“Move it, Chandler!” He stepped in and grabbed for my arm. But it wasn’t my mental suggestion, a goliath, Peterbilt tractor-trailer barreling down on him that caught his attention. No. It was the sound of a pager. The pager vibrating in my front right pocket. My mental suggestion, poised to enter into Harland’s consciousness, evaporated … and with it so went my opportunity.
“What is that?” Harland asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know, I thought it was you.” The vibrating had stopped. His eyes continued to stare at my front pocket.
“Slowly, take it out.”
I did as I was told. I looked at the last incoming phone number. It was Whittier.
“Who even uses a pager these days?” Harland asked, irritated. “Show me the number.”
I showed him the end of the pager with the displayed phone number.
“Who is that? Who called you?”
“Your mother. We have a thing.”
Harland brought the Glock up to my face.
“The police. I’m a suspect in the murder of a young nurse.”
Harland’s demeanor once again changed. Thinking that funny, his smile was back and apparently all was well with the world. “Okay, this way. Let’s go.” He gestured down the alleyway with his chin, toward the back of the Beale Hotel. Again, my hatred for him was all consuming.
I continued on down the alleyway with Harland, gun in hand, several paces behind me. The back of the faded-pink building stood there, fifty yards in front of us. Ominous, it seemed to be beckoning—come closer. Dark, blood-colored rust stains streamed from a hundred blackened window openings. Electrical and telephone cables converged, like tendrils, at strategic locations midway down the hotel’s exterior rear wall.
As we approached the hotel’s rear parking lot, Harland surveyed the area—ensuring we hadn’t been observed. “There.”
From what I could see, thick wood planks were nailed across two rear-entry doorways; the hotel was sealed up tighter than a drum. With another flick of the Glock I saw where I was supposed to go. On a secondary wall, maybe eight feet high, and out some ten feet from the back of the hotel, there was a cubbyhole. Must have been used to obscure several large, industrial-sized dumpsters. As I came around the corner all I saw was debris. Broken bottles, several sets of twisted pink venetian blinds, a large gray couch—its yellowed foam rubber, like a gutted whale, spewing from center cushions. A large rat scurried across the concrete and disappeared into the back wall of the hotel.
“Home sweet home,” Harland said, eyebrows raised. “Move the couch out of the way.”
I shuffled through the garbage, kicked a broken toilet seat out of my way, and positioned myself behind the couch. I shoved it over to the far wall. There, on the concrete, was a square metal grate approximately three feet wide by four feet long.
“Okay, back up against the wall. Don’t move.” Not taking his eyes from me, he knelt down, laid the Glock at his feet and pulled a set of keys from his jacket pocket. He unlocked two ancient-looking padlocks and pocketed both. He retrieved his Glock and stood. “Okay, in we go.”
“What do you mean, in we go?”
“Pull open the grate and get in there,” Harland commanded.
I bent down and reached over and grabbed the metal bars with two hands. Pain shot through my right side, where Harland had cracked one of my ribs with the muzzle of his gun. I shifted my position and used more of my left arm and pulled the grate straight up. I stared down at the deep, dark, blackness below.
“It looks worse than it really is. Here, take this.” Harland took out a small Maglight from his pocket and passed it over to me.
I looked at the ridiculously small flashlight and turned the top portion to illuminate the light’s radius. “You have to be kidding.”
“Just get in there. I’ll be right behind you,” Harland said, his annoyance rising.
Chapter 18
I had to put the flashlight between my teeth to use both hands. I lowered myself into the darkness. A smell wafted up that was beyond disgusting. I found the top of a metal-runged ladder and eased myself down. Ten feet below, my feet were on solid ground. I heard Harland above me coming down the ladder, then stopping. Light from above reflected off his gun, which was pointed at my head.
“Keep going. You’re in a drainpipe. You may be thinking this is your opportunity to strike. To make your move. It’s not. I’ve thought this through. I won’t hesitate to shoot you, Chandler. Ten more paces and you’ll come to another vertical rise. Once there, use your flashlight to tap on the bottom metal rung. Then I’ll follow.”
Harland was right. I was about to make my move. I walked forward, flashlight in hand. The beam of the light was shaking. My hand was shaking. The telltale signs that I needed to tap in. With a quick check, I discovered I could no longer read Harland’s thoughts. I came to a juncture where the drain split off in two directions, up or straight down. I gave the bottom rung of the ladder going up a couple of taps.
“Up you go,” Harland said, from the darkness behind me.
Flashlight in teeth again, I climbed. Shit! Ten feet up my head careened into something metal.
“Oh, forgot to mention, there’s another metal grate up there … did that too, my first time here,” came Harland’s voice from the intersecting pipes below.
With one hand secured on the top rung, I used the other to lift up on the heavy iron grate. I moved it aside and out of the way. I climbed out and stood in what looked to be a large supply closet.
“Step away. Move over to the door,” Harland said, his voice echoing from below.
I looked for something that could be used as a weapon. Perhaps a pipe or piece of lumber. There was nothing.
Harland’s bald head suddenly appeared from the open drain, shortly followed by his gun. “This is going quite smoothly, Rob. I’m glad you’ve been smart enough not to try anything. It would be a shame to have to kill you.”
