Chapter 40
The jail never quiets down completely. Blaine hears the doors clang open and shut throughout the night at random intervals. Not prisoners leaving, but more coming in, he guesses. He can't sleep, puts his shoes back on and paces the tiny cell. There is an upper bunk, so it is really for two men. He can't imagine being trapped in this sized space living with somebody. It is two short strides across and four back. Two across and four back. The drunk tank is way down the other end of the corridor, and he hears occasional shouts, cursing. Guards go down that way, but he doesn't think they go in. Let the natives settle it amongst themselves. Law of the jungle.
He supposes Nielson really had done him a favor. At least he's by himself, instead of fighting with a bunch of assholes. If it was like everywhere else in Galveston, they are ganged up. Latinos against blacks. Everybody hating the privileged whites, who are a minority inside these walls, and outside, too, in Galveston.
A guard wanders by while he shits. Looks in at him, checking what he's up to. He is Hispanic, and his face is cold and set. Blaine feels like a monkey at the zoo. He stares back for a second, sees the guard's hand fiddling with his stick, and Blaine looks down, finishes his business. Tries not to think of the asses that have touched this stainless steel. Looks back up, the guard is tapping a numerical code into an electronic receiver pad on the wall. Tracks his movements Blaine realizes. Makes sure he patrols the areas he's supposed to. A few of the plants had gone to that system. The plant operators were notorious for taking it easy when they could. The guard walks away, back down the hall towards the large holding tank packed with drunks and minor crooks. When they had walked by it, he had seen guys everywhere, laid out on the floor, curled up in the corners, piss and shit and vomit and probably worse staining the cold, concrete ground.
Everything in his cell is built so it cannot be taken apart and turned into a weapon. The light is all artificial. No windows, the same light 24 hours a day. His watch is gone, so he has no way to tell what time it is. He thinks of the millions sitting in cells like this or worse in this country. He had read about the super-max prisons where the inmates were housed by themselves for twenty-three hours a day, let outside to exercise for one hour into caged areas that looked like dog runs. No contact with other prisoners. That solved a lot of security problems. Of course those were supposed to be the worst of the worst, the incorrigibles. Still, from what he has read and seen, they might be better off dead. He brings his mind back to Renee, and thinks about where Sketch might have her. He needs more information about what he owns. He hopes Nielson is researching that, thinks that he is home asleep in his bed, researching nothing right now. Hours pass, he thinks. It is hard to tell. It is maybe a touch quieter. The guard wanders back by. He doesn't realize he is staring till the big Hispanic leans down by the cell, says, "Better learn to keep your eyes to yourself, cabrón. You keep eye-fucking people you might wind up getting fucked yourself."
"Didn't mean anything by it," Blaine says. "Just isn't much to look at here."
"Nobody cares what you mean in here," the guard says. He fishes in his pocket, holds up a quarter. "Your words aren't worth this in here. That is the fact. If you are lonely," he adds grinning a grin without mirth, "I can put you in the big cell where you'll have some company."
"No thanks," Blaine says.
"No thanks," the guard softly echoes, and walks away with slow, measured paces, those big, heavy Brogan dress shoes sounding on the pavement. King of the castle here at night, can do pretty much whatever he wants, it looks like. As long as he checks in with the electronic receiver.
On the street, Blaine would never put up with that kind of trash talk. At the very least, he would walk away. But this isn't the street, and there is nowhere to walk.
He knows it is morning when they bring him a tray of some crappy-looking mush he guesses is oatmeal, powdered eggs, a soggy piece of toast, and a mealy-looking apple. They slide it through a slot by the floor, tell him to stand back while they do. He picks at it, takes a bite or two of each thing, reluctantly, to keep his strength up.
A few hours later, they come to take him to see the judge. He thought it would be one more day and is a bit surprised.
She is a woman, Teresa Maglia. Blaine had voted for her in the last election. Her court is in the same building as the jail. The guards take him down a long hallway to an elevator, and they ride up to do business. His brother is there, and John Haney, a local attorney that Blaine knows and likes. The judge looks down at the fact brief before her, calls Haney to the bench and speaks with him. In 15 minutes it is over, and they are on the way out of the courtroom. They had given Blaine his personal items back before the arraignment. He is not to go near Irons or his house. His concealed carry license is suspended until disposition of the charges. Todd claps him on the back as they ride the elevator down, but he doesn't respond much, just a weak grin. He wants to clear the building.
It is only when they get outside, and he takes in that first deep breath of clean air, tries to erase the odors that linger from the cells that he begins to feel free again.
Todd understands; he's not pushing it. Haney gives them a wave, and he's out of there, just another prisoner freed, all part of a day's work. They walk down the sidewalk towards the truck.
"Quit," Blaine says.
"Quit what?"
"Thinking what an asshole I am."
Todd laughs. "Sorry, buddy. It's the tyrannosaurus in the room, isn't it?"
Blaine is pissed for a second then he laughs too. Looks at the sky, the endless space of it, takes another deep breath. "You know, if you hadn't shown up at Sketch's house when you did, I would probably be below ground, feeding worms this morning."
