Rage Factor

by Chris Rogers

  Dixie herded the girl back toward the courthouse.

  “There’s someone else I need to talk to.”

  A Metro bus wheezed to a stop at the corner, chuffing the air with diesel fumes.

  “Okay, you’ve got things to do.” Sarina stubbornly slowed her pace, allowing the WALK light to change. “Only let’s not lose sight of who the paying customer is here.”

  “Belle Richards is the paying customer.”

  “And my mother pays Richards. Doesn’t that give me some say in where we go?”

  “Sarina, your mother doesn’t even know yet that you visited Duncan’s studio the first time. I notice you didn’t volunteer that information—invented a trip to NASA, instead. Did you have your cover story picked out before realizing you wouldn’t be carting around town on your own?”

  Sarina’s expression turned sulky. “In LA I go wherever I want.”

  “I doubt it.” Otherwise, she wouldn’t need to visit an effects studio in Houston. “Did you have a bodyguard in LA?”

  “At home I have school, and tennis instruction, and debate club, and foreign language tea parties, and every other distraction my mother can throw at me. Her agent either drives me or sends someone. I’m lucky I get ten minutes free time to brush my teeth.”

  Dixie’s pager signaled a call from Ryan. Glad to end the argument with Sarina, she punched in her nephew’s number on her cell phone. She was accustomed to handling Ryan’s brand of persistence.

  “Aunt Dix, you didn’t get the cast off yet, did you? Everyone wants to see it.”

  “You mean laugh at it, don’t you? Self-defense instructor breaks foot in skirmish?”

  “I thought you broke it at that hotel downtown. That’s what I told everybody. Where’s Skirmish?”

  “A skirmish is an insignificant battle.”

  “Mom said it was pretty significant. Said you gave the guy a new face.”

  Amy bragging about her sister’s escapades? Uncredible, as Sarina would say. “You know I’ll only be assisting tomorrow. Ms. Benson is your instructor for another week or two.”

  “Sure, that’s okay. She taught us some cool moves.”

  By the time Dixie assured him her cast would be available for inspection the next day, she and Sarina had reached the courthouse entrance. Julie Colby and Grace Foxworth stood outside, surrounded by puffs of pale smoke. As support staff, Julie was responsible for making sure witnesses showed up at court as scheduled, so a prosecutor’s case could proceed smoothly. It was entirely possible that Julie had access to Brenda’s calendar and would know where the prosecutor was headed right now.

  “I won’t be long,” Dixie told Sarina, stepping between the girl and a trio of briefcase-toting men who pushed past. “Then maybe we’ll check out one of the cultural attractions on your mother’s punch list.”

  “Yawn.” Sarina hung back a pace as Dixie approached the two women.

  Grace Foxworth blew smoke skyward as she flicked the ash off her cigarette and a regal appraisal over Sarina. Today she appeared almost radiant compared to the anxious woman Dixie had seen at the Coombs trial. Had her daughter’s health taken an upward turn? She carried the same alligator bag, but with a striking spice-red pantsuit, silk animal-print scarf knotted around the collar, perfectly coordinated. Caterpillar turned butterfly.

  Julie Colby had bundled her long, athletic body into a navy wool coat and a red and green silk muffler. Everything about the paralegal was long, from her chestnut hair to the thin cigarette between her slender fingers. Like Brenda, she’d been trying to quit smoking, but dealing with the victims of rape and abuse didn’t make it easy. She looked down the street, in the direction Dixie and Sarina had appeared, before widening her gray eyes and making introductions. When her gaze locked on Sarina, she smiled. A dimple appeared above her square jaw.

  “You must be Joanna Francis’ daughter.” She gently extinguished her partially smoked cigarette against a brick. “You’re as beautiful as your famous mother.”

  “Thanks,” Sarina muttered, staring down at her shoes. Not the kid’s favorite compliment, Dixie figured. And not the first time she’d heard it, either.

  Grace Foxworth checked her watch, then snuffed her own cigarette and handed the box of ultralight Capri to Julie.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Dixie told her.

