‘I was going to call you,’ he said, nervously.
‘Yeah, right,’ Esperanza snarled. ‘I’ve been dialling you all day.’
‘Work is crazy, right now.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah, can’t keep up … I’ve got to get down to Florida.’
‘You’re already here, cono.’
‘No,’ Moral lied, poorly, ‘why would you think that— ’
‘Because I’m looking at your location on my laptop right now. Your cell phone helps.’
Shit, thought Moral. Fuck it. He’d roll the die again. Play it tough this time. No bullshit. Let them know this was the end. He couldn’t keep this shit up.
‘We’re done, jefe. What’s done is done,’ He said, trying to sound bold but hearing his own weakness in the treble of his voice. He heard the man breathing over the phone. The sound made his blood run cold.
‘Give me the address.’
‘I … don’t … ’
‘Give me the fucking address!’
‘Nah,’ he tried feebly. ‘I don’t even know what it is, yet. It doesn’t happen like that. I’ve got to call my superiors, submit a report. There’s follow up and red tape and— ’
‘Okay. I’ll tell Amy you said hello when I see her. I’ll tell her it could’ve been different, but you wouldn’t let it happen.’
‘Amy?’ His breath halted. ‘You’re going to see Amy?’
‘I am now. I just decided to finance her next film. I think we’ll shoot this one down in Tijuana. We don’t have to go through the American Motion Picture rating system down there, you know. You ever see the shit they do with animals down there? I thought she might be done with that business, that we might be done with our business. But I guess not.’
Moral pulled over. He struggled to breathe. He opened the windows to get fresh air, but nausea welled up. He had to open the car door and retch.
He sat back up, the inside light casting a pall over him, the open door alarm incessantly dinging, dinging, dinging …
‘Robert?’ said a distant voice. Remembering the phone on the seat next to him, he picked it up, his hand shaking. He wiped the slick corner of his mouth with his jacket sleeve.
‘O … okay,’ he belched, the acidy bubble rising up his throat like anger. ‘Where are you?’
SEVENTEEN
The bumper sticker on the Dodge Ram pickup read: ‘You can have my gun when you pry it from my cold, dead fingers.’ The man inside the cab ruminated on his choices. He knew the car in the driveway was the same one from the hospital, because he had the tag number. He could knock on the door and take the woman; he was carrying a gun, and she probably wouldn’t put up much of a fight. Or, he could call his pal, Danny Coody, and tell him he located her. Or, he could do the ‘right’ thing and call the cops.
Coody might be a friend, but his son was as fucked-up as Hogan’s goat. Always was. Didn’t surprise anyone in town that the kid finally flipped out and attacked the school. When everyone else was out mudding with their gals, or drinking beer by the swim hole, David Coody was locked up in his darkened room with one of those video games. The only time he did go out with the guys was to go hunting, then the goofy fuck would shoot anything that moved – rabbits, crows, squirrels – and scare off the deer. No one asked him to go twice. Still, his dad was a friend.
He made the call.
Danny answered before the second ring.
‘Hey bud,’ the man said, not taking his eyes off the car in the driveway. ‘It’s Feller.’
‘I knowed who it is. Wassup? It’s late.’
Feller chuckled at his cranky friend. ‘I’m up here in Lake Wales, sitting on the side of the road, and I got my eye on that black Camaro ya’ll been lookin’ for. Thought you might like to know.’
‘You sure it’s the right one? You know how many people been callin’ me to tell me they found that Camaro?’
‘You insult me, brother. You know iffen I tell you somethin’, it gonna be fact. I’m lookin’ at the tag, man.’
Coody rubbed his face and looked at his watch. Then, he thought of his only son, lying in the hospital, tubes stuck down his throat, a machine breathing for him. The doctor already told him he’d never walk again. The only good thing was that it might keep him out of prison. How could they jail a quadriplegic, anyway?
‘All right, Feller,’ he said, finally. ‘Tell me where you’re at. I’ll be there within the hour.’
