Runyon veered over into the cubicle’s doorway. The blond kid looked up, an unsmiling look that catalogued him briefly and without much interest. The eyes were blue and innocent, the face smooth and beardless. Angelic wasn’t a term Runyon would’ve used to describe it. More apt was clean-cut All-American College Boy, circa 1960. He could pass for twenty-one, all right.
“Yessir?” he said. Deep, soft voice. “Help you?”
“Your name Troy? Troy Douglass?”
“That’s right. Do I know you?”
“No. I’m looking for your brother.”
“Tommy?” The name didn’t seem to taste right; his mouth quirked a little when he said it. “He’s not here.”
“Where can I find him?”
“You a friend of his?”
“No.”
“He owe you money or something?”
“Does he owe a lot of people money?”
“Well . . .”
“I’m not one of them.”
“Why’re you looking for him then?”
“Personal matter.”
Furrows marred the flawless complexion. Troy pushed his chair back, got to his feet. “Maybe you better talk to my father. He’s right out there.”
“It’s your brother I’m interested in. What kind of car does he drive?”
“. . . Why do you want to know that?”
“Older model pickup, Confederate flag in the rear window?”
“No, that’s Bix’s wheels.”
“Bix. Red hair, freckles? Tommy’s buddy?”
“Yeah. Why’re you asking all these questions?”
“The two of them are in trouble, that’s why.”
“Trouble? What kind of trouble?”
“They’ve been on a rampage the past couple of weeks, beating up gay men in the Castro district. Gene Zalesky, Larry Exeter, Kenneth Hitchcock.”
Shock turned Troy’s face the noncolor of Crisco. He said, “Oh, Jesus!” and sat down hard enough to make the chair squawk loudly.
“You didn’t know?”
“No. I had no idea.”
“Put all three of them in the hospital,” Runyon said. “Hitchcock’s still there, still in critical condition.”
“Because of me, of what I . . .?”
“Looks that way.”
“But it’s not their fault! How can he blame them?”
“Easier than blaming you, hating you, beating you up. This way, you’re just a victim and he feels justified.”
“I knew he was a homophobe, but a basher . . .”
“How’d he get their names? You tell him?”
“He made me tell him. Wasn’t enough he had to come looking for me, force me to move back home . . . he wanted names, addresses, everything about the men I . . . but I never thought . . . Goddamn him and that speed freak Bix!”
“What’s Bix’s last name?”
“Sullivan.”
“Does Tommy use drugs, too?”
Brief nod. “I don’t, I never hurt anybody, and he thinks what I do is sick!”
“Where can I find him and Bix Sullivan?”
“Why? What’re you going to do to them?”
“Stop them from attacking anybody else, maybe killing the next man they go after.”
“Put them in jail? Are you a cop?”
“Don’t you think they belong in jail?”
“Yes, but—” Troy’s face warped again, this time showing fear. “Oh, shit!”
The kid was staring past him, out into the garage. Runyon realized that the hissing sound had stopped, and when he half turned he saw that the gray-haired man had shed the acetylene torch, removed his goggles, and was approaching the office.
“He doesn’t know about me,” in a tense whisper. “That’s why I came home, Tommy promised not to tell him about me. Please don’t say anything. Not here, not now!”
The elder Douglass wore a quizzical smile as he came into the office, but he lost it when he got a look at his son’s pale, sweaty face. “What’s the matter? What’s going on here?”
“Nothing, Dad, nothing, this guy’s just . . . he’s looking for Tommy.”
Douglass transferred his gaze to Runyon. “Who’re you? What do you want with my son?”
“Tommy owes him money, that’s all.”
“Yeah? Another damn bill collector. He stays out all hours, can’t manage his finances, and you run off to Christ knows where for three weeks. Some pair of kids I got.”
Runyon said, “Where can I find Tommy, Mr. Douglass?”
“Well, you won’t find him at home. Come back tomorrow.”
“He lives with you?”
“Both my sons, one big happy family. You’re a bill collector and you don’t know that?”
“It’s important that I locate him right away.”
