by A. J. Lape
Right then, a man eased out of the shadows, tapping Grizzly on the shoulder. Like Grizzly, his build was stalwart, and he’d dressed in lightweight khaki pants and a short-sleeved silk shirt. His white hair was shorn short, everything tailored to perfection, but a voice in my head warned “too perfect.” When Grizzly turned to face him, the man angled his face backwards, briefly glancing in my direction. He wore mirrored sunglasses, so it was virtually impossible to get a read on him, but what features I could distinguish sucked me under; it’s as though my body had knowledge of something my mind hadn’t quite registered.
“I-I’m busy, Kyd,” I stammered, my throat constricting.
Kyd pulled me out of my seat, sandwiching me between him and a profusely sweating Elmer. “I would’ve brought you tonight,” he said tightly. “What’s up?”
Insert nervous laughter. “Wh-where’s Mary?” I sputtered.
“We’re on a break,” he answered, eyes narrowing.
Elmer stood up, his nose crammed into Kyd’s chin. “Elmer’s going to break your face. Get away from my woman.”
Kyd laughed loudly, “Darcy’s not your woman.”
“Darcy?” Elmer asked confused.
She’s been made! Detective Battle screamed in my ear.
If I’d had a sword, I would’ve fallen on it. It would’ve been less painful than what came next. In one heartbeat, Elmer’s eyes turned violent, and his voice spluttered and yowled things unidentifiable to the human ear. Next thing I knew, he went kung-fu fighter and smacked me twice in the face. My jaw stung with the force, and my vision went on whiteout, rolling like the smoke of a rapidly growing fire. I took a deep breath to fill my lungs but still felt like I’d hit a brick wall.
Kyd’s eyes flashed angrily—his temper gaining speed like a tropical storm in the Gulf. He crumpled Elmer’s collar in his angry fist. “You idiot! Now you’ve really pissed me off!”
It went downhill fast from there.
I considered myself a lover, not a fighter, but when it came to little kids, I always thought of Marjorie. Granted, she’d probably be a stripper someday, but Cisco might find the cure for the common cold or even be a televangelist. So as I swung on their behalf, Kyd cursed and punched, embracing his bad-boy side. Elmer wasn’t exactly what I’d call a seasoned brawler. In fact, his shortcomings were more pronounced than mine. After a bloodcurdling, girly scream, he took a swipe at Kyd but accidentally jacked the jaw of a bystander. This guy went berserk and came at all three of us like a mixed martial arts champion. His arms and legs performed roundhouse kicks accompanied by a hand thrust under the jaw. Thankfully, Elmer received the brunt of it, but amidst the flailing arms and legs, I received a bloody lip, nuts down my bra, and a few bottles whizzed by my head.
After I mentally rewired my jaw, I watched Dylan scale two bar tables and dive into the middle of the brawl, acting on pure instinct. The unknown man took a swing at him, and when Dylan ducked and delivered a heavy punch to his gut, the man coughed deeply and thought better of any future altercations. He kicked at Elmer two more times, dusted off his clothes, and backed away cursing. Still itching for a fight, Dylan then tossed Kyd to the side, apparently wanting the honors of silencing Elmer himself. But I still wasn’t positive whom we were talking to. Elmer screamed things that sounded as though they came from multiple sources.
Dylan threw a left-handed jab, swiveled his fist around, cocking Elmer with his elbow. He then landed another blow with his right hand, as Kyd warded off a bouncer that’d joined the fray. For a fraction of a dumb-butt second, I made another disastrous attempt to kick the ever lovin’ crap out of Elmer. I’d like to think I looked like a prized fighter, but I’m pretty sure I hit a lot of air. Elmer somehow got ahold of my ankle, and I fell backwards and cracked my head on the hardwood floor.
My brain sloshed around … I actually heard it.
Somehow, I managed to stand, and out of nowhere, two men broke through the group that had circled us. One yelled, “Orlando police” while the other waved a silver badge. But you know how the hecklers can be. As soon as someone lost prime viewing, they linked arms and circled in tighter. For each foot of progress they made, the good guys lost two feet of ground.
