by Jude Hardin
“Are you Jim Ballard?” I said.
“Who wants to know?”
“My name is Nicholas Colt. I’m a private investigator. Can I talk to you for a few minutes?”
“About?”
“Alison Palmer and Robbie Asbury.”
For some reason he glanced toward the front entrance. “Can I see your badge, or your license, or whatever it is you guys carry?”
“I must have left mine at home.”
He bit his lower lip. “Let me just grab a beer real quick,” he said.
He had a deep, resonant voice, but there was no emotion in it. He sounded like a TV announcer who’d taken a tranquilizer.
A couple of minutes later he came back to the table holding a bottle of Corona. He sat across from me, pushed a lime wedge into the bottle. “Vitamin C,” he said. “It’s good for you.”
“Yeah. Keeps you from getting scurvy.”
He drained half the beer in a single gulp. “That sucks about Alison Palmer,” he said.
People handle grief in different ways. After John Lennon was shot, Paul McCartney initially responded to the media by saying, “Yeah, it’s a drag.” Or something like that. Jim’s understatement regarding Alison’s murder might have been in the same vein. Maybe he was still in shock.
Maybe, but I kept thinking about what Darcy had told me, about Jim’s obsession with Alison and about the allegations of abuse.
“It definitely sucks,” I said, trying to see if the sentiment sounded any better coming from my own mouth. It didn’t.
Jim was silent for a few beats, momentarily focused on peeling the label off his beer bottle. He finally gave up on it and took another long pull.
“She used to be my girlfriend,” he said.
“I know.”
“Yeah? Who you been talking to?”
“People. Listen, I need to talk to Robbie Asbury before he turns himself into the police. I thought you might have some idea about his location.”
“What makes you think he’s going to turn himself into the police?” Jim said.
“What makes you think he won’t?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. And I’m not at liberty to tell you where he is.”
“But you know?”
“Maybe. Why is it so important for you to talk to him?”
“There was another murder in Alison’s apartment,” I said. “Almost a year ago. Guy named Phineas Carter. I’m sure you heard about it.”
“Yeah, man. That was crazy. The guy was fucking executed.”
“And nobody seems to know why.”
“Something to do with drugs, if you ask me.”
I took a sip of my Pabst Blue Ribbon. “That would be the natural assumption,” I said. “But I have it on good authority that he’d been clean for a long time. Anyway, I was hired to investigate Phineas Carter’s murder, and it seems like an incredible coincidence that he and Alison were killed in the same apartment. I’m just wondering if there’s a link.”
“Robbie didn’t kill Alison. And he sure as hell didn’t kill Phineas Carter.”
“I know that,” I said. “At least about Carter. Robbie was up in St. Augustine at the time. And I don’t think he killed Alison either. I was there when he found her. He puked all over the bushes. Rattled as hell. I just want to talk to him, maybe get some insight into who might have wanted to kill his wife. Phineas Carter’s killer and Alison’s killer might be one and the same. If so, finding Phin’s killer might be key in clearing Robbie of the charges he’s facing. So really, when you get down to it, it’s in his own best interest to talk to me.”
“The Zombie killed Alison,” Jim said. “They’re saying all kinds of shit on the news. Like maybe Robbie did the copycat thing, or maybe Robbie really is the serial killer. It’s all speculative bullshit. They’re putting a lot of energy into finding Robbie while The Zombie roams free. Robbie Asbury is innocent.”
“Then let me help him prove it,” I said.
Jim clawed at the whiskers on his chin. “You’re not going to turn him into the cops?” he said.
“No. But I’ll recommend that he turns himself in. They’ll catch him sooner or later anyway. Running from the police just looks like an admission of guilt to a jury.”
“They’ll never find him,” Jim said. “He’ll be out of the country by tomorrow.”
“Then let me talk to him.”
“You want to go see him? Right now?”
