No Going Back (Sawyer Brooks)

by T. R. Ragan

  Sawyer reached into her pocket to make sure her pepper spray canister was there if needed. The capsule could be unlocked with a flick of her thumb. After that it was simply a matter of pushing and spraying.

  The three wooden stairs leading to Felix Iverson’s trailer door were rotted. She tested her footing before putting weight on each step. Standing firmly at the landing, she knocked and waited.

  No one came. She listened for any noise coming from within. No music. No appliances. No footfalls.

  After a long pause, she knocked again.

  The door snapped open, catching her off guard and giving her a start. Hand on her chest, she stepped backward and nearly toppled over.

  Felix Iverson reached out and grabbed her arm, holding her steady. She jerked her arm back, prompting the man to raise his hands as if he were under arrest. “Just trying to help.”

  “I know. Sorry. You surprised me, that’s all.”

  He was wearing a white tank top and torn-up jeans that hung low on his hips. He leaned a hand against the dented doorframe, his eyes checking her out from head to toe before his gaze met hers. “Funny that I surprised you so easily, when you’re the one knocking on my door.”

  She forced a tight smile. “I’m Sawyer Brooks, reporter for the Sacramento Independent. I was hoping I could come inside and we could talk about the Children’s Home of Sacramento.”

  His hair was much longer than it had been in the picture she’d seen. He flipped it back, out of his face. “It wasn’t me.”

  Confused, she frowned. “I’m sorry?”

  “I didn’t burn the place down.”

  “Oh. I’m not here to talk about that. I wanted to talk to you about Nick Calderon and Bruce Ward.” She looked over his shoulder, tried to get a peek inside, but with all the windows covered up, the place was dark.

  “I haven’t seen them in years, but sure, if you want to come inside for a drink, then by all means.” He stepped aside and swept his hand through the air as if she were royalty, giving her room to enter.

  The unmistakable scent of mold, along with cigarettes and stale beer, hit her all at once. She tried not to gag as he pulled out a plastic lawn chair for her to take a seat.

  “Want a beer?”

  “No, thanks.”

  He shrugged a bony shoulder, grabbed a beer for himself, and popped the tab. The amber liquid bubbled over the top of the can despite his best effort to quickly suck it up. The kitchen was small. Dirty dishes were piled high in the sink, threatening to topple.

  Before taking a seat, he locked the door, sealing the place off from what meager bit of light and fresh air the opening had provided. When he saw her watching him, he said, “People come and go around here, in and out, as if they lived here. Better to keep this private.”

  She didn’t trust him, kept her eyes on him as he pulled out another plastic chair and sat across from her.

  “So what do you want to know?” he asked.

  “Are you aware that Nick Calderon and Bruce Ward were murdered?”

  “Heard about Nick,” he said without emotion. “What happened to Bruce?”

  “He’s dead, and it appears the killer went out of their way to make it look like a suicide. It should be a day or two before investigators have autopsy and toxicology reports.”

  “They think he was poisoned?”

  “It’s a possibility.” She decided to keep what she knew about the fentanyl found in Nick Calderon’s system to herself.

  “I was told that security cameras showed someone leaving his house.”

  “That’s true,” she said.

  “So why are you here? It wasn’t me.”

  His mannerism and defensive attitude bothered her, like a finger poking her in the ribs, telling her to say what she had to say and get out. “Nick Calderon engages a lot on social media, and there are quite a few pictures of you, Nick, and Bruce posted on Nick’s Facebook page—”

  “Okay, so we’ve hung out a few times. What about it?”

  “Is there any reason you can think of that someone might want to kill two of your closest friends?”

  He chuckled, then chugged his beer, finishing it off in a couple of long gulps. “I have no friends.”

  The thought that Felix might have killed Nick and Bruce floated through her head. But why? What would be his motivation? “Doesn’t it worry you that whoever went after Nick and Bruce might come after you?”

