The Tower of Evil bbm-1

by Robert A. Liston

  His sigh was a deep one. “He biopsied my prostate. He’s running tests. Take a few days.”

  “For what? The Big C?”

  Another sigh. “It could be the little b, as in benign.”

  “Tell me every word he said.” She listened, asked some questions, then said, “Thank you, I feel better now.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course. It’s always better to know. Your day-long silence scared the wits out of me.”

  “I've been afraid to tell you.”

  “Don’t be silly. Whatever happens we’ll both deal with it when the time comes. “

  He arose from his chair and leaned over her. His fingers felt so cool, touching her chin, raising her head to his. “What a magnificent woman you are.”

  “It’s about time you noticed.”

  As he kissed her she knew she had done the right thing. No matter what, this beloved man must never know the terrible churning in the pit of her stomach.

  11: A Warning

  Henry Clay hopped into the van. “Can I ride along today, Doc?”

  Byerly liked his privacy. Some of his best ideas came while driving. But he knew boredom was chronic among the homeless, particularly for a man like Henry. He may have lost half his wits, but he still had a college education. “Sure, Henry, glad to have you.” Then he smelled him. Should he suggest a bath? No, Henry’s pride might be hurt.

  After his second trip to the county clinics, Walter said, “I have to run out to UCSB.”

  “Whatever you say, doc.” A few minutes later he said, “Pretty out here, ain’t it, doc?”

  “Sure is, Henry.” He raised his voice, imitating a travelogue. “Surrounded by the blue Pacific on three sides, the University of California at Santa Barbara ranks as one of the most scenic institutions of higher learning in the country. Lucky kids!”

  He returned to his normal voice. “Of course the university regents have done their best to ruin the place by erecting less than inspiring buildings, however cheap.”

  “UCSB has more bicycles than any college in the country.”

  “How do you know that, Henry?”

  “I dunno.”

  He parked and headed for the registrar’s office, Henry Clay in tow. Again he couldn’t refuse him.

  “Oh, Professor Byerly, it’s good to see you.”

  He had taught a couple of terms and still filled in occasionally. That made him an Adjunct Professor. Sounded so much better than substitute teacher. “And you, too. I wonder if I could see the records of a former student, Harry Gould.”

  “The man who shot himself? How awful!”

  “Yes.” To both the question and the comment.

  “The police were here for the same thing yesterday.”

  At least they were still investigating. He studied Gould’s record. Better than average student, pre-law group, international club. Nothing special. Somehow he wasn’t surprised.

  “Do you have any record for-” He extracted the photo of Jamie’s mother from his pocket.

  “I know her,” Henry Clay said.

  “You do?”

  “Sure, Mandy Sykes, we called her Cyclone. I had classes with her.”

  He studied. “How old are you, Henry?”

  Henry blinked and looked away. “I forget.”

  “That’s okay, it’s not important.” Henry looked scruffy, but probably not that old. He could have gone to school with Amanda Sykes. “What else can you tell me about her?” Henry had his vacant look. “Was she a good student?”

  He shrugged. “Sure, I guess so.”

  “Was she pretty?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  That qualified as faint praise. Henry was too nice to say she wasn’t. “Did you ever date her?”

  “Me? Naw.” Henry blushed. “I never-she was spoken for anyway.”

  “She was?”

  Henry rubbed the stubble on his chin. His name was…” He stared off into space. “I forget.”

  “That’s okay, Henry.” He perused Amanda Sykes’ record. Lots of political science courses and activity in conservative organizations. She left after her junior year.

  “His name was Harry, I remember Harry.”

  Byerly turned to him. “Harry Gould?”

  “That’s it, Harry Gould. Them two was hot and heavy. Everybody figured he was into her pants, but good.”

  Back in the van heading downtown, Walter did a quick calculation. If Harry Gould were Jamie’s father, the boy would be five or six, not three-unless he’d seen Amanda after college. No, Amanda wouldn’t be on the run from Harry Gould. Somebody else put the bun in her oven, as the Brits say.

  Walter stopped at the clinics. No passengers returning to town. He now headed there himself, driving on city streets, Calle Real, State Street, and the west side along De la Vina Street.

