Dreams in the Dark (Destroyers Book 2)

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Dreams in the Dark (Destroyers Book 2) Page 9

by A. R. Case


  He got used to this after two passes. His prayers got more fervent.

  He didn’t notice the noose until it was too late.

  I dragged him up, and TomTom trapped his arms low so he couldn’t scratch. We looped the rope from his garage over the nice beam he had in the vaulted ceiling, and hoisted him up. He kicked some. Spun a lot. Turned blue after quite some time.

  TomTom vacuumed while I did dishes, and wiped down the kitchen. The paper towels and rubber gloves went into a plastic bag we’d take with us. Always pick up your trash. We had to leave a chair out of place, but that was part of the set. The shiny new laptop Landon purchased last week had a nice history of porn, some recent searches on legal issues, and a couple inquiries about suicide. No note. That would be messy.

  I like loose ends tied up all nice and neat.

  Outside Amarillo, the Chicago man took his clothes back, I took mine, his trip receipts, and the bike. Unloading TomTom’s bike was tricky, but we managed. He went north. The driver took the truck the rest of the way west.

  I flexed my hand, feeling the familiar clink of jewelry.

  Walt got a call when I hit New Mexico.

  “Hey Walt.”

  “Indy. Where are you at?”

  “Just hit middle of Nowhere, New Mexico. How’s things back there?”

  “You got a minute or three?” Walt sounded good, his voice was almost cracking with laughter.

  “Sure, but warn ya, I’m parked on the side of the road, in the middle of UFO country. If I cut out, it’s probably nothing serious.”

  “Ha. Ha. Like those little green men want to see what’s up your ass.”

  I chuckled. “Speaking of up your ass. What ‘cha so happy about?”

  “Some news.”

  “Yeah?” I said.

  “Old Landon couldn’t face being a fuck up, I guess.”

  “How so? He run?” I asked.

  “Naw. He hung himself.”

  “You don’t say? What a Hell of a thing to do.”

  “Yeah. Too bad. I wanted his ass in prison so he’d pay for years.”

  “You tell the cops that?”

  “Yes. I did.” He sounded smug.

  “Well, damn. That sucks you didn’t get what you wanted.” I truly felt remorse. Okay, maybe not.

  “Yeah, sucks. Mary says hi.”

  “Give her a lick for me, will ya?”

  “Fuck off, Indy. Edie stopped by Fin’s the night you left.”

  A Friday at Fin and Betty Jo’s. “She get drunk?”

  “Yep.”

  My insides went still. “Someone watch out for her?”

  “The whole damn crew did. She’s something all lit up. Could have done without the body paint though.”

  “Body paint?”

  Walt made a noise. “She and the girls got a bit crazy painting just about every inch of their bodies. Then they started in on us. Fuck.”

  My imagination was working a bit too hard. “Any skin?”

  “Mary’s. Did her some good, getting all done up like that.” He paused for a long moment. “Going to get Fin to cover her scars.”

  His voice didn’t sound solid now. “You holding up?”

  “Better now. Thank you.”

  “Aw hell, just gave you some advice is all.”

  “Brother.” He was on the verge of saying more. I cut him off.

  “Yeah Walt, remember I slept with her first.”

  “Fuck you, asshole.”

  “That’s better. Can’t let you get all mushy on me. Would have to kick your ass.”

  “Like you fucking could. I owe you.” He said.

  “You watch out for my Edie, and we’re even.”

  “Why didn’t you stay?” Walt asked the million-dollar question.

  The wind picked up and blew around debris. “Gotta keep moving, Walt.”

  It was the only answer I had. Keep moving until you’re caught. Sleep with one eye open, and never get too comfortable.

  My ass was sore from riding, the sand cut at my skin, and my chest ached. “Gotta ride, Walt. Call you from Vegas.”

  Edie

  The house was too quiet. Indy left almost three days ago. My sink was empty, the counters clean, and even my refrigerator was clean. I hadn’t slept much, and it was much worse at night.

  That sucked.

