Picking a lock with a lock pick set brings a tremendous amount of attention to the person picking the lock, even if they’re versed on the subject. A basic set of “bump keys” cost ten bucks. The deep-ridged universal keys will unlock ninety-nine percent of the front doors in the United States without bringing any attention to the person using them. Any onlooker sees the user unlocking the door with a key.
I opened Gray’s front door and walked inside like I’d been invited. A quick check of the one-bedroom home revealed an organized living room free of any family photos, a neatly made bed situated between two matching nightstands in a room that smelled like her, and an empty one-car garage. There was absolutely nothing in the home to indicate where Gray was, or where she might be.
My impromptu search only confirmed where she wasn’t.
It frustrated me that I didn’t know more about her. Our previous day’s conversation let me know there was nothing more important to her than having her bar succeed, and that only death would prevent her from her continued attempt to obtain that goal.
There was no denying that I was deeply troubled by Gray’s absence. Equally as troubling was why I was so concerned. My actions were clearly out of character, but abandoning my search wasn’t something I could fathom.
I stood in the threshold of her door and gazed blankly toward the street. I had no idea where I could go or what else I could do. I scanned through my recollections of the past few weeks one day at a time, searching for a morsel of information that might produce a clue. Upon reaching the night I met Gray, a light bulb illuminated.
On a mission that I was sure would prove fruitful, I blasted down one of Marana’s slummy side streets. A block before my destination I shut off my engine. I rolled to a silent stop in the alley behind the dilapidated six hundred square foot dope house.
I clenched my pistol in my right hand and snuck to the front of the run-down shack. The peeling paint, aluminum foil covered windows, and oil-soaked Harleys parked in the dirt yard left little to the imagination regarding what transpired on the other side of the decrepit hut’s walls.
I pounded my left fist against the front door.
“Open the fucking door!”
The door cracked open two inches. Between the door and the frame, the safety chain dangled. I planted the heel of my right boot against the door handle, snapping the chain and forcing the door against the face of the idiot hiding behind it.
I burst into the room. Tiny’s face was covered with his hands. He stumbled across the filthy floor, nearly losing his footing in the process. Before he could recover from my surprise entrance, I pressed the barrel of my pistol against his temple.
With each step he took to get away, I took one to maintain my upper hand. We came to rest against the wall that separated the kitchen from the front room.
Wide-eyed and shaking like a heroin addict on his second day of detox, Rooster stood a few feet from Tiny’s side.
“Back up, Rooster,” I snarled. “Or I’ll blow the fat man’s brains all over the walls of this shit-hole.”
Rooster’s hands shot sky high.
“You too, Ding-Dong, or whatever the fuck your name is,” I said to the shadow in the adjoining room. “I’ll shoot your dumb ass through the wall if you aren’t out here in three seconds.” I released the pistol’s safety for effect. “One…Two...”
The frail drug addict they’d dubbed Ding-Dong leaped into the room. “I’m right here, Price. Don’t shoot, don’t shoot.”
I grinded the barrel of my pistol against the side of Tiny’s fat head. I wanted answers, and I’d stop at absolutely nothing to get them.
“Where’s Gray?” I growled.
“Who?”
“Gray, you fat fuck!” I moved the barrel of the pistol to the center of his forehead. “The girl who runs Maggie’s place. Where is she?”
“How the fuck…how would I know?” he blubbered.
I shoved the pistol into the waist of my jeans. At the same instant that Tiny exhaled a sigh of relief, I thrust the web of my hand against his neck, just below the base of his Adam’s apple.
“Look me in the eyes and tell me you have no idea where she is,” I demanded.
Bug-eyed and breathless, he stared back at me, hoping he’d live to see another day. I could tell from the look in his men’s eyes that they had no idea where she was. Frustrated at my lack of options, I choked Tiny until he slipped from consciousness. When his body went limp, I released my grip.
All four hundred pounds of him collapsed in a pile at my feet. While he gasped to breathe, my eyes shot to Rooster. “Where’s the other three of your miscreant bunch?”
“They’re in…they went to Mexico,” he stammered.
“When?”
“Been there since…” He paused and counted the days on his filthy fingers. “Since Monday.”
I pulled my pistol and pointed it at Ding-Dong. “If I find out anything happened to that girl and it was of this club’s making, I’ll come back here, gather your dumb asses up, and spend the rest of my life torturing each and every one of you.”
I looked at Rooster. “Understood?”
“Don’t know what’s going on, Price, but it’s got nothing to do with us.”
“Gray’s good people,” Ding-Dong muttered. “We’d never—”
My eyes shot to Ding-Dong. “Don’t let her name pass your lips again,” I snarled. “Ever. I shoot your skinny ass for just saying her name.”
“Don’t want no trouble with the ‘Eights,” Ding-Dong said in an uneven voice.
“No,” I said. “You sure as fuck don’t.”
“If you hear anything,” I said on my way to the door. “Anything at all, get word to me through Brisco.”
I stormed through the splintered door and stepped beside a dying agave. I gazed at the toes of my boots and the dirt that surrounded them, searching for answers to a problem that wasn’t clearly defined. Each breath I took became more difficult. A feeling of helplessness slowly suffocated me. I had the same sinking feeling of powerlessness once in the past.
