A look of sudden understanding jumped into the deputy’s eyes. “Ahhh, the tip. He gave you the big tip to cover it.”
She nodded. He scribbled a note on a yellow pad. Laura thought it looked as if he was trying to be discreet about being an officer and collecting clues. He kept the yellow pad on the seat beside him and only looked at it through a sideways glance. Sweet, she thought.
“Laura,” he said and glanced up from his notes, “did Rick have any enemies?”
“God, no.” She let out a sigh. “I think everyone loved him, didn’t they?”
“As far as I know, yes,” he said, “but you just never know.” He paused, looking pained about discussing the details of the case. “But, it’s obvious he was… well, he was beaten,” —the deputy glanced at his notes again— “and his wallet was in-tact, credit cards, a little bit of cash, receipts, et cetera.” He touched the bag containing the receipt on the table between them. “So I’ve pretty much ruled out any kind of mugging or robbery.”
Laura could tell he was trying so hard to be delicate. She brushed her hair back over her ear.
“He was clearly… tortured.” Chesney breathed out heavily. He used his hand to draw a semi-circle on the back of his head. “We think the final blow was here. And it looks like he was hit with a gun.” He paused again, then, “God, I’m sorry, Laura.” He put both his hands on the table in front of him, clearly unnerved to be telling her these details.
She laid her hands on top of his. “It’s okay, go on.”
His hands were hot and starting to sweat. She could tell he was nervous. But he was a cop… he should be used to this kind of thing, right?
He took a deep breath, steadying himself, and continued. “From what little evidence we have so far,” he said, sounding more officer-like, “it’s clear that Rick was tortured at gun point and ultimately beaten so badly that he died from the wounds.”
Laura could find no words… everything went numb. She guessed she might be in shock.
The deputy exhaled loudly and pulled his hands out from under hers and began to wring them together. “I’ll know more once the autopsy is complete.”
“Hey.” Laura took his hands again. “It’s okay. I’m the one who’s supposed to be all torn up here, right?”
“Yes, yeah, you’re right,” he stammered. “It’s just that this sort of thing never happens here and I’ve never had to deliver news of murder to next of kin. Sure, people have died, but it’s always natural causes.”
“Can I see him?” Laura asked.
Chesney clearly balked at this idea. “I don’t know Ms. Starlington—”
“It’s Laura.” She let her lips form into the slightest of smiles. “And I’m a big girl. I’d like to see him.”
He nodded, “Well, he’ll be in a state of… well, post autopsy. He’ll have a few new scars.”
She felt a lump rise up in her throat and said nothing, afraid that if she started to cry now, she’d be overcome and never stop. First her mom with cancer, now this…
A crackle of static suddenly erupted from Chesney’s radio. “Ches, we’ve got a 211 at the CVS. Can you get over there?”
“I’m sorry,” he said to Laura.
He pulled a card out from his shirt pocket and handed it to her. “My cell number’s on there. Call me later and I’ll take you to see him.”
He stood up and clicked his mic. “I’m on it, over. ETA five minutes.”
“Give it some thought,” he said as he shuffled out of the booth. “Who’d want to hurt your dad? It could be a political rival or someone he voted against or… heck, I don’t know.”
She shrugged. She truly didn’t know either. As he half-jogged out the door, he held up his hand in the universal call me sign. She sat in the booth, numb, overwhelmed and aching, and staring at his card… what to do now?
“Honey?” Martha startled her so badly that she jerked and knocked over her coffee mug. The last trickles of coffee in her cup splashed on the table.
“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry.” The older lady took a rag from her apron and wiped the table. Then she looked up at Laura who now had tears running down her cheeks. “Go home, honey. I’ll take care of this.”
Laura nodded, afraid to speak. She handed her apron to Martha and ran out the door. Jerking open her forest green Jetta’s door, she threw herself into the driver’s seat and slumped forward on the steering wheel. And that’s when she finally cried for her dad.
About thirty minutes had passed when she finally felt herself calming. She pulled the visor down to look in the mirror. Her cell phone dropped in her lap and she wiped her eyes as she clicked it on.
Fourteen text messages, all from Karah.
She replied: on my way, gotta stop by bank first.
