“Ándale, puto!”
The leg shackles were removed, and then Phin was shoved roughly from behind. He still had his handcuffs on—heavy, rusty chains that had rubbed the skin on his wrists raw. As he was marched through the cell hallway, a machinegun at his back, the chains bumped against his broken ribs, causing a spike of pain with every step.
He was right. It was the football kid.
Phin beat him to death with an aluminum baseball bat, then tried and failed to find redemption in a six pack of warm beer as Kiler cursed at him.
YEARS AGO
LUCY
Indianapolis
The six-year old climbed to the top of the slide and looked to see if her parents were watching.
They weren’t. Daddy was yelling at Mommy, waving his hands around and using bad words. Mommy had that mean look; the kind she had when Lucy spilled juice on the carpet.
They were fighting about Lucy. Mommy didn’t like it that Daddy loved her more than he loved Mommy.
Lucy looked around the playground. There were some kids on the swings, and one on the green springy horse. No one was paying any attention to her.
She reached into her shorts and gently took out the frog she’d found by the pond. It wiggled, its long legs kicking out. The frog’s skin was still moist, and it smelled funny.
“Do you want to watch me go down the slide, Mr. Frog?”
The frog didn’t answer.
“How about we both go down?”
Lucy sat down, carefully cupped the animal in her hands, and anticlimactically slid to the ground. When she stood up, she checked to see if Mr. Frog was still safe.
He was.
“Was that fun, Mr. Frog? Want to do it again?”
The frog didn’t seem to care one way or the other. Lucy wondered if he might want to do something else instead.
“Are you hungry, Mr. Frog? Want something to eat?”
Lucy walked over to the sandbox, looking for bugs. She couldn’t find any. But she did find a bottle cap.
“Finish it, or you’re getting a spanking,” she ordered Mr. Frog.
Lucy used her thumb to push it all the way in, and the sharp edges came out of Mr. Frog’s belly, which bled all over her hands.
The blood made Mr. Frog smell soooooo much better.
When the frog stopped moving, Lucy dug a hole in the sand and buried him.
“Now you’re with your family,” she said, pushing sand over Mr. Frog’s body. The Lucy Garden Paradise Memorial Frog Cemetery contained six other frog corpses. But, unknown to Lucy, none of them were actually related. And one was actually a toad, not a frog.
But they all smelled good when they bled.
“Hello, Lucy.”
Lucy looked up, and saw a woman standing next to her.
“Hello.”
The woman was thin, and wore big sunglasses that covered most of her face.
“I saw what you did to that frog. How did it make you feel?”
“I dunno.”
“Did it make you feel happy?”
Lucy didn’t answer.
“Sometimes, when we hurt inside, we do things to feel better. Do you hurt inside, Lucy?”
Lucy shook her head.
“Never?”
“It hurts when I get spanked.”
“Do you get spanked a lot?”
Lucy nodded.
“For doing bad things?”
“I spill my juice sometimes. And I put Jarvis in the oven. I got spanked for that.”
“Jarvis is your cat?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Did Jarvis die?”
“No. He just made a lot of noise and Mommy let him out and spanked me.”
“Was the oven on?”
“No,” Lucy said.
“Did you want to turn it on?”
“I couldn’t reach the knob.”
“You’re not big enough, yet.” The woman smiled. “But you will be, someday. You’ll grow up big and strong and never let anyone hurt you ever again.”
“What’s your name?”
“I’m your mommy, Lucy.”
That didn’t make any sense. “You’re not Mommy.”
“I’m your real mommy. Those people adopted you when you were just a baby. I had to give you away. But one day we’ll be together again. Would you like that?”
“You want to see Mr. Frog? I put him in a hole.”
“I wish I could, sweetie. But I have to go. Maybe next time. When the time is right, I’ll come for you, Lucy. I’ve been watching you for years. One day, we’re going to be a family again.”
Lucy began to dig up Mr. Frog. When she pulled him out of the sand, the woman was gone.