Harold, the shift supervisor at the Calusa County Sheriff’s Office had received the tip from one of the guys looking for the black Camaro. They had basically put together a vigilante posse to go after the missing Weisz woman. Now, the makeshift posse were showing up with loaded guns, their tempers fuelled by booze. Harold wasn’t comfortable holding on to that information. He called Conroy.
‘I hope I didn’t wake you, Sheriff,’ said the supervisor.
‘I never sleep, Harold. What’s up?’
He told him about the posse.
‘Thanks for the call,’ Conroy said, ‘but I’m well aware of the boys out looking for Miss Weisz. I hope they find her. We don’t have the resources we used to around here, and we can use the help.’
Harold didn’t know what to say.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Conroy continued, as if reading the concern on Harold’s mind. ‘If they find her, there’s a couple guys in the group that’ll give me a call. Hey, it’ll save the department a bunch of overtime, right?’
Right, Harold thought. The mob was sure to save overtime. But what would be left of the girl?
Erica saw them alive again. They were sitting at the breakfast table, just like the last day she’d seen them, talked to them, and kissed them goodbye. She felt the familiar warmth that came to her every time she dreamed of them. She felt the love of family, of a good husband and a wonderful daughter who was just coming into her own at 14 years old. She felt the history of their life together: the Christmases, the birthdays, the nothing days when they’d lie by the pool and languidly reach over to pick up an iced tea, their hands brushing, touching, holding. The strength from something that simple seemed both impossible and forever gone to her now.
Then, her heart began to beat fast, as it always did when the dream turned into the nightmare. That sickening feeling as she pushed past the scores of cops – where had they been when they were needed? – and rushed into the house to find all the blood, her family and home ripped apart as if an animal had fed on them. And who could she take her anger out on? The man who had entered the house like a human tornado and killed everyone with no more aforethought than wiping his shoes off on the welcome mat before sticking the gun in his own mouth and blowing his brains out? She could rail at the sky for all the good it would do, just like victims of tornadoes or school shootings might do. In the end, nothing changed. The world kept spinning on its axis. Tides came and went. The sun still shone. The rain still fell. And people still died.
Erica woke drenched in sweat, panting, as if she’d come in from a 10 km run. It was night but she had no way to know how long she’d been unconscious. The handcuffs still held her prisoner to the bed, but she wasn’t going to lie there and wait for someone to come take her life. With her toe, she’d managed to get the nightstand lamp turned on to better examine the rail on the headboard. It ran into the vertical stanchion that extended down and became one of the bed’s legs. What held it there? She didn’t see any screws or fasteners. Could it be simply glued?
She ran the handcuffs all the way to one side of the rail, then manoeuvred her legs up and placed her foot against the vertical wood stanchion. She gave it a kick. The effort pinched her side, and she winced back tears. She gritted her teeth and kicked harder while holding onto the horizontal part of the rail. Again and again she kicked, each time feeling as though her wounds were bursting open. Her breath came in ragged gulps, and she thought she might pass out again, but then she saw the rail had come about a half-inch out of the hole in the stanchion. Pausing to catch her breath, s
he mustered what strength she had left and kicked with both feet. The rail came out as the stanchion fell away, and the whole side of the bed collapsed.
She slid the handcuffs off the rail and slumped to her knees. Her side felt as if she’d just been shot again, and she reached down absently to rub where it hurt. When she used the same hand to steady herself against the nightstand, she noticed blood on it. She looked down at herself and saw her shirt was soaked with blood. It would be easier to just lie down and let them come kill me, she thought, instantly growing angry at herself for thinking it. How would she get back at the people who had ruined her life? She needed to live!
Pulling herself upright, Erica managed to get into the bathroom. She struggled out of her soiled shirt and was shocked to see how emaciated she’d become, and in only two days. She looked like a prisoner of war, complete with that gaunt look in her eyes that said, I’m going to die soon. She shook off the thought, soaked a washcloth with cold water, and gingerly applied it to her side. She carefully removed the bloody bandages and peered at the wounds. The stitches had torn loose on the largest incision and some of the pellet wounds were seeping reddish-clear fluid. She could smell infection.
