Jo’Ell smiled and pressed her hand to his face.
“How lovey dovey. You getting sweet on old bat boy, Livonia?”
“Maybe I am. At least he don’t lay around stoned all day like some street corner junkie. I bet you he’s more man in the bed than you are.”
Blunt’s eyes flashed. “Careful, woman.”
“Or what?” She chuckled. “You’ll whip out your tiny little nunchuck and beat me around the head?”
“I’ll show you or what.” Blunt sprang from his seat and unbuckled his belt. He looped the belt around his hand and smacked it against his open palm in a threatening manner. “Open your mouth again, woman. Open it again! I dare you.” He reared back and stepped closer to Livonia to intimidate her. He held the coiled belt high above his head, ready to strike.
“No!” Jo’Ell stepped between them, his expression fierce with rage. He grabbed the belt from Blunt and threw it on the floor.
Blunt’s eyes flashed angrily. “What the fuck?” He clenched his fist and reared back to strike.
Jo’Ell thrust his hands out—they exploded against Blunt’s chest like a thunderclap.
Blunt staggered backward and fell on the floor. When he looked up, he saw that Jo’Ell was standing in front of Livonia, shielding her with his body.
Jo’Ell’s face was a tapestry of emotion, a bizarre combination of his deformed features and savage rage, as horrifying as a tortured beast and capable of frightening any adversary to the core.
Blunt studied Jo’Ell’s terrifying expression and felt his will to fight quickly dwindling.
Chapter 50
Blunt had run out of money and crack several hours earlier. Without the stimulant in his blood, he felt tired and lethargic as he trudged home in the dark. He was slow to cross the intersection, and a driver swore as he swerved to avoid him. He thought about giving the driver the finger but didn’t. He was in a hurry to get home and bumped his shin on the tailgate of a parked truck. He cringed as the ache spread along his leg and deep down into the bone. “Motherfucker!” he shouted. “Goddamn it.” He rubbed his leg and then hobbled down the street to his house.
The lights were out when he got home. All was silent except for Jo’Ell’s ever-present adenoid snoring, a troubling refrain that he was never able to get used to. He didn’t bother to switch on the lights until he reached the kitchen. He pushed a stepstool up against the pantry cabinet and found his stash of rock tucked behind a box of baking powder on the top shelf. He had the crack in his glass pipe within seconds and began smoking immediately. He used most of it for the first bowl to brighten his mood and dull the ache in his leg. His addiction was strong. He had smoked all the rock he had on hand and still hadn’t achieved the feeling of euphoria he was searching for. Worse still, he was smart enough to know that he would never again experience the same elusive rush he had gotten the first time he smoked crack and that each successive high would be less potent. His mood changed. He was no longer tired and lethargic. He felt hyper and agitated. He thought about the skirmish that had taken place in the kitchen that morning and was now ready to lash out at Livonia for betraying him. He once again removed his belt and wound the strap around his hand before climbing the stairs to the bedroom.
Livonia was fast asleep, curled up in a fetal position and covered to the neck with a light sheet.
He didn’t bother to wake her but instead struck her on the rump with his belt, jolting her back to consciousness. “Turncoat bitch!” he hollered. “You ungrateful no good ho.”
Livonia screamed and raised her hands to shield herself from his blows.
He struck her on the back repeatedly, his ire growing with each blow he dispensed.
“Blunt, stop! Oh my God. Stop. Stop it, please,” she pleaded.
“I’ll show you who’s the boss.” He hit her again and again. “Who’s the boss?”
“You are, Blunt. You are. Stop!”
“Who’s the boss?”
“You are. You are.”
“I didn’t hear you. Who’s the boss? Where’s your bat boy now?” He raised his hand high over his head, ready to deliver a potent blow, but when he tried to strike, he found his arm frozen. He turned to see Jo’Ell standing behind him, his eyes wide with rage, seething like an angry demon.
Jo’Ell had Blunt’s wrist in his enormous hand and with one quick movement snapped his arm like a twig. “Who’s the boss?” Jo’Ell demanded without stuttering as he glared at Blunt.
