by Henry Perez
He also understood that the landscaping deal was only a ruse to get him out there. And he now fears that he will experience a great deal of pain without ever learning why.
Thoughts had danced into and out of his mind as two men—one whom he thought he knew, the other a stranger—carried him upstairs, pressed his limp body to a wall, and fastened his hands and feet using some binds that Stoop could not focus his eyes on well enough to see clearly. Before he could say anything, a ball of some sort was shoved into Stoop’s mouth and duct taped in place.
A face that had become familiar to Stoop over the past several years appears from out of the darkness. He has looked into those eyes from across boardroom tables, and while they sat at adjacent bar stools. And Stoop now realizes that he’s never been able to read those eyes. Not in the same way that most people unwittingly reveal themselves.
Such simple creatures. But not this one.
Stoop struggles to move his head, but that only tightens the clasp around his neck and brings a smile to his captor’s otherwise empty face. If only he could talk, Stoop is certain this could be resolved.
A win-win for everybody.
But he can barely make a sound, can’t form words to ask questions. So many questions. They are getting in the way. A salesman never asks questions, not really. Oh sure, it might sound that way.
What is it that you’re looking for? What can I do to close this deal today?
Those seem like questions, but they are not, actually. Just part of the game, another play.
If only he could communicate, get the tape off his mouth and coax his way out of this. But even then, Stoop has too many questions of his own.
When he sees the hunting knife in the man’s hand, the edge of its blade painted in shades of blood that range from dark brown to glossy red, Charles Stoop fears his questions will soon be answered.
Chapter 86
Chapa pulled over and parked three houses down, along a pitch black stretch of curb, turned the car off, and dialed Tom Jackson’s number.
Wanting to make certain he didn’t miss anything, Chapa had decided to wait until he’d reached the house before calling the cops.
“What now, Alex?”
“I’m parked four houses down from 414 Elm Grove Street. It’s a house Gladys Washer filed a complaint about. That’s what got her killed.”
“What the hell are you—”
“I’m not going to pretend I have all the answers. But I know something real bad has been taking place here, and it’s probably still going down while we’re wasting time arguing.”
Chapa heard Jackson slurping what he assumed was coffee.
“Alex, if you’re screwing me on this, or if you’re as full of shit as we both know you can be, you and me are through.”
“Get here, Tom.”
The connection dropped. Chapa looked at his watch and figured it would take at least twenty minutes for Jackson to finish his coffee, decide to check things out, round up a couple of officers, and drive to the house.
Chapa knew he’d talked the detective into action, but not into hurrying. It could take them as long as thirty minutes to get there.
With that in mind, Chapa slouched down in his seat, made himself comfortable, and kept an eye on the place. He’d gone along on stakeouts in the past, even conducted one or two of his own, but this situation was different.
The house was dark, except for a dim light illuminating a white shade in an upstairs window. There were no cars parked in the driveway or along the front curb.
Chapa wasn’t sure who or what he was looking for. The plan was to wait until he saw Jackson’s unmarked car, or a cruiser pull up, then he would get out and join the party.
Those plans changed when he saw a white Ford sedan drive up and park near the house. A man got out, eased the driver’s side door shut, and began a measured advance down the sidewalk, in the direction of the house.
Chapa watched for a moment, straining to make out the dark figure moving through darker shadows. There was something familiar about him, but Chapa couldn’t see well enough to make out who it was.
Only one way to be sure. Chapa reached up and flipped off the overhead light inside his Corolla before easing the door open and quietly getting out, then shutting it just as carefully. Without hesitation, he crossed the street and headed for the house.
Chapter 87
The man looks into the eyes of his mother’s killer.
He never forgot those eyes. They loomed over him in that shabby home back in St. Louis. Haunted his dreams. Until they stared back at him in a magazine photo five years ago.
The man had memorized the caption: Charles Stoop of Oakton, a genuine overnight success in the corporate landscaping industry.
“Remember when your name was Gilley?” the man asks, letting the name Gilley slither down his tongue and out of his mouth for the first time in years.
Stoop furrows his brow, then narrows his eyes, as though he’s trying to bring the man’s face into focus. He tries to shake his head, but stops when the metal clasp begins to eat away at the soft flesh of his neck.
“You called me ‘Little Punk’ back then. Probably didn’t even know my name,” the man says, then leans in close enough for a whisper. “You still don’t. Never will.”
The man is distracted momentarily by the sound of a car driving up and stopping near the house. He edges toward the window and slips a look through a thin gap in the curtains.
He sees nothing but darkness beyond the reach of a streetlight, halfway down the block. The man watches, searching the shadows. Sees no one.
“My mother was not a bad person, just someone stuck in a bad life,” he says, turning away from the window. “She would’ve gotten out of it in time, but you ended her life, Gilley.”
Stoop’s eyes grow large, forcing his hairline to recede some. That gives the man an idea.
