Pretty Like an Ugly Girl (Baer Creighton Book 3)

by Clayton Lindemuth

  Finch moved farther into the room.

  A moment later Asger entered pushing a mop in an empty pail on wheels. In his other hand, a five-gallon plastic bucket filled with supplies, sponges, rags.

  “Everything has to be spotless. We clean with industrial oxy cleaners, spray the room with luminol and even have the UV light built into the ceiling. We learned from the best. Our second client happened to be a former forensics cop who advises Hollywood on murder scenes and shit.”

  “I’m going to throw up.”

  “Bathroom’s there,” Wayman pointed. “Get it out of your system. We have a lot of work to do before you get that thumb up your ass.”

  “This is ... it’s just going to take me a minute. I never even liked hunting. You know, gutting animals.”

  “You got to carry your weight. In the end, it’s a good time to be a Graves.”

  Asger carried the mop and both buckets to the bathroom. After removing the items from the five-gallon bucket, he filled it with hot water. He also filled the mop bucket, then dumped Neutrex Oxy into the steaming water and pushed it out of the bathroom. Wayman motioned for Finch to take the handle. Asger returned to the bathroom.

  “We have a process. Makes things go fast. You’ll be surprised how easy it is to make a scene like this disappear. First, body goes in the bag. Then the heavy blood. We mop the floor to pick up everything red. Then we work top to bottom. Wash down the walls in oxy. They’re all plastic. Clean easy. All the furniture has disposable cloth over plastic. We remove the covers, place them in the trash bag. Then oxy and water on the plastic. Then mop the floor again. We turn on the UV lights, check for anything we missed, and then the bathroom. Three of us? We’re out of here in a half hour.”

  Wayman studied Finch.

  “What?”

  Finch nodded. Quirked his lips. “You could handle a lot more than thirty a month, if cleanup only takes a half hour.”

  Wayman half smiled. Then whole-smiled. “If we had the right people.”

  “Spotless,” Wayman said. The UV light lit the room in a purplish glow. “You could pick up a ham sandwich off the floor and eat it.”

  Sweat stood on Finch’s brow. He looked for any bright areas. Wayman had explained the luminol they’d sprayed would react with the iron in any blood they hadn’t cleaned, and would show up as a bright area under the UV light.

  The room was sanitized.

  “That’s good, right?” Finch said. “Now that you mention the ham sandwich, I don’t think I’ve eaten since before we left Williams.”

  “We will soon fill all your appetites. But we have more work, first.”

  Wayman stepped around the bed, pushed a chair forward. Walked to the bathroom, with the door open against the wall, and looked behind it. “You have to observe every square inch. Because Utah is the only state in the union that executes by firing squad.”

  Asger left the room.

  “It’s good,” Wayman said. “Now the girl.”

  They’d placed the corpse in a plastic body bag and then cleaned the bag to ensure blood hadn’t contaminated the outside.

  Finch turned his head. Asger had found a hospital bed somewhere. He pushed it inside.

  “You’ve really thought things through,” Finch said.

  “Give me a hand,” Wayman said.

  Each lifted an end of the body bag and they placed it on the hospital bed.

  Asger put the trash bag full of bloody bed linens on the body bag, over the girl’s head.

  Finch grinned, but inside tried to remember the girl, when she was alive. Maybe to give her some kind of memorial, a spiritual send off, in the moment. But all the girls’ faces blended.

  I’m going to hell.

  Asger pushed the bed into the hallway and toward the elevator.

  “We’ll be down in a minute,” Wayman said.

  He closed the door. It was just the two of them in the ultra violet light.

  “One last look around. This is a high stakes business, Finch.”

  “I get that.”

  “Every move. Your life depends on every move.”

  “I hear you.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  They exited. Wayman killed the lights.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Mae checked her makeup. Pulled up and dropped her bust, shook her hips a couple times to see how the weight rode. The day before she’d wandered into a department store’s bathroom section and stepped on a display model bathroom scale. Up fourteen pounds since leaving Gleason, North Carolina. It didn’t seem possible—a pound a day.