Blunt shrieked, “Shit! You broke my arm, you stupid motherfucker. Damn.”
Jo’Ell demanded, “I said, ‘Who’s the boss?’”
It was the ferocity with which Jo’Ell demanded an answer more so than the broken bone that truly stunned Blunt. “Jo’Ell,” he pleaded. “I’m your daddy. Leave me be.”
Jo’Ell grabbed him by the neck and lifted Blunt off his feet. “I hate my daddy.” Jo’Ell was livid. He dragged Blunt to the window and smashed his face into the glass. Blunt cried out in terror, but Jo’Ell was not through. He raked Blunt’s face back and forth across the shattered glass spikes until his cheek was torn away and his teeth were visible through the gaping hole. “Who’s the boss?” Jo’Ell screamed. “Who’s the boss?”
“You are!” Blunt conceded. “You’re the boss. Now stop, Jo’Ell. Please stop.”
“You bet I’ll stop.” He twisted Blunt’s scrawny neck like a bottle top and discarded his lifeless body on the floor.
Livonia jumped out of bed. “Nooo!” she wailed. “Jo’Ell, what did you do? You killed him! You killed him!” She began to wobble as she made her way over to the window, her hand draped across her eyes to block out the vision of her dead lover. “Oh, Lord. Oh, dear Lord. What are we going to do now?” It took a moment before she noticed Jo’Ell. His chest was heaving, and broad arteries throbbed on his neck. His eyes burned like demon fire. She had long known that he had matured into a man, but it was only now while he was enraged that she felt the extent of his authority. Her eyes wandered down to see that he was fully erect, his boxers pitched outward by strong young timber. “Why, Jo’Ell,” she exclaimed with astonishment. She trembled before him.
“Who’s the boss?” he demanded. Without waiting for a reply, he lifted her off the floor and slammed her onto the bed.
Book IV:
Ruins
Chapter 51
Ignacio Roop was the third generation of Roop men to serve as head groundskeeper for the Big G Grossinger’s Golf Course. His father had been the head groundskeeper from 1965–1999 and his grandfather since the course’s opening day in 1925. Regardless of ownership, a Roop had always been responsible for the condition of the scenic golf course.
He was staring at the peaks of some diseased pine trees when Richard Sortern, the general manager, pulled up in his golf cart. Sortern had just recently been appointed to the position, but Roop had already learned not to trust anything the man said. “He’s a compulsive liar,” he told his wife. “Actually, he could be a pathological liar. He makes up shit without ever investigating the issue.” Golf World, a conglomerate that owned and operated two hundred golf courses around the world, owned the Big G and had relocated Sortern from Florida. “I hope he hates the cold and puts in for a transfer,” Roop told her.
“So what’s wrong?” Sortern asked. “What’s the catastrophe du jour?”
Roop pointed to the rotted brown needles on a cluster of tall pine trees. “Littleleaf disease.”
“Are you sure they just don’t need more water?”
Roop wanted to shake his head with dismay but fought the urge. “I checked the sprinklers—they’re working just fine. Besides, mature trees like these have a deep root system. There’d have to be a severe drought for them to turn brown from lack of water.”
“Will they get better?”
“Nah. They’re lousy with fungus and nematodes. Your best bet is to rip them out, recondition the soil, and replant.”
Sortern grimaced. “What if we rip ’em out and don’t replace th
em? I’m just spit-balling here, trying to think about the bottom line here.”
Of course you are, you scrawny, gold-digging, little twerp. Like all the managers who had preceded him, Sortern’s year-end bonus was based on the club’s profit, but the others had not put dollars and cents before quality the way he did. “Probably not a good idea,” Roop said. “Take a look over here.” He led Sortern past the dying trees to the rusted chain-link fence that bordered the golf course. Just past it, the rotted skeleton of the old Grossinger’s Hotel was clearly visible. The walls of the massive natatorium were covered with graffiti. Around it were the ramshackle remains of small cottages, rotted wood, and rusted metal.
