Jackson put his hand over his face, pulled it down, closing his eyes for a moment. 'Isn't it a bit obvious? A bit too easy for you to find her.'
'Not really.' He let go of Jackson's arm, started tapping his fingers on the bar. 'I haven't seen her for . . . over two years. It's only talking to you made me think of her. It's got to be worth a try. I've got nothing to lose.'
'What are you going to do if you find her?'
Dixie thought about it. He wasn't sure what he was going to do. Despite his initial reaction at the self-storage facility he didn't think he'd be able to actually do anything to her, to hurt her, however much she might deserve it. He'd probably just do what she'd done to him—take the money and run.
'I don't know yet, but I know one thing for sure.'
'What's that?'
'We're looking at a fifty-fifty split now. Congratulations, you just earned another half million dollars.'
Jackson's grin split his face in two. He raised his hand for a high five. Dixie looked at his hand and shook his head.
'I must have made a mistake—I thought you'd only been inside two years. Looks like it was twenty. Nobody does that stuff any more.'
Jackson curled the hand into a fist and punched him on the arm instead.
'That's what I call a good day's work.' He raised his glass in a salute. 'Let's do it again.'
Dixie laughed. 'Sounds good to me. What about Friday?'
Chapter 39
Earl Munroe sat in his pickup and picked his nose absently. Country music played softly on the radio. He listened to Willie Nelson singing On the Road Again while he inspected the contents of his nose on his fingernail and tried to calm down. If it was up to him, Willie'd be in the White House and the country would be a better place all round. Hell, he sure couldn't do a worse job than the peanut farmers and second-rate movie actors and all the rest of them. He wiped a large booger carefully on his pants and slammed the heel of his hand into the dash. He thought about what had just happened in the bar. At times like this his tongue—what was left of it—felt like it was on fire as his teeth gnashed uselessly against each other inside his cheek.
He knew a gook-loving, commie faggot when he saw one. Hell, the pussy was even drinking Coca Cola. He wouldn't have been surprised if he'd had one of those bendy straws or maybe a cocktail umbrella in it. Cocked his pinkie while he sipped it too. Earl wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer but even he knew it rotted your teeth. And that wasn't all. They'd thrown him out after just the one beer. He always got two free beers before they gave him the bum's rush. Was it his fault they let a cock-sucking commie faggot into the place? What did they expect him to do? Pretend the guy wasn't there? Act like there's nothing wrong? Give him a big kiss?
He twisted his left arm and pulled the fabric of his sleeve taut so he could look at the latest patch he'd sewn on. He would have been happier if it had been a little straighter and more in line with the others, but hey-ho. His momma had been much better at it than he was before she passed away, but then she would be, sewing being a woman's job an' all. His fingers were way too big and shook too much. They didn't used to shake. Besides, it wasn't so bad and it was the sentiment that mattered: Don't let the gray hair fool you; we can still kick ass.
He settled back in the seat and let the music wash over him while he waited for the commie faggot and his faggoty friend to come out. Jesus Christ, you couldn't get away from them these days. Anyone would think he'd moved to San Fag-cisco. Things had been different when he was young, that was for sure. They knew how to deal with them back then. On top of which, the guy now owed him a beer. He didn't look like the kind of guy who paid his dues either.
He leaned across and opened the glove compartment, checked to make sure his Colt M1911 was still in there. There was more than one way of paying your dues.
Chapter 40
The young woman with the long, dark hair paused with her key halfway into the lock of number twenty-three. At first she ignored the name being called behind her. She was tall and attractive with the sort of figure that made other women—the ugly, fat ones mainly—want to spit in her face. She had a good bust with maybe a little too much meat on her thighs and well-rounded ass, but it was all in proportion and she was used to men calling out to her in the street. But then she laughed to herself. Even now she sometimes forgot to respond to her new name—Christ, she still hadn’t got round to changing all her documents. Where did the time go? She turned round at the sound of the name being called a second time.