  What sucked worse was the deadline looming. To build a presentation for the investor Indy had scheduled, I had to get at least ten new designs created. One suggestion was something “edgy” ... in pink. I have an imagination, but pink?

  Everything I drew seemed too cute, too pretty. One in particular made me cry. It had little, delicate fairy wings embossed on the sides. I would have made these, in my other life. I could picture how the iridescent colors would blend with the embossed leather. It would glisten like a snake’s skin, just after shedding.

  It looked much edgier in black. I’d wasted nearly two hours getting it just right. And it was all wrong for the presentation.

  The paper got balled up and tossed toward my overflowing waste bin. It missed, of course. I sighed.

  A hard rap-rap-rap on my porch screen door startled me. I checked the alarm, it was on. I’d have to disable it if I opened the door. I peeked through the newly installed hole in my front door. The shadowy shapes were distorted and dark. I blinked and stood on tiptoes to get a better view. What I could make out looked like a uniform. The nearest shadow raised a hand. I jumped as his forceful knocking sounded right near my face.

  “Good afternoon. It’s the police. We’d like to talk to Miss Krupps.”

  I scrambled to the pad. “Just a minute.” My hands shook. I typed in Indy’s birth date very carefully. The soft beep of acknowledgement telling me I’d typed correctly sounded. I double checked the peephole again. It looked like police.

  It took me a minute to stop my heart from racing. My first reaction was unadulterated terror. I imagined Indy smeared all over some road in the middle of nowhere. Then I realized there was really no way someone would connect him to me. He could be smeared all over in the middle of nowhere, and I’d never know unless somehow the word got back to Walt and the club. That made me sick to my stomach. “What is it?” I tried to unchain the door, but fumbled the peg and had to slow down to get it loose.

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions, if you have a moment.”

  Oh.

  Questions. Mary’s warning ran through my head. I hated questions.

  The new deadbolt Indy put in wasn’t difficult to unlock, but then I’d forgotten I’d also locked the knob. It took another few seconds to get that undone. By that time, I felt like a fool having so many locks.

  The two uniformed officers were standing in the space in front of the screen door that was in front of my main door. They stepped back as I swung interior screen open. When Indy was here, and the weather finally warm enough to open the house up, we’d kept the main door open, and only had the two screens between us and the outdoors. Now, with him gone, I did not feel comfortable leaving these open. Not anymore. Odd, how you quickly change habits like that.

  I stepped out, pulling the door half closed behind me. “How can I help you?”

  One of the officers opened a leather binder, and pulled out a piece of paper. He handed it to me. “Do you know this man?”

  Printed on it was a grainy photo of a man at a gas pump. It looked like Indy. It certainly looked like Indy’s bike. “What is this about?”

  The other officer spoke. “We need to know if you know this person.”

  I glanced at the paper again. I looked up at the two officers, searching their faces for some reason to trust them. As before, my inner alarm bells were ringing loudly. “His face is mostly covered. I cannot be certain to say if I do, or I don’t.”

  “We are trying to confirm the whereabouts of one, Nicolas Allen Jones. You might know him as ‘Indy.’ Do you know someone by that name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know where he is?”
<
br />   I did some mental math. “He should be somewhere in New Mexico, or maybe Arizona about now.”

  “Where is he headed?”

  After Mary left the hospital, I asked Indy if I should talk to police or not. His answer was a laugh. Then he’d said, “Baby, I wouldn’t do nothing around you that’s illegal. Talk away.” It still didn’t make me comfortable talking to the police. Then again, maybe that’s on me. “Las Vegas.”

  “When did he leave?”

  Two days, nine hours, and twenty-three minutes ago. “Two days ago.”

  “Was that Friday?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time did he leave?”

  The crack of dawn. “It was early.”

  “How early, do you know the time?”

  I shook my head to straighten out the tangents still floating around in it. It was five thirty when he woke. Two minutes after six when he strapped the last saddle bag on. Six fifteen when I talked him into eating a frozen waffle and having something more than coffee. Six eighteen when we kissed. By six twenty, his bike disappeared into the trees. “It was about six fifteen, maybe six twenty.”

