Flamingo Road

by Sasscer Hill

  “I know,” I said, staring through the window to the blue pool outside. After ending the call, I left my bedroom and went to check on the filly.

  Her stall opened onto a half acre of paddock, only she couldn’t have access because the enclosure had enough space for her to work up a gallop and aggravate the tendon. I thought a moment and smiled. Finally, something I could actually do.

  I drove the Mini to the closest farm supply, bought a fence charger, plastic posts, and wire. When I got back, I pushed the pointed ends of the posts into the ground, strung the wire, and hooked up the charger. Now the paddock had a small rectangle sectioned off outside the rear door of Last Call’s stall. I led her out on a shank, showed her the wire, then set her loose. One zap when her nose touched the wire was enough. She snorted and shied away from the fence, but didn’t retreat to her stall. Instead, she walked about and grazed a little.

  I took the opportunity to clean her stall, and felt calm descend over me as I left it spotless, changed her water, and freshened her supply of hay. Finished, I stood in her opened doorway and breathed in the scent of horse, dust, grass, and the ever present salt air. A pony at the farm next door trotted to the edge of its paddock, raised its head over the fence, and whinnied at Last Call. She stared at the pony and whinnied back.

  Being with the horse relaxed me a little, and I dragged myself back to my room. After cranking the phone volume to max in case a call came in, I collapsed on my bed and, undisturbed, slept for hours.

  Patrick woke me at seven that evening. He’d made me a drink, and loaded the kitchen table with takeout pizza and salad. We didn’t say much while we ate, both of us listening for the phone call that didn’t come.

  It was dark when I went outside after dinner to spray another stream of cold water on Last Call’s leg. A breeze had come up and blew through the barn, scuttling bits of hay along the concrete, and rattling the stall doors. Outside the rear barn door, I could see shadows moving as plants and trees swayed in the night air.

  When finished with the hose, I rubbed the anti-inflammatory Surpass into Last Call’s tendon. Thinking I should clean her feet, I grabbed a metal hoof pick and scraped dirt, straw, and manure from her hooves. I slid the pick into a pocket, put Last Call in her stall, and leaned on the door to watch her.

  I thought I heard something outside and strained to listen. The breeze rushed more fiercely through the barn, no doubt the culprit.

  My phone vibrated inside my vest pocket, and when I grabbed it, I didn’t recognize the incoming number.

  When I answered, the person’s voice was so low, I could hardly hear.

  “Fia, it’s Shyra Darnell.”

  “Shyra?”

  “Your niece is here. She’s in trouble.”

  A sick chill crawled up my spine. “Where? Where is she?”

  “Luis Valera has her. He’ll kill me if he knows I’ve called you.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “For now, but you have to get her out. They have terrible plans for her.”

  My thoughts flitted about like a bird in a cage. How the hell would I get her out? Valera’s place was huge.

  “Shyra, where, exactly, does he have her?”

  “In the house.” Her breath sucked in. “Someone’s coming.” The line went dead.

  39

  Clutching my cell, I called her name. “Shyra, are you there?” I stared at the phone, my only lead to Jilly had evaporated in my hand. I didn’t push redial. If she’d been telling the truth, my call could get her killed.

  But was Jilly really there? Or was this a setup to lure me out to Valera’s? After all, I was the only witness to Wendy’s murder, and knew the connections between Valera, Morales, and Serpentino. It was time to call Detective Bailey.

  As I searched the call log for her number, something creaked, and the wind rattled fiercely through the barn. Last Call’s head jerked up, and she blew softly, ears pricked, staring beyond me into the barn’s center aisle. I turned to follow her gaze.

  A tall man, gripping a shotgun ran toward me from the rear of the barn. A tiny black and ivory skull dangled on a leather thong encircling his neck. Shit. The Santeria I called Skull Man, the one who’d slammed his rifle butt into Zanin’s head that day in the C-9 Basin.

  My gun? In the house.

  Had Valera sent him? His lips pulled back, revealing the distorted, toothless smile I remembered.

  He raised the shotgun, pointed it at my chest. “Drop the phone, lady.”

