by Nolon King
Not just he and Stan, but he and Sarah too. Like how they planned to try to have a baby over the first time she made that chicken marsala that used to drive him crazy. Meeting for lunch while he was working weekends after his promotion. The ritual of taking Jenny out for ice cream. Making macadamia nut and white chocolate chip cookies for the bake sale every year.
Food used to be a huge part of his life, but lately it had become his life. Actually, it was more like alcohol had become his life, but why pick at nits?
He ordered a stout and a plate of loaded nachos to start while he assembled his copies. Slid them into the mailer, along with the flash drive with the copy of the recordings. He addressed the mailer to the Stit AC company out of Galveston, Texas. Stan’s dummy company that owned the whole beach at Playa Dolor.
He paused when his server came back with the appetizer. Ordered the Big Brisket Basket, and took his time with the nachos while he waited. He wanted to write a letter, but he didn’t know what to say. This is my last will and testament? To whom it may concern? If you’re reading this, then I’m dead?
At least a note, though. Stan would be able to figure out what all of it meant, but he should write something. He slid a scrap of paper over. Doodled a smiley face in the upper left corner. Then he wrote his note. Don’t be a bitch like me. Finish the job. He put the note in with the rest. Put one of Brisket Doug’s menus on top. Sealed it up and pushed it aside to make room for his plastic basket full of meat.
It was a little dry, but the cornbread was fantastic, and it wasn’t often he could find fried okra. The beer was the perfect companion to the smoky barbeque, and the peanut butter pie he finished with was rich and creamy. Almost too decadent. He left no scraps when he was done.
He drove back to Staples to drop the mailer in the big blue mailbox out front. Left town in favor of staying at the rest stop two exits down. Sat in the dark and wondered if he was doing the right thing. He drained the last beer in the cooler before getting up to head inside for a pee. Brush his teeth before turning in.
Of course he was doing the right thing. The only thing he could do. So the question was actually, was he doing the thing right?
Back in the van, and he had to admit he wasn’t. There was much he could have done better. From his marriage all the way to GG wanting the pain to go away. But this close to the end, was there really any reason to keep going over the details of every single mistake? Or to relive the guilt of killing? Or the shame of relishing the opportunity to kill again?
He didn’t think it was particularly productive, but it was the only way he knew how to live. It had become a habit. As destructive as Ty Kirby’s tobacco abuse. He crawled into the back and fired up his little fan. Wondered why he couldn’t have been a better man as he fell asleep.
Despite the morning sunshine streaming in, everything looked dull and gray when he woke up. His bladder was so full, he had trouble standing up straight. Made it to the urinal inside just in time. Took a hobo’s bath in the sink before going back to the van.
For what he had planned for the evening, his day was pretty tame. To Rosa Alta where he would do yoga on the beach to loosen up for the later activity. Keep his heartrate up, but not jacked. A big breakfast and a hearty lunch, then nothing else but water. It would be a shame to fail at the end because of a calf cramp.
Every passing moment brought him closer. An electric energy buzzing in his skull. The anticipation making it hard to concentrate on anything. Packing and repacking his backpack. Having his clothes ready. Like he was laying them out for a date. Just a sensible outfit that wasn't a loose tropical short and cargo shorts for once.
After a lunch of three Jersey Mike’s subs he ate out under a tree next to the truck stop, he decided to get after it. It was too early, but he couldn’t go home yet, so he went in for a shower. Took his time with his hair. Carefully edged his goatee. He even trimmed his eyebrows. He was vibrating with excitement when he took his toiletry bag back to the van.
His breathing exercises couldn’t get it under control. Water and meditation didn’t work. A protein bar didn’t help. He realized the only thing that was going to ease his growing mania was the thing itself. The release of the job.
It was still too early.
He looked at the candy wrapper crumpled up in a ball on the center console of the van. The bugs smeared across the windshield. The shiny skin of his cheeks in the rearview mirror reflection. He nodded to himself. That could kill some time, and the van deserved a good cleaning. Only God knew what it was going to be stained with by the end.