  “You were a big help, Henry.”

  “I was?” Byerly could see his wide grin in the rear view mirror.

  “You knew all about Cyclone and Harry.”

  “Sure, I remember them.”

  In his outside mirror Walter saw a large black car tailgating him. “The speed limit’s 30, my friend. I’m not about to get a ticket because you’re in a hurry.”

  One block below Alamar the street turned one way. He saw the black car pull into the left lane. “Now’s your chance, fellow, go for it.” The black car turned out to be a limousine. “Hey, what’re you doing!” Byerly jerked the wheel to the right to avoid being hit, then braked sharply. He was against the curb, unable to move.

  He hollered out the window, “What kind of a driver are you?” A uniformed man got out and walked around the front of the limo toward him.

  “Hey, that’s the guy what grabbed the girl.”

  “Be still, Henry, I’ll handle this.”

  The Ninja’s voice was a gruff as his looks. “Listen, Byerly-”

  “You know my name?”

  “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away from the estate-and from that dame, too.”

  “You can’t be serious.” He had to laugh. “And if I don’t I suppose you’ll break both my knees.”

  “A good idea, smart ass. I hadn’t thought of that.” A huge hand burst through the window and grabbed his shirtfront, pulling him sideways and forward. “An old guy like you, I could make you into a pancake, and I will, if you don’t watch it.”

  “Take your hands off me.”

  “Or else what?” He grinned, showing pretty good teeth actually. “What’re you going to do about it, old man?”

  He hesitated. “I’m going to blow this horn.” He pushed the button on the steering wheel. “And I’m going to keep blowing till you release me and get the hell out of my way.“

  The horn was surprisingly loud. A couple of cars slowed to look.

  “Mind what I say, you old fart, stay way.” Ninja gave him a final jerk, then went back to the limo and drove off.

  “What was that all about?” Henry asked.

  Byerly sucked in air and straightened his shirtfront, trying to control his shakes. He turned the van away from the curb and drove off, finally able to say, “In one-star movies that is what is known as a warning, I believe.”

  By the time he parked in front of The Sally and sought out Addie Kinkaid, he felt fairly calm. “You’re not very popular in certain quarters,” he said.

  Addie laughed at the threats. “I guess they didn’t believe you were looking for the Munsters’ place.”

  “You’re not afraid of them?”

  “I figure they can’t ruin my life any more than they already have. I’m sorry you were-”

  “It worries me that he knew my name.”

  “Probably saw Care Wheels written on the truck and-”

  “Of course.” He hesitated. “Why does Kinkaid hate you so much? You can’t be much of a threat to him, no money, no claim to any, living on the street.”

  “Maybe Kinkaid’s not the one hating me.”

  He looked at her, squinting. �
�Oh, I get it, Dr. Joy’s image might suffer.”

  “She’s all for private charity, do away with welfare.”

  “And charity does not begin at home.“

  “Her home, anyway.”

  He headed for the van, and then stopped. “Have you heard from your friend at the castle?” She shook her head. “What’s her name?”

  “Maria Angelo.”

  “Maybe there’s some way to contact her, tell her where you are?”

  “It’s not worth it. That warning wasn’t for nothing.“

  Henry Clay still waited for him in the van. “I’m sorry, Henry, I can’t drive you any more today. Maybe some other time.”

  “That’s okay, Doc.” He got out of the van and closed the sliding door. “Hey, Doc, thanks a lot.”

  “ De nada.” He wasn’t sure of Henry’s Spanish.

  ”Hey, Doc. I remember now who that girl was, the one the bad guy took at the library.”

  “You do?”

  “She looked different, that fooled me, but I’m sure now.”

  “Well, who was she?”

  “Mandy Cyclone.”

  12: A Wild Ride

  “This is the third time you’ve asked me. No, I don’t mind. No, I don’t feel put out. Yes, I’ll happily pick up the boys at nursery school and babysit for an hour.” She shoved Karen toward the door.

  “Thank you, DeeDee, I’ll never-”

  “Get your car fixed if you don’t leave.”

