by Jack Heath
Smokers taste pretty good. Cigarettes make those bitter organs shrivel away until all that’s left is the tasty fat and muscle—that’s why smoking makes people lose weight. The meat is flavoured, too. Like the ham on a wood-fired pizza.
Inside the doorway, a teenage boy with a greasy ponytail holds out an ice-cream container half filled with change. ‘Money for the band—suggested donation, five dollars.’
I say, ‘Suggestion noted,’ and push past him.
On stage are two guitarists, one keyboardist, one drummer and one saxophonist, all about sixteen years old. One of the guitarists is singing. He plays better than he sings.
A group of middle-aged folk are watching intently. Lawyers, middle managers, upper-class types. Five women, four men. I figure they’re parents. The kids aren’t old enough to be in here, but the bar staff wouldn’t want to refuse them entry, not with their folks willing to drink the bar dry of expensive wines and liqueurs.
Thistle walked in two minutes before I did. I can already see her up the back with a beer in her hand, chatting with a balding stranger. She’s here just in case someone needs to be arrested.
The man is laughing. I feel an unexpected throb of jealousy. The balding man doesn’t look at all suspicious. If a woman as attractive as Thistle approached me in a bar, I’d assume she was trying to score some cheap weed. There’s no other reason to go near someone who looks like me.
A girl sits on her own near the front, same age as the band. Braided hair, nose ring. I’ve never liked piercings—they break my teeth. Both her feet are tapping and her hands are slapping her thighs to complicated rhythms. Imaginary drums.
I sidle up to her. ‘Gracie?’
She turns. Looks me up and down. ‘Timothy?’ she says doubtfully.
‘Yeah,’ I say. I shake her hand and nod to the stage. ‘Friends of yours?’
‘She is.’ Dunn points at the keyboardist. ‘I only kind of know the others.’
‘They’re pretty good.’
‘Sure. But they’ll never get big unless they ditch the saxophone.’
The saxophonist is one of the better players, and I say so.
‘He doesn’t fit with the genre. Record companies need a genre to sell their product—labels love labels, so they say. This group, they got together because they were friends, not because of their skills.’ She appraises me again. ‘You’re older than I expected.’
She seems serious about a music career, so the best way to play her is to outdo her.
I fix her with a critical eye and say, ‘I was told you were looking for a professional. Think you’re going to find it in a teenager?’
‘I wasn’t doubting your professionalism. I just think you’ll be tough to market.’
Charming. ‘Well, the bass player isn’t exactly the front man. So why did your last one quit?’
She glares at her drink—a tall glass of water, no ice. ‘Fucked if I know. Didn’t show up for rehearsal, then I got an email from him saying he was going to Chicago. Sick grandma or some shit.’
My stomach rumbles. I’m getting really hungry. ‘Doesn’t sound like it was his fault.’
‘Rule one: show up for rehearsal. He could be in hospital with a broken neck and I still would have kicked his ass out of the band.’
‘Especially since he probably couldn’t play bass anymore,’ I say. She doesn’t laugh. ‘Did he ever mention his grandma’s health problems?’
‘Nah, never even told me he had family in Chicago.’ She frowns. ‘What are you suggesting?’
I shrug. ‘Nothing. You guys close? How long’s the band been together?’
‘Two years,’ she says.
Unlike Robert’s girlfriend, Dunn has no reason to make that number up. It’s probably true.
I say, ‘So you’d have a decent-size set list, then.’
‘Yeah, about twenty originals, thirty covers. I brought a demo.’ She digs around in her bag and pulls out a thumb drive with magic marker on it. ‘You got yours?’
I could have compiled a bunch of tracks from obscure bands and pretended I played bass on them, but it’s simpler just to bluff. ‘No offence, but I want to hear yours first.’
Dunn looks resentful and impressed at the same time.
The band hits the last note of an overblown twelve-bar standard and bows, to thunderous applause from their parents. The other patrons remain oblivious.
An MC gets up on the stage to back-announce the band. The lighting is so bad that I don’t recognise him until I hear his voice. It’s Harry Crudup, Cameron’s music teacher.
