Evil Cries

by Lala Corriere

  He didn’t ask me about Zoey once that last evening. He had told me a respite was in order and I respected it, but still.

  Chapter 52

  Crochet & Hell Holes

  I HOPPED INTO MY CAR and drove to Shirley’s house, only calling her when I had reached her driveway. She told me the door was unlocked. I don’t know why I even drove there. An auto-pilot thing.

  “You crochet?” I asked. She didn’t seem the type. I didn’t know the type, either, but at least I could recognize the difference between knitting and crocheting.

  “I do it to steady my nerves,” she replied. “The torpor around here is driving me insane.”

  “What are you making?”

  “By the time I’m out of this funk I think I’ll have an afghan that will cover a football stadium.”

  “Who taught you?”

  She dropped her shoulders and stared down at her graceful hands. Her voice broke with the two simple words. “My mother. Your grandmother.”

  Her clock chimed and I shuddered. A beautiful grandfather’s clock with the melodic, if not predictable, sounds of the Westminster chimes. I felt jumpy and changed the subject to what mattered most.

  “Is there any news on Zoey?”

  Her eyes pierced mine and I looked away, sensing the answer.

  “Your border cases down here. Any luck?”

  “We’re getting information of the weird and unreliable kind, but I’m used to that.”

  “I’ve not heard anything from Detective Taylor. I guess the whole shooting episode in my store has taken a back seat.”

  “Never say that about Steve Taylor. Nothing ever takes a back seat with that man. He’ll find what he’s looking for. He’s convinced there’s a bigger story, and that starts with that dying man in your store telling us there was more trouble to come.”

  “But there’s been no sign of any trouble.”

  “Trouble doesn’t have a timeline, Sterling. This is one thing I’ve learned.”

  “Trouble is the most patient one of all?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Do you want to go grab a bite to eat?” I asked.

  “I’m enjoying my evening right here, shaking off the willies the best way I know how.” She looked down at the monstrous weaving of brightly colored yarns. “I think I’m almost up to covering the thirty-yard line.”

  I have no idea why I felt so enamored with her craft. “I’ll let you be, then.”

  “You can pour a drink if you like,” Shirley said.

  “Not tonight, but—Shirley—”

  “What is it?” She asked.

  “Maybe one day you can teach my how to crochet.”

  I turned to leave on a clip, but I caught Shirley’s warm smile.

  ZOEY HEARD THE MAN throwing the multiple locks.

  “You have a helluva lot more fat than I thought. I didn’t plan on this. Maybe you have more muscle than I thought. I don’t know. I’m fucking confused here. Your skin is pulled as tight as the leather on an equipale chair. What I do know is that this is going to take some time. You won’t mind. I’ll make you comfortable. And I’ll keep Pocko alive just for you.”

  Zoey struggled to open up her eyes. It was a futile effort. The strange voice speaking to her came from behind a black mask of leather. She wanted to see something. She saw nothing. One more try. One eye opened with only a fluttering slit. She struggled to see. Something. Anything. She found the man’s hands. She looked for a ring. A tattoo. A birthmark. She saw nothing. Nothing that would identify this man when she got out of this hell hole. And she would get out. She closed her eyes and realized the man had white hands. Manicured nails? She wasn’t sure.

  For Zoey, it was something.

  Chapter 53

  The Mad Bomber

  I KEPT CHECKING MY phone. Expecting to hear the flying bullets of Zoey’s quick wit matched with words. Come here. Do this. Do that. What did I tell you? You worry too much. I’m baaaaaaaack.

  Marcus Armstrong preyed on my mind. Was he really so upset because I used one word of profanity? Some taboo of his? And the beer and the bourbon and no food in his refrigerator? I guess I really didn’t know too much about him. Did I want to learn more?

  Unfortunately my mind kept working. A nasty addiction of mine I wish I could kick. Of course, there must have been another kitchen center. One with all the fresh foods. A wine cellar. The beer and bourbon? Probably the kind offering for his stable master and gardeners and whomever. Just like he had told me.

