The Angel of the Abyss

by Hank Schwaeble

  “Do I need an ID for those?”

  The clerk stared down at the display, confused. “Those? You mean, shotgun shells? No. Not unless you're under eighteen. I mean—”

  “I understand. Thanks. I'll take a box. And I think I'll take that pocket knife, too.” She watched the gal retrieve the items and place them on the counter. “Hey, while I'm here, would you happen to have any marbles?”

  A quick trip down another aisle, following the check-out clerk’s directions, followed by a hundred dollar bill being handed over and change received, and then Amy headed to the bathroom with her haul. The stall at the end was extra-large to accommodate wheelchair access. It had a changing table in it. She latched the stall door behind her and emptied the plastic bag of items onto the table. A multi-pack of Sterno. Can of hairspray. Quick-drying epoxy glue. Lighter. Small roll of duct tape. A box of crazy groundhog spinners. A folding knife with a ridged handle fashioned to resemble an antler. A small bag of jacks and marbles.

  And one box of twenty-gauge shotgun shells.

  On the wall above the changing table was a cardboard poster depicting a cartoon woman on a horse with a beaming smile and perfect teeth. A rope was looped into cursive letters above her head, sloped across the top.

  COWGIRL UP!

  Amy ballooned her cheeks and stared down at the assortment. You are either really clever or insane beyond all recognition.

  Ten minutes later, she left the bathroom and headed for the diner.

  The sun was low on the horizon, casting a bright sideways glare through the windows. There were booths and tables and a long stretch of counter. A scattering of patrons, mostly men in work shirts and jeans with foam hats and beards. Two dark-haired girls, teenagers more than likely, sat at a booth engrossed in some sort of competition with their iPhones, lots of piercings between them. A waitress was the only other woman in view, taking an order from a leathery-skinned man with bristly gray stubble and knuckly hands. Amy looked the men over quickly but carefully, one by one, rejecting each.

  The men all looked up and the room grew quieter as she made her way to the row of stools and slid onto one of the cushions that spun in place.

  A cup of coffee and ten minutes of conversation with a pale brunette behind the counter named Claire about men in general and soldiers in particular eventually pointed her in the right direction, though it came with a disapproving look and a tongue-clucking admonishment. The woman hadn't seen many military types come through, certainly no regulars, but she did know where the next best source of information could be found. Amy had neither the time nor the inclination to correct the woman's inference and set her mind at ease. Especially considering it was the exact one Amy was trying to create with her look.

  “There's a couple of picnic benches out behind the gas pumps,” Claire said. “Technically, it's not on our property. That's where the, uh, working girls go to, you know, hang out. Boss doesn't like it, but guys, on the road...” She shrugged, looked down and began wiping the countertop. “You didn't hear it from me.”

  “Thank you. I mean it.”

  “Don't thank me for that. Getting in a truck with a strange man from parts unknown, headed God knows where sounds like a quick way for a nice gal to end up in a shallow grave.” She fluttered a hand and looked away. “But to each her own, I guess.”

  Amy wasn't sure how to respond to that except to say thank you, so she left a twenty on the counter and slipped her purse over her shoulder as she turned and walked away.

  She pushed through the back glass doors and headed toward the pumps.

  The smell of fuel and exhaust made her cover her hose and snort. The fumes were strong enough she felt a bit lightheaded as she made her way across the asphalt. Heat rose off the blacktop and slid over her skin. The chugging of huge diesel engines throbbed in her ears, the screech of hydraulic breaks punctuating the din. She could feel eyes following her, on and off.

  There were four picnic tables beyond the pavement, set in a flat patch of rough. The ground was solid, all gritty, sandy hardpan. A few mounds of straw-colored grass dotted the area in conspicuous clumps. Amy expected to see a tumbleweed blow by at any moment. None did.

  A woman was stretched out on one of the tables, propped on her elbows, head tilted backward, basking. She had dark hair and large sunglasses. Her skin was a deep shade of olive. She was wearing cut-off jeans and a blue bikini top, a pair of flip-flops next to her feet. A heavy-duty canvas bag, thread-worn and frayed, rested on the bench near her arm, bulging at the sides with hard lines pressing out against the material.

  She looked over as Amy drew near and sat up, swinging her feet over and onto the bench. Short and stubby feet, with black toenails.

  A long stare, eyes hidden behind dark lenses. “Startin' early tonight?” she finally said.

  “I could say the same thing.”

  The gal shrugged. She was young. Maybe twenty, Amy figured. Definitely south of twenty-five. Probably carrying fifteen or so pounds she'd prefer not to, with a roll of skin lipping over the waist of her shorts.

  “Just got here a minute ago or so. Was catching the last few rays. This is when I like it, right before the sun drops too low.”

  “I burn easily,” Amy said. “Like if I sit too long at a traffic light.”

  “Good thing about being Latina,” she said, her cheek dimpling in a smirk. “Don't really worry too much. Not unless I fall asleep or something.”

  “Well, don't let me interrupt you. I was just scoping out the spot.”

  “You're not interrupting. I need to get some studying done anyway.”