  This time he guffawed as if that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard in his life. He even slapped his bare knee that stuck out of a giant gaping hole in his jeans. Then he stood, and she watched him closely as he walked through the narrow kitchen and disappeared into a back room. When he returned, he was holding a machete with a sweeping curved steel blade that glinted in the semidarkness.

  Sawyer’s pulse quickened. She jumped to her feet and whipped out her pepper spray. Held it straight in front of her, thumb on the button.

  That same throaty chuckle erupted. “Put that skunk spray away, darling. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “You first,” she said.

  He held the machete in front of him. “It’s a beauty, isn’t it? It’s a kukri. Almost fourteen inches of razor-sharp slicing power. If anyone comes to see me, I’ll show them this.” After admiring his weapon a moment longer, he finally set it on the one clean space left on the counter opposite the sink area.

  Sawyer glanced at the door and wondered how fast she could unlock the bolt. How far she would get before he caught up to her with that blade of his.

  He opened the refrigerator and popped open another beer.

  A rodent, smaller than the rat outside, skittered across the floor and quickly squeezed its way under the stove, sending a shiver up her spine. She put the pepper spray away.

  Felix returned to the plastic chair and took a seat.

  “You want to know what I find amusing?”

  “What?”

  “The fact that you have gone out of your way to come see me.” He raised his beer. “Look at you, sitting there all soft and sweet, warning me that my life might be in danger.” He feigned a shiver and laughed some more. “That’s funny shit.”

  “It’s not a joke.”

  “Nobody ever gave one fuck about me or the boys. But here you are, telling me to be careful, and what? Stay alert to any unusual noises?”

  Before she could ask him who “the boys” included, he started talking again.

  “Nobody,” he said flatly, his fist hitting the table hard, making her jump, all the laughter gone from his voice. “Nobody checked to see if they were feeding us properly at that facility. Did anybody care that we were malnourished and sleeping in rat-infested beds?” This time when he stood, he placed both hands flat on the table so that he could keep his balance. He then leaned so far over the table that he was right up in her face.

  Sawyer sucked in a breath and held it. The man was crazy.

  “Did anyone give a rat’s ass about any of us?” He shook his head, then pushed away from the table and plopped back down into his chair.

  Sawyer inhaled.

  He took another long swig of beer before he said, “Now that I think about it, there were a few kids who might have wanted to see Nick and Bruce dead. But why wait all these years?”

  Sawyer perked up a little. “Do you remember their names?”

  “Nah. We gave them all special nicknames.”

  “Boys or girls?”

  “Both.”

  “Would any of them have reason to come after you?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know. Don’t care. Let them come.”

  “What about Emily Stiller, Jimmy Crocket, or Stanley Higgins?”

  “Ahh, is that her name? Emily. She was a bitch, but I liked her spirit.” He nodded as if agreeing with his own statement. “I could see her making the rounds. Yeah. I can see that.” He looked over his shoulder at his machete. “If she comes here, though, I’ll be ready.”

  “What about Jimmy Crocket or Stanley Hig
gins? Could they be a threat?”

  He chuckled. “Jiminy Cricket was a beanpole, and Stupid Stanley peed in his pants if you looked at him cross-eyed.” Felix looked blankly at the wall as if he might be reliving a few moments from his past. “Stupid Stanley thought if he stayed quiet enough, people would leave him alone. But that’s not how it worked at the home.”

  “Do you have any regrets about that time in your life?”

  “No way. We were kids. Kids do crazy shit.”

  Sawyer saw it differently. Adults did crazy shit to kids, but she wasn’t here to have a debate. “Do you remember the names of any of the adults who were in charge at the time?”

  Instead of looking at the wall, he looked upward this time and then shook his head.

  “What about the others in your club? Could you give me their names?”

  “Don’t waste your time, sweetie.”

  “It’s my job. It’s what I do.”

  “Well, I can’t help you there.”

  “Because you don’t recall their names?”

  “Because I don’t think they would want you coming to see them. No offense, honey.”

