A Kiss Gone Bad wm-1

by Jeff Abbott

  So she finally called David, whispering to him about losing her job, about failing Heather. He came over at seven-thirty in the morning, arrived with a bag of breakfast groceries, drew a hot bath for her, made omelets while she bathed and dressed in old nubby pajamas soft as a kiss. She heard him in her kitchen, sliding drawers, chopping vegetables, pouring juice, sizzling butter.

  That didn’t take long, did it, Miss Tough? You’re just gonna let him right back in, aren’t you?

  She popped open the drain, let the soapy water begin its downward swirl. Yeah. Maybe I am.

  They ate their eggs and biscuits and juice, and Claudia, rather than talking, went under a wave of exhaustion. She fell asleep curled on the futon, David lying beside her, stroking her dark hair.

  She awoke at 10 a.m. Her blinds were lowered, the room grayish dark. She stumbled to the kitchen. David sat drinking coffee, reading the Corpus Christi paper.

  He lowered the paper. ‘Hope I didn’t overstay my welcome. I thought you might want to talk when you woke up.’

  ‘Thanks. Thanks for the bath and breakfast and everything.’

  ‘But I want to get something straight, okay?’ New steel in his voice she hadn’t heard before. ‘I’m not trying to take advantage of the… emotional train wreck you’ve just gone through. I’m saying that out loud because I know how your mind works, Claud, and sooner or later you’re gonna think I’m trying to tiptoe back in.’

  ‘Oh, David, I don’t think that,’ she said, unsure of what she thought.

  ‘Okay. I just don’t want you to be alone if you don’t want to be.’

  She got herself a cup of hot coffee – he’d brewed hazelnut, her favorite – and added generous milk and sugar. He had his back to her, sitting at the kitchen table, and she watched the set of his shoulders, his burr of auburn hair, his wiry arms, the constellation of freckles on the back of his neck. She wanted to hold and kiss him and feel him against her, and she nearly dropped her mug.

  Carefully she sipped the piping hot coffee, standing in the kitchen away from him. He turned around in his chair. ‘You want to talk options? Delford can’t just terminate you, Claudia.’

  ‘He could and did.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s a right-to-work state, he can fire me at will. I had to go back in, surrender my side arm, my badge. I didn’t have a box to clean out my desk, I guess I have to do that Monday.’

  ‘Are you going to appeal to the mayor?’

  ‘I’ll write him a letter,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think I’m overflowing with options here.’

  ‘Come work for the sheriff’s department,’ he said instantly and then stumbled. ‘I mean, you’re a good investigator. You could work for DPS, too, or Parks and Wildlife, maybe.’

  ‘I’m sure something will come up. I can always shrimp with Papa. That should drive Mama into the crazy house a full ten years ahead of schedule.’ She finished her coffee. ‘So what about your big Jabez Jones case?’

  He shrugged. ‘He was spotted in New Mexico. I think he’s probably heading back to California, where he’s got a lot of friends. The DEA agent from Corpus told me they think Jabez’s donation receipts don’t match the figures in his books. He’s gotten maybe thirty thou in donations and three million on his ledgers. Mary Magdalene still ain’t talking. Sits in her cell like a freaking Amazon warrior, silent.’

  ‘I thought maybe Junior Deloache was bringing drug money into Port Leo.’

  David nodded. ‘Probably. With Junior dead, and Jones running, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a connection. That three million, maybe it’s Jabez laundering Junior’s money.’

  ‘I just wish Velvet would turn up,’ Claudia said, thinking of Heather’s water-paled face. ‘Her car was at Junior’s condo, her purse with a gun in it, but she wasn’t.’

  ‘You think she killed him?’

  ‘No. I mean, I doubt it, but who knows. I don’t know her.’ She gave a thin, nervous laugh. ‘I for sure thought I knew Delford, but he turned on me quicker than a rabid dog.’

  David shook his head again. ‘With all this insanity, I can’t believe Delford fired you. He needs everyone he can get.’

  ‘Does he? If the crime’s this big, the DEA and FBI will take it over. Delford’ll just wax his mustache and make press announcements.’ She retrieved the coffeepot, freshened their mugs, came and sat next to him at the table.

