by D. D. Ayres
Noah walked back to Mark’s truck and hopped in. “Drive around the corner. I’m going to double back and check the rear, make sure Cody’s not hiding in there.”
As they drove around the corner, Noah spotted a gravel city utility easement threading between the backyards of houses facing Hobart and the next street.
“Stop here.” He got out with Harley on the leash. His excuse if he was seen—walking Harley.
Durvan pushed his head through the window, looking like a bulldog with a mustache. “Don’t do something stupid, Glover.”
“Right.”
Noah hurried down the gravel lane into the darkness, fairly certain that the easement wouldn’t be blocked by debris. Some of the houses had fenced yards. Behind them dogs barked. In one he heard the splash of what sounded like a fountain. He heard TV sets, children, and adults talking. He listened but discounted them as not relevant as he counted houses back to the middle of the block and Cody’s residence.
He kept a tight leash on Harley who, in his work harness, knew he was to keep quiet. Bomb dogs were careful by nature. Almost delicate in their actions in sniffing out their targets. No one wanted an excitable dog who might knock over a device, setting off the explosion his or her handler was working to prevent. A positive find meant sitting down. Harley’s reaction to a big positive was to lie down, ears pricked forward, as if pointing out the direction.
There was only a three-foot high-cheap wooden fence around the back of Cody’s house. A half-hearted attempt to set a boundary. Noah opened the gate and ducked under an over-hanging branch as he moved toward the back door.
He knocked and listened. Nothing. He tried the door. Locked. In the shrouded darkness he couldn’t see much. After another knock, he chanced it and opened his phone, letting the meager light play over the door. It wouldn’t be hard to force. Breaking and entering. Compared to arson and manslaughter charges, that didn’t seem so bad.
He looked down at Harley. “I smell gas. Do you smell gas?”
He was in before he allowed himself to think hard. The kitchen smelled of stale pizza and something much worse. Spoiled eggs? Cabbage?
Harley sneezed twice.
“Yeah. Disgusting.” Chances were, Cody hadn’t been home in at least three days. Smells like that would have driven all but the sickest jerk-off to do a little cleaning.
Noah held his breath and hurried into the main room. The light of his phone wasn’t cutting it. He’d have to take a chance. He found a switch in the hallway and flipped it. There were three rooms off that hall. A bedroom at either end and a bathroom into which he stared. It was clean. He went toward the back bedroom.
There was a double bed made up with a chenille spread. A small floor lamp and a cheap desk with one drawer made of pressed board. Noah opened the drawer with a hand covered with the tail of his shirt.
The drawer was stuffed full of newspaper clippings. Several fell out. They were about Noah. He picked up a few more, uncaring that he was leaving prints now. Every article was about him. Photos of every honor he’d received or stories about when he’d closed an arson case.
He stuffed them back in and pushed the drawer closed.
He and Harley moved quickly to the front room. The blinds were drawn but he knew he was taking a chance opening his phone for light. This time he didn’t have to open or touch a thing.
He switched off the light and hurried through the back door, wedging it tightly so it wouldn’t be immediately apparent that it had been jimmied.
He forced himself to walk back down the easement. Harley trotted along, wanting a quicker pace too.
Durvan was leaning against the truck, parked at the end of the gravel road. Mark was still behind the wheel.
“He’s not here. And there’s no sign of Carly having been here either. No signs of a struggle.”
Durvan nodded. “We’re done.”
“Don’t think so. You might want to have a look at this.”
Durvan looked down at the phone Noah thrust at him. He’d pulled up photos—of photos. Two were shots of Noah and his son out at Fort Woof. Two were of him with Carly, taking in the shadow of her apartment building. In one they were kissing.
Durvan looked up. “What’s this about?”
“Those photos are taped over the bed in the front bedroom of Cody’s house.”
