He takes three steps down the stairway and launches himself at the big man like a diver going into a pool. His aim is good, contact clean, and he strikes him like a missile right at the shoulder-line. Big man rolls with the blow, but Blaine is on top of him and slaps the Desert Eagle flying. Then he punches at him with all his might, but only grazes his chin, and Sketch nails him with a wild elbow, knocks him off. Todd is finally standing over them both, Desert Eagle in his hand, cocked, and motions the big man away. Blaine is groggy but still conscious. Todd leans back and kicks Sketch with his boot. Blaine looks up at his brother, who has the Eagle pointed directly at Sketch's head.
"Where is Renee?" Todd asks. Big man shakes his head.
"Upstairs, I hope," Blaine says. He is breathing hard and shaky. "Sick bastard has some type of hidden room up there, I think." He spies a couple of those plastic ties hanging from Sketch's pocket, takes one, says "Put your hands together, Sketch."
Sketch acts groggy, himself, but he holds them up, and Blaine tightens the plastic till it is taut and firm. "Get up," he says. "Open up that room for us right now."
"Latch in the trim, right at the bottom," Sketch says, and Blaine can see the hope in his eyes that he will have better odds if the brothers separate.
"You've got him, Todd," he says, backing off towards the stairs. "Shoot his ass if he gives you any trouble." Then he remembers his .22 and walks over and slides it out of Sketch's front pocket, watching him all the while. He is hoping Sketch will give him an excuse to whack him one more time, but the big man sees it in his eyes and does nothing, though his eyes dart from side to side, considering. "How'd you find me?" he asks, as he moves toward the stairs.
"Tracked your phone," his brother says.
Then he is racing up the staircase again, heart in his mouth, heading to that closet and the suspected door. When he gets there, he quickly runs his hand down the side, and this time, near the bottom, he feels the latch and pulls.
It is a small, dim room that is barren and it is empty. Against the far wall is a grandfather clock: one of those that chimes all the time. But the chimes are wrapped in burlap or some other rough material and as Blaine watches, instead of chiming they move and make that thumping noise he had heard.
He can't believe it. He had been so sure that she was here. The room is only about 8 by 12 and he quickly covers all corners, looking for another door, a hidden compartment, anything. But it is empty. He can tell be the way the house is laid out that there is not space for another room. This one must butt up against the two adjacent rooms on either side. He checks one more time to be sure, rapping on walls with his knuckles, but the room is empty and has no more secret entrances. Nothing in the ceiling either. He backs out and goes to search the rest of the house again – she must be here someplace, when he hears someone on a police bullhorn shouting for everyone inside to come out, hands in the air.
Sidling to the window, he looks out, and there are cop cars everywhere. It looks like the Galveston Police Department has relocated to this street. Swat team members are behind different cars. Must be at least ten cops outside. Maybe more. Nielson is on the bullhorn. He flips open his phone and hits Nielson's number. He has it saved under favorites. Out in the street he sees Nielson go for his pocket then his voice is on the line.
"We've got him," he says to Nielson. "You can tell those guys to stand down."
"You've got Renee?"
"No," Blaine says. "We found a secret room up here, but she's not in it."
"You poor, dumb son of a bitch," Nielson says. "You have screwed the pooch, my friend."
Then the line goes dead, and he hears him back on the bullhorn: "Everybody in that house come out now or we are sending tear gas in. I repeat, come out with your hands in the air." Blaine takes his little pick, wraps it in the gloves, knots them into a small ball and heads into the bathroom and flushes them away.
Chapter 37
Downstairs, Todd and Sketch move toward the front door with him when he tells Todd what the situation is. When he sees the look of triumph on Sketch's face he realizes how deep in the doo they are. They have found nothing incriminating in Sketch's house. Blaine had broken in with a weapon. Sketch is going to be just an upright homeowner defending his castle. He shoots a glance at Todd. Where does all that leave him? Maybe a gray area for Todd, but incarceration of some kind for Blaine. He glances at Sketch again as they head for the front door, but the big man has put his acting shoes on again, and is projecting grim and honest outrage, as befits a homeowner in a home invasion. "You guys are going to jail for a while," he says, and grimaces at Blaine. Then they walk out into the sunshine, cops everywhere screaming hands up at them, and Sketch lifts his in the plastic manacles and looks back at Blaine one last time and says, "Fuck you, sport."