  ‘I don’t get how the Ballew girl fits in,’ David said. ‘Comes from Louisiana to see Jones, gets involved in this money laundering, and ends up dead?’

  Claudia explained what she had found about the nursing home connections. ‘It’s strange, and maybe I chased a shadow,’ she said. ‘But I found, well, not quite a pattern, but a couple of odd coincidences of timing.’

  ‘Are all your notes at the station?’

  ‘Yeah. But I can get you a copy. I mean, it’s really your case.’

  David phoned the station and got a clerk to make copies of Claudia’s notes on Marcy Ballew.

  ‘Ask them if I’ve gotten any messages from out-of-town police,’ Claudia said.

  He did. He paused, gestured at her for pencil and paper, which she handed to him. He jotted notes.

  ‘Well, this is interesting. You got messages from investigators in Brownsville and Laredo.’ Neither police department had made much progress on the Morris or the Palinski case. Both women seemed to have vanished into thin air: no witnesses, no evidence.

  ‘Let’s call them back,’ she said.

  He reached for her phone. ‘Not on my unemployed dime,’ she said. ‘Let’s go over to the sheriff’s department.’

  She dressed quickly and they drove over. David made the calls, asking the investigator on duty if there was a nursing home near either woman’s workplace. The Laredo detective said yes, there was a nursing home right across from the Taco Bell that Angela Morris vanished from, Bellewood. It was the same one that Placid Harbor had handled a patient transfer from. Brownsville didn’t know if there was a nursing home near the pizzeria; they’d find out and call or fax David back.

  So David called the pizzeria to ask if St Mary’s Nursing Home was close by. No, not at all, the pizzeria was at the northern edge of town on Highway 77. St Mary’s was on the east side of Brownsville.

  ‘But 77’s the main highway,’ Claudia said when David hung up. ‘Anyone going to St Mary’s might still pass that pizzeria. I’d just like to know more about these transfers, about how they work, the time involved.’

  David set the phone down. ‘You want to go talk to Buddy Beere with me?’

  ‘I’m not a cop anymore,’ she said. The truth of it still sounded alien to her ears.

  ‘You are to me. C’mon, you’ve already talked to the guy. Better than sitting around updating resumes and harboring grudges.’

  Now she smiled at him. ‘Sure. Let’s go.’

  The little lock lay in the no-man’s-land between Velvet’s torso and her elbow, and if she moved her arm slightly, the lock and its strap teased her skin. But she could not move it toward her hand.

  She wept briefly in frustration and then she slept again. Sleep was the escape door. In sleep her father’s arms enfolded her and he said, I forgive you I forgive you and I love you no matter what.

  She woke at his touch. She wasn’t sure if it was minutes later, hours, time ceased to hold meaning.

  ‘Need to pee?’ he asked abruptly.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she said. She had peed in the night, like a baby, and the towels were sodden with the smell.

  ‘I don’t got no more sheets or towels to put under you right now,’ he said.

  Of course not. Who has time to do laundry when you’re busy kidnapping and raping? she thought crazily.

  She felt a bag – roomy, made of soft chamois, reeking of dust and fuel – go over her head. He loosened the cords at her feet first, rubbing her ankles for her.

  ‘I’m taking you to the bathroom. Now, you try anything, I’ll cut and gut you, you understand?’ he muttered.

  ‘Yes. I’
ll be good,’ she answered in a timid murmur. I’ll kill you if you give me a moment’s chance.

  He slipped her hands free from the shackles. She heard the toss of keys again on the floor. She slowly massaged her wrists.

  ‘Do what I say.’ He pulled her to her feet. Bolts of numbness shot up her legs. She nearly fell, every muscle screaming. He yanked her forward and the doorjamb brushed her shoulder, and seven steps down – she was counting – along carpet that felt frayed, he steered her to the right. Cold tile prickled her bare feet.

  He pushed her down onto a cold toilet seat.

  She urinated, emptying her aching bladder. He hummed along, a bouncy tune she recognized as ‘I Get Around.’

  I am so gonna kill you, ‘I need to poop, too,’ she said in a very quiet voice.

