“No problem.”
Chapter 107
I couldn’t believe my eyes. Penny was obviously on the same drug Abby had been on. Probably the same one Homestead and all the others in that motel room had been on. Had I been duped all along by her? The thought infuriated me.
“Penny, what the hell are you doing?”
She looked at me with lust, slathered her tongue over her upper lip. “Drop those boxers and get on me, Gray,” she said in a voice somewhere between sultry and demon-possessed, as she continued to writhe around on the bed. I leaned over so I could reach her, and slapped her hard across the face, knocking the headphones off.
While I looked straight at her, a confused look slid across her face and her body stopped moving. She let go of the shampoo bottle, and it slid out of her with an audible slurp. She reached up, rubbed her face where I had slapped her. My handprint was very visible and growing more so.
“What...” she said, her speech trailing off into nothingness. With me staring straight into her eyes, the red rings faded away, as if someone had pulled down a dimmer switch. The drug was obviously wearing off.
“I want the truth, Penny, now. What did you take?”
She stared up at me, still looking very confused. “I didn’t take anything.”
“That’s bullshit, Penny. I saw your damn eyes, and I want the truth!” I couldn’t believe her gall, and if not for some innate sense of chivalry that took over, I think I might’ve slapped her again. But I couldn’t.
Her eyes grew fluid now, and the tears spilled out, running down her cheek. My handprint was vivid. She shook her head, and seemed to notice for the first time that she was naked, gasped, grabbed the edge of the comforter and pulled it over herself.
“The truth,” I said. “I deserve that.”
She wiped away the tears. Her eyes were clearing now, looking more awake, intelligent, in touch. “I didn’t take anything, Gray. That’s the truth.”
“Then what—”
“Here!” she said, and picked up and shoved the headphones at me. “Put them on!” Only then did I see that they were connected to the device that had brought us all this grief.
“Why on Earth would I want to list—”
Now she was heating up. “Put them on!”
I slipped them on, fitted the earpieces into my ears. She had the main body of the device in her hand, pressed the PLAY button. A strange new-agish song started playing, full of smooth tones, a soothing melody that instantly connected with the musical receptors of my soul. After a few seconds, I decided it was the most wonderful thing I had ever heard.
Chapter 108
Thirty seconds into the song—or maybe it was thirty minutes, or a month—a tingling sensation started in my forehead and began spreading, as if someone were pouring liquid euphoria over my body. All sense of time vanished; it was as if I had stepped outside the space-time domain that binds the mere mortals of the universe.
I didn’t feel drunk, woozy, or out of control. In fact, I felt in supreme control of each of my senses, and there were far more than the five I had previously known about. Oh yes, many, many more. I looked down at the bed, looking for Penny. I suddenly wanted her with every fiber of my being and nothing else mattered. Nothing. She was mine. My crotch was on fire and Harry Johnson—I still remembered his name quite well, thank you very much—was bursting at the seams of my boxers.
Unfortunately, Penny wasn’t on the bed anymore. Where’d she go? I looked around the room, didn’t see her. Then a door opened and she stepped out, fully clothed. She glided over to me, the way a goddess might have approached the alpha god when she longed to be mated. She took me by the hand, led me through the door she had just come from.
For some reason, I expected to find a lush and verdant paradise on the far side of that door, but I was greeted by a bathroom instead. A nice one, no doubt, full of marble and gold, but still just a bathroom. She pulled me along by the hand, then stopped in front of a mirror. She wanted to be able to see us as we joined in our ecstatic union. Fine by me. I reached around and rubbed her breast through the tee-shirt she was wearing. She grabbed my hand, pushed it down.
“Look in the mirror, Gray.”
I didn’t want to look in the mirror. I wanted to rip those damned clothes off her and take her right there on the cool tile floor. She grabbed my face and forcibly pointed it toward the mirror. “Look at yourself,” she said.
“I’d rather look at you, while I’m—”
“Look! Now!”
I did. My eyes had bright red rings around the irises, rings of flame, rings of burning passion. “Awesome,” I said.
Suddenly the music was gone and Penny was holding the headphones. I felt myself being pulled back into the realm of mortals, and I didn’t like it. “I don’t want to go.” I said it out loud and didn’t even know it.
“No one wants to go from where you were, Gray.”
The pull grew stronger. My grasp on the extra senses was slipping, the tingling euphoria drying up, evaporating into the air around me. I must’ve walked back into the bedroom, because I looked up and realized I was sitting on the bed, the bed where Penny had been squirming earlier. She was standing in front of me.
“Do you understand now?” she said.
I thought about it before I answered. Looked around. Saw the device and headphones lying on the bed. Slowly, I did understand.
Chapter 109
Linda Shackleford was dozing on the couch when the doorbell rang. She sat up with a jerk, looked at the TV. Letterman was gone, replaced by a loud man ramming what looked like a big shot needle into an uncooked turkey. She looked at the clock on the end table: 2:14 A.M. The doorbell rang again and she stood, ran her fingers through her hair and went to the door. She looked through the peephole and her stomach twisted.
