by Tom Pitts
“Yes. Get up there. Get a room and get comfortable, and I’ll be in touch.”
“Yes, sir. Right away. I’ll be on the road in an hour.”
There was no mistaking the uptick in Martek’s voice. He loved his job.
When Gary pulled into the small parking lot of the mini-mall, Dennings was already waiting, sitting in his Ford Taurus. The car looked like the ones Gary’d seen the police use. He knew Dennings watched him as he left his car and walked to the Taurus, and it somehow made Gary feel unclean, suspect.
“So they’re back, huh? Just like I told you,” Dennings said.
“I don’t know what to do. The cops either can’t do anything, or they don’t care.”
“Laws have limits, Mr. Carson.”
“Limits? This guy snuck into my bedroom while me and my wife slept and threatened us with a razor. A razor.” Gary heard his voice pitch upward. A thin film of sweat glazed his brow and was immediately cooled by the car’s AC. “Who does that?”
“It’s a quiet neighborhood. A razor’s a better choice than a gun.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Gary breathed deeply and put his hands on Calper’s dashboard. “That’s not what I…you know what I mean. I just don’t want to live in fear of this son of a bitch across the street.”
They sat there in silence a few moments, the air conditioner whirring. Dennings letting the seriousness of the situation sink in.
“How can I help you, Mr. Carson? Why did you call?”
“You said you were looking for him, this Jason kid, right? I figured maybe you can get him outta there. The cops said they’re squatters now, and there’s not much I can do about it.”
“I told you, they’re not squatting.”
“But they have utility bills and everything. The cops said—”
“The cops are wrong. They don’t know who they’re dealing with and neither do you. It’s worse than squatting. Jason DeWildt has ties to Perkins. He’s establishing a legal right to the house, a legal right beyond squatter’s rights.”
“I don’t understand. What is he, a relative or something? I’ve never seen him before.”
Calper didn’t answer; he was watching his rearview mirror instead. A rusted green Impala rolled across his field of vision, slow and steady like a shark.
“Is that the car?” Dennings asked.
Gary turned and saw the vehicle pulling out of the parking lot. It sped up, careened into the main street, and headed back in the direction of Gary’s house.
“Oh shit,” Gary said.
Calper Dennings said, “Oh shit is right.”
Now that they had electricity, it was nice to have the garage door opening up and inviting them in, even before they pulled into the driveway. The kid said it reminded him of the Bat Cave. Normally that would’ve made Juliet laugh, but today she was serious and silent. She wedged the car into its slot and ran into the house, leaving Russell sitting in the car inside the dark garage.
“You’ll never guess who I saw at the fuckin’ donut shop.”
Jason and Bomber sat on the floor in front of a computer monitor, the keyboard set on the carpet between them. Jason ignored Juliet and kept scrolling on the computer, using the mouse on his thigh.
“Hmmmn, lemme guess,” Bomber said. But his wit was not as quick as his words and he failed to follow up with what he’d hoped was a hilarious zinger. He was high and smiling, his eyes glassy and wide.
Juliet let his half-joke hang in the air.
“Jason,” she said. “Are you listening or are you fucking shopping?”
Jason set the mouse down on the rug and turned to look at Juliet, slow enough to underscore his annoyance. The kid came in behind Juliet from the garage door, eyes bright with excitement, not sure what he was a part of, but knowing what happened at the donut shop was important.
When the room was quiet and Juliet was sure she had everyone’s attention, she said, “That fucking creep Calper Dennings.”
“Where?” Jason said.
“I just told you. At the fucking donut shop.”
“Are you sure it was him?”
“Yes, I’m fucking sure. Are you kiddin’ me? And you know who he was with? That fucking asshole from across the street.”
Bomber asked, “The pervert?”
“Shut up, Bomber. That shit still ain’t funny.” Jason struggled to get off the floor, then moved to the window. The Carsons’ place was quiet. No cars parked in front. “I’m serious, you gotta be sure about this. Was that him you saw or not?”
“After the shit I went through, you gotta ask if I recognize him? Fuck yes, that was him. And fuck yes he was with our friend over there.”
“Bomber, gimme a smoke.” He kept his eyes focused on the Carsons’ till Bomber got up, gave him a cigarette, and lit it for him. “This fucking changes everything.”
The kid said, “Who’s Calper Dennings?”
Linda set down two plates of reheated spaghetti on the kitchen table.
“Jesus, how much of this stuff do we have?”
“If you wanted something different, you could’ve made it yourself. I was at work till almost five-thirty today. You were home chasing your tail all day, you could’ve at least hit the supermarket.”
“It’s fine. I love your sauce, you know I do.” Gary twirled a big bite on his fork and stuffed it into his mouth. Still chewing, he said, “And I wasn’t chasing my tail.”
“I know, I know, I know. You’re helping solve the big mystery of the tweakers across the street.”
Gary let this one slide. She knew better. Linda was just as shaken as he was the night Jason DeWildt broke into their house. “All I’m saying is, I think Calper could be a big help here.”
“Calper? You guys are on a friendly first-name basis, huh? Who is this guy, Gary? You spend all that time on the computer, couldn’t you at least look him up and see if he’s even legit?”