  ‘I’m not leaving.’

  She couldn’t see him with the sack over her face. ‘Corey, you’re not gonna find watching me take a crap sexy. Please.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please, Corey, please!’

  ‘No.’ He sounded amused again. He wanted her to grovel, wanted her to beg, just so he could say no.

  If he kills you now at least it’s over. She had acted the queen bitch dominatrix in her movies, and now she called up that icy, imperial voice. ‘Do you get off on bathroom functions, Corey? How sad. I thought you were a real man.’

  A long silence and she thought: Either I got you or you’re about to strangle me here on a toilet.

  He said, ‘I’m not some freak. I’m normal.’

  His denial almost sent her into peals of hysterical laughter. She gripped the cool bowl of the toilet.

  ‘I know, Corey,’ she made herself say. ‘You’re normal. And a normal man lets a lady go to the potty in private.’ She paused. ‘You do that, and I’ll show you fun in bed you’ve never, ever seen before.’

  Long silence. She prayed a true prayer, for the first time in a dozen years. Please, God, please help me now. Please.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait outside. But don’t try anything.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  She heard him step out and the door gently close.

  She yanked off the cloth hood and ripped the silk blindfold from her head. The bathroom was small, decorated in sea-foam green tile at least thirty years old. The shower was a stall, and the shower rod was bolted to the wall.

  There was a small bolt on the door. If she locked it he would hear.

  ‘Hurry up,’ he called.

  ‘I am!’ she yelled, putting a teary tone in her voice. She groaned, as if troubled by a pained stomach. ‘Just a second.’ If he heard her rummaging he’d crash in. She almost wept in anger. Nothing, nothing to fight with.

  She knelt, gingerly opening the cabinet under the sink. Cotton balls. Toilet paper. Disinfectant spray.

  Yes.

  He shoved the door open. She sprang to her feet and jetted disinfectant hard into his eyes. He shrieked and fell back.

  ‘EEAGGGGH!’ he screamed, clutching his face.

  Velvet shoved past him and ran down the hallway. To her left the hall opened up into a den and she saw a front door. She threw herself at it.

  Locked.

  ‘YOU BITCH BITCH BITCH.’ He staggered to his feet, clawing at his seared eyes.

  Six locks on the door and three were dead bolts. These she clicked open and tried the door again. Still locked. The other locks required a key.

  Where would he keep the goddamned keys? Fighting a surge of panic, Velvet scanned the den. Nothing on the table except a plate dirty with sandwich crumbs and a milk-smeared glass. Nothing on the small kitchen counter.

  She had heard the jingle earlier when he tossed the keys on the bedroom floor.

  She turned and he charged at her, his face set in fury, his eyes red slits.

  She grabbed a lamp from a side table and swung hard. It nailed him on the shoulder. He went down, and Velvet raised the lamp to smash it on his head.

  He seized her legs, trying to topple her, and she slammed the lamp’s base against his neck, then against the back of his head.

  Don’t let him get you down. He wins if he gets you on the floor.

  Teeth closed around her ankle, biting hard and deep, down to the bone.

  She screamed and fell to the floor, kicking him. His teeth tore the flesh of her ankle.

  She grabbed the fallen can of disinfectant and fogged him again, trying to loop the lamp’s cord around his throat. He sobbed and lashed out with a punch that caught her hard in the windpipe. She gagged, gasping for breath. He swung the lamp hard, connecting against her skull, the lamp breaking, and she went down, eyeballs rolling up. Her final thought was, Not like this, no.

  The Blade stood, then sank down again. His eyes burned like the bitch had poked hot matches into the irises. He crawled to the sink and splashed water repeatedly into his aching eyes. She hadn’t gotten him so good with the last cloudy burst of disinfectant, but the first had been unadulterated hell, toxic waste hitting his eye tissue.

  She might have blinded him. Maybe even caused permanent damage.

  He puked into the sink. He rinsed his eyes for what felt like an eternity. The pain subsided down to a dull roar, enough to where he could read the instructions on the disinfectant. Call a physician. Not an option right now. God, he would make this bitch pay. He went back to the rinsing.