'Yes?' she said as a large brown fist crashed into the side of her jaw.
Her head snapped sideways and her legs crumpled. Strong hands caught her under her armpits and held her up. The key was still in the lock. The guy who'd hit her reached across and opened the door and the one holding her hustled her inside. The first one followed them in and shut the door behind them.
The guy holding her dragged her down the hallway to the kitchen. If she hadn't still been dizzy from the punch she might have thought: it's always the kitchen.
But it made sense (if you were a psychopath). Lots of good stuff in there—knives, hot plates, boiling water, Drano, you name it.
The guy holding her let go of her and she stood looking at them, gently swaying. She put a hand up to her jaw. Ow! Why do people do that? It hurt when she touched it just like she knew it would. Her whole face throbbed, her teeth felt like they'd been knocked loose.
The two guys let her get herself together for a moment. They both looked Mexican, although neither of them looked particularly nasty. Not the sort of men to make you cross the street if you saw them coming towards you on the sidewalk. Appearances could be deceptive, obviously. She didn't know how they'd managed to creep up on her. Probably because her mind had been on other things.
'You've got just one chance here, Rachel,' the guy who'd hit her said, pinching her cheek between his thumb and forefinger.
She nodded dumbly. She didn't know what the hell was going on. But she did, deep inside. Ever since Ellie had asked the favor as she called it. If she was honest, she'd almost been expecting something to happen.
'You've got something you're holding for your friend Ellie. She probably forgot to tell you, but it doesn't belong to her.' His voice had a patronizing tone, as if he was talking to a small child or a puppy. 'It belongs to us and we'd like it back.' He smiled at her. 'Right NOW,' he screamed into her face, his breath smelling of eggs.
She jumped backwards and banged into the kitchen table.
'I don't . . .'
Those weren't the words he was looking for. No sentence that he wanted to hear started with those words.
He didn't give her a chance to finish whatever pathetic denial she was about to come out with. He raised his arm and backhanded her across the face sending her sprawling to the floor. She lay on the cold tiles, quietly moaning, not daring to move. The cold felt good against the hot stinging pain that was burning up the side of her face, consuming her whole head. He kicked her—only gently really—in the ribs with the pointy toe of his boot. More to get her attention than hurt her.
Did he think she might forget he was there?
She gasped and scrambled into a sitting position, shuffling away from him on her ass, her skirt catching and riding up over her athletic thighs. He followed her across the room, keeping his groin inches from her face, a faint smell of stale urine and cigarettes lingering on his faded jeans.
'Wrong answer, chula.'
He crouched down in front of her; the toe of his boot pressed hard up against the gusset of her panties, and grabbed her by the throat. He started to squeeze, broken fingernails sharp on the soft skin. She couldn't breath. She got both her hands on his wrist and tried to prise his hand away. He dug his fingers deeper into the side of her neck, shutting off the blood flow.
She tried to say something but his grip was too tight; it just came out as a strangled cry in the back of her throat. She tried shaking her head from side to side but he grabbed a big handful of hair on
the top of her head, wound his fingers into it and held her still.
'You know something,' he said and laughed. 'I'm a lying son of a bitch. I said you only get one chance, but I'm gonna give you one more.' He let go her hair and held up his index finger and wagged it in front of her face. She followed it with her eyes and wondered idly how he managed to get so much dirt under his fingernails, the bizarre thought coming from nowhere. 'But this really is the last chance. Understand?'
She stared at him, unsure if she was expected to answer. He cocked his head like he wanted one and when it didn’t happen he grabbed her hair again and nodded her head up and down for her, each downward push choking her harder against the hand crushing her neck.
Up, down, choke; up, down, choke . . .
Behind them she could hear the other guy going through the kitchen drawers. The choker smiled his cold smile at her again and prodded the toe of his boot into her, like he was trying to polish it.
