just in case.

  Lightning flashed offshore. A gust moved the curtains. The thunderstorms had arrived. Weather was
as unpredictable as the broad who’d stuck his own pistol in his face. She’d nearly killed him. Only a finger’s width away. He grinned at that thought. She’d never know.

  Headlights topped the levee—an unrelated vehicle, someone returning her car, or the poster boy cop? A glimpse at the bridge of lights mounted on top of the car told him the latter. A man exited the cruiser and walked toward Shanteel’s. He was off duty, dressed in civilian clothes, but no doubt still armed.

  He trotted up the stairs to the front door and entered without knocking. The door slammed. Another light came on.

  Meshach glanced at his watch: 11:07. He’d like to hear that conversation. He’d bet money it was one-sided.

  Lightning illuminated heavy, menacing clouds. The smell of rain rode on a cooler wind. Wouldn’t be long reaching the area now.

  Minutes passed: 11:21. The front door opened. The cop stepped out and slammed the door behind him. He walked with authority and determination. Either the wildcat had tried to emasculate him again, and he was fleeing for his life, or he was out to avenge the slight she’d suffered. He trotted down the steps. As he reached the walkway that would take him back to his car, another quick flash of lightning flared almost on top of them. The thunderous crack stopped him in his tracks.

  Hard to tell what direction he looked, but Meshach could guess. Another bolt arced cloud to cloud. The guy stood with his hands planted on his hips, staring toward Meshach.

  Could he see Meshach staring back from just inside the door? Meshach hoped he could.

  In a second, the distance between them filled with a torrent. Wind blew rain sideways through the doors into the living room. Lightning split the night in half, revealing emptiness where the cop had stood.

  ~*~

  Thursday night, Las Vegas

  Wes’s cell phone chirped as he walked through the door of the Hampton Inn, not far from the Woodard residence. He glanced at the display and answered. “Mr. Blackwell, good evening.”

  “How’s the desert sun treating you?”