The Holler Thief: A Private Eye Mystery

by Jim Heskett

  “Maria?” Harry called out.

  A light flicked on in the dining room, just for a moment. Then the kitchen doors opened and in stepped Thomas Bixby himself, this time with no pantyhose smushing his features. He’d added a couple of scars on his face since his last mug shot, but Harry had no trouble placing the young man.

  “You’re awake,” Thomas said. His voice was even and calm, lacking menace. He almost seemed cordial, but Harry didn’t assume this man his friend.

  He resisted the urge to inform Thomas he knew his name. Something like that could get Harry killed. Although the fact that Thomas wasn’t bothering to cover his face wasn’t a good sign. Harry had seen that before, and a primal awareness of the depth of his danger flashed in his head like a warning klaxon.

  “Look,” Harry said, anxiety draining his breath, “I don’t know what your plan is, but please don’t smash up this restaurant. I really like their burritos.”

  Thomas crouched in front of Harry to meet his eye level. “You think you’re going to make me chuckle and then we’ll be best friends and I’ll let you go or something like that? I don’t think so, Boukadakis. You know how much trouble I’d be in if I did that?”

  “Trouble with whom?”

  Now Thomas flashed a sour smirk, and it sent a pulse of fear through Harry’s body. “No more questions outta you.”

  Harry put his head down and nodded. It had been worth a try.

  The kidnapper sauntered over to a desk built into the wall with a computer and a couple of monitors. He tapped on the keyboard and the screen first awoke, then the login screen disappeared, revealing her desktop and apps. Harry gritted his teeth and groaned because Maria hadn’t password-protected her computer.

  “Easy as pie,” Thomas said as he opened the surveillance app to see two black and white camera feeds outside the restaurant. “Here we go.”

  Thomas turned back toward Harry and drew a folding knife from inside his pocket. Harry could feel his heart rattling in his chest as Thomas opened the blade.

  “Was it worth it?” the goon asked, holding the blade to the light.

  Harry saw a flash in his peripheral on the surveillance screen. He couldn’t help but look to see an onscreen Kemba Wood lumbering up the hill, teeth bared and fists clenched as he ran. Directly at Maria’s.

  Thomas saw this too. As he turned to the monitor with a raised eyebrow, Harry looked down and realized only his hands were shackled. He was not tied to the chair and his legs weren’t tied together. Maybe Thomas hadn’t had time? Or maybe he was just sloppy. Either way, Harry had to do something with this knowledge, quickly.

  Thomas was facing the other way. He had lowered the blade.

  Do it! Run! Harry’s brain screamed, but his feet wouldn’t move. His untethered lower limbs were still locked in place by the tendrils of panic careening around the inside of Harry’s brain.

  “Is that guy… is he…?” Thomas still seemed confused.

  Do it!

  A well of adrenaline bubbled up from Harry’s stomach. He began vibrating, shaking in place, as if cold. He could feel kinetic energy in his legs, ready to push him to his feet. But something held him back. His body was in a state of motion and non-motion at the same time, like the proverbial cat in the box. Adrenaline spiked, making him feel stronger. More agile. But his brain still wouldn’t release his limbs.

  Do it! Do it!

  Harry saw Thomas begin to turn back toward him, and something foreign took over. His arms and legs tensed. With little input from his reasoning brain, Harry’s muscles activated and he shot up to his feet.

  He pushed forward and threw his shoulder into Thomas, knocking him into Maria’s desk. The computer monitors fell off the desk and crashed to the floor. One of them smacked Thomas in the head on the way down, sending a trickle of blood down the confused man’s temple.

  Harry brought up his handcuffed hands and smacked the edge of a cuff against Thomas’ nose. He bellowed and dropped the knife as he raised a hand to his face. Now, multiple streams of blood cascaded down his face, nearly turning Harry’s stomach at the sight of the crimson liquid.

  But then, with Thomas’ other hand, he drew that .38 from the previous encounter. All of Harry’s valiant courage drained like a busted water balloon. Instead, his survival instincts took over, and he pointed his feet toward the kitchen’s back exit.