She took a deep breath, and checked to make sure she’d gotten most of the mascara out from under her eyes. Zipping open her beer-stained Coach wallet, she double-checked to make sure the twenty-five dollars was still there from her dad’s tip, and headed to the Georgetown Kraft Credit Union.
12
I’m Gon’ Flick ‘Em Off
The 1973 Coachmen Trailer bounced along U.S. Route 521 at a whopping 37 miles-per-hour. The sides of the trailer, in between the rusted sheet metal, were off-white with two four-inch wide stripes of what might’ve at one time been adventurous yellow and outdoorsy orange. Amazingly, the two propane tanks hopping up and down at the front of the trailer hadn’t flown off on the bumpy corn-farm road. Empty as they were, they wouldn’t have caused more than a fender bender, but they hung on anyway.
In front of the trailer, in similar rusted-through condition and pulling mightily with its motor constantly redlining, was a 1977 bumblebee yellow-on-black-on-rust Chevy Camaro. Half of its once majestic chrome bumper was gone and the other half was pitted like a moldy cucumber. Sitting on the very front edge of the long bench seat, hands at two and ten, Winston No-Filter cigarette threatening to drop ash at any twitch, was Ellie Mae Gallop… oldest (by a minute or so) of the Gallop twins.
She scrolled through the ancient FM/AM dial on the radio until the familiar strains of a classic rock station fought through the static.
She threw her head back and sang with the tune. “Dussstttt in da weendddd, all we are is dosstt in da weeeeeenddd.”
“Hell yeah fer some original Kansas,” she yelled to no one in particular.
“Hey, Ellie Mae, cain’t ya go no faster?” crackled a voice from the trailer through a toy army walkie-talkie.
Ellie Mae glared down at the green speaker. It’s a gall-dang Camaro haulin’ a gall-dang trailer; do ya think it’ll go any faster? Without clicking the talk button, she said, “I cain’t hear y’uns!”
Without skipping so much as a beat came the reply. “I knows ya can hear me up ‘ar!” the walkie-talkie screeched.
Ellie Mae snatched up the toy and clicked the button. “If y’uns think ya can drive this heap a she-it better ‘n me, Daisy Mae, why don’t ya jus come up ‘ere an have at it.”
With that she held down the squelch button, which emitted a loud squelching sound. She threw the walkie-talkie into the back seat and cursed as the ashes from her cigarette—Winstons, because they taste good, like a cigarette should—finally gave way and flopped down into her lap.
“Hey!” the voice erupted again from the speaker in the back seat, “pull over. I gotta pee.”
“Gad o’ mighty,” Ellie Mae muttered. “Ever’ ten miles, dammit.”
She tapped the breaks, adding another squeal to the cacophony of sounds coming from the two vehicles, and drifted off the road onto the shoulder. Glaring into the rear-view mirror, she ran her fingers through her hair. Fine and limp like corn-silk and stuck to the side of her head like strands of wet albino kelp, her white blonde hair looked as frazzled as her nerves. T’aint easy drivin’ this heap, she thought. Splotchy sun freckles dotted her nose, threatening to be cute under icy blue eyes. Crow’s feet—from hard living, not from age—were deeper than she remembered. Being in
the daylight hadn’t been much of a luxury she’d been able to enjoy the past few years.
She pulled out a greasy old Chapstick she’d found at the last gas station and wiped the top off on the seat next to her. Her thin little lips were cracked and dry. Not my best look, she mused, and winked at herself in the mirror.
“Always did look bett’r under blacklights in the dark, half nekid,” she muttered and then shouted, “Hey! What’re you doin back ‘ar?”
In the mirror, she saw an exact replica of herself stepping down from the rust-bucket trailer. Well, almost exact, except the version of herself coming out of the Coachmen had her hand on her belly—her swollen, eight-and-a-half months pregnant belly.
“Hold yer damn horses!” yelled Daisy Mae Gallop as she let the screen door slam shut on the trailer and stepped carefully down the metal steps.
Without much ceremony, the pregnant girl waddled into the high grass on the side of the road and squatted down, pulling up her short denim skirt. “Quit yer lookin’,” she called to her sister in the driver’s seat of the Camaro, “yer makin’ me pee-shy.”