Durvan stared at the pictures again, his squint all but swallowing up his eyes by the time he was done. When he again looked up at Noah, the focused gaze of a hunter on the scent had appeared. “Looks like we got us a new person of interest.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Carly came awake sluggishly. One drink. She’d had one drink she didn’t finish because she wanted to get away from—
Jarred by the memory of Cody, her eyes flew open. The world beyond her gaze was black. She blinked several times. Each time her lashes touched and caught briefly against something. Covering. Over her eyes. The sensation carried a memory. She’d once done a photo spread with Arnaud where the models were blindfolded and told to grope around a set filled with designer bags, shoes, and other accessories until they touched something. They were to freeze in positions of surprise, delight, or awe—even though they had no idea what prompted those happy reactions.
But this time there was no groping possible.
Her hands were tied. Behind her back.
She opened her mouth to—No. She couldn’t open it.
Her mouth was taped shut.
Pure terror shot through her at the realization. For several seconds she twisted and bucked, trying in a blind panic to disentangle herself from whatever bound her mouth, hands, and feet. All she managed to do was fall off the edge of something onto a hard floor. The fall knocked the breath out of her.
For several seconds her heart pounded in her ears while she was certain she was about to suffocate. Breathing through her nostrils didn’t seem to bring in enough oxygen. Tears started behind her blindfold.
She fought the sudden roll of her stomach. If she were sick, she knew she’d choke to death.
You’re alive. You’re alive, Carly Harrington-Reese. Live. Live. Live.
The words rang clearly if silently in her head. If someone—Cody?—had wanted her dead, she wouldn’t be breathing. Someone had left her alive. Her job? Stay alive.
She lay on the floor so long she couldn’t guess how much time passed before the roaring in her ears ceased. Gradually her senses came back. She smelled old wood and dust and the faint musk of a dead animal. Beneath her cheek there was a fine silt of grime. She was inside. In a place that hadn’t been cleaned in a long time. No point in imagining what shared the darkness with her.
A sneeze wracked her body, bending her in on herself. Oh please Oh please. No more sneezes. Her nose would fill and then she’d be choking again.
She held her breath. It worked for hiccups. She didn’t know about sneezes. But she had few options. Seconds passed. No more sneezes.
After a few moments more, she realized she wasn’t injured. She could flex her fingers. Wiggle her toes. Bend her knees toward her chest. Move her head from side to side. She needed to sit. Sitting would make her feel better than lying there like a sack of bagged potatoes.
It took a little maneuvering. But she’d always been flexible. Once on her back, she was able to do an awkward sit-up. Using her heels, she pushed herself backward until she came up against the object she’d fallen off of. Cold metal pressed across her back and upper arms. Above the metal lay something soft. A quilt? She remembered now the squeal of springs as she’d fallen. A cot frame?
She leaned her head back against it to rest. Figuring out how to untie herself was going to take time. A thrill of fear fluttered through her dodgy stomach. How much time did she have? Was Cody coming back? Or had he abandoned her? Abandonment was preferable. With time, she would get loose. She absolutely believed it.
She ignored the icy feel of the room. It wasn’t a cold night. But her fingers tingled from a lack of blood flow in them. She f
lexed them over and over, forcing blood through her veins. Then she did the same with her feet, then pushed and pulled her knees back and forth on the floor until she was breathing a bit hard. Now what?
Get your mouth clear, Carly.
In her struggle to sit, she realized that whatever was taped over her mouth had become gummy from the heat of her breath. It moved now as she strained to open her mouth. She vaguely remembered hearing something about being able to eat duct tape off one’s face. A trick at a party? Or a YouTube video? Her head was full of so many semi-useless things.
She pushed her tongue between her lips and tried to stretch her mouth. It hurt as the tape pulled at the sensitive skin of her lips and cheeks. But doing something felt better than doing nothing. She pulled her mouth wide again and again, each time pushing with her tongue until, little miracle, a side came loose. She tried to rub her mouth on her shoulder but didn’t get much friction because of her arms being tied behind her.