  Wherever you put it, you’re rockin’ it.

  “It’s too cold for shorts,” Ruth said.

  “I have my jacket. And listen to you. I remember what you said about screwing every boy you could.”

  “That was years ago. And the reason I’m babysitting while you’re off trying to become the future first lady of Arizona is that you’ve already tangled with every man you could.”

  “He’s not even interested in running for governor. And you read the article before I even knew who he was.”

  “They all say that. Plus he as much as admitted he’s courting the big money. He’s a politician. Watch out. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “You make it sound like I’m dating a serial killer.”

  “Like I said. He’s a politician. That’s much worse—”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “Don’t stay out all night. I want to get to bed at a reasonable hour.”

  Mae closed the door behind her. Shook down the steps and admired her jiggling reflection on the window at the turn in the stairwell.

  The bar was a quick walk from the Monte Vista. Mae looked left and right at the hotel exit, a habit she’d taken at Baer’s urging. Always look for anything suspicious. Someday, if the shit ever falls apart, you might only get a moment to decide.

  Decide what? Leave my kids forever and run?

  Still, she’d found herself unconsciously following his advice.

  Nothing looked unusual. The air was already below freezing and the coldness on her legs hurried her across the street. She turned a corner, walked a little farther past the tourist shops, and stepped into the bar.

  There were more people than the night before and thankfully the added patrons seemed to increase the average years of the crowd. A DJ played hip hop, and before she’d gotten used to the pulsing beat through the plank floor, Nat Cinder arrived at her side. He placed his hand at her ear. Leaned. She smelled Bay Rum.

  “This shit’s driving me nuts. You want to watch a movie or get some lobster mac instead?”

  “Where?”

  “Well, I have a cabin not a couple miles up the road.”

  “Uh.”

  “You’re safe with the future governor. Fact, with politics nowadays, I ought to be afraid of you.”

  “You said —”

  “I know. It’s all bullshit. Either way, let’s get out of here, okay?”

  Mae thought of the .45 auto in her purse. “Sure. Let’s do the movie. Or the lobster mac. Yeah, let’s do the lobster mac.”

  They exited. A few steps away, Cinder nodded at a white Jeep Grand Cherokee. The four-ways flashed. He opened the door for her, took her hand to help her in.

  “Oh shit, this seat’s ice.”

  “Just a minute. It’s heated.”

  He closed the door and circled to the driver’s side. With the engine running, he turned on an interior light and showed her the controls for the seat. Turned off the light and drove.

  “So what I’ve been able to learn about Nat Cinder, he’s a right-wing zealot who hates Mexicans in particular, but anybody who isn’t white in general, and who especially hates the gay and lesbian community—so much he fabricated evidence to destroy the state’s first lesbian governor.”

  “Internet, right?”

  Cinder put on his right signal. Turned. He checked his mirrors all the time, and never seemed to take his attention away from the main ta
sk ... keeping the vehicle on the road.

  “Sometimes you get down in the pig shit, you find the pearl.”

  “I don’t think the Good Book meant it that way.”

  “Yeah, but truth is truth regardless where you hear it. I just want to know if I’m going to have lobster mac with someone who thinks that way. Because I don’t—and I don’t know the protocol for dating someone famous, who has opinions all over the place.”

  “That’s interesting. To date, I’ve given exactly one interview, and it was in the newspaper this morning.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “Well—the events you reference—it went down like this. I was married. My wife died in an accident. I blamed myself because I was drunk when it happened. But I found out the former governor was involved. At the same time, my father-in-law was the state house minority leader. He planted nasty photographs of the governor in my path. Sex stuff. Before I could even think on how to get rid of them, the governor tried to have me murdered. I mean, within hours. So your answer is this. The only thing that matters is whether we can look ourselves in the mirror. I’ll honor anyone who is honorable. Race, sex, religion, I don’t give a royal yeehah. But people who want to pretend right and wrong are relative, I’m not their friend.”