For years she had feared someone would show up some night and tell her that Rocky had been in an accident, or Rocky had been in a fight, or any of a dozen other things, before breaking the real news that Rocky was dead. Knowing such a visit could come should have made it easier, but it didn’t. Her eyes filled with tears. There weren’t many folks who would miss Rocky, but she sure would. She loved him. Had loved him since they were in the ninth grade. (It was Rocky’s second try at the ninth.) Nineteen years.
She wiped her eyes, straightened her posture, and opened the door. “Sheriff,” she said with a nod, determined not to break down.
“Ms. Shackleford?” Ballard said.
“Mrs. Shackleford,” Linda corrected.
Ballard stared at her for a moment. “Rocky Shackleford’s wife?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m afraid I have some disturbing news.”
A painful knot swelled in her throat. Her eyes burned as she willed the tears not to flow. “Disturbing?”
“Yes ma’am. A warrant’s been issued for his arrest.”
It took several seconds for Linda to realize she had no idea what the sheriff had just said. It was like she had withdrawn from the world. “I’m sorry, sheriff. Can you repeat that?”
He looked put out with her, like it was too much trouble for him to have to waste ten more seconds telling her that her husband was dead.
“Mama?”
Linda turned around, saw Rocky, Jr. standing at the foot of the stairs. “You go on back to bed, little Rock,” she said.
“I gotta pee, Mama, real bad.” He was squirming now, holding himself.
“Come in, sheriff,” Linda said. “I’ll be right back.” She went to the three-year-old, took him by the hand, and led him down a hallway to the left.
* * *
Ballard was getting seriously pissed. Shackleford obviously wasn’t home, and here he stood wasting time in the sonofabitch’s living room while his wife dicked around with a fucking kid. The little bastard could piss all over himself and it wouldn’t make a happy fuck to Ballard. But, he didn’t need this bitch raving later about how he had shown up pissing vinegar just before her worthl
ess piece of shit husband got dead. So he played it cool.
She walked back into the room. “Sorry about that.”
In the light, the woman was a looker. Oh sure, she’d been rode hard and put up wet a few times, but she’d for damn sure be perfectly suitable to come in. Maybe he’d drop by in a few months and offer her some special consolation for her recent loss. If he decided to hang around this shithole of a state. With the cash he’d be making, he could live anywhere on the planet.
“As I said, ma’am, we have a warrant for your husband’s arrest. I need to know where he is.”
She looked confused, like he’d just said something in another language. What the hell was wrong wi—
Ballard heard a loud vehicle approaching and the woman’s face lit up. Shackleford. He turned and headed for the door as the vehicle slowed. As he stepped through the door, the truck— a jacked-up old Ford 4x4—turned into the driveway and lurched to a stop behind his SUV. He started toward the truck as the engine died and Shackleford opened the driver’s door. Ballard’s plan was ready: He’d arrest this piece of backwoods trash, then be forced to defend himself when Shackleford tried to overpower him a few blocks down the road. The Escalade wasn’t outfitted to haul prisoners, so it would be believable.
Shackleford had one foot on the ground now, a confused look on his face. Then, behind him, the woman screamed, “Run, Rock! He’s gonna arrest you!” Shackleford never hesitated; in the space of two seconds he was back in the truck and the engine fired back up with a growl. Ballard sprinted toward Shackleford, but it was too late.
As the truck sped away, Ballard spun around and started back toward the house. He’d kill the bitch. Right here. Right now. Her eyes grew wide and she backed into the house and slammed the door. Ballard drew his pistol, checked the chamber, and flicked off the safety.
Chapter 110
“An electronic drug,” I said. “Unreal.”
“Felt real to me.”
“Penny, sorry about my behavior while I was, uh, under.”
“Same here. I’m not a slut.”
“Didn’t think you were.”
“Neither is your wife. Take some comfort in that.”
I hadn’t thought of that aspect, but it was comforting. She’d had no more control over herself in that motel room than I had minutes before. She could have easily been tricked into listening to a CD, and that’s all it would’ve taken. After a taste, who wouldn’t want more? I was having an almost irresistible urge to put the headphones back on myself. But how did she get there in the first place? Probably with Bobby Knight, but how did all that start? Too many questions.
“Know what I mean?” Penny said.
“Yeah, yeah I do.” I looked back at the device.
“You’re already craving it again, aren’t you?”
“Yes. You?”
She nodded.
“I think we know how people’s brains are getting cooked now,” I said. “What I can’t figure, though, is why anyone would use that fuel cell technology for something like this. Surely it’s worth more to the world for legal uses.”
“Maybe that’s too slow for the people we’re dealing with. The drug business moves much more quickly than the corporate world. No patents. No advertising. Just put a few of them out there and the market is set.”
“You could be right. In any event, someone else can figure all that out once we’ve exposed this bunch.”
“When did we decide to expose them? I thought we were just extricating ourselves from it.”
“Catching these people and going public is the only way we’ll live, Penny.”
“I agree. Just playing devil’s advocate.”
The excitement was wearing off and fatigue was setting back in. I checked my watch. “Four A.M. I’m going to try for some sleep. And hope you don’t wake me up with another floor show.” I smiled. She punched me on the arm.
