Venus in Blue Jeans

by Meg Benjamin

“Goddamn Dub Tyler,” Brody growled.

  Suddenly, the room exploded in specks of light and Docia felt a jolt of pain at the back of her head. And then she fell into darkness.

  —

  Docia came to slowly. Her head hurt, and her stomach felt like she’d been on a series of roller coasters. She lay on the floor of a vehicle that was bouncing wildly through a series of ruts and potholes. She wanted to tell the driver to slow down because she was going to throw up, but instinct told her to keep quiet.

  Something was wrapped around her body, something soft. Her hands were behind her, fastened together.

  Where am I? And then she remembered.

  Chief Brody. The one she was supposed to call about what she and Cal had figured out this morning. She was supposed to tell him someone had been inside her shop so he could figure out who’d hurt Margaret. She felt desperately like giggling for a moment but was able to stifle the impulse.

  “What are you gonna do with her?” Clete’s voice sounded very close. Probably in the front seat. The truck hit a particularly hard rut and Docia concentrated on not vomiting.

  “Thanks to you,” Brody’s voice muttered, “she’ll have to meet with an accident. Which means the shop will be that much harder to get into. You are a major fuck-up, Morris.”

  “She wasn’t supposed to be there,” Clete whined. “She didn’t turn on any lights upstairs. How was I supposed to know she was up there?”

  Brody sounded like he spoke through clenched teeth. “If you’d followed orders and waited until later, she would have turned on some lights eventually. How many times have we been over that, Morris?”

  Clete didn’t answer. Docia figured it was a rhetorical question.

  “Unplanned violence is always tricky,” Brody growled. “That’s when things start to unravel. And now we’re likely to have Billy Kent on our asses, too. Probably the Rangers.”

  “Who’s Billy Kent?”

  “Ms. Kent’s father.” Brody’s voice was dry. “Although most people in town don’t have a clue about what that means.”

  “So what are you gonna do?” Clete sounded curious.

  Brody sighed. “Like I said, she’s going to have an accident. She’ll be swept away in a flash flood. Only we don’t have enough time to make it really believable. The Rangers will be all over this one like flies on shit. If we’re lucky, we can keep them from proving anything. That’s the problem with setting up something like this on the fly.”

  “Who’s gonna believe she went camping out here in a rainstorm?”

  “Nobody. That’s not the point. Even if they know something’s off, they can’t pin it on us. When they find her body, it should be miles downstream from here.”

  “We could just forget the whole thing—get rid of her and get back to town before anybody finds out. If we don’t mess with the bookstore again nobody has to know.”

  Brody made a sound that might have been a chuckle except that it raised the hair on the back of Docia’s neck. “You don’t have any idea how much money we’re talking about here, do you Morris? The damn thing’s worth a couple million at least. More than that if we play it right. For that kind of money I’m willing to take a few risks.”

  The truck bumped over one more set of ruts and came to a stop. Docia could hear the drumming of rain on the roof.

  “Go get her,” Brody grated.

  Docia heard doors opening, and then someone bent over her. She kept her eyes tightly closed, trying her best to be a dead weight.

  “Cut the tape off her wrists.” Brody’s voice sounded far away.

  “What if she wakes up?” Clete sounded whiny again. “She could get out of the sleeping bag.”

  Sleeping bag? Why was she in a sleeping bag?

  “If they find her with her wrists duct-taped together, it’s not going to look like an accident, is it?” Brady snapped.

  Cool air brushed against her face for a moment. Then something pulled at her wrists until they fell free.

  “Now pick her up.”

  “Aw, geez,” Clete groaned. “Not again. She’s heavy.”

  Brady’s voice was sharp. “Morris, I remind you—if it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t have to do this. Now pick her the fuck up and follow me.”

  Clete grabbed her feet, pulling her toward the door. She prayed he wouldn’t bounce her head against the edge—she already felt sick enough. He slung her over his shoulder so that her hung head down, his shoulder pressed into her stomach.

  Docia concentrated again on not throwing up, no matter how tempting it might be to vomit on Clete Morris’s ass.