The cops finally quit screaming, and separate and search them and put them in different cars for the trip downtown.
Chapter 38
Blaine is in the back of the car, behind the screen, with a uniformed cop and Nielson in front. They had put the cuffs on him out on the lawn, right after searching him and taking the .22. Nielson suffers in silence in the front seat for a bit before turning to Blaine.
"Didn't I tell you to leave it alone?" he says. "I had just convinced the higher-ups to put surveillance on this guy, which wasn't easy. He has friends in high places." Blaine feels stupid, but what can he really say. He thought the guy had his girl. He knows he does.
"He's got her," he says. "I know he does."
"Did he admit that?" asks Nielson. "In front of somebody besides you?"
"He –" says Blaine, and then stops to think, trying to remember the words. The son of a bitch had never actually admitted to taking her. Just some rather vague pronouncements about really liking women and it not being his first dance. "No, he never actually said he had her," he finally says, looking out the window, "but he does. He knows it, and he knows I know it. And this isn't his first time."
"None of that means anything in a court of law," says Nielson. "We've got an evidence crew coming to check the house, now, from top to bottom, since it is the scene of the crime of breaking and entering which you have perpetrated." He is leaning over the seat at Blaine, face almost in the screen that separates them, staring at him with those muddy brown eyes. "But unless we get lucky, Blaine, and at this point I've got to tell you, I don't feel particularly lucky, we've got nothing on Mr. Irons."
"I'll find her," Blaine says. "I know she's still out there."
"You don't understand, my friend," says Nielson. "You are getting ready to spend some time in jail. I saved you from that other deal, which is going to make me look stupid, and I will probably take some heat. You will be cast as a stalker and irrational, bereaved boyfriend who tried to take the law into his own hands." He turns and stares out the window as they roll through the sunny Galveston day. The guy in the uniform, a big, dark-haired man, has not said a word, and is staring straight ahead, taking care of business.
"Plus," he says looking back at Blaine, "We had the element of surprise, or at least the benefit of the doubt of it. Now this whole thing will have to go public, and our friend Irons there, is on full alert. If," he says, staring hard now, "he hasn't killed her by now, he's going to know we're watching and not go near her."
"At least he won't be able to kill her," Blaine says.
"How long do you think she'll last without food or water, if he's got her holed away somewhere?" Nielson asks. "And what if the higher-ups don't go along with watching him? I'm telling you, the man has some friends. We're probably going to be screwed whichever way it goes," he says gloomily. "Oh, yeah," he says, "By the way, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will …"
He goes through the spiel as Blaine stares out the window. He tells him he understands his rights, but what he is thinking is: Fuck Nielson. Sure, it's all my fault. Of course, if the fucking cops were doing their jobs, it would never have come to all this.
"You're not going to jus
t let Irons go?" he says.
Nielson swivels back to him. "We'll be able to hold him for a while at least," he says. "Talk to him about this whole mess. But if there's not any evidence at his house, and he doesn't break down and confess …" He grimaces at Blaine, "Which I don't think is likely, do you?"
Blaine says, "Fuck no." He glares at Nielson. These guys are hard. They get jaded dealing with scum their whole lives. It seems to him they try to make a game of it somehow, so that it doesn't affect them as much. He can maybe see the necessity of that, to keep them going, but he doesn't like it. "Where the hell is Winslow, anyway?"
"She's working on the case," Nielson says. "Which is what I would be doing if you hadn't screwed everything up. Congratulations, though, you just went from citizen to inmate. You will be tied up and out of our hair for a while, anyway."
It is beginning to sink in to Blaine that he may spend some real time in jail. He doesn't know how he will handle that. On top of everything else, he has always been uncomfortable in small, tight spaces. The thought he would be out soon had sustained him last time. This time he is not so sure.
When they get to the jail, he sees that they have arranged to put them through booking separately. There is no sign of his brother or Sketch. Blaine can see how they would want it that way. They put him through the booking process: roll the fingerprints, get the necessary info, take the picture. They collect his wallet and the miscellaneous items he has on him.