Elmer lay supine on the floor. Dylan had a knee in his chest, his massive fingers wound tightly around his throat. “My mother taught me to use my manners, Herschel, so I’m going to give you two options,” he snarled. “Would you like me to crush your windpipe or snap your neck? I assure you, I can do both successfully.”
Arrogance unleashed, I almost laughed. You never knew what would come out of Dylan’s mouth.
Elmer jerked around as though he’d just been electrocuted. “Just exactly what did Elmer do?”
“Let him go!” one of the undercovers demanded.
We could’ve been attacked by a legion of blood-sucking vampires and Dylan would’ve ignored the command. He squeezed tighter, and Elmer’s face turned the color of ripe cranberries.
From bleary eyes, I spied Detective Battle and Dylan’s father muscle through the opposite side. Detective Battle waved his badge, saying calmly, “Dylan, let him go.”
“Squeeze it tighter,” Kyd coaxed, turning my head around to palm the goose egg.
“Did I land any shots?” I asked excitedly. Kyd didn’t answer. Instead, he looked at me like I’d listed the ingredients on a pipe bomb.
Battle laid a gentle hand on Dylan’s shoulder. “Dylan,” he eased even calmer.
Colton pushed past Detective Battle, horrified. “Unhand him, son! That’s an order from your father!” As sophisticated as Dylan comported himself, there was a hint of savagery, unchained. He briskly shook his head, trying to resurrect the good side he’d just buried. In a one-handed jerk, Colton yanked him by the scruff of his shirt to his feet.
I gave him an enthusiastic, two thumbs up.
I was a moron…
Detective Battle dragged Elmer off the floor while Dylan and Kyd destroyed him with their eyes. Let’s put it this way. If looks could kill, he’d be wearing his Sunday best, lying in a pine box.
“Just exactly what did Elmer do?” he repeated to Detective Battle.
“Don’t play coy with me,” Detective Battle growled. “You kidnapped Cisco Medina, and now you’re going to show me where he is. You have the right to remain silent…”
“Troy,” he said again excitedly, “Troy Brown.”
Troy had a baby face with a strawberry blond soul patch on his chin. About my height and weight, he wore khaki pants, a light blue short-sleeved button down shirt, and leather topsiders. Sort of nerdy. His face alone could’ve passed for a fourteen-year-old, and he struck me as the type that was one way in-person and totally opposite behind the anonymous comfort of his keyboard.
Not the normal fastard I would’ve guessed.
“Exactly why are you here again?” Detective Battle asked again. Detective Battle pulled a 3x5 spiral pad from the back pocket of his jeans. His crumpled navy t-shirt stood in stark contrast to the relief lining his face. He appeared at peace … or at least partially.
Troy likewise jotted notes in his reporter’s notebook. “My source,” he explained. “Her name’s Jester. She called and said there’d be a big story going down. I’m new, and she wanted me to land on the front page.”
Detective Battle played with the corners of his graying mustache while he raised an inquisitive brow in my direction. I gave him a dumb blonde look, mixed with a little bit of righteous indignation. Crap, he might’ve figured it out. “Who exactly is Jester?” he asked Troy. “We’d like to get her statement.”
Troy shrugged an answer, deflated. “I wish I knew. I owe her a date.”
As Troy scribbled down a few statements from Detective Battle, I shoved Kyd and made him second in line, stealing away to the restroom before anyone could interview me. Why I wanted to remain anonymous wasn’t readily clear, but suddenly anonymity and obscurity appealed to me. Things weren’t finished yet, and in my opinion, it was too early for a cele
bration. Cisco hadn’t been reunited with his family, and in the back of my mind, I doubted if Elmer was truly capable of producing him. Plus, Elmer hadn’t provided the name of X.
The identity of X was crucial.
For some reason, I thought of the line in Romeo & Juliet “What’s in a Name?” So what meaning lay in the tattoo “moose?” And who masqueraded as the mysterious X anyway? Was she Elmer’s girlfriend? And where in God’s Holy Name did Grizzly go? Lincoln and Colton watched him enter the building and currently combed the area, but the fracas had slowed things down.
