Oops! (Alo Nudger Book 10)

by John Lutz

  He wandered about and introduced himself, engaging in self-conscious small talk; the night was perfect, the grounds were beautiful, the spicy meatballs were delicious, though somehow he’d spotted his tie with their sauce. He shook hands with a man named Craighower, whose fingers were calloused from his work as a carpenter for one of the big residential building firms in town. After Craighower he met Jim Partridge, who he knew was a former arson investigator who’d been dismissed by the city five years ago, suspected of stealing from the debris of burned buildings. A bespectacled man with a full gray beard and a tweedy coat as out of season as Nudger’s jacket introduced himself as Clyde Bolton and was exactly what he appeared to be, a retired physics professor.

  Nudger saw Lacy talking to a group of five men, who were all grinning and staring at her as if she were a delightful alien who’d just dropped from the sky. They were flirting furiously with her; Nudger knew she was only pretending to flirt. Well, he hoped that was the case ...

  The innocuous music suddenly ceased. “We set sail in ten minutes,” declared Hart’s raspy voice over the speaker system. “More drinks and hors d’oeuvres on board.”

  “Will that boat hold all of us?” Nudger heard a woman ask.

  “Sure,” a man said. “Blue Destiny is an oceangoing yacht. Hart sometimes takes it all the way downriver and out into the gulf.”

  Nudger was relieved to hear that. The boat didn’t look all that large to him, either. But maybe there was a deceptive amount of room below deck.

  He and Lacy made their way down toward the dock.

  Before descending the rough-hewn wooden steps, she stopped and touched Nudger’s arm.

  “I’m not going,” she said softly.

  “Lacy—”

  “We don’t want to argue about it here,” she said, stepping aside to let a man and woman pass. “As far as you know, I’m on board the boat.”

  Before he could say anything else, she drifted off into darkness.

  He caught sight of her for just a moment, crossing a lighted area of yard up near the house. He recognized her slight limp, but she appeared to have removed her spike-heeled shoes.

  Not liking this turn of events, he boarded the big cabin cruiser. Hoo-boy! Nudger’s stomach became queasy even though the boat was still moored and merely bobbing gently at the dock.

  On deck level, just below the bridge, was a surprisingly large lounge with a bright blue carpet and curtains, and a gleaming mahogany bar at one end. Most of the guests had found their way into the lounge and were standing about, some of them talking and laughing as they eased toward the bar, where a brawny man in a white jacket was filling their orders for drinks.

  A ship’s bell bonged three times. Apparently that was some kind of joke known to some of the guests, because a few of them laughed about it. Then almost all of them laughed; wanting to be among the in people. The bell was also a signal that the boat was pulling away from the dock. What had been a low rumble became louder as the powerful diesel engines churned water with their twin screws. The lounge tilted slightly as the boat’s bow lifted, and Nudger’s stomach lurched. He was afraid of what might happen when the boat got well out into the river.

  Music began seeping from speakers mounted around the lounge. Johnny Mathis began to croon. Nudger found himself standing by the bar and ordered a club soda, hoping it would help settle his stomach. After a couple of sips, he felt sicker.

  Craving fresh air, he elbowed his way through the crowded lounge and went back on deck. Half a dozen others were out on deck, leaning on the rail, watching the lights on shore glide past as the boat made its way downstream. The big diesels were rumbling softly again, letting the current do the work. Ahead of them, off to the right, Nudger could see a glow in the sky that must have been the lights of downtown St. Louis.

  Next to him, a woman remarked on what a neat ship Hart had.

  “It’s a boat,” the man with her said. “The way you can tell a ship from a boat is that a ship is big enough to carry a boat. This one is towing a dinghy.”

  “Dinky?” Nudger asked, curious.

  “Dinghy,” the man said with mock patience. He was a chesty guy with a bald head and seemed eager to show off his superior knowledge in front of the woman. “It’s a little boat, like a rowboat, towed by a bigger boat like this. It’s used to explore small tributaries or to go to shore wherever this boat can’t dock because of its size.”

