by Theo Cage
"That's the part I don't understand."
Sonya squinted at Hyde. "What part?"
"You fainted in the store. I thought you fainted from shock. But you weren't surprised, were you?"
Sonya played with her cigarette, rolling it between her fingers. She hadn’t inhaled yet. She just watched the smoke curl up into the air of the oppressive room. "I guess it never seemed real until you came in the store. Straight from a real cop."
“You told me Tony was with you on Saturday night. The night that Ellis was killed.”
“I don’t have to answer that.”
Hyde sat back, rubbed his face. “I know you want to protect him, Sonya. But you don’t want to be an accomplice to a murder.”
“I’m only talking to you because we’re friends. You want to play tough cop? Then take me back to my cell.”
“You never talked to Tony about confronting Harry? Teaching him a lesson?”
Sonya’s eyes drifted off for a few seconds. Then she came back. “No. He knew that if that name came up, my day was ruined.”
Hyde tapped the table a few times with his hand. He was checking off the questions in his head. The ones he needed to ask.
“Did you ever ask Tony where he got the pendant? The piece of jewelry the kidnapper wanted so badly?"
"What has that got to do with anything?"
"Just curious."
"Tony said it came in a box full of cheap trinkets he got for next to nothing."
"Does he know anything about jewelry?"
Sonya stuck out her ring finger. "You kidding me? Look at this ring he gave me. It's a fake diamond. And he has no idea. I never told him. I didn't want to see him ..."
"See him what?"
"Pop a blood vessel. He does that sometimes," said Sonya.
"We had someone look at the pendant,” said Hyde. “A jeweler who knows antiquities appraised the little egg at a million dollars."
Sonya's eyes went wide. "Shit!" was all she said.
"And here’s another surprise. Mr. Halim told you he wanted the pendant to pay for a cancer treatment?”
Sonya nodded.
"When they did the autopsy, I had the ME check. No cancer. He was probably being scammed by some quack taking advantage of a naive immigrant.”
Sonya shook her head. Hyde could see it in her face. Halim died for nothing. “I need to go now,” she said. “I want to see Tony.”
"Just a few more questions, then I’ll arrange it. How did Tony take it? Harry's murder."
Sonya narrowed her eyes. "You saw him in the store that day. Business as usual for him. He's not the deepest guy I ever met."
"What did Tony do before he ran the store?"
Sonya turned her head, surprised at the question. "Lots of things. He’s a jack of all trades."
"But his father owned a butcher shop,” said Hyde. “I heard he worked there when he was a teenager."
"He never finished high school. So he did what he had to do to get by," she said.
"He doesn't slice up the steaks at home? Pick out the best cuts at the store for you?"
Sonya flicked ashes onto the floor. She looked down at the sad blue linoleum. "Can I go now? I'm not under arrest am I? For being the victim in a kidnapping? That's against the law now?"
Hyde stood up and leaned on the metal chair, his neck and back stiff. He looked down at Sonya. She had finished her cigarette and had both hands clutched together, her eyes closed. She was off somewhere, making her escape. She had a lot to run from. They had enough evidence to convict Tony of two murders. A clever lawyer might be able to make a case for self-defense in the death of Yusuf Halim. But that left the Harry Ellis murder. That was premeditated and violent.
"I saw what Tony did to the kidnapper,” said Hyde. That got her attention. She jerked her head up. “The medical examiner is calling what he did an evisceration. That’s unique even for our district. In fact, in twenty-years of detective work, I've never come across a similar case."
Sonya reached again for the cigarette pack.
"Your husband took a knife, a dagger from your shop, plunged it into the kidnapper's abdomen, just an inch or two below his navel, then twisted the blade and pulled it up through the abdominal wall to the breastbone.” Hyde imitated the act with his hands in the air. “Hunters do that when they're butchering a kill. Like a deer or something."
Sonya went white and covered her face.
"Sorry to be so graphic. That's why I say, in my entire career, I've never seen a person killed that way.” Hyde waited a beat. “ Well, I shouldn't say never. There was one other case.” He waited for a response from her. Nothing.
"That’s how Harry Ellis was killed. Your stepfather. Identical MO."
Sonya had her eyes covered, her elbows on the scarred table. Hyde sat down again. He wondered about Tony. He must have thought the punishment fit the crime when he cut Ellis open. The coroner said death would take five to ten minutes. Since the victim didn’t cry out for help, he had to assume that Tony stayed with him for a while. Reminding him of his sins, no doubt.
When she finally spoke, Sonya sat up, straightened her back. She took a deep breath, her eyes inflamed and red. They drilled right into Hyde.
"Detective? I know you were married once." Hyde didn’t respond. "Are you one of those men that always forgets anniversaries and birthdays?"
Hyde stared back at Sonya. He refused to look away, knowing she would see that as an admission of guilt. He was terrible at remembering special occasions. She smiled ever so slightly, as much as one could under the present circumstances. She knew the answer anyway.