KATIE
Kansas City
It felt good to get away from the pig.
They’d rolled into KC after sunset. Katie, Jack, and Tequila had gotten rooms at a Holiday Inn Express on Rainbow Boulevard, while Harry McGlade and Herb Bacondict drove off in search of a place to park and spend the night. Which would be uncomfortable for McGlade, because Herb had eaten his mattress.
Tequila went straight to the hotel gym. Katie suggested to Jack that they take a walk, maybe find a bar, but the ex-cop preferred instead to stay in her room and scour the Internet for anything related to Luther Kite.
Which was fine with Katie. She’d been fruitlessly searching for Luther for a long time, and she’d sought out Jack Daniels because the woman had a knack for tracking down psychopaths. Let the cop do her thing.
Katie needed some alone time anyway. She grabbed her backpack and ventured out into the night.
After a sub sandwich at a local shop, Katie wound up at a nondescript neighborhood tavern called Mike Kelly’s Westsider that didn’t seem worth her time. She almost walked past, but the sounds of live music gave Katie hope the place would have a diverse crowd. Katie paid a five dollar cover and went in.
The band was a trio, and the lanky lead singer had longish, gray hair and a voice like butter. Katie found a stool at the bar, ordered a Maker’s Mark neat, and sipped it while listening to a rock song about—of all things—the Dutch painter Jan Vermeer. It was an upbeat tune, there were a few people dancing, Katie found herself tapping her foot to the beat. When it was finished, the next song was something quieter, slower. Katie assumed it was a love song, until she started paying attention to the words.
“I scratch my name into your mirror,” he crooned. “I burn my face into your eyes.”
No. That wasn’t love. That was something else. Something eerie.
She continued to listen, and realized the song was about a predator. Someone who had harmed another person so badly it caused a scar that could never heal, and an unwelcome bond between abuser and victim.
Katie raised the bourbon to her lips and clinked the glass against her teeth.
Her hand was shaking.
She managed to set it down without spilling any, threw a tenner on the bar, and went to the ladies’ room, the lyric “Do not relax, you’re not alone,” following her inside.
At the sink she ran some cool water and wet her hands, then rubbed her face.
“Lock it down,” she told herself.
But rather than lock it down, her stomach rolled and she threw up the bourbon. Katie was spitting the last of it into the drain just as a woman came in.
“Tough night, honey?” she asked, standing next to Katie and applying red lip gloss.
Katie appraised her. She was in her late forties or early fifties, hair teased beyond any measure of beauty, crammed into a skirt that screamed bar skank.
“I’m new in town.” She put on what she knew was a pathetic smile. “I just really need to get fixed up. Any ideas?”
The woman stopped applying make-up long enough to lock eyes with Katie. Fixed up was a phrase that sounded innocent to the uninitiated, but was obvious to others. Depending on this lady’s past, she might understand Katie’s intent, or try to set her up with her second cousin.
“I don’t do that anymore,” the w
oman said.
Katie didn’t have to fake desperation; her yearning was honest. “I heard about Troost Avenue. East of Troost. Can I go there?”
“You should stick with booze. They pour an honest shot here. Music is great. Cute thing like you should be able to find some sweetheart for the night.”
“I don’t need a sweetheart. I need this.” Katie didn’t try to control her shaking. “Please.”
“Mess your life up with that shit,” the woman said.
“It’s my life.” And it’s already messed up, Katie thought.
The woman shrugged, as if deciding it wasn’t her problem. “Whatever. Troost isn’t good anymore. There’s a pawn shop on Independence. You can score around there. But that’s a bad area. Shouldn’t go alone.”
Katie mumbled a thank you and left the bathroom and the bar, music following her back out into the street. She headed west, found a fast food joint, and called a taxi from the toilet stall.
It took her eight minutes to change her clothes, twenty minutes to get to the east side of town, and two hours before she found what she was looking for.
Then things got really, really ugly.
