by Keri Lake
Wasn’t long before he grew tired of the routine. And when the police started snooping around, he realized dumping them alive was too risky, even if, most times, they couldn’t remember his face.
I catch sight of Nola through the diner window, buzzing from table to table. Never still. I wish I could say my only purpose for sitting in that car was to catch a sadistic psychopath, but I’d be lying. Something about the woman intrigues me. Her tenacity and dedication to her son reminds me of my own mother, and truth is, she’s not exactly hard on the eyes.
I try not to think too much about her curves, but goddamn, the way she looked in those jeans at the grocery store had me imagining them bunched at her ankles like cuffs. She’s an enticement I can’t afford. A distraction that’ll cost me the game, if I’m not careful.
A couple of hours watching cars and people coming and going, and I’m ready to crawl out of my skin having to sit so long. I’m more likely to stumble upon something significant after her shift, so I fire up the vehicle and head back to the apartment to grab some lunch. Along the way, I catch sight of Oliver, caught up in a circle of three other kids who look at least two grades older, a few blocks from the house. I slow the car to a crawl, and seconds later, it becomes clear the circle is a trap, and Oliver is the mouse, when one of the kids gives a hard thrust to his chest, knocking him back a step.
Oliver adjusts his glasses, and holds his stance.
Admirable, but even the smallest of the other three looks like he could pummel Oliver into a pancake and eat him.
Everything tells me to keep going. He’s not my kid. Not my problem. But the bigger kid swings out, knocking Oliver flat on his ass, and something twists inside of me. Maybe it’s whatever miniscule amount of empathy I can muster, having been a mouse myself, when I was a kid. Or maybe something about the older kid just rubs me the wrong fucking way.
Regardless, I pull the car to a stop alongside the curb a few houses down, and stare through the rearview as the boys knock him around.
“Don’t do it.” I close my eyes to extinguish the scene, but the anger remains in the red haze that greets me behind shuttered lids. “C’mon, kid.”
I’ve got too much invested in Nola right now, and hell if I need my conscience getting in the way.
Fuck. I climb out of the vehicle, lighting up a cigarette to ease the frustration of having to give a shit. With a casual stroll, so as not to alert any of the boys getting their jollies off on knocking Oliver to the ground each time he tries to get up, I approach them like a rhino about to stomp all over an ant hill. The older kid pins Oliver to the ground, rears back a fist, and hammers it into his face.
“Talk, Retard! Or I’ll rip your tongue out with my bare hands! Quit fucking pretending!”
Good. He got a hit in. Now I have reason for what I’m about to do. Two of the kids back off, as I approach the unwitting one, who apparently hasn’t caught a glimpse of me, yet. Nabbing the back of his jacket, I shove my cigarette between my lips, while I wrench him up off Oliver and pin him to a nearby lamppost.
Eyes wide, he stares back at me, mouth gaping as if to scream, and I grip his throat.
Gently, of course.
“The human tongue isn’t as easy to rip out as you might think. Not without a hook, or something to grab hold of the muscle. But the windpipe can be crushed with one tight grip.”
Beneath my hand, the boy’s throat bobs with a harsh swallow.
“Oliver, you know where this kid lives?” A quick glance back shows Oliver pushing up to a sitting position, chest rapidly rising and falling, and he nods, pointing to one of the houses across the street.
“Good.” Turning back to the kid, whose face is screwed up in panic like he’s about to piss his pants, I inhale a drag of my smoke and blow it in his face, still pinning him with my other hand. “I now know where you live. And if I catch you fucking with him again, I’ll string you up to this lamppost here by your tighty-whities for the whole neighborhood to see what a shit-stain you are. Do you understand?” I’m bluffing. Obviously. I wouldn’t waste a roll of toilet paper on this little shit, let alone a minute more of my time.
But he nods, anyway.
I drop him, letting him slump to the ground, and as all three kids take off in opposite directions, I reach out a hand for Oliver. His nose is bleeding, and the red plum below his eye socket will undoubtedly be black by the time his mom gets home from work.
Oliver slaps my hand away, clambering to his feet with a pissed-off expression, as if I was the one who made his nose bleed.
“Let me tell you something, Oliver. As a kid who grew up on the streets, the last thing you want to do is bite the hand that just bitch slapped your enemies.” I tug at the cuffs of my sleeves and straighten my slacks. “You want a ride home?”
Glancing to the right shows the big kid staring out his front window from the house across the street, and Oliver nods, following after me. As I toss my smoke and fall into the driver’s seat, I catch Oliver’s eyes wandering over the interior of my car.
“Those kids fuck with you every day?”
Eyes directed toward his hands set in his lap, he nods.
“Here’s a quick lesson for dealing with shitheads.” Arm resting across the back of the seat, I turn to face him. “First, that kid, if he’s smart, he won’t retaliate, but if he’s stupid enough to try, you’re not going to let him rattle you. Bullies love that shit, and you don’t need to give him the satisfaction. Second, if anyone gets in your face, you always look ‘em dead in the eyes. No turning away, like you did back there.” I point two fingers at my own eyes to prove my point. “You hold your bat-shit little stare just like you did to me at dinner. Even if he threatens to stab the bastards out of your head, you don’t look away. In your mind, you establish your limit before you snap. And let me tell you kid, when you become good at keeping to that limit, they’ll see it on your face. The trick is to make them believe that you’re a little crazy. Use that mute mouth to your advantage by watching. Observing. You look for weaknesses.” I tip my head to guide his eyes to mine. “Use it against them. Understand?”
