by Jeff Abbott
Roselle Cross’s office was modest, furnished with a Victorian desk, memorabilia from local Port Leo girls’ Softball teams on the walls, and photos of cheery and plump Roselle hugging residents. The decor in the photos showed these lovefests happened during Thanksgiving, Chanukah, Christmas, St Patrick’s Day. Every day a holiday at Placid Harbor.
Roselle returned to the office. ‘Buddy called in sick today, but I checked our files. We haven’t had any transfers from any homes in Louisiana.’
‘Where have you had transfers from recently? Say in the past year?’ Maybe she could delve further into the Ballew girl’s employment history, see if there was another connection through another home.
Roselle Cross kept a patient, holiday-quality smile and vanished into the front office. She returned five minutes later, armed with documents. ‘Well, in the past year we’ve had three from Corpus, two from San Antonio, one from Aransas Pass, one from Port Isabel, and one from Austin.’
‘What about transfers out? People leaving Placid Harbor for someplace else?’
She scanned her papers. ‘One to Brownsville, one to Laredo, two to Corpus.’
‘When these people transfer, how do they get here?’
‘Well, with the close-by cities, like Aransas Pass or Corpus, usually it’s an ambulance service that moves them. Or family members. Depends on the client’s condition.’
‘And what about the more distant towns?’
‘Again, the family often brings the client. Or, for a charge, we can take or fetch them ourselves, depending on the client’s condition,’
‘So who would do this?’
‘Buddy or more likely someone working for him. And a nurse or nurse’s aide, if needed.’
‘And nothing on Deshay, Louisiana?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Okay, thanks.’ She stood to go. ‘I understand there’s a party here this weekend for my ex-husband’s grandfather. Mr Power?’
‘Oh, yes. He’s a delight.’ Roselle Cross managed to say this without the barest hint of sarcasm. Claudia liked her better immediately.
Claudia paid a guilt trip to David’s Poppy, ready to shrug off blistering blame for making David unhappy if David had gained a spine and told his grandfather about their divorce. But luckily, Poppy was asleep, snoring in his bed with wild abandon, his mouth slack, lips pale with age. His roommate, watching a Spanish-language soap opera, turned up the volume higher and told Claudia in strident Spanish, ‘You live your life for all these years and then you got to worry about roommates. Roommates, like you’re in college. And me with a Purple Heart.’
Velvet awoke slowly. Clambering toward wakefulness required enormous effort; her limbs weighed like stone. The darkness around her was oceans deep, so dark that it was not an absence of light but light’s very opposite.
She breathed and fabric blocked her mouth and throat. Her tongue, dry as sand, wriggled against the plug and felt rough texture of cloth and masking tape.
She strained to move. Cords bound her wrists and ankles. In her confusion she remembered a silly flick she directed two years ago, Fit to Be Tied, and mostly, she and the cast laughed and giggled through the scene. They had found nothing enticing and erotic in bondage, lacking few restraints themselves. Pete starred in the movie and groggily she called for him, but the mouth plug turned her plea into an inarticulate moan.
She ached – her head, her jaw, her stomach – and she became aware that thick, dense silk covered her eyes. She could see no light creeping in around the blindfold’s edges.
Fear rose in her, sudden and sour as bile. She wrenched hard against the cords. They did not slacken.
She tried to remember where she had been.
Junior Deloache’s condo. After that numbnuts Whit ruled for suicide, Junior had invited her over for a drink. To calm down and think over the next move, he said. Like he was suddenly Pete’s advocate, the jerk, talking about the army of lawyers his father could command. But she had not wanted to be alone. She would have preferred having a glass of wine with Claudia Salazar, trying to persuade her to keep the case open somehow. A female friend, a tart in arms, would have been nice to have. She wanted to slap Whit; he had said he was on her side and God he was a liar. Kangaroo fucking court is what it was. But Junior was there, being kind.
Kindness had always mattered.
She remembered, coming out of the fog, a scream forming in her throat.
They’re at Junior’s condo, drinking whiskey. Anson’s not around, thank God. He gives her the shivers, creeping around in that wheelchair. Velvet gets quickly and angrily drunk. Junior paws her breasts and mutters about film speeds and money shots.
‘Let’s do a movie,’ he says. ‘Right now. C’mon.’
