by Jason Dias
“What?”
“You said she needed grave dirt.”
“So?” But I saw it now, too.
“So, there isn’t any. She’s switched pine boxes.”
I hadn’t known she could. Maybe she hadn’t, either. Or maybe everything was bullshit. “Well, at least we aren’t getting murdered right now. Next place.”
“You don’t want to wait for daylight?”
“If you were her prisoner, would you want me to wait for daylight?”
“No.” She pouted. “Let’s go. Where next?”
“Safehouse down south. I’ll buy you dinner along the way.”
“Sold.”
Being
We hit a Seven-Eleven on the way out of town. I set gas to pumping and left it to run while we went inside. Bright white lights illuminated three rows of banal dry goods. Along the counter, hot food glistened. Pizza. Slick, red hot-dogs. Burgers in yellow wrappers. Under that, bags of chips in every conceivable flavor.
“What do you want?” I said.
“This is dinner?”
“Compromise between food and time.”
“’Food’ isn’t quite the right word…”
“Look. If we survive the next couple days, I’ll take you for a fucking steak dinner anywhere you want. Once a week, forever. Okay?” Not that I’d be out of jail for a few lifetimes.
“You don’t have to get snippy.” But I could see her shame. Her face had pinked. Eyes lowered. She waved at the girl behind the counter. “Gimme two cheeseburgers.”
I grabbed a two-liter bottle of soda and a hot cup of coffee as big as my forearm. Paid at the end. Jo had added a bag of jalapeno-flavored Ruffles. We walked out to the camper together. I put my half of the loot inside then turned around to finish with the gas.
“Oh, I should tinkle.”
“Tinkle?”
“Girl’s room. Long drive, right?”
I withheld a sigh. Hung up the gas pump like an old payphone, sat in the car. Started on the coffee.
A minute passed. Two. Five. At seven, tired of waiting, I slipped out of the truck and walked back towards the shop. Impatience. My hands wanted to make fists. I barged into the place, strode to the back where the toilets were. Two unisex doors confronted me, both closed.
“Jo? Jolene?”
No answer. Door to the left, door to the right. Right-hand side, I could hear someone washing their hands. I banged on the left. “Jo?”
No answer. I lifted a hand to bang on the right-side door but it opened in front of me. An overweight man came out, looking up at me with eyes half-quizzical, half contemptuous. “It’s all yours, gringa.”
I made way for him. Just for the sake of certainty, I checked out the room he’d just vacated. Empty but for the bad smell of his business.
Left, then. Locked. Not sophisticated. The kind of latch you can beat with a credit card. I did.
Empty.
I looked around for a sign she’d been here. Yellowish water in the toilet was but nothing else. Hard to say what I expected to find.
Maybe I’d missed her in the store. I walked around, carefully. Back to the truck.
Not there.
I went back in once more and asked the girl at the counter: “Remember my friend who bought the cheeseburgers?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“She come in and use the toilet?”
“Sure.”
“You see her leave?”
“I’m busy.”
She didn’t seem to mean too busy to talk. No other customers. Too busy to watch every in and out, maybe. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
But it was a problem.
I walked all the way around the building. Peered into every car. Honda, white lady pumping gas. She gave me the eye. Big Lincoln, black guy sitting in front just idling. He pretended not to see me.
Back to the truck. Confounded, impatient.
Scared.
Ricky and Jo, both. I sat in the cab, sipping coffee, thinking. Feeling.
My bowels wanted to move. Watery fear took over down there. Had I gotten her killed? Both of them? Nothing more I could do. The rational mind wanted to intrude where primal terror reigned. I felt…
Impotent.
That spawned rage. I punched the steering wheel with my free hand. “Fuck!”
Too many choices. No real reason to wait, but the urge. Wait, see. Maybe she appears from behind the gas pump. More likely I just sit there all night, wasting time. Is that what Ysabeau wanted?