Fingers fidgeting in his lap, he nods.
“Good.” Twisting back in my seat, I fire up the vehicle and head back toward his house. I have a feeling, if the kid could talk, he’d probably blow me away with the shit inside his head, but physically, he’s small and weak, which makes him a target. He’ll always be a target, unless he starts using that brain of his to protect what he lacks in strength.
Without doubt, the savvy mind can wreak more havoc than brawn. Carl was a fine example of what happens when a scrawny kid gets pushed too far. When he constantly redefines his limits for the sake of self-preservation. Smart enough to negotiate his way out of just about anything, but abused too many times to really understand—or care, for that matter.
I keep my eyes on the road, making my way down the block. “You watched your father die?”
With a huff, he turns toward the window, then glances back toward his hands before nodding.
“I watched my mom die, too. You and I, we’re a different breed, Oliver. We already know the worst kind of pain. The pain of knowing no one can ever really protect you from the bad shit.”
With the driveway in view, I glance over at him, where he seems to stare off at nothing. He’s a hard read, this kid. Can’t tell if a single word I’ve spoken has made it through his skull, or if I’m just an old man wasting his breath on what will probably be the next school shooter.
“Anyone ever teach you how to incapacitate someone using pressure points?”
Eyes wide, he shakes his head for the first time, telling me he might be absorbing some of this crap, after all.
“C’mon. I’ll show you a few tricks I know.”
16
Voss
“With the identification of a new victim found along a popular hiking trail this afternoon, police are urging young women, particularly between the age of twenty-to-thirty years old, to be extremely c
autious, especially after dark. Marnee Bucker is the latest victim in a series of murders that have baffled police. The unknown suspect, referred to by the media as The Sandman, is considered both cunning and dangerous. Police are strongly advising that anyone out after dark walk in groups and avoid areas with little to no lighting.”
I turn the radio down. Another woman found dead. I saw the news report earlier—Marnee Buckner. Of course, the finer details came from Jackson. Eyeballs missing and filled with sand. Flower in her hands—that one’s new. Maybe old age has made him a bit more sentimental about his kills, using the rare breed of flower my mom used to grow in her greenhouse.
Night settles over Belmont Avenue, quiet and serene, like something out of a retro photograph from the fifties. Parked across from Duli’s Diner, I watch the place for any sign of the white van I saw before, but the only thing consuming my attention is the brunette through the window, hustling from table to table, busting her ass for those measly tips. Mesmerizing the way the chick fights for a piece of this city like her life depends on it.
I hate stakeouts, but I could watch her for hours.
I have watched her for hours.
Sinking into the leather seat, I lean back against the headrest and reach down to adjust the painful hard-on I’ve worked up from watching those curves work for their perfect shape.
I try not to think about her thighs straddling me right now, or how easily her tits could fit in the palm of each hand, but my body, the torturing bastard, won’t relent those visuals. Her moans probably sound breathy and soft, like angel porn, or something.
I rub a hand down my face and blow out an exasperated breath.
That’s when my eyes latch onto movement in my periphery. A figure strolling down the empty sidewalk toward the parking lot, hands tucked inside his pants, hood pulled up over his head, concealing his face. I’d blow him off as a hood-rat, if he didn’t turn into the diner’s parking lot, right up to the only red SUV parked there.
He fiddles around on the windshield, and I open the door of my car, keeping my eyes on him as I tuck my gun into my side holster. Once out the vehicle, I cross the street, picking up the pace, when the stranger walks away from the SUV and back onto the sidewalk ahead of me. I kick it up a notch, to a light jog, and the moment he hastens his pace, it’s obvious he knows someone is following behind. Before he can leap into a jog, I nab his collar from behind and drag him into a nearby alley.
Dodging a swing, I slam him against the wall and tear back his hoodie to show a young adolescent face, staring back at me with both fear and confusion.
“Who are you?”
“M-m-my name’s Jared.”
“What’s your business here, Jared?”
“J-just on my way home.”
Bullshit. He’s lucky I don’t interrogate kids the same way I do criminals, because this little bastard has liar written all over his face. “You left something. Back at the car. What was it?”
“I didn’t leave anything, man. Like I said, just trying to get home.”
I pull my gun, holding it to the kid’s shoulder. “You either tell me, or I’ll blow your shoulder off.”
“Wait, wait, wait. So … this guy. He paid me fifty bucks to drop off a note on the red SUV parked at Duli’s Diner.”
“What guy? What’d he look like?”
“I didn’t see him. It was dark. He was in a white van.”
“When?”
“About ten minutes ago.”
Shoving the gun back into its holster, I release him and glance toward the mouth of the alley. “He say anything to you?”
“Just that he needed me to drop the note off. I swear I don’t know anything else.”
