Evil Cries

by Lala Corriere

Sacrum Holdings. What a friggin’ strange name. A friggin’ back-bone joined to the, butt?

  DETECTIVE STEVE TAYLOR LED the pack with nine cars behind him. Two of them were FBI, to include a hostage negotiator.

  Taylor had pulled the team together in a record thirteen minutes. Every available officer had been informed of the toxic situation. They knew their man would be armed and dangerous. And out of his mind.

  An ambulance had been ordered to the scene. Taylor only hoped he needed an ambulance rather than the coroner.

  Arriving at the old warehouse, the team was quick to recognize the lime green P.T. Cruiser that belonged to Victor Romero. No other vehicles were visible, and after completing and inspection of the circumference to the building. it was clear there was no way to hide one. There were no garage doors. Not even a loading dock.

  Simultaneously, two doors were broken down and several windows shattered.

  “All clear,” called an officer.

  “Clear,” another.

  And, “Clear,” from yet another.

  Taylor swore he could hear his heart palpitating as if he were the lead drummer in a calypso steel band in Caicos. Wiping his forehead, he made his way through the winding caverns of the building.

  At the sight of the singular steel door and the multiple locks, secured from the outside, he knew the gravity of what might be next.

  He called out, “Police! FBI! Bad ass whatevers! You’re surrounded.”

  Nothing.

  Officers ran to the southwest exterior of the building to confirm there were no doors or windows at the identified location of the inside room.

  “Romero!” Taylor screamed. “Romero!”

  Nothing.

  “Zoey? Zoey Lane? Are you in there?”

  Nothing.

  Taylor was the one to throw the bolts open. All of them. The barrage of weaponry and the men and women that were their handlers rushed the small room.

  “Man down,” an FBI agent yelled.

  Taylor recognized his good buddy, Romero, splayed out in a pool of blood on the concrete floor. He also saw the gunshot wound to the face. No way would he be in need of paramedics. His comrade, confident, and good friend was gone.

  He turned his gaze to the tiny gurney-like table, still using a flashlight to make out the details in the dim light.

  Zoey Lane, attached to chains and IV bags and god knows what all else, lay motionless. An obvious blunt forced wound to the head. He felt for her pulse. For Taylor, it provided the sounds with more movement than Beethoven’s 5th. Although weak, the beat went on.

  FOR SHIRLEY, IT WAS as if one foot was free and ready to sprint while the other one had been entombed in a crypt. The pain surged from her broken ankle up to her shin, but she wasn’t about to take anything for it now.

  Romero was gone. Good Lord, he went out finding his little Zoey, alone. He was a hero, and dumb. Her heartstrings tugged at her, but she wouldn’t mourn just yet.

  Someone was there. Someone had killed Romero, but Romero wasn’t talking.

  Zoey had already arrived at Tucson Medical Center where they rushed her through the emergency room and into the ICU. They’d stabilize her, and then proceeded with hand surgery. Taylor’s forensic team was already bagging all the evidence, including the IV bags, but perhaps the hospital blood test would prove to be faster in determining the exact liquids that entered her body.

  Zoey was in good hands. Romero was delivered into even better hands, if one could accept that.

  Shirley wasn’t sure she could find that acceptance, so she pressed on. Junior sat in the conference room with her and another half-dozen officers while she addressed a white chalk board full of black words and circles and arrows.

  “I’m not ashamed to look stupid. What exactly are we looking for?” the Lieutenant said.

  “Something so obvious it’s obscure,” Shirley answered. “We need to brainstorm out of the friggin’ steel box that held Zoey Lane captive. Junior, will you take over at the board so that I can sit back and think?”

  Junior grabbed the marker from Shirley as she took a seat at the far end of the conference table. Another officer pulled a chair up for her to elevate her ankle.

  Mud, Shirley thought. Clear as mud. She closed her eyes. Opened them. Closed them. Then popped them open as she pulled up her tablet to play word games.

  “Oh my stars,” Shirley screamed. “It’s an anagram. A fucking-ass anagram, excuse my potty mouth.”