Thirty-two years had passed since then, but I remembered it like it was yesterday.
15
Gray
I knew very little about what my future held, but one thing was certain. I should have never asked about Randall Holderman’s whereabouts.
Despite the faint breeze blowing through the room I was in, I sat in a pool of sweat. I had nothing to do but think about what might have got me in the situation I was in. Exhausted, scared, and confused, I’d slept on and off for a few minutes at a time, fearful of what was going to happen next.
Although I hadn’t seen Brisco, I knew he was somehow involved. He was the only one I’d spoken to about Randall. For the two men who abducted me to have any knowledge of that private conversation meant that Brisco had to tell them.
I wondered if Price knew where I was, and if so, what my fate would ultimately be. I hated the thought of him knowing I’d been abducted, tossed into the trunk of a car, and driven to a location thirty minutes from the outskirts of town.
My head had remained covered the entire time, preventing me from seeing the faces of my abductors. On the few occasions I’d been given something to drink, the hood was removed from someone standing behind me, and a bottle of water was raised to my mouth.
I did know one of the two men had a snake tattoo on his left forearm and the word TIME tattooed on his left knuckles.
I wondered how much time had passed, and what their plan was. I feared they’d step up their game once whoever was in charge showed up. It was apparent the two men overseeing my welfare weren’t in charge of anything. So far, I’d been asked who else knew about Randall being missing, and if I knew where he was hiding. There had been no torture beyond the mental anguish that came naturally from being blindfolded and kidnapped. It was almost as if they were waiting on instructions from someone else.
A door opened and closed. Then, the sound of approaching footsteps. As they came
closer, I identified them as No Name’s. He dragged his feet when he walked, and Tattoo didn’t.
“Thirsty?” he asked.
I licked my chapped lips. “I am.”
Footsteps. The sound of a refrigerator door opening. A bottle cap being twisted from a bottle. More footsteps. My hood was removed.
I tilted my head back and sipped the cool water.
Through the bottom of my blindfold, I saw a motorcycle’s chrome exhaust. I lifted my chin further and feigned a cough. My blindfold loosened a little more.
I tilted my head back, again. “Another drink, please?”
I drank the water, taking time to survey everything I could see through the sliver of an opening between the blindfold and my cheek.
I was in a garage. The overhead door was open. The sun was beginning to peek over the tops of the distant mountains. It was morning. I tilted my head to the left. Thirty feet away, parked in the driveway, sat a run-down Ford truck. I tilted my head to the right.
The bottle was yanked away. Water sloshed everywhere.
“What the fuck are you doing?” No Name snarled.
He cinched the blindfold tight and slammed the hood over my head in such a fit that he nearly knocked the chair over. I heard the water bottle crash against something in the distance.
“You’re not getting away,” he warned. “Here in a little bit, you’re either going to tell us what you know, or we’re going to bury your little ass in the desert. Think about that for a little bit.”
He shuffled across the garage floor.
“Last thing we need’s the fuckin’ cops nosing around,” he muttered.
I heard a door open and then slam closed.
The humming from the refrigerator in the distance was all that remained. Hypnotized by the sound, I thought about what No Name said.
He didn’t want the cops nosing around. That meant Randall was either running from the cops or dead. Either way, they were trying to protect his whereabouts. He was in one of two places. In a grave or somewhere far away from Marana.
My mind raced.
I couldn’t tell them anything beyond McKenzie asking me if I knew who Randall was. That wouldn’t satisfy them. It would only put McKenzie in jeopardy.
What if Price was involved?
What if Price planted McKenzie? A ditzy-brained cutie that fed me information to see if I was able to keep my mouth shut? The ultimate test of my worth as a potential Ol’ Lady. If I revealed my sources, I was a snitch and couldn’t be trusted. If I stood my ground and let them complete their sadistic exercise, I was suitable enough to be accepted into the tight-knit group of Hard Eights.
Convinced I’d been kidnapped as part of a hairbrained plot to establish my worth, I grew angry at Price for devising the plan. There were many other ways he could have used to determine if I was trustworthy or not.
The door beyond the refrigerator opened. A few seconds later, it closed. Footsteps, including No Name’s, approached.
Tattoo’s voice broke the silence. “You working with the cops?” he asked.
It was time to prove my worth. I cleared my throat. “No.”
“Who told you to ask about Holderman?”
“Nobody.”
“Why’d you ask?”
“Just curious,” I responded.
“How do you know him?”
“I don’t.”
“Why’d you fucking ask?” he growled.
This was going to be easy. In no time they’d determine I wasn’t a snitch, the hood would be removed, and we’d all throw a celebration. Sickening to think of, but true.
“Just curious,” I responded.
He forced a long sigh. “Why in the fuck are you nosing around about Holderman? Who are you working with? The fucking cops? The Stallions? Angels? Both?”
“Just curious,” I responded.
He stepped close enough I could hear him wheeze when he breathed. “You’re either going to talk, or I’m going to put a bullet in your head and feed you to the coyotes.”