"Yep," says Todd agreeably.
"It might sound stupid, but I would do it again if I had the chance." The south wind is kicking the leaves of the trees lining the sidewalks around, making them crackle. He looks back at the courthouse, the county jail. It looks pretty good from out here. Not anything like it looked from the inside.
"Well, you won't have the .22 if you do," Todd says. "I'm afraid they're going to keep that for a while. They got the .357 in the truck, too."
"I was so sure she was there," he says. Todd hasn't said it, but he is hearing "I told you so" all over the place. He's not that worried about the guns. He will get them back eventually. He has an identical .22 hidden at the house anyway, and a couple more big guns, too. Todd doesn't know that.
"You sure it's Sketch?" his brother asks as they get in the truck. "He never admitted to anything, really."
"What do you think? You were there."
"Yeah, I think so," his brother says. "I'm not 100% sure on it, though, and I'm not the one we need to convince."
"I don't give a damn about convincing anybody," Blaine says. "I just want to get Renee back."
"You've got to do better than that, or you'll just wind up back in jail. Maybe I won't be able to get you out next time. How was it in there?"
Blaine bites back a sharp answer. Todd is goading him, trying to make him see the error of his ways. Putting the puppy's nose to the shit. He slumps over in the corner, staring out the window as they drive.
When they hit the house, he strips off his clothes in the back yard and goes in to take the longest, hottest shower in recent memory. The odors do not seem to want to come off him. Finally, he is satisfied with that, and brushes his teeth for the first time in two days. He thinks back to how being stripped of freedom felt, and wonders how Renee is feeling right now. Closes his eyes and prays to God: whoever, wherever, and whatever she is, that Renee is still feeling something. Opens them back up and looks in the mirror for a second. He doesn't look any wiser or much different. If I don't get her back, he thinks, things will just go on. If I die trying things will just go on. If I spend the rest of my life in prison, people will remember me for a while then I will fade from their minds like I never was there. When those I have touched are gone, finally, then nobody will remember me.
That is just the way it is.
Chapter 41
They had taken it public. The story is all over the Galveston paper the next morning, with "Have you seen this woman?" and a photo of Renee. Probably some asses are being chewed in the Galveston Police Department. Blaine's arrest is being treated as a separate item, no link to Renee mentioned, just a few lines in Police Beat. Pressure from some of Sketch's friends? Blaine wonders. Or just everybody keeping it low-key, since there is no solid connection as far as the press knows.
Probably not a whole lot of curiosity about why an out-of-work, occasional plant worker is found inside some rich guy's house, unless you happened to know Blaine. Although his relationship as Renee's boyfriend is not mentioned in the article, it wouldn't be long before somebody on the paper or AP or whatever, dug that out. Erratic behavior of ex would be the next big bombshell, along with the inevitable hue and cry that Blaine had Renee hidden somewhere. Somebody would remember them arguing at the bar or somewhere else in the distant past. They had certainly had several public arguments. Then it would be prime suspect attacks solid citizen at home in jealous rage or something similar. He is running out of time.
He thinks about his coming trial for the charges they had wound up throwing at him. Just another reason to find Renee besides the obvious. If he finds her and it is Sketch that has her, all that stuff will go away. He doesn't know about the technicalities, but that is just common sense.
If he doesn't find her, he is going to spend some time in prison, most likely.
But forget all that and focus on finding her. That is what he needs to do.
He is cleaning the other .22 at the dining table when Todd comes in. His brother does a little double-take at the sight of the pistol. "You had another one stashed," he says, shaking his head. "You know, I'm getting tired of going down to the jail to get you out."
"I don't know why," Blaine says. "You're starting to get the procedure down."
Todd grins, but it's definitely not wholehearted. "Okay. So what are you up to now?"
"We need to find out what properties Sketch owns. That would give us some idea where else to look."
"You know the cops are doing that."
"I hope they are. With Sketch's friends and my arrest we don't really know."
"So look in the county tax records," Todd says. "Whatever he owns ought to be listed there."
"Did that," Blaine says. "I found the house. That was it. Not all the properties I would expect if Sketch is really this big-time wheeler-dealer."
"Probably got some corporate name or something," Todd says. "None of these guys keep all that stuff in their own names. The tax laws make them go corporate."
"You're probably right."
"Why don't you call Haney? He's into us for the case anyway. Maybe his girl at the office can run it down for us."
Blaine shrugs. Why not? And in a minute he is on the line with Haney, and Haney tells him he will have his researcher Marge give it a shot. He lets Blaine know it will cost him.
"Add it to my bill," Blaine says. "I do need it as quick as I can get it."