DONALDSON
Baja
Four hours after leaving Phoenix, Donaldson was in Mexicali. That included crossing the border. As he expected, they green-lighted Donaldson through Customs without detaining him for inspection. His FMM visitor visa and vehicle permit cost about fifty bucks. Rather than risk using Irving’s credit card, he paid with quarters and dimes stolen from the dead man’s home.
It left him with a little over fourteen dollars left in the change jar. He turned onto Boulevard Lázaro Cárdenas and began to search for the proper store.
Donaldson was hungry, but he wasn’t looking for food. During the long drive, he’d had a lot of time to think about how to find his Lucy. Baja was a big place. If she were there, hunting for her could take weeks, or even months, and might ultimately prove impossible. Like finding a needle in a haystack.
But there were ways to find that proverbial needle. The simplest solution was to have the needle come to you.
Donaldson parked at an OXXO, which seemed to be the Mexican convenience store equivalent of 7-Eleven, and hobbled inside, his pockets laden with coins. Inside he bought a lemon, a map of Mexicali, ten meters of heavy-duty clothesline, and a box of Gansitos snack cakes, which appeared to be chocolate-covered Twinkies with strawberry jelly inside.
The cost for everything; less than five US dollars.
He gnawed on one of the Gansitos, getting used to Irving’s teeth, plotting his next move, weighing pros and cons.
Would a tourist get more, or less, media attention?
The local authorities probably wouldn’t announce that right away. Bad publicity.
Someone local would provoke a more immediate media response.
A man, or a woman?
Actually, it depended on their size. Donaldson was once a formidable predator, ready to take on all-comers. Nowadays, a strong breeze could kick his ass. Best bet was to look for someone small.
A child?
Donaldson had no specific preferences when it came to killing. He’d murdered people of all ages. But the populace tended to get disproportionally riled up when children died. Donaldson was seeking headlines, not a national manhunt.
The best bet would be to stick with what worked in Phoenix. Find someone at a disadvantage, like a drunk or an old person, and go from there.
He ate a second Gansitos, wondering why they weren’t available in the US because the combination of crème filling, yellow cake, chocolate sprinkles, and strawberry jelly was a snack cake win. Donaldson retrieved some Xanax out of the pillowcase, popped two, and began to cruise the streets, searching for a suitable victim.
One hour and four Gansitos later, Donaldson felt terrific. His various pains had been dulled to manageable levels, the car was cool, his gut was full, and he’d found a skivvy bar on the edge of town called Quatro that was spitting drunks out into the parking lot every ten minutes or so. So far, they’d been in pairs or groups. But it was just a matter of time until some single person stumbled out, oblivious to his surroundings.
While waiting, Donaldson tied the clothesline to the undercarriage of the Caddy, doubled up the width of rope so it wouldn’t snap, and put a perfect hangman’s knot on the end.
If this worked, he wouldn’t have to search Mexicali for Lucy. Donaldson would use her MO and drag someone to death, stopping occasionally to douse the person in lemon juice. News of the murder would spread, and his Lucy would know he was in town and she’d find him.
Donaldson put the noose in his pocket, sat in the car with the air on, and waited for his next victim, crouching like a spider in a—
There.
The man staggering out of the tavern appeared drunk as drunk can get. He was Mexican. He was alone. He moved like the ground beneath him was shifting. Donaldson rocked his bulk out of the Cadillac and as he unfolded the map he did a three-hundred and sixty degree sweep of the parking lot to make sure no one was watching.
“Can you help?” Donaldson asked. The map concealed the noose in his fist. “I’m looking for the Plaza de Toros Calafia.”
The drunk turned on the heel of his overly ornate cowboy boot and made a face. “Que?”
“The Plaza de Toros,” Donaldson said, reading off the ad on the back of the map. “Can you give me directions?”
“Eres muy feo.”
“Where?” Donaldson was only a few steps away, and getting excited. As twisted and broken as his body was, he still felt the adrenaline spike, the dopamine dump, the natural high that always accompanied an atrocious act. Out of all the base instincts and emotions human beings were capable of, none were as viscerally satisfying as causing harm.