I popped all of my knuckles then washed my hands, staring in the mirror. This felt anti-climactic. Too neat. Sure they could shine a light in Elmer’s eyes and torture him into confession, but that seemed too easy—and likely wouldn’t unearth all the answers—especially for a man who probably held more secrets than his IQ could juggle.
My cell phone belted out Milli Vanilli, and the picture that materialized was of Zander. “Is it over?” he asked as I answered.
“Sort of,” I said glumly. “Zander, what makes people pick certain tattoos?” When I previously placed the tramp stamp of angel wings on my lower back, I chose it not only because it looked cool but because I liked the concept of an angel watching over me.
“Well, I assume it’s because that item means something special,” Zander answered, “but my guess is it means something more to the person that sees it than wears it.”
Maybe a better question would’ve been, Why would someone’s nickname be moose?
I shut down the convo and pondered the thought. Ripping a paper towel from the dispenser, I wiped my hands, throwing it into the wastebasket by the door. I then clicked on my iPhone and scrolled through the photos I took of Elmer’s desk: utility bills and a sage-colored stationery with a visible “ose.” I cleared my throat, stopping dead in the thought. Oh, boy, that “ose” probably represented the latter part of Moose. Why couldn’t I have snagged that letter? More than likely, it held the answers. Had Lola sent it? Gertrude? Polly? Someone else altogether? The answer sat on the tip of my tongue.
What am I missing? I asked myself.
“Your head in a few minutes … just like Howie.”
30. SURVIVAL 101
I UNDERSTOOD THAT I SAID THAT out loud, only after someone answered.
The lock activated on the restroom door, and I stared helplessly into the reflection of Eleanor Talley. Eleanor foamed at the mouth, like a mad dog. For a woman dressed impeccably as a bank manager, her black tracksuit and running shoes were brand mismatched, and her thick brown hair looked like a porcupine’s. If I were a betting girl, I’d say she was one step from the insane asylum or getting a poison dart from animal control.
Ab-SOLUTE-ly fabulous, I thought. I might’ve just hammered the last nail in my coffin.
“You twit!” she screamed, pointing in my face. “I’m not going to let you ruin this for me!”
“Ruin what?” I asked, feigning ignorance, because frankly I still felt ignorant. I would’ve laid money on Polly and practically bet my life on Gertrude. And Lola? Even though I felt semi-sorry for her, she’d never be on my Christmas card list.
On instinct, I scrambled backed toward the sink, but Eleanor took three angry steps forward, circling one hand around my neck. My hands darted up defensively, covering her wrist, but this woman’s grip was like a Sasquatch. I got nowhere, and when I tried to wriggle away, she tightened all five fingers and began to squeeze. “You’re Elmer’s … girlfriend?” I spit out.
“Yes,” she seethed. “I’m—”
“Moo?” I stupidly giggled. Someone needed to cut out my tongue.
“Moose!” she shouted offended. “That money is mine each week, and Elmer and Lynx help me get it!”
“You’re X?” I verified in a cough.
“I’m you’re executioner.” Eleanor’s features went as hard as granite, her blackened eyes meaning every treacherous word. Immediately, that piece of the puzzle edged into place. Elmer must’ve been the man that Albert Jones sold the Porsche Turbo to, who purchased it in Eleanor’s stead. And “moose” … I should’ve known. Dartmouth’s unofficial mascot was a moose—that bit of trivia compliments of Zander.
“Are you blackmailing Lola … for her services?” I wheezed.
“I call it business,” she squeezed harder. “That little boy is my security deposit. Elmer found him playing by himself, and when he called me, I got an idea that was a godsend.”
My guess was it didn’t come from God.
Relax, Darcy, I told myself. Stay calm. Think your way out of this. Her squeezing my neck, however, made my eyes bug out like ping pong balls. A high heat filled my vision, and I knew my capillaries were seconds from rupturing. Cold fear gripped my heart. I was running out of time. “You were involved … before?”