  Nudger looked far back into the night and saw a small boat riding the water at the end of a long tow line.

  “We’re going to explore a tributary in that dinky?” the woman with the bald man asked.

  He turned away from Nudger, putting his arm around the woman’s waist. “Dinghy,” he corrected. Then he leaned closer and whispered something in her ear and she giggled.

  The diesels continued their steady rumble and the river rushed and slapped against the hull as the boat gently rocked. And rocked and rocked.

  Hating himself for this—becoming seasick not even on an ocean but on a river—Nudger leaned with both elbows on the rail. He took deep breaths of the river air, trying to settle his stomach.

  Nausea assailed him in ocean-sized waves. Along with fear, because his seasickness incapacitated him.

  He knew there were no sharks in the river. But he also knew there were some on it, as ravenous and vicious as their ocean counterparts.

  And he stood among them.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Lacy stayed concealed behind some bushes near the corner of the house and watched Blue Destiny veer away from the dock and head downriver. For a minute or so she could hear music wafting from it, then the sound faded on the river breeze, and the boat’s lights passed beyond a bend.

  She wasn’t sure what she might find in the house, but she was sure this was the ideal time to look. Everyone other than the caterers, dutifully cleaning up, was out on the boat. And after the last time she and Nudger had entered the house, Hart wouldn’t imagine either of them had the nerve to try again so soon.

  She left the cover of the foliage and walked toward the patio and French doors where she and Nudger had tried to enter the last time they were here. If anyone from the catering company happened to notice her, they wouldn’t see anything suspicious, merely one of the guests, the attractive—Lacy smiled—woman they’d no doubt noticed in the sexy black dress, strolling along the grounds.

  The French doors were locked this time, too.

  But Lacy was sure that with all the guests and help wandering around the estate this evening, the alarm system would be turned off.

  She removed the contents of her little sequined black handbag—tissues, chewing gum, a pen light, and a package of condoms—and fit the tiny purse over her fist like a glove, then punched out the pane of glass near the latch. It was the first time she’d found one of those glittery little evening bags really useful.

  Without hesitation, she reached in, unlocked the doors, and pushed inside the house.

  Despite her pounding heart, she was happy to breathe cooled air and feel some of the perspiration start to evaporate on her damp skin. When she was sure she was alone, she stuffed her small and scant possessions back into her evening bag and tried to see where she was.

  The room was dark, like most of the house, and she didn’t dare switch on a light. Avoiding the hulking shapes of furniture and what looked like sculpture, she made her way across the room, then out into a dark hall. There she fished her penlight out of her bag and flashed its narrow yellow beam around.

  This was a different hall from the one she and Nudger had been in during the last break-in. The vast house must be a labyrinth.

  Shielding the beam with her hand, she moved slowly along the corridor, trying one closed door after another.

  Each door was locked, which was odd.

  But one of the doors, near the end of the hall, had at its base a horizontal bar of light. Half of the bar dimmed, then brightened again.

  Someone was in that room.


  Lacy approached the door carefully and tried the knob.

  This door was locked like the others.

  She pressed her ear to the door and could hear voices.

  At first she thought there were several people in the room, talking excitedly, interrupting each other. She strained to hear.

  Then she recognized one of the voices as belonging to Wilma Flintstone.

  And there was Fred.

  Yabadabadoo, she thought.

  She had an idea who might be inside the room. She knocked softly on the door, hoping it wasn’t an adult nostalgia buff watching the Flintstones.

  The voices died and there was only silence for a long time.

  Lacy knocked again.

  “Who is it?”

  A young girl’s voice—Lacy was sure. Very young. “Tanya?”

  “What?”

  “I need to come in and talk to you,” Lacy said softly.

  “You can’t. It’s against the rules.”

  “Unlock the door,” Lacy pleaded. “Please!”

  “That’s against the rules, I told you.”