  A few minutes later DeeDee maneuvered her Z4 over city streets, Coast Village Road, Old Coast Highway, over to Milpas, up to Anapamu. It was an older part of town, not as scenic as the beach area, but lived in. The 101 Freeway would be quicker, but all the high-speed trucks, buses and RVs scared her. She should trade-in this little foolishness on a sensible vehicle, like a Sherman tank.

  The nursery school was on East Sola Street, only a couple of blocks from where Karen lived. A nice arrangement for her. She parked in front of a vintage Victorian house and went in. Mothers and toddlers were leaving. Tommy stood near the doorway, looking a little forlorn.

  “Hi, Tommy, I’m DeeDee, remember? Your mother asked me to pick you up today.” He recognized her, but did not react, except to take her hand. Did she just walk away with him? Kind of casual wasn’t it. “Where’s Jamie?”

  He seemed disconsolate. “Gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  He shook his head. Oh God! If anything happened to Jamie… She tightened her grip on Tommy’s hand and went inside the building and approached a female adult. She was tweedy, prim, sort of the decline of Miss Jean Brodie. “I’m DeeDee Byerly, here to pick up the boys for Karen.”

  “Yes, she phoned earlier. How do you do, I’m Heidi-”

  “Where’s Jamie?”

  “Karen’s friend, Marco-” Her hands moved as though in flight. “Something or other.”

  “Musante, Marco Musante.” She was surprised she could remember his name.

  “Yes, that’s it, he came for Jamie-”

  “Good God! How could you? What kind of woman are you? Are you running a-”

  “You’ll not talk to me that way!”

  “I just did.”

  “Mr. Musante said Jamie’s real mother had come for him.”

  “You fool! His mother left him with Karen for safekeeping.” She clenched her fists, wanting to strike the woman, then she forced down her outrage. She had to think. “What time did he come for Jamie?”

  “Not long ago.”

  “God damn it woman! Have you no brains? How long ago?”

  “Well I never!”

  “If you don’t help me, I’ll turn you in for child endangerment. How long ago?”

  “Maybe 15 minutes.”

  “Was he walking or driving?”

  “Driving, a truck, I think, yes, a red pickup, kind of old and beat up.”

  “That’s more like it.” She heard Tommy crying. “It’s all your fault. You made me get angry and now Tommy’s upset.” She knelt and hugged him. “Don’t cry, darling, we’ll find Jamie.” To Heidi she said, “Do you know where Marco lives?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  She stood up with Tommy in her arms. “Do you know, darling?”

  “Vista.”

  “Of course, Isla Vista. He said that the other night.” She carried Tommy to her car, strapped him in and took off.

  Isla Vista was out beyond UCSB, and Marco had a 15-minute head start. She’d have to take the Freeway. What was the quickest way to reach it from East Sola Street? Her mind raced. Arrellaga Street. No, too many stop signs. Mission Street? Yes, if she took Santa Barbara Street and made some lights.

  She made a U-turn on Sola and headed west, turning right on Santa Barbara Street, raced north, mentally cursing pokey drivers, then left on Mission. At State Street she bolted the light on amber, then slammed on her brakes for Chapala, and sat an eternity, drumming her manicured nails on the steering wheel.

  She looked down at Tommy. Still crying. “Don’t worry, darling, DeeDee’s a good driver. You’ll be safe.” If only she were sure of that.

  The light mercifully changed and she burned rubber, made two more lights and saw the Freeway entrance ahead. At last. She glanced at her watch. Ten minutes to get this far.

  This car was supposed to go fast. Now was the time to find out. She accelerated out of the ramp, zoomed into the center lane, cut over to the inside lane. 65, 70, 75, 80. Her hair whipped against her face. She braked, cut behind a motor home, dashed over two lanes, then picked up speed. 85 now. DeeDee Byerly, killed in a high-speed crash on the 101. Yes, oh yes.

  She heard laughter, glanced at Tommy. “This is fun, isn’t it?” She had no right, none at all, to endanger the life of this child.