  My pulse thundered in my ears as I frantically thumbed in Bailey’s number. From behind, something hard struck my head and the phone dropped to the floor. I sank to my knees. Swiveling, glancing up, I saw the other Santeria, the one who’d had symbols painted on his chest. The one who laughed like a hyena.

  He held a machete. His open vest revealed freshly painted marks on his skin, like war paint. Was he going to butcher me here in the barn like Cody? I lurched to my feet and whirled to make a run for Last Call’s stall. I would sprint out the back, through the electric fence, and escape.

  As my hand grasped the handle on her stall door, something hard struck my head. Back on my knees, my vision blurred, and my senses swam beneath a surface that grew dark. As I shook my head, trying to clear the dizziness, someone grabbed my arms, twisting them behind my back, tying them with what felt like cord. Grasping hands spun me around, and as I stared at the toothless smile of Skull Man, he plastered duct tape over my mouth.

  “Valera say we kill you,” he said. “But first, he say we have a little fun, yes?”

  This time, I saw the butt of his shotgun rushing at my head. The crazy laugh of a hyena faded as my world narrowed to a tiny black circle and shut down.

  * * *

  I became aware of a swaying sensation, of a hard plastic surface against my back. Wake up, Fia. Open your eyes. I did, and saw treetops and stars rolling above me. I heard an engine whining and felt a relentless pounding in my head. Pain gripped my skull like a vise. I tried to sit up, but nausea and some sort of restraint stopped me. Breathe. Think.

  I must be in the back of a pickup truck. Moving my head very slowly, I surveyed my situation. My hands were tied behind my back, my ankles trussed. They’d tied my restraints to rings on the truck wall, firmly strapping me into the truck’s bed liner. Any hopes I’d had of throwing myself out of the vehicle died.

  The head pain was so intense, it took a while before I felt a hard, sharp object digging into my butt.

  Hoof pick.

  Squirming, and fighting nausea, I shoved the fingers of one hand into my rear jean’s pocket, grasped the pick, and pulled it out. By twisting and bending my wrist, I was able to force the pick’s pointed end into a knot. I picked and pulled and picked and pulled until I wanted to weep with frustration. My wrist screamed to be free from its unnatural, twisted position. I kept going.

  As I worked, I felt the truck slow, and heard the whine of tires on pavement change to the crunch of rubber on gravel. Above me, the trees closed in, and I knew we were getting closer to Valera’s. Was I such a threat to him he would have me killed? Maybe Shyra hadn’t been trying to set me up. Maybe she’d only tried to save my niece. Maybe she’d been about to warn me the men were coming when the call went dead. But then again, she could have been trying to trick me in case Valera’s men were unable to find me.

  Don’t worry about that. Instead, I pried and tugged until I found a rhythm, working harder and faster as I felt the knot loosen. Suddenly it gave and my hands were free. I raised my head, angling it toward the truck’s back window. The two Santerias were up there and pulsating music leaked through the metal.

  The truck slowed more, hit a rutted road, and I started working on my ankles. How much time did I have? Should I flip myself out of the truck? No, I needed my feet. I kept picking and prying at the ankle knot.

  But then the truck stopped, the driver cut the engine, and I knew I’d made the wrong decision. I heard the men clambering from the cab as I ripped and tore at th
e knot binding my feet. It broke free as the two men dropped the truck’s tailgate. My heart stopped when I smelled the stench of pig, saw the pen, and those huge, feral hogs staring at me through the electrified fence.

  The hyena’s laugh, when he saw my freed hands and ankles, was high-pitched, insane. He was soaring on something. Skull Man scowled and cuffed his buddy’s head, rapidly spitting out angry Spanish words. Something about estúpido and nudo. Skull Man was apparently chastising his partner for tying stupid knots.

  Did it not occur to them I’d used a tool? Palming the pick and sliding my hand behind me, I slipped it into my rear pocket. Behind the pen’s gate, more pigs stampeded forward, squealing and drooling, their long curved tusks gleaming in the ambient light.

  Skull Man stared at me intently and climbed into the truck bed. His eyes were bloodshot. He grabbed my wrist, yanked me out of the truck, and shoved me onto the ground. The impact jarred my head, and I moaned. Nausea rose in my throat. I remained on my hands and knees waiting for it to subside.