  Heavy rain splattered on her back, and dampness seeped through the bag fabric. She slitted her eyes and saw sheets of falling water obscuring the truck.

  Clete stumbled and slipped in the mud, shifting her back and forth against his shoulder. Somewhere close by, Docia could hear swiftly running water.

  “Put her in here.” Brody’s voice was obscured by the sound of rain. Morris dropped her to the ground.

  Docia bit her lip to keep from groaning. Through slitted eyes, she could see red nylon tent walls and the reflection of a flashlight. Both men were kneeling in the entrance to the tent.

  “It’s a mummy bag.” Brody had to raise his voice to be heard over the sounds of rain and flowing water. “Put the hood up around her head and pull the drawstring tight.”

  Clete’s hands fumbled around her head, then something slid over her hair and the sides of her face. Strings pulled tight across her chin.

  A quick wave of panic clenched her chest. She was wrapped tight. Locked inside a sleeping bag. Suddenly, she wanted to move her arms, claw the strings loose.

  Suppose they threw her in the water?

  Oh God, oh God, oh God.

  She didn’t dare open her eyes. They might hit her again. She had to lie still, make them believe she was unconscious. But her heart was beating so hard it was almost painful. Surely, they’d notice.

  Clete’s hands dropped away, to be replaced by Brody’s. He leaned over her. “Here, let me.” The hood suddenly tightened around her face, leaving only eyes and nose uncovered. Docia wanted to sob.

  She felt the movement in the air as Brody stepped away from her. Fumbling sounds came from somewhere to the side. And then he touched the bag again. She smelled something sharp and acrid.

  “What’s that?” Clete’s voice came from over Brody’s shoulder.

  “Superglue.” Brody’s voice sounded almost calm. “Sealing the zipper. Just in case she comes to.”

  “Why don’t you just throw her in the river?”

  Docia’s pulse pounded deafeningly in her ears. Oh, thank you so much, officer.

  Brody sighed again. Clearly, Clete Morris was a trial. “Once again, Morris, it has to look like an accident. Ms. Kent was camping by the Guadalupe and got caught in a flash flood. Her body will be found in her sleeping bag and tent. An accident.”

  “Still seems too fancy to me,” Clete grumbled. “You like fancy, don’t you?”

  The silence stretched for so long that Docia thought they might have left. Then Brody was on his feet. She heard scuffling outside the tent, followed by a muffled groan.

  Brody’s voice was still calm, slightly breathless. “If you’re very, very lucky, Morris, you may live through this and become a wealthy man. Piss me off too much, and your luck could change.”

  She heard Brody lean into the tent again. The flashlight disappeared. “Goodbye Ms. Kent.” His voice was very close to her ear. “Sorry it had to be this way.”

  And then he was gone.

  Docia opened her eyes to total darkness.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Cal had meant to leave the clinic by five at the latest so he could go over to the bookstore and drag Docia back to the barn. Once he had her there, they could talk the problem through.

  Whatever the problem was.

  But then Dick Coverdale brought in his bluetick hound, who’d jumped out of the back of his truck when she’d seen a
deer in the pasture. The truck was only going around twenty, but the landing was enough to break one of the dog’s legs.

  Dick was in shock, although the hound was doing well enough, all things considered.

  At the same time, two children had brought in their kitten that was foaming at the mouth after she’d had a close encounter with a toad.

  The bluetick got surgery, the kitten got a mouth wash, and Cal didn’t get away until after six, just about the time it started raining again.

  The bookstore was dark when he got there. Maybe Docia had gone to Brenner’s for dinner. But something about the whole situation didn’t feel right. Usually, Docia was still closing up at six. Then she’d go upstairs before heading out. But the upstairs was dark too.

  Pep stirred in his pocket. “It’s okay,” he murmured, trying to convince himself as much as the dog.

  He was starting up the street toward the apartment door when a small body racketed into his chest, and hands grabbed onto his arms. He stumbled, trying not to fall on whoever it was, and Pep whimpered.

  “Cal,” Janie sobbed. “Thank God! I’ve been trying to find you. You’ve got to go after them. They’ve got Docia!”