Or keep going. She would know, of course. This was a demonstration that she could find me anywhere and I could not keep anyone safe. She inhabited my thoughts, or maybe just smelled my blood. A shark in deep water.
Keep going, abandon Jo.
Abandon who? She was gone.
Fuck. I yelled it again.
Time to go. I almost physically pushed the feelings aside. A frustrated writer clearing off the table with the sweep of an arm, sending papers and typewriter crashing to the floor. No satisfying noise or chaos for me, though, just the ongoing quiet of solitary night.
The engine started one more time. The gearshift lever did its job, and the gas station shrank in the wing mirror. Behind me, a police cruiser slid into the spot I’d just vacated. I’d maybe dodged a bullet.
Jolene’s phone rang. It rested on the dash on her side. Desperate, I grabbed it, the truck not quite holding its lane while I reached. Local number: not someone Jo knew, then, because the number wasn’t in her contacts. I answered it, thinking it could be the gas station payphone (had I seen a payphone?) and it could all be a simple screw-up.
“Hello?”
One word. Not enough to know if I knew the voice. “Jolene?”
Pause. “Isn’t this her phone?”
“Who’s this?”
“Who’s this?”
“Jolene is missing. I’m her friend. Who’s calling, please?”
“Missing? Shit. I was afraid of that. This is Sergeant Watanabi. Springs Police. Who are you, please?”
“Ay? Ayame? Jesus Christ. I’ve been ducking you all day.”
“Dominque. You should have answered. I’ve called you ninety times. We’ve been worried sick.”
“Worried?” That put a new spin on things. “Why worried?”
“The Lieutenant didn’t show up for work this morning. Her place is empty. Not ransacked, not disturbed at all. Her car is in the garage. Keys on the hook, wallet on the table. She’s just gone. Captain Daniels was murdered. Messy. Husband too. She has a video system but the recordings don’t show anyone coming or going.”
“They don’t?”
“It’s the weirdest thing. Someone must’ve been there. You went missing, not responding to any calls, not in your place – we went by two hours ago. And Jolene walked off her job site this morning. Didn’t say shit to anyone. Hasn’t responded to any calls. You have to come in. Now.”
“I can’t, Sergeant.”
“You don’t understand. Whatever you’re doing, it needs to wait.”
“I can’t come in. It’s personal. People are in danger.”
She sighed. I could hear something tight in her voice. “There is no personal anymore. Dom, I don’t care how bad it is. You have to come in. There’s nobody left but you.”
“What?”
“With Daniels dead and Lieutenant Ganges missing, you’re the ranking officer.”
That wasn’t right. My partner had a year on me. Dennis. “Williams. He should be back off psych leave by now. Call him.”
Silence.
I waited for her to say something but she didn’t.
“What?”
“Dom…” Her grief penetrated the phone, tears as obvious as if I could see them. “Dom, Dennis shot himself two nights ago. Service revolver. Left a suicide note. He, uh, he had a brain tumor. After the stabbing, at the hospital, they found it by accident. He…”
I couldn’t keep the truck between the lines and take all these punches.
Dennis had been a good man. Good as any. Daniels. Burt. Jo. Ricky.
“Ay.”
“Yes. I’m here.”
I imagined her dabbing her eyes and sitting up straighter. “Stay where you are until daylight. Get everyone together. Nobody goes anywhere without a partner. Eyes on at all times, even in the shitter. Are you hearing me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Calls as normal but with a partner. Hit up State Patrol, inform them of our situation. Hand over operations at dawn.”
“You’re still not coming back?”
“No, and neither are you. You have to go collect your girlfriend. Forgot her name. I’m sorry. Get her. Leave town. Don’t tell me where.”
“I don’t mind telling you I’m scared.”
“Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. Don’t warn anyone. Don’t resign. Just leave. At dawn. Not in the dark. Tell me you’ll do that.”
“Why?”
“Check in at this number in twelve hours. If I’m not dead, I’ll tell you why.” I ended the call and tossed the phone into the passenger seat. Ayame didn’t leave it alone but I ignored the buzzing.