'It sounds like José is looking for something in there, doesn't it?' He laughed in a way that turned her stomach more than the feel of his boot did. 'In the drawer I mean, not in there,' he said, working his toe further in between her legs.
'She's got some expensive knives,' José said with real appreciation in his voice. 'Some of those Japanese ones they use for Sushi.'
The guy holding her nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. 'I know the ones you mean. You can do really thin slices with them.'
'That's the ones. I think it's called a Yan-something.'
'A Yan-something? Strange name for a knife.'
José shrugged. 'Slopes are strange,' he said as if that explained it all.
'You know, I don't think we're going to need them,' the guy holding her said. 'Are we?' He released his grip very slightly on her throat.
She shook her head violently from side to side. He seemed satisfied. He let go of her hair and dropped his hand from her throat. He stood up, his knee joints clicking, and stepped away. The pair of them waited while she coughed and spluttered as she drew air back into her screaming lungs. She looked up at them. The one called José was still holding one of the knives. She recognized it instantly. It was called a Yanagiba, the most popular knife used in Sushi restaurants the world over. As they'd said—very sharp, very good for thin slices.
'You didn't give me a chance,' she said, her voice cracking. 'I was going to say I don't have it here.'
The two guys looked at each other.
'You are so impatient,' José said and jabbed the other guy in the arm with his finger. He grinned. 'Why didn't you give the lady a chance to finish? You just wanted to shine your boot with some of those lurve juices, you pervert. Look at all the time you've wasted.'
The other guy shrugged. 'Shit happens.' He looked down at his boots. 'Didn't even get a good shine, either.'
They both started laughing. She looked from one to the other. They were completely insane.
'Okay, enough fooling around,' the first guy whose name she still didn't know said. 'Where is it?'
'I wasn't happy with it in the house so I moved it.'
They both nodded to let her know they were with her so far.
'It's in a storage unit I've got. I had too much furniture when I moved here but I didn't want to throw it out . . .'
The first guy held up a hand to stop her. 'Okay, okay, we get the picture. Just tell us where it is.'
She gave them the address and José wrote it down on a piece of paper.
'Now all we need is the key.'
She nodded. 'It's upstairs. I'll get it.'
The two guys looked at each other as if to say: can you believe this joker?
'Nice try,' the first guy said. 'Go with her José.'
She led the way upstairs and José followed her. She wasn't even surprised when he goosed her on the way up. They went into her bedroom. She kept the key in the nightstand drawer. There was something else in there as well—her Kel-Tec P-32. She'd bought it two years previously when her neighbor's husband had been shot during a home invasion. She'd gone to the gun store the next day. The guy had recommended the P-32 because of its light weight, small grip size and light trigger pull. She'd spent a few hours at the range and then it had sat in the drawer ever since. She knew the seven round capacity magazine was full.
She could come clean and tell him it was in there. Let him open the drawer and take the key and the gun. That would be the sensible thing to do. It would demonstrate a huge amount of cooperation and that had to increase the chances that they left her alone and didn't hurt her. Didn't it? Hurt her any more, that was. Or any more seriously.
But could she trust them? Were they totally focussed on the money and that was all? Or were they garden variety psychopaths who wanted to have a bit of fun as well. Fun, as in torturing her just for the sake of it. The guy right behind her now, the one whose eyes she could feel on her ass, had seemed very taken with her sushi knives. Maybe he was a knife aficionado. Perhaps he prepared sushi on a regular basis and had never been able to afford quality knives. He might want to try them out—and not just on a piece of raw tuna. She could hear them laughing and joking: Hey José, try out that knife on the bearded clam; slice it up nice and thin so we all get a bite.
It was a hell of a gamble. But so was the other alternative. To grab the gun and shoot the guy. Then what? The guy downstairs was sure to have a gun as well. He certainly had more experience using one than she did. But he'd have to come up the stairs to get her and that would give her the advantage. She could phone the police from the bedroom.