So now he was using my first name. Like best buddies.
Harland was out of the drain and gesturing toward the door. “It’s unlocked.”
I opened the door and stepped into a large room. Streams of sunlight filtered in from three boarded up windows, allowing just enough light for me to make out what must have been the hotel’s main dining area. Several tables, each upturned onto their sides, sat in the middle of the room. Multi-colored graffiti filled the walls and several stained mattresses had been laid, side-by-side, to the left. At my feet lay a used condom and three hypodermic needles. I heard the sound of a rodent skittering around between the floors above.
“Before she was boarded up, this had become a refuge for the homeless. We don’t need to worry about that now. No one comes here anymore. We have the place all to ourselves.” Harland looked at me with his ever-present smile. Then his brow creased. “You’re not looking so good, my friend.”
“Must have had some bad moo goo gai pan last night. I’m fine,” I said.
He directed me toward a large swinging door to my left that I assumed would lead into the kitchen.
“Stop. I go first.”
Harland passed to one side and, facing me, backed into the door. Sure enough, it swung open into a kitchen area that I could barely make out behind him. “Follow me in; stay close, Rob.”
Seeing Harland standing with his back to the opened door, half in and half out of the kitchen, I thought this would be my best, and perhaps only opportunity to make a move. Harland knew this as well.
“Don’t even think about it,” he said.
I stepped in closer, while he moved back, until the swinging door was held open with the toe of his shoe. Harland, like myself, was a trained operative. So it was a surprise to me when he decided to go through the doorway first. This put him in a precarious position. A mistake. When I heard the sound of my pager go off again, I knew my luck had changed for the better. It was only a fraction of a second that Harland’s attention was diverted. Eyes again went to my pants pocket. And in that instant I k
icked out. Catching him in the wrist, the Glock flew sideways, somewhere into the kitchen—which, at this point, was still mostly obscured from my view. Harland dove to his left as I rolled forward through the doorway. There was a loud clattering of metal hitting metal—a tower of rusted catering pans fell and became a jumbled mess on the floor. Harland thrashed about, frantically looking for his gun. I dove again, this time directly toward Harland. He lashed out, and the edge of a serving pan connected hard against my chin. My momentum carried me into him and together we rolled further into the kitchen. He’d lost the pan and was repeatedly punching me in the face. I found his left arm, felt the wrappings of his bandage. I slid my hand up his wrist until I found his hand and gripped harder. Harland screamed. I used all my strength until I heard one, if not more, of his already swollen hands’ carpal bones crack.
Harland shrieked. His face, inches from my own, had turned red and tears flowed freely from his tightly squeezed eyes. I maintained the pressure on his hand as I moved onto my knees.
“Get up,” I said.
The clanging continued as Harland tried to get his balance. Keeping him in close, I pulled him up until we were both standing. It was only then that I felt the muzzle of the gun pressed tightly against my left temple. Apparently he had found the Glock.
“Turn around. Very slowly.”
I turned around. I felt something hit the back of my head and everything went black.
* * *
When I came to, I was lying on a concrete floor, cold and gritty against my cheek. I watched as a cockroach tentatively approached me from several feet away. The pain at the back of my head came alive and throbbed. The slightest movement, even breathing, shot hot spikes through my head and into my eyes. I continued to watch the cockroach. It stopped and seemed to be investigating a small pool of liquid: my drool. How long had I been out? I tried to move my arms. They weren’t bound—neither were my legs. I saw a light, a single low-wattage bulb in my peripheral vision. I turned my head and saw that a light bulb hung by a wire from a high ceiling rafter. Hot bile burned at the back of my throat. Slowly, I turned over onto my back. I was in the basement. Pipes of all sizes crisscrossed on the ceiling above and down the walls. Like ancient sentries, two black hot water boilers towered over me, as if keeping guard over this hellish, underground domain. I turned my head and saw that there was some kind of electrical generator. Rust beneath peeling green paint and a fountain of frayed copper wires were obvious signs that it was inoperable.
A creaking sound from above brought my still somewhat blurry vision over to a wooden platform against the slump stone wall on my left. No less than twelve feet off the ground there, next to a long, retractable extension ladder, sat Harland.
“Welcome back to the land of the living, Rob.”
“Where am I?”
“Still at Kingman’s beautiful Beale Hotel. We’re in the basement, if you hadn’t guessed that already.”
I tried to sit up, and failed.
“You may want to take it slow, my friend. That’s quite a conk you’ve got at the back of your head.”
I managed another attempt and this time was able to stay up in a seated position. Harland was watching me, his legs swinging back and forth, hanging down from his high perch above.
“Make yourself comfortable. You’re not going anywhere for a while. The only way into this cellar is through that opening above me. You see, I’ve removed the stairway. No small feat with only one working hand,” he said, holding up his yellowy-green bandaged hand. “Understand, without this ladder, there’s absolutely no way out for you.”
“So why don’t you just shoot me?”
“Come on. What fun would that be? No. I have other plans for you two.”
“Two?”
“You and Pippa.”
“What are you talking about? Pippa has nothing to do with this.”