Time to mash the accelerator. I still had the same problems and the same leads, or absence of leads. The Catholic-owned safe house was thirty minutes away at present speed.
The truck, heavy and brick-shaped and somewhat vintage, resisted speeding up. Soon enough, though, it barreled through the night, wind screaming off square surfaces.
“Bonsoir.”
I almost crashed the camper. Ysabeau had appeared, not coalescing slowly from mist but suddenly, all in a second, in the passenger seat. My nerves, already stretched too thin, about gave out. “You bitch. I’m gonna…” I started to reach across the seat for her, hands leaving the wheel, foot pushing even harder on the gas as I searched for leverage.
She looked surprised, even afraid for half a second. Then she hid it, replaced fear with half a smile. “You should take the wheel. I cannot die, but you can. And it would be a shame to end the game this way.”
The truck swerved, bringing me to my senses. I couldn’t throttle the life out of her as I wanted. So I captured the wheel, slowed rather than trying to correct my course suddenly, drifting across lanes until our speed dropped enough to move into the right lane. People blared displeasure through their horns. I saw some one-finger salutes as motorists decided the truck looked better in their rearview mirror than ahead making trouble.
“Did you take them?”
“You friend, the doctor to the dead? Oh, yes. Your lover from long ago, too.”
“Where?”
“You will find out.”
“Why?”
“Does the sun explain herself to the desert?”
“Tell me why.”
She giggled. “So stubborn. Because it is fun to torment you, this is why. So long have I searched for a playmate as… as adequate as yourself.”
Adequate? “Say what you mean.”
“I am saying it. Adequate. Sturdy. Stout of character.”
“I am going to kill you.” I meant it. I didn’t know how or when, but I would kill her.
“That would be a delightful surprise. I am so bored, Dominique. I chose you first because your name smells of Paris in winter. I kept you because you are so stubborn. Now the game, I fear, is nearly over.”
“Tell me the rules. A game is stupid with no rules.”
She laughed again. “Oh, just go on as you are. The more you amuse me, the longer I let you live.”
“Fucking bitch…” The impulse to lunge at her again grew. Before I could act on it, she left as she’d come: like the voice on the radio when you punch the power switch.
“She wants you off balance. Simmer down.”
Whose voice? Who now?
Nobody. Just me in the truck, cruising back up towards the speed limit. Traffic thinned out as the road went south and soon it I felt really alone. But for the headlights and taillights, the night would be full of stars.
My own voice. And correct.
Crisis was my element. My home. I had to control myself. She wanted me off-balance. She’d come to provoke me. She didn’t need to gloat if she had all the power and I had none. People gloat when they have gathered power and want to rub your face in it. When they are afraid of how powerless they have been before and could be again. I have power now! Exult in it! (Because it is temporary.)
She feared me. Something I could do. What? Enrique’s crucifix hadn’t deterred her. I had no faith in Jesus or symbols of His worldly institution. Less than ever. What could I do to her that she needed to so thoroughly break me?
My exit came up. The truck lumbered through it. I coaxed it, slowly. Then through town, stopping and going, pondering the meaning of her fear. Back and forth: she has all the power; she is afraid of something.
Impasse. Perseverating. Coming undone again. A nervous student picking at her hair before a test, or worrying a hole in her skirt.
I’d come to the safe house. It looked as we’d left it. No police tape, no indication of anything amiss. Had they bought into the seizure story? Enrique had implied as much. The front window lit up as someone inside flicked the light switch. I parked on the street and walked right up to the place. Rapped on the front door, cop-style.
A porch light came on, making me a bright point in the dark, visible, exposed. Then the door opened. Not who I expected to see.
“Burt?”
Nightmares
“What are you doing here?”
Burt stepped out of the door, making room for me to enter. “I’ve been waiting for you. Enrique told me about this place. I know it’s not totally safe but he didn’t imagine Ysabeau would hit it twice, and we both imagined you’d be about out of other leads by now.”