Sliding into the front bench seat of the car, she yelped and squirmed. “Damn leather’s hot as far’!”
“Saves gas ta keep the AC off,” Ellie Mae said while tapping the fuel gauge. “Don’t like it, get back in the trailer.”
Without asking, Daisy Mae reached up and cranked the air conditioning up to high.
“Gimme just a couple minutes to cool the seat, then.”
“Two minutes,” Ellie Mae snapped, looking down at the 2.5 gallon container between her legs. “We ain’t got enough cash for anymo’ gas and we got a long way to go if we gon’ git to yer baby daddy before dark.”
“Hey, this was yer idear to go after’im.”
“Yeah, he’s gon’ pay fer what he done to you.” Ellie Mae nodded down at her sister’s bulging stomach.
Daisy Mae looked absently out the window and nodded.
Ellie Mae pushed the accelerator deep to the floorboard and the old car grunted in protest. As the motor squealed, it lurched slowly onto the road. A loud bang sent the car into motion and the trailer acted like it didn’t want to go either. Finally, they were rolling.
No sooner than they had gotten up to speed—a brisk forty-two miles-per-hour—a bright red Miata with two younger versions of themselves raced up behind them. The two girls were blonde, tan and skinny, and wearing bikini tops and pony-tails. Justin Bieber blared from the radio and both girls were screaming along.
“Well, looky here,” said Ellie Mae, jerking her thumb back to the oncoming car.
The Miata suddenly started honking its horn and revving its engine. The girls were laughing and pointing at the junkyard wreck driving in front of them.
Ellie Mae threw her arm out the side window. “Go around, dammit!”
“I miss those days,” Daisy Mae said through tears, mascara running down her cheeks.
“Oh, hell no. Don’t be cryin’ over these bitches. Yer just hormonal.”
“My baby needs her daddy,” she heaved in between sobs.
“Don’t worry little sister,” Ellie Mae said, grinning, “when they pass us, you hold the wheel; I’m gon’ moon ‘em!”
Daisy Mae wiped her nose on her sleeve and sniffled through a smile. “Yeah, do it! And I’m gon’ flick ‘em off!”
The two ex-stripper twins laughed as the two younger, blonder girls edged around the trailer.
“Git a load of ‘is!” Ellie Mae shouted, jerking down her skirt, panties and all.
She stood up and shoved what she could of her naked backside through the driver’s side window.
“Yeah, bitches!!!” screamed Daisy Mae, flipping double middle fingers at the young girls.
In the first of an unbelievable turn of events, one of the girls in the Miata was also smoking a Winston cigarette. Upon seeing Ellie Mae’s butt sticking through the window of the rusted-out Chevy Camaro, she flicked her cigarette at it, still lit. In the second of the unbelievable turn of events, the lit cigarette flew through Ellie Mae’s legs and landed in the crotch of her panties—panties that had been absorbing the fumes from the 2.5 gallon gas container between her legs for the entire trip. In the third of the unbelievable turn of events, the fireball did little more than singe the hair from her legs, but Ellie Mae screamed and pushed herself backward over the bench seat in an effort to escape the fire.
She landed in a heap, tearing at her skirt and panties that were smoldering and threatening her backside. Ripping them off, she flung them out the window.
“Dammit, dammit, dammit!!” she howled. “Those skinny-ass whores!!”
“Omigawd, omigawd, omigawd,” Daisy Mae was crying, “we’re gon’ die!”
The pregnant girl was holding the steering wheel, but the car was careening from side to side, threatening to leave the road.
In the fourth and most unbelievable of the wild turn of events, the gas can had slid forward, kicked by the escaping Ellie Mae, and wedged itself between the bottom of the dashboard and the gas pedal. The car was racing along at nearly seventy-five miles an hour and wobbling badly. Daisy Mae was holding her belly with one hand and the steering wheel with the other.
“My baby!!” she screamed, “my poor baby’s gon’ die!”
“No, he ain’t!” Ellie Mae said regaining her composure and getting madder by the second. “Gimme one more second, I’m climbin’ back up ‘ar.”