  When I was able to glance up, the hyena stood over me with his machete. He held the blade high above me as Skull Man lowered himself to the ground and sat cross-legged next to me.

  “Your niece is very pretty,” he said, giving me his distorted smile and the stink of sour breath. “I think Valera keep her for himself, no?”

  I gave him my dead-eyed cop stare.

  Above me, the hyena cackled again. For some reason, I remembered the root word of hyena was Greek and meant “female pig.” So appropriate. I smiled.

  A vicious look twisted Skull Man’s face. “You think this is funny, puta?” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a hypodermic syringe. Bluish fluid floated inside. “We have gift for you from Luis. You are, how you say, his experimento. He want to know how blue juice work on las personas.”

  No way he was injecting that shit in me! Still on my hands and knees, I scuttled backward, lurched to my feet, and tried to run. The side of the machete blade smacked my temple and I fell, sinking close to the edge of darkness.

  As my senses cleared, hands grasped my wrists. I struggled, but the hyena twisted one arm behind my back. Skull Man grabbed the other, thrust the needle into the vein inside my elbow, and shot the plunger. He dropped my arm and drew back, as if afraid I might explode or turn into a demon. The hyena released my arm and scuttled a few steps away. They both watched me.

  Sudden nausea overwhelmed my stomach, and I vomited my dinner. The sickness seemed to last forever, until I was dry heaving with chills. Then the lovely blackness took over.

  I came to, gasping for breath, certain my lungs were filled with Freon. No room for air. I stopped trying. Let the darkness come back.

  I heard my father’s voice. Breathe, Fia, breathe. When I did, my head cleared, and the nausea receded, then faded completely away. Hyperacuity surged into my senses and I felt a wave of tremendous energy and strength pour into me.

  The two men stared at me curiously, Skull Man aiming his shotgun at me, the other one holding his machete in both hands. Glancing at the shotgun, I recognized it as an old Winchester pump-action. Oddly, a sense of well-being flooded me and I smiled at them.

  Skull Man smiled back, then glanced at his buddy. “First, we have fun with her, no? See how good this juice is. Then we give her to the pigs.”

  Hands grasped me again, yanking off my canvas vest. The machete cut my tank top and the men ripped it off.

  My hand closed on the hoof pick, and as the hyena was about to slice away my bra, I shoved the pick’s pointed end into his eye, twisting the tool, before jerking back. He screamed, a wounded animal. I shoved him away, and he crumpled to the ground. I turned to find the barrel of Skull Man’s Winchester inches from my face. He clutched the weapon with both hands. On the ground, the other Santeria moaned and crawled away into the undergrowth. Skull Man’s eyes widened as he stared at my bloody hoof pick.

  “Drop that, or I shoot you now.”

  I shrugged and let the pick fall from my fingers. I felt so good. My head no longer hurt and I had a crazy sense of being one with the universe. Careful to stay out of my reach, Skull Man pointed the Winchester at the pigpen. “Over there.”

  “No problema,” I said.

  The smile I gave him seemed to frighten him and he jabbed the shotgun barrel closer. “Now!”

  I walked to the gate. The pigs squealed, crowding and grunting, tearing at the ground with their cloven hooves.

  “You see how hungry they are?” Skull Man asked. “When I shoot your legs, I throw you over the gate. You will live a little while.” He smiled, enjoying himself, waiting and watching. He wanted to see terror in my eyes. “You beg me now, maybe I kill you before you go in pen, yes?”

  “Nah,” I said, and stepping in close, I grabbed the long barrel of his Winchester and tore it from his grasp. I was so strong! I flipped the shotgun, smashed his head with the butt, then picked him up. He seemed to weigh nothing. How could this be? Who cares? Using the gate as a fulcrum, I flipped him over it and he dropped inside.

  His screams were horrible. The grunting and squealing of the pigs even worse. I looked once, saw a hog with a hand in its mouth, and pulled my gaze away. I snatched up the Winchester and the machete before running to the truck, realizing too late the keys must have been in Skull Man’s pocket.

  Who needs a truck? I started running down Flamingo Road.