"Men," she said. "Most of you are just dense. Would it kill you to buy a birthday card once in a while? Or a bunch of flowers? It doesn’t have to be expensive. But you just can't be bothered, can you?” She finally took a drag from her second cigarette, now burned down almost to the filter. She followed that with a shaky exhalation. Hyde could almost feel the hot gases burning the tip of her tongue.
“So you understand, for the record, I'm not talking about what might have happened the night that Harry died. Cause I don’t know. And I'm telling you right now, I will never give evidence against my husband.”
“But?” asked Hyde.
“Think about it, Greg. What could mean more than a man willing to give his life for you. To hunt down a dangerous monster. And then - after risking everything - not even brag about it later. Never say a word. Never taking credit. That’s a hero.”
Sonya stood up, straightened herself quickly. Then she wiped away her tears with the palm of one hand.
“And that, Mr. Hyde, beats flowers any day of the week.”
THE END
THE WOMAN IN THE TRUNK features the original, unexpurgated lyrics to Crazy Blues by Mamie Smith and her Jazz Hounds, recognized by industry historians as the very first blues record ever issued. The song was released in 1920 and written by Perry Bradford. The lyrics are now in the public domain.
AND THERE’S MORE …
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AN EXCERPT FROM BUZZWORM by THEO CAGE
Under an icy sliver of a partial moon, the bloated black body of the Motts Run reservoir seemed to be taunting me. Across its oily surface, about a quarter of a mile away, a mist clung to the far shore. My destination. But I had never learned how to swim and I hated water.
One chilly autumn, as a kid, my father had thrown me off a dock into a lake very much like this one - greenish-black currents and a hidden bottom. I slipped below the surface without so much as a splash. He almost drowned rescuing me.
Now I was standing on a rickety pier, looking across the reservoir at the back end of Xavier’s property. Or was it Buzzworm’s? Whoever the fuck he was today, he was making me cross
a body of water that made my skin crawl. The property description that Med had given me only offered two options. I could drive right into his front yard via the one main road or take the back route by crossing over the reservoir behind his property. He would be watching the main road, which didn’t leave many options.
I looked down at my transportation, a flat-bottomed rowboat, one paddle and no lifejacket. I stepped down into the boat, the hollow bump of the soggy wood against the dock enough to wake the dead. I swore. Just take one-step at a time was all I was thinking. Push away from the dock into the inky water. Keep your eyes on the opposite shore. Don’t think about what was underneath you, the shiny surface swirling around you like there was something deep in the reeds and moving around. Just think about Kyla.
It seemed to take forever to scull across the reservoir. As I approached the tree line of the opposite shore, I realized that getting out of the boat wasn’t going to be any more fun than getting in. The high water obscured the shoreline and the banks, the water crawling up the soggy sides of the trees. I pushed up to the tree line, unable to penetrate the submerged forest around me. I looked down. I had no clue as to the depth of the water at this point. What choice did I have? I crawled down into the dirty water, feeling the cold crab up my legs and into my crotch. I touched an uncertain bottom with my arms held high, the waterline now up to my armpits.
The submerged ground was mushy, all buried roots and rotten logs. I tied the row boat to the closest tree with a frayed old rope and pushed my way up the buried embankment, pulling myself along from trunk to trunk. After a few yards, the water was only a foot or so deep. I checked my position. There was a vague glow, a sodium-colored yard light buried in the distant forest. Xavier’s. He had the lights on for me. How nice of him.
I pushed my way through the heavy brush that sheltered the back of the property, hoping to make it to the clearing without losing an eye. I had my arms up to protect my face from the whip-like willow branches, my wrists already bleeding. Roger was working on killing the power; luckily that hadn’t happened yet. I would be aimlessly plodding in the dark without the lights of the farmhouse to guide me. There was no path, no obvious direction to follow. I was cold and my shoes were ruined, but somewhere ahead, in the farmhouse or one of the surrounding buildings, I would find my daughter. It was impossible to think of any other outcome right now.
Within a few hundred yards of the farmhouse, a small clearing of uncut grass ahead, I heard a distant shotgun blast echo off the building. Almost instantly, the yard light went out, as did the lights on the porch and all the interior illumination. I stopped to listen; the only sound my ragged breathing. If I was Xavier, the first thing I would do is check the breakers, just to be sure. But if he heard the rifle blast from inside the house, he might jump to another conclusion about the source of the blackout. I figure he would then head to the generator to see why it hadn’t cut in. After all, he had spent a lot of taxpayer’s money to buy the best. He’d want to know why the backup didn’t kick in. The generator was a distance through a path in the woods west of the main house. That’s where we predicted he would head and that’s where I would follow once he started out.
I crouched and made my way around the back of the farmhouse, my soggy shoes crunching on broken twigs and dried leaves. I expected at any second to confront at least one of the hired hands or bodyguards. But I was ready for them, gun in hand. Med had guessed there might be two, but that could have changed; Xavier could have increased his security now that he guessed we might be after him.
Rounding the west wall, I heard voices on the porch. I crouched down in the shadows.