Nielson disappears down a hallway, and the uniformed officer leads him through a metal door where they are buzzed into the actual cell area. Down a long, narrow hallway that smells like piss and vomit, with pale green walls, past large cells where crowds of men are being held. Finally, to a small cell that looks like about 5x10 to Blaine. It has the bars on the outer part, and the same dingy green walls going back. At the rear is a stainless steel toilet and sink. Two bunks hang down from the wall. Another officer joins the guy transporting him, and he is uncuffed while they watch him, then the cell door clangs behind him and he is alone.
Alone in the cell. But all around him are the noises of the prisoners. It is a dull, muffled din that changes in pitch as different voices chime in, but doesn't seem to ever die off completely. Metal clanging on metal. The odors of sweat and other body fluids waft around him. The musk of stale air and confined men. If desperation had an odor, this would be it. He sits on the bunk, leans against the wall, jerks back off it when he realizes how dirty it is. The faint odor of shit hangs around him. With all the cells open to the halls, he bets that smell is always around. He stands and puts his hands upon the bars, puts pressure on them and tries to move them. They don't budge. The building is some 6 or 7 stories tall, he thinks, as he walks along the front of the cell, checking the bars, which he knows is futile and also useless. What would he do if he found one loose? Run for it? Become an escapee felon?
He feels the weight of the big building pressing in on him, feels a feeling that he has almost never really known before: that he is confined, cannot leave. He had never liked being in the middle of crowds, had felt a similar feeling when leaving a pro football game in the middle of thousands of people. The feeling you couldn't get where you wanted even if you had to. But this is different and much stronger. His breath comes faster, and he has to will himself to calm. In the books he reads they always seemed to gloss over this kind of feeling, or maybe he was just more sensitive than the fictional heroes. Or the real ones either.
It hasn't been that long, maybe an hour, when the uniformed officer comes back for him with another. "C'mon," he says, motions Blaine back into the hallway. "Time for some pillow talk."
They proceed down the hall again, past the crowded cells of men waiting for trial or transfer or just brought in on misdemeanor charges and drunkenness. The smells are stronger here. Past all that and finally into a small room that looks like all the interrogation rooms in the movies. They leave him at a battered wooden table. He looks around. Same green on the walls. Spots a sensor in the ceiling. Probably everything recorded, filmed here. After a few minutes Nielson and Winslow come in. Nielson has two cups of coffee in his hands, passes one to Blaine, and he takes a grateful sip. Then they sit across from him in two more of the plain wooden chairs. Finally, Nielson says "Okay, so the charges are going to be breaking and entering, stalking, assault, and whatever else they can dream up. What's your story?"
Blaine leans back, stares at him. "I saw him come up the driveway, went over to talk to him. He had gone inside. The door was open. I poked my head through and hollered for him. When he heard me he freaked out, probably because of the deal at the beach. Swung on me. I didn't have any choice but to swing back, subdue him."
Nielson is nodding. "That might work, but you're going to spend a night or two in jail before you go up before a judge. That story fits with what we know. I got you that cell, otherwise you'd be in a tank with about 30 other pukes and God knows what would happen. Told them you were helping me with this investigation. That is the only way I could get it done."
"You can't just get me out? What about Renee? Don't let that creep get to her while I'm trapped in here."
Nielson sighs, looks away. Winslow sips coffee and looks at him. "Look, Blaine, odds are this guy has killed her by now. Don't get your hopes up," she says. "That may sound brutal, but it is just a fact of life, reality check."
"Really?" he says. "Where have you been, anyway? I haven't seen you since the day at my house. You been on vacation?"
She flushes, and Nielson leans forward, looks intently at Blaine. "She's been working a different angle on this. I don't even know why I'm explaining to you," he says, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "How about a lie-detector on the break-in? You willing to take one?"
Blaine leans back. Nielson is a devious bastard. Hard to tell which side he is really on. Then he remembers the sensors, and that all this is being recorded. That's the deal. "No," he says, picking on a nail that's been bugging him, "I don't think so. Everything I've read says that they're unreliable. I'll check with my attorney."