The abrupt offer caught me off guard. “Sometime today, for sure. Just give me an address and I’ll—”
“That’s not how it’s going to work. You’ll be riding with me. Blindfolded. And I’ll need you to give me your cell phone right now. I’ll bring you back here when we’re done.”
“I don’t take rides from strangers,” I said.
“Then you don’t talk to Robbie Asbury. It’s as simple as that.”
“I could tell the police that you know where he is,” I said. “They might give you a hard time.”
“I could tell the police you’re down here snooping around with no credentials,” he said. “They might give you a hard time.”
I didn’t like it. I was going to be blindfolded and driven to an undisclosed location by someone I’d met ten minutes ago. Maybe Jim Ballard really did know where Robbie was hiding out, or maybe I’d said something to set him off. Maybe he was going to tie anchors to my feet and throw me off a bridge. Normally I would have trusted my instincts and said, hell no. Normally I would have told Jim Ballard to take a hike.
But I thought Robbie might be holding the key to both murders, and I thought this might be my only chance to talk to him. I thought Robbie might be holding the key and not even know it. Maybe he just needed to be asked the right questions.
I took a deep breath, thought about it.
I handed Jim Ballard my cell phone.
“OK,” I said. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A man on a galloping horse blazes a dusty trail into town. Dodge City. The horse slows to a trot and then stops completely in front of a building that says JAIL. The rider dismounts, ties the horse to the hitching post, and walks inside.
There’s a man sitting at a desk, writing something on a piece of paper. The wooden shingle hanging on the wall behind him says MACK CHILLIN, U.S. MARSHAL.
“Mack, you’re not going to believe this,” the rider says frantically.
“Whoa, Jeb. Just calm down a minute,” Marshal Chillin says. “Now what’s this all about?”
“Some fellas just walked into the bunkhouse over at Nate Smith’s place and killed eight of his ranch hands. Killed them dead, took their clothes, stole their horses. Looks like they’re headed towards Dodge, Mack. And these are some rough old boys.”
“They’re headed toward Dodge? How do you know?”
“Nate shot at them as they were riding off. Said they were traveling east.”
Mack Chillin grabs his gun belt from a hook on the wall, straps it on.
“All right, Jeb. I want you to go over to the Short Twig and round up as many men as you can. I have plenty of rifles and shotguns here. If those fellas ride into Dodge, we’re going to be ready for them. I won’t be able to jail them all here, but maybe we can drive them out of town. Then I’ll get a message to the army battalion over at Fort Riley.”
Jeb darts out of the office and runs toward the saloon.
We see a close-up of Marshal Mack Chillin, who looks very worried now.
I followed Jim Ballard to his car, a gray Audi RS6 sedan. He pushed the button on his remote key, and the door locks chirped open and we climbed inside.
“I just need to stop at the Shell station real quick,” he said.
I looked at his gas gauge. He had three-quarters of a tank.
“What for?” I said.
“I need to buy a blindfold. You think I carry one around with me all the time?”
“I was wondering.”
He stopped at the Shell station, and I waited in t
he car while he went in. I got out for a second and pretended to stretch my legs and memorized the Audi’s tag number. Jim came back out carrying two black bandannas. He tied one of them around my eyes, made sure it was secure, and then tied the other one on top of it. I couldn’t see a thing.
“You have a gun?” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Give it to me.”
“No.”
“Then get the fuck out of my car.”
“Why do you want my gun?” I said.
“I don’t know you from Adam, pal. You really think I’m going to trust you with a loaded pistol in my car?”
“I don’t know you from Adam either.”
“That’s fine. We’ll just go on back to Jake’s.”
He started backing out of the parking spot.
“All right,” I said. “Take the fucking gun.”
He took my .38. I heard him open the center console storage compartment. He dropped the gun in and snapped the compartment shut.
“Where are we going?” I said.
“Not far. Key West is a small island.”
“He’s still on Key West?”
“You’ll see.”