Haney pauses, promises they'll work on it and hangs up. He is a good old guy. Blaine and Todd have known him for years, since school. Lawyers see it all, but Blaine can tell at least he doesn't believe he has turned into some kind of small-time crook. He closes his eyes thinking about Renee. It is odd. The world is turning, everything rolling along like normal, and his girl is in the hands of a psychopath. He doesn't see what else he can do right now. He can't hook up on Sketch again, the cops are on him. That wouldn't stop him if he thought it would do some good, but he doubts Sketch is going anywhere near where she is stashed with all this heat. That's the good news. Maybe. He prays again she has food and water, enough to survive. He thinks for a second again about the possibility she is already dead, and shakes his head. He just doesn't believe it, but the thought won't go away.
Sometimes he forgets the entire situation for just a minute, and things seem normal, then it all comes flooding back.
He doesn't know how long it takes to dig up that type of information on someone. He is thinking that in the computer age, if you know what you're doing, it shouldn't take long. He decides to go see if Doug is out at Dandylions while he waits. This whole deal with Mandy has been sticking in his craw. If what he suspects is true and Dougie is responsible, he can't just stand by and let her go down the drain. Maybe it's not any of his business, but he can't do much useful about Renee just this minute. He doesn't want to save the rest of the world, just a little part of it. Besides, he had never talked to Doug about Sketch. Maybe he had seen something that night, though that is doubtful.
Chapter 42
Dandylions isn't open this time of morning, but there are a number of cars in the lot when Blaine pulls in a half-hour later. None of them look familiar, but he's betting one of them is Doug's. The lot has litter from the night crowd scattered all over it, and a guy is outside with a bag picking cups and wrappers, and probably condoms, off the ground.
The drive up the highway had been fairly pleasant, morning rush hour over, traffic not really heavy, and Blaine had remembered the way he scoffed at the idea of I-45 being a sinister place, scoffed at the idea of a serial killer killing all those girls.
He's not scoffing now.
He wonders if that is what they have in Sketch. He has no proof, hell, he has no proof he even has Renee. But a guy like that didn't start out at his age. No matter how little proof Blaine had, he knew he was behind this thing. He'd done some reading on these guys. They started out young, usually. Torturing animals, setting fire to things. Killing girls.
This stuff happens all over the place these days. There had been a story on the news, not too long ago, about three brothers someplace up north. A girl had come to the door screaming, and a neighbor had answered her pleas for help. They had found two other girls in the house when the police finally got there. The girls had been locked up in rooms upstairs for the better part of a decade. The brothers allegedly raped them and abused them as they pleased during that time. They had suffered numerous miscarriages.
A decade. Blaine thinks about that. Ten years of your life. But even the concept of that length of time didn't grasp what a crime like that took. The three women would never be what they were. It wasn't just the years. It was the toll the abuse had taken. How could you return to any semblance of normalcy after a time like that? And Sketch was much worse than those guys, if such a thing was possible. He was more like Ted Bundy than the brothers. Bundy had liked the killing part of it. Bundy had that amazing ability to appear like a normal citizen. But he had finally let the mask drop and shown the crazed animal behind it. When Blaine had been at his house, and Sketch thought he was at his mercy, he had let the mask drop. The everyday mask of civility and humanity that we take so much for granted. That was when Blaine had known he was the one. He may not ever have admitted it, but he was. Blaine could smell the stench of death upon him. He had shown the slavering beast. It had been the most frightening thing he had ever seen.
God only knew how many had fallen to him. When Blaine passed some of the spots on the highway this morning where he remembered girls' bodies had been found, a chill had run through him. For the first time, he had felt the whiff of the sinister the press had wallowed in. He finally understood evil. After all the talk, all the intellectualizing, he had met it face to face. It has changed him.
The front door is open, and he walks into Dandylions.
A black girl is pushing a vacuum around the carpet in the front area, and she glances at Blaine, but goes back to her work. Otherwise, the place seems empty. Nobody at the bar or any of the tables scattered about, or in the room next to the raised wooden platform where the girls perform. He finally finds Doug at a desk in a small office at the rear, counting money. A lot of money. He doesn't seem particularly surprised to see Blaine. An old-fashioned, blue steel Colt revolver, a .38 Detective Special, is sitting next to his right hand. Nice gun. Blaine takes
a seat in an old wooden chair across the desk from him.
That long hair is hanging loose again this morning, and he brushes it back from his face as he looks up at Blaine.
"Yeah, what can I do for you, man?" he says. "Make yourself comfortable."
"You were in the bar the other night up on the beach," Blaine says.
"That's right. I took my gal Mandy up there for drinks. I heard about your girl. Sorry to hear that." He shakes his head. He is still counting, money in neat piles all over the desk. Blaine can't even imagine what this place brings in a night. It is packed every time he passes by. He doesn't look real sorry to hear about Renee. He looks about the same way he looked when Blaine complained about his motorcycle. Like he could give a rat's ass.
Blaine describes Sketch. Asks if he'd seen him. Thinks he sees a flicker of something pass across his face, but can't read it.
"No, man. I don't remember seeing anybody that looked like that. I did see your gal." He smiles an evil grin. "She is smoking hot." He acts like he is remembering what the situation is, wipes the grin off and says, "I hope you find her." Not convincingly sincere.
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