She rinsed her face and body with cold water and patted herself dry; cleansed the wounds with peroxide again and applied new dressings. She found another clean shirt and began to look through her purse for the keys to the car when the beams from headlights flashed through the bedroom’s jalousie windows.
She dropped on all fours and painfully crawled through the house, making her way to the kitchen. She rummaged through drawers and found a hefty knife. The edge of its blade was dull, but the knife was long and pointed.
More headlights shone through the windows. It seemed the quiet road where the new ‘safe haven’ was had turned very busy.
‘We don’t need everyone going to the house to get the woman,’ Julio advised his team. ‘A couple of you, De De and Anichka, why don’t you stay here? Alejandro and Eduardo, you go take care of the girl. Shouldn’t be difficult. My guy reports she’s handcuffed to a bed. Said she’s pretty sick, so you’re just taking her out of her misery, okay?’
‘Do you want us to bring her back here?’ asked Alejandro Lopez.
Julio thought about it for a minute. His thoughts drifted back to that time his father had taken him to the beach house as a teenager then made him help behead some of his enemies. ‘Nah. Just bring me her head, si?’
‘Si,’ said Eduardo Lopez, his face lighting up like a child going to Disney World. ‘Can we play with her a little?’
Julio nodded. ‘Sure, whatever you want. But, don’t take too long. We have luck going with us right now. Let’s keep it that way.’
De De was showing Anichka his Parabellum pistole, otherwise known as the German Luger, one of the most expensive and collectible guns in the world. It still retained its sleek, automatic lethality that made it look like a ray gun from the old Flash Gordon movies. She thought it was beautiful and sniffed its oily scent as if she smelled a bouquet of freshly picked flowers.
‘I need to go powder my nose,’ said Anichka, suddenly flushed.
‘Inside or out?’ Julio quipped. ‘I got some really good blow in the bathroom.’
‘No, I’m good. I’ll be back in a few minutes,’ she said, and slid out the door as quickly and quietly as a cat.
After an appropriate pause, De De said he was going outside to smoke a cigarette. Julio nodded and went back to business on the phone.
Anichka opened the door when De De knocked lightly. She pulled his jacket off and tried to push him back onto the bed. It was like pushing against a wall, but he went along with it and plopped himself down. She unbuckled his pants and slid them down, tugging at his underwear like she was skinning a buffalo. He was already erect and as huge as she remembered. She hiked up her skirt and impaled herself on him, filling her emptiness.
‘We … finally … get to … kill … someone,’ she said through her exertions.
De De looked up at her. She was small behind his enormous belly, but the energy she could generate was like a giant Cummings Diesel motor that, once cranked up, couldn’t be stopped.
EIGHTEEN
Thiery finished his pan-seared sea bass and lobster bisque, and marvelled at how scrumptious the food was at this odd out of the way place. Chalet Suzanne was a quirky place; a pink palace in the middle of nowhere. The restaurant served food on mismatched dishes under a ceiling so low Thiery had to stoop down to walk through the place. The building sat so close to a lake it seemed as if it might tumble into the water and there was a trap door through which guests fed the turtles that lined the banks like soldier’s helmets. There were pictures of presidents, astronauts, and Hollywood celebrities who had dined there over the years, set among various glass, ceramic, and pewter knick-knacks that lined the shelves. But, like most places in the area, business was slow, and he had noticed the ‘For Sale’ sign on the entrance door and the note that read: ‘After eighty-three years, we are closing soon … ’ Thiery couldn’t help but feel the sense of loss for yet another thing that couldn’t last. His life was full of those things.
Paying his bill as they closed up, he ambled past the grand piano, up the wooden stairs, and out into the night, still not ready to go back to the motel. He called Conroy to see if anything had turned up. Something told him he would have to ask or he wouldn’t hear about it until he picked up tomorrow’s paper. Conroy didn’t answer. He called Dunham to check in with him.
‘You’re still up?’ a hint of humour in his voice.