“Yeah, well, you’re out of luck,” Douglass said. “He left about five o’clock, went up to the city with a buddy of his. Spend more money he doesn’t have, make another big night of it in the friggin’ city.”
19
TAMARA
Three minutes after they arrived in Appalachia, Lemoyne locked her and Lauren in the sow-bug trailer and drove off by himself. Didn’t say where he was going. All he said was, “I’ll be back pretty soon.” And “You can’t get out of here so don’t even try.” And “Everything’s locked up in there—it better still be locked up when I get back.”
The inside wasn’t as bad as the outside, but it was still another prison cell. Stuffy, stinking of must and stale cigarettes, and not too clean—dust on all the surfaces, spiderwebs hanging in corners, probably bugs in the old worn carpeting and mismatched Goodwill furniture. Lemoyne hadn’t spent much time here. And nobody’d lived here in a long time.
Lauren said in a small, thick voice, “Tamara, I don’t feel so good.”
The child was still in her arms, burrowed up close. Tamara tilted her body back so she could see her face. Didn’t look so good, either. Sweaty, pale, moist-eyed, coughing in little dry hacks. Running a fever? Yeah—her forehead felt overwarm.
“I think I’m gonna be sick.”
Damn. Bathroom in here or not?
Turned out there was, a cubicle with a toilet and a sink and a rusty shower stall so tiny Horace would’ve had trouble squeezing in sideways. She set Lauren on her feet, lifted the toilet lid.
Kid said miserably, “I hate to throw up,” and leaned over the bowl with Tamara holding her and threw up.
When she was done, Tamara pushed the lever and the toilet flushed all right. Septic system. And a well for drinking water, judging from the mineral-brownish color of what came out of the sink tap, so that shed outside was probably a well-house. There was a towel hanging from a rack next to the sink, not clean but not filthy either. She let the cold water run until it more or less cleared, then wet the towel and used it to clean off Lauren’s face.
“Better now, honey?”
“Thirsty.”
“Me, too. Must be glasses here somewhere.”
Not in the bathroom. She picked Lauren up again, carried her into a dinky kitchen. Dining alcove in one corner, another sink, a propane stove, one of those pocket refrigerators, three wall cabinets and a pair of drawers on either side of the sink. Two of the cabinets were padlocked. The other one was full of plastic—plates, bowls, glasses, the kind of cheap pastel-colored crap designed for picnics. She rinsed out two of the glasses, filled one for Lauren, the other for herself. The water eased the dryness in her mouth, but it sloshed in her stomach and kicked up sharp hunger pangs. No food except a Slim•Fast shake and a Slim•Fast chocolate bar in, what, almost twenty-four hours? Last night Lemoyne had brought a sandwich and a glass of milk for Lauren, but nothing for her. Kid had tried to share the sandwich with her—what a sweetheart she was—but she’d refused. Take food out of a hungry, frightened child’s mouth? No way.
Lauren drank all of her water. Tamara asked, “More?”
“No. Can I lie down now? I still feel sick.”
“Sure you can.”
The trailer had two bedrooms, but she couldn’t bring herself to put Lauren in either of them. The smaller one had either been the real Angie’s, or Lemoyne had outfitted it that way. Bedspread with little pink animals on it. Couple of dolls and a box of toys on the dresser. Small closet full of child’s dresses, playsuits, other stuff—some new, some that looked as though it had been worn. Keep Lauren out of that room as long as she could.
The only other place for her to lie down was a dusty two-person couch in what passed for a living room. She set the little girl on the cushions, got her comfortable, found a blanket in the larger bedroom to cover her. On a stand nearby was a small TV that had to be older than she was. Television: the great babysitter. Was the electricity turned on? She tried a table lamp, then the TV. Not yet. So much for that idea.
But it didn’t matter anyway. When she looked at Lauren again, the poor kid was asleep.
All right. Now she could prowl.
