Born To Bleed (The Roger Huntington Saga, Book 2)

by Ryan C. Thomas

  “Are you fucking serious? We haven’t overruled that bullshit timeframe? Teddy, there’s a full-on bloody handprint on the car. Trust me on this one, something is up. You for one should know that bad shit happens in a matter of minutes.”

  “I know, but I’m in New Hampshire, three thousand miles away. The cops there don’t know you and if they did they’d just think you were freaking out based on your past.”

  “C’mon! Okay, so what? I sit tight and see if they come back?”

  “Or call and report something suspicious, at least to get a cruiser out there. Talk to whoever shows up, but I can’t guarantee it’ll come to anything yet. Show them the blood. Give me your friend’s license plate number.”

  “Okay. Hang on.” I walked over to the car and read it to him. I also took a picture of the bloody handprint with my cell phone and sent it to his email for whatever good it would do.

  I could hear him booting up his home computer on the other end. “Okay. I’ll get her DMV photo from the database and see if I can’t get anyone else out there to look at it. The handprint might help, it might not.”

  “Thanks, Teddy. Now give me some advice: if it was you, and your friends disappeared, and you found fresh blood on their car--”

  “I’d go with my gut. Try to think like a perp and see what made sense. If it felt wrong, I’d call in my officers and get everyone out there.”

  “And the SUV?”

  “Well, if you believe it has something to do with this--”

  “They were definitely punchy-looking guys. Looked at us like they wanted to stomp us out.”

  “Ok. Well, I’d see if I could figure out which way it went.”

  “Already did, but a lot of cars go that way. Can you spot SUV treads?”

  “Sometimes. They’re bigger and wider. A lot them are non-directional--”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning the split in the middle of the tread will actually be off-center. The tires get rotated from the front axle to the back, but never from one side of the vehicle to the other, like you do with Sedans. But honestly, the odds--”

  “Ok, thanks. I’ll figure it out.”

  “Wait, Roger, don’t do anything dumb. Call the cops like I said and just give a bullshit report to get them out there. I’ll be in touch, okay?”

  We hung up. I was back at my car in seconds, bending over to study the various treads in the dirt lot. There were a shit load of them. Most were scuffed or only half visible. They all went the same route so what was I really hoping I’d find?

  There. Treads with an off-center split. Okay, so Teddy knew a lot about tires. Had to give him that. The tread led out to the back road, just like the guy with the dog had said. So far so good.

  I took Teddy’s advice and called the cops again, and this time they answered. I made up a story. “Hi, yeah, there’s some guys fighting out here at Corazon Del Agua. You should really send some cars.”

  The dispatcher told me she’d get the nearest car in the area to respond, then hung up.

  I waited another five minutes, my pulse getting faster with each ticking second. No cops arrived. Finally, I said screw it and drove out to the back road. The dirt lot gave over to asphalt. Different tire treads went left and right. I hopped out and bent down like some kind of wannabe forensic investigator, tried to make out treads from an SUV.

  “This is ridiculous.”

  Nothing.

  Back in the car, I sat staring out the windshield. The sky was deep pink now, maybe a half hour from complete sunset. Maybe less.

  I’d go with my gut.

  Taking a right would start me back toward civilization. Would they have gone back to a populated area?

  Try to think like a perp . . .

  Taking a left would put me out near the casino, into the desert. It was secluded, but that was the problem--nowhere to really go.

  If it felt wrong . . .

  It all felt wrong, and way too familiar.

  . . . I’d call in my officers and get everyone out there.

  It was just me out here.

  I went left.

  CHAPTER 7

  Nothing existed out in the direction I decided to head. I saw a couple of signs with mileage countdowns to the casino (30 miles, 25 miles, 20 miles . . .) but as far as the surrounding landscape was concerned, it was nothing but stretches of dirt, and the occasional cactus plant or sere shrubs. This was what they called “inland” in Southern California, a term that was generally spit out like an epithet. You didn’t venture inland unless you had given up on life, were headed to a casino, or had acquired some rustic, eroding property through a death in the family.