Patience, Carly. It’s working.
After another minute she had an end in her mouth and she chewed frantically, until she was panting. She paused to just breathe. She wasn’t a mouth breather but not being able to have the alternative had horrified her. After several deep slow breaths, she went back to work, finally chewing it all off.
Uncovering her eyes wasn’t going to be that easy. She realized as she worked the tape over her mouth that her eyes were sticky, too. And that when she moved her head, it felt wrapped all the way around by a tight band. No way was duct tape going to come out of her hair with a struggle. That thought revved her anxiety.
“You did good, Carly. Don’t crap out on yourself now.”
Her voice! The sound of it was the most heartening thing so far. Talking to herself was soothing.
“Think, girl. What next?”
Sounds of a distant vehicle snagged her attention. Not hard to hear in darkness without sounds. Except there were some. Scratchings at the baseboards and just outside that she’d refused to acknowledge. The faint bark of a hound. But not engines. No appliances humming, like a refrigerator. Nothing moving in her space, until now. The truck was coming closer.
The irrational thumping of her heart was as foolish as the hope her blindfold and bindings would suddenly dissolve. Anyone coming here probably wasn’t anyone she wanted to see.
The panic she’d been pushing away came back roaring louder than the truck engine sounding much closer. She was at the mercy of whoever drove that truck. Only crazy people abducted other people. Crazy men abducted women for horrible reasons.
The truck engine died. The crunch of footsteps neared, and then boot heels rang on concrete outside. The sound of a key in the lock scraped along her nerve endings. And then somewhere in the distance a door creaked open.
“Sweet baby Jesus, protect me.” She couldn’t help it, she cringed.
* * *
Mistake! He’d fucking let his dick take charge.
He paced the entry of the unfinished house, the heels of his boots clacking on the tile entry, despite the booties he wore.
For a few minutes in the bar, when Carly had looked at him with those big eyes while he was talking about fighting fires, he thought, I’m in there. Knew where the night was headed. Women were like moths to a fireman’s flame.
The pocket of his hazmat suit crackled as he reached for his phone to check the time. She’d be coming around soon. Unless he dosed her again.
Lots of women liked men with dangerous jobs. They thought it made a man a better lover because all of the testosterone it took to brave the danger. Screw the women who fought fires.
“Penis envy” was how one older firefighter had explained the phenomenon to him when he first came on the job.
Whatever. Women wanting a penis? That was just sicko.
Something changed Carly’s mind about him. Was it his burn scars? He was proud of his tats. She’d seemed fascinated.
Maybe he’d talked too much. That story about a burned-up body. Yeah. Should have kept his trap shut over that. Darlene hated those stories. But some women liked gore.
The wariness in Carly’s gaze as she tried to disengage hit him like a kick in the gut. Ice pick to his ego, the way she’d tried to leave. Twice.
He hadn’t taken a single deep breath until she returned from the restroom. He’d paced just outside the Ladies door until he got a funny look from the waitress.
The food he’d brought with him and hidden underneath the table was cool by the time she returned. But he was prepared. Just a little bit of sugar to help the medicine go down.
He’d already planned their evening. How he’d do it, and where.
Construction in a new neighborhood off Village Parkway, just north of Alta Mesa, had ceased when the builder came up short on money. A single half-built house was the only structure in the two-block area. New construction tucked into the vee between I-35W and I-20 was vulnerable to thieves who could jump off either highway, loot and jump back on, carrying away copper tubing, wiring, paneling, brick, rebar, whatever could sell quickly.
CowTown had sent him to check on the cleanup following damage from thieves. The isolated house met all his requirements. Always on the lookout for potential sources, he’d made a copy of the key, just in case.
He thought of it when Carly agreed to meet him. He’d set up the cot in the house that afternoon. Brought alcohol to wipe anything they touched down. Careful planning.
He’d brought her here to do the dirty and then he planned to have her back in her car and parked in her apartment parking lot before the glory juice wore off.