  “No, no, I was leaving.” She looked at her jewel-encrusted watch again, a gold filigree band with an old-fashioned dial surrounded by tiny diamonds—or what looked like diamonds to Dixie’s untrained eye. Gold earrings and a matching brooch were similarly encrusted. The simple gold cross encircling her throat seemed oddly out of place.

  “I heard about your daughter’s … incident,” Dixie said. “I hope she’s better.”

  The woman smiled, radiantly. “I believe she is better today. I do! The doctor says there’s no change, but a mother knows.” She opened the alligator handbag to take out her keys. “I have to run! Julie, thank you for … everything. Dixie, Sarina, lovely to meet you.” She strode briskly away, toward a row of cars parked at meters.

  “I’m afraid I need to move along, too,” Julie said. “Was there something you needed from the office? I saw you walk out with Brenda.”

  “She drove away before I could find out where she’s going for lunch.”

  Julie frowned. “Brenda told me this morning she needed to take a personal day if the trial finished early—we expected the recess, you know.”

  “She didn’t mention where to reach her in case of an emergency?” Dixie took Sarina’s arm and followed Julie into the building.

  The witness coordinator shook her head. “I suggested Brenda take several days. She pushes herself too hard.”

  They reached the elevators. Julie punched the UP button as Dixie regarded Grace Foxworth beyond the glass entrance, climbing into a beige Ford sedan. According to Dixie’s contact, Coombs had reported that at least two people assaulted him, and the only one who’d spoken was a woman. The Foxworths had been witnesses in Coombs’ trial. Their daughter was in a coma, therefore unable to name her attacker, and only the fact that she’d been dating Coombs gave any reason to suspect him. Yet the couple had attended every day of his trial. Dixie made a mental note to talk to the Foxworths.

  But her basic philosophy when seeking information was to “look for the loudest mouth.” The loudest mouth in the Coombs case was Clarissa Thomas, the witness who’d found Regan Salles tied to a park bench. Clarissa’s husband had been concerned enough about Coombs to buy a gun.

  When the elevator doors opened, Julie looked anxiously at the stream of people pouring out. “I need to get upstairs, but … if there’s anything else—?”

  Dixie thought about riding up and wheedling a look at Brenda’s calendar, but Sarina had positioned herself against a wall, busy with her puppet and too far away to corral easily.

  “Can you get me some addresses?” Dixie asked Julie as she stepped into the elevator. “Clarissa Thomas, Regan Salles?”

  Holding the doors open, Julie shook her head vaguely. “Clarissa’s listed under her husband’s name, Donald, but Regan had to move, and we got her an unpublished number to be safe from Lawrence Coombs. I know you used to work with Brenda, but … I really can’t give out personal information.”

  Dixie expected as much. Brenda wouldn’t value Julie’s help the way she did if the woman were indiscreet. All right, then, she’d start with the loudest mouth.

  Chapter Thirty

  Patricia Carrera was thirsty. Her tongue was so dry it felt swollen, and her mouth tasted of vomit. She stood with her eyes closed, half asleep, not daring to fall fully asleep. Even if her short chain would allow it, she couldn’t bear the thought of finding herself on the floor with the dirt and the slime and the crawly things.

  A rat nipped at her shoe. She kicked it, connecting with a satisfying thud and hearing a squeal of pain. That should keep the filthy creatures away for a while.

  She was cold. In the absolute dark, she had no idea whether it
was day or night, but the temperature had dropped. Now she heard the wind whisk past the building, faintly, as if at a distance. Breathing the cold air made her chest want to close up, although her asthma had not been active in years. She could smell mold, the floor was probably thick with it. That would irritate her asthma as much as the cold air. No inhaler. She hadn’t needed one in a very long time. Not like Paulie, who used one daily. But he’d outgrow it, just as she had.

  It was the dust and heat that bothered Paulie. Sometimes that old cabinet could get plenty hot, and she would hear him wheezing, shut up in there without his inhaler. But he had to learn to deal with it, just as she had.

  “Asthma, my foot,” her mother would say when Patricia began to wheeze. “You’re a whiner. Take yourself a deep breath, child. Stop all that coughing, and get that kitchen floor mopped before your daddy gets home, or I’ll give you something to whine about.” Meaning Patricia would get a strapping when Daddy wasn’t around to stop it.

