That decided it for him. William picked up the phone and dialed Phil's number. The detective picked up on the third ring. "Yeah." "
"Phil, it's Billy."
"What's up?"
"I'm gonna give you an address," William said, reaching for his address book and flipping through it. "I'm also gonna give you a name and a description. That's gonna be the guy I want you to tail."
"So you don't want me to look at Rick Shectman?"
"No" William found what he was looking for. "The guy I want you to tail is named Frank Miller. He lives at 3589 Snow Lane in Irvine. He's in his late fifties, five foot seven, one hundred and seventy pounds or so, dark hair turning gray, thinning a little at the top. He wears glasses, has a ruddy complexion. Favors slacks and polo shirts; conservative business attire Monday through Friday. He drives a tan BMW, late model. I don't have a license-plate number, but you should have no trouble getting that. He-"
1sn't that Brad's father?" Phil asked.
The realization of what he was asking Phil to do settled in the pit of his belly and burned a fire. "Yes," he said, closing his eyes, hoping to God he was making a big mistake in this. "Yes, it is."
Rick Shectman was pissed.
He was sitting in the living room of his sprawling ranch home, perched in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains. It was a warm day, in the mid-eighties, typi cal weather for Southern California, especially the San Gabriel valley. The windows were open, allowing a cool breeze to blow through. Rick had been reclining in his La-Z-Boy flipping through the cable channels blindly, waiting for the confirmation that the job he had given to Tim Murray was completed.
He had gotten the call, all right. But it wasn't the call he wanted.
Rick was seething. He wanted to break something, wanted to throttle somebody, preferably that fat fuck Tim Murray. He hoped Tim was suffering right this minute, slowly dying from his head injuries.
Provided, of course, the information he got was correct.
Rick Shectman took a deep breath and closed his eyes, replaying the phone call in his mind. Admittedly, he couldn't make out much of what had been said-the connection had been really bad-but he did make out Mabel's voice and a female in the background-Yelling? Screaming? It was hard to tell. At first it had sounded like a wrong number, a woman had started screaming, "Hello? Who is this?" Rick had answered, asking if this was Timthe readout on his caller ID had identified the caller as Tim Murray, and he had been thrown off by the woman's voice. There had been static, then the woman came on the line saying that Tim Murray was dying and that Rick was fucked. "You're fucked!" she'd screamed. Then there had been the sound of wind blowing and something else in the background, as if whoever was carrying the phone was trudging through rough terrain, and then the voice came again, bellowing in the background. And what Rick thought she'd said was "Let him hear you, granny" And then he had heard the high, reedy voice-an old woman? Mabel Schneider? — wailing. "The eyes! Rick said I could have the eyes!"
Then the woman's voice came through loud and clear. "Who are you?"
And Rick had shouted. "Who the fuck are you, bitch? Where's Tim? Where's-"
Then a click. She'd hung up.
Rick sat trembling in rage. He'd recognized Mabel's voice well enough. And Tim… if Tim was dead or dying, that meant-
No, he thought. She couldn't have escaped. She fucking couldn't have! They'd fucking drugged her! It was supposed to have been quick and easy, slice and dice and a quick romp with Animal, and then the film was supposed to be in the can. He was supposed to have the product no later than six tonight. Which meant-
Rick took a deep breath and composed himself. He'd tried calling Tim on his cellular three times and he kept getting Tim's voice mail. Rick didn't have a cellular number for Animal for security reasons, and Mabel wasn't answering her cell phone, which meant Rick had no idea what the tuck was going on. It was well past two Pm.; the film should have been done by now. Tim should have at least called to tell him it was completed.
I have a feeling he lucked this one up, Rick thought, a sense of dread settling in his system. Now what?
First things first. Contact the buyer. Tell him there's a problem. Warn him. Then retrace your steps, make sure you have no paper trail that will lead to Tim Murray. The phone number Tim Murray had was listed under somebody else's name, some poor victim of identity theft. If the cops did come poking around, they'd find that Rick was calling somebody named Sergio Melendez from Canoga Park. Since he'd only called Tim at that number three times, he could easily plead that he kept forgetting he was getting the wrong number. Easy. That was a lie that would hold up easy, since all three calls were made within the past day.