“I think I heard a gunshot just before the power went down.” A man’s voice. Older.
“I don’t give a shit about what caused it. Why didn’t the generator kick in?” I recognized the voice immediately. Xavier.
The other man replied. “We went through the check list yesterday, sir. Everything was tickity boo.” I could see a moonlit shadow of the two men, one of them clearly carrying a rifle.
“Obviously you missed something. We finally get a blackout and what happens? Someone forgets to turn on the system. Go check it. Get it running. I’ll keep an eye on things here.”
“Yes sir.”
“And where’s Rupert?” asked Xavier. I figured Rupert must be one of the other guards. But just by the way he said it; it seemed to imply there was only one person missing,
“He’s finishing up chores,” answered the other man.
There was a long pause. “What about the kid who crashed the ultra-light?”
“He said he’d bring him with him when he was done.”
“Damn. That was over an hour ago, Jake. Bring them all back here. But get the power back up first. If this outage goes on for a while, I don’t want it to affect my plans.”
From the sound of things, it looked like the BATF agent had probably disarmed one of them and would shortly take out the second. It sounded like they had Roger, but Goodyear was still undercover. I watched as Xavier’s employee jogged off into the darkness.
Xavier was standing on the porch, his eyes on the distant out buildings. I waited for his hired hand to get out of listening distance. Then I stepped around the side of the farmhouse and looked up at him. I had my 9-millimeter aimed at his chest. Change of plans.
“Where is she?” was all I said. He looked down at me. I was moving carefully around the railed deck of the porch, his eyes following me.
“I thought we had a deal, Hyde?” asked Xavier, expressionless.
“Our deal was I keep the Avion running. And the Avion is running, you just don’t know it. Your blackout’s not my problem.”
Xavier lifted one eyebrow. “So you’re responsible for this? I should have known. Hyde, the juggernaut.”
“I asked you where she is. Kyla. And put the rifle down or I’ll shoot you were you stand. ”
Xavier laid the rifle down on the deck of the porch and put his hands up. As I came around to the wide steps that led up to the porch, he sat down slowly in a wicker chair by the wall. “That’s a bit of a problem, detective. You’re not going to find her in time. And right now, her safety depends on a power source. So you are killing her, you just don’t know it. I’d get the power backup if I were you.”
I moved up the stairs and across the porch to where he sat. I swung the Glock hard across his face, feeling the gun connect with his cheekbone. He twisted his face sideways with the blow, his body rigid and his teeth clenched. He had just said that Kyla’s safety depended on power. So she must be somewhere on the property.
“You’re going to take me to her,” I said, trying to keep the emotion out of my voice.
“I wish I could. It’s too late for that, detective.”
I swung the gun again, angrier now, the weight of my body behind the blow. This time when I struck him, his head banged back against the wall of the porch. He closed his eyes momentarily and spit out blood.
“Fort Bragg. Anti-interrogation training. Head of the class,” he growled. “You think you can beat the truth out of me, Hyde? Well, you better have the stomach for it.”
“This isn’t torture, Xavier. And I’m not the CIA. I’m all about the rule of law. I’m just trying to shave some years off your prison sentence.”
Xavier laughed, spitting more blood into the palm of his hand. He held it up for me to see. “You call this rule of law?”
“The feds are on their way with their trained dogs and their infrared guided helicopters. The power going out was their signal. You can make it a lot easier on yourself by giving her up and saving us doing a search.”
Xavier touched his cheek where the skin was broken. The blood looked inky black in the moonlight. “Their dogs and helicopters won’t help. You’ll never find her without me. And if they get even close to her, this whole place will go up. You know me, Hyde. If anything, I’m thorough.”
As he said this, almost as if on cue, the night sky lit up to the west of us. From the
direction of the generator shed, a yellow mushroom cloud of flame and smoke rose up over the tree line, followed by a booming roar that shook the deck under our feet.
NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR
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A WORD FROM THE AUTHOR
After writing over a million words as a writer, a friend pointed out one day that most of my work was "about getting even". This surprised me at first - which only proves I’m not as swift as I thought I was.
I've always had a simple rule: Write the books I want to read. About fascinating people just trying to survive - facing lousy odds, sometimes insurmountable barriers. And yes, that sometimes means getting even.
You'll notice I rarely have one hero in my novels, which breaks the rules of conventional authorship. But I can't help it. People everywhere are heroes, have been heroes, and want to be heroes - if given half a chance. I feel compelled to tell their stories.
I started out life, like a lot of kids, getting picked on. I discovered the world is full of bullies. So I complained to my parents, and they said "Stand up for yourself. But also don't forget the rights of others."
Books got me through those teenage years, and I'm very thankful. I owe a debt of gratitude to writers like Ray Bradbury, Ian Fleming, J.D. Salinger, Elmore Leonard and Robert Heinlein.
Teach your kids to be brave, to believe in themselves, to believe in a just world. I know life is not fair - but that's no reason not to stand up to bullies and cheaters and manipulators. Sure, you might get a nosebleed once in a while. But it will be worth it.