I didn’t like his tone. Enough was enough. I wasn’t convinced at some point in time throughout the night that I hadn’t pissed myself. I needed a shower, something to eat, and a pat on the back. It was time to remove the hood, dust me off, and congratulate me for a job well done.
“I’m not fucking around,” he warned.
The unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked caused every one of my muscles to tense. “Talk or die.” He pressed the barrel against the side of my head. “Decision’s yours, bitch.”
16
Price
Convinced Gray had been trying to get ahold of me to explain matters—and couldn’t because I didn’t have my phone—I was in Verizon’s phone store attempting to resolve the issue.
“I don’t want a smart phone,” I said. “I want a dumb phone. Flip it open, use it, flip it closed. That kind.”
“We’ve got a buy-one-get-one-free special on the Samsung—”
“Listen,” I said through my teeth. “I’ve had a bad fucking day. I want a phone like my last one. Open my account, see what it was, and give me one just like it. Same phone, same number.”
“I’m not sure that we—”
“The guy over there said you could rig my new one up with the same number. You can do that, right?”
“Do you have a valid ID?”
“Yeah.”
He batted his eyes. “Maybe a copy of your most recent phone bill?”
“Why in the fuck would I be walking around with last month’s phone bill in my goddamned pocket? No, I don’t have my fucking bill.” I realized my voice had raised a few octaves and glanced around to see whose attention I’d gathered. “Get me a goddamned phone,” I seethed. “And get it programmed or whatever you call it.” I glanced at my watch. “I’ll give you ten minutes.”
He pecked at the keys on the keyboard in front of him. “Name?”
I handed him my ID. “It’s all right there.”
“Edwin,” he said as he pecked at the keys. “McNealy. Let’s see.” He looked up. “What was your phone number?”
“Why?” I asked. “You got a couple Edwin McNealy’s in there?”
He gave me a stupid look.
“Five-twenty. Four-four-seven. One-zero-three-five.”
“Looks like it was a Kyocera Dura XV,” he said. “Does that sound right?”
“I’m not a phone guy,” I said. “I don’t have any idea what it was. It was black. If that says it was a whatever whatever, I’ll say it’s probably right. Just hurry the fuck up, would ya?”
Five exhausting minutes later, I had a phone just like my old one and it was ready to go. There was one problem. There were no phone numbers programmed into it.
“Can you load all my phone numbers on this little fucker?” I asked.
“Did you upload them to your cloud?” he asked.
I glared. “My what?”
“Your cloud?”
“I’m guessing not.”
He fucked around with the computer for a moment, and then gave me a look of disappointment. “Sorry. Doesn’t look like we have any options. Maybe one day you’ll find your old phone. That’s one advantage of having a—”
I nodded toward his computer. “Google Chin’s Chop Shop, would ya? Give me the number when you get it.”
“In Marana?” he asked.
“No, it’s in Hono-fucking-lulu, Hawaii.”
He stared.
I gave him a shitty look. “Yeah, Marana.”
He tapped his fingers against the keyboard and then looked up. “Five two zero four four seven two one two five.”
Pacing the store, I called Chin and got the phone numbers I needed. Then, I called Panzer. He reminded me that he didn’t have Gray’s cell phone number. He also confirmed that he had yet to see her, even though he’d made two trips to her bar.
I turned toward the counter. “Will this automatically get text messages? Ones that were sent to my old phone?”
“From t
he point in time it was activated, yes.”
“Not from last night or this morning?”
“Afraid not.”
“What about voicemail?”
“It should have any voicemail messages you’ve saved or haven’t listened to.”
“But not text messages?”
“Sorry, that’s just how they work.”
I listened to a dozen voicemail messages, all from Brisco, and all a few weeks old. I stomped out of the store and got on my motorcycle.
It was mid-afternoon, and I’d heard nothing from—or about—Gray. Given my obsession with finding out what happened to her, it was increasingly clear that she’d somehow managed to inch her way into my life.
Frustrated that my desire to find Gray was my top priority and that my resources to do so were limited, I started my bike and blasted out of the parking lot. Two miles down the I-10 frontage road, a police officer shot out of a strip mall and pulled up behind me.
His lights came on. Then, his sirens.
I pulled into the next parking lot and rolled to a stop amongst a few soccer moms carrying groceries and one woman with freshly painted fingernails.
I watched in my rearview mirror as the officer got out of the car. He was clean-cut and young. In his early thirties, by my guess. I’d been pulled over and questioned by every cop in town, and his face wasn’t familiar.
I gripped my handlebars in each hand and propped the heels of my boots on the foot pegs.
He stepped to my side and folded his arms over the front of his ballistic vest. “Do you have any idea how fast you were going?”
“First things first,” I said dryly. “I’ve got a license to carry and I’m armed.”
His right hand shot to his holster’s side. “Where’s the weapon?”
I knew not to point at it, reach for it, or gesture to it. I slowly lifted my left boot off the foot peg. “Left ankle holster. It’s loaded. Safety’s on.”
He glanced at my boot, and then at me. “No sudden movements,” he said. “You reach for yours and I’ll reach for mine. Believe me, you’ll be at the disadvantage.”
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