“What the hell?”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t know?” Roop asked skeptically.
“I’m only here two months,” Sortern said. “I’ve passed it a couple of times, but I never realized—”
“That it bordered the golf course?”
“Yeah. Exactly. Does the town have any plans to clean up that eyesore?”
“Sure they have a plan. It’s called willful blindness. This isn’t Miami, Mr. Sortern. The town of Liberty doesn’t have two nickels to rub together. The hotel has just been getting worse and worse over the years. The trees keep the ugliness out.”
Sortern pointed at the large graffiti-clad structure in front of him. “What’s in there?”
“That’s the natatorium.”
“The what?”
“Huge indoor swimming pool and spa. They must’ve built it real well—somehow it withstood all the years of neglect. You should take a look inside.” If you’re planning to stay here in Liberty, that is.
“Why would I want to do that?”
“It’s like Liberty’s version of the pyramids.”
“That’s sad.”
“Nah, it’s a hoot, especially on a sunny day when warm light filters through the massive banks of windows. The Grossinger family didn’t spare any expense. The roof is lined with massive wooden beams and skylights. It was truly impressive in its day. All those old skylights leak now and constantly drip water to the floor below. The place has become one big greenhouse. The walkways are covered with moss, and ferns have sprouted up through cracks in the old terra cotta tiles. It’s teeming with plant life inside—kind of surreal, really. Hop in my cart, I’ll run you over.”
“Ah … I don’t think so.”
Roop was clearly disappointed but hardly surprised. Liberty was a tightly knit community that Sortern clearly wanted no part of.
You’d think I pissed on his boots or something—look at the expression on his face. Sortern reconsidered. “Oh, all right, I’ll take a quick look.”
Roop’s expression brightened.
“How much to replace the trees?”
Roop grinned. “We can do it the cheap way or the correct way.”
“What’s the correct way?”
“Ordering mature trees from the nursery—figure five grand. Or … I can do it for five hundred bucks labor.”
“How’s that?”
“I can practice a little willful blindness of my own. I look the other way while some of the local boys yank trees out of the forest and truck ’em over here.”
Sortern wrinkled his nose. “Willful blindness, huh?”
“Yup. Willful blindness. It’s kind of the way we do things up here.”
“Can we get in trouble?” Sortern asked with concern.
“Not likely. Especially since I ain’t gonna ask where the trees came from. I’ll keep it an arm’s length transaction.”
“Anything else I should know about?”
Roop was quiet for a moment but then grinned. “I got Miller beer in my cooler.”
Sortern smiled. “All right, Ignacio, hand me a cold one. Let’s go take a quick look at the Sphinx.”
Chapter 52
“My God, what a shithole.” Sortern looked around as the golf cart bounced and rocked over debris on their way to the disintegrating natatorium. “You can’t tell how bad it is when you’re driving by at sixty miles per hour. I had no idea.”
“Tragic,” Roop commented. “This place used to be the cat’s pajamas.”
Sortern smirked. “That expression is as dated as the hotel, maybe more so.”
“Give it time, Richard, you’ll get used to my Appalachian-speak. I never really knew it at its peak, but way back when, this place used to really jump. The biggest names came here: Sammy Davis Jr., Simon and Garfunkel, Anthony Newley, Woody Allen, Rodney Dangerfield. It was the place to be.”
“So what happened?”
“Progress, I guess—jets and cheap airfare. The Borscht Belt crowd up and went to the Caribbean … Europe. Where would you want to take your vacation, a bungalow colony or Paris?”
“I get your point.”
The golf cart just barely climbed out of a muddy ditch. “Think we better walk from here,” Roop said. “Don’t want to get stuck in the mud.”
Sortern seemed none too pleased at the prospect of hiking through mud, weeds, and saplings. He was dressed for the links in clean golf pants and an expensive Callaway sweater. He hiked up his pants so that the cuffs wouldn’t get dirty or torn by the debris that littered the grounds.
“Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Roop warned. “Lots of deer ticks up this way. What’s better, dirty slacks or Lime disease?”