  A deep breath was exactly what Patricia couldn’t do. The fumes from the bucket and the exertion of pushing the mop made the wheezing and coughing worse. At night she would lie absolutely still and think about floating on a cloud. Sometimes the wheezing would stop. Other times, she coughed into her pillow until she thought her lungs would come right up through her throat, and she prayed for God to take her during the night.

  But she outgrew the asthma, and so would Paulie. He just needed to toughen up.

  Patricia shivered and tried not to think about the heaviness in her bladder. She held herself absolutely still. A cough now would surely release her urine.

  She hated the mold, hated the smell, aware that minuscule spores were invading her nostrils with every breath. She imagined the blackish green fungus coating the insides of her nose, then creeping over the membranes of her sinuses, flourishing in the moist warmth of her lungs until mold filled them and grew back out of her nose and mouth, mottled her face and spread like a blackish green blanket over her body. By then, of course, she’d be long dead.

  One of the rats crept closer. Hearing the soft clickety-click of toenails, she tensed. She wanted to kick it, but what if the effort caused her to cough? She’d wet herself. But she couldn’t let the damn thing chew on her shoes.

  Or maybe she could.

  Maybe she could bait it, holding still until she felt the rat’s teeth on the leather, then quickly lift her foot, bring it down SPLAT on the thing’s head. Grind the flea-bitten monster into the dirt and hope the others got the message.

  What if the rat bit right through to her skin? Or she succeeded in killing one of them and others crowded round to devour their dead brother? Patricia’s stomach heaved at the thought.

  She heard another click, louder this time, and not at her feet, but at the door. The turn of a key in the lock.

  The real monsters had returned.

  Sudden tears stung Patricia’s nose, and a stream of warmth trickled down her inner thigh.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  “Your friend with the cool ride sounded like she didn’t want any help. Does that mean we can do something fun now?” Sarina slouched sullenly alongside Dixie as they approached the Porsche.

  “Movie at six. Anything else has to come from that list of cultural activities your mother provided. And I have one or two more people I need to talk to.”

  Dixie slid behind the wheel as Sarina slammed the passenger door. When they had eased away from the curb into downtown traffic, Dixie powered on her cell phone. Information listed two Donald Thomases. The first lived in a part of town where Clarissa’s designer outfits would surely invite mugging. Dixie memorized the address for the other.

  As soon as she snapped the cell phone off, Sarina said casually, “If you’re off to see another friend now, you could drop me at the cineplex to catch an early show. I won’t tell if you don’t.”

  “Not a chance, kid.”

  “Since Mother’s stalker is still in LA, what could happen? You can earn your pay without me yammering in your ear, while I catch some new films. Is that not a terrific plan?”

  “The plan is to find one or two cultural activities in this town that will interest even you.”

  Scowling, the girl brought the Datman out of her pocket, thumbed the controls, and produced a groan that sounded like something out of a grave in Tales From the Crypt. She replayed the hideous groan over and over until Dixie was ready to snatch the recorder and pitch it out the window. Instead, she clicked on the radio, tuned it to a country station, and defied the girl to touch it.

  The Thomases resided in Hunter’s Way, a middle-class neighborhood in Southwest Houston. The two-story house had a circular brick driveway, a broad porch with white columns, and double oak doors flanked by leaded glass and brass lanterns. Classy, even for the classy neighborhood.

  The garage doors were closed. No car in the driveway. As the streets were quiet, with an open view, and the front door was only a few paces from the curb, Dixie allowed Sarina to stay in the car while she checked to see if anyone was home. When she knocked, a tinny voice, heavily accented, answered through a speaker.

  “Yes, please. May I help you?”

  “Is Clarissa Thomas in?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I’m not selling anything. How about Donald Thomas, is he in?”

  “No. Thank you, please. Good-bye.”

  “Wait! Any idea when one of the Thomases will be home?”

  “Mr. Thomas comes maybe at six.”

  “And Mrs. Thomas?”