He can feel his mother’s presence, like he has his entire adult life. He can almost see her over there in the corner, looking at him from beyond the shadows. Imagines her face as he remembers it the last time he saw her alive. Smiling.
“I’ve looked for you for thirty years, Gilley.”
Stoop is trying to say something. Probably a denial of some sort. The man expected that.
In time he’ll slice his throat, just like Gilley did to his mother. But there’s no rush.
The man calmly clutches Stoop by the chin to hold his head in place, and trims a couple inches off the man’s hairline to give himself a bigger canvas to work with.
“The more you struggle and try to move, the deeper the blade will go,” the man says, and sees a look of bottomless resignation in his captive’s eyes, and knows that he’s made a sale.
Then he presses the tip of his knife against Stoop’s pale forehead and begins carving a stick figure.
Chapter 88
Chapa’s route to the house was determined by the shadows from trees in the front lawns and the vehicles parked in driveways. When he was just a yard away, he crossed the street again, back to the side opposite the house, the same one his car was parked on, half a block down.
He didn’t care if a neighbor saw him crossing their property, or huddling behind an oak tree. What would they do? Call the cops?
It was an unusually warm night. November typically arrived with frigid temperatures and sometimes snow. But Chapa felt warm under his jacket and could feel the sweat gathering along the back of his neck. Though he knew it might have nothing to do with the temperature.
When Chapa was just past the driveway, he decided to take a chance and cross a well-lit section of Elm Grove Street, instead of continuing on another thirty-five feet to where the darkness took over again. He stayed low, like a soldier crossing a trench, until he got to the other side, close to where the white Ford was parked, then slipped around a tall fence and started up the drive.
Had he seen someone come this way? The man who got out of the sedan? Chapa had thought so, but looking back down the stree
t now, he couldn’t see his own car, and decided the guy he’d seen was likely the next door neighbor getting home.
Gravel crunched softly underfoot as he approached the front corner of the house, and Chapa felt the muscles in his back stiffen when he tried to limit the noise.
The near half of the narrow drive offered only a smattering of moonlight that fought its way through branches and dying leaves. The long, bowing path was bookended by the house on one side and a fence on the other. Light from another yard rubbed up against the last few feet of the house and spilled onto the gravel and concrete. The shadow of the chain-link fence painted a slanted crisscross grid on the broken concrete, creating a madman’s game board in dark and light.
Chapa stayed close to the house as he worked his way up the driveway. Ducking under the first window he passed, Chapa then turned to sneak a look inside. The room was as dark as the rest of the first floor. He paused for a moment and watched for movement, but saw none.
Maybe he had been wrong about the house. He’d already been off about so many different things during the past week. Was he still several days’ worth of news behind everyone else?
Turning away from the window, he started up the driveway again, this time with far less hesitation or concern about being seen or heard. Chapa was some thirty feet from the back of the house when the shadows from tall trees gave birth to a silhouette of a man.
He was not very tall or physically imposing. But Chapa stopped and retreated a few steps, not because he was surprised or scared, but out of respect for the gun the man was holding.
“Are you following me? Have you been following me?”
Chapa squinted, trying to get a better look.
“I asked you a question,” George Forsythe said, stepping into the meager light. The shadows painting a complex pattern across his face.
“No, George, I did not know you’d be here.”
“Then why are you here?” He spoke in a low, controlled growl, punctuating his words with tight jabs of his gun hand.
Chapa extended his hands as he spoke, open palm, to show Forsythe he wasn’t armed.
“I followed a couple of leads to this house. Had a sense something might be happening here tonight.”
Forsythe lowered his head, but the weapon remained pointed at Chapa.
“Too many people have died already, Chapa. This ends tonight. But it’s got nothing to do with you. Get the hell out of here.”
“But, George—”
“No,” Forsythe said, then recoiled a little, as though his voice had escaped with more force than he’d intended. “Listen, Alex, turn around, walk away, and keep walking.”
“Will you talk to me after all of this, whatever this is, is over?”
Forsythe’s shoulders slumped as he shook his head. “No. But if I were you I’d round up the people I love and leave this town for a while.”
Chapa took cautious steps toward Forsythe, until he could start to make out his features.
“Let me go with you, George. I spoke with Bendix, he told me how—”
“Bendix? What do you know about Bendix?” His gun hand was trembling. “Turn around right now and walk away, Chapa, or you will be next.”
Chapa started to say something, but stopped as he watched Forsythe raise and steady the gun, and aim it at his face.
“Chakowski wasn’t supposed to die, you understand that?”
“Sure, I understand.”
“We were only planning to leave your reporter friend a little warning. That was all. I’m just an electrician. And that’s all I did.”
“I believe you.”
“But somebody changed something,” Forsythe said and looked up toward the house. “Son of a bitch knew how to rig an explosion.”
“It wasn’t your fault, George.”
Forsythe was shaking his head like something was rattling around in there.
“Just get out of here, Chapa, now.”
