No witnesses. No sign of the boy.
He stopped at a local taqueria for a burrito. Had no taste for it, ate to keep going. No sense staying at his home tonight. He’d sleep at the office and wait for something to break. In the office he changed his mind. No place in the squad room or the locker area that was comfortable. He’d take his radio and cell to his truck, recline the seat all the way, at least get a long nap.
FRONT LOADING
Murray blacked out after he was slammed on the floor. Someone hit him really hard in the stomach and he couldn’t get any air and he’d hit his head when he was dropped … but now he realized he was riding, being driven somewhere. Uh-oh. The fear hit him, brought him wide-awake. Kidnapped. His thoughts raced too fast to organize. Yell! No, don’t let them know you’re awake. Run! Stay still! You’re going to die! Get a grip!… He struggled to quiet his gasping, struggled to think, but the vehicle stopped and fear again overwhelmed him.
He was jerked backward and pulled to his feet. Banged his ear on something and it blazed while he was being steered forward, stumbling, having to walk faster to stay on his feet. In seconds he was smashed against a wall. Chill metal, not wood, and then the sound of a door opening, and he was pulled away from the wall and shoved forward. His shins and knees cracked on unseen steps and he was skidding on a cold slick floor, concrete or linoleum, and a person’s steps were coming in with him but a phone began ringing and a man began cursing and a door slammed and the room vibrated briefly and became still.
Murray had no idea where he was or who had taken him, but he knew this was lethal. He thought he was alone—hoped he was alone, probably not for very long, and he had an idea from the feel of the outside wall and the vibration of the room that he was in a trailer and he knew he had to do something. Right now!
When he tried to pull the sack off his head he found he was handcuffed; he’d been so scared he hadn’t felt it, hadn’t even noticed. What do you do about that? He pulled his hands apart. Too tight. Tried to shrug like you’d take off a coat. Still too tight. He bent his knees and tucked his feet and slid the cuffs over his shoes so his hands were in front and he could pull off the sack.
He was in a trailer. Directly in front of him, a wooden chair with a roll of duct tape resting on the seat. Murray knew that was for him, knew he had to run. Thank god his feet were free! He wheeled and saw the door he’d been pushed through, but the man was probably too close. Another door? Desks at one end, booth on the other, upholstered benches on either side of a built-in table. Closet-looking door at the back middle, just past a small sink … He tore it open—tiny toilet, no window. Window! He jumped on the built-in table and kicked at the window above it. Nothing. Kick the goddamn thing! The blow, loud as hell, shook the whole trailer and the window cracked across. He jumped down, grabbed and swung the wooden chair through it and it broke out still cased in its corroded metal frame and he dived, in the air, picturing landing on glass, shards in his chest, but no, he hit dirt and gravel and he was running. A twenty-foot shipping container … around the side … no ladder, can’t fit under. A fence!… too tall … a big yellow whatdoyoucallit? Loader? No doors, cracked leather seat, steering wheel—big yellow arms holding a huge scoop high in front of it. Murray gained the floor in a leap, was up on the seat and jumped for the bucket—hit it halfway and lost his breath again but no time. He scrambled over the lip and down, scrunched in the gravelly bottom. He heard a yell, but he was still wheezing too hard to make out the words. Not far off. Running steps, running past, now cursing, now more running and then silence.
Murray tried to imagine what the person looked like but couldn’t—had to be strong, at least a little taller. Nothing useful. Nothing but pure red fear. He started to close his eyes so he wouldn’t focus on his wrists and the damn handcuffs. Hesitated. His right wrist was bloody, ripped by the metal band during his scrambles. His left wrist … the cuff wasn’t exactly on his wrist. It was a couple of inches up his arm, pretty tight around the fabric of his hoodie. Jeez! It took several minutes to work the cloth above the cuff and slide the thing down to the meat of his hand.