Chapter Fifteen
The trip to the carwash had the feeling of ritual, even though it was only the second time he had been there. He closed the overhead doors, sealing himself in the bay. Soaped and scrubbed. All the parts that didn’t appear to need it. Then up under the wheel wells. Balancing on the rear bumper to get the roof.
He felt like a squire washing the knight’s horse. Polishing his shield. Too bad he didn’t feel like the knight.
After taking his time on the exterior, running through almost thirty dollars on soap and wax, he moved to the inside. A fresh vacuum. Windex on the inside of the glass. 303 Protectant on all the plastic and rubber. He finished by spreading a thick sheet of plastic over the carpet between the middle seats. He held it down with four magnets, each one with a hundred pounds of pull.
He felt light after opening the doors to the setting sun. Floated up into the driver’s seat. A strange impulse made him pull the Van Halen cassette out of the glovebox, and he cruised the streets of Rosa Alta to the wow and flutter of “Panama.” He winced whenever David Lee Roth went for a high note.
He got to Alta Drive. Rolled past his dumpsters. Turned at the patio to end up backing into his spot under the sap bomber. A shame he had just spent so much time and money washing the van. And there were still no dogs in the little park.
Pressure was building in his neck. Tension growing between his shoulder blades. His skin alternated between goosebumps and warm flushing.
He looked at the cars parked nearby. In his little lot and the one across the street in front of the beach. He saw Hines’ Ford. Had no idea what the other men had driven. The Watchtower’s patio was lit by a dim light shining through the side door’s window. Nobody was outside in the alley. Just the normal noise from the shops. Shouts and music from the beach.
Frank got out to take a deep breath. He put his hands on his thighs so he could push his shoulders as high as possible. Got every single ounce of air he could. Walked to the rear doors. Wiped the sweat from his face before reaching inside for his gear. Shut the door with one hand. Slung the pack up behind him with the other.
His backpack was made of black canvas. Heavy duty with double seams. It pulled his shoulders back and down with its weight. Full of random objects that on first inspection might seem odd, but innocent.
Two five-pound plates. Rusty Olympic weights he’d bought at a thrift store. A few lengths of chain. One, three, and four feet. Elastic knee wraps — woven bands about six feet long for stabilizing the knees during heavy squats. He’d seen guys wrap them tight enough to turn their calves the color of a bad bruise before they finished their reps. Might be good for tying somebody up. Or maybe he’d have to wrap his knees for support when he had to dump a body.
The duct tape and zip-ties bent the relative innocence of the rest of the contents, but the first-aid kit and multi-tool were in every camper’s tent.
The pouches on the outside were packed with protein bars. Two bottles of water, and a packet of electrolytes.
His gun was in its holster, nestled in the small of his back, but Frank didn’t think he would need it. He almost left it in the van.
He didn’t see any more lights as he walked down the alley to the fire escape. Before going to the carwash an hour and a half ago, Frank had watched Kirby hustle out. On his way to his promised dinner date with his girlfriend. No doubt regretting his absence on the upper floor, but like the rest of the men knew
— and even Frank himself — there would be more girls later.
Frank held his backpack overhead as he descended the ladder with one hand. Kept himself from looking around suspiciously at the landing. Upstairs to the door, where he entered like an owner, easing the door to pass through with his pack held out in front of him.
Closed the door behind him. Rolled the lock over with his teeth gritted in nervous caution.
It made an oily click that he felt more than heard.
Faint sounds still drifted up from the street. Same for music from the shops below. Frank had sat in the dark at the end of this hall and listened many times, though he had never told anyone what he was doing here. Only that it was just another weekender at Rosa Alta.
Faint noise from down the hall. Excited voices. Creaking floors. Frank wondered if their activities ever caused alarm below them. He cocked his ear, but heard only a general wash of sound. He could imagine anything happening up here being dismissed down below.