  I sat outside taking my morning coffee when Gage slipped through the side gate. “I rang the bell,” he said.

  Since I never bothered to change the looks on what was technically his home I found it odd. And sweet. And he looked ridiculous. I worked hard to suppress a smile.

  “What? You don’t like my hat? I told you I like Mad Bomber hats.”

  “You look like you’re going ice fishing, all right. Trouble is it will be in the high nineties today,” I said.

  “But not if we hop in my car and head up to Mt. Lemmon. Only supposed to be sixties. Thirties at night.” He reached under his blazer and pulled out another hat, setting it on the table beside me.

  “Come on. Let’s take a drive up there.”

  I gazed down at the god-awful hat, and returned my stare to Gage. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in that thing.”

  “Good in theory. Pragmatically speaking, you won’t have the last say.”

  “Pragmatically, I can’t take the day off on the spur of the moment.”

  “Sure you can. That’s one of the perks of owning your own business. You have plenty of staff to cover for you.”

  I shook my head and moved the hat back toward him.

  “Where do we go from here, Sterling?” Gage asked as he pulled out a chair and sat down, only after moving it several inches away from the table.

  “I don’t know. The only thing I know right now is that I don’t trust men.”

  He stared at me with a blank look. Spoke nothing. He rubbed his forehead and bit his lip.

  “There. I said it. I have no trust. Dad and his secrets. A new mom. You and the redheaded bed thrasher. Old boyfriends less discreet than you.”

  “I’ll deny that forever because it isn’t true, but maybe you’re telling me we should just move on. I asked you this before.”

  “I’ve thought about that. This is your home. Your studio. You should move back in here. I can find another place. For now,” I added.

  “Moving out. Moving in. Is that moving on?”

  I said nothing.

  “I didn’t think so,” Gage said. “You continue to stay here. For now. I’ll stay on at The Club. For now.”

  “I’m not ready to say it’s over, Gage, but my mind and heart and stomach aren’t right with you.”

  Gage engaged his puppy dog look. I used to think he was faking it, but he wore the brand of authenticity. Droopy eye lids. Pouty lower lip. I swear I could see his tail loping between his legs.

  “My favorite things,” he said as if a declaration. “Sterling’s mind. Sterling’s body. Sterling’s love.”

  When his eyes rose to meet mine I responded, “My favorite things. Honesty. Respect. Trust.”

  “My favorite things. Honesty. Respect. And a heavy emphasis on trust.” He moved the crazy hat toward me, took his off, and laid it next to it. “We’re going to need these one day.” He turned to leave toward his studio.

  Maybe because of my evening with Marcus that didn’t go so well. Maybe because I was still in love with Gage. I called to him.

  “Gage?”

  He turned.

  “This place is huge. Earl Harry doesn’t like being shuffled between us. Maybe you could just take the guest room. Save the expense of The Club. It’s stupid.”

  Gage grinned, his face might as well have been framed in the stupid hat, because it was the goofiest of smiles. “I have one quick trip to Chicago. When I get back, I’m coming home this weekend. The guest room is fine.”


  Chapter 54

  1 + 1 = 3

  SHIRLEY SAT DOWN ON the stiff chair across from Detective Taylor’s desk. “We shouldn’t be comingling like this.”

  “I’m here to serve and protect. And now I have three cases on my hand, the way I see it.”

  “Three?” Shirley asked.

  “Fucking A-Bubba right. We have Zoey. God love her, we have Zoey. I have you and your missing illegals that might be infringing on my territory. I have a gunned-down man that you shot and you want answers to as much as me. It all stinks for our little sleepy city. And we have nothing.”

  “You told me to stay off the local case at Sterling’s store. I’ve told you to stay out of my immigrants case. What changed?”

  “Something I can’t quite put my finger on.”