Was it possible? He had to do it even if it was impossible. He kneaded and tugged the skin under, pushed the cuff farther and farther toward his fingers and now that hand was bleeding and he was sure he was breaking his thumb. He tried to use his feet but his shoes kept slipping. He trapped the cuff on the back lip of the bucket and used his weight to hang and pull. When the joint of his thumb gave way, the thing popped off. Murray fell to the bottom cradling his damaged hand, squirming, trying to stifle his damn moaning.
When his breathing quieted and his heart stopped ramming his chest, he lay as still as he could, as if still equaled invisible. He hurt. The steel bucket was cold, little things were poking him, his back itched, wrists burned, thumb throbbed, but he didn’t move. At all. For hours. Even after it got dark, because during that time he was listening. At first, one voice yelling, and thirty minutes or an hour later two or three more. And the sound of cars. Brakes. Starting, stopping. Doors opening and closing. And he pretended he was dead, still as death. And there was more … he couldn’t believe it. He was hearing other voices not far away. Voices he’d heard before. On a hill.
* * *
Came a time when he hadn’t heard anything except the dead voices for quite a while. Like a snake, like an oil slick, he oozed to the lip of the bucket, to the front corner, and hair by hair, raised his head till he could see. It wasn’t that dark. Five or six bright lights on tall poles shone down on a … junkyard? An equipment lot? A construction site?
Way off, maybe a half mile away, some new buildings were joined together with metal scaffolds around them. He could see past the container where he’d wanted to hide, could see part of a light-colored trailer.
Surrounding everything a tall chain-link fence with barbed wire staked at the top. Forty or fifty feet in front of him, two patrol cars. White with gray doors. Trunk to trunk. Beside them, two men standing, facing opposite directions, scanning the lot, shining their flashlights toward any noise. Watching. Waiting for Murray to give himself away.
He was trembling. Fear? Cold? Or maybe it was his thumb. It was killing him. Small blessing. At least he was right-handed. He knew he had to make a run for it. Couldn’t stay in the bucket till daylight and somebody needed to use it. And daylight would screw him anyway. Darkness was the only thing he had going. And surprise. That reminded him. He shoved the empty cuff over the first three fingers of his right hand and twisted to tighten the short cuff chain—a big clumsy ring but he couldn’t afford to have it rattling loose or clanking against the bucket. When it felt tight enough to stay, he slipped down and sorted through the gravel for a stone big enough to throw. Big enough to make some noise. Found two, a little over an inch in diameter. He’d throw them both. At the same time. Opposite from where he’d run. So which way would he go and what could he do about that fence?
He slithered to the lip at the back of the bucket where the men couldn’t see him and surveyed the yard. If he hung down and dropped from that side, he’d land on dirt. The fence was maybe twenty feet away. He could climb it. Had to climb it. The barbed wire? He’d take off his hoodie right now and carry it with him. Lay it over the points and hope for the best, because he had to get all the way to the top and jump. Out beyond in that direction he saw only darkness, no houses or lighted farm buildings. The field by the fence might be plowed. That would make his landing softer but it would be harder to run. And the sweatshirt would be stuck up on the fence, telling the men where he’d escaped.
Maybe that was the answer. He risked rising even higher to look in the opposite direction. Dark. Tiny light on a hill miles away. Okay, he’d jump and brush his footprints for thirty or forty feet so they wouldn’t know which direction he was heading. He’d run around to the opposite side of the compound, to where he’d first thrown the rocks because the guys would have heard the damn fence jangle and come toward the loader. A stab of doubt hit him like a s
pear. Was this even possible? But he couldn’t stay. He was pretty sure they were going to kill him and put him with the others.
He kept scanning till he found the entry gate. Good, he’d run for the other side.
GO!
He tore off the hoodie and flung the rocks. Watched the men react. Shine their flashlights, jog toward the sound. And he was off, leg over, hanging by his fingers, dropping, running for the fence, jamming his fingers and shoes in the chain-link holes and scrambling. At the stakes he flipped his hoodie over the three wires and it caught and he tugged it until it was wide enough to crawl on … Ow! It poked him anyway but he was at the top and got his feet under him and jumped praying not to break anything and hit and lurched face-forward getting dirt in his mouth and jamming his bad thumb when he tried to break his fall. But he could stand! He ripped off his T-shirt to wipe his footprints and hustled, a count of thirty, brushing as he went. He didn’t have long. And then he lay flat in the dirt to see what the men were going to do before he ran any farther.
