by Matt Hilton
I took a room at a Holiday Inn at Holbrook, my window giving me a great view of the endless mountain desert. It reminded me of when I’d chased the serial killer, Tubal Cain, to his Mojave hideaway in an ill-fated attempt at saving my little brother’s life. Before I’d arrived, Cain had already stripped the flesh from John’s back and had begun whittling away at his ribs. I stopped Cain but it hadn’t been enough to save John. My brother had died within three days; no one could have survived his injuries. I closed the blinds.
I’d purchased a sandwich and carry-out coffee from a nearby 7-Eleven, and made the most of both while studying the photographs of Jay and Nicole. I’d placed the missing person poster alongside them on the bed. It hadn’t struck me before but Nicole Challinor and Helena Blackstock were not unalike. They were both of a similar age, with tiny features apart from large, dark eyes. Both women wore their jet-black hair in bobs, though Nicole’s salon-styled cut was more refined. Helena appeared to have taken a pair of scissors to hers, trimming the hair at a point level with her jaw, probably out of a need for an easily maintained style. Nicole, I knew, was the kind who frequented the boutiques of Madison and Park Avenues in New York City, while Helena was a country girl. There wasn’t much call for a $400 hairdo when living in a trailer park. A telephone directory in a drawer in my room only had one listing for Blackstock, and had given me an address up near to Indian Wells, with the same number as on the poster. Her husband was called Scott.
Nicole and Helena’s likeness must be purely coincidental. I gave up on that line of thought, and switched my attention to Jay Walker. Cute name. Cute face. Her picture showed a young woman who looked as if she could handle herself. Not necessarily physically, but in an argument. Her mouth was turned up at one corner, and her eyes were focused on the lens, as if she was challenging the photographer. Without ever having met her, I took a shine to Jay. I found a self-assured woman attractive. My ex-wife Diane had known what she wanted, as had Kate Piers, a woman I’d fallen for before she was brutally snatched away from me by an assassin’s bullet. In the last few months I’d been seeing Kate’s sister, Imogen Ballard, after she’d proven that she too was tough and dependable. Some would find the women I’m attracted to an anomaly: after all, I was in the business of protecting those incapable of doing it for themselves.
‘Where are you, Jay?’
I wasn’t hoping for divine inspiration or a psychic moment or anything, the question had just come unbidden to my lips.
Looking into those vibrant eyes, I refused to believe that she was dead. There was too much life there to have been extinguished so easily. Of course, that was fanciful thinking at best, because it didn’t matter if she’d the determination of an Olympic athlete, she couldn’t outrun a bullet. If Jay and Nicole had been near that gas station when the robbers struck, then I didn’t hold out much hope of finding either of them alive. Whoever had killed the teller and the family had been both callous and meticulous. They intended covering their tracks and that would have included silencing all witnesses to their crime. If they’d murdered the women, the desert out there was immense; they could have concealed their corpses in any one of a million locations. The thing that wouldn’t be hidden so easily was the SUV the women were driving, and probably my best chance of finding Jay and Nicole was to concentrate on finding it. I hoped that Officer Lewin would come through on that.
My gaze skimmed back to Nicole’s and Helena’s photos.
Their likeness was troubling me and I didn’t know why.
Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was late, but not too late to call Helena’s husband. I used the phone in the room, hitting ‘9’ for an outside line, before carefully tapping in the number printed on the poster.
The phone rang and rang, and I was on the verge of hanging up when the receiver was finally lifted.
‘You know what time it is?’
‘I do, Mr Blackstock. It’s near midnight, but I think you’re going to want to hear what I’ve got to say.’
‘Who is this?’
‘My name’s Joe Hunter, I’m a private investigator—’
The phone was slammed down. I looked at the receiver, before carefully tapping in the number again.
This time the phone only rang once before Blackstock snatched up his handset. ‘Goddamnit! I’m sick of you parasites pimping for business. Why don’t you leave me alone and go chase after adulterers like you usually do?’