  I scanned the barren land around me as I drove, hoping for signs of something, anything, that might give insight into this strange situation. Just looked like a lot of empty earth to me.

  Of course rational thought tried to sway me the entire time. Maybe nothing happened. Maybe Gabe and Victoria were fucking in the bushes and didn’t want to be found. Maybe what you thought was blood was just strawberry juice.

  “Maybe you should shut the hell up and let me drive.”

  The sky was deep purple now, practically night. The hills became the shadowy humps of a giant beast undulating across the land; I was a mite running across its hide, driven by a need to feast on clarification. I had to know where they’d gone.

  The minutes passed in silence; I’d left the iPod off so I could think, but it wasn’t really amounting to much. I really wanted a cigarette.

  Gabe’s pack was still in my pocket so I took it out and lit up another one. Truth be told, I wasn’t a smoker, but there’s something to be said for the calming placebo effect of a good smoke. Call it sad justification if you want, it calmed my nerves.

  I rolled down the driver’s side window to let the smoke out, let the night air in--a peaceful trade. It was getting chilly outside, but the cool breeze helped keep me focused.

  “Where are you bastards?”

  No answer. Only a few cars passed me going the other way—-a bit odd for what I thought was a heavily-trafficked casino back route--after which I was mostly alone save for a pair of taillights up ahead. Could it be them? I doubted it. Still, I had to know so I sped up and got close. It was a beat up Hyundi something or other. I flashed on my highbeams and made out the silhouette of a woman driving. She flicked her mirror down to redirect the glare of my beams and flipped me off through the back window. Fair enough, I thought, and eased up off her ass.

  “C’mon, c’mon.” My urgent pleas for help drifted out the window with the smoke. “Just give me something. Where the hell would they go? The casino? What, are they all playing craps?”

  I pitched the spent cigarette out the window as I passed by a rocky ridge and my hat came off in the sudden wind. It whipped up, struck the ceiling of the car, and danced out the window.

  “You gotta be kidding me!”

  I hit the brakes and flipped a U-turn. Thankfully, I found it on the side of the road a few yards back, a little worse for wear. Not like the damn thing hadn’t seen enough hard times as it was. But it’s a sentimental article and I wasn’t about to let it go.

  I pulled over into the berm and kept my lights on it, got out and reached down for it. And shuddered.

  It was resting on tire tracks. Non-directional tread etched into the ground. The same from the lake.

  “Well I’ll be a two-headed camel in Ikea.”

  I bent down and got a closer look at the tracks, ran my hand over them. The dirt wasn’t hard or dry and it crumbled under my touch. Whether that categorized it as “fresh” I couldn’t tell you. But it certainly wasn’t old.

  The tracks turned off the road, out across the barren land, toward some lights on the near horizon that looked like a town. Whoever had driven off the road here felt like taking a shortcut.

  “In a hurry?”

  Stop talking to yourself, faggot boy.

  The voice was Skinny Man’s but I did my best to ignore it. That was
enough--I wanted to get back on my meds.

  I got back in the car and pulled off into the dirt. The car bounced up and down along the dusty ground like the tits of a jumping, braless fat lady. A couple of times I swept into a pothole of sorts and heard the car’s undercarriage wail in protest. Forget it, I was on a mission. If I busted it, so what? I’d seen Camaros in worse shape, that was for sure.

  The lights drew closer and I could see it wasn’t really a town, but a couple of ranches. People out this way had horses, I knew, and I wondered if I’d ride through an electric fence and fry myself. Zoning laws are weird in rural areas; I know, I grew up in one. I also faced death in one because of those same stupid laws.

  It looked like three ranches spread out on a small road. Lights burned in the windows of all. Other lights had been tacked to posts or gates around the properties, probably so they could lead their animals around at night. Or have keg parties. Whichever.

  Another couple of minutes and I was across the open dirt and moving into the property line of the house directly ahead of me. No fence. That was good. I killed the headlights and drove by moonlight, easing my way toward what looked like a driveway. A small barn stood off to my left, and to my right, a chicken coop. Great, that’s all I needed, some annoying birds alerting Tombstone that Billy the Kid had come to play cowboy.