She shrugs off his hand and pours more bourbon, thinking he’ll be too drunk to get hard and too little to notice and suddenly he belts her, harder than she’s ever been hit before. She realizes she spoke her thought aloud. The world devolves into a spinning circle of stars, and she fights as Junior yanks down her jeans, rips her thong in half, pulls loose her sweater, snaps off her brassiere. The Sig’s still in her purse and she clambers toward it, but he punches her once, twice, and she’s lying on the carpet, stunned, bleeding. Through the foggy haze of pain she sees Junior setting up a camera, aiming it toward her, then shucking his Houston sports team clothes.
‘Gonna make a movie now, bitch,’ he says, ‘The working title is Fuck Velvet Hard. Already planning the sequel. Gonna call it Velvet Tells Me Where the Fucking Money Is.’
‘Stop it. Stop, Junior, this isn’t funny.’
He is erect and he jabs a button on the camcorder. ‘I’m not gonna get screwed over anymore. I’m a businessman. I’m gonna get to be in a fuck film, and I’m gonna get my money back.’
She stumbles to her feet, intent on getting that gun and shooting him, where’s her damned purse, but he hammers her again, his fist bouncing off the back of her head, and she falls to the floor. She pukes up the bourbon and…
Then what?
She breathed around the mouth plug. God, this wasn’t the movie, was it? Her head ached.
‘Junior?’ she tried to say.
… she hears the doorbell ring. Not the condo elevator door creaking open, not Anson wheeling back, but the other entrance, the stairs, and she hears Junior cuss softly.
A chair creaked, next to her. A finger, callused, ran along her cheek.
‘No, darling. Junior’s not here.’
She held herself very still.
The voice was low, a man’s, a little gravelly. ‘Would you like the gag removed, darling?’
She nodded.
‘You should understand – no one can hear you, but I won’t tolerate you screaming. At least not for now.’
A metal point inched down her leg. It stopped at her knee and pressed, gently.
‘Owww,’ she groaned.
‘If you scream, darling, we’ll get right down to my fun. I’ll dig open those tits and we’ll see if they’re real.’
Velvet held perfectly still, not even daring to breathe.
‘Nod once if you understand.’
She nodded.
The knife point left her knee. Gently the hands caressed her face. She heard a lock snap – Jesus, he has this thing locked on my face! – and the mouth plug was pried loose from her lips. A finger, wrapped around a damp cloth, cleaned out her mouth, dribbled welcome water over her tongue. She resisted the urge to bite down and take the finger off.
‘There you go, darling,’ the man said.
She wetted her lips with her tongue. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m your new lover.’
A sick chill goose-pimpled her skin. ‘Will you take off the blindfold?’
‘Not for a while. More fun this way.’
Fun. That word again. ‘Where am I?’
‘Heaven.’
‘Where’s Junior?’
‘Hell. Where he belongs.’
She offered a fake, soft laugh. �
�No, really.’
‘Junior isn’t going to bother you anymore. I took care of him for my sweet darling.’
‘Why am I here?’
‘I need you,’ he said.
Her tongue felt dry as dirt again. ‘Yeah, baby, I can sure understand that. We all need. Perfectly natural.’ She used her film voice, coy, trying to keep from shaking. ‘But I can’t give you what you need all tied up, baby.’
‘Quiet now,’ he said, brushing her hair with his fingertips.
‘I have a name, baby. Velvet.’
He hummed, low in his throat.
‘You untie Velvet, hon, you let me go, I’ll give you what you need.’
She felt a finger run along her naked breasts, her stomach, the cup of her navel. She suppressed a shudder.
‘What’s your name, honey?’ she asked.
She heard the chair shift. She could smell his breath, reeking of garlic and fried shrimp. He nibbled her ear and ran his tongue along its edge.
‘What’s your name?’ she tried again in a whisper, her voice cracking.
‘My name is Corey,’ he whispered back. ‘Corey Hubble.’
Then he climbed on top of her. She began to scream.
34
Whit drove, following Highway 35 as it snaked up the slow curve of the Texas coast, merging into Highway 288 north of Freeport, then sliding onto Interstate 10’s thick rope when he reached the sprawl of Houston. He crept through Houston’s never-ending rush-hour traffic and headed up toward the deep pine forests and shallow bayous of far East Texas. He could take I-10 to Beaumont and then 87 North to 1416, a farm-to-market road to the little town of Missatuck, where he suspected Kathy Breaux was waiting for Pete and her unexplained money.