  Thirty minutes later, his hands still shaking, he could see well enough to relock the dead bolts and to drag her back to the room. Her left ankle was a meaty mess and she wheezed, but she was still unconscious.

  This is what being nice brought, he thought. But none of the others had fought him so hard, and when the pain faded, that fire of hers would make punishing and crushing her sweeter than killing Mama. Oh, the fun. He hardened at the images, even with the pain in his eyes and his head. He’d hold her eyes open and spray till the can was empty. He put on his knife sheath so she could see what waited for her after their chemical games.

  He choked down a half-dozen aspirin and slung Velvet over his shoulder. He tossed her onto the bed and started to retie her to the posts.

  A knock pounded on the front door.

  39

  ‘You’re in a bad situation,’ Whit said softly.

  Kathy Breaux sat in one corner of Corey Hubble’s room, watching Whit. Her soap-roughened hands lay in her lap, fingers laced together. Her fingernails were short and bitten, and she smelled of the antiseptic that wafted through the home like souring perfume. Hair dyed a slightly too-bright red, a starved look about her face and hips. Gooch had left them alone, to go perform an important errand at Whit’s request.

  Kathy said, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  There’s several different ways this can play out,’ Whit said. ‘Pretty much all of them involve me calling the police. And me calling the FBI. What happens between now and then will make a big difference.’

  ‘Look, I just work here, okay? I just do what I’m told.’ She kept her voice hushed, accustomed to talking around the napping old. She glanced at Corey, propped up in the bed, eyes shut, breathing slowly, abandoned to a world of his own.

  ‘Just following orders? That didn’t work at Nuremberg, why do you think it’s gonna work here?’

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked.

  ‘I want to know how this man got here.’

  Kathy swallowed. ‘John’s been here at least five years. I don’t know much about what happened to him.’

  ‘John?’

  ‘John Taylor.’

  ‘I think his name’s Corey Hubble.’

  ‘I said I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I want to see his files. Go get them and bring them back here.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘I can either tell these folks you attempted to extort money from Pete to reveal his brother’s whereabouts, or I can tell them you discovered this man’s real identity and sought to help his brother find him. Your choice.’

  Kathy
Breaux stood and said, ‘I’ll be right back, then.’ She hurried out the door.

  Whit got up and went to Corey’s bedside. He took Corey’s hand; it was limp and bony and pale. Someone had created a new identity for him. Someone had financed his care all these years. That narrowed the suspects considerably. He had trouble visualizing Junior filling out insurance forms for a guy he turned into a vegetable.

  It had to be the Hubbles. He tried not to think of Faith’s face on the pillow next to him, smiling, tracing his lip with her fingernail.

  ‘Hey, Corey,’ Whit said quietly. Corey gave no answer. A thin dribble of drool collected in the chapped corner of his mouth, and Whit wiped it away.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’re gonna tell me what got you here,’ Whit said.

  Corey kept his silence. The vicious trench of scar on his head looked like a bullet wound, long healed. Corey had been shot. The bullet must have obliterated his mind but not his functions, trapping him in this limbo.

  If someone had tried to kill him, why keep him alive? Attempted homicide made no sense. It must have been an accident. But then why the secrecy? Because the accident and its circumstances, if revealed, must threaten someone powerful.

  He searched Corey’s room: neatly folded sweats from Wal-Mart, white tube socks, vanilla-scented hand lotion, an uncracked Bible. In the back of the closet lay a plastic bag of new sweats, also bought at Wal-Mart, a sales slip still inside. Paid with cash, but bought twelve days ago. He figured that was a Monday, an exact week before Pete’s death.

  He had no idea about Lucinda’s schedule, but it would be easy enough to find out if she was out campaigning and where she was. Or where Faith was. He pocketed the receipt from the clothes bag, careful not to get his own prints on it.

  So what did he owe Faith? A consideration phone call? Honey, I’m about to reveal to the press that your long-missing brother-in-law isn’t so missing anymore. You want to tell me what you know before I call the cops?

  If he cared for her, he owed her this. Didn’t he?

  Corey lay in the bed like a broken dream.