Their flashlight beams jabbed this way and that until they spotted the hoodie and then he could see them at the fence focusing straight out and yelling. One left within seconds while the other continued to shine his flashlight back and forth in a short arc the way they thought he’d run.
And now Murray ran again, low to the ground. Had to get to the end of this fence and turn the corner so if the one guy who’d left raced out the front gate and drove the perimeter to the hoodie, he wouldn’t see Murray up ahead. It felt like a mile, couldn’t have been that far, when Murray made the corner and stopped, hands on knees to get a good breath. Saw dirt mashed in his bloody wrists. Nothing to be done about that.
Headlights? NO! Murray barely had time to register that the guy’d gone the other direction. WHY? But no time! Murray low-crawled back around the corner he’d just passed, gathering weeds as he moved. He dug in as best he could, used the weeds to cover himself. The car couldn’t make a real sharp turn and maybe the guy’d be looking out toward the fields.
Drive, you bastard! Murray heard the car, steadily closer, too close, and then even with him … and then the crunch of a turn. Murray didn’t take time to look. Crawled back around the corner and ran down the fence line, staying in the packed wheel marks hoping they couldn’t track him. Ran till his legs gave and he fell, keeping his head up this time but tearing more skin off his knuckles.
Now what? He stood and surveyed the land away from the compound, glad his eyes were adjusted to the dark. He saw no lights at all. Open field ending … was that a fence? A regular fence? Would there be a road by it? He looked down to find his T-shirt still in his hand. Began brushing his steps as he walked. Thirty yards from the tire tracks he shook the dirt out, pulled his shirt on, and took off again.
The fence. No road beside. But another field, and somewhere ahead probably another fence and maybe a road. He’d been stumbling the last couple of minutes; legs too tired now to run and keep his balance. Kept moving forward, looking for a stick to lean on, finding none. In minutes he reached a third fence and a dirt road that bordered a shallow ditch. Good. Couldn’t risk meeting a car without cover.
PARANOID PATROL
Long after dark, Pearl was in the bathroom sick to her stomach. Janochek was in the living room in his easy chair, turning his deceased father’s World War II .45 over and over in his hands, wondering if he should shuck the clip and oil it, wondering if he could find the box of extra ammunition, wondering if the gun still fired.
Janochek hated feeling paranoid but he couldn’t shake it. He put the gun out of Pearl’s reach, out of sight on top of a kitchen cabinet, and picked up his house phone to see if it was still operating. Got a dial tone. Turned off the lights in the kitchen and living room and went to his front window to spot anyone watching the cottage. Side window, back door, the same thing. Didn’t see anybody.
He crept outside, stayed in the trees and darker areas as he paralleled the small road down toward the street. Maybe Murray was hiding in the lawnmower shed. He wasn’t. Maybe he was across the street at the side of that commercial building, watching to see if it was safe to come in.
Near the front border at Continental Street, Janochek snuck along the thick hedge until he could crouch behind a stucco gate pillar and examine the pavement in each direction. If it were him, he’d come in from the north and sneak along the bushy shrubs all the way to the entrance. Janochek didn’t hear anything, didn’t see Murray or anything unusual. He was turning away when he heard the engine.
A squad car was rolling slowly down the street from the 44 freeway underpass toward the cemetery. Yes! Gates or someone from law enforcement was patrolling, perhaps going to station someone here so they’d know as soon as Murray returned. He watched the spotlight rake the fence and parked cars on both sides of the street, stood to hail the cruiser, saw it more clearly and ducked. Light-colored chassis with black doors—the security company the kids had described. After Murray or Pearl? He stayed low and speed-crawled back to the dark, ran for the house. Should have carried his cell. He needed Gates.
No luck. Couldn’t reach him. Left a message with dispatch who agreed to contact Gates at home.