‘That was Rumble in the Box,’ he booms. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give them another big hand!’
Not many heroin addicts can hold down two jobs. Crudup must have been living with his habit a long time to manage life as a teacher by day, open mic host by night.
I sink lower into my seat, hoping he doesn’t spot me, and ask Dunn if Easy Lies has been going well lately—if there are big gigs or record deals or anything on the horizon. If I’m wrong about Robert being taken by the same kidnapper as Cameron, there could be a motive here. Maybe some other bass player killed him with the intention of taking his spot before the band hit the big time.
But Dunn says, ‘No. So you’ll have lots of time to learn the songs. Assuming I like your demo.’
‘Have you talked to Robert’s other friends about him going to Chicago?’
The first hint of suspicion is growing in her eyes. ‘Why are you asking so many questions about Bobby?’
‘Just worried he might show up wanting his place in the band back.’
‘He’s not coming back. His girlfriend said he was going to be gone a long time. She’s here—want to meet her?’
I shake my head. ‘No thanks.’ I glance around, looking for Jane Austin. If she sees me, my cover is blown.
But Dunn is beckoning to a different girl—one of the guitarists from the band. She’s tallish, blondish, and wears a necklace of big black beads. Not much meat on her. It’d take three or four of her to make the same size meal as the Witch Doctor.
‘Hey, Portia,’ Dunn says, bumping fists with the girl. ‘Kickass set.’
‘Thanks.’ The guitarist looks at me expectantly.
‘This is Timothy Blake. Bobby’s potential replacement.’ Portia looks confused, and a little bit hurt. Like, Why are you telling me this?
Dunn continues, ‘Timothy, this is Portia, Bobby’s girlfriend. Tell me, Porsh, did he sound like he was coming back?’
‘I already told you, no.’
I say, ‘You’re Robert Shea’s girlfriend?’
Portia bites her lip and says, ‘I was. Sorry, who are you again?’
‘And you’re a friend of Clarke McGoughny’s?’
‘Clarke? What’s Clarke got to do with anything?’
Dunn says, ‘Wait, what the fuck? How do you know Bobby’s last name?’
‘Shut up,’ I say. ‘This is really important. Does the name Jane Austin mean anything to either of you?’
They look at each other.
‘Duh,’ Dunn says. ‘She’s, like, famous.’
‘Austin with an I,’ I say. ‘Girl about your age. Goes by JJ.’
Dunn looks baffled.
‘I don’t know any Jane Austin,’ says Portia. ‘What is happening right now?’
I stand. It’s time to go. Because if this is Robert’s girlfriend, then who is the girl I met in the diner?
‘Hey,’ Dunn says from behind me. ‘Where are you going?’
Thistle slides off her bar stool. The bald guy tries to hand her his phone, presumably so she can type her number into it. She declines with a polite wave.
I don’t wait for her. As I walk out, Crudup is shouting, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it’s a pleasure, a real pleasure to be able to introduce this next act to you tonight. Put your hands together for a very talented bunch of boys from—’
The door closes behind me, cutting him off.
A few seconds later, Thistle emerges.
‘Get any answers?’ she asks.
‘Just more questions.’ I drag my fingers through my hair. ‘Can you give me a ride home?’
•
‘Okay,’ Thistle says, working the accelerator and the clutch like she’s on a StairMaster. ‘So what do we know?’
‘Jane Austin says Robert Shea disappeared immediately after Cameron Hall,’ I say. ‘But she also said she was his girlfriend, which now doesn’t seem to be the case.’
‘This whole case doesn’t seem like a case,’ Thistle says. ‘Shea’s other friends say he just went away to visit a sick or dead relative. The fact that his parents are gone too seems to fit with that.’
‘But none of them have heard from him in person,’ I say. ‘Or even on the phone. Just email and the grapevine. Also, they left their cat to starve—turn left here.’
‘I’ll make some calls,’ Thistle says. ‘If he’s gone to Chicago, there’ll be flight records.’
I can see her calculating, considering, contemplating. Circling the case the way a removalist might circle a heavy piece of furniture, looking for a handhold.