She’d wake up not knowing what had happened. His word against hers that he was the man who’d fucked her. She deserved it. Saving and then screwing his nemesis.
And who’d believe she’d been raped? A model? Not like she hadn’t done it hundreds of times. With hundreds of men. He’d be just one more. But, he’d have the secret knowledge that he’d screwed Glover’s bitch and left her without an idea who her assailant was.
But then she’d started talking as he drove her to their destination, rambling on about needing to talk with Glover, how she found the man who’d tried to kill him.
That’s when the plan took a radical turn.
“Fucking bitch!” She’d found him out, somehow. She wouldn’t answer any direct questions but she was getting worked up. So he’d had to tie her up, using the electrical tape from his backseat. Getting her in the house was easy after that.
But then he found he couldn’t get it up.
He didn’t rape her. She was supposed to like it. A comatose woman couldn’t get him off.
The heat was rising in his blood, that boiling pressure that needed release. But he wasn’t going to make any more mistakes.
So he’d left her while he went somewhere to think. Two hours later, he had squat. Now he was back, to make certain she hadn’t been found. But that possibility would disappear with the sunrise.
“Shit!” The universe was against him.
What to do? What to do? He slapped both sides of his head with the palms of his hands as he paced. Got to be a way out.
He took out his lighter and began flicking it, watching the flame with hypnotic fascination. He waved his hand over the flame, feeling the heat curl and sting his palm. Even as he hissed in a breath in reaction, he knew the pain wasn’t going to be enough. He needed a fire.
He looked around. The shell of the house he was standing in, with unfinished wallboard and open insulation in the attic, would make a helluva blaze. Light up the night sky like a Roman candle.
But he wasn’t a killer.
“Fuck.” He pressed his burnt palm into his mouth, licking at the pain like an animal would.
The first death was Glover’s fault. Glover deserved to die for making him so enraged he’d forgotten his protocol for setting the fire that accidently killed that poor homeless fart. Always before he’d been meticulous. That was why Glover couldn’t catch him. But the game had to end. He pocketed his ligh
ter.
If only Noah had gone up in smoke. A just death for a death.
Carly was a whole different matter. He couldn’t kill her. But he couldn’t let her go either.
But maybe he could make what happen to her look like Glover’s fault.
He paused. If she died in a fire, just like all the others they thought Glover set, in every detail, the police might conclude that Glover had killed the only eyewitness to his suicide attempt.
“Won’t work.” He spoke aloud to keep from spooking himself. He needed to think it through.
What could she know that would make Glover look guiltier?
Pillow talk. Glover had bragged to her that he’d gotten away with arson before he was arrested. Now she was a liability.
No. He needed something less complicated.
Easier if she simply disappeared. A corpse found in a fire without ID could take weeks, months to identify. Glover might already be convicted.
Of course, the disappearance of a celebrity would draw lots of attention. If and when they did identify her, Glover would naturally be a suspect.
He smiled. He had photos of them together. Taken with his cell phone.
He could send them to the police, anonymously. After a couple of weeks. Nudge the arson investigators. They might not be able to pin it on Glover, but it would look bad that the woman who saved him had disappeared. And they would have picture proof that he’d been witness tampering before his arrest.
Witness fucking, more like. At least he had them kissing.
The great solid mass of indecision resting on his chest began to lift.
He’d needed to cover his own tracks for the evening.
No one had seen him follow her. He very conspicuously went out the front door five minutes after Carly left by the backdoor. He’d thought he might have to follow her home. But there she was, sitting behind the wheel of her car, looking lost. A whisper in the dark. That’s all it took. And he was behind her wheel.
He’d have Darleen swear he was home from eight o’clock on. She’d say anything if he got her that new motocross bike she wanted. Like a maggot in her head, she couldn’t stop droning on about it every time they watched a competition. He’d be able to buy a hot bike somewhere. He knew a guy.