In one of the least graceful returns to a front seat of all time, Ellie Mae rolled back over the bench seat and plopped down into the driver’s side behind the wheel.
“Give it to me,” she said, jerking Daisy Mae’s hand from the steering wheel. “Them ho’s don’t know who they’re dealing with.”
She reached down between her legs and pried the gas can out from in front of the accelerator. Handing it to Daisy Mae, she said, “Let’s go get us some young blood.”
She slammed the gas pedal back to the floor and whooped out the open window.
“Hell yeah!” Daisy Mae said, still holding onto her belly.
The two young blonde girls couldn’t have looked more surprised to see the rambling wreck come flying up behind them… and then pass them by. Daisy Mae held up her double birds and screamed… no words, just a scream.
Her scream died in her throat as she realized they were leaving the red Miata in the dust.
“Hey, why didn’t you slow down, ‘er stop ‘er sumpin’?” she asked, looking over at Ellie Mae.
Ellie Mae’s eyes were wide and she looked as pale as a ghost. She nodded her head down between her legs. “No brakes. We got no brakes.”
“Shit!” Daisy Mae clutched her stomach. “Hey, whar’s yer pants at?”
13
Venus Fly Trap
“That foot’s gotta come off, mate,” Man’ti said, grimacing as he unwound the crusty makeshift bandage wrapped around Darren’s toes, or stubs. “Infected as hell.”
The lanky man was sweating profusely. “Screw that! Just put the damn medicine on and get ‘em bandaged back up, ya prick.”
With that, Man’ti stopped being gentle and ripped the remaining dressing off his companion’s foot.
“Owwww, shit!!!”
“Wrap it up ya bloody self.” Man’ti threw the drug store bag at him.
Darren looked down at his ruined foot. The stubs of his missing three toes were black and green. It looked like frostbite, but it burned like they’d been dipped in lava. He tried to brush off the black with a cotton ball dipped in alcohol, but if the fire hadn’t been hot enough before that, it was blistering now.
“Damn it all,” he moaned.
Man’ti had shoved his way back up to the driver’s seat of the bronze van they’d procured. He clicked on his iPhone and mumbled. “Take the meds too, mate. Doubtful, but ya might save that leg.”
After a few minutes of exquisite pain, Darren had cleaned and bandaged his toes with a piece of diaper wrapped in duct tape. He gingerly pulled his sock onto h
is foot, but his shoe was not an option. The sharp pain subsided to a dull burn after his CVS medicine kicked in and he was able to limp up to the passenger’s seat.
“Done in by a bloody recliner,” he grunted as he slumped back into the seat.
“I’ll put it on ya tombstone,” Man’ti mumbled, clicking out a text on his iPhone.
“Who the hell ya chattin’ with this time o’ night?”
“Ya mum, that’s who.”
Darren lunged for the phone and Man’ti slammed his elbow into his nose, which promptly exploded into a gush of blood.
“Are you frickin’ kidding me, mate!?” The skinny man’s hands were side by side on his nose, but blood still poured out between his fingers.
“Don’t touch m’phone,” Man’ti said with a darker menace in his tone than Darren expected.
“Shit, mate, all ya hadda do was say so. I think ya broke m’fookin’ nose!”
“Touch it again and I’ll put me fist through ya face.”
Man’ti grabbed a dingy towel from under his seat. It looked like it had been used to check the oil in the van. He threw it at Darren, hitting him in the face.
“Wipe that shit off, we’re goin’ fer a beeyah.”
Darren mopped up the blood pooling in his lap. “What the hell’m I supposed ta wear, mate?”
Man’ti’s jaw tensed. He looked like he might elbow Darren again, but he un-gritted his teeth.
“Check in me bag,” he said, thumbing toward the back of the van, “think I gotta ‘notha shirt.”
Darren quickly crawled to the back as Man’ti fired up the van. He swallowed two more pain pills and dug into the big man’s black bag and found a black t-shirt.
It was an XXL… and sleeveless… a combination that looked absolutely comical when he slipped it on.
“This place betta ‘ave whiskey,” he called to the giant driving the van, then mumbled, “I could use a damn whiskey!”
“Drunken Jack’s has whiskey galore, mate.”
The Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series Boxset Page 6