‘You enjoy this,’ I say. ‘The chase.’
She glances over at me as though she’d forgotten I was there. ‘I do,’ she admits. ‘Some people think it’s inappropriate to enjoy police work. In an ideal world we wouldn’t even need cops. But for me it’s like math. You any good at math, Blake?’
‘Basic math, sure.’
‘I mean the kind where there’s a whole lot of information, and a whole lot of variables designed to trip you up, but only one right answer to find at the end of it all. Something you could never guess on your own, but it’s inevitable if you follow all the steps. And once you’ve found the answer, you see it can’t be any other way.’ She nods to herself. ‘I love that.’
I don’t like math, but I know the feeling she’s describing. It’s the same sense of progression I get from Rubik’s Cubes and jigsaw puzzles. Taking something chaotic and making it orderly, step by step.
‘Those calls,’ I say. ‘Can you make them tonight?’
A curl of hair slips loose from behind her ear as she shakes her head. ‘I could, but I wouldn’t get an answer until all the relevant people got into their offices tomorrow morning. May as well do it then.’
My driveway is coming up on the right. No sign of Johnson’s van. ‘Stop here,’ I say.
She pulls over, switches off the engine and looks around, trying to guess which house is mine.
‘We’ll pay Austin a visit tomorrow,’ I say. ‘She’s a liar, but not for the fun of it. She knows something.’
‘Okay,’ Thistle says.
Silence fills the car. It takes me a moment to realise she’s waiting for me to invite her in. It takes her a moment to realise I’m not going to. No matter how much I enjoy her company, no matter how much I’m drawn to her, I can’t have an FBI agent snooping through my things.
‘What time should I pick you up tomorrow?’ she says.
‘I’ll meet you at Austin’s school. Eight thirty am.’
‘I can come here,’ she says.
I’d rather not drive there, but I don’t want Thistle near my house—specifically, the dead body in my freezer.
‘I’ll be in the neighbourhood anyhow,’ I say. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Sure.’
As I’m getting out of the car, she says, ‘Are we still on for dinner after?’
I never forget a meal. ‘Can’t wait.’
She grins, and I close the door. The car pulls away as I walk up the drive; she waited just long enough to see which house is mine. Is she figuring out what I am, or is it just natural cop curiosity?
I open the door, step inside, and lock it behind me. I’m not safe anywhere, but this house feels especially threatening since Cameron’s kidnapper broke in. I walk through every room, opening every closet.
No indication that the kidnapper has been here. No sign of John Johnson, either—but he’s usually out much later than this.
When I’m sure I’m alone, I open the freezer and grab the Tanzanian’s leg.
A carving knife is attached to a magnetic strip on the wall. I pull it free and use it to slice a chunk off the thigh. It’s best to do this while the body’s frozen, otherwise the tendons are too slack to cut. I put the meat in the microwave and switch it on.
I’m starving, but I know the meat won’t help much. Even if the temperature is perfect, even if the amount of salt is exactly right, I can’t pretend it’s not dead. This kind of hunger only goes away after a really fresh meal.
There’s a soft rattle at the front door. Someone is checking if it’s unlocked.
If Thistle suspected me of a crime, she could have parked her car around the corner and walked back to snoop around. But I think she trusts me, so the person at the door is probably Johnson, back unexpectedly early. Or it could be one of his customers.
Or the kidnapper.
In none of these scenarios would it be good for the person to walk in while I’m holding a chewed human thigh bone. I throw it back into the freezer and bury it under other things. Then I slam the lid just as the door bursts open.
CHAPTER 13
The first room is on fire, the second contains assassins with loaded guns and the third is full of lions that haven’t eaten in three years. Which room is safest to enter?
It’s Johnson, and he’s not alone. His arm is draped across the shoulders of a white woman in her early twenties. Bleach-blonde, with skinny legs sprouting from a tiny skirt. She’s drunk, staggering on her stilettos. A silver bracelet with a bicycle charm jangles around her wrist. Her hair has fallen into her eyes, and she’s pawing at it ineffectively.