  Amy nodded, but had no idea what the gal meant by that. She was tempted to leave and come back, but the clock in her head was ticking, and she wasn't anxious to give up a potential source of information so easily. Even if she was at a loss to say exactly what information this one might have and wasn't even sure if her instincts were anywhere close to being on target, whether she was reading any of the situation correctly.

  “What time do the others tend to show up? I've never tried this spot.”

  “You're wasting your time, whoever you are and whatever you're up to. Nobody but Johns are going to come within a hundred yards if you sit out here.”

  “I don't understand.”

  “Lady, I don't know who or what you're looking for, but you're a solid nine, some might even say a ten. Ain't no one above a six who comes out here. You put a photo of your ass on line, nothing but your panties on, make some eyes at the camera over your shoulder and shit, you'd have your appointment book filled. Ain't no way someone like you should be out here.” She looked around as if she were considering what kind of place it was for the first time.

  “Then why don't you do that?”

  Amy opened her mouth again after the words came out, like she wanted them to flow back in. She hated herself for knowing the answer.

  If the woman was offended, she didn't show it. She said nothing for an awkward moment. Then she pulled down her sunglasses to reveal a scar running from the side of her left brow across her eyelid. The eye itself was a bit milky, its color muted, like an object that had been left outside too long, exposed to the elements.

  As if to add an exclamation point, she smiled and pushed the glasses back into place. She was missing at least three front teeth. Two on the bottom, one on the top.

  “Guys who go online, they tend to be picky. They can be uglier than roadkill themselves, but they want the girl who shows up at their door to be exactly as advertised. You hide anything in the picture you can't hide in real life, they change their mind and don't want to pay a dime and it can be a real hassle and waste of time. Which is why a lot of those gals use pimps, and I won't go that route, no way.”

  “What's your name?”

  “Crystal. Don't look at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you feel
sorry for me. That's another reason I know you're not what you're pretending to be. I'd say cop, but that doesn't fit, either.”

  Amy couldn't resist. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I never saw no cops carrying a Hermes bag or wearing shoes that cost, what, five hundred dollars?”

  Two hundred and ninety, Amy thought. But she did catch them on sale.

  “No,” she continued, “I'd say you're some mom looking for her spoiled runaway junkie kid she heard was turning tricks. Don't get me wrong, you're a MILF. But you being out here is stupid. You don't belong. Anyone can see that.”

  “Maybe not, but neither do you. Look... Crystal... why don't you let me buy you dinner. We can talk. Maybe we can help each other.”

  “I knew it!” Crystal snapped her fingers, stabbed the air, pointing. “So that's what you are! Some church chick! Here to rescue poor lost souls from the street!”

  “No. That's not it.”

  “Whatever. Just leave, okay? I don't need rescuing. I need to study, then make some money.”

  Amy watched as the gal reached for her satchel. She took a breath. Time for a different approach.

  “Okay, let's cut the bullshit. What do you earn a night out here–” she turned, glanced back at the pumps, two tractor trailers filling up, engines chugging, “sucking sweaty cocks in the back of semis?”

  “What the hell? You think you can just talk—”

  “How much. Three hundred? If you're lucky? I'll double that. Cash. I just need some information. That's all. Then you can go whore all you want the rest of the night for all I care.”

  Crystal sat like a sphinx for several seconds, sunglasses trained on Amy. “Money first.”

  “No. I get good info, you get money. I'm the only one with something to lose. If you lie, I'll know it. As long as you’re honest, I'll pay you a hundred for your time, even if what you have to tell me is crap.”

  She leaned on one arm, crossed the other in front of her and grabbed her elbow. “Okay, pushy lady. What do you want to know?”

  “Guys. Military, clean-cut types. Probably crew cuts. Twenties, thirties maybe. Any come through here, looking for girls?”

  She was silent for a moment. “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I don't think I've ever seen a military guy come through here once. Not when I've been here. I know there had to have been some, but I can't think of one. Maybe a truck driver with a crew cut every now and then.”

  Amy looked down, eyes tracing the ground. Her gaze settled on her pedicured feet, toes showing at the edges of her Prada wedges. Why hadn't she just bought something cheap? Had she become that used to having money? Is that why she'd given Hatcher such a hard time about spending so much?

  “What about other girls, girls like you? How many come out here at night?”

  “Friday like this? They'll be three or four others. Not till later, though.”

  Amy whiffled a breath through her lips, thinking. She noticed Crystal open her mouth a tiny bit, then close it. “What?”

  “I didn't say anything.”

  “You were about to. What is it? Tell me. Any information might help.”

  “There's one chick who used to come around here, told me she got paid to party with some guys, and I think it was pretty close nearby. You know this strip along here?”

  Amy nodded. It was true enough. She driven back and forth along a ten-mile stretch of the adjacent highway at least half a dozen times. Memorized every stop along the way. There weren't many.

  “Well, this ho' was saying she got top dollar for those parties. Very pleased with herself about it.”

  “Okay. Why'd you think of that?”