He took a left out of the parking lot and eased into traffic. The Audi was a nice car. Quiet. Steady. I planned to buy an imaginary one just like it as soon as my imaginary rich uncle stopped imaginarily breathing.
“I have a question,” I said.
“OK.”
“You and Alison used to go out, right? You were romantically involved for a couple of years. And from what I understand, you didn’t take it very well when she broke it off.”
“Nobody takes being dumped very well,” Jim said.
“Some take it worse than others. From what I heard, you were practically stalking her.”
“That’s not true. I was just trying to get her back. Trying to tell her how sorry I was for what had happened. She wouldn’t even answer her phone.”
“And what did happen?” I said. “Why did she break up with you?”
“She claimed I abused her. Said I grabbed her arm and pushed her around. Shit like that. I don’t remember any of it.”
“But you were drinking when it happened.”
“When it allegedly happened. Yeah.”
“And you have blackouts sometimes.”
“So they say. I still can’t believe I would have done anything to hurt Alison. I loved her too much.”
“Why would she have lied about it?” I said.
“I don’t know.”
We rode in silence for a few beats. “So I was just wondering,” I said. “Since you were so hung up on Alison, still hung up on her when she started seeing Robbie Asbury, how was it that you and Robbie became friends? Seems like the two of you would have been enemies, if anything.”
Jim made a left turn, and then a quick right.
“I guess I started seeing the whole thing with Alison for what it was,” he said. “An obsession. It was eating me up. I finally just had to accept it and move on.”
“Have the police talked to you about Alison’s murder yet?”
“Not yet. I’m sure they’ll get around to it.”
“Crazed ex-boyfriend copycats The Zombie,” I said, thinking of what the newspaper headline might be.
“You think I did it?” Jim said.
“Stranger things have happened.”
“If I did it, why would I be helping Robbie right now? Why wouldn’t I just let him take the rap?”
“Interesting point,” I said.
“You got a lot of nerve, Mr. Colt. I’m appalled that you would even suggest something so ridiculous. Like I told you, I loved Alison. I’m just as upset as everyone else about this shit.”
Maybe, I thought. Maybe Jim Ballard was just as upset as everyone else. Or maybe he was just a good actor. A con man. Maybe he was trying to hide something. Or maybe, in his own alcohol-soaked mind, he was telling the truth. Maybe he killed Alison and didn’t even remember it. A jumble of possibilities bobbled through my brain like Ping-Pong balls in a lottery cage.
Jim made a series of turns, and then slowed and braked to a stop.
“Get out,” he said.
“Can I take the blindfold off?”
“No. Leave it on.”
I climbed out of the car and stood there until Jim came around. We were close to the ocean. I could hear it. I could smell it.
“Now what?” I said.
“Put your left hand on my shoulder.”
I put my left hand on his shoulder. He started walking, and I followed. He told me to watch my step. We went from sand to a boardwalk. Soon after that we stepped onto a swaying wooden platform, a floating dock of some sort. We walked a few more feet and then stopped. Jim guided my hand to a steel rail.
“We’re getting on a boat?” I said.
“Yeah. Climb aboard.”
I climbed aboard, and Jim guided me one way and then another. He finally directed me down a narrow stairway, what nautical types call a ladder. The sounds from the outside world, the squawking of the gulls and the whooshing of the waves and the rumble of a diesel engine in the distance, disappeared as Jim secured the hatch.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I asked again if I could take the blindfold off.
“Go ahead,” Jim said.
I took it off. Jim was standing there pointing my own gun at me. He had the revolver in one hand and a bottle of tequila in the other. He’d already uncapped the liquor, and his lips were shiny from taking a drink of it.
“Where’s Robbie?” I said.
“There are two drawers under the bed. Pull out the one on the right.”
“Fuck you.”
He aimed the .38 at my head, cocked the hammer back. “I think you better do what I tell you to do. I don’t want to make a mess on my boat, but I will if I have to.”