  “Shop until drop. You come this afternoon, please.”

  The speaker went firmly silent.

  Irritated at the persistent dead ends, Dixie stepped away from the porch and flipped open the cell phone to make a call she didn’t want Sarina to hear. A familiar male voice answered.

  “G.F., Incorporated.”

  “Cute, Brew. When did the Gypsy Filchers incorporate?” A small group of young people, most homeless for one reason or another, and formerly in trouble for one reason or another, had banded together to act like Robin Hood and his Merry Men, robbing from wealthy Houston merchants and giving to charities that rarely made the list of United Way recipients. Whenever a loaded grocery truck disappeared during a driver’s coffee break, the groceries might end up on the shelves of a halfway house. The truck would be found later, parked at a supermarket, a string of Gypsy beads dangling from the rearview mirror.

  Dixie carefully remained ignorant of any details, but believed the kids might otherwise be selling sex or drugs on street corners and committing far worse crimes. The DA’s office was aware the gang existed, would probably round them up if there were ever enough evidence, but the Gypsy Filchers were not a priority.

  The kids also raised money in more legitimate ways—roadside car washes, puppet shows in malls, vending sales at the festivals that popped up every spring and fall. Dixie tossed a few bucks their way when she needed information from the street or from a computer. Brew, one of the management trio, had lost the use of his legs as a kid, in a playground accident. He lived much of his life through computers, and had access to enough data about the daily crimes that went down to put plenty of small-time crooks behind bars. Right now, what Dixie needed was fairly simple.

  “Can you find out which hospital has a Foxworth listed in long-term care?”

  “Foxworth, Foxworth—that’s the chick was assaulted in a local art gallery a few months back.”

  Dixie hadn’t heard where the assault took place, but Brew read every major on-line newspaper in the country.

  “Including her room number, if you can get it. I also need the Foxworths’ home address.”

  Brew said give him two minutes on the hospital, then, scarcely missing a beat, rattled off the address. It was only a few miles from the Thomas residence.

  Sliding into the driver’s seat again, Dixie noticed Fire Dweller now sported an extra pair of arms, complete with viselike pincers.

  “Are you starving yet?” she as
ked Sarina.

  “Boredom does not affect my appetite.”

  “Did you check out your mother’s list?”

  She grimaced. “There’s a metal sculpture show at the Museum of Modern Art. I could handle that.”

  “Sounds good. We’ll get lunch somewhere near the museum. First I have another stop or two to make.”

  Dixie had just parked in front of the Foxworth house when the call came from Brew. The hospital was Memorial Southwest. Not far at all.

  “One more thing,” Dixie said as he was about to ring off. “Find out if anyone saw or heard anything in Memorial Park around the time Lawrence Coombs was attacked.”

  “Memorial Park? You’re talking about one big stretch of pine trees.”

  “He was found about fifty yards from the Crestwood entrance.”

  “Right, like that helps.” He disconnected.

  The Foxworths’ neighborhood was older than the Thomases’, and the house smaller, hidden behind a tangle of shrubbery, but far from shabby. Dixie insisted Sarina go along this time.

  The doorbell was answered by the sad shrunken man Dixie had last seen in the courtroom. He blinked at her from behind silver-rimmed eyeglasses. Pouches of loose skin beneath his eyes gave him the gentle, melancholy expression of a basset hound. A clock chimed inside the house.

  “Didn’t expect guests,” he said. “Expected my wife for lunch, but not guests. Did she tell me you were coming?”

  “We only met briefly.” Dixie introduced herself and Sarina. “I had a few questions—”

  “Well, then, Lowell Foxworth here. Come in, come in.” He waved them inside. “Always glad to have luncheon guests. Always plenty. Like to cook, you see. Leftovers from last night. Didn’t know we were having guests, or I’d have made fresh.”

  “We didn’t come for lunch—”

  “Nonsense, come in, have a seat. No, no, no—” He’d started to lead them toward a living room, or maybe the dining room Dixie could see just beyond it. “Let’s eat in the den. Cozier there. You’ll be more comfortable—especially you, young lady. What was your name again?”