Unless things got louder than usual.
More violent.
Frank set his backpack on the floor. Leaned it against the wall. Unzipped it as if avoiding a trap. Slow and easy. He slid the medium chain out one link at a time. Wrapped it around his right fist until his knuckles throbbed.
Filled his left cargo pocket with a bundle of zip-ties. The roll of duct tape. He smirked in disgust at the thought that there was probably plenty more in one of the rooms.
Took one of the weight plates in his left hand. Twisted to stand, but froze when his sneakers squeaked on the wooden floor.
Frank was used to wearing flip-flops. Not very good in a confrontation. He thought about going barefoot. Shook his head like he was arguing with a mime.
Drew a deep breath. Held it as he stood tall and peeked around the corner.
The windows were all covered in heavy construction blankets. Frank knew it was more for blocking sound and light than for protecting the glass from renovations.
The reception area at the end was ablaze with light. Nobody there. No shadows shifting to indicate movement. No TV or poker game.
More voices raised in … all Frank could really identify was emotion. He wasn’t close enough to know if the voice was happy or sad or angry. Only that it was male.
Out of the five doors along the hall, only the last two appeared occupied. Light shining out into the hall.
The three doors nearest him seemed dark, but that didn’t mean they were empty. Maybe a last-minute change brought a third girl, and her abuser wanted to stay in the dark.
Frank pressed himself into the wall as he slid around the corner. Kept his feet as close to the baseboard as he could. Moved on his toes to the nearest door. Whirled through the doorway to put his back against the wall. Hands up. Staring into the dusty dark of the empty space.
He nodded to himself. Slowed his breathing. Pulling air through his open mouth so he wouldn’t make gasping noises. Sweat trickled down the sides of his neck under his jaw.
The voices were louder. Plus another voice. Whimpering and crying. Then the sound of a blow. The bright snap of skin contacting skin.
Frank threw himself into the hallway. Rushed along the wall to the next door. The floor groaned underfoot as he spun inside, making himself as small as he possibly could. Surveyed the dark room while pretending to be oh so invisible.
He heard another small voice in a drawn-out whine.
Then a much deeper voice muttering a curse.
Gagging and coughing. More slaps. Laughter and moans.
Frank wanted to tear off his ears. But he needed to continue, despite the terror of seeing something far worse than what his mind could imagine.
His memory flashed on the images from Jenny’s crime scene — there could be nothing worse here than seeing the grisly remains of his dead daughter.
He dropped into a crouch and moved down the hall. No sound but the brush of his toes through the dust. Another pause in the darkness with the sounds of an unimaginable reality washing over him. Tears floating crystal shards of light in front of his eyes.
A girl’s voice raised in pain.
A stifled sob.
The sound of a fist in flesh.
A splatter of fluid. Cruel laughter.
Frank wiped his eyes on his forearms. Tightened his grip on the plate. Raised his chained fist.
His face tingled with numbness, but Frank could feel the smile stretching his lips as he stepped into the hallway.
Chapter Sixteen
There was a loud whoo from next door just as he entered. Followed by a cry of pain. Frank’s mind made note of the noise. Blocked it out as he took in the horror of what was in front of him.
A girl standing on her tiptoes in the center of a large sheet of black plastic. A thin rope around her neck stretched up to a block and tackle suspended by an old light fixture hanging from the cracked plaster ceiling, hands bound behind her back.
Tears poured from her bloodshot eyes. Snot bubbled over the red rubber ball strapped into her mouth.
Pale skin mottled by strips of red. Some already bruising at the edges.
Her eyes widened into shock as Frank filled the doorway. Her shivering body tightened in alarm.
Hines stood in front of her with his hand drawn back. A wooden yardstick cocked back to deliver another blow.
She was so small.
Hines was still clothed. The only concession made to his activity was the jacket draped over the back of a wooden chair. Tie loosened. Collar unbuttoned.