“Of course he’s legit. He knows about this guy, Jason. Knows about some sort of connection he has with the Perkins.”
“What connection?”
“I don’t know exactly. He said it was complicated.”
“Jesus, Gary, how do you know he’s not running a con on you, that he’s not connected with the people in the house. He didn’t come up to our place until after the police left. He could’ve been hiding up the street, waiting.”
Gary paused and stared at his plate while he formulated an answer. “Because I just do. I believe he wants to get this guy. I don’t know what their history is but, I can tell, this Dennings is trying to settle a score. There’s more to this, baby, I’m telling you.” He was chewing faster and faster, gulping back forkfuls of pasta.
“Well, tonight you can forget about it for a while. We’ve got a ton of laundry to do and I still want to watch that movie.”
“What movie?”
“The one with the bald guy from Plantation. You know, the slave owner guy? He’s in that new one about the people that live under the city.”
Gary remembered. Laundry and movie night. It was like an umbilical cord tethering him to his normal life. It felt good, right, like a long yawn with a stretch. “You’re right. I’m getting too caught up.” He stood up from the table and began to clear his plate. “And the movie looks good too.”
The movie was a disappointment. It was hard for Gary to focus on the convoluted plotline with his own mystery being forged. It was alluring enough they forgot about the laundry in the dryer. Gary pledged to fold it the next day.
“You’re going to work tomorrow, though, right?”
“Yeah, of course. But I’ll get it done before I leave, I promise.”
They told each other they were tired and ready for bed. Too tired to make love was the unspoken implication, but Gary decided he’d hop in the shower anyway, just in case there was a change of mood. He soaped up and let the hot water
pour over him as he stood with his face under the shower nozzle. There was something therapeutic, cathartic about standing in the steaming shower that made Gary’s mind drift.
The house was quiet when he got out and he figured Linda was already in bed. But Gary listened as he toweled off and heard no TV. Linda always turned the TV on before bed. It seemed every night the late-night buzz of some infomercial woke him up. He’d have to pat around the bed till he found the remote and return the room to darkness and quiet.
“Linda? You still up?”
No sound.
Gary flossed and brushed, taking his time because if Linda was already asleep, there’d definitely be no lovemaking. He walked around the house, locking windows and securing doors, closing curtains and shutting off lights. When he got to the bedroom, the bed was still made.
He called out her name. The house echoed back hollow and empty. He felt a nudge at his calf. Barney licking at his jeans, panting and waiting patiently for attention.
“Linda?”
No sound. No movement. Except for the certain presence of his dog, the house felt empty. Denial jumped in his head, ricocheting through his thoughts. She’s at the store, she’s in the laundry room, she’s fallen asleep in the spare bedroom. Instead of looking, instead of exploring his wild guesses, he ran to the living room for his phone.
He held the cell in his hand for only a moment. Staring at it, trying to make the right choice. Then he flipped it open to the outgoing call log and called Calper Dennings.
Dennings sat in his motel room, his laptop open in front of him. He wasn’t working, just sitting at the bureau, his hands clasped behind his head and his head tilted up at the ceiling. His cell vibrated beside the computer. He saw it was Gary Carson before even reaching for it.
“What happened?”
“She’s gone. I know they have her. I just know it.” Gary’s voice escalated in volume and pitch as each word tumbled from his mouth. “Was in the fucking shower for ten minutes and now she’s gone. There’s no one across the street, no lights, no note. Oh my god, what have I done. Where are they? They’re going to kill her, I know it—”
“Slow down, Gary. Who’s gone?”
“Linda!” Gary squealed. “My wife. She’s gone. The fucking doors were open, now she’s gone.”
“Have you called the police yet?”
“No, but I’m calling them right now.”
“I’ll be there in less than ten.”
This time the cops showed up quickly. By the time Calper pulled up, there were already two Sheriff’s cars parked in front of the Carsons’ home. Calper took his Walther PPK from where it sat on the passenger seat and slid it under the driver’s seat beneath him.
The front door was wide open and the masculine voices of the deputies sounded from the main room. Calper peered in and saw Gary Carson sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. Before he could call out to Gary, a Sheriff’s deputy standing in the middle of the living room held up his hand.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m here to speak with Gary Carson.”
“And you are?”
“My name is Calper Dennings. I’m an investigator.”
“Stand outside.”
Calper didn’t recognize any of the policemen from the other night. Different shift, different cops. He took a moment to survey what he could see of the house, to check for any damages or points of entry. When the deputy saw he hadn’t moved, he stepped toward him, saying, “I said wait outside.”
Calper obliged and stepped back onto the cement walk trailing up to the house. He turned to look at the Perkins’ home across the street. It appeared untouched, uninvestigated. He heard someone inside say, “Somebody talk to that son of a bitch at the front door before he slips out of here.”
“I’m sorry, sir, what did you say your name was?” The deputy’s tone belied his polite phrasing.
Calper repeated his name, omitting he was an investigator this time.
“You got ID?”
Calper tugged his wallet from his back pocket and served the policeman with his California driver’s license. As the deputy took his ID, Calper studied his nametag. Deputy Castillo.