‘I’m not soliciting work,’ I said. ‘I’m engaged by another client whose daughter has gone missing along with a friend. I thought you’d talk to me about Helena’s disappearance.’
‘Other people’s business is no concern of mine. I’ve enough to contend with. Now, if you don’t mind, fuck off and leave me alone!’
Throwing caution to the wind, I said, ‘Helena is a dead ringer for one of the girls I’m looking for. I think there might be a connection.’
‘What do you mean a dead ringer?’ His words were challenging, as if I’d suggested that his wife was no longer unique and by that I was besmirching her memory.
‘I mean that Helena and Nicole look similar.’
‘What? Someone out there is taking women with a particular look?’
‘I could be totally off-track, Scott, but there could be a connection.’ I waited for him to absorb that. He was breathing harshly through his nose, short sharp blasts into the mouthpiece, still angry at my intrusion. ‘Then again, maybe not, but it’s an angle I want to investigate. It could be beneficial to the two of us to speak.’
‘How’s it going to benefit me? My wife’s probably dead.’
‘Your wife’s only missing,’ I corrected. ‘And you believe she’s still alive, otherwise you wouldn’t keep replacing the posters.’
‘You’ve been checking up on me? Stick to your own case, asshole.’
‘I’m only asking for half an hour of your time. What harm could it do? I can come up to your place.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m not interested, that’s why. Don’t come near my house and don’t call again.’
Scott Blackstock slammed down the phone.
‘Arsehole,’ I growled.
The axiom that someone who protests too loudly usually has something to hide rang true. I looked again at the address of the trailer park that I’d scribbled on the back of the poster, and then left the room, thinking I could pick up a map of the local area at the 7-Eleven. I wanted a refill on my coffee, anyway. The caffeine hit would make it difficult to sleep, but I doubted my mind would settle enough for that. I was buzzing, wanting to get going. Scott Blackstock was as good a starting point as any, and, whether he liked it or not, he was going to be paid a visit.
I walked through Holbrook, my boot heels making soft ‘chucking’ sounds on the pavement. It was cooler now, but some of the stored-up sunlight made the sidewalk reluctant to release the rubber of my soles. Traffic was light, and there weren’t that many pedestrians either. Nevertheless, the 7-Eleven beckoned me forward with welcoming lights. I took it that the sign above the door didn’t mean too much, and as long as there were customers the doors would stay open. Outside the store were newspaper boxes where you could feed coins in a slot and take a newspaper without having to go inside to pay. I wouldn’t normally bother to grab a paper, but something caught my eye. Though it was the best part of three days since the terrible incident at the gas station, it was still making news.
I paid for a paper and lifted it under the shop’s neon signs. The front page showed an image of a young girl called Ellie Mansfield and at first glance you would expect the girl to be one of the victims found dead at the scene. But though she was expected to have been amongst those found slaughtered in the station wagon, she wasn’t there. There should have been five corpses, but I recalled the original news releases only mentioned four. Ellie was a friend of the Corbin family, who had gone along as company for thirteen-year-old Tracey Corbin. It had taken this long for the police to identify the f
amily, and for the horrifying news to leak back to Ellie’s parents who’d only this afternoon reported that their daughter had taken the road trip with the Corbins.
Perhaps I was jumping to conclusions, but there was only one thing I could come up with. The robbers had taken the girl.
That meant they could also have taken Jay and Nicole, particularly Nicole, because Ellie Mansfield too was petite with dark eyes and dark bobbed hair.
The earlier fluke of Helena Blackstock and Nicole Challinor being similar-looking may have been just that, but with Ellie added to the mix it went way beyond coincidence.
Someone out there was taking females of a particular physical type. That was bad enough, but it also begged another question. Jay Walker didn’t look like any of them, so what had happened to her? Had she been discarded like a worthless piece of trash?