A wrinkled blanket at the girl’s feet was covered in various implements Hines was planning to use. Or ones he already had.
Frank wasn’t in time to stop the swing, and Hines delivered a cracking shot that hit under her left breast. A fresh stripe over the girl’s ribs. She cried out into the gag. Coughed and snorted as her shifting weight put pressure on the rope. Face deepening into scarlet. Eyes rolling back in panic.
Frank could only imagine what his own face looked like, but when Hines turned around, the shocked expression served as an excellent clue. To see a crazy drifter charging into the room must have stopped his heart in confusion.
He took a half step to the side, and Frank finished his entry by swinging a savage kick up into Hines’ balls. Frank grunted out his effort as the top of his shoe made crushing contact.
The yardstick clattered to the floor, and Hines bent over the blow with a gagging wheeze of surprised pain. Frank pulled his foot back. Planted it for stability. Raised his left hand to fire the edge of the five-pound plate into the ridge of bone over his opponent’s right eye.
A greasy crunch, and an arcing spray of blood as Hines’ head snapped back, and Frank jumped forward to wrap him in a hug. Hold him up on unsteady legs so he could ease him to the floor.
The sound of him falling would have alerted the party next door. There were five men over there, if everyone showed. Frank hated himself for the thought, but he hoped they could be occupied with their fun for a few moments longer.
He set the weight on the blanket. Unwound the chain from his fist. Rolled Hines over so he wouldn’t choke on the blood dribbling down his face into his mouth. Frank could see the gleam of his skull through the gaping wound.
Frank dragged Hines’ arms behind his back. Pulled the zip-ties from his pocket. Ratcheted three of them on Hines’ wrists. Cinching them down until they almost broke the skin.
He turned to move down to the man’s ankles, but Hines bucked under him. Grunted a confused question. A pool of crimson spread under his head like a bloody aura. Frank spread himself out to put as much of his weight down as he could. Dug for the tape in his pocket.
His other hand scraped over damp cloth. He looked up to find the girl’s panties snagged in his groping fingers. He could smell the urine from an arm’s length away.
He raised up to plant his knees in the middle of Hines’ back. Then a hop to drive his weight down. Drove the air from his lungs in a groaning rush.
Frank grabbed a handful of ha
ir and pulled Hines’ head back as hard as he could. Stuffed the saturated panties into his gaping mouth. Shifted to plant his knee under his jaw, then pulled a strip of tape from the roll.
He got the adhesive started. Pulled the roll so it wrapped around Hines’ head. All the way over the start of the strip at the edge of his mouth. Around another full turn.
Then Frank stood. Pulled his foot back and drove it up between the man’s legs.
Hines flopped in agony. Rolled onto his side and curled up. Retched and swallowed. Frank dropped down and hooked Hines’ feet under his arm. Three more zip-ties to bind his ankles. Then he forced Hines onto his stomach. Bent his knees and zip-tied his wrists and hands together. Like a hog ready for roasting.
Frank didn’t care if Hines choked to death on blood or vomit. He just wanted him out of commission while he went into the next room.
Frank tiptoed back to the door. Put the side of his head toward the hallway. Grunting. Wet slapping. Deep moans of pleasure. Squealing moans of pain.
Rough laughter.
He closed his eyes and turned back into Hines’ room. He knew the plan for these girls was murder. What would probably be a merciful end to who knew how many hours of torture and abuse.
He couldn’t cry now. He needed to focus.
He jogged on light feet. Right to the black tarp where he dropped beside her. On his knees, she was only a head taller than him. She held her head tipped back. Nostrils flared to get air. She rolled her eyes down to keep him in view.
He held his hands out in front of her. His fingers spread wide. Pointed at the gag. “If I take that out, will you be quiet?”
Her jaw muscles bulged. Her eyebrows drew together.
“Please. You can’t scream. Or make any noise. I’m so sorry, but I can’t alert the men in the next room, and we don’t have much time.”