Pearl had gone to her room. Good. Janochek didn’t want her to see him checking and oiling the pistol.
WANDERER
Murray tried to mentally backtrack and establish which direction the sun had set several hours ago. He pictured the loader bucket; the sun had gone down on the right side. The chain-link was on the right side. He’d climbed it and run halfway around, so that should be east. He’d struck out the same direction through fences to the road, and had turned right. South.
He should eventually hit east-west roads. Maybe hear the 5 freeway. It worried him that he hadn’t encountered more houses. Wished he hadn’t been unconscious during much of the ride. He had no idea how far he’d been driven, how far he was from Riverton, and whether he would be able to find anything he recognized before he gave out or they found him. And more bad news. He was exhausted. He found a small depression deep enough to lie in, twenty or thirty feet beyond the shallow ditch, where no one could see him unless they were within a few feet. He was asleep the minute his head touched the pillow of his forearm.
When he woke it was still dark, but his eyes were totally used to it and the sky seemed a little lighter. The land on either side of him looked like it had been graded. Almost no plants left standing. His path ran straight through a flat plain, a basin surrounded by low hills. He stopped. Needed a better plan. It was still somewhere around the middle of the night, no moon. What if he could see a brighter area? Wouldn’t that mean town? After studying every direction he decided there was a very faint glow ahead, angled to his right.
Cresting a rise a few minutes later he saw the source. A brightly lit service station with eighteen-wheelers parked toward the back. He made the entrance in a few minutes, could see the freeway, could see hills beyond, thought the cluster of lights he could see some miles away might be town.
He needed a ride. A person in a car might be afraid of him. He imagined how he looked: filthy T-shirt, muddy face, handcuffs. So, one of the trucks. Maybe a smaller one. He picked a white cab with a bin on the back that carried dirt or gravel, stuck his cuffed hand in his jeans pocket, and approached the driver at the pump.
“Are you going to Riverton?”
“Who wants to know?” The person kept filling the tank, didn’t turn around.
“I need a ride. To get home … just as far as the convention center.” Murray had never hitchhiked before. Hadn’t planned his request.
When the person replaced the hose in the fuel bay and turned, Murray saw it was a woman, hair chopped short under a ball cap, rough face with deep lines around the eyes and mouth. Canvas jacket, Levi’s, and ankle boots.
The woman smiled. Crooked teeth. “I’m heading to Yreka, don’t mind pulling off on 44.”
“Uh…” If she was put off by his condition, she gave no sign. Murray wondered
if she was high.
“Hell, get in. It’s unlocked.”
* * *
The woman let him out at the convention center overpass, and he sprinted west along the roadside until he crossed the canal and threaded his way down the berm into the southeast corner of the cemetery. Stopped at the narrow paved road above the cottage. He needed breath and he needed to think. Could the people who took him have gotten to Janochek? Taken Pearl?
He stayed to the shadows at the edge of the road until he could see the front area. The workshop was dark. Light on in the cottage living room. Janochek’s truck parked beside. No other vehicles. He snuck to the front door and was poised to knock when it flung open and all he could see was the barrel of a pistol.
“Cheese and rice! I almost shot you!” Janochek set the gun on the door-side table and threw his arms around Murray.
Murray hadn’t regained speech.
“We were worried sick. Actually sick. Where were you? What…” He, too, ran out of steam.
Murray could feel the man’s body shake a time or two as he crushed him and rocked side to side.
“I’m sorry,” Murray said.
Janochek released him and stood back. “Come in. Let me rouse Pearl and you tell us what’s been going on.”
Murray watched the man shaking his head as he walked back toward Pearl’s bedroom. He’d been so scared for the past several hours he hadn’t imagined how they might be feeling.
Before Janochek reached her room, Pearl flew out and tackled Murray, knocking him against the front door as Janochek watched, his hand uselessly poised to knock and wake her.
Murray held her and let her cry. Noticed he’d never held a girl this tightly. Noticed a tingling. A different kind of tingling. But he didn’t let go.
Dead Investigation Page 17