8
At first light I was on my way, skirting Indian Wells and heading for the trailer park where Scott Blackstock lived. Up this far into Navajo County Scott would be in the minority, because approaching ninety-five per cent of the population were of Native American descent. I was assuming a lot: I hadn’t seen the man, had only talked with him on the phone, but during our short discourse he had come across as poor white trash and an arsehole to boot. Then again, what gave me the right to judge him? He was simply a man whose wife had gone missing, presumed dead, so how should he be expected to greet a stranger stirring things up again?
The trailer park was on a low plateau, static caravans set around a circular compound formed of a shoulder-high breeze-block wall. Within the compound was a collection of squat buildings with tin roofs, which I guessed housed washing machines and dryers and suchlike. The caravans were huge compared to those I was familiar with back home in the UK, some of them silver bullet-shaped affairs, others square and ugly with lean-tos and porches tacked on. There was little in the way of grass or flowers or anything that would offer any beauty, and dust devils whirled across the dirt roads. Cars and trucks with a coating of trail dust were parked outside each trailer.
As I drove in, I looked at the mailboxes on poles jammed in the grit to determine which Scott’s trailer was. There was no one up and about yet, other than a couple of skinny dogs rooting in the spillage from a trash can. They stopped and watched my approach, but soon went back to tussling over a choice morsel. I continued towards the far end of the park and finally found the caravan I was seeking.
Parked outside was a battered pick-up truck, alongside a newer jeep. A small lot at the front had once held a flower garden of sorts, but it appeared that Scott wasn’t into watering and weeding. Maybe the garden had been Helena’s way of making the place look more appealing, and now she was no longer around it had been left to return to its natural state.
I parked the GMC alongside the jeep, but didn’t immediately get out. Scott’s trailer was one of the older square type, with a porch and decking, and an annex had been tacked on at the far left corner making it an L-shaped structure. There were no tyres on the hubs, and it didn’t look like the caravan had moved in many a year, nor would it for many more to come. The windows were covered by Venetian blinds, one of them hanging askew. Through the gap, I could see a face peering back at me. Then it was gone, and I got out the GMC and kept my hands by my sides.
The door of the trailer slammed open and Scott Blackstock stamped on to the porch, his face twisted with rage. I had been correct in my assumption: he was no Native American. He was tall, with blond hair and green eyes, a spray of freckles across the bridge of his crooked nose. He had a shotgun broken over his left elbow and was in the process of feeding cartridges into both barrels.
‘You’re the fuck-shit that called me last night,’ he said, snapping shut the gun and lifting it my way. ‘What do they call you again? Hunter? Well, I’m telling you, get off my goddamn property or I’m gonna be doing myself some hunting. You’ve ten seconds and then I’m gonna give you two loadsa buckshot in the ass.’
I didn’t move, apart from to lift my empty hands higher. ‘Take it easy, Scott. I’m not here for trouble.’
‘Shame,’ he crowed. ‘’Cos if you ain’t outta here in ten seconds like I said, trouble’s coming your way.’ He leaned back towards the trailer door. ‘Boys, you want to come on out here?’
There was a rumble from within the caravan, and two more rednecks joined Scott on the decking. One was taller than Scott, an older man, while the second was short and stocky, bearded and with a prodigious gut poking out from the hem of his off-white shirt. The fat one had a liquor bottle in his hand, half empty; but perhaps that was just the pessimist in me. It looked like Scott had been keeping an all-night vigil, awaiting my arrival, and had called in his buddies just in case I did show up.
This could still end up reasonably, but I didn’t think so. The older guy was holding a baseball bat, whacking it into the leathery mitt of his palm. By the look of him, he was lining my head up for a swing. He didn’t worry me: I moved right up to the edge of the decking so that he couldn’t swing at me without first connecting with the uprights holding together the lean-to porch. The stocky one chugged another mouthful of whiskey. Scott made a big deal of pulling back the hammers on the antiquated shotgun.
‘I think if you let me explain myself, you’ll want to listen to what I have to say.’ I stood looking at him.
Scott glanced once at each of his friends. He’d promised them some fun, I guessed. ‘I’m starting to count now. Ten. Nine. Eight . . .’