  She cut off a trucker. He blasted her with his air horn. DeeDee waved, shouted, “Sorry.” She raced past the exits for Lake Cachuma, El Sueno, Turnpike, Patterson. No sign of a red truck. She had to catch him, just had to. Ahead was the sign for Isla Vista. She slowed for the ramp and screeched to a stop for the light at Los Carneros Rd. No traffic. She ran the light, then did 75 in a 40-mile zone.

  At last, just as she approached Isla Vista, she saw a red pickup, stopped for a light. It was several cars ahead, but looked old with faded paint. When it turned left on El Collegio, she saw a man behind the wheel, but no little boy. Oh Lord, it had to be the right truck. By the time she got through the light, the truck was two blocks ahead, turning right. She tried to hurry, but she was stuck in traffic. Oh God, please! There was nothing to do but wait and fume. The cars ahead of her seemed to dally forever at the light. She blared her horn.

  At last. When she turned the corner the red pickup was nowhere in sight. Her hopes fell, replaced by desperation.

  Isla Vista had once been a beautiful spit of land off the coast, all but surrounded by water. Now it was a bedroom community for the university, a warren of narrow streets, converted houses and apartments, no pride of ownership, irrevocably marred by litter and graffiti. Worse, every inch of curb space was full of vehicles. She turned right, cruised that street, turned right again, then left. Oh God, where was it? She couldn’t lose it now. There. At last. No, it looked new. Another. It was more of a rust color. How many red pickups can there be in a small area?

  Finally she entered a cul-de-sac. At the turnaround two red pickups sat next to each other. ‘Oh God, either could be him.”

  “Marco.” Tommy pointed at the first vehicle.

  “Is that Marco’s truck?”

  He nodded and squealed. Apparently he had ridden in the red truck and loved it.

  “Do you know where Marco lives?”

  He pointed to a nondescript apartment house. She hugged him. “Thank you, my precious, thank you.”

  She stopped in the doorway to read mailboxes. Marco Musante lived in 2C. But Tommy had already gone ahead, up the stairs. And a little child shall lead them. Thank you, God.

  She rang the doorbell, got no answer, then again, a third time. Maybe it d
idn’t work. She rapped, then harder, finally pounded with her fist. “He has to be here. I can’t have done this for-” She used both fists.

  The door opened. Marco Musante wore a filthy undershirt and jeans. He held a cell phone in his hand. “Mrs. Byerly, what brings you here?”

  She looked inside. “Where’s Jamie? What have you done with him?”

  Marco just stood there. She pushed past him, saw an unkempt room, pieces of battered furniture, a huge exercise gadget. She peered in a bedroom, then crossed to the kitchen. There sat Jamie with a glass of milk and a package of Oreos.

  “Thank God!” She swept him into her arms and carried him back to the doorway. “Come, Tommy, we have to go.”

  “Where you takin’ the kid?”

  “Somewhere safe-away from you.”

  “I ain’t harmin’ the kid. I was just phonin’ his mother to pick him up.”

  Fear gripped her. “Who have you told about Jamie?”

  “I was just waitin’ for the guy to come on the line when you barged in.”

  “You’ve told no one?”

  “Look, lady-I mean Mrs. Byerly, there’s a twenty-five grand reward for return of the kid. Karen and I can use that kind of money.”

  “Where did you hear this?”

  “The guys at the garage was talkin’ about it.”

  Garage? “Oh, that’s right, you’re a mechanic. Who’s offering the reward?”

  “I dunno. You’re supposed to phone this number if you see the kid.” He pointed. “I’m sure he’s the one, blond, blue eyes.”

  “What number?” It meant nothing to her, but it could be checked. She clutched Jamie tighter. “Listen to me, Marco, this little boy was left with Karen precisely because he’s in danger.” His mouth opened, but she wasn’t about to let him speak. “Don’t ask who from, I don’t know. The point is your actions have put him at great risk.”

  “But the mother-”

  “I guarantee you the people you were to phone don’t represent Jamie’s mother.”

  “What about the twenty-five grand?”

  “You were getting along fine without it. You don’t need it. Goodbye, Marco.” She started past him through the door, but he stretched out an arm to stop her, It was huge and hairy, tattooed with a snarling wolf. She looked at him levelly. “Do you really think this is worth prison?”