THE CARBON STEEL CARESS

by GC Smith

  “A glass, please.”

  Returning, she said, “Sure nice ta meet a guy with manners. Mos' folks come in this here place act like they's brung up in a barn. You stayin' round here?”

  “Passing through.”

  “Too bad. I was thinkin' maybe you and me could hook up for a couple a col’ ones when my shift is done. Got me a comfy little trailer house up off'n State Road 191.”

  Outside the 'Country Bull', Donal parked next to a towering tow rig; Peterbilt, dark maroon lacquer, chrome plated wheels. Intricate scroll work surrounded the tow truck’s door lettering:

  ---JASON BREEN ---

  TRACTOR TRAILER REPAIRS

  Donal came into the restaurant behind two men from the tow truck and slid onto the seat opposite Mike. The two men took a booth on the far side of the room.

  Mike got the waitress’s attention, raised two fingers, and pointed at his Michelob bottle. Before Donal could speak, he said, “Capers murdered two kids last night after . . .

  “Kids?”

  “They were newlyweds. Students at Clemson. The State Police found their bodies in a cabin a couple of miles from where we found Miss Chatrian. It was Capers, no question. The boy was shot, but he used the razor on the girl.”

  “He got away?”

  “Looks like. The cops found his car hidden in an abandoned barn. Suspension was damaged. The odd thing is the murdered kids had a Corvette; keys were in it and the cops found Capers's prints on the wheel, but he didn't take the car.”

  “Another vehicle?”

  “No. Tire tracks indicate that the 'vette was the only car at the cabin. Capers left on foot. McReney found his trail leadin from the barn to the cabin and back out again from the cabin to the State highway.”

  “What else?”

  “Before he left, Capers showered, like after the Della Porta murder. Left filthy clothes behind; probably changed into the boy's clothing.”

  “And hiked out to the highway.”

  As Donal spoke the waitress served their beer and Mike's steak. “Kin I get somethin' else for you folks?”

  Donal answered, “No, thank you, beer's fine.”

  She lingered near the booth for a long moment, all ears.

  “The police figure Capers thumbed down a ride and they're asking truckers to pass the word by CB to be on the lookout.”

  “Stupid bastards. If Capers thumbed a ride, broadcasting it on the Citizens Band could get whoever picked him up killed. How sure are they that he caught a ride?”

  “I don't know, Johnny, but there were tire marks from an eighteen wheeler in the soft shoulder about a hundred yards past where McReney estimates Capers came out onto the road. I think he caught a ride and he's headed for Canada.”

  “Why Canada?”

  “Joan Capers's handbag was in the cabin where we found Ms. Chatrian. A map of Toronto and several thousand dollars in Canadian currency were in it. Put it together and it adds up to Capers heading that way.”

  “Have the cops followed up?” Donal poured some beer into his glass.

  “Yes. Lieutenant Carter, the Statie in charge, got on it immediately. Called the Toronto police. Had me give them a description of Capers.”

  “What time were the kid's bodies found?”

  “Around eleven this morning.”

  “How long dead?”

  “The Medical Examiner got there about noon. He said as much as fifteen hours, as little as twelve.”

  Donal nodded, “Time fits, somewhere between nine last night and midnight. Capers could have cleared the country before Carter's call went out.”

  Donal and Mike looked up as a weather creased man dressed in Levis and a Woolrich brand work shirt approached the booth.

  “Excuse me, name's Barton Hawk. Pretty little waitress been tellin' us you boys talkin' about a killer thumbin’ a ride to Canada. I might be able to help. I picked up a hitchhiker last night who was headin' up there.”

  Donal introduced himself and Mike as Hawk took a seat, then asked, “What time did you pick him up?”

  “Ten, ten thirty.”

  “Describe him, Mr. Hawk.”

  They listened as Hawk gave an exact description of Capers. He ended, saying, “I was gonna' to take him as far as the Pennsylvania pike but my truck blew a tire. I had to lay over.”

  “Where did the hitchhiker go?”