  40

  The road curved around a bend and into a straightaway where low-hanging branches and impenetrable vegetation threatened to strangle the gravel lane. My senses were so acute, I smelled swamp to my left, and heard creatures slithering in the water. Mosquitoes whined in my ears and some sort of night bird called from the slough.

  After I passed an abandoned hut on my right, a barbed-wire fence stretched beside the road into the distance. I made out vague shapes of livestock in the field, and a horse snorted in alarm. A goat bleated, and a small herd of the animals trotted after me on their side of the fence, their scent strong and gamey.

  Jilly was somewhere ahead. And Valera. And more thugs. I ran harder. The goats lost interest and fell behind. A new field spread open on my left, and the swamp smell abated. Far away, I saw the same building lights I had seen once before. Valera’s home. I passed the indistinct shape of the frog shack and its pen covered with netting.

  I slowed to a walk, hugging the edge of the road, holding the machete up to keep branches from scraping at my face. Glancing down, my abdomen’s white skin seemed to glow in the ambient light. I searched the road for water and found a puddle squishy with mud. Dropping to my knees, I rolled in the soft brown slime, smearing it over as much skin as I could. After rubbing a handful onto my face and into my hair, I rose from the muck and walked swiftly forward, searching for the entrance to Valera’s property.

  His driveway cut between two palms. One had a sign that warned to me to keep out: PROHIBIDA LA ENTRADA. Something was fastened to the other palm. Squinting, I drew closer. A horse’s tongue was nailed to the trunk. I could feel my lips twist in disgust. I’d heard of this Santeria ritual. Did Valera use it as a curse against his enemies, or as a repulsive symbol to guard his home? It sure as hell wasn’t stopping me.

  I rushed past it, zeroing in on the lighted windows of a sprawling one-story house. Built in sections, some of the structure’s walls were concrete, some just wooden planks nailed haphazardly together. In the dim light it appeared that different types of shingles covered the roof and I could imagine the occupants looting construction sites for the bits and pieces that made up Valera’s house.

  Creeping clockwise, I began circling the building. It was shaped like a T. The front door was centered in the top bar, and a long tail of add-ons had been constructed behind. As I moved, I stared through the few windows not blocked by ratty curtains or blankets.

  I passed a kitchen with a sink full of dirty dishes and a grimy stove. A whiff of salsa and rancid meat grease assailed my nose. I passed a high window that was probably a bathroom
, and peered into a small room with two unmade beds at the tail end of the T.

  No sign of Jilly. A dim light seeped from the window of the bedroom and I used it to examine my Winchester. The shotgun was an old 12-gauge pump-action. I could smell gun oil and when I checked the action, it was smooth. The magazine held six shells. I felt like kissing the weapon.

  I strained to perceive sounds, scents, or the sensation of human presence. Nothing.

  Quickly, I circled past the tail end of the house and moved up the far side. So much of the interior was hidden by blankets and burlap bags tacked over windows, I gathered no additional information.

  But when I reached the front corner of the house, I froze.

  Through a lighted window, I saw two men sitting on a battered couch drinking beer and watching TV. A third man, built like a fireplug with a severely battered nose, sat in a recliner holding a bottle of beer. I blinked, stared. The lid of the man’s left eye sagged badly. Above his right eye, the brow rose high and formed a question mark. Luis Valera, as hideous as his photo.

  On the floor, next to him lay a large canvas bag with US MAIL stenciled on it in black ink. The drawstring at the top was pulled almost shut, but just inside it I could see a stack of rubber-banded bills. The bag was probably stuffed with cash. If Valera was backward enough to scrape dermorphin off frogs instead of synthesizing the drug, he probably didn’t have access to a fancy money-laundering operation, either.

  A second glance at the men on the couch revealed two sets of long, greasy hair, pulled back into ponytails. One man’s bare arms were inked with tattoos, and on both men, what looked like Santeria charms dangled from leather thongs on their necks. The guy with the tats had a full beard and a big gut. The other man was fit, with jet-black eyes, and a week’s worth of dirty, untrimmed bristles on his face. The thought of these men touching Jilly sickened me. I tried to calm my thoughts. I couldn’t blast my way into the house; there must be some way to trick these people. It wouldn’t be long before they missed their buddies at the hog pen and—