Castillo wrinkled his nose. “This’s a driver’s license. I meant your ID. You law enforcement?”
“No.”
“So you’re a private investigator?”
Calper shrugged a little, as if to say it was obvious.
Deputy Castillo rolled his eyes, exasperated. “Then let’s see it. Where’s your license?”
“I’m not that kind of investigator.”
“You got a card or something?”
Calper shook his head.
“Hang on.”
Castillo disappeared back into Carson’s home. Presumably to run Dennings’ name. Calper wasn’t worried. He knew it’d come back clean. The police were an occupational hazard and he’d just have to wait them out before he was able to talk to Carson. They had to be called. Linda missing was as serious as it got, but after they went through the motions, they’d leave Gary Carson in the same spot: sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands.
After almost fifteen minutes, Castillo returned with Calper’s driver’s license. Disdain in his eyes, he dropped it into Calper’s palm. “Carson says you’re a friend. Here to comfort him.”
“I’m that too.”
“What’s all the bullshit about being a PI?”
Calper held his expression tight, his eyes flat, enjoying the moment. “You’re about done in there, right? Let me know when you wrap it up.”
“We’re almost done.” Castillo turned to walk back inside but stopped and turned back to look at Calper. “You friends with the wife, too?”
Calper shrugged.
“You think she ran off?”
Calper shrugged again.
Chapter Eleven
Linda sat sandwiched between the big bald one and the dirty skinny kid in the back of the Impala. They were parked on another residential side street, indecipherable from Linda’s own. They’d zig-zagged and crisscrossed so many blocks, she had no idea where she was. They could be mere blocks away from where they started, they could be miles. The tract housing had rolled by like walls in a maze. She wasn’t bound, she wasn’t gagged, but she was bruised. Jason DeWildt had punched her in the eye and its lid was puffy and closing fast. Her whole right cheek was swelling up to join the throbbing purple lid that was getting big enough to obstruct her vision. The steady pounding in her face was interrupted by sharp staccato shots of pain from her teeth to her eye socket. She was sure her cheekbone had been fractured.
Debris covered the floorboards in back. The three of them had their feet resting on piles so large their knees poked up toward their chests. Bomber said, “Why can’t we keep her in the trunk? There’s no room back here with all this shit.”
Jason was hunched over the steering wheel watching Juliet though the windshield. She paced back and forth in front of the headlights with the cell pressed to her ear. Even though Jason couldn’t hear what she was saying, he was transfixed, watching her for any shift of expression, any hint of news.
“Why can’t we put her in the trunk?” Bomber repeated. “She keeps moanin’ like she’s gonna puke or something.”
Without taking his eyes off Juliet, Jason said, “We can’t put her in there. There’s too much shit in there already. We’re going to have to dump this car pretty quick anyway. So just shut up and deal with it.”
Juliet ended the call, slipped the cell into her back pocket, and returned to the passenger seat. “He says twenty minutes. At the Jack in the Box at Watt and Roseville.”
“Shit. That’s too close to where we just were. You couldn’t tell him to meet us downtown?”
“You want me to call him back?”
Jason breathed heavy through his nose and gripped the steering wheel. “No.
Fucker’d just take longer.”
Linda tried to keep quiet as they pulled back onto the road, but a moan percolated in her throat and the brute to her left gave her a sharp elbow in the ribs anyway. After a short series of lefts and rights, the housing thinned and the grassy spaces between them grew. She knew where Watt and Roseville Road crossed but she had no idea where they were now. It was dark, rural, with no street signs. The scrawny kid on her right kept sneaking glances at her. If she tried to escape, it’d be him she bowled over first. With the four of them in the car surrounding her, she felt hopeless. She had no idea why they’d taken her, or what they intended to do.
The big one on her left spoke up again. “She didn’t have no purse? No wallet or nothing?”
“I told you. She was getting into bed. No time to look around for goodies. We got her, that’s the important thing.”
Juliet turned around in her seat and stared directly into Linda’s good eye. “We’ll see what that piece of shit Dennings says now, huh?”
Linda wasn’t sure if she should answer, or what to answer. Who was Dennings? Was that the man Gary had been talking to? The one she’d warned him about?
Jason said, “Juliet, get that stuff ready. I don’t want to hang around. We’ll find a spot after that, get well, then dump this piece of shit car, grab another, and get out of here.” He glanced up at the review mirror at Linda in back. “All of us.”
When the police were done, Calper walked into the house. Gary hadn’t moved. He still sat at the kitchen table with his head in his hands, softly sobbing.
“What have I done?”
Calper ignored the question and stood in front of Gary with his arms folded across his chest. “What did they say?”
Gary lifted his head from his wet palms. His eyes were bloodshot and brimming with tears. “Who?”
“The sheriffs, Gary. What did they tell you?”
“That it wasn’t an official missing persons case until seventy-two hours. They said because there were no signs of forced entry, they couldn’t be sure she was abducted.” His words began to choke into little sobs. “They think she may have run off. Assholes. They kept saying maybe she left of her own accord. Her own fucking accord.”
