Little Girls Lost (Carson Ryder, Book 6)

by J. A. Kerley

  But then the door smashed open and the terrible bald man was standing right in front of them. The Minute Hour puffed himself up until he was even bigger and made a terrible loud roar—Rrrrrrrahhhhhhheeeeeee!—and jumped at the bald man. The bald man aimed a big gun that made a loud click but no bang. The Minute Hour stuck his arms out in front of him and fell down with blood on his hand and pouring out of the middle of his head between his eyes.

  Remembering made her cry harder. Her mind said to hide, but everywhere was filled with tools and pipes and rope and stuff. The metal-wall room smelled like the place Aunt Nike got her car fixed. There was a ball of string on the long table, like kite string, but brown and fuzzier. She touched the string. Picked an end loose from the grapefruit-sized ball.

  Ball of string … ball of string …

  “They-soos,” she whispered. In her favorite story by the Gumbo King, They-soos unwrapped string in the caves of the Minute Hour.

  Maybe the bald man was the real Minute Hour. He looked like a beast and he sure smelled like a beast.

  Atwan pushed through the door. Jacy turned to run but was yanked over his shoulder, looking down his back at the table. She grabbed the ball as Atwan started walking. Her idea was to pull string off the ball. If she somehow got away she could follow it back to the tool room, which was by the bridge from the boat to the ground.

  Her idea didn’t work. The tail end of the string followed because she couldn’t pull it off the ball fast enough. Then string got knotted up in her fingers. She started to cry again.

  “Shut up,” Atwan growled. He pulled Jacy tighter, squeezing the ball of twine from her hands. She watched it getting farther away and wondered why it was spinning instead of just laying there. Then she turned a corner into a huge room and didn’t see the spinning ball any more.

  The room was bigger than anywhere she’d ever been. It was open at the top and Jacy saw stars winking through her tears. The light in the room was yellow, and big metal boxes were like mountains. The nasty man put her in one of the boxes and closed the door.

  Something was hurting her hand. She felt the end of the string caught in her fingers. She shook it away.

  For the fourth time in ten minutes, Sandhill watched Clay check the window and his watch. After receiving the call about Mattoon, Clay had relaxed, the spring back in his step and a smile on his face. Clay walked to the wall mirror. He tightened his tie, flicked lint from his lapel.

  “Got some business, Tommy?” Sandhill asked.

  Clay produced a comb and neatened his hair. “I’ve got a late appearance at a cocktail affair with some of Norma’s pathetic constituency. Then it’s wait for the elections, express my deepest sorrow at her loss, and move upward and onward.”

  “A lobbyist,” Sandhill said, “is hardly an upward motion.”

  Clay’s face grew hard. He wheeled to Sandhill, but was distracted by the sound of a car outside. Clay spread the blinds and made an all-clear gesture. He stepped outside the door. Sandhill heard a buzz of conversation on the steps, the only clear word was Clay saying, “Later.”

  The downstairs door to the street closed and Sandhill heard stairs creak, hesitant footsteps at the now-open door.

  “Come on in, friend,” Sandhill said. “Join the party.”

  Terrence Squill crossed the threshold, a tight, ambiguous smile on his lips. He walked with caution, chin out, hands behind his back. He stopped at the edge of the carpet and studied Sandhill.

  “What the hell have you done now, asshole?”

  “Ah, the final link in the chain,” Sandhill said. “Don’t be shy, Terrence; have a seat and chat with me. Tell me all the dirty things you and Tommy Clay have been doing.”

  “I asked, what the hell have you started?”

  “Got a gun behind your back?” Sandhill taunted. “You can show it to me, Terrence. Don’t be scared, I’m tied tight.”

  Squill turned around. He wasn’t holding a gun.

  His wrists were handcuffed together.

  Chapter 50

  Commander Ainsley Duckworth followed Squill at several paces, pointing a nine-millimeter semiautomatic at the small of the acting chief’s back. Duckworth kicked the door shut.

  “You scared Tommy half to death with your lies, Sandhill. He really thought the department had been told some strange story about Mr Mattoon.”

  Squill turned to Duckworth. “Whatever’s going on, Ainsley, you’re digging your grave here.”