I didn’t think he was going to shoot me. Plenty of people had seen us leaving Jake’s Key West Saloon together. If I went missing, Jim Ballard would be the prime suspect. I didn’t think he was going to shoot me, but I wasn’t quite willing to bet my life on it. I decided not to call his bluff just yet.
“All right,” I said. “Easy with that thing. It has a sensitive trigger.”
We were in a bedroom. It was a fairly large space for a boat, maybe the first mate’s cabin or even the captain’s quarters. There was an old wooden ship’s wheel and two shaded lamps attached to the bulkhead behind the mattress. The lamps were on hinged arms that you could swivel out for reading or whatever. Heavily varnished teak and polished brass everywhere. A pair of drawers had been built into the pedestal beneath the bed, with coarse lengths of mooring line serving as pulls.
I knelt down and opened the drawer on the right. It was full of kinky sex equipment. There were whips and chains and slings and ball gags. There was a feather duster and a spanking paddle and some vibrators in an assortment of colors, shapes, and sizes.
There were some other things I couldn’t readily identify. Metal clamps that looked like something from a hardware store.
“Get the handcuffs out,” Jim said.
I got the handcuffs out. “These?”
“Not those, the leather ones.”
I found the ones I figured he wanted. I held them up, and he nodded in approval.
“Get on the floor,” he said. “Facedown, with your hands behind your back.”
I did as instructed. A few seconds later, I felt the leather cuffs tighten around my wrists. I heard a chain being pulled from the drawer, and then felt it being wrapped around the lower part of my legs.
“Have you lost your fucking mind?” I said. “Do you know how many people saw us walk out of that bar together?”
He ignored me.
“Turn over,” he said.
“What?”
“Turn over.”
There’s nothing scarier than a drunk guy who doesn’t give a shit. A drunk guy with a gun. I turned over onto my back and immediately there was a towel pressed ag
ainst my face. I smelled something medicinal for a few seconds, and then the world faded away.
When I woke up, I was in the water and the boat was rapidly chugging away from me. There was no land in sight. He had taken me way offshore and dumped me overboard.
The perfect murder.
Now I knew why he’d wanted the leather handcuffs instead of the steel ones. The steel ones might have left marks on my wrists. He’d taken the cuffs and chains off before dumping me into the water. If he’d left them on, it would have been obvious that I’d been murdered. Now, if my body washed ashore, there would be no signs of foul play. No bullet holes, no bruises, no cuts or scrapes or abrasions. No evidence that my limbs had been restrained. Good old Jim had taken me out on his yacht for a nice afternoon cruise, and I had fallen overboard. He’d tried to save me, but I had gone under and had never come back up.
Right now Jim was probably navigating to a location several miles away. From there he would wait until sunset, and then call the Coast Guard. By the time they initiated a search and rescue effort, it would be completely dark outside. They would never find me. Not that it mattered. By sunset I would probably be dead anyway.
I thought about dunking my head and taking that first breath. Maybe it would be better to die on my own terms than to struggle futilely and wait for the inevitable. I thought about it.
The fact that I was in tropical waters and in no danger of hypothermia gave me little comfort at the moment. I could only tread water for so long. My muscles would fatigue and cramp, and then I would sink and drown.
I looked at my watch. If I could only make it until tomorrow morning, I thought. If I could only stay afloat for about fifteen hours. Then I might stand a chance. The Coast Guard would be looking for me, and they might be able to find me after the sun came back up. It wasn’t likely, but it was possible. I decided to at least try. As long as I was breathing, there was still hope.
I managed to get my shoes off, first one and then the other. Next I shrugged out of the black John Fogerty tour T-shirt. I left my pants on. I’d heard horror stories about men skinny-dipping in the ocean. I didn’t want any fish coming up and nibbling on my junk. Plus, I still had my wallet and my car keys. If I survived, I would need them. If I didn’t, at least I would be easy to identify.