  “We do have something, Steve,” Shirley said with a sudden matronly voice. “With regard to the illegal immigrants. We have a late model SUV, black, but somehow appears to be a black and white cop car. We have a man in a cowboy hat that walks with a discernible limp. And we know he is nearer the border than we once could determine. What we don’t have is the friggin’ order patrol on our side. I get it. They could give a damn about tracking down the disappearances of illegals. Hell, if they aren’t calling in the paddy wagon busses to deport them, they’re scraping up remains and shipping them off to mobile refrigerated trucks because our own morgues are too full. It’s not pretty.”

  “Shit happens down there. The crazy drug-running cartels and the human trafficking, but I don’t think your disappearing bodies have anything to do with that. I think some if not all were honest Mexicans coming in with a willingness to work and work hard as they reap the just bounties of America.”

  “Yea. Yea. Yea. What about that rancher shot dead? On his American soil.”

  “You mean Robert Krentz?” Taylor asked.

  “Yes. What’s the story there? Your take?”

  “Killed by a Mexican drug-running scout. It’s one sad story, but not the entire story. Krentz had rights and they were abused in the worst way.”

  “So we have more vigilante Americans defending their properties. Vigilantes,” Shirley repeated.

  “Forget the serious crimes. The trash they leave behind is inconceivable. Acres and tons of trash. Pisses landowners off because they’re left to deal with it. Over and over again.”

  “It’s not like they have waste-baskets,” Shirley said.

  “And it’s not enough to kill,” Steve said.

  Chapter 55

  A Skin for a Skin

  MARCUS DROPPED INTO the store. He asked about the black opal. I told him I would give it back to him. He told me, again, it was worth displaying and he was happy for the traffic it brought in. He had no expectations for a sell.

  “Can we maybe take a ride this weekend?” he asked. “The horses are neglected, no matter what I do.”

  I met his penetrating eyes. “I think my guy, Gage, is coming back home, Marcus, this weekend. We have a lot of issues to work out, but we’re going to give it a try. It’s best I take a pass; but thank you.”

  “The two of you can come out and ride with me,” he said without a beat.

  I took three beats. “I don’t think so. Not this weekend.”

  MY FATHER CAME TO ME in a dream that night.

  All is well, I heard or felt him telling me. Maybe the feeling of words. “Your friend Zoey is just on a shitty journey. She’ll be okay. She’s still with you.”

  My dad loved the word “shit”. I honestly can’t recall any other swear word uttered out of his mouth. Shit. He loved shit.

  The dream was real. My only solace and obstacle would be in holding the faith until the dream came true.

  SACRUM HAD CHECKED on his Pocko, onboard The Sara. A little bit not so good and good enough, he deduced. He amped up the IV liquids and refilled the tank of sedatives. He was ready for the first skin graft. Where to go? The face? The arms? The belly?

  It really didn’t matter but that it was time to begin.

  “I’ve removed the fleshy skin from your, buttocks. Very nice. And no infection for you, so far. I would think you’d like that piece of information.”

  SACRUM DROVE BACK TO Tucson and the warehouse. “It seems I may be in need of more of your ample flesh, Zoey. You will have plenty to spare. You have to admit that. And in another world you would thank me. If you ever could walk out of here, which of course you won’t, that huge heap of your clothes over there wouldn’t fit you anymore. You’ve lost some weight, my dear.

  “I need to leave just now, but I’ve brought you a radio. I’ll turn on some music and you’ll fall asleep in to a most blissful dreamland.”

  Marcus Armstrong administered the injection; the cocktail of sleep.

  Chapter 56

  The Leap

  THE DOOR TO DETECTIVE Taylor’s office flew open by a member of the forensic task force. “We’ve identified the errant fiber found in Zoey Lane’s van.”

  Taylor rose to his feet. “And?”

  “Positively came from a 2012 or 2013 Ford Explorer. The fiber is a charcoal gray so we can deduce that the eye witness’s account of a black SUV is true. It’s a black Explorer, Sir.”

  “What else?”

  “We’ve confirmed neither the victim nor any of her employees own such a vehicle.”