Five rooms altogether, none of them more than about ten feet square. The only door to the outside was the one they’d come through and the lock on it was a heavy dead bolt. Forget that. Each of the rooms had a window, but only three—kitchen and the two bedrooms—were of any size. Two-by-three feet, about, the kind that split into two overlapping panes, one half stationary and the other half on a track so you could slide it open. Lauren would fit easily enough through the one half, but a grown woman with chubby buns? Be a tight squeeze, if she could manage it at all.
But the big problem was, all three windows were covered by thick, metal-framed mesh screens screwed to the wall on either side, top and bottom. You could poke fingers through the mesh far enough to release the window catch and slide the one half open—Tamara did that on each one to let fresh air in—but when she tried to animal the screens loose, they wouldn’t budge. Screwed tight to the wall . . . all except the lower right-hand corner of the screen in the smaller bedroom. That one corner pulled out a half inch or so before the screw bound up and held it in place. If she could find something to use as a pry bar . . .
No tools of any kind in the kitchen, not even knives and forks. Locked up in one of two padlocked cabinets, probably, along with anything like a hammer or screwdriver. Dude didn’t take any chances, even if the only victims he’d brought here before were six-year-old girls.
One of the kitchen drawers yielded a saucepan and a frying pan with a fairly slender wooden handle. She took those into the smaller bedroom, went to work with the handle of the saucepan on the loose corner. Pretty soon the screw pulled a little more, widening the gap, but not enough to slip the frying pan handle between the frame and the wall. She kept at it, streaming sweat, the muscles in her arms tight and aching. Squeaking noise and the screw pulled a little more . . . but the saucepan handle had begun to bend and she couldn’t get any more leverage. Another try with the wooden handle. Almost got it wedged in . . . yank on the mesh with one hand, wiggle the handle with the other . . . there, eased the tip of it in, just like Horace the first time he—
Car sound outside. Lemoyne coming back.
She yanked the handle free, used the pan to shove the screw back in so that the corner was more or less flush again. Scrapes and gouges in the metal wall, but maybe he wouldn’t notice. Wouldn’t matter anyway if he didn’t leave her alone in here again . . .
She hurried out to the window next to the front door. Here he came, bouncing along the rutted track, the sun throwing up needle glints of light from the SUV’s hood and windshield. She could see him behind the glass, and the hate that surged into her throat almost choked her. Her fingers clenched around the handles of the saucepan and frying pan.
Frying pan. Heavy. Weapon.
The thought, sweet and hot, drew her lips in flat against her teeth. She watched the SUV rattle to a stop a few yards away, Lemoyne get out and walk around to the passenger side and open that door and lift out a couple of plastic sacks. Grocery store was where he’d gone. He carried both sacks in his left hand, a ring of keys dangled from his right.
She stepped over to the door, to the far side so she’d be behind it when it opened inward. Put the saucepan down and took a two-handed grip on the wooden handle of the frying pan, holding the pan close against her chest.
He was right outside the door now. Keys jingled; one of them rattled in the lock. She raised the pan above her head.
To, asshole, come and get it!
Only he didn’t open the door, didn’t walk inside.
His voice, loud, came through it instead. “It’s open, Dark Chocolate. Step out here where I can see you.”
She hesitated, frustration a sudden heavier weight than the frying pan, then slowly lowered her hands. Why the hell couldn’t he be stupid, careless, the way she’d been? Make one little mistake?
“Come on, hurry it up. Don’t get me pissed off.”
Nothing else she could do. She put both pans back where she’d found them, went on out to where Lemoyne stood waiting.
After lunch, he took Lauren away.
Not in the SUV—on foot into the woods.
He seemed to get the idea all at once. He was sitting in the only chair in the living room, a ratty recliner, not saying anything, just watching Tamara clean up in the kitchen. Slave girl: make sandwiches, cook soup, wash dishes, tend to the kid. Mammy Tammy. And all the time watching her, never letting her get closer than a couple of feet, specially when she had a bowl of hot soup in her hands. Watching Lauren, too, sometimes with that tenderness in his eyes, sometimes with a funny sort of speculative look as if he didn’t have any idea who she was. Child was still pale and feverish after her nap. Thirsty, but wouldn’t eat much. Lemoyne didn’t like that; he kept urging her to eat her soup and scowling when she said, “No, I don’t want any, I’m not hungry.” A couple of times he reached out and patted her in a kind of rough paternal way; both times she shrank away from him, and that made him scowl even harder.