“Get the hell out of here,” I say, giving him a light shove.
Out of the alley, I head back toward the parking lot and come to a stop beside Nola’s SUV. In addition to the note, there’s a picture, and I lift it from beneath the wipers. It’s a polaroid of a woman lying on what appears to be leaves, her eyes filled with sand. The lighting seems to be either dawn, or dusk, it’s hard to tell, but it gives just enough visibility to see some of the details. Blonde hair and peachy skin that could easily be Marnee Buckner, the woman from the news report. In her hand is a Queen of the Night flower. Not only a telltale signature for police, but a sure bet I know the killer.
I glance around, eyes scanning the parking lot, the streets, the adjacent lot, for any sign of the white van, but there’s nothing. All is quiet and still.
The accompanying note says “Mine eternal” in typed letters across a small scrap of paper.
“Voss?” The familiar voice from behind steels my muscles, and as I turn to face Nola, I shove the note and photograph into my pocket. Eyes narrowed, she tips her head, lifting the strap of her purse up onto her shoulder. “What are you doing here?”
“I think I might’ve scared someone off. A white van. Pulled up a few minutes ago.” A lie, but the knit of her brows tells me she’s buying it.
Shaking her head, she glances to the road and back. “Fucking Harv. Bethany didn’t come to work today. Two of them must’ve played hookie. He probably tried leaving me another creepy note. Is that what you stuffed in your pocket?”
“No.” Reaching back into my pocket, I tug out the pack of smokes tucked beside the note and photograph, and wave it in front of her. “Was about to have a smoke when you walked up.”
“Well, thanks for heading him off.” Stuffing her hands into her apron pockets, she looks painfully sexy right now. “Why are you here, though?”
I shove the cigarette between my lips and light it up to buy me some time coming up with an excuse. Thumb scratching across my jaw, I clear my throat. “Another girl’s body was found earlier. Didn’t think you should be going home late by yourself.”
“Yeah.” The dubious tone of her voice tells me she doesn’t believe it, and she shouldn’t. She shouldn’t trust anyone right now, including me. “You drove all the way to my work to see me to my car?”
“Is that strange?”
“Very.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“No. I’d like to think men were that chivalrous, but I know better.”
Smart girl. “Then, I’m just going to lay it on you, Nola. I can’t stop thinking about you. It’s driving me fucking crazy. Crazy enough to drive all the way over here and tell you so.” The words are nothing but a cover, but even I’m surprised at how easily they fall from my mouth, like truth.
“Um. Wow. Thank you. For that. Uh … thank you for driving over here.”
“What are you doing tonight?” I could kick my own ass for asking that, the shit pouring out of me, like this is some normal encounter between us.
“Pottery,” she says, much to my relief. “Lots of pottery. I have a show in a week, and I’m desperately trying to build up my inventory.”
“That’s too bad. Thought I’d see about making it two for two on the wine.”
Her lips stretch to a shy smile. “Ah, definitely not tonight.” It’s dark, but I swear she’s blushing. “But will you take a raincheck? Maybe after my show this weekend?”
“Sure. After your show.”
“Good. So, have a good night, Voss.”
Instead of answering, I lift her hand and kiss the back of it. “’Night.”
After helping her into her car, I watch her drive off, eyes scanning the surroundings one more time. If he’s watching me right now, he’s aware of one thing: how closely I’m watching her.
Maybe that’ll be enough to save Nola from the nightmares.
17
Nola
Jonah’s sitting on the front porch when I pull into my driveway. Strange, as Diane usually drops Oliver off to me on nights I don’t drive over myself to pick him up. Typically, the later shifts.
He pushes to his feet, as I make my way toward the front door.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Diane picked Oliver up today. He had a black eye.”
“He’s okay. We iced it, and the swelling’s gone down a lot. Diane asked Oliver how he got it. He wrote it down on a piece of paper for her. Claims some kids ganged up on him this afternoon, when he was walking home from his friend’s bus stop.”
“Dammit! I told him not to get off at Brett’s. He knows better than that.”
“Well, I’m guessing he knows a lot better now. Anyway, he wrote that Voss scared them off.”
“Yeah?” Something about that casts a tingle through my body, and I have to tamp it down, or risk my brother seeing it written all over my face. “I mean, that’s good, right?”
“If he’s telling the truth, it sounds like he scared the shit out of the kids.”
“You think … Oliver is lying?”
“I think contrary to what you think, he tries to protect you more than you realize.”
“What are you suggesting Jonah? That Voss gave him the black eye? Kids are shitheads. Wait ‘til you have one.” I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head. “Strike that last comment. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“I know you didn’t. And no, I’m not calling Oliver a liar. It’s my nature to investigate. For both of you.”
“Well, I should probably tell you, a few nights back, Harv from my work? He left me a note on my windshield.”
Jonah’s brows dip, and he unravels his crossed arms like I’ve just hit the intrigue button. “What kind of note?”
“The lovely kind that asked me if I’d prefer to be raped, or strangled.”
“And you’re sure it came from Harvey?”
“Pretty sure, yes. He was at the diner the day I found the first note.”