  “What do you have, Shirley,” Junior asked, his shaky hand poised to write on the white board.

  “Think about that name. Sacrum Holdings. We know the sacrum is the bone that attaches the spine to the, butt. The etymology of the word sacrum suggests it means the strong bone. It also means sacred, because of the ancient belief that the soul of a human resided there.

  “This case I’ve been assigned to down here? The one we’ve been dicking around with thinking it might be connected with all these other things going on?”

  She waited for visible if not audible support from her listeners. She got something like that, in the forms of wide eyes and blank stares.

  “One of my illegals reported that the perp I’m after was named Jesus. Holy. Something like that. Maybe what he meant to say was that he was sacred. Maybe he announced himself as Sacrum!

  “And stay with me. We’re looking at an unashamed anagram. Bold and in your face and he thinks we’re too damn dumb. Switch the letters around. Sacrum equals Marcus. A man with a limp caused by a bad back surgery. And that would be one Dr. Marcus Armstrong.”

  “Holy crap!” Junior said. “A doctor?”

  “What do you call a doctor that barely passed his boards?” Shirley asked.

  “I don’t know. What?” Junior said.

  “You call him Doctor.”

  The maternal instincts, in spite of the circumstances that had made her a failed mother, filled her veins. They kicked in like a mother javelina faced with a stranger of any kind of meat that got between her and her baby. Shirley’s teeth bared. A stink bomb of protection and hairs raised. Ready to attack as she forgot all about the excrutiating pain now shooting up into her knee.

  Where was Sterling?

  Chapter 74

  Tell Me What You See

  THE CRIME SCENE UNIT would still be at the warehouse with Taylor. Zoey remained stabilized, but in critical condition as the doctors flushed her body with fluids, awaited lab reports and brought in a hand-surgery specialist.

  Shirley made a few quick calls. She tried the store, Sterling’s home, and her cell. No answer. She called Gage on his cell.

  “I can’t seem to raise Sterling on the phone. Do you know where she is?”

  After a slight pffft, he said, “Join the club. And no.”

  “Are things okay between you two?” Shirley asked.

  “I thought they were. I was hopeful to make the move from the guest room and back into our bedroom, but then my mouth got me into trouble.”

  “What happened, Gage?”

  “I was honest. Open. All that crap. I told her that I saw that creep of a plastic surgeon, that Marcus guy, and I’m not talking about Marcus Welby—I saw him engaged in some sort of love-hate conversation with my oh-so-old girlfriend.”

  “The one with the red hair?”

  “Rachel Lee. Hell, Shirley, nothing happened between me and her. Not in Chicago and not back here.”

  “Any idea as to the nature of their relationship?”

  “Hell, I didn’t know they even knew one another. They could have met in a buffet line for all I know, but what I saw was not a discussion between strangers. They were clutching one another, then embracing, then ready to fist fight. And that’s exactly what I told Sterling.

  “She flipped out. Something about me still following the red-headed bed thrasher and how could I dare involve the good doctor in my accusations. I told her to ask that doctor, because I know he saw me see them.”

  “When was the last time you saw Sterling, Gage?” />
  “This all came down two days ago. Now I’m back in the hog douse.”

  “Excuse me?” Shirley said.

  “Oh. The spoonerism. I’m sorry. It’s what I do when I’m in high spirits and what I do when I’m anxious. Anyway, I called her at work this morning and one of her salespeople told me she was slammed with customers and would have to get back to me later. Well, it’s past later and I just opened up the garage and her car isn’t here, and, of course, she never called me back.”

  “You’re doing good, Gage. Now walk me through the house and tell me what you see.”

  “Wait a minute. What the hell is going on here? Has something happened to Sterling? Is she in trouble?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out. Now, do you see her purse?” Look for her luggage. Is it all there?”

  Gage fumbled through the doors and closets. “I don’t see her purse. I see all of our luggage. And I don’t see Harry. That bitch has no right to take off with our dog without telling me.”