Whit reached Beaumont around eight Friday night. The towers of the refineries glowed like an alien metropolis. With his window cracked he could smell the sour egg odor of natural gas and chemical plants, overpowering the barest hint of pine.
Hungry, he parked in the oil-stained lot next to a cheap diner with a neon fork spearing the window. In the counter he ate a greasy hamburger topped with kill-your-neighbors-strength onions and gulped a jumbo glass of iced tea. As he ate, he studied again the clipping file that Patsy had sent. He reread each article and found himself going back to the first article outlining Corey’s disappearance: ‘Corey is impulsive,’ Senator Hubble said in a brief statement to the press. ‘I don’t think Corey wants to be spending much time in Austin. I have no reason to suspect that Corey has run afoul of someone. I hope that if he is reading this he realizes the joke is over and he should please call us soon.’
The accompanying photo showed a stolid yet pained Lucinda Hubble leaving the Port Leo police station, brave, head held high but wearing dark glasses. A clearly shocked Pete, young beyond his years, walked next to her, grimacing. Delford stood next to Lucinda, a Rock of Gibraltar.
Of course he had.
The phone call to Georgie Whit had placed yesterday was a simple question of whether there had ever been rumor of a relationship between Lucinda Hubble and Delford Spires. Georgie, the human archive of local lore and gossip, had said, ‘Well, they’ve always been friends. I wondered if Delford wanted more at one point. But I guess any chance of romance fizzled after Corey vanished. Lucinda never let another man close to her.’
It was circumstantial, it was wispy hearsay, but it made Whit wonder. A boy who felt anger and unending grief over his father’s death and acid resentment toward his mother would not welcome a new suitor. Whit had felt the same sting when Babe split with Georgie and began wooing local divorcees. He had cordially hated all his father’s girlfriends. Childish, yes, but common. But he still could not envision Delford ruthlessly killing a teenage boy.
He gathered up his papers and walked out of the diner, heading across the dark plain of the parking lot.
‘Hey, fucker,’ a voice boomed, and a hand borrowed from Goliath grabbed Whit off his feet, dragged him several feet behind the building, and slammed him into the back brick wall of the diner. The back of his head hit hard and pinwheels filled his vision. Whit lashed out with a fist and grazed a temple. He blinked and cool fingers curled into his throat, making themselves at home, squeezing the life out of him. His head pounded back into the bricks.
‘Hey, fucker,’ the voice repeated. ‘Gonna talk.’ In the dim light Whit could see Mr Words was a young, rough kid with thick arms, big hair, and a pair of narrow-lensed sunglasses most commonly found on pimps. He’d seen the guy before. The muscled-up kid at Junior’s condo. Out of the corner of his eye Whit saw more movement, heard the quiet creak of a wheelchair.
Oh, shit.
‘I hate a goddamned thief worse than anything,’ Anson Todd said in a hushed voice. ‘And you an elected official. Goddamn, American democracy is going down the fucking toilet. You corrupt bastard.’
‘Yeah,’ Mr Words agreed.
‘What-’ Whit attempted to breathe, grabbing at Mr Words’s hand, trying to pry the fingers from his throat.
‘I want the money, Judge Smart-Ass,’ Anson hissed. He wheeled close to Whit and with an arthritic fist punched Whit in the balls. Hard. Whit gagged. Amazing how slight a punch it takes to savage a pair of testicles. Mr Words slammed Whit to the oily pavement, yanked his arm straight, spread his fingers against the parking-lot grime.
The throat grip relaxed momentarily so Whit could breathe and speak. ‘What money?’
Wrong answer. Fist squeezed, blood fled from his throat. The wheelchair – heavy itself and full of old man – rolled over his fingers, backed up, rolled forward again. Whit gritted his teeth, wondering if he would first hear or feel the bones break.
‘Don’t fuck with us, Judge,’ Anson said. He steadied the chair, letting its full weight settle on Whit’s knuckles.
‘Did a cop once,’ Mr Words said. ‘Never a judge. Cool. Start with fingers.’
‘I don’t have your money.’
‘Get him into the van,’ Anson ordered. ‘You can have your fun with him there.’ He hacked phlegm. ‘And shit, it’s time for my medicine.’