After taking one final look into the man’s eyes and seeing nothing but a dark swill of desperation, Chapa turned and walked down the driveway without looking back. He didn’t have to look to know Forsythe was still standing there, still pointing the gun at the back of his head.
Chapter 89
Chapa walked down the street and straight to his car, looking back at the house every few steps. The light was still on in an upstairs window, but there was no sign of Forsythe in the front yard or along the driveway.
He got in, started the engine, and drove off, slowing as he passed the house so Forsythe would see him drive by—if he was still watching. Chapa turned left at the first intersection, and then again at the next one, onto the parallel street on the other side of the block, and parked the car.
Chapa had counted the number of houses from 414 Elm Grove to the corner—there were six—and hoped that each had a matching backyard neighbor. The sixth house along this street was a simple brick ranch with a dark green van parked in the driveway and an old red pickup truck along the front curb.
There were lights on in what Chapa assumed was the living room, and more along the back that poured across the driveway, probably through a kitchen window or the landing on the way down to the basement. Chapa got out and approached the house, walking down the sidewalk like he was just another neighbor out for an evening stroll.
Chapa paused when he reached a hedge that ran the length of the driveway before it disappeared into the darkness past the two-car garage. He looked around and across the street. There were lights on in several nearby homes, but the yards and street were empty.
He turned up the driveway, squeezing past the van, then walked brisk and stayed low. This pavement was smooth and his steps were quiet. The smell of fabric softener spilled out through a steam vent on the side of the house, near a basement window. There were small bushes along the opposite side of the driveway and a basketball hoop above the wide garage door, its net so new it almost glowed.
As Chapa slipped past a side door, he heard a dog bark inside the house. Then again. Now more intense and the animal seemed to be following him toward the back of the house.
When he heard voices coming from inside, Chapa knew the time for coyness was over. He sprinted down the rest of the driveway and into the blackness along the side of the garage.
The dog’s barking drifted away into the background, then stopped altogether. Chapa imagined the poor animal being admonished by annoyed owners.
Or perhaps they were about to let the dog out.
Remembering how he’d noticed the fences lining three sides of the yard, Chapa knew he had at least one more obstacle ahead. When he reached the back of the garage, he saw that there were actually two fences pressed against one another.
The near one was a newer, natural wood picket fence standing roughly four feet. Directly behind it was a collection of faded brown splinters that may have once passed for a fence, now held together by twisted, rusted wires.
Apparently the owners of this house had wanted so badly to separate themselves from their neighbors that they’d built a fence against an existing one on the other side. It surprised Chapa that they had not built it much higher.
A series of unruly bushes and tall weeds blocked Chapa’s view of the house he was heading for. But one of those bushes also offered a high branch he could grasp to lift himself over both fences. He anchored his foot in the V-shaped elbow between two pickets and searched for stable footing along the older fence. There was none.
Realizing that he’d have to make a leap for it, Chapa placed each foot on pointed picket tips, clutched the branch with both hands, and jumped. The two fences were only separated by six inches or so, but when he heard the branch snap Chapa knew he should’ve thought twice about this.
He fell to the side, just beyond the second fence, landing on his left shoulder and feeling the bite from an old wound. His trailing leg caught on the wire, the old metal chewing through his jeans and into the flesh of his thigh.
Chapa groaned as he yanked free, tak
ing several rotted slats with him. He rolled into a squat behind the bushes and pressed a hand against his leg, deciding to ignore the ache in his shoulder and back.
Through the branches he could see the unkempt lawn, and the back of the house, but no sign of Forsythe or anyone else. Locating an opening between the bushes, Chapa squeezed through.
The yard was littered with twigs, rocks, and more broken pieces of fencing. As he came around the garage, Chapa saw an awning above a small landing that led to the back door. Through a warped metal screen he saw the door was open.
Needing to get a look inside, Chapa crept toward the house, stepping as lightly as he could manage on a bed of dried twigs and dead leaves. Three cement steps, the bottom one crumbling, led up to the door.
Chapa skipped the first step, but found the second was also is bad shape. He leaned toward the door and listened. A man’s voice drifted out from a distant room, perhaps on the second floor.
Then he heard a second man, calmer, no hint of stress in his voice. But Chapa could not make out what they were saying.
The police should be there in no more than ten or fifteen minutes. But what if Jackson had not taken him seriously?
Chapa knew the cops downtown had zero respect for him. He’d been an irritant, one who occasionally showed them up by revealing a crime that area police had not yet confirmed, or the details of an investigation before they were officially made public.
Would they leave him hanging? The department, yes. But not Tom Jackson. Chapa believed that, at the very least, Jackson would come by and bring a cruiser with him.
But when? How soon?
The voices inside seemed to get a little louder, but Chapa still couldn’t make out what they were saying. If he took just a single step inside he might be able to hear everything. That would be good, Chapa thought, he could tell Jackson and his men what to expect when they got there.