  Cal’s mind slid into alert mode, just as it did when a badly injured animal lay on the examining table. One area in his brain took over, pushing the emotions to the side. Take it step by step. “Who’s got her, Janie? What happened?”

  Janie was gasping, trying to catch her breath and stop her dry sobs.

  Not a good sign. Cal kept his hands on her shoulders, willing her to calm down and willing himself not to shake her.

  “I was walking by the front of the shop, heading to Brenner’s. Docia was inside with Clete Morris. Chief Brody was there too. And then Docia ran toward the storeroom door.”

  Cal’s mind clicked, reordering. Docia and Morris and Brody. Ran toward the storeroom door. Ran toward the storeroom door? What the hell? “What happened after that?”

  Janie hiccupped, gasping. “He hit her. Brody hit her on the head.”

  A cold fist squeezed Cal’s heart. “Hit her?”

  “They dragged her out the back door.” Janie’s voice rose again, with an edge of hysteria. “I hid at the corner of the building where they couldn’t see me. Then they carried her to Brody’s truck. I was going to call the police, but they are the police!”

  Cal worked on breathing. In, out. She wasn’t hurt. She couldn’t be. No. “Where did they go then, Janie?”

  “I don’t know!” Janie started sobbing again, scrubbing her fists against her cheeks. “I ran after them when they drove off. I tried to keep up, Cal, but I couldn’t run fast enough. They headed east.”

  Cal patted her arm, telling himself not to yell. “Where do they live, Janie? Would they go there?”

  She shook her head. “Clete lives here in town. But he lives with his folks. They couldn’t go to his place.”

  “What about Brody?”

  “I don’t know.” Janie’s voice was wretched. “I just don’t. Somewhere outside town, I think. I heard he’s got a ranch near the Guadalupe River.”

  “Who would know where Brody’s ranch is?” Cal kept his voice level, careful not to let his fury and fear show. Pep moved uneasily in his pocket.

  Janie gasped again, her chest heaving. “Ham. Ham Linklatter might.”

  “Okay.” Cal took another deep breath, trying to slow the pounding of his pulse. “Get your phone. Call the state police. Call the mayor. Call Allie and Wonder and anyone else who might help.”

  Then he stopped, thinking for a moment. “Wait, Janie. Before you call anybody else, call Docia’s father, Billy Kent. Tell him Docia needs him.”

  —

  Cal didn’t even consider going for his truck. He couldn’t take the time to head back to the clinic and get it—it was faster to run. He sprinted through the rain toward the police station, fighting down the dark sense of dread that kept making his gut clench. Pep swung silently in his lab coat pocket as his feet hit the pavement.

  At the station, light spilled through the front window where he could see Ham Linklatter hunched in his seat at the main desk.

  Cal pushed the front door open so hard it crashed back against the wall.

  Ham half rose to his feet, staring with his hollow eyes, then subsided into his chair again. “What’s got your ass up, Doc?”

  “Your boss, Brody. Where does he live?” Cal planted himself in front of Linklatter’s desk, clenching and unclenching his fists. He didn’t usually tower over people on purpose. Right then he towered.

  “That’s…privileged information.” Cal watched Ham struggle to get the right word. He really did look like a talking skull.

  Cal pulled himself up to his full height, crossing his arms across his chest, towering a little more. Pep yipped, the sound echoing in the empty room. “Your boss and your coworker have kidnapped Docia Kent. They’ve taken her east out of town. Now tell me where he lives.” Cal leaned over Ham’s desk, placing both fists on the blotter.

  “Kidnapped? The chief?” Ham snorted, shaking his head in disbelief. “That’s horseshit. Your girlfriend probably stepped out with someone else and told you a story to cover up.”

  Something hot and hard boiled up inside Cal’s chest, something he’d never felt before. He was one of the good Toleffsons, the ones who always did the right thing. The Boy Scouts. His brother Erik was the one who always lost his temper. His brother Erik wouldn’t think twice about pounding Ham Linklatter into the ground like a fencepost just on general principles.