  Taylor paused, held back his neck and scratched his forehead, “She is not the victim. She is always our Zoey Lane.”

  The man lowered his head, but not low enough to shield the sight of the flush coloring creeping across his face. He said, “Yes Sir. Of course.”

  The forensic expert left and Taylor had a brief moment of hesitation. The kind of brief that means seeing the rare magical green flash of light at sunset across the ocean or missing it. In a blink.

  He still sat behind his desk when Shirley Falls walked in to hear his story.

  “Don’t tell me we’re still talking black SUVs,” she said. We have three distinct cases, three distinct M.O.’s, and even if you’re right, we’re talking about three gazillion black SUVs.”

  “I admit it’s a leap,” Taylor said.

  “A leap?” Shirley’s voice turned shrill. “You’re trying to connect the dots between three different cases with no lead in your pencil.”

  Taylor raised his eyebrows in tandem with a wicked smile.

  “Come on, Steve. You know exactly what I mean. No ink in your pen. No chalk for the blackboard. It’s impossible.”

  “Difficult, but not impossible.”

  “An FBI profile is impossible, given the facts we have,” Shirley said.

  “Okay, I can play your game of devil’s advocate,” Taylor said. “Let’s go with what we have. From the start.”

  “I’m all in.”

  “So we can start with your case. What brought you down here. Your illegal immigrants. Your perp has to have a working knowledge of the desert. Obviously he’s not too respectful of those crossing through his land.”

  “As we’ve said. Lots of land owners down there are fed up to the point of breaking. And that includes retaliatory violence,” Shirley said.

  “Back to The Z. Zoey is on the top of my list and you know that. We all know that. A possible black Ford Explorer. We’ve been concentrating on someone she knows. We may be off base.”

  “And your other case,” Shirley said. “The jewelry killing that sort of involves me?”

  Taylor inhaled a deep breath of uncirculated stale office air. “I don’t know.”

  Shirley dug her shoes into the floor before her like a ballerina practicing the first three positions. Except she really scraped them in. “I can help, but like you, I’m on a short leash. Call your junior boy back in here.”

  Before Junior could even put his, butt on the chair. Taylor started calling out orders.

  “We’re starting our own profiling right here, Junior,” Taylor said. “We’re looking for a white male with a 2012-2013 Ford Explorer. Unless they’re stolen plates, we’re going to start with
Southern Arizona. Someone that’s been around for a spell. This person knows the desert.”

  “Age unknown. Not so good for profiling,” Shirley interjected.

  “We need to find a white man that walks with a limp,” Taylor announced.

  “That will narrow it down,” Junior said, leaning in and gently biting his lower lip. “Handicap plates.”

  Shirley said, “Not so easy. On TV, maybe. Besides, the guy might have had a sports injury or been in a car accident and he’s healed and perfect by now.”

  Junior turned to Detective Taylor for support, letting out a heavy sigh fueled by needy eyes.

  “And this guy is much too vain. Too proud. And far too clever to make it easy for us to find him,” Taylor said. “Even if he needed them, he won’t have handicap plates. Don’t get me wrong. Don’t forget the limp. For now.”

  Taylor rose up and turned and bent down to face Junior, five inches from his face. “I want all records of all clients Zoey Lane had in the past few years. She was an expert witness on a bunch of her cases and she helped put some pretty mean guys away. Look for someone she may have helped put in the slammer.”

  “But, Sir. We’ve looked.”

  “Look again,” Taylor said.

  Shirley said, “And a second thought. Look for any disgruntled client where Zoey’s testimony might have kept the perp out of jail.”

  “Cross reference with any registered owners of that damn black SUV,” Taylor said.

  Chapter 57

  Pearls

  SHIRLEY VENTURED INTO Falls & Falls. “I want to buy a string of pearls,” she said.

  “Seriously?” I asked.

  “Seriously. I’ve never owned one.”

  I didn’t go there—why she had never had a string of pearls when she was in the business. There was so much I would never understand.