  “Are you running Libertarian Party?”

  “I’m not running for anything tonight. Let’s shut this down, all right?” He turned. The Jeep bounced. “Sorry about that.”

  The headlights cut to a pair of parallel ruts wending through low-growing evergreens.

  “Uh ...”

  “Spooky in this part. But see those two lights up ahead? That’s where we’re going.”

  The vehicle bounced so much she couldn’t bring the lights into focus.

  After what seemed several jarring minutes, the double-track smoothed into a gravel driveway that opened into a clearing. Ahead, a log cabin with a light on each end of the porch.

  “A single room cabin?”

  “Not quite.”

  Cinder cut the wheel and stopped the vehicle with Mae’s door in front of the steps.

  “Hold on. Let me get the door for you.”

  “Wait. Before you do that. You’re running for governor? Is it true?”

  His eyes tightened. “I don’t know.”

  He stepped out and around the vehicle. Opened her door. “But to tell the truth, I’d hoped we might spend a little more time on the other subjects.”

  Her hand in his, she exited the vehicle. He released her hand but kept an arm out as if she might stumble during the three steps to the porch. While he unlocked the front door, she said, “I’m going to be blunt. Here’s what I’m thinking. I’m old. Twenty-eight. You’re at least twenty-nine.”

  He snorted.

  “If you’re about to run for the highest executive office in the state, you don’t want me at your side. You don’t want me in your past. I’m not trouble or anything—well I am. And if people look at me very hard, they’ll surely see it.”

  “Why don’t we just enjoy some lobster mac?”

  Nat pushed open the door. Turned on a light switch and waved her inside while he held the screen door open.

  Mae leaned inside. Thought of the pistol in her purse.

  Now’s a good time to pull it. Before he drags you inside ...

  The cabin was tiny—just a single room with ratty sofa, a tiny rabbit-eared television, probably black and white, on top of a book stand. A kitchenette on the other side, with a small round table and a single wood chair. She looked to her right and saw a single bed, even narrower than a real bed. A cot? The cabin had bare walls. No doors leading to a bathroom or anything else. After a few moments she knew why it seemed familiar. She’d seen a documentary. It looked like the Unabomber, Ted Kaczynski’s hut.

  “Okay, I’ll go in first,” Nat said. He stepped past her.

  “You know, I think I’m just going to be up front with you. This is creepy as fuck. I have a gun. I hope you’re not a weirdo.”

  Cinder’s smile ratcheted higher. “Perfect. I’m glad to hear it.”

  “What?”

  “All of it. It’s supposed to be creepy. Well, not creepy, but off-putting. And you carry? That’s good too. And that last, I’m about the sanest man you’ve ever run across. It’s the rest of the world that’s off its rocker. Check this out.”

  He left her at the door and stood before the tiny round kitchen table, set in the middle of a rug. He bent at the knees, found something under the edge of the rug, and lifted.

  A section of floor three feet wide and five long was hinged at the opposite side. He said, “Carpet’s glued. Table’s bolted.” With the section vertical, the horizontal table rested neat against the sink cabinet.

  Nat stepped into the hole, felt under the floor, and the subterranean chamber lit.

  That’s all she could see.

  He motioned to her.

  “Uh, that’s even creepier.”

  “No, I assure you, it’s cooler. Way cooler. But you aren’t going to see it from over there.”

  “I told you. I have a gun.”

  “Go ahead, pull it. I don’t give a shit. You’ll put it away when you want.”

  Mae exhaled. Serial killers were always charming. Smiling.

  Sexy.

  You’ve already decided he can do anything he wants to you, short of murder. What’s the worst it can be? A sex dungeon?

  “What, is that where you keep the lobster mac?”

  “It’s where I keep my house.”

  “What?”

  “We’re in the attic right now, which was designed to look like a lonely cabin in the middle of nowhere. Come see the rest.”