Eleanor’s eyes shockingly turned misty. My word, she actually cared for him. I didn’t know if too many inhabitants likewise occupied her brain, or if she had one foot in cuckoo. “My tastes vary.”
No dispute there. “Polly?” I coughed.
“Doesn’t ask many questions. Do you know how easy this happened to be?” she bragged. “People rarely check their statements with automatic withdrawal. Plus, when you blow through the amount of money that Herbie and Gertie do monthly, one more line item means nothing. And lucky for me, neither have accountants that pay their bills.”
“Plus, the trust was set up by Elmer,” I gasped. “So since he was the executor, you didn’t have to worry about him asking questions.”
“Yes, Herbie and Gertie should’ve asked for monthly itemized expenditures, but they didn’t.” And she’d obviously capitalized on their big hearts and unequivocal faith.
Anger churned in my chest. Besides the fact she was trying to make my head a PEZ dispenser, I was beginning to hate this woman. I didn’t like the way hate made me feel, but Eleanor might’ve been worth the icky feeling. “Are you in debt? Is that why?” I coughed. “Or are you merely a money-grubbing skank?”
If I hadn’t heard the funeral march before, I sure as heck did now. She narrowed her eyes, pressing her thumb into my larynx. “Yes,” she answered to what I assumed was both.
“Where are the grandparents?” I breathed roughly.
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Cisco?”
Eleanor gave me a grin like the Joker gave young Bruce Wayne after he killed his parents in Batman. In that moment, I realized she wouldn’t give me anything more regarding Cisco, and my only hope was that Detective Battle could find him. Eleanor squeezed tighter, and what oxygen I had left knocked on my brain, reminding me of one other unanswered question: Howie Cantrell. When the woman manhandling your neck might also be a murderer, trust me, you don’t want to ask if she’s a fan of decapitation. But the verb in me couldn’t leave it uncovered. Only one answer made sense, and I needed to get her to say it.
“Howie found out, didn’t he?” I gasped. “He found out … and planned to tell Gertrude that one of her oldest friends needed the nuthouse.”
Eleanor spaced out for a second, just totally went to some other place, and if I thought I understood insanity before, I now witnessed the actual flipping of the switch. Her blackened eyes went totally dead, not one glimmer of light showed in her pupils. With another squeeze, my throat constricted even more.
“Howie and I took a boat ride,” she confessed emotionless. “The propeller might’ve gotten a little out of hand.”
Of course…
As horrific as the admission sounded, I experienced an unexpected peace. I got a confession—a partial one, unfortunately—but I wasn’t sure anyone would benefit from it. We were alone. In general, females went to the restroom in pairs for some girlfriend kiss-and-tell or basically to get the job done. I didn’t seem to be in either phase. Plus, in a place like this, idle time lessened your chances on the meat market. That left more fighting. I hoped that fortune favored the brave because Eleanor acted like one of us wouldn’t leave al
ive.
Before I went completely out cold, I dug deep and headbutted her with the force of a mule’s hind leg. She staggered backwards—her arms and legs going in all directions at one time—then she fumbled around behind her, attempting to unlock the door. Did she plan to run? I heard a loud click twice but didn’t know if that signaled success or was self-deception on my part. While I sucked in as much air as I could, I still didn’t have enough time to regroup before she came at me again. Lunging for my hair, she latched ahold and yanked me toward her, causing me to fall flat-backed onto the floor.
My lucky hat tumbled out to the side, landing bucket-side up. “Your hair,” Eleanor laughed with a menace, standing overtop me. “It’s green, just like Elmer said. I think we should wash it.”
If I was fearful before, I now did a complete-180 into fight-for-your-life rage. Talk about adding insult to injury. She and Elmer were giving me an inferiority complex—well, larger than I already had—but at least, I wasn’t as grossly dysfunctional as they were. Elmer obviously had told her about me. Did he also tell her he’d asked me out on a date?
“You’re … ” I paused, “you’re … mean, you’re ugly, and you’re an effing female dog!”
Oh, God. That was my first attempt at cursing, and it sounded like the fifth grade playground.