  Harry ran, swinging his shackled hands back and forth across his body as he went. He burst through the rear exit, into the alley, as a gun blast cracked across the night air behind him. Harry trundled toward the front of the restaurant, where he saw a frantic Kemba in the street.

  Kemba slowed and cocked his head at Harry. “Are you okay?”

  “Gun!” Harry shouted, pointing frantically in the other direction. Kemba skidded to a stop and then turned, and together they fled across the street. At this late hour, there were a few businesses’ lights on, but no pedestrians clogging up the streets. For that, Harry felt grateful. During the daytime, that errant pistol blast could’ve easily tagged an innocent bystander or two.

  Another gunshot came, and Harry looked back across his shoulder to see Thomas in the alley, skulking toward them. Gun up, barely bothering to conceal himself.

  Harry and Kemba reached the other side of the street. The frantic private investigator noted the Italian restaurant one building over had a short stone fence—about the size of concrete highway dividers—lining the front seating area, and he grabbed Kemba’s shirt and then raced toward the fence.

  Harry dropped behind it, and Kemba hunkered down a second later. The fence didn’t conceal the former football player completely, but the structure did its best.

  “Holy shit,” Kemba said. “You’re handcuffed. What do we do?”

  Harry wanted to peek over the fence to see where Thomas was. But he worried Thomas had moved. He didn’t want to pop up and give the goon a solid target.

  “Y’all come out right now and nobody gets a bullet!” Thomas said, and Harry suspected this guy was not operating from a place of superior planning. Harry knew the man’s rough position now.

  “Hey,” Harry whispered to Kemba. “He’s still over by the burrito place, so if we scoot along this fence and stay low, we can move around the back of this building, then we’re on a side street. If we’re careful, he’ll have no idea.”

  The big guy nodded, mouth open, sweat dotting his forehead. “I’ll go when you say.”

  Harry had sorta hoped Kemba would lead the charge, but as far as Harry knew, this was the guy’s first gunfight. Harry unfortunately had been in a few, although he’d hoped he wouldn’t ever have to again.

  He did his best to channel the natural leaders he’d worked with over the years. The men and women who took control and did what needed to be done, even with no time to properly consider all the options. It always looked so easy for them.

  “Okay, we need to make our move before he does. Quiet, slow, and low.”

  But as soon as Harry started to move, a car came careening up the hilly road. Harry recognized the sound of the engine, and he peered over the stone wall to see Serena’s car screech to a halt.

  She rolled out of the open car door and raised her gun, no hesitation. She spit several shots toward the bumfuzzled Thomas, who had seemingly entered a state of momentary paralysis, because he stood in place and watched it all happen. His delayed reaction allowed Serena to aim at least four or five bullets in his direction.

  But when one of the rounds smacked him in the forearm, he wailed and backpedaled. He disappeared into an alley and Harry watched him go. Like that, the alley quieted again, with only the residual echo of the gunshots making Harry’s ears rings.

  Serena rushed over to them, slipping her gun into a holster inside her waistband. “Are you okay?”

  Kemba pointed back toward the alley. “Shouldn’t we go after him? Or call the police?”

  “Let him go,” Harry said. “He’s not what we need to worry about. We have to get to the Sunrise Hotel, r
ight now.”

  Harry, Serena, and Kemba piled into Serena’s car and she drove them up the hill to the Sunrise Hotel and Spa. His wrists ached from the deep grooves the handcuffs had pressed into his flesh. Fortunately, Serena kept bolt cutters in the back of her car, so she’d snipped his restraints without much fuss.

  On the way, Harry called the police and gave them the highlights of his capture and his suspicion about what they’d learn at the hotel. This late at night, he found himself talking to one of only four people at the police station.

  And while the cop on the phone warned Harry to stand down and let the authorities instead investigate the hotel, he had no intention of abiding by that directive. Even if they were in their squad cars within seconds, no way could they arrive at the Sunrise faster than his crew.