  “In the morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know his itinerary?”

  He’d planned the trip at my kitchen table. “Yes, he was going to go the south route through Texas to avoid some of the colder weather. Then stop in New Mexico to play tourist before continuing.”

  “He took his motorcycle?”

  “Yes.” He probably owned a car or a truck, but I’d never seen it. For a brief moment, I wondered how he got around in the snow.

  That answer wasn’t very clear. I looked at the printout again. It was the right jacket. The bandana he wore over his hair similar, the boots were the same. My eyes snagged at his waist. The belt I’d made wasn’t there. Well, to be honest, the quality of the photo wasn’t great, and the rings I’d decorated the outside weaving with may not have been visible enough to show up in this really poor-quality image, but I knew my work. That belt appeared smooth.

  It was his bike though. “It’s his bike, and it looks like him.” I was confident in saying that. “The rest of the image is a bit blurry though, so if I had to swear it was him based on that, I’m afraid I couldn’t because of that.”

  “So, you can’t say this is him?”

  “I didn’t say that, I just said I could be wrong.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  A huff of disgust came out. “Because I can’t see his face.”

  “Does he usually ride with a mask on?”

  “Face shield, and yes. Especially when it’s cooler, or he has long distances to travel.”

  “Was he wearing a ma … face shield when he left?”

  “Yes. And before you ask, it is that one.”

  “So, it could be him?”

  “Absolutely, but I can’t see his face. Where was it taken?”

  The two police looked at each other. One shrugged, the other spoke. “In Morgantown, West Virginia.”

  “If it was about eight or nine, it was him.”

  I felt very confident in that.

  There was a moment of silent communication between the two men. It almost felt like they were deflated. “Thank you for your time.”

  They let themselves out of the screened porch. I watched them drive off.

  “That was weird,” I said to the trees.

  My next impulse was to call Fin. Not Betty Jo, who I normally spoke with, Fin. I picked up the landline, then stopped mid-dial. What if something had happened? What if Indy was in trouble? Who should I talk to? When should I talk to them? How? Should I get a prepaid phone like in the movies? Maybe I was already under surveillance?

  Sometimes I’m absolutely silly.

  I looked at my desk, where I needed to get back to work. I looked at the phone. It took me a full minute to make up my mind. I hung up and dialed the number for Fin and Betty Jo’s.

  “Hi Edie.” Betty Jo picked up.

  “Let me guess, you checked your caller ID.”

  She laughed. “No, I’m adding psychic to my resume. Of course, I did. Fin’s been on me to stop answering with Betty Jo’s bar and whorehouse. Says it gives the wrong impression.” She blew a raspberry that let me know what she really thought about it.

  It was my turn to laugh. It stopped a little shorter than normal. “Weird thing just happened.”

  “Weird? You okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Two police were just here.”

  There was a pause. “Really?”

  “Yes, they were asking questions about Indy.”

  Betty Jo made an angry sound. I probably should have asked for Fin. “What’d that fool do now?”

  I took a bit of offense at that, but swallowed it. “I don’t think he did anything.”

  “Well, I could tell you stories, but I’m certain you wouldn’t want to listen.”

  “I’m sure you could. Is Fin around?” Seemed like everyone had stories about Indy.

  Betty Jo’s voiced sharpened. “Why?”

  “Because I think this should be relayed to Walt.” There. I said exactly what I was thinking. Walt should know that cops were sniffing around Indy.

  There was a pause. “Walt doesn’t need to know. Indy’s not his problem.”

  “Indy isn’t a problem.”

  “Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt.”

  “Betty Jo …”

  “I know, I know. I heard ya balling your eyes out enough Friday on that one.”

  She was right. But it was closer to say Saturday, and probably about three a.m. The daiquiris wore off, and the night had gotten thin. I cried.