  Duckworth stifled a yawn and pointed the weapon at Squill’s eyes. “Shut the fuck up and get into the bathroom.”

  Squill glared at Duckworth but obeyed. A minute later, Duckworth returned and stood over Sandhill.

  “Hey, Ducky … were you as surprised as Tommy that your benefactor likes little girls?”

  Duckworth dropped to his knees and closed his huge fist around Sandhill’s windpipe. “I been waiting for this moment a long time, Sandhill. You and me and nothing between us. How’s it feel, you meddling asshole?”

  Sandhill gagged, reddened, no air reaching his lungs. Duckworth bent until whispering in Sandhill’s ear.

  “No breath, Sandhill? That’s how I used to feel when you were around. Like I could never get a full breath.”

  Sandhill watched his world turn into a pinpoint of colorless light, Duckworth’s voice like water rushing down a hole. And then the hand fell away and air rushed into his lungs, great sucking draughts of life. Vision sparkled back into Sandhill’s eyes. Duckworth was standing above him.

  “No, Sandhill. Not yet. But you were close. How’d it feel, scumbag, knowing there’s no dodging the bullet this time around?”

  Sandhill looked into Duckworth’s eyes, saw a blistering hatred he couldn’t comprehend. “It was you that shot me, Ducks. Right?”

  “I been wanting to nail you a long time, Sandhill. Get you out of my life for ever.”

  “Why me? We had our dust-ups in the past, but so what, Ducky? You were in Internal Affairs. Everybody hated you, you hated everybody back. Why single me out? What did I do that stood out?”

  Duckworth stared at Sandhill, as if deciding whether to confess some inner secret, let private moments escape into light. Sandhill watched a smile crawl across Duckworth’s lips, a sparkle ignite behind his eyes, erotic in its intensity. Duckworth’s tongue slipped from between his teeth like a serpent and licked circles around his mouth. His eyes went far away.

  It’s more than anger, Sandhill realized. He’s insane.

  “What is it Ducks? Tell me.”

  A clinking sound from the bathroom, Squill struggling with his handcuffs. Duckworth’s eyes flashed toward Squill and the strange moment passed. He pointed the gun at Sandhill.

  “Motorboat into the bathroom and join your buddy. Make one false move and it’s over.”

  Sandhill leg-pushed himself across the floor on his back, trying to keep Duckworth talking, engaged. “How’d you hook up with Tommy Clay, Ducky? You’re not a real likely pair.”

  “Tommy worked with the police oversight board some years back. We each saw in one another a certain ambition. So we stayed in touch, Tommy moving from shit job to shit job, fucked by the city like I got fucked by the department.”

  “You’re a damned commander. What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Life’s finally gonna get good for me, Sandhill. No more living in shitsville. Did I mention I’ll be head of security at the new facility? Big bucks.”

  Sandhill flashed back on the incongruity of Duckworth’s living conditions, the roachy apartment complex with tumbled trash bins and beater vehicles in sagging carports.

  “Come on, Sandhill,” Duckworth growled, pointing at the bathroom. “Get in there.”

  Panting from the exertion, Sandhill pushed into the room. Squill was taped hand and foot in the corner, watching silently. Duckworth grabbed Sandhill’s collar and pulled him so that he was sitting against the cream tiles of the wall.

  Squill said, “You fucked up my investigation into the abductions,
didn’t you, Ainsley?”

  Duckworth grinned. “I kept files shifting around, sent folks on wild-goose chases. Didn’t let teams compare notes as much as they’d have liked. I just took the usual Terrence Squill cluster fuck and ramped it up ten per cent. It made a big political stink that did what it needed to do.”

  “Which was?”

  “Keep the black community riled up.” Duckworth grinned. “I don’t know what the hell’s going down with the stolen girls, and don’t give a half-shit, but it couldn’t have happened at a better time. Anyway, Chief, you better hope I do better at my next assignment.”

  “What the hell’s that?”

  Duckworth pulled a phone from his pocket. “I’m trying to track you down, Chief; seems you disappeared.” He walked from the room dialing the phone.

  Squill said, “What have you done, Sandhill? What did you dig up?”

  “An ugly alliance, Terrence. High money and low politics. How’d Ducky get you here?”