Chapter 111
RENTAL CABIN AREA
TOMBIGBEE STATE PARK
NEAR TUPELO, MISSISSIPPI
Jack Docker was quiet when he needed to be, and he sure needed to be right now. Quiet and quick. He had cased the area in general, cabin number four in particular, for over an hour. One park ranger was on duty, which normally wouldn’t present much of a problem. Most night patrols at places like this would do well to cover the whole campground two or three times in a night. Not this guy. He was all into his job, Barney Fife on wheels.
The guard had driven slowly through the cabin area five times during the past hour, in what looked to be an enclosed golf cart. If that wasn’t troubling enough, he didn’t follow a pattern. It could be twenty minutes between passes. Or three. One thing was certain: He had just been through, and now was the time to strike. Docker walked quickly to the door, and unscrewed the light bulb beside it.
A gentle push-pull on the doorknob. Good, the door had some slack. He pulled a stiff piece of plastic, about the width of a credit card but twice as long, and slipped it in between door and jamb. Feel, feel, feel, there it was. One good push and the bolt retracted from the strike. He pushed the door open slowly, hoping the hinges were well oiled. They were.
Inside, he switched on a tiny LED flashlight on his key ring and swept the room with it. Nothing. He stepped through a door in the back of the room, down a short hallway, and into the room at the end. He played the beam of the light across the bed. Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
He replayed the man’s instructions. Yes, he had definitely said cabin number four. And yes, he had definitely said there would be three people. He sure as hell hadn’t said anything about two of them being kids, though. Docker did not like shit like this. Adults were fine. Most of them were assholes and deserved what they got. Not kids, though. He weighed his options. He had two. Do it, or not do it. He didn’t like the first, but he was scared of the second.
He stepped to the side of the bed where the man was; he looked to be in his sixties, maybe older. Docker had three pre-cut lengths of tape stuck to his shirt. He pulled the first one off and quickly slapped it over the man’s mouth. The old man sprang up in the bed, fighting like hell from the word go. Docker had no choice but to jump onto the bed and pin him down.
The bed shook as the man struggled to get out from under Docker, and the little girls sat up in bed. Docker saw that they were twins. It took a moment for them to wake up, but when they did, they both started screaming. That wouldn’t work. Docker drew back and hit the old man hard, and he sank back onto the mattress. His fighting was done.
The little girls scrambled to get away from Docker, but he was too quick, and in seconds he had both their mouths secured with the tape. He threw one over each shoulder and made his way back through the house to the front room. He peeked out the window. Damn it. Barney was already coming again.
Chapter 112
TOMBIGBEE STATE PARK
For as long as he could remember, Andy Waltham had wanted to be a policeman. Friends played football. He hung out at the police station, asking questions. Friends went to the movies. Andy scoured the library for books on police procedure. Now, at twenty-two, he was in the business. Not the FBI yet, mind you, but the ranger job was a start and in three months, they’d be paying for him to attend the police academy in Jackson. Not bad at all.
He turned the second curve in the cabin sector and scanned the area. Something was different. He stared, trying to figure out what it was, slowed, then stopped the patrol cart. Number four. The porch light was out. Had it been burning on the last pass? Yes, definitely. Probably nothing, but better safe than sorry. He checked his weapon, then stepped out of the little vehicle.
Andy took two steps, then stepped into the grass. The gravel path was far too noisy for a stealth approach. At the door, he checked the bulb. It was loose. He gave it a slight turn and it glowed brightly. His heart pounded. How did a light bulb come unscrewed at four in the morning? Calm down, Waltham. Tombigbee State Park wasn’t exactly a crime nexus, now was it? No, it was not.
He raised his hand to knock on the door, then pulled it back. What would he say if the guest, Mr. Jones, answered? Hello, sir, I noticed your porch light wasn’t burning and figured I better check on you. Yeah, that’d go over real well. He could hear the morning crew laughing at him now.
Still, how did the bulb get unscrewed? He raised his hand again, fingering the butt of his gun with the other. Get real, Waltham. The bulb was probably loose already and it only took the tiniest movement of the breeze to break its circuit. No need to risk making a fool of himself. He turned around, went back to the cart, and resumed patrol.
Chapter 113
Linda Shackleford slammed the front door, locked the knob, twisted the deadbolt, and strung the chain. Little Rock was back, crying, and Kelly, their twelve-year-old daughter, was coming down the stairs.
“Both of you, upstairs, now!” Linda said. “Get under your bed, Kelly, and don’t come out for nothing!”
Kelly’s eyes were wide, but she reached down, took the little boy’s hand, and followed her mother’s instructions. Linda yanked a cordless phone off its cradle on an end table and pounded up the stairs behind them as she dialed 911. Then it hit her: What good would it do to dial the police? Like they were gonna protect her from the sheriff? Like hell. She punched off the call and dialed another number.
* * *
Rocky checked his rearview mirror again, surprised that Ballard wasn’t giving chase. He pulled to the curb and waited a minute, then another. His cell phone rang and he checked the caller ID: Rockford Shackleford. He flipped it open. “Lin?”
“Oh, Rock! You okay?”
Pawnbroker: A Thriller Page 20