  “I c.b.'d down another guy and got him a ride. Fellow what took the hiker was goin' straight on up to Toronto. Figure they's there by now.”

  Donal reached into his pocket and dropped two twenty dollar bills on the table to cover the tab. “Come on, Mike. Let's go see Lieutenant Carter.” To Hawk, he said, “Will you come with us.”

  “I was goin' to pick up my truck and get back on the road. Like to finish off this run and get back home to 'Bama. But if the guy I picked up is a killer, hell yes, I’11 come.”

  Outside, Mike said quietly to Donal, “Watch your back, Carter's bent out of shape. He thinks by rescuing Miss Chatrian you stole his thunder.”

  Donal, Mike, and Hawk met with Lieutenant Willis Carter. Hawk retold his story and left with Mike, who drove him back to Breen's garage. Donal stayed.

  As the door closed behind Mike and the truck driver, Carter turned to Donal. “Think you're slicker'n owl shit.” He punched the desk for emphasis. “Well, you ain't, boy. You and your buddies fucked this up. You should have contacted us before you went into that cabin.”

  Although he had been warned by Mike, Donal was startled by the venom in State cop's tone. Controlling his temper, Donal said, “Recriminations are a waste of time, Lieutenant.”

  “You don't want to be a smart ass and piss me off more, Donal.”

  Donal, deflecting the State policeman’s ire, said, “Lieutenant, let's try to cool off and work together. Any word yet from Toronto?”

  The State cop got the idea that Donal by remaining cool had the advantage of him. He modified his approach, becoming, at least for the moment, conciliatory. “Nothing yet,” he said. “I followed up on the phone conversation with a circular through INTERPOL requesting that Capers be detained for extradition, but who knows? It's all ifs, the big ones are if Capers's is in Canada and if they find him.”

  Donal said, “It won't be easy. Capers's a pro and moves fast. He could change his identity and disappear.”

  “Damn straight, Donal. I've talked with Pennsylvania and New York State police and they're cooperating in the search but I ain't hopeful.” Carter stretched back in his desk chair, western style trooper's hat pulled low on his forehead, eyes narrowed. “Got any ideas to straighten out the mess you made?”

  Donal ignored the jab and replied, “At one time Capers worked for South Carolina SLED. Maybe they'll have some idea of why he’d go to Toronto. I'll make a call.”

  “Use my phone.”

  “Thanks anyway. My source is confidential.”

  Carter shrugged, “Phone down the hall, room 341, dial nine to get an outside line.”

  Donal walked down the linoleum covered corridor, and passed the door marked 341, certain that Carter would have that phone monitored. He took the elevator to the lobby and went outside to his car and his cell phone, not that it was secure. Connected to his source in SLED, he said, “It’s Johnny Donal.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Donal returned to Carter's

  office. “Toronto looks good. My SLED contact said Capers did a short stint for a Federal intelligence agency after his special forces tour. Then he followed his agency boss, fellow named Jack Faulkner, to SLED. My contact had information that there's a house in Toronto that Capers has used in the past.”

  Carter looked up, grabbing a pen. “Address?”

  Donal shook his head, “That's not how the SLED guys do business, Lieutenant. They're contacting the CIA guys in Northern Virginia and I'm sure the Feds will send a man into Canada. If Capers is there SLED says the Agency will turn him over to the Canadian authorities.”

  “You believe that?”

  “N
o. Capers running amok could be an embarrassment to the Agency and to their way of thinking sometimes the expedient way is the best way. They could take him out.”

  “For sure?”

  “No, but, they'll try to cover their asses some way or the other and the hell with anybody else. They might screw up and let Capers slip through.”

  “You think you can do better?”

  Donal told the North Carolina cop his suspicion that Capers was Claudia Chatrian's half-brother and his belief that the man was obsessed with the idea of murdering her. He finished with, “I've got more incentive to get Capers than either the Agency or the SLED boys have. I'm going to Canada.”

  “You were beginning to make sense. Now you’re talkin’ like a man with a paper asshole.”

  “Lieutenant, I have a client to consider and I don't want the Agency and SLED sweeping their dirt under the rug.” Donal stood to leave.