  Squill hung his head. “We left the scene to the techs, took off separately. He called and wanted to meet at that wrecking yard ten blocks west. Said one of his snitches saw you near there, I could nail your ass. Shit, everything seemed to be falling into place.”

  “Clay and Ducky played me, played you, played the whole damn city. Give me some info, Terrence. Ducky’s a wacko. I need to figure what’s cooking in his mind. How’d I buy top slot on his shit list?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He acts like I’m some kind of personal threat.”

  Squill frowned. “You haven’t been around for years. You’re paranoid, Sandhill.”

  “He admitted he took the shot at me. Paranoia?”

  Squill absorbed the information, took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “It’s not hard to get on Duckworth’s bad side. He’s got an angry streak in him most people don’t see, he hides it good.”

  “Duckworth hide his anger? It’s as blatant as a ten-buck toupee.”

  “I’m talking about a … a deeper kind of anger. A darkness. I don’t know … it’s my fault. I should never have let him …” Squill’s words trailed off.

  “Let him what? What are you hiding, Terrence?”

  Squill turned away, his face suddenly red. “Nothing that means a goddamn thing, Sandhill. We’re in major fucking trouble here. Concentrate on that.”

  “Maybe if I knew why Duckworth hated me …”

  The door opened and Sandhill fell quiet. Duckworth stepped in. He spun toilet tissue from the roll and laid it across his palm.

  Sandhill said, “Ducks, you don’t want to do this.”

  Duckworth reached into his pocket and produced Sandhill’s .32.

  “It’s not worth it, Ducks,” Sandhill said. “You’ll never pull it off.”

  Squill looked at the unfolding scene, mute, a look between fear and confusion in his eyes. Duckworth cocked the weapon.

  Sandhill yelled, “No, Ducks, don’t!”

  A flat crack. Terrence Squill convulsed, a bullet in his heart. His eyes went wild with terror for a count of three, by four they were turning to glass.

  Smoke drizzled from Sandhill’s .32. Duckworth touched the muzzle of the weapon between Sandhill’s eyes. He laughed.

  “Tommy and I were debating how to make you disappear, Sandhill. After what you said about him, I’m sure Mr Mattoon will provide a solution.”

  Duckworth tossed Sandhill’s .32 behind the bathtub, then pinched out several strands of Sandhill’s hair, laying the follicles across Squill’s palm and closing the hand. Duckworth flushed the toilet paper, then pulled the stun gun from his pocket. He bent toward Sandhill with the device in his hand. Lightning danced between the prongs with the sound of electric laughter.

  Mattoon was hanging up his phone when a knock came on the door. He disengaged the lock and Atwan entered, sweat glistening on his head.

  “Girl in main hold. In container. She OK.”

  Mattoon nodded. “In these troublesome times it’s best to keep her hidden until open sea.” He paused. “She is sad, isn’t she, Tenzel?”

  Atwan knuckled his eye sockets. “Little girl cry, cry, cry.”

  “It is the final outpouring of her old life. The morning’s ceremony will bind her to the future. Joy will surely follow. There’s one more small item where I need your expertise, Tenzel. It seems a former policeman somehow pierced the edge of both the business operation and my personal life. The man is neutralized and requires fast and permanent removal. I have offered our services.”

  “What ‘services’ to mean?”

  “That rusty container dropped from the crane in Kingston, we still have it, do we not?”

  “Captain set on dock to sell to scrapyard.”

  “The policeman is arriving shortly. Secure him in the container and lift it back aboard. When we are beyond the reach of eyes …”

  Atwan swung his arm like a crane boom and opened his hand. “Give him ride in submarine.”

  “I couldn’t have said it better, Tenzel.”

  The front door of the farmhouse was open, the screen door kicked off its hinges by someone leaving with both arms occupied. A possum scrambled from the dense weeds, scurried beneath the white van and slipped up the steps to the door, rodent nose twitching, black eyes bright as sparks. It entered the house, the only illumination from a fallen lamp in the living room. The soft light filled the spaces with shadow.

  The animal padded down the hall, following a wet and feral smell as strong as its own. It froze at a moaning sound, then crept forward, sniffing toward a mountainous shape blocking the hall …

  Rose Desmond’s arms were flung wide. One outflung arm was swollen, blood leaking from the palm of his hand and a wound below the bicep. In the center of his forehead, directly between his closed eyes, was a small dot of red, no larger than a dime, the spent blood pooling in his eye sockets.