“Oh, but you’re wrong about that. But all that will become more evident in time. Perhaps you two can figure it out together,” Harland said. Watching, and seeing my confusion, he added, “You didn’t know, did you?”
I stared back at him.
“She’s here. I mean right here in Kingman.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Harland stood, leaned down and came up with a thin square box. He threw it down onto the concrete floor in front of me. The box lid flew open revealing its pizza contents. He then tossed down a six-pack of plastic water bottles.
“I’d love to stay and chat, catch up and all that, but I’ve got a few errands to run. Enjoy the pizza.”
Chapter 19
Pippa listened to the ringtone emanating from the speakerphone and then the follow up series of beeps. For three hours she’d been there, in the same claustrophobic conference room, along with Whittier, Barns and Giles. Each time they expected Chandler to respond to his pager beep and call back. Each time he hadn’t.
“Look, it’s late,” Whittier finally said. “What do you say we give this a rest for the evening—try again first thing in the morning? You two must be tired and want to freshen up at your hotel.”
Pippa ran her fingers through her hair and let out a long breath. She hadn’t planned on staying overnight. Yes, she’d packed an overnight bag, but that had only been for the remote off- chance she’d need to stay here, which now, evidently, she would. She nodded and pulled her chair away from the table.
Whittier said, “I’ve put out an APB on Chandler. Kingman isn’t that big of a town. I’ve put two additional teams on overtime so we’re actively out there looking for him.”
Pippa nodded. “Thank you, Detective Whittier; we appreciate that.”
“No problem. Why don’t you call me Bruce?”
“Okay, Bruce. So where’s a good place to crash tonight that will fit within the government’s per diem?”
“There’s the Ramblin’ Rose Motel a few miles up the road. Kinda nice, especially if you’re into the whole Route 66 nostalgia thing. Next door to that you’ll find a Quality Inn.”
“Yeah, I think Quality Inn will be fine. Thanks,” she said.
Giles shook both Whittier’s and Barns’ hands. “Let’s talk food. I bet you have outrageous Mexican here, am I right?” Excited, he rubbed both palms together in anticipation of their response.
Barns and Whittier looked at each other, then Barns pointed a finger at Giles. “I bet you’d like El Charro.”
Giles repeated the name slowly, then again with more of an ethnic flavor to “El Chaaaa-rrr-ooo. Yes, I think I need some of that.”
“Good. It’s right across from the Quality Inn. Can’t miss it; right next to the Kingman Club, with the two neon martini glasses sign,” Barns said.
Giles slightly turned his head and gave Barns a sly look. “Martini Club. What a combination. Have ourselves a little Mexican feast and stroll on over to the Martini Club for a nightcap.”
“All right, that’s enough, Giles,” Pippa said, feeling her patience stretched to the breaking point.
* * *
In the police station’s rear parking lot, Pippa resumed her position behind the wheel of their rental car. Once Giles had strapped himself in, she pulled the car around the building and eased onto North Main Street.
They drove in silence for several minutes before Giles turned in his seat. “Say half-hour to clean up, wash the day off ourselves, and then hit the town?”
Pippa gave Giles a weary smile and shook her head. “You know, I think I’m just going to hang out in my room tonight. You go. Enjoy yourself.”
Giles nodded and let the car become quiet as they drove down Main Street. “I know this is tough on you, Pippa. It was no secret that you and Chandler had a thing. I can see you’re hurting, and I’m sorry.”
Pippa was startled by Giles’ unexpected words of compassion. Although annoyed her personal life was once again brought up for discussion, when she looked over at him she saw he was sincere—meant what he’d said.
“Thank you, Giles. I appreci
ate that. I’ll be fine.”
“Good. Half-hour; be ready to go … we’re going to El Chaaaa-rrr-ooo!”
They pulled into the Quality Inn’s parking lot. Pippa was smiling. “Why not? El Chaaaa-rrr-ooo, it is.”
* * *
Giles knocked on Pippa’s door twenty minutes later. She’d barely had a chance to shower and brush her teeth when she heard him knocking. “Hold on,” she yelled. “You’re ten minutes early, for God’s sake.”
She finished getting dressed. Jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers were all she had packed—it would have to be good enough. She opened the door several inches and walked back toward the bathroom, toweling her hair dry.
Giles let himself in and plunked himself down on her bed. Pippa applied a fresh coat of lipstick and pinched her cheeks, hoping she could put a little color back into her pale Scandinavian complexion. She looked around the corner at Giles. Although wearing the same dress slacks he’d worn earlier, he was now wearing a soft pastel pink shirt. She could smell his sickening cologne.
“You! In here—now,” she said sternly, pointing at Giles.
He looked up surprised and pointed his own finger back at himself. “Me?”
Giles got off the bed and nervously joined Pippa in front of the bathroom mirror.
“You want to have dinner with me?”
He nodded.
“Maybe get a quick drink at the Kingman Club afterword?”
He nodded again.
“Okay, then. You need to get that cologne off your body. Every bit of it. Stay in here until it’s gone and never ever wear that shit around me again. Got it?”
Mad Powers (Tapped In) Page 9