  Sawyer pushed herself to her feet and thanked him for his time.

  “Aww. Leaving already?” He frowned. “I was just starting to think this might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship between you and me.”

  Sawyer walked to the door. As she attempted to turn the lock, she panicked when she heard the legs of the chair scrape against the floor.

  Haste makes waste, she thought as she tried the lock again. She could feel his warm breath on her neck. The lock wouldn’t budge.

  He leaned into her, his bony chest brushing against her back as he reached over her shoulder and undid the bolt. “There you go, honey pie.”

  She opened the door and jumped over the dilapidated steps, landing on the ground with both feet.

  “Come back real soon, will you?”

  Trying to take even breaths, she kept walking.

  “A bit of advice, Sawyer Brooks. You might want to get a real weapon before you come around these parts, because if I wanted a piece of your ass, that itty-bitty thing in your pocket wouldn’t stop me from getting what I want.”

  Sawyer didn’t look back. She never should have come to the trailer park alone. She should have waited for Aria to join her and let her sister bring her gun along for the ride.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  It was Monday. Another sunny day. Ten minutes after arriving at the gym where Emily Stiller worked, Sawyer regretted coming. Nancy Lay and Felix were right about Emily. She was no pushover. The young woman with the beautiful red hair and sea-green eyes meant business. Before Sawyer could protest, Emily dragged her upstairs to a massive equipment room where dozens of people were running on treadmills or lifting weights. Every time Sawyer tried to start a conversation about why she was there, Emily cut in, spouting off all the great reasons to exercise and eat right.

  “Come on,” Emily said, leading her across the room. “It’s time for a little fun with the kettlebells.”

  “Now?” Sawyer asked.

  “Yes. Now. Stand with your feet shoulder-width apart. Grasp one kettlebell in each hand, palms facing out, like this.”

  Emily demonstrated, resting a kettlebell on each shoulder. “Now bend your knees just a few inches and as you stand back up I want you to press the weights straight up overhead.”

  Sawyer went ahead and played along. It wasn’t too bad.

  “Bring the weights back to your shoulders,” Emily told her. “Yes, like that. Now bend your knees, that’s right, into a semisquat, and stand back up.”

  After fifteen or twenty more of those, Sawyer was eyeing the exits.

  “You look like you’re in decent shape. I want to show you some of the equipment next. Maybe we could start out with three days a week and then work up from there.”

  “If you could just answer a few questions I have about Stanley Higgins and Jimmy Crocket—”

  She eyed Sawyer suspiciously. “Is that why you’re here?”

  “Yes. I’m a reporter for the Sacramento Independent, and I just had a couple of questions.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “The people at the front desk told me the only way I could talk to you was if I agreed to a consultation.”

  Emily anchored her hands on her hips and shook her head. “Come on. Let’s go to my office.”

  Relieved, Sawyer did as she said.

  Once they were seated in a tiny room with a glass wall, Sawyer reached into her bag and handed Emily the same sheet of paper with the black-and-white photos. “I showed these to Nancy Lay. She talked very highly of you.”

  “She’s still alive?”

  Sawyer nodded.

  Emily’s gaze roamed over the pictures. “Talk about a blast from the past.”

  Sawyer quickly filled her in on everything going on. Emily had heard about both Nick’s and Bruce’s recent demises and, like Felix Iverson, she showed no emotion.

  Emily’s head shot up. Her green eyes fixated on Sawyer’s. “You don’t think Jimmy or Stanley had anything to do with their deaths, do you?”

  Sawyer drew in a breath. “Well, they were both bullied by these guys.”

  Emily’s hand covered her mouth. Her eyes widened. “You think I had something to do with their deaths?”

  “Of course not,” Sawyer said, which was a lie, since Jimmy, Stanley, and Emily had all been bullied and it made sense that they might want revenge. “I’m just talking to people who knew Nick Calderon and Bruce Ward. I’m doing what journalists do—dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s.”