“Enrique? Is he…” I stepped into the hallway. Cold inside, barely warmer than outside.
“He’s fine. Don’t worry. We’ve been worried about you.”
“That stupid story about seizures. You never believed it.”
“At first I didn’t have many other options. But I can add two and two. And two. I’ll grab my jacket. We need to get out of here just in case she checks back in.”
I didn’t explain the futility of that plan. That Ysabeau could find me anywhere. “I want to see Ricky. See that he’s safe.”
“That’s where we’re going. This isn’t the only safe-house in town. There’s a place we used to use back in the nineties. Enrique had never heard of it so Ysabeau has no idea.”
“You’re well informed.”
“He told me everything. Took a while. A sane woman wouldn’t have believed word one. But then, I already knew much of it.” She had her jacket, a clutch purse, and a handful of keys. “Back door.”
We went through the house, leaving the light on behind us. Burt’s car sat in the alley out back: a BMW, navy blue, just room for two in the cockpit, a ridiculous affectation of a back seat. It chirped to life, prodded by her electronic key. I sat in the passenger seat and racked it back as far as it would go. Burt made the car move. East into Downtown.
The car blessed me with warmth. Another cold night in the American Midwest. No snow, another small blessing: at this time of year we should have been under a foot of it.
Burt said, “Watanabe. Is she safe? I haven’t had time to check in with her.”
“Scared. You’re missing. I’m AWOL. She’s in charge down there. You didn’t tell me Dennis shot himself.”
“Tried to. You haven’t answered your phone in a while.”
She had a point. I’d left the tablet back in the camper, with Jo’s phone. All I had with me was my service revolver.
“Where is she? I’ll want to check in with her when you’re squared away.”
I lied because of the warmth of the car. In a cold car, I’d have been totally honest. “I told her to get out of there right away. Call State Patrol from the road. Right now, she’ll be on her way to the FBI field office in Sioux Falls. Spill the whole mess, top to bo
ttom, let them figure it out. Once it’s in their computers it will be hard to make an investigation go away.”
“Good thinking.” She nodded. “They’ll probably make an X-File out of it and slam us all in the funny farm.”
Lying. I could see it. Known her most of my life. We’d come up together as sergeants. I’d made detective first, she’d been promoted off the street and I never wanted to. Even if I had bought the act, the car was warm.
She hadn’t parked it in the alley and waited all night on the off chance I’d show up. She’d known I was coming and when. That’s why only one light was on in the place. Ysabeau had told her to come and she had raced down here, thrown her coat on the couch, flipped on a light, and barely beaten me there. The house was cold, the car was warm, and Beatrice was lying to me.
“Where are we going?” I said.
“Told you. Safe house.”
“Where?”
“Abattoir.”
“Gross.”
“Hasn’t been used since sixty-eight. Not for slaughtering cows, anyway. I use it now and again for sensitive witnesses. Even the Marshalls don’t know about it. The city will plow it under soon, make way for a parking garage. Right now, best place in town. In the state.”
I shut my eyes and held back grief. Time for grief later. Beatrice, Burt, was dead. Her heart might be beating right now but I could do nothing to save her. Soon, I’d have to shoot her.
She rambled on for a while about how Downtown had been in the sixties and early seventies. I let it all wash over me, paying attention mostly to the night slipping by outside. We left the concrete canyon of the tall buildings that made the little skyline out here, into the relative openness of the County Fairgrounds plot. Past that, the shadow of a three-story brick building. No windows on the ground floor. Higher up, big, leaded-glass panes to let in daylight. I wondered if people who lived nearby could hear the cows dying inside. I wondered if the animals screamed when the slaughterer hit them in the head with his hammer.
Burt parked the BMW right up against the building. We got out. She led the way towards a side entrance, wrapped in shadows. No arc lamps out here. Just weak starlight. No moon, no traffic.
I wanted to cry. Pushed that away again. No time to mourn my friend.