  They parked outside and split up. Harry and Serena went one way and sent Kemba to a different part of the hotel. With his tangential relation to the case, Harry decided at the last moment to keep Kemba out of any potential suspicion.

  They all agreed to call the others the instant they saw anything strange. Harry and Serena hustled across the hotel lobby, ignoring offers for help by friendly hotel staff. Harry noted Serena had changed into a black hoodie, and he thought he spotted a stain of blood on her chest, but he couldn’t be sure. That would be a topic better left for after this frantic chase.

  Harry hustled toward the stairs, ignoring the escalator. He was looking for room 214. They bounded through a set of double doors and his chest seized for a split second, then he regained his breath. Over the last hour, Harry had run more than he had in the last five years combined. But he ignored the warning signals flaring all over his husky body and hurled himself up the stairs.

  On the second floor, he pushed down the hallway, and his heart tightened when he saw the door to room 214 slightly open. Only an inch or so, hovering there, lights visible from inside the room.

  He and Serena stopped outside her room. Harry used the sleeve of his shirt to push open the door, where they saw Ginnifer Applewhite sprawled on the floor. On her back, with her lower body twisted and angled to the side. Unmoving. In death, she still looked graceful.

  A syringe, spoon, and length of tubing lay next to the gangly beauty. That, coupled with a blood-red dot on the crook of her elbow, hinted at a drug overdose, but Harry knew better. This was a hastily constructed plan that would probably fool the cops for a day or two. Long enough for whoever had done it to hide their tracks and tie up loose ends.

  Ginnifer Applewhite had been killed because of what she knew. Or even worse, because of what she’d told Harry. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks as he stumbled a couple steps to his right and slumped onto the bed.

  “Oh no. No, no, no. This can’t be right.”

  “What is it?” Serena asked.

  “She’s dead because of me.”

  36

  Harry slept in. He’d been at the police station until the wee hours of the morning, recounting the events at Maria’s Burritos, the hotel, and the logical chain that had led Harry there. Without much police contact so far, he unloaded as many details as he could.

  He wasn’t sure if it had helped, though. The more Harry talked to cops in this town, the more he became convinced they wouldn’t buy his description of events. Despite the fact that he held nothing back and told the complete truth, they still seemed skeptical. Furthermore, some of them didn't like Harry one bit.

  Harry’s relationship with the ESPD had been circling the drain for about a year. The trouble had begun when Harry was hired to recover a stolen diamond wedding ring the police had been unable to find. The lead detective had declared the ring most likely pawned out of state and dropped the matter into the abyss of the cold case files.

  To Harry, it had seemed lazy. The cops had focused on the victim’s black sheep cousin, but hadn’t been able to make anything stick. Harry—with the help of his mentor Phil Dugan—kept hunting and eventually found the ring hiding in the pocket of an old jacket the victim had sent out for dry cleaning. Case closed.

  For such a small department, the Eureka Springs Police held a lot of pride. They didn’t like being made to look like idiots. They particularly didn’t like when Harry asked them why they hadn’t yet been able to find the murder weapon from the holler cabin.

  When Harry awoke, he felt like shit. Something akin to a hangover, but wandering in dreariness and aches. His stomach still hurt from the baseball bat’s swing a few days before. His nerves were still scrambled after a gunfight twelve hours prior. He could still feel the indentations from the handcuffs.

  And he still didn’t know who had killed Lukas Maslow.

  Ginnifer Applewhite had been declared dead on arrival by the EMTs. Actually, one of the EMTs had pronounced her not actually “DOA,” but “DRT.” Harry spent an hour trying to puzzle through the meaning of this DRT acronym before looking it up. DRT stood for “Dead Right There,” which matched the macabre sense of humor of the first responders Harry had known in DC.

  The cause of death had been drug overdose, pending autopsy. Harry believed it possible she did in fact overdose on drugs, but he wasn’t convinced she’d done it willingly. At the moment, he didn’t know how to prove or disprove that fact.