  He disappeared down the steps.

  Mae pulled the .45 from her purse. Switched the safe from the off position, and entered the cabin. She closed the door. Tested it to make sure it didn’t somehow lock itself.

  She descended the steps with the pistol in both hands, her arms ready to swing whatever direction needed. Each step took her into a different world.

  Standing on the floor, she put the gun back into her purse.

  “Okay, you win. This is way cool.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The bandsaw had a large table extension. Asger placed the girl on the flat stainless steel and pushed her into the one-inch band; the teeth were better suited to oak or maple than meat, and the saw crashed through her flesh like a boulder crashes through water, splashing meat and blood out the back like so much wet sawdust.

  Zip, pull the table back, push her over, zip. Arms gone. Pull her back, spin the body on the table, Zip. Zip. Legs gone.

  When she was headless, armless, legless, Asger powered off the machine.

  “Grab a knife,” Wayman said.

  Finch had grown up on the periphery of a massive butcher operation, not a meat cutter, but son of the owner. He’d been outside, looking in, but he’d seen how the men handled their knives, and as a child had imagined himself slicing, filleting, turning corpses into cuts.

  Finch took a knife from the wall and grabbed the girl’s leg—the one that hadn’t been split open.

  “There you go,” Wayman said. “Remove the meat from the bone. Nothing pretty. We’re not making steaks.”

  Finch put out of his mind that moments ago this was a dead Latina. A day ago, a live one—and a month before that, a live one he’d sedated while ferrying across Arizona and Utah.

  Every move: your life depends on it.

  Finch cut flesh like he’d found a lost calling. He rolled the leg to its front, plunged the blade at the back of her knee, and sawed upward, each motion halted with steel stabbing bone. The meat gave away tenderly before the blade and at the top of the thigh, he lay down the knife and pushed apart the sides. He slid the point of the blade around the bone, over and over, each time separating the girl’s leg muscles from her frame. When he’d rolled the leg hard to the right, he re-centered and began slicing the other side. In minutes, her thigh and femur
were apart.

  He rolled the blade around the knee and all her thigh lay on the table.

  Asger still worked on his leg.

  Finch did the same to the lower leg, except working around the tibia and fibula, instead of just one bone.

  Finished with the leg, he grabbed an arm.

  Wayman had completed his arm, and said, “Finch, finish Asger’s leg. They don’t have meat in Sweden or wherever the fuck he’s from.”

  Asger pushed the leg to Finch and swung the girl’s torso. He probed with the knife blade below her sternum, then pushed until the tip sank a half inch. Leaning the blade backward, he pushed it forward.

  “You have to be careful not to get the blade too deep,” Wayman said. “You remember gutting deer, right? Cut the intestines, you might as well wash your hands in a bowl of shit.”

  With the blade slicing open her pubic region, Asger shoved and split her open. He now cut flaps on the left side of her stomach, below the rib, above the hip, then rolled her to the left. Her entrails fell to the table.

  Finch remembered the single time he’d field dressed a deer. This was the same. Exactly.

  He finished with the leg Asger started. About to rest his knife on the table, he wondered ... could I kill them both, right now?

  Finch put down his knife.

  The FBI wanted the whole operation. They wanted to know who sold the kids, and who paid to have sex with them. Well, they’d certainly want to know who paid to kill them. They’d take months and months trying to infiltrate the organization. They’d allow five more girls—every month—to be slain while getting their shit together.

  He could end it all right now. Not another girl ... not even the one upstairs being murdered while he helped destroy the evidence of the last.

  “I see your wheels turning,” Wayman said. “You’re wondering, what’s the sense in cutting up a body? Why not just take it somewhere? Bury it. Burn it. Get it out of the building, fast. Am I right?”

  “The thought crossed my mind. I mean, shouldn’t the goal be to get a body out of here as fast as possible, so there’s no evidence here, at all, except for the tiniest possible moment?”

  “No. You’re ass backwards. It’s all about minimizing risk.”