‘Yeah,’ said Thiery. ‘Can’t sleep knowing our primary witness is out, and we don’t have a clue on where she might be. Thanks for giving me the heads-up on Gloria Shadtz. She gave me some info about her ex that might be helpful. I’ll fill you in later. You hear anything else new?’
‘Not much,’ the police chief answered. Thiery could hear a television in the background, its volume set at a deafening roar. ‘Talked to Conroy earlier. He’s about as much help as tits on a boar, but I … Hold on a sec.’ Through the phone line, the background noise subsided. ‘Sorry, couldn’t hear myself think. Anyway, I know some of his guys. They told me they’ve got officers at the hospitals looking for her and a few wolf traps set up along the highway stopping cars.’
Thiery wondered if that was enough. Still, he was glad to learn they were doing something. ‘Good,’ he told Dunham. ‘I asked him to do that, but I didn’t get much of a commitment from him.’ In truth, the guy had been outright stubborn in his defiance. But Dunham didn’t need to hear that.
‘I also heard there’s some locals, friends of Coody’s, that are looking for her, too. They know about that black Camaro stolen from the hospital last night.’
The recently eaten meal began to churn in Thiery’s stomach. ‘Damn it! You think they’ll call the Sheriff’s Office if they find her?’
Dunham hesitated, thoughtfully, before giving his best guess answer. ‘No sir, I don’t.’
Thiery breathed in deeply through flared nostrils, the sound of his own grinding molars echoing through his head. ‘Think Conroy knows?’
‘I’d bet money on it. He and Coody have a lot of the same friends.’
‘Not good,’ said Thiery, struggling to contain his growing anger, maintain his professional demeanour. ‘Let’s hope she goes back to the hospital. Anything else?’
Thiery’s phone beeped before he heard Dunham’s answer. He looked at the incoming call. It was Conroy. ‘Hey Chief,’ Thiery interrupted, ‘the Sheriff is calling me back. I’d better see what he has to say.’
‘Sure. Keep me in the loop, okay?’
‘You bet.’
Thiery switched over to Conroy as he walked quickly out to his parked car. It was the last one in the lot and dew had already settled on it like the proverbial wet blanket.
‘Good evening, Sheriff,’ Thiery answered in his best how-the-fuck-you-doin’ voice.
‘Saw you called earlier and was getting back to
you,’ he said, his tone weary and obligatory. ‘I got one tip from a teacher I know from the school. She didn’t know Weisz well, but remembered she said something about going to dance once at a country bar up in Lake Wales. Thought I’d check it out tomorrow.’
What a coincidence, thought Thiery. ‘I’m in Lake Wales now, Sheriff. What’s the name of the bar?’
‘It’s a real winner,’ he offered. ‘Place called Highway 60 Saloon. Pretty rough. I’d keep my sidearm close.’
‘That bad?’
‘Last time I was up there was for a triple shooting, a couple years ago.’
Thiery thought about it for a moment. Why was Conroy being helpful now? Was he trying to keep him away from his unauthorized posse? ‘Why would a woman go to a place like that?’
Conroy was silent, but Thiery could hear him breathing. ‘I was just thinking,’ the Sheriff finally said, ‘maybe she likes to live on the edge, so to speak.’
Thiery considered the implications of Conroy’s statement for a moment, then said, ‘Or, maybe she had a gun.’
Thiery reluctantly left the charm of Chalet Suzanne behind and drove a short distance to the dive called the Highway 60 Saloon, not surprisingly located on Highway 60. He wondered how long it took the owner to come up with that original name. The wood planks that made up the exterior walls were grey, their edges peeling away from the studs. A beer sign glowed red, and the sounds of loud music reverberated through the walls. The handle on the door was sticky to the touch.
As soon as he walked in and plopped onto a stool – wary eyes watching him from every corner of the smoky, dimly lit bar – he overheard the topic of conversation: the school shooting. The place reeked of spilled beer soaked into the wood floor, and billiard balls clacked together as the neon jukebox played Tim McGraw. Girls in too-tight jeans with muffin top midriffs clung to their cue sticks like pole dancers.
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