  In fact, Harry knew only one thing for sure: of the two deaths so far linked to this case, he felt personally responsible for Ginny’s. Lukas had been a friend long ago. But Harry had nothing to do with shaping his life in the intervening years. Ginny had died because Harry pressed her for information about dealing illegal vape cartridges. Her unwilling aid had led death right to her door.

  Harry had always been taught not to become “personally” involved in cases. After reading enough detective novels, Harry assumed this platitude referred to becoming romantically entangled. He’d never read a private eye pulp novel where sleeping with the client led to a happy ending.

  But now, staring at the popcorn on the ceiling of his bedroom, he understood “personal” to have another meaning. It also meant imposing one’s will, trying to guide the hand of the case toward a preconceived end. Harry’s assumptions had made a mess of everything.

  He lumbered out of bed in the late morning and made brunch. He had unread emails on his phone and a couple of voicemails, but he didn’t want to rejoin society just yet. Instead, he ate eggs and drank coffee while watching episodes of anime on his laptop.

  He took up a spot in the living room and watched neighbors going about their late morning activities. Amateur gardeners worked in the flower beds, digging spades into the earth and spreading bags of mulch. The power-walker crowd swept around the neighborhood like a roving street gang of the elderly. He didn’t know some of his neighbors’ names, but he knew every one of their faces. Some he’d known since his teenage years.

  When he could no longer see the sun’s rise out of his windows, Harry decided he had to face the music. He would visit Kemba at the barbershop and tell him he was giving up the case, then advise him to let it go. He would contact Ginnifer Applewhite’s next of kin and try to give that person or persons some comfort in this difficult time.

  After that, he would move on and try to forget this case.

  The last thing in the world a private eye was supposed to do was “let it go,” though. At least, according to his old mentor.

  With a sigh, Harry Boukadakis packed up his briefcase and then stared at it. The idea of going back to work—even for a half day—seemed like torture. Facing his responsibilities might break him.

  “Not yet,” he said. He’d take a walk first. It seemed like a mild spring day outside, and he wanted to stretch his legs a little. He wanted the loose social comfort of smiling and nodding to neighbors as he passed without having to engage them in actual small talk.

  Except he opened his front door to see Phil Dugan on the sidewalk below, staring daggers at Harry.

  37

  Harry stood on his porch, looking down at Phil Dugan on the sidewalk below him. Last time they’d spoken,
Phil said he didn’t want to see Harry around Eureka Springs any more. Well, this time, it certainly wasn’t Harry’s fault.

  “Getting a late start today?” Phil said with a mischievous sneer across his face.

  “I, uh, don’t have anything to say to you, Phil.”

  Phil inched forward, stopping at the steps up to Harry’s porch. “It’s not up to you this time. Let’s have a chat.”

  Harry held out his hands in surrender. “Please, not right now. I’m having a really bad day and I can’t handle you today.”

  “You think you’re so sneaky. You think you’ve got everything figured out. Where did you go wrong, Harry?”

  The query came at Harry like a slap in the face and eradicated Harry’s wall of non-confrontation. His jaw dropped at the sheer audacity of the question. “Me? Me? I used to look up to you. I used to think you were a great investigator.”

  “You were at the Sunrise yesterday, weren’t you? I doubted my intuition at first, but the more I thought about it, the more I came to realize it was you, wasn’t it? What were you doing there, Harry?”

  “None of your business.”

  Phil advanced a step. “I know now all about how you’re getting side gigs at Sunrise Hotel. It’s your little buddy Geneva Vaille, isn’t it? She’s been feeding you work on the sly.”

  “Leave Neva out of this. She has nothing to do with—“

  “She has everything to do with this! That bitch is going to wish she’d never messed with me.”

  Despite a belly full of eggs, a head full of sad, and palms full of sweat, Harry balled his fists as his jaw tightened enough to make his molars ache. “Watch your mouth. You don’t talk about my friend like that.”

  Phil, with one foot on Harry’s front steps, glanced down at Harry’s vibrating fists and grinned. “What are you going to do about it? I see you standing there, jittering. You’re so hyped up right now, you’ll probably pass out if you take a swing. So, actually, go ahead.”