The buyer was the hard part, though. Sam Bash had arranged it. Sam was an old mainstay in the scene. He knew Rick's dad from way back, and he arranged the parties, private functions, slave auctions. The buyer knew Sam through the scene. It had been Sam who had come to Rick with the job, explained what the buyer wanted. Rick had agreed. The money offered up front had been twice the normal amount due to the risk. Rick had given instructions to Sam, who'd made separate. arrangements with Al and Tim. After the fuckup, Tim had called Sam, who had called Rick immediately and told him, "You're on your own. You don't know me, but the contact does. He'll be in touch.'
A week later, the buyer had paged Rick. The number Rick dialed rang to a pay phone. The client had been pissed-he didn't give a fuck about what had been delivered. He wanted what he'd paid for. And if he didn't deliver… well, he told Rick certain information Rick didn't think anybody was privy to. That had gotten Rick royally pissed.
He'd been tempted to send somebody after the buyer, but Sam had assured him if he did that it would ricochet back. "Finish the job," Sam had advised. The buyer will contact you with more information." This had started Rick's plan in getting the Miller bitch, which had led to this.
Rick would have to leave the house and contact the buyer at a pay phone. First he had to make sure he wasn't being watched. A couple of detectives had come poking around yesterday and this morning, trying to dig up that old second-degree-rape charge. That had stemmed from an incident five years ago when Rick was brought up on charges that he had filmed the sexual assault of a drunken college student at a Prat party. Cops never found the tape-it had been quickly sold to a purveyor-but the girl, despite her inebriation, had remembered Rick and provided a description. And because Rick's father, Boris, had been involved in the extreme hardcore scene, it only stood to reason that he should get scrutinized by law enforcement. Yeah, so what if he made a few legitimate pornos for the amateur market? Big deal! Well, it was a big deal now. He'd always had to step carefully before in this business; he'd always assumed that law enforcement had heard of his involvement in the illegal porn industry, which was why he always took pride in being as careful as possible. He had been careful in this latest job as well, employing the usual methods of setting up multiple barriers between himself and his contacts. But the customer obviously knew the ropes and was a member of the scene himself, otherwise Sam wouldn't have been involved. And he'd had the money too, in cold, hard cash. What had surprised Rick had been the customer's request of the victim. He'd actually given Rick a name!
Rick leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes. That had never happened before in all his years in the extreme hardcore industry. Usually when a purveyor of hardcore commissioned a film, the only criteria they had in the victims were age and race. Tim Murray had a steady supply of potential victims from the circle he ran in, kids who ran away from home and got into the hardcore scene for the money and shock value. Kids like that wouldn't be too surprised to walk onto a hardcore S&M set and see Animal in his leather bondage hood. Hell, they always thought they were just in for a little rough stuff for a few hundred bucks! What the fuck did they know about the real world, where rich perverted pricks got their rocks off watching cheap little whores get snuffed out? Tim always made sure to check into their histories before making his selection.
Sometimes he even found his subjects on the streets. He'd pick them up, show them some feigned kindness, buy them drugs, food, give them some shelter. Tim had his fun with them too, no problem with that; he liked his dick sucked as much as the next guy. Once they passed the screen test, and if Rick had a client who requested a particularly bloody film, Tim was perfectly happy to pass them off. And true to form, the cops never came looking for the missing person in question. Why would they? Both Tim and Rick were two and three steps removed from the victims. They protected their tracks expertly.