‘Quit the melodramatics, Scott,’ I said. ‘We both know you’re not going to shoot.’
‘You don’t think so?’ Scott raised the stock to his shoulder.
I pulled out the S&W and aimed it at him. ‘No. You’re not.’
Scott licked his lips.
‘Neither are you, dick,’ said the fat guy. He took a cumbersome step down off the deck and stood in front of my gun. His grip had shifted on his bottle so that he now held it by the neck. ‘Now get the hell outta here before I kick your ass all the way back—’
Before he finished his threat I slapped the butt of my gun against his temple. The man dropped as though pole-axed, his knees folding under him so that he went down on his backside. Slowly he toppled sideways and I toed the bottle away, to avoid it ending up jammed in his open mouth.
‘Hey!’ The older guy came at me then. True to form he couldn’t get a good crack at me and had to weave past Scott to gain space. By the time he made room it was too late. I shot a sidekick into his front leg, straightening his knee, and as he jerked against the pain I snatched the bat out of his hand and threw it away. A slap of the gun butt to his head sent him down so he was lying across his fat buddy.
‘Are we all done now?’ I asked Scott.
He had taken a couple of steps back, the gun forgotten in his hands. Just as I thought, the weapon was all bluff. If he’d intended using a gun, he wouldn’t have brought the two so-called hard-asses in on the action.
‘Jesus, man, you knocked them out!’
‘I don’t care for people who make threats to me.’ I allowed my words to hang in the air and Scott finally figured them out.
‘I wasn’t really going to shoot.’ He slowly placed the shotgun down by the door to the trailer. ‘Even if I wanted. It doesn’t fire, and hasn’t done for years.’
Maybe he thought I wouldn’t notice that the barrels were plugged when he pointed them at my face. Things like that don’t go unnoticed by someone who’s been on both ends of guns for the past twenty years or so. I shoved my S&W away. ‘Come here, Scott.’
‘What are you planning to do?’
‘Don’t you think we’d best get your friends inside if we’re going to talk? It wouldn’t do to leave them lying here, not with those starving dogs around.’
Scott actually looked to where the mangy hounds were rooting through the garbage, as though they were a threat to the unconscious men. Then he came and helped me haul the older guy into the trailer. It was surprisingly spacious inside, and nothing
like the caravans I’d holidayed in as a lad in North Wales. We laid him out on a bunk, made sure he was breathing, then went to wrestle the fat one inside as well. It wasn’t an easy task.
I was sweating by the time I sat down next to a counter in the kitchen area. ‘Could have saved us all a load of bother if you’d agreed to talk in the first place.’
Scott sat next to me, but his eyes were on the two sleeping beauties. ‘The boys ain’t gonna be happy when they wake up.’
‘The boys should thank me for not shooting them in the face,’ I said. ‘Good job I’m one of the good guys, eh?’
Scott glanced once more at his friends, then turned and rested his forearms on the counter. He clasped his hands. ‘What exactly was it you wanted to know?’
‘The circumstances behind Helena’s disappearance,’ I said.
‘You’re a detective, surely you’ve read all about it?’
I didn’t mention that I’d only learned about Helena last night, or that at the time I’d called him I’d been clutching at straws. ‘There’s a difference between what’s reported in the papers and what really happened.’
‘You think I had something to do with her going missing?’
‘No, Scott. If that was the case we wouldn’t be having this friendly chat.’
His gaze flicked back to his friends and I noticed his fingers entwine to stop them shaking. Good. I’d finally gained his full cooperation. I dropped the tough guy act, pulling from my pocket the various pieces I’d put together. I placed the photos of Jay and Nicole down, then the poster with Helena on it. Finally, I unfolded the clipping I’d taken from the newspaper last night and laid out Ellie Mansfield’s image beside the rest.
‘You notice anything about those pictures?’
Unfolding his hands, Scott touched the one of his wife, then his fingers did a slow dance over both Nicole and Ellie’s faces. ‘They look like they could be sisters,’ he admitted.