Then all of a sudden he was on his feet. “You, Dark Chocolate. That’s enough in the kitchen. Take Angie into the bedroom, change her clothes.”
“Her clothes? What for?”
“We’re going for a walk.”
“She’s sick, man, she’s running a fever. Can’t you see that?”
“No. She’s all right, she just needs some fresh air. It’s hot in here.”
“I tell you, she’s sick. Feel her forehead, she’s burning up.”
“You have kids of your own?”
“What? No, but—”
“Then don’t try to tell me about my kid. Go on, pick her up, take her in the bedroom. Put her in those pink shorts she likes. And the white top with the little rabbits on it. She looks real cute in that outfit.”
Tamara felt the hair crawl on her neck. “It’s not warm enough outside for shorts.”
“Bullshit. Plenty warm enough.”
“Listen to me, man. She’s just a child, she’s only six years old.”
“So? You think I don’t know that?”
“You don’t want to hurt her . . . your own daughter.”
That pissed him off. His eyes got smoky; veins bulged in his neck. “Don’t say that to me, you bitch. Fucking bitch. Don’t ever say that to me.” The Saturday night special was shoved down in the front of his pants; he jerked it free and waved it at her. “You do what I told you, take her in there and get her dressed. And you keep your mouth shut while you’re doing it or you’ll be the one I hurt.”
Again, no choice. One thing to vow to protect the little girl, another to stand here helpless looking down the muzzle of a gun. He’d shoot her or start beating up on her if she didn’t do what he said. And what good would she be to Lauren then, dead or all busted up?
The girl moaned when Tamara picked her up, carried her into the smaller bedroom. Skin all hot, sweaty—temperature must be over a hundred now. Tight-mouthed, she shut the door behind them. It stayed that way; Lemoyne let them have that much privacy, at least.
The pink shorts and rabbit T-shir
t were in one of the dresser drawers. Took some coaxing to get Lauren into them; she kept saying, “I don’t want to, I don’t feel good,” and when she was dressed she looked down at herself and started to cry again.
Tamara wiped away the tears. “Listen to me, Lauren. You have to go with him, have to keep pretending you’re Angie and he’s your daddy. Do whatever he tells you, no matter what. Don’t make him mad or he might hurt you bad. Okay? You understand?”
“Yes, Tamara.”
“Good girl.”
Hugged her, hard, then took her by the hand and opened the door and let the crazy son of a bitch have her.
She watched them from the front window, walking slow toward the barn, him pulling her along by the hand and Lauren stumbling on the uneven ground. When she couldn’t see them anymore she ran into the smaller bedroom, picked them out again from that window. And watched them vanish into the woods.
Quickly she retrieved the frying pan and managed to jam the handle between the wall and the loose corner of the window screen. Pried, yanked, wedged it in farther, slanting a look out the window every now and then at the place where they’d gone into the trees. Afraid the noise she was making was loud enough to carry and he’d hear and come running out. More afraid that he’d come walking out alone.
The screw wouldn’t tear loose. Her arms and shoulders began to cramp up. She mopped off sweat, did some upper body aerobics to loosen her muscles, and went at it again. And this time . . . starting to loosen a little? She yanked harder, twisting the pan. Yeah, it was starting to pull. She managed to wedge the pan in more tightly, yanked again—
Movement outside.
She caught it out of the corner of her eye. Quit rocking the pan and stood still, staring out through the window.
Lemoyne coming out of the woods. Carrying Lauren with one arm, slung loosely up across his shoulder, head wobbling, thin arms dangling.
Dead, he killed her!
The thought brought on a surge of emotion so intense her whole body shook. But then, as Lemoyne plowed through the tall grass toward the trailer, she saw the child’s head move, one arm slide upward and the small hand clutch at his shirt collar. Sweet Lord Jesus. Not dead, but . . . hurt? Couldn’t tell from here—
Nightcrawlers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Mystery) Page 15