A lump formed in Sortern’s throat and his pant leg dropped to the tops of his shoes. The implication rattled him, and he scratched the back of his arm compulsively. “Fantastic.”
“You’re not afraid of bugs, are you? It’s not as bad as Florida, where you can get unlucky and run across a stray gator.” A broken padlock rested on the ground next to a thick steel chain that once secured the entrance to the natatorium. “Watch your step in here—sometimes there’s been snakes.”
Sortern’s eyes bulged. “Snakes?”
“Yeah, but mostly small stuff. I ain’t seen no water moccasins or nothing big like that.”
The natatorium resembled an immense terrarium. The air was warm and damp. It had become an ecosystem of sorts—water that remained in the deep end of the long shotcrete pool fed moisture into the air. Ferns grew through cracks in the tiled floor. Bugs buzzed and frogs croaked.
“What a shame,” Sortern said as he marveled at the great size of the structure and the lavish materials it had been constructed of. “I can see what you mean, Ignacio. This place must’ve really been something.”
“Like I said, it was the cat’s pajamas. My friends and I used to sneak in when we were young. First time I kissed my wife was in that pool. Of course, I didn’t know I was gonna marry her at the time. We were just kids then, but … Well, you know, one thing led to another.”
Sortern hadn’t expected to be captivated by the old structure, but he was. It was very much an artifact, and he understood what Roop meant when he compared it to the pyramids of Egypt. He felt himself drawn to the relic and strode around examining the woodwork and the Mondrian-esque window arrangement. He felt grit beneath his shoes as he walked, but it was an abrupt crunch that made him stop and look down. Beneath his foot, mostly obscured by ferns, was a broken bone. His eyes snapped wide. It was a very long bone, a human femur.
Chapter 53
The glory days were back. Grossinger’s natatorium was filled but not with bathers. Instead, dozens of law enforcement agents were combing through the structure, searching for human remains.
“This is like something out of an Indiana Jones movie,” Cabrera swore as he marveled at the colossal vault-like structure, which had once been the sanctum known as the natatorium. “What are we doing here, anyway?”
“Easy, cowboy—let’s have a look around.”
“Why?”
I glared at him. “Because I said so. That’s why.” I had been curious to see the inside of the building ever since the first time I passed by on my way to Pandora’s. I focused on a familiar spot, the place my family and I used to lounge when we vacationed here
. I pictured the pool as I remembered it, filled with water and happy guests. It was now a rotting sarcophagus with police search teams tearing through it like vandals. The ferns that had grown through the tiles were being ripped out because they obscured much of the floor—crime scene investigators were on hands and knees, sweeping for evidence.
“This place gives me the willies,” Cabrera said as he reached to scratch the back of his neck.
“Poor little Dominic, would you like your baby blanket?”
“Don’t tease me, Gumdrop. Anyway, does this have anything to do with our case?”
“I think it might.”
“Be a good little Gumdrop and fill me in, would ya? I’m having trouble seeing the big picture.”
I responded in an aloof manner and sauntered away. “I’ll let you know when it comes to me. You’re an investigator. Make yourself useful. Have a look around. Start investigating.”
“Start investigating, my ass,” he grumbled. “There’s dozens of cops in here. You think I’ll find something they’ve missed?”
“Yep. I think you’re that good.” Cabrera was the one who usually did the horsing around, and it made me feel good to screw with him every once in a while. “Roll up those sleeves and get busy,” I hollered. “Hoist the mizzenmast and raise the yardarm.”
He favored me with an obscene gesture, which was completely expected. “Yeah, hoist this!” he swore.
A pump had been set up to drain the dark and murky water from the pool. More and more debris poked through the surface as the water level dropped. The pool was an underwater graveyard for Biscayne lounge chairs with rotted strapping, barstools, and small patio tables. As the water level receded cigarette butts surfaced and adhered to the pool floor like dead starfish washing up on the beach. “To think I used to swim in there.”
The Mather Triad: Series Boxed Set (Chloe Mather Thrillers) Page 40