  “You have every right to be angry, and your anger is based on fear. That’s okay, but let’s not jump to any conclusions. You just said the luggage is there. They could just be out at the doggy park or a dog-friendly patio whipping up margaritas for her and water for The Earl of Éclair,” Sterling coaxed and tried to calm him. “What else do you see?”

  “Cooking stuff,” Gage said.

  “What about it?”

  “First, Sterling doesn’t exactly do a lot of cooking. And when she does the kitchen is always left spotless. There are dirty mixing bowls and utensils in the sink. The mixer is out.”

  “Okay. Just a couple more questions. What do you think she was cooking? Can you smell anything? Apple pie or onions? Anything in the refrigerator?”

  “I smell nothing. Nothing in the refrigerator, but leftovers from those two days ago.”

  “What about the items in the sink. Are the remains of any food caked on?”

  “Oh my god! You want a timeline on how long she’s been gone?”

  “Breathe, Gage. Tell me what you see.”

  “They’re dirty, but they’ve been well-rinsed.”

  “Now an order,” Shirley said in a lulling voice laced with a hint of firm authority, “This is the hard part. I need you to stay put right there with both your cell phone and your land line. That takes two numbers off my list. Do you understand?”

  “I’m going to have to send someone over to talk to you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s going to help Sterling. Because you told me you had an argument with her, but trust me, it’s only protocol. Tell them what you know and we’ll get our guy.”

  Gage muttered a yes and they ended the call.

  TWO LESS PHONE NUMBERS and one big problem, Shirley thought. Gage had unwittingly given Sterling permission to see Marcus Armstrong when he told her to ask the doctor about being seen together with Rachel Lee.

  Chapter 75

  Dancing in the Breezeway

  I SAT ON A RUSTIC bench at the adorned table nestled just inside the breezeway at the far end of the stables, sampling the sweet harvest of fresh fruit splayed out in front of me. I sipped on a third glass of wine that I really didn’t want and much less, need.

  It had been twenty minutes. I rifled through my purse for the phone.

  Damn! It wasn’t there? I thought back to when I last used it. I had no calls on the drive up to the ranch. No calls when I was home and baking the cake, except for Shirley on the landline. Where did I leave it this time? It was at the store. It was there on the counter when Marcus had strolled in. That was the last time I saw it.

  Walking out in front of the stables, I realized that the light of the moon had been obscured by a veil of thick clouds. Not relishing the idea of making my way up back to the main house and my car under the blackened sky in stilettos, or a worse option—barefoot, I retreated back inside to figure out an alternative plan. Only then did I hear the distinct motor of the Jaguar and turn to see the lights approaching the stables.

  Marcus apologized profusely while engaged in a rapid pace. He rubbed down his pant legs and cleared his throat, almost oblivious to me while speaking, “I had an emergency. I tried to call you on your cell, but it went to voicemail.”

  “I’ve misplaced my phone. Not for the first time. Chef took good care of me while I waited.”

  He broke his rapid pace and walked over to the table, charm exuding with every word and movement. “Let’s replenish your wine and pour me some,” he said.

  I passed my hand over my glass and said, “I don’t think so. You can see by the bottle that I’ve had my fair share.”

  “Nonsense. This is from one of my favorite vineyards.”

  “Yes. Mine, too. Obviously,” I giggled nervously. Had I told him about my favorite vineyard? He was thoughtful that way, always taking mental notes. “So do I get to meet your new foal?”

  “Most definitely. That’s why you’re here, of course, but all in due time. I’m famished and you must be too.”

  Not really. I’d devoured ceviche, crackers, and plenty of fruit.

  I said, “May I plate our dishes for us?”

  “I run this show,” Marcus said, opening up the basket and pulling out four red-lacquered covered bowls.

  I leaned back away from the table as he made the presentation. His show.

  “I hope you like octopus. Chef’s are never chewy. Always succulent.”

  I stuck on only one word. Octopus. Why? My mind went into a flurry of places unknown. Something sad and something strong. I felt conflicted.