Nielson doesn't look like that is a big surprise. "Okay," he says, shuffles a small pile of papers in front of him.
"What about my brother?" Blaine asks.
"Out already," Winslow says. "We have a neighbor who confirms that he got there only a few minutes before we did, and even Irons didn't claim he was there when he got home. His story that he tracked you on the phone checks out. We won't charge him for you being stupid."
Blaine ignores that last. Good news that Todd is out. At least one of them is.
Chapter 39
So that concludes the business of the day, Blaine guesses, and a few minutes later he and the guard are making the long walk down the hallway to his cell. The door clanks shut behind him, and his thoughts alternate between Renee and the feeling of confinement and suffocation. He doesn't see how people take this stuff for years at a time. The building is a palpable weight pressing down on him. The din of the other prisoners has not diminished a bit, might even be louder now. A king-sized cockroach plays in the corner of the cell. A rat sniffs what looks like a piss stain, stares at him with fearless eyes a moment, scurries off.
He looks around. Graffiti from different guests on the stone walls. Some written, some scratched. He wonders idly what was used to make the scratches. It seems like anything that could make those marks would be illegal in here. Dates and nicknames. Fuck these motherfuckers and other pithy sayings, painted over, but still dimly visible. He thinks about Sketch already out of here. He hopes the cops have him under surveillance. Nielson had said they did. They'd better not let that son of a bitch get to her. He knows she is still alive. Knows it.
He sighs and mulls over his predicament. He will surely be allowed bail when he goes before the judge, the question is how much. He has a fair amount ratholed to tide him over between shutdowns. He hopes it is enough.
He can't believe she hadn't been in the room. He had been so sure when he went through the door that she was
on the other side of it. He thinks back over the tussle with Sketch, replaying it in his mind. No, he had never actually said he had her or had taken her or killed her or anything. But Blaine knows he's got her. He must have her stashed somewhere else. What the cops should be focusing on is finding what other properties Sketch owns. She is probably at one of them.
Real estates and investments, Nielson had said. Knew some major heavyweights in the city. Ran with the big dogs. Be good to know exactly what those investments were. Blaine had never been interested in Galveston politics. He supposes, being a writer that he should be. But it seemed ingrown stuff, a group of mostly wealthy families throwing their weight around, trying to outspend or out-influence each other. The important criteria seemed to be where your family had come from and how much money they had. Though much good was certainly done by the rich. Would make a great novel, he thinks idly, if you were interested in all that stuff. Which he mostly isn't.
He takes his shoes off, puts his feet up on the bunk. He wouldn't want to walk around the cell barefoot. Suspicious stains all over. He feels the weight of the building again, has a lapse when he thinks he might lose it, but his instinct for self-preservation saves him for the moment. There are a number of cells he can see from this spot, and that can look in on him, and he has the feeling he is being watched. He cranes his head forward, and sure enough, down the hall, a big, dark-haired man with a beard, Arabic-looking, is leaning at the bars, looking his way intently. He looks like a wolf. His eyes never waver when he sees that Blaine has spotted him. His tongue licks his bottom lip, which then curls up slightly. Blaine would not call it a grin. It looks more the way a dog looks when he is waiting to be fed. Blaine grins his own grin at him, fierce and primal, teeth bared in a snarl. The grin that says: fuck with me, motherfucker, you will pay the price. He is someplace where the old rules don't apply, and he doesn't know the new ones, but he knows they are harsher, more cruel than anywhere he has ever been. He doesn't give a shit. He will take this motherfucker out, too, if he has to. His job is to get out of this place and get his girl back. Crying and feeling the weight of the building won't do it. And if this guy gives him any trouble, he may find out he picked on the wrong man. Maybe there are no rules here at all. If Renee is gone, then it doesn't matter, Blaine thinks gloomily. Fuck this place, and fuck the rules. He feels a rage growing inside that makes the weight of the building small and his discomfort miniscule. He is watching this guy all the while and sees a flicker of doubt cross his face. It might be the look of a predator who has mistaken another predator for prey. Whatever it is, he apparently doesn't like it, and when Blaine looks down at the bunk for a minute and looks back, the face is gone from the bars.
Playtime Page 16