  I cried Sunday at three a.m., too. The only times I didn’t cry at three a.m. were when Indy and I made love. I missed that.

  “Now listen, Edie-love, you forget Indy. How about you and I get ourselves out of here and to one of those beach resorts where we can ogle the cabana boys?”

  “Fin must have walked in the room, right?”

  She laughed with her usual gusto. “He sure did. I swear nothing fazes this husband of mine.”

  “That’s because he’s got you whipped.”

  “It’s the other way around,” she stated.

  I heard Fin in the background grumbling about fool women not knowing their place.

  “You still need to talk to Fin?”

  Did I? “Yes.”

  Betty Jo gave him the rundown while the transition was being made. I truly appreciated her thoroughness. I wouldn’t have to tell the story twice.

  “Yo.”

  Fin wasn’t Betty Jo. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t ask a bunch of questions. He listened as I described the whole thing. I related every question I could remember, and tried to not speak my fears. Despite that, Fin knew what I hadn’t said.

  “Edie, he’s not in trouble. He checked in with Walt.”

  “Oh.”

  He let me settle a bit before he continued.

  “I suppose I should tell you this is probably about Landon Page. Every member of the club has been questioned about where they were Friday.”

  Oh.

  I’d heard the news Friday when I got conned into coming to a Betty Jo ladies’ night blowout. Walt and Mary stopped by, and were in high spirits. I can’t say I hadn’t been relieved, but I wouldn’t have been toasting to his demise like Walt was. I’m not certain who ended up taking both of them home, but neither of them were in any shape to drive by the time the party wound down. There was talk too.

  Lots of talk.

  Some of it was very bad.

  I’m glad Landon Page was dead. Mostly because if he hadn’t died, one of my friends would have eventually killed him. And if I had to testify in court, I knew too many ways the men, and the women I knew, wanted him dead.

  “Then, this was about making certain Indy was in another state when … it happened?”

  “He was, so no big deal.”

  “Well … I might not have been able to completely s
ay it was him.” Now I felt guilty as hell.

  “It was him.”

  “But I couldn’t be one hundred percent certain.”

  “I heard what you said you told them. It’s okay Edie. You didn’t lie. He always wears that damn face mask when he’s riding between states. Gives the locals a freak-out. He likes that you know.”

  Yes, he did. My dark prince and his morbid humor. “Okay, but do you think I should call them up and tell them I’m certain?”

  “Nope.”

  “Oh, okay. Are you sure?”

  “Yep. Better be dead honest, Edie.”

  Yes, it was always a good policy. However, I wished I was able to lie better.

  “Don’t worry. When they finally track him down, he’ll have receipts. He writes off everything he can as business expense, so saves those damn things for ten years. Your man ain’t stupid.”

  At least Fin was on mine and Indy’s side. “Thanks, Fin.”

  “No problem. Betty Jo’s itching for the phone again. You keep safe, ya hear?”

  “I will.”

  Betty Jo had questions about some orders, and chit chat I half listened to. I tried, but my mind had already drifted to the drafting table. Pink thorn tips were foremost in mind. I tucked the phone against my shoulder so I would have both hands free. I sketched out the details first, then worked a few outlines. The heels took on life as the rest of the design formed in my mind. I don’t even remember saying goodbye to Betty Jo, but an hour later, glanced at the cradled phone to confirm it was hung up.

  Shrugging the normal life away, I lost myself.

  Chapter 8: Pink

  Indy

  TomTom flew from Chicago. His probation was rushed through. Because of that, those fuckers didn’t let him go without running a gauntlet. Every member got at least one shot at him. So, when I picked him up, he was still black and blue.

  “You look like shit.”

  “Yeah?” He asked. One eye was swollen half shut.

  “I’m surprised they let you on the plane like that.”

  “I told the stewardess I was an MMA fighter, and I’d won. Because of that, I was on my way to Vegas to train for a championship fight. She ate it up. I got at least two free drinks out of it from fans.”

  “You don’t have fans.”

  He laughed. “Was fun pretending though.”

 

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