  Carter who wanted to credit for leading the search that would nail Capers had called the FBI while Donal was out of the room making his call to SLED. Now, figuring he could learn nothing more from Donal but wanting him stalled from further action in the case, he held out a restraining hand. “Slow down, boy,” he said. “We're not finished here yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Some boys from the FBI are coming by to talk to you.”

  “You fill them in. I'll talk to them another time.”

  “No way, Donal. You're staying right here.”

  “What's this garbage?”

  “You've done what you were hired to do. This is our case now.”

  “I said I'm going to Canada.”

  “Yeah, you're going when the Feds and me are finished with you, Donal. Not before.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “You want your ass clapped in jail?

  “On what charge?”

  “Obstruction of justice,” Carter replied, a trace of a cat grin on his thin lips.

  “Nonsense. None of this is necessary.” Donal fought the urge to punch the officious trooper, restraining himself, knowing Carter held aces. “When will the Feds be here?”

  “When they get here.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  Mexico City, Mexico

  September 18

  A teller, cologned with English Leather, pinstripe suited, rep tied, a clone of his North American banking counterparts, escorted Capers to the safe deposit vault room at a Mexico City office of the Banco Nacional. Capers and the attendant used their respective keys to retrieve a box from its receptacle in the vault. That done the attendant retreated.

  As soon as the vault room door closed behind the attendant Capers extracted cash, official looking identity papers, and two flat green cases that contained forged American passports from the box. He then telephoned the teller to come back into the room so that the safety deposit box could be returned to its slot.

  Capers mailed two packages to P.O. box destinations in the States. He checked his attaché case with one of the passports inside to the hotel vault. Then he went through the lobby and stood at the entrance to the pool enclosure.

  Girl-women, in skimpy neon bikinis, cavorted poolside, giggling; their tanned, oiled skin glistened with reflected sun. Middle aged conventioneers from the States ogled them. Capers snorted a monosyllabic laugh at the thought of the fish bellied fools trying to connect. He turned on his heel and retraced his steps through the hotel lobby to the street.

  Two blocks into the city's crowded Zona Rosa Capers elbowed his way through tourists and natives and stepped inside a dimly lit north American style restaurant-bar-strip joint, prosaically named the ‘Aztec Room’.

  “Table, sir,” a dancer-hostess asked? She brushed against him, her skin smelled of lilac talc.

  “No, bar,” he replied, moving past her and selecting an upholstered stool. “Jack Daniels, black, water back,” Capers said to the barmaid.

  Lifting the bourbon to his lips, Capers caught a glimpse of a desultory dancer in the back bar mirror. She gave a half hearted twitch of her bare butt and left the platform. Another dancer stepped up onto the dais. Capers half turned to watch the second dancer, startled by the uncanny resemblance to his half sister. Cold chisels began to scrape at his brain.

  The dancer tossed her long black hair and in tempo with the music snapped her fingers, her torso muscles undulated with rhythmic precision. She looked directly at Capers, opened the sash that held closed her peignoir, shrugged from the garment, and dropped it to a silken pile at her feet. She lifted the peignoir with the pointed toe of a patent leather stiletto pump and tossed it toward Capers.

  The peignoir settled on a chair below the stage. “Dance time,” she said, winking at Capers, matching the rhythm of her body to that of the music.

  Capers moved from the bar to the table alongside the dance platform. He studied the scantily clad dancer. Silky black hair to her waist; flawless, creamy skin. Deep brown eyes dominated her face. Prominent cheek bones; nose thin and delicate; lips full and pouty. Overall, a smoldering Latin yet somehow almost Anglo face.

  The volume of the music, low at first, increased slightly as she slipped free of a lace demi-bra and matching g-string. Her breasts were firm globes, the nipples milk chocolate; her pubic hairs were trimmed to a neat, dark triangle. She stood on the stage immobile. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she began to move, perfectly controlled muscles undulating beneath flawless skin. She caressed naked breasts. The music shifted, increasing in both volume and tempo. She tilted her pelvis forward and began a rhythmic, faux intercourse, motion.