  The birds, thankfully, didn’t give two shits about cars in their yard. Or maybe they were used to them. Maybe the owners owned dirt bikes or something and noise was a norm for them. Anyway, they didn’t squawk.

  The driveway turned out to be paved and had a basketball net and what looked like a street hockey net at its tip. Some BMX bikes were lying on their side next to a Ford F-150 and a dirty Ford Focus. Take note, kids, Inlanders like to Fix Or Repair Daily.

  I skirted wide of the vehicles and brought myself out onto the road in front of the small ranch house, parked along the side. The sound of some horse whinnies meandered through the night. Figured the barn was actually a stable. Beyond that, I heard nothing but night sounds—crickets, some eucalyptus trees rustling, the very faint swoosh of cars on a main road somewhere nearby. Must be pretty close to the casino I gathered. It was dinnertime for most, but gambling habits knew nothing of time or distance.

  The sky was really black out here, loaded with stars, as if someone had hung black velvet in front of a light and then unloaded buckshot into it. I tried to remember what I knew of astronomy, which came mostly from cheap science fiction novels, but all I really made out was Orion’s Belt and the Big Dipper. I hadn’t seen so many stars since New Hampshire. The whole scene had weight: the clear night sky, the lonely ranches, the horses chuffing somewhere close. Kind of felt romantic. It made me think about Victoria. About the bloody handprint on her car.

  I took my keys out of the ignition, planning on opening my trunk with them, but never got that far.

  There was a man looking in my back window. He banged his hand on my trunk. “The fuck you doing!”

  Shit, was this one of the guys I’d seen at the lake? Would he remember me? On the floor of my back seat was my steering wheel club. As slowly as I could, I reached back and brought it up into my lap. Then I opened the door and leaned out, keeping my weapon hidden. “Lost,” I replied. “You know where I am?”

  He walked towards me, came around the driver’s side. My hand squeezed the club tighter as I shut the door again.

  “Yer on my fucking property. I just seen you drive across my fucking yard! What the fuck was that shit? You fucking drunk or something. Fuck!”

  This guy really needed to have Santa bring him a thesaurus.

  “Sorry about that. I saw a car do it earlier so I thought maybe it was some kinda road.”

  “Road? Are you kidding me? Get outta that car.” He reached for the door handle.

  “Don’t.” I hit the lock and had one of my moments again, the kind where I have to test myself. The kind where I looked him right in the eye and dared him to open the door. He hesitated, kinda looked back at me. He was big, rustic, missing a tooth, a cliché from a trucker movie, the kind of simpleton goon that would tear a person my size to shreds. But I’m willing to bet he’d never seen someone my size look at him like that before.

  Yeah, that’s right, Bubba, it ain’t the size of the dog in the fight. I’ve known pain before, worse than you, and I’m not afraid.

  The window was open but at least now if he wanted me he’d have to reach inside . . . where I had my club. “I’m not looking for a fight,” I added. “I’m real sorry I drove across your yard. Like I said, I saw someone else—”

  ”Who? Tell me and I’ll shoot the fucker in the face.”

  I decided to risk mentioning the SUV. If this was one of the guys, his reaction might give him away, if not, then maybe he knew who the SUV belonged to. “White Pathfinder, maybe a Bronco, couldn’t really tell.”

  “Nothing like that here.” He seemed sincere.

  “Maybe one of the neighbors?”

  He scratched his head like I’d stumped him with too many questions at once. “Not that I know of. Not with a white girlie car like that. Don’t talk to them much so . . . oh wait, guy lives up the hill there a bit. I think I seen him with a white piece of shit like you saying. I don’t know the fucker’s name but he’s on my shit list now. You see him you tell him Leslie’s coming for him.”

  Leslie? Well that explained his violent tendencies. That must have been hell to go through school with that name . . . if in fact he’d even gone to school.