  Cal reached out, grabbed a handful of Ham’s shirt and jerked him off his feet. He lifted him up until they were eye to eye, watching Ham’s face turn crimson as he struggled. “Listen to me, you miserable excuse for a law enforcement officer. Your chief is crooked. So is Morris. I don’t know what they’ve done with Docia, but if they’ve hurt her, I’m going to hurt them. A lot. And if you don’t help me find them—right now—I’ll start by hurting you.”

  Maybe he wasn’t so different from his brother Erik after all.

  Cal tossed Ham back toward his chair where he landed with a loud thump, arms and legs sprawling. The chair rolled backward to crash into the wall behind him.

  Ham gasped for breath.

  “If it makes any difference to you, one of them probably assaulted Margaret Hastings too,” Cal growled. “So if you still want to kill the bastards who did it, I’ve got a couple of candidates for you. Now tell me where the hell Brody lives.”

  Ham still stared, wide eyed, his chest heaving. Then he leaned forward to place his elbows on the desk. “They hurt Margaret?”

  Cal nodded. “Seems likely.”

  Ham reached for his hat. “C’mon, Doc. I’ll take you where Brody lives.”

  —

  When she could no longer hear the sounds of retreating footsteps, Docia clawed at the top of the bag. Her fingers slid into the small opening where the drawstrings were pulled tight, and she yanked down as hard as she could.

  All she managed to do was pull the top of the hood down over her eyes. She pushed it back and fumbled for the zipper pull, yanking down again.

  Nothing. Damn Brody and his superglue! Docia fought back the fear that made her chest ache. Don’t panic, Dummy. Don’t panic!

  She felt around the top of the bag, sliding her fingers over the stitches, the slick nylon, looking for a hole, a tear, a weak place, anything she could slip her fingers into.

  Damn, damn, damn! Of course Brody hadn’t bought the cheap sleeping bag. Of course he’d bought ripstop.

  She hooked her fingers over the edges of the hood and pulled and pulled, but there was no give, no weakness anywhere in the fabric.

  And the sound of rushing water was definitely getting louder.

  —

  Rain pelted so hard on Ham’s truck the windshield wipers could only create a small wave. The drumming on the roof made talk close to impossible.

  “Where are we going?” Cal yelled.

  Ham yanked
on the wheel to avoid a truck-sized pothole. “Brody’s got twenty acres outside town along the river,” he bellowed. “He’s got a doublewide.”

  The rain let up slightly, and Cal suddenly caught a glimpse of white limestone cliffs rising beside them. He lowered his voice. “Does he live out here?”

  Ham shook his head. “Naw,” he bellowed, “he’s got a place in town too. But he spends all his spare time out here. If he was going to hide something, this is where it’d be.”

  He turned the truck deeper into a narrow canyon curving between pale limestone cliffs, then negotiated carefully down a steep drive. “Land’s worth a heap of money,” he yelled. “I don’t know what he paid for it. A lot, I reckon. Word is he’s having trouble meeting the payments. Nando Avrogado said he figured Brody might have to sell out.”

  “Ham, I don’t give a shit about Brody’s finances.”

  Cal gripped tight to his armrest. He needed, really needed, to find Docia. After that he’d find Brody and Morris.

  And he’d turn them into hood ornaments.

  For almost the first time in his life, he really wanted to use his size to hurt somebody.

  “This is it,” Ham hollered.

  Cal leaned out the window, trying to see through the rain. A doublewide trailer sat dark and empty on a slight promontory on the other side of the canyon. If anyone was there, they hadn’t turned on the lights.

  “What do we do now?” Ham bellowed.

  “It’s not raining as hard,” Cal said between gritted teeth. “You don’t have to yell anymore.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” Ham lowered his voice fractionally. “So what do we do now? He’s not here.”

  The idea that Ham, the only policeman present, was turning to a veterinarian for detective strategy might normally have been funny. Right then, that fact just made Cal’s stomach clench harder. “I’m getting out. Maybe she’s in the trailer.” He reached for the metal door handle.

  “What should I do?” Ham sounded almost plaintive.

  Cal gritted his teeth again. “Call the state police. Tell them your chief has committed a felony.”

  “You mean the highway patrol or the Rangers?” Ham’s brow furrowed.