  “Because she kept saying it was nice to be with a bunch of clean-cut white boys for a change. That was the word she used, clean-cut. Just like you did.”

  “Is that it? Did she say they were soldiers? Military?”

  “No, not exactly. She was bragging, though. Racist bitch. Like it made her better than the rest of us, getting all that money from white guys and not being with a bunch of scummy losers. Like most of these guys aren't white or something. And I could tell she was trying to have it both ways, like she wasn't supposed to talk about it, but still wanted to talk about it. She was being all vague and shit, but still rubbing it in.”

  “Clean-cut, huh?” It wasn't much, but it was something.

  “Yeah. Wait, now I remember. She didn't say they were soldiers, but she did say they have a party, like, every week or something, invitation only, starting at 'twenty-one hundred hours'. That's why I thought of it. She said it just like that, then giggled, like it was the funniest thing she'd ever heard. The dumb bitch had never heard of a twenty-four hour clock, but was still acting all superior.”

  Amy tried to maintain a poker face. Clean-cut, military time, right location. Bingo. “Did she say where?”

  “No,” Crystal stared at the ground, then looked up. “But there are only two places I can think of – the Cactus Inn and the Oasis. Pretty sure it was the Cactus.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the manager at the Oasis sells me my weed. I stop by there all the time, never seen anything like that. And he never mentioned it, either.”

  “What do you think the odds are something's going on over there tonight?”

  “I have no idea. Haven't seen her in a while. But she acted like it was a never-ending party. And it is Friday.” She turned up her palms, let them drop. “So you never know.”

  “This other gal, what was her name?”

  “Brittany. I don't have her number or anything. I don't even know her real name. No one gives that out. Though I wouldn't be surprised if you did. You probably think I'm really a Crystal.”

  Not for a second, Amy almost said, but didn't. She tried to think of more questions, couldn't. She reached into her purse, pulled out her wallet. She thumbed through six hundreds without trying to be conspicuous about it.

  Crystal took the bills, threw her a look that was obvious even through the sunglasses. “My experience is, whenever rich white women go looking for trouble, they end up causing a bunch for other people.”

  “I can only hope.”

  The sun started to dip below the horizon, causing shadows to stretch and colors to glow. Amy turned to leave, then stopped.

  “What are you studying?” she asked.

  Crystal glanced in the direction of her bag. “Criminal Justice,” she said. “Not anything you'd be interested in.”

  Chapter 12

  Come up with a plan you have faith in, and act with faith in your plan.

  Something her mother used to tell her. The shorthand version was, stick to the plan.

  Amy drove past the Cactus Inn a few times, but noticed nothing that didn't look typical. Or her idea of typical. No clusters of vehicles, no loitering men or women. Just a highway motel. Less than half full judging by the parking lot.

  Stick to the plan. But the big question on her mind was, did she really have a plan?

  She tried to tell herself she was ready for this, trained for it, but despite her desire to believe her own line, she knew it wasn't true. Police work wasn't like it was portrayed on television or in movies, and detective work even less so. If she had to use one word to sum up life as a detective, it would have been checklists. A checklist for everything. That was the gist of all her training, both formal and on-the-job. Everything had a procedure, and the one thing you were always expected to do was follow it. Check off each block, one at a time. Interview this person, that person, those people. Review this record, that record, those records. Get a warrant to search this place, that place, those places. Check, check, check. A procedure for everything, and everything according to procedure. And there were always plenty of others with checklists around to help out.

  In short, it was nothing like this.


  She was charging head-on into Jake's world now. Which meant she needed to start thinking like him. Or, at the very least, try to understand how he would think. She had no badge, and her gun was illegal. No back-up, no warrant, no nothing. This, she knew, required a totally different mindset.

  The last bit of blue bled out of the sky and stars began to sparkle through. Amy swung the car around on the highway and headed back to the motel, this time pulling in and parking. She found a space near the far end, beyond the view of the check-in lobby.

  She did have a plan, she told herself. It just wasn't all that detailed.

  It had been a long plane ride to Tucson, and except for an hour or so of sleep she'd spent most of it alternating between staring at the map and staring out the tiny window at the clouds. What she had of a plan emerged from that.

  Men, Hatcher had said. A small army of men. She recalled what he'd told her a couple of years prior about General Bartlett and his outfit of ex-soldiers. All men. And if what she was facing was really a paramilitary group of men holed up in an abandoned missile silo, then there were three reasons they'd come out. Supplies, in which she included food. Medicine, which they may have stockpiled. And women. Food and medicine they could have in freezers and closets and cans. Whatever they were low on, they could make runs for, limiting their need to be exposed. Women, that was another matter.

  Amy sat in the rental car in the back of the building, staring at the motel door with the air conditioner spraying, thinking through her next move. No police, no back-up, no authority. This was definitely Hatcher's world.

  She looked down at the fanny pack holster covering her lap. If this was Hatcher's world, she told herself, nobody knew him better than she did. She'd become pretty good at learning to think like him over the past couple of years, understanding the world through his eyes. The more she considered it, the more she realized thinking like him wasn't the problem. It was the prospect of executing like him that had her worried.