  I tipped my hat to him. “I will. Thanks for understanding. You . . . uh . . . have a nice home.”

  He arched his back and rubbed his big beer belly. “Meh, it ain’t much but it’s mine. Well, mine and my wife’s. She wanted horses and I wanted a place where people wouldn’t bug me. Kids bug the shit outta me though. You see them? Out there?” He pointed out toward the dark stretch of desert. “They ran out to play ten minutes ago and I can’t find ’em and American Idol starts in, like, five minutes and I am not missing that on account of these shits out there with their B.B. guns trying to shoot coyotes.” He pronounced it Kai-Oats. “I need to vote for that Kentucky kid, what’s his name . . . Trevor Booth. You hear him sing?”

  “No. I don’t watch the show.”

  “Shit, son, you missing out. Wait. What was I asking you?”

  “If I’d seen your kids.”

  He burped. Then: “Right. The kids. You didn’t see ’em?”

  “No. Didn’t see anyone.”

  “Well, you do, you fucking run ’em over and tell ’em I want ’em home.”

  Apparently he’d forgotten all about kicking my ass.

  “Will do.” I pointed up the road, up a small hill. “You say the guy with the white truck lives up there?”

  “Think so. Why?” He looked at me suspiciously, like I’d been lying to him about something.

  “Figured I’d drive by and see if it was the same SUV. If it is I’ll come back and let you know. Put a note on your car or something.”

  He broke into a shit-eating grin. “You do that. You do just that, son. That fucker ain’t gonna know what hit him.”

  Yeah right, soon as American Idol starts you’ll probably forget we even talked.

  I said bye and drove off up the hill. It was dark and I didn’t want to put the lights on to reveal my presence just yet. I kept asking myself if this was all crazy. What if I got there, saw the truck, knocked on their door and they were just some normal rednecks? I’d have wasted my time and proved nothing.

  The house in question was about a half mile from Leslie's place. Far enough away to not know your neighbor, but I wouldn’t say it was secluded; through the eucalyptus trees along the road I could still see the lights on Leslie’s barn. The place had its own garage but I couldn’t see inside it. There was only one way to know for sure.

  I parked on the road, got out and made my way up the driveway, hoping a motion detector light wouldn’t snap on. Nothing gave me away. There was one window on
the side of the garage that I pressed my face up against. Some boxes had been stacked in front of it on the inside but I was pretty sure there was a car in there, and it looked white.

  From somewhere in the house there was a loud crash.

  Someone screamed.

  A woman.

  Chapter 8

  I braced myself for a woman to come running out with an ax in her head, braced myself for a tattooed man with death in his eyes to run out after her, but instead everything went silent. My muscles tightened into ropes, my fists balled, my ears searched for other sounds of distress.

  The lack of any further nefarious noises sang in my head. A big silent alarm. What the fuck was that scream?

  A short sprint brought me around to the back of the house. Like Leslie’s little ranch, this one also had an open dirt backyard that stretched off toward the hills. No chickens or horses here, though. No lawn furniture, no basketball nets, no signs of life. The house was a one-story stucco deal with a red clay roof--pretty much the same as every other house in Southern California. You know the stuff. If you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all. Carbon-copied society, just add water. Someone had hung black drapes inside all of the windows so it was hard to see anything inside.

  Pressing my ear against the side of the house, I could make out faint voices from within. Someone was grunting, someone was laughing, someone was crying. For all I knew they were watching a movie or playing a board game. Still, it felt odd.

  Then, from inside, there came another desperate scream. Except this time it was muffled, like someone screaming into a pillow.

  The black drapes in front of me fluttered as someone rushed by them. Another person charged by right after. Stampeding feet shook the house.

  Someone yelled, “Git back here!”

  I had just enough time to see a guy in blue jeans and a wifebeater tackle someone in a black T-shirt into a refrigerator before they spun to the ground. Wrestling. Punching. Biting. The fridge door opened and spilled condiments and beer bottles into the melee. The walls of the house vibrated in time with the fight as fists and feet flew.