But this client… he was different. Sam had explained what he wanted to Rick, and at first Rick hadn't liked it. Too risky. Chick like that, a lawyer at a big firm, even if you don't miss her the parents will go bugfuck looking for her. But Sam had assured Rick in that smooth voice of his that the buyer had been planning this for the past year now. The buyer would make sure everything would work like clockwork. He would even pay double Rick's normal fee. That had aroused Rick's interest, and he had quickly called Tim and discussed it with him. Tim had agreed to the job after discussing the plan and, in turn, Tim had contacted Al and Animal with the usual setup. The first transaction was made through Sam. A second transaction was made in the restroom of a Mexican restaurant in Whittier, after Sam was out of the picture. When Rick saw him for the first time, he'd relaxed; he'd seen the guy at a few extreme hardcore parties in the past dozen years or so. He was one of the quiet ones, one of the purveyors of pain who enjoyed sitting back in the shadows watching scenes of blood sports and torture.
So what had happened? Al had fucked up royally and the bitch had escaped. Tim had been freaked out, and even Animal had been a little nervous. But at least they had gotten the money they'd extorted out of her, and Rick had earned some extra money. The tape of Animal and the infant had fetched a nice price from a wealthy pedophile in Seattle, and that had almost made up for Al's fuckup. The client had been royally pissed, of course, and demanded they get the bitch back and do what he had fucking paid them to do. During that first phone conversation he'd had with him in a phone booth after the fuckup, Rick had told the guy to fuck off-didn't he see that they'd almost been caught? The numbfuck didn't get it, and actually threatened to expose him. "I'll bring you down, Rick. I'll fucking expose you, I've got shit on you that'll have the DA on you so fast it'll make your balls burst." Rick had responded accordingly. Oh yeah? What about you? You commissioned the fucking film, you goddamn pervert motherfucker. It takes two to tango.
And the client… that rich, smug, corporate bastard… he'd tucking laughed. "You think the police are going to believe you?You're a convicted criminal! Your father was a peddler of child pornography and bestiality films! The cops know you make hardcore S&M films, that the so-called mainstream stuff you do straddles the line. They know you've produced child pom, that you've trafficked in other shit. You're a fucking convicted sex offender! You think they're going to believe you? You out of your fucking mind?"
"Yeah? Big fucking deal! Tim will back me up, and so will Animal and-"
And you'll squeal on them to get me busted? Listen to yourself, you cheap bastard! Nobody's going to believe you. You can't pin me to this. There are no records, no witnesses, nothing! Nobody even knows we met. All of our phone calls were done at pay phones. We've had all our meetings in public places, at restaurants in the fucking men's room. As far as the cops go, we don't exist. This transaction doesn't exist. There's no way to tie us together because, by the very nature of the product you produce, you have to stay as far away from people like me as possible. Am I right?"
And Rick had nodded, wanting to reach out and wrap his fingers around the man's neck and squeeze until he couldn't see his knuckles. He'd had to restrain himself. So he'd nodded, said he'd do his best, and the guy had said, "Don't just do your best. Just do it. I'll give you a few weeks to collect your bearings and I'll call with a new plan. And don't even think about having somebody come after me, either. If I go missing, or if I get hurt, I've already made sure that the cops will find you and you'll be fucked."
"Oh, and you're willing to disgrace your family? Is that it?You gonna hurt your family's memory of you by exposing yourself for the perverted motherfucker you are?"
The client had laughed, and it was a laugh devoid of a soul. "I won't give a shit, Rick. I'll be dead. Won't I?"
Rick stood up and retrieved his keys from the table in the living room. He had to call the client. It was the least he could do… tip the client off to what was happening and lay low. Well, Rick would make a few other calls to New York, to a certain family he knew in the old neighborhood that was tapped into the scene. Fill them in on what was going on. And if the cops came nosing around, Rick would know that the client had spilled the beans. Then one phone call would be all it would take to get Eugene and Maxwell out from New York to pay a visit to the client. He'd think of a way to distance himself from the job he'd done.