  “What’s wrong?” Marcus asked. “I can always have Chef bring up something else. I shouldn’t have presumed you might like it.”

  I shook off this intense feeling of both doom and light. This odd feeling of someone so close to me, but not with me at all.

  “No,” I laughed. “I’ve never met an octopus I didn’t like.”

  As the meal neared completion, I did have a question praying on my mind and I asked it. “Do you know a woman named Rachel Lee?”

  I thought I saw him choke. He calmly took a sip of water.

  “No. I don’t recall that name. Why do you ask?”

  For some damn reason I told Marcus all about the ridiculous accusation Gage has made about his sighting of the girl and him. I told Marcus it resulted in our last argument.

  “Oh, my White Goddess. He’s simply jealous. He’s scrambling and trying to attach his wrong-doings to me. Or anybody.”

  He poured me more Chardonnay that I wouldn’t drink. My mind remained focus. Was White Goddess a term of endearment? I remembered him telling me I had a condition. This thing akin to being an Albino.

  Dismissive of all the negative thoughts that seemed to wreck my life, I devoured the octopus and the remaining ceviche and fruits. And then, what the hell. More wine.

  I enjoyed my turn at plating the rum cake. And soon after our consumption of our final course, Marcus announced that he felt like dancing.

  “I’m not so good at dancing without any music,” I said.

  “And that is not a problem. I have the best portable player in my car, with ten thousand songs on it. I’ll be back with it and we shall dance with joy, right across this perfect breezeway.”

  “What about the foal?” I asked, but Marcus was already on his way to his car.

  I began loading up our soiled dishes into the picnic basket when it hit me. An epiphany of sorts. Asshole Chef will take care of all of this.

  I forgot my question about the young horse. Under the ether of the wine and foods, I felt like doing nothing, but dancing, with or without the music. For the first time in months, if not years, I felt free of inhibitions and rules and my father and my new mother. And Gage.

  The breezeway between the gates of the stables suddenly appeared as the dance floor in some old-world supper club.

  A bit carried away, I admit, I didn’t mean to dance so far away from the main doors toward the stables. I didn’t
mean to make that awful discovery.

  Chapter 76

  For the Rest of Our Lives

  SHIRLEY’S CAR CAREENED into a stop sign while she had held her focus on the destination and not the road.

  “Damn!” A blown tire. Now? It was hard enough driving with one good foot.

  She realized she had made the same mistake as Victor Romero. An emotional mistake that had no place on the streets. A rookies mistake. Damn! She had been flying down Grant Road toward the east side of town with no backup in place.

  “Disabled car,” she called in. I need immediate assistance and I need back-up.” She rambled off the address up Reddington Pass.”

  The idiot replied, “We can pick you up, but Reddington Pass is out of our district, ma’am.”

  Shirley lost it. “I don’t give a damn if I need you in Alaska. Call the Pima County Sheriff for assist and you bloody well give support and show up here to get me. We’ll be moving on up the road!”

  IF THERE WERE SUCH A THING as a nano of a nanosecond, I had found it. That is all it took for me to understand what I was looking at.

  The objects were stacked and wedged between bales of hay. The furthest point away from the breezeway that linked all of the stables together. The opposite side of where we had just sat for dinner.

  Paintings. Were there twenty of them? Thirty? Maybe more but I wasn’t counting. I knew the single artist’s work. Gage Beauchamp.

  I recognized the movement of the palette knife strokes. The emotion of colors and the brilliance of an artist’s original voice translated to the canvas. I also recalled Gage shipping most if not all of them off to the gallery in Chicago.

  The wet mouth slipped in behind my ear and in a whisper, he said, “I don’t much favor this collection of mine.”

  I didn’t dare turn around to face him. Frozen in some sort of state of putrefaction, I continued to stare at Gage’s works of art. Marcus’ hot breath was still at the nape of my neck.

  “I acquired them for you, my love. I know you thought you were in love with this man, but look at his work. It’s ridiculous. I know that. You know that. And, of course, you are learning this isn’t true love for you. The man is a fool.”