Donaldson lowered his head and shoved, hard as he could, knocking the intoxicated man onto the ground. As the guy flopped around, groaning gibberish, Donaldson looped the rope around his ankle and cinched it tight. Then he hurried back to the Caddy.
Time to paint the streets red.
He turned the engine over, threw the car into gear, and hit the gas, his whole body tingling with excitement.
Then there was an enormous BOOM! as the drunk’s boot—still attached to the clothesline—came bursting through the back window.
Donaldson was smacked in the head so hard his face bounced off the steering wheel; an action which would have easily broken his nose if he still had one.
He managed to hit the brakes, screeching to a stop. Then he blinked, trying to regain the ability to focus, and gingerly touched the back of his skull. Along with the growing bump, he felt over a dozen lacerations; when the boot broke through, it peppered him with bits of glass, shotgun-style.
For a moment Donaldson was unsure what to do. The smart thing was to drive away, get patched up, then try again later. But a quick glance through the broken rear window proved the drunk guy was still on the ground, minus one boot but apparently unharmed.
Donaldson heaved himself out of the car, limped around to the back, and tugged the clothesline back through the window. Lurching toward his prey, he widened the noose, freeing the boot, and looped the rope over the man’s neck and pulled it tight.
Since it was practically impossible to pull off a human head—Donaldson knew this having tried to do so several times—this should work perfectly. He hobbled back to the Cadillac, brushed broken glass off his seat, climbed in, and punched it.
The car accelerated, slowing as it took the weight of the Mexican, and then speeding up again.
“That’s right!” Donaldson whooped, turning to take a look at the carnage. “How do you like pavement sledding, you drunk son of a—”
The TWANG! sounded like a perfect C chord strummed on a giant guitar. A millisecond later, the rope was catapulting back at Donaldson like a rubber band, flying through the broken rear window, and thwacking him in the left eye.
The pain was preternatural. Donaldson slammed on the brake
s again, the Caddy fishtailing. When the car came to a stop, Donaldson’s shaking hands probed his eye.
It felt like a warm hardboiled egg.
He adjusted the rearview mirror, chancing a look.
A demented, blood-soaked Cookie Monster stared back at him with a googly Ping-Pong eyeball.
Donaldson screamed, trying to shove his eye back into the socket, which cranked the agony up to eleven. When it wouldn’t budge, he punched the dashboard until his hand bled, and then reassessed the injury.
On closer inspection, his eye wasn’t actually sticking out. Instead, the rope had forced his upper eyelid behind his eyeball.
Having his optic nerve rubbed with sandpaper wouldn’t have hurt as much.
Donaldson tried to stick a finger behind his eye to grab the eyelid, screaming as he did so,
Competing with the pain was rage. Donaldson opened the door, determined to beat the Mexican into a misshapen pulp. The man was sitting up, the rope no longer around his neck because it had been Donaldson’s knot that failed, not the clothesline. That made Donaldson even angrier, and he searched the back seat for his crowbar, hefted it, and then set course to murder.
“Dónde está mi bota?” the Mexican asked, staring stupidly at his bare foot.
Donaldson could only point to a few times in his life where he wanted to kill someone as fiercely as he wanted to kill this man. He wanted to crack open his ribs, dig into his chest, and tear out this guy’s beating heart and eat it right in front of him. He wanted to break the man’s legs in so many places he could bend them backwards and make him choke on his own toes. He wanted to carve open his stomach and fill it with hot coals and then—
“Hey, check out Popeye!”
Four Americans had walked out of Quarto and were pointing at Donaldson and giggling. Two men, two women, each of them young and fit, all heading his direction.
“His head looks like my nutsack!”
“I think I’m going to puke.”
“What a freak show. That should not be allowed out in public.”
“Is that a mask? That’s gotta be a mask.”
Last Call - A Thriller (Jacqueline Jack Daniels Mysteries Book 10) Page 14