  “Is anyone in there with you?” Lacy was reasonably sure there wouldn’t be, with the door locked.

  A pause. Then: “No.”

  “Then break the rules,” Lacy urged. “Neither of us will ever tell. I want to help you, Tanya. Do you understand?”

  “I don’t have a key. I can’t unlock the door.”

  Lacy thought about kicking the door open, but her legs were still unsteady, and she might reinjure her heels. By the beam of her penlight, she examined the door. It was an old six-panel creation, not particularly thick and strong. And its hardware would be old and weak, possibly fastened with rusty screws.

  Possibly.

  “Stand back away from the door,” she instructed softly.

  There was no answer.

  Hoping the girl was out of the way, Lacy drew a deep breath, stepped back against the wall opposite the door, and flung herself at it.

  Bounced off it.

  “Damn!” she said, holding her shoulder.

  But through her pain she’d felt the door give slightly, and she hadn’t made much noise.

  She picked up the narrow runner on the hall floor and folded it several times. Using it for a pad over her still throbbing shoulder, she ran at the door again.

  It gave again.

  Lacy tried again.

  Again.

  And the door flew open.

  The girl who’d been at the pool was standing near a large-screen TV that was now silently playing a Flintstones cartoon video. She was wearing a yellow T-shirt, white shorts, and pink rubber thongs. The room held a canopy bed, a white dresser and vanity, pink curtains, and a doll collection in a tall bookcase. A girl’s room.

  “Are you a relative of Mr. Hart?” Lacy asked, making herself smile at Tanya, who up close looked about ten or twelve years old.

  Tanya didn’t appear afraid. Her expression was neutral, as if she might be in mild shock. And her eyes didn’t look quite right, her pupils slightly enlarged. Lacy wondered if she was drugged.

  “Do you live here?” Lacy asked.

  “Right now I do. I ...” Her gaze wandered and she looked confused. Lacy recognized that unblinking hesitancy. She was sure the girl was drugged.

  She moved toward her to hug her. “I want you to come with me, honey.”

  “I don’t think so,” a deep voice said.

  Lacy turned to see the pointy-headed giant, Ratko, standing in the doorway. He was wearing faded Levi cutoffs and was shirtless and shoeless. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen, as if he’d just awakened. There was a large gauze bandage taped over his right side, and his left arm was in a sling. So he had been driving the monster truck the night of the attack on Peterson Road.

  “Have an accident?” Lacy asked, backing away.

  The giant didn’t say no thanks, just had one. Lacy lost some respect for him, but the memory of what he’d done to her was still vivid and crippling. On quaking legs, she backed away from him.

  Grinning with his peculiar pointed teeth, he reached around to a sheath at the small of his back and drew his huge bowie knife.

  “I’m going to cut farther up this time,” Ratko said. “And farther in.” He had an accent but spoke English well enough to be easily understood.

  He stepped past Tanya, who was standing and staring with her mouth open, and casually shoved her back against a wall. She sank to the floor and curled up tightly, staring down at the carpet.

  “I know you don’t have a gun anywhere on you, in that dress,” Ratko said to Lacy. He blatantly leered at her.

  “Don’t underestimate an American woman,” she warned.

  He shrugged. “It means something special that you’re an American?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, you’re patriotic. That makes no difference. Where I come from patriotism is a disease—people catch it and almost always they die.”

  “Get out of here!” Lacy yelled at Tanya. “Run, honey!”

  The girl didn’t move.

  “She only does what she’s told,” Ratko explained. “She’s been well trained. Not like you at all. Now I’ll show you what happens to women like you who think they are special because they’re patriotic.”

  He lowered himself into a crouch and moved to the side, cutting off any hope Lacy had of reaching the door.

  What she reached was a Suzy Doll on the shelf near the bed. She recognized Suzy from when she was the hottest-selling toy two Christmases ago. Suzy had big hair and big boobs and was, all in all, a healthy, hefty girl. Lacy hurled her at Ratko’s injured arm.