  For a second Sawyer wasn’t sure whether Emily was crying or giggling. It turned out to be the latter. Thankfully it wasn’t the sort of giggling a madwoman might not be able to hold back, but more of a what-the-fuck-is-going-on sort of laugh.

  “I have five minutes before I have to take someone else on a tour of this place, so I’ll make this quick and easy for you. Do you have pen and paper in that bag of yours?”

  “I’ll use my phone,” Sawyer said.

  “The Boys’ Club consisted of five boys,” Emily said. “Nick Calderon, Bruce Ward, Chuck Zimmer, Aston Newell, and Felix Iverson are all monsters who deserve to have their eyes plucked from their sockets. Chuck Zimmer died in a car accident a few years after the children’s home burned to the ground, so three out of five are dead. Not bad.”

  Sawyer visibly stiffened at her callous tone.

  She heard the sound of voices as people walked by Emily’s office. Then Emily said, “If you had seen what I saw, you would be glad they were dead too. If I had wanted to kick their asses, I could have. But I’m no killer. Neither is Jimmy.”

  “What about Stanley Higgins?”

  She shrugged. “I never really knew Stanley. He never said much.”

  “Do you know what became of Jimmy or Stanley?”

  “No idea where Stanley is, but I know that Jimmy lives and works right here in Sacramento at Midtown Design Studio. I run into him every once in a while, but it’s usually, ‘Hey there. How are you doing?’ That sort of thing.”

  “He’s not on social media, and I couldn’t find anything about him on the internet.”

  “Jimmy is smart that way. He doesn’t like people. Understandable. Who does?”

  Sawyer found herself giving a noncommittal nod.

  “Oh, look,” Emily said as she waved at the person on the other side of the glass wall waiting outside her door.

  Emily came to her feet, and Sawyer couldn’t help but quickly size the woman up—five foot eight, muscular, as in strong enough shape to kick some serious ass.

  “If you decide to come in for a real workout, let me know.” Emily patted her own well-defined abs and said, “Looks like you’re getting a little pooch. Your arms look weak too, and your skin is on the pale side. Probably need some vitamin D.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Sawyer was already sore from doing
kettlebell squats when she climbed out of the car at her next destination only a few blocks away from the gym. Aston Newell, one of the alleged bullies at the children’s home, worked at an auto shop near the tracks. She’d always appreciated the freight trains that passed by. The railroad tracks were part of the original line from the 1850s. She’d read somewhere that the freight trains running through Midtown carried more freight these days than ever before in US history.

  The sound of an electric drill and a loud radio playing heavy metal music poured out of the large open garage. She saw the shadowy figures of the mechanics working on the cars lifted high on hydraulics inside.

  A UPS truck pulled up in front of the office, prompting a man in blue oil-stained coveralls to step out of the garage to collect the package.

  “Excuse me,” Sawyer shouted over the din, but no one heard her. In her haste to get the mechanic’s attention, she tripped in a pothole, but managed to catch herself before doing a face-plant. Weaving her way around the UPS truck, she followed the man in coveralls into a small office. A vending machine and two plastic chairs were pushed up against a window overlooking the outside area. A large oscillating fan blew a welcome blast of air over her as she waited for him to do whatever he was doing with the package. His fingernails were rimmed with black grease. She wondered how difficult it would be to get the grime out of his nails. When he finally looked up, his eyes bore into hers.

  “Ahh,” he said. “You must be the chick Felix called me about.” He shook his head. “You’re wasting your time, trying to warn the Boys’ Club. Whatever bullying took place happened a long time ago. People have moved on. Nick’s and Bruce’s deaths are nothing but a coincidence, a one-off, a once-in-a-million happening. Nobody on this planet is going to be able to take me out, or Felix, for that matter.”

  “Maybe you can tell me about the other guys in your club?”

  He smiled. “Not going to happen. Sorry, lady.” He tipped his head toward the side door leading to the garage. “I’ve got work to do. Good luck with your search.”