Mr Words jerked Whit to his feet, keeping an iron grip on his throat with both hands. Whit tried to wrench free, hoping for a weak spot to punch or kick, but Mr Words was four inches taller and fifty pounds heavier, all muscle. Whit smelled the pineapple reek of cheap cologne, the soft odor of trash from the diner’s Dumpster, the goon’s sweat.
Mr Words hurried Whit along toward a dark blue van parked at the far end of the lot with a flooring company name on the side, Anson’s motorized chair purring behind them.
‘Cooperate, get off light,’ Mr Words murmured in a spate of eloquence. ‘You don’t, die in fucking Beaumont. Talk to us. Be cool.’
The half million. They think I have it.
As Mr Words dragged him along by his neck, Whit considered options. A kick to the nuts and about a dozen hard punches to the jaw were the ticket. Actually, a small nuclear device would be the ticket. But Whit couldn’t budge an inch. All he could see was the smeary grease stains of the lot, a few flattened cigarette butts, and the dark shadow of the van, barely illuminated in the halo of light from a streetlamp at the corner.
Head held down and stumbling, Whit saw the damage before they did. All four of the van’s tires lay flat. He made a noise, and Mr Words stopped and saw and said, ‘Well, fuck.’
Whit, the baby of six dirty-wrestling brothers, just needed that second. He fought just the way he learned at his brothers’ knees and elbows and fists. He smashed his heel down on Mr Words’s arch, gouging the foot with the modest heel of his loafer. Mr Words yelled. Whit slammed a forearm against Words’s right arm, then elbowed backward into the thick throat. Mr Words yelped. Whit spun free of his hold, then drove headfirst into the man’s abdomen. Mr Words staggered back and Whit jabbed hard with two left uppercuts that sent the kid sprawling onto the asphalt.
‘Eddie, get the fuck out here!’ Anson screamed. Whit whirled, trying to get his breath back. His throat felt like it had been
scalded, his fingers felt like rubber, either broken by Anson’s wheel or Mr Words’s jaw. Eddie. Shit.
New plan. Run. He bolted and Mr Words kicked out, catching both his feet on a muscled leg hard as fallen timber, and Whit slammed hard into the pavement. Well, you tried. Fingers closed around his throat again, yanking him to his feet.
Movement came from behind the van. ‘Eddie’s indisposed.’ A familiar voice. Gooch, holding a sleek automatic pistol, neatly fitted with a silencer. The pistol was aimed at Anson. The grip on Whit’s throat tightened.
‘Let the judge go, son,’ Gooch said. ‘Or I shoot the old man. Then you.’
Mr Words moved Whit in front of him as a makeshift shield. ‘Or maybe I just break his neck if you don’t drop the gun.’
‘I can shoot you first, son,’ Gooch said conversationally. ‘Or I can shoot Anson. You want to explain to Papa Deloache how you got Anson killed?’
‘Let him go,’ Anson said quietly.
Even when whipped, Mr Words made an excellent lapdog. He let go. Whit gulped a long sucking breath, one that scorched his throat but his lungs savored.
‘Judge, come here by the van,’ Gooch said. ‘I don’t want you to get blood splattered all over your nice clothes.’
‘Dumbass,’ Anson snarled. ‘You fuck with us, you don’t have any idea what you’re buying.’
‘Oh, I do.’ Gooch smiled. ‘But fuck with me and you buy a grave no one will ever find. Understood?’
Whit leaned against the van. ‘He said Eddie…’
‘Eddie Gardner’s in there. He’s catching some shut-eye right now.’ Whit peered inside; Eddie Gardner lay propped in the back of the van, bleeding lightly from his nose and mouth, but breathing. Yellow rope wrapped around his arms and legs.
‘You. Get in the van,’ Gooch ordered Mr Words.
The young man stared stupidly.
‘Clearly you’re no Fulbright scholar,’ Gooch said, ‘but do what you’re told and you’ll be fine. You come out of that van before I say, I shoot him and then I shoot you. You understand?’
Mr Words glanced at Anson; the old man nodded. The boy climbed into the van next to the unconscious Eddie, and Gooch slammed the door. He then held up a clear plastic bag to Anson: three black pistols,. 22s, a switchblade, a blackjack, and a cell phone lay inside. ‘I don’t think I missed any of your toys when I went through your van, Anson. If I did, and Muscles comes out shooting, you get a bullet in the brain.’