  He grinned wider and spun away, but not quite fast enough. Suzy struck his bandaged ribs.

  The grin disappeared and he grunted in pain.

  “For that you will pay,” he said.

  Lacy hurled another doll from the collection at him and he danced aside, causing her to miss. That was okay. She’d only wanted to distract him for a moment while she hiked up her skirt and bent to tear loose the gun that was taped snugly against her inner thigh.

  Ratko appeared stunned when he focused his gaze on her again and she was aiming a gun at his bare chest.

  Then he grinned, letting her know the gun made no difference and he was still in control. He deliberately dropped his knife on the floor so that he was unarmed, then spread his huge arms wide.

  “I don’t think you want to use that gun,” he said, slowly advancing on her. “You are a beautiful and gentle woman who could never harm an unarmed human being. I can tell that from the lilt in your voice and the softness in your eyes.”

  Gee, he was convincing, a giant with the soul of a poet.

  “I know that look,” he continued. “My mother had that same softness and goodness on her face and in her heart. She could deliberately hurt no one. As you can’t. The gun is heavy and shaking because you are one of the lovely and compassionate lambs of the world, not one of those who would inflict pain. You can’t change what you are. You’re trembling. It is impossible for you to squeeze that trigger.” He smiled and extended his hand for the gun.

  “You guys who can turn it on and off amaze me,” Lacy said, and shot him six times.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Feeling not at all better, Nudger straightened up from the rail. He saw that the lights of downtown St. Louis were closer now, and he wondered when Hart was going to turn the boat around and head back upriver.

  The river seemed rougher out here in the middle, and Nudger didn’t think he’d be able to stand his seasickness much longer without doing something embarrassing. He pried another antacid tablet off the roll he’d brought with him and popped it into his mouth and chewed. It didn’t seem to help. Nothing seemed to help. His stomach continued its nauseating rock and roll.

  If only he knew that soon the boat would be going back, he could find comfort in anticipating the end of his agony. Bumping into the fat bald man with his arm around the girl, Nudger pushed away from
the rail and ignored their hostile glares. He lurched along the deck toward the lounge, hoping to find Wayne Hart or a bathroom, whichever came first.

  But he could find neither.

  Finally a man in a white uniform, whom Nudger assumed must work on the boat, grinned at him and pointed toward a small passageway. “Head’s down there,” he said, and hurried on his way.

  Nudger wondered what the man had meant. ’Head man,’ maybe. Hart.

  He ducked low and made his way along the passageway.

  Soon he was overjoyed to find a bathroom. But before he could enter, a woman in a blue dress smiled at him and squeezed in ahead of him.

  Nudger stood swaying out in the corridor, or passageway, or whatever. He wasn’t in the mood to guess at nautical nomenclature. He put his right arm out and braced himself against the motion of the boat. To his left was a narrow door labeled LIFE PRESERVERS. That was clear enough. He saw that the door was unlatched, opened it, and found a tall, narrow cabinet—empty.

  His mind began to turn despite his seasickness. Fear found its way into his discomfort. Or maybe it was his nausea that was keeping him from thinking clearly. Maybe he was being an alarmist.

  Still, he couldn’t ignore the possibility that the terrible thought that had crept into his mind like an unwanted, dangerous stranger might be right. Too many signs pointed to it: the missing life preservers, the guest list, the nighttime excursion, even Hart’s uncharacteristic and impractical dark suit on such a warm night.

  Forgetting about the bathroom, he made his way back up on deck, then to the boat’s stern. He gazed back into the night.

  He knew then that he was right about Close Calls, about this party, about the guests, about why they’d all been invited, then herded onto Blue Destiny.

  The music was still playing, and everyone was chatting and drinking and having a grand time. No one noticed that Nudger had climbed up on a hatch cover until he shouted over the sound of the music and laughter.

  “Hart’s gone!” he yelled. “There are no life preservers on board! The dinky’s gone!”