He left the house, locking it behind him, and got in his car. As he drove to the liquor store on the comer of San Gabriel Boulevard and Foothill, he replayed in his mind what had happened next. Rick had agreed to follow through with the client's plan, but he had been pissed over the fuckup. Somebody had to pay, and if it wasn't the client then it would have to be somebody else. So he had called the meeting at the shop, telling Animal to ready himself up for some torture and bloodshed. Rick figured Tim or Al had fucked up, and he didn't really care which one went down-he had been growing rather tired of both of them lately. Still, Al was a cocky sonofabitch, and things had played out naturally that night when he'd immediately started denying everything. Tim had started squealing the minute he got to the shop, and Rick knew the shit had gone down exactly as Tim described. He already knew from Sam that Al had never called him. Al had had explicit instructions to deliver a product to Rick. He'd delivered, all right-and he'd lied to Rick and Tim when he told them Sam had OK'd it. Guy was a fucking weasel. That just made it easier to kill him right there, that night, on the floor of the print shop.
Well, Animal had done that part, of course. But it had been Rick's decision. And he'd felt better after having made it.
Rick pulled into the liquor store parking lot by the bank of pay phones. He turned off the ignition and climbed out of the sports car, hurrying to the phones. He'd committed the client's phone number to memory, and now he dialed it after dropping a quarter in the slot, waiting for him to pick up after two, three, four rings-
"Hello?"
Rick had been poised to hang up if somebody other than the client answered, but he recognized the voice. 'It's me.'Iheres a problem!
'Now what?'
Rick could tell that the client had an idea something was afoul. He had that tone of voice that seemed to suggest he was bothered by something.
"1 just got a call," Rick said. it didn't sound good. You never saw me, you've never met me, you've never heard of me before. Furthermore, you've never been involved in the circle. I'm going to call a few people we both know and ask them to deny they've ever seen you. Do you understand?"
The client tried to sound tough. "What the hell happened? If you-"
"She got away," Rick said, more firmly. "Remember. We've never met. My guess is that the cops will start knocking at your door. You know what to tell them, and you know what to expect if you start singing" He hung up, closed his eyes, his breath harsh in his ears.
For some reason it felt like a tremendous weight had been taken off of his shoulders. Rick sighed, picked up the receiver, and dropped another quarter in the slot. He couldn't relax now, even though he felt better about warning his client. He had to be on guard, lay low. With that in mind, he dialed the next number he had in mind from memory, beginning the process of covering his trail.
Thirty
Her mouth was dry; she was thirsty.
She could feel her energy draining… her body growing light with sleep.
And each time she felt herself weakening she shook her head, reawakening herself, then trudged on ahead, c
oncentrating on piloting the SW over the rocky terrain.
The pain in her side had dulled to a slow throb. She kept her right hand pressed to the gaping wound, trying to ignore the slickness of her flesh as she felt something slosh inside. She knew she was probably holding her intestines inside her abdomen, but she didn't look. She couldn't. If she looked she knew she would faint. And if she fainted she would lose control of the vehicle and would either crash it into a cliff or drive herself off one. The impact might not even kill her outright; she might lie pinned in the wreckage for as long as it took her to die of shock and blood loss. That was all there was to it.
So she drove.
The Nevada sky was overcast, dark with rain clouds. The wind had picked up, blowing through the open windows. It blew Lisa's hair back over her face. She licked her cracked lips, ignoring the nausea in her belly, the pain in her lower right abdomen, and concentrated on driving. Zigzagging between boulders and rocks. Steering the vehicle around cacti. Homing in on her target, her goal. The road that she could dimly see in front of her, now a good five hundred yards away. If she could make that road, she would try the cell phone again.
She should have killed Animal outright. Her mind raced over that now as she struggled along, one hand holding her guts inside herself, the other clutching the steering wheel. Animal had been weakened by her initial attack on him and he'd charged at her, swinging the knife wildly. His left hand had been covering his wounded eye, and it was obvious he was half-blinded. She'd taken advantage of his handicap by ducking and charging him, barreling into his exposed midsection, knocking him down. She'd still been clutching the rock she'd used to bash Tim Murray's skull in, and she'd swung the rock down on the sadist's head. She'd knocked him out cold first time out.
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