  She turned, twisted, turned further to face Capers, her hips gyrating, torso pumping to the now high decibel rock beat. She gyrated wildly, her hair flying, sweat slicking her breasts and abdomen.

  Capers watched the naked dancer, transfixed.

  Set over, she pulled on the g-string, demi bra, and peignoir and left the stage.

  Capers reached out and took her hand to stop her. “Join me for a drink,” he said.

  “Love to. Be back in a second,” she said, “soon as I freshen up.”

  He released her hand.

  Minutes passed and the dancer returned wearing a different stage outfit. She too smelled of lilac scented talcum.

  “You're good,” Capers said. “Very good.”

  “I love dancing. Get paid for doing what lights my fire.”

  Capers ordered another Black Jack and his companion, who introduced herself as Therese –”call me Terry”- Vasquez, asked for diet ginger ale. “Never drink while I work. And, I never rip off patrons.”

  Capers shrugged. “Attitude like that could get a girl fired.”

  “Not this girl, sweetie. Rojo knows my tits and ass are money for this joint. I leave this stage, the Aztec Room would go belly up.”

  “Who's Rojo?”

  “Creep that owns this dump.”

  Small talk continued for twenty minutes, then Terry slid from the booth. “Last set is coming up.”

  Capers tucked a folded C note into her hand. “I'll pick you up when you're finished.”

  “Be done by two-thirty. Meet me outside at three.”

  Capers remained for a few minutes, downing Percodan with the bourbon.

  Capers parked the rented BMW in front of the Lounge and watched Terry, dressed in a wide belted mini skirt and form fitting top, approach, a classic blue nylon bag with white piping slung over her shoulder.

  She tossed the bag into the rear seat area. She gracefully placed a trim ass in the passenger bucket and lifted long tanned legs into the car. She ran her hand over the warm, buttery leather. “Umm, nice.”

  Capers replied as he moved the car into traffic, “wonderful German machine. You can drive the BMW flat out all day.”

  Terry slid a glance from under exquisitely full lashes to Capers. “Driving's fun, if you can’t think of anything else to do.”

  Capers looked over to her. She licked her lips with the tip of her tongue. “I'm off tomorrow, “ she said. “Spend tonight with you if
you’d like.”

  “I’d like.”

  Terry rummaged in her handbag for her cigarette case, and Capers, engaged in maneuvering through traffic, said, “Light one for me, will you, Claudia?”

  “Terry,” she corrected, “You toke! Good, I was afraid you might be square.” She passed a lit joint to Capers. “Claudia, she said. “Pretty name. Who's she?”

  Annoyed by the slip, he replied, tone clipped, “A lady I

  know in the States.”

  “Your wife?”

  “An acquaintance. I don't have a wife.”

  Terry flashed absolutely perfect white teeth. “I’11 bet,” she said, her vocal tone laughingly cynical, taunting.

  Ignoring her Capers pulled the BMW into the drive of the hotel. He turned the keys over to the parking valet and he and Terry went to his suite.

  ***

  Before dinner Capers and Terry went down to the hotel pool. Cinzano umbrella tables dotted the grassy patio area, a thatch roofed bar was tucked in one corner. A man and a woman were perched on stools in front of the bar, the woman's buttocks overflowing the seat, a pink drink clutched in a pudgy hand. The orange satiny material of her bathing suit stretched around the thickness of her body accentuated fat swells.

  The man, pencil thin, was dressed in overlong, plaid Bermuda shorts; his Guyabara flapped loose; a thousand dollar Japanese camera hung around his neck.

  The woman and the man turned as one to examine the couple who were entering the pool enclosure.

  Terry stripped off the cover that matched her pure white bikini and turned to the diving board. Two quick steps and she was in the air, lithe body arching gracefully into a crisp dive, entering the water with hardly a ripple.

  The couple at the bar watched; the man covertly admiring the bikinied diver.

  Capers dived into the pool, swam across and back, and lifted himself up and out onto the coping.