Then there was the money. Ellie had told her she would pay her for looking after it. How much more grateful would she be if she stopped the guys she'd stolen it from (it was obvious that's what had happened) from taking it back? A hundred grand grateful? Two hundred grand? Call it a round quarter million for all the aggravation?
She had to make up her mind in the next couple of seconds. God, how she hated Ellie for putting her through this. She deserved to lose the money. Psychopaths or not? A quarter of a million dollars? Her whole head hurt. Really hurt. She couldn't think straight. Was she even only thinking about it because of the blows to the head? They hurt, you bastard. And her throat. She was sure he'd crushed something important, some of the little bones in there. It hurt to swallow. How dare you attack me? In my own home. Bastards.
'It's in the nightstand,' she said.
Big mistake. Should have kept your mouth shut.
The guy wasn't stupid. He probably knew that more than a third of all Americans admit to owning a gun. Estimates said there were roughly three hundred million guns in the country—almost one for every man, woman and child. And how many of those were sitting quietly in bedroom nightstands waiting for nocturnal intruders? Millions of them. Millions and millions.
She was aware of him moving up on her fast. She lunged for the drawer handle and yanked the whole thing out and onto the floor. He was almost on top of her. She dropped to her knees. It made her exactly level with his crotch. She punched him in the balls, giving it everything she'd got and grabbed the gun with her left hand.
It wasn't a good punch. In fact it was a pathetic punch, even for a woman. He grunted, but more in surprise than in pain. He certainly didn't double over and roll around the floor moaning. But it gave her time to get hold of the gun. Only in her left hand though. She was right-handed. She didn't have time to swap hands or even aim properly. She swung her arm towards him and pulled the trigger blindly. The noise was deafening in the small room. He let out a sharp cry and looked down at his left arm. She'd caught him in the fleshy part of his upper arm.
She stared, almost in a daze, at the blood soaking into his jacket sleeve, not really knowing what to do next.
Like pull the trigger again, you dumb bitch.
It was all the time he needed. He lashed out with his foot and caught her solidly on the left shoulder. She gasped and dropped the gun as her arm went numb. The gun bounced once on the floor and landed by his feet. He bent and picked
it up and stepped away as the other guy appeared in the doorway.
'Are you hurt?'
José shook his head and smiled grimly. She stared, terrified, into his eyes. She could swear he'd wanted it to happen like this all along. As if he needed an excuse. She could already feel the stinging pain as the razor sharp steel slit her flesh open, watching in horror as her blood welled up and overflowed out of the wound.
'Not as much as she's going to be,' José said through clenched teeth.
They dragged her kicking and screaming back to the kitchen where they stripped her naked, ripping at her clothes as they pushed her back and forth between them. They taped her arms and legs to a chair and made sure her legs were stretched open, nice and wide, all the soft bits on show and easy to get at. Then they taped her mouth, but they poked a small hole through the tape. She wondered if it was because they could see she was having difficulty breathing through her nose from when she'd been slapped. Or maybe they liked to hear their victims scream. Just not too loud, so as not to disturb the neighbors.
The guy she'd shot, José, had made a tourniquet out of strips of kitchen towel. It seemed it was only a flesh wound anyway. It was only his left arm as well, and, like her, he was right-handed.
'Pass me that Yan-something, will you,' he said to the other guy, whose name she still didn't know.
The guy didn't so much pass it across as stab it into the wooden table top, before going back to rooting through her handbag.
José took hold of the knife and worked it free, a sick, satisfied smile on his lips as he took hold of her hair and pulled her head back. The sound of her desperate sobs squeezing past the tape that covered her mouth made his breath come faster, made his eyes shine, as the horror that lived behind them came awake.
'Hey,' the other guy called, her driving licence in his hand, 'her name's not Rachel, it's—'
Before The Killing Starts (Dixie Killer Blues Book 1) Page 17