  The damaged arm struggled from a sticky pool of scarlet blood, the fingers quivering. Gravity pulled the arm slowly back to the floor. Rose lifted his head from the wooden slats.

  “Jacy?” he whispered. “Where are you, Jacy?”

  Rose moaned, a lung-shaking exhalation, and his head dropped back into his arm spreading blood. His body convulsed twice and fell still. Eight feet away, the possum hissed and scampered back into the night.

  Sandhill felt like he was in a drunken elevator, lurching and swaying as it rose. Small patches of light shone from a corner. He heard voices in the distance, and the diesel growl of heavy machinery.

  Next, descent. His vision cleared. He was on his back in a semi-trailer sized metal container. The light came through small ragged holes in one side of the box, rust holes probably, with edges like torn paper. The air smelled of brine and fuel oil.

  “Left, left,” a voice echoed from somewhere below. Sandhill couldn’t place the accent. Eastern Mediterranean? Slavic?

  “Stop. Back. OK, down.”

  A jolting slam and everything was quiet save for the sound of disengaging metal latches. Sandhill rolled to a hole in the side of the box and looked into a huge room. It made sense now. He’d been boxed in a sea/land module and lifted by crane from the dock, then lowered into a ship’s hold.

  There was a harsh squeal as the container’s door opened. Sandhill discerned the outline of a powerful-looking man, bald, backlit against the light in the hold. The man flicked on a flashlight and spotlit Sandhill’s taped ankles.

  “Roll,” the voice commanded. “Want see hands.”

  “Where the hell am—”

  A hard kick caught Sandhill in the thigh. He grunted with the pain.

  “Roll now.”

  Sandhill rolled. The light played across his back as the man inspected Sandhill’s handcuffed wrists and taped ankles. The container doors closed and footsteps echoed away.

  Chapter 51

  Deputy Chief Carl Bidwell stared at the body of Terrence Squill, Bidwell’s eyes unable to contain horror at the still-warm flesh slumped against the wall, ar
ms and legs bound tight, the arterial blood bright and startling against the walls and floor.

  “It’s Sandhill’s backup, right Detective Ryder? The .32?” Bidwell asked, holding the bagged weapon.

  “It looks like it, but—”

  “It’s Sandhill’s goddamn piece,” Duckworth snapped. “Just like it’s his hair in the chief’s hand. We know it, Forensics will prove it.”

  “Why would he leave his gun?” Bidwell asked.

  “It’s rinky-dink. He grabbed more firepower before he took off.”

  Ryder studied the sprawling form on the floor. The sharp reek of blood stung his nostrils. “It wasn’t Sandhill, Ducks. He wouldn’t do this.”

  “Then who did, Detective Ryder?” Bidwell asked.

  “I don’t know. But I’ll find out.”

  “Find out what?” Duckworth roared. “The chief is dead in Sandhill’s bathroom in Sandhill’s apartment above Sandhill’s restaurant. How did the chief get here if Sandhill didn’t bring him or lure him?”

  Ryder glanced through the door at the living area: Drab-garbed detectives and blue uniforms milling and murmuring. Their faces were hard and anxious.

  “I don’t know.”

  Bidwell turned to Duckworth. “How did the chief get here, Commander? Last I saw was you two together at Roosevelt Desmond’s house.”

  “Ryder was on the phone to Sandhill at Desmond’s place. Chief Squill heard, grabbed the phone. The chief and Sandhill yelled back and forth, fighting.”

  Bidwell shot Ryder a raised eyebrow. Ryder said, “They argued. It wasn’t much.”

  “Horseshit,” Duckworth spat. “The chief told me Sandhill called him a hack and a loser. Typical Sandhill ego trip.”

  Ryder closed his eyes. He couldn’t dispute Sandhill’s style.

  Bidwell said, “Christ. Chief Squill must have gone ballistic. What then?”

  Duckworth shrugged. “The chief took off somewhere. I asked where he was going but he told me to mind my own business, said he’d see me at HQ. I almost got there. But when I couldn’t raise the chief on the horn, I headed over here.”