Johnson drags her inside and kicks the door shut with his heel. Then he presses his lips against hers.
She’s doesn’t kiss him back. She barely seems aware of what’s happening. Maybe Johnson slipped something into her drink.
Johnson pulls away and leads her over to the sofa. She looks at it like she’s never seen one before.
Then Johnson sees me.
‘Fucking pervert,’ he says. ‘Go to your room.’
The hypocrisy of the first sentence and the parentalness of the second clash so confusingly in my head that I just stand there.
Johnson has already turned his attention back to the woman. He tugs her top down and the bra with it, exposing breasts that are smaller than they looked.
‘Shit,’ he says. Then, ‘Hell, it’ll do.’
The woman stares at the wall, hypnotised, as he hikes up her skirt.
I’m not a good guy. I kill, I steal, I lie. But no matter how convenient it would be to go to my room and pretend this isn’t happening, I can’t.
Johnson drops his pants, his belt clacking against the floor, his buttocks freckled with track marks. I grab him by the hair and pull him off the semiconscious woman.
He topples over and crab-walks backwards. ‘Hey! What the hell, man?’
I let go of him. ‘Get up.’
‘You son of a bitch.’ He stands up.
I’m in real danger here. When I fought the Witch Doctor, he was naked and still half-paralysed. He’d been softened by years in a cage, like a lion at the zoo. But Johnson is a wild animal, pumped full of steroids and coke.
‘Pull your pants up.’
He doesn’t. His erection bobs obscenely at me. ‘This isn’t your business,’ he says.
‘You’re making it my business.’
‘Oh, am I?’ He reaches down to pull up his jeans—and tugs a short-barrelled revolver out of his pocket instead.
I duck around the corner into the kitchen just as he pulls the trigger. The shot is deafening. A puff of wood-chips and sawdust explodes out of the ceiling.
‘It’s your business now, asshole!’ Johnson crows from the living room.
The dogs up the street are howling. The neighbours will have heard the shot, but it’s not an uncommon sound in this neighbourhood. No one’s likely to investigate. T
here’s no help on the way.
The knives on the wall would make effective weapons, but I’d have to cross the doorway to reach them. I don’t know if Johnson would miss a second time.
Footsteps. He’s coming after me.
I open the freezer and wrench out the Tanzanian’s thigh bone. I wrap both hands around one end of it, like a batter stepping up to the plate. The cold burns my palms.
Johnson rounds the corner, and I swing the bone sideways. The knobbly joint cuts through the air and slams into his ear with a wet crunch.
The gun goes off again, smashing the kitchen window as he tumbles sideways. I hit him a second time, this time on top of the head, and he moans like a lost cow. He tries to point the gun at me, but slowly, like his limbs won’t obey him. I grab his wrist to divert his aim, and bite his exposed forearm, puncturing an artery.
He’s too concussed even to scream. His lips droop like a stroke victim’s as he bleeds out. His eyes—confused, hurt—lock onto mine.
‘Uhhyeeummm?’ he says. He holds my gaze for a long time, and then I realise he’s dead. ‘John Johnson’ is no more.
The woman is limp, but still breathing. I don’t know what he gave her. Maybe Rohypnol, maybe GHB, maybe something else. I don’t know if there’s anything I can do.
I stare at her naked skin and warm flesh. She wouldn’t be as chewy as Johnson.
I quickly pull her panties back up and her skirt back down, covering as much flesh as I can. Rolling her over, I drag her bra and top back over her chest. I need to get her out of here, fast.
I wipe my face with a kitchen towel. Then, wondering why all my nights seem to end this way, I lift the unconscious woman over my shoulder and carry her out to the Chevy. I put her in the passenger seat, attach her seatbelt, and go around to the other side.
Her wallet is in her handbag. The address on her driver’s licence is 16231 Jones Road, Cypress. Her name is Cynthia Greene.
She doesn’t start to groan until we’re out on the highway. I take it as a good sign. Whatever he gave her must be wearing off.
I can’t just take her home. When she wakes up, there’ll be a black spot in her memory, and she’ll realise someone spiked her drink. That black spot will haunt her.