Rachel was a friend of Carly’s who he’d introduced to Jackson. The four of them spent a lot of time together, had even gone on vacation, during Jackson’s rollercoaster relationship with her.
‘You just couldn’t get close to her,’ Jackson said, staring into his beer. ‘There was something happened in her past made her that way, I guess. I learned early on not to ask about it. Not unless I wanted a fight. Sometimes I’d say her name and it was as if she didn’t even hear me, she was just staring off into nowhere. It was as if she didn’t even recognize her own name.’
Dixie nodded noncommittally, sure that Jackson, a man with more than his fair share of secrets, was as much to blame.
‘Does she still live in the same place?’ Jackson asked.
‘As far as I know.’
‘Maybe I’ll drop in. I’m sure she’d be pleased to see me.’
But Dixie wasn’t listening anymore. An idea had taken root in his mind. The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. He smiled to himself.
Jackson gripped his arm, shook him.
‘Hello? Earth to planet Dixie.’
Dixie’s attention snapped back to Jackson’s confused face.
‘I think she might be staying with her.’
‘What? Who’s staying with who?’
Dixie was grinning like an idiot, couldn’t help himself. He leaned towards Jackson, grasped his arm.
‘I didn’t think of her before. Seeing you reminded me. Carly must be hiding somewhere. And I’ll bet that’s where she moved the money to.’
He spent the rest of the evening with a permanent smile on his lips. Things were going his way for once. He was convinced Rachel was the answer, that her house held what he was looking for.
He got half of it right—he would definitely find something there waiting for him. But it wouldn’t be anything to put a smile on his lips.
***
EARL MUNROE SAT IN his pickup and picked his nose absently. Country music played softly on the radio. He listened to Willie Nelson singing On the Road Again while he inspected the contents of his nose on his fingernail and tried to calm down. If it was up to him, Willie would be in the White House and the country would be a better place all round. Hell, he sure couldn’t do a worse job than the peanut farmers and second-rate movie actors and all the rest of them. He slammed the heel of his hand into the dash, thought about what had happened in the bar. At times like this his tongue—what was left of it—felt like it was on fire as his teeth gnashed uselessly against each other inside his cheek.
Earl came from a long line of dirt-poor hillbillies who believed in the holy trinity of hard liquor, a jealous God, and above all kin, a belief that resulted in instant mistrust and hatred of those who were not kin. And even if he hadn’t made it past eighth grade in a school where students tended to overachieve mostly in illiteracy and sexually-transmitted diseases he’d learned one thing well—he knew how to recognize a gook-loving, commie faggot when he saw one.
Hell, the pussy was even drinking Coca Cola. He wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d had one of those bendy straws or maybe a cocktail umbrella in it. Cocked his pinkie while he sipped it too. Earl wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer but even he knew that stuff rotted your teeth. And that Mustache. Vietnam wasn’t the only bad thing to happen in the 70’s. That wasn’t all. They’d thrown him out after one beer. He always got two free beers before they gave him the bum’s rush. Was it his fault they let a cock-sucking commie faggot into the place? What did they expect him to do? Pretend the guy wasn’t there? Act like there’s nothing wrong? Give him a big kiss?
He twisted his left arm, pulling the fabric of his sleeve taut to admire the latest patch he’d sewn on. He’d have been happier if it was a little straighter and more in line with the others, but hey-ho. His momma had been much better at it than he was before she passed, but then she would be, sewing being a woman’s job an’ all. His fingers were way too big. They shook too much. They didn’t used to shake. Besides, it wasn’t so bad. It was the sentiment that mattered: Don’t let the gray hair fool you, we can still kick ass.
He settled back in the lumpy seat. Let the music wash over him while he waited for the commie faggot and his faggoty friend to come out. Jesus Christ, you couldn’t get away from them these days. Anyone would think he’d moved to San Fag-cisco. Things had been different when he was young, that was for damn sure. They knew how to deal with them back then. On top of which, the guy now owed him a beer. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who paid his dues either.
He leaned across and opened the glove compartment, checked to make sure his Colt M1911 was still in there. There was more than one way of paying your dues.
Chapter 20
THE YOUNG WOMAN WITH the long, dark hair paused with her key halfway into the lock of number twenty-three, ignoring the name being called behind her.
She was tall and attractive with the sort of figure that made other women want to spit in her face. A good bust with maybe a little too much meat on her thighs and well-rounded butt, but all in proportion. She was used to construction workers and truck drivers whistling at her, calling out to her in the street. She laughed to herself. Even now she sometimes forgot to respond to her new name—Christ, she still hadn’t got around to changing all her documents. Where did the time go? She turned at the sound of the name being called a second, more insistent time.
‘Yes?’
A large brown fist crashed into the side of her jaw.
Her head snapped sideways. Her legs crumpled. Strong hands caught her under her armpits, held her up. The key was still in the lock. The guy who’d hit her reached across and opened the door. The one holding her hustled her inside.
How someone’s life can change in less than three seconds.
The guy holding her dragged her down the hallway to the kitchen, then let go of her. She stood staring at them, gently swaying. She put a hand up to her jaw.
‘What do you want?’
‘You’ve got exactly one chance here, Rachel.’
It was the one who’d hit her, the bigger one. He pinched her cheek between his meaty thumb and forefinger.
She nodded dumbly. She didn’t know what the hell was going on. But she did, deep inside. Ever since Carly had asked the favor as she called it. If she was honest, she’d almost been expecting something to happen.
‘You’ve got something you’re holding for your friend Carly. I bet she forgot to tell you, but it doesn’t belong to her.’ His voice had a patronizing tone, as if he was talking to a small child or a puppy. ‘It belongs to us and we’d like it back.’ He smiled at her. ‘Right NOW,’ he screamed into her face, the smell of eggs on his breath like a punch on the nose.
She let out an involuntary cry. Jumped backwards, banged her butt hard into the corner of the kitchen table.
Then she made her first mistake.
‘I don’t—’
Those weren’t the words he was looking for. No sentence he wanted to hear began with those words.
He didn’t give her a chance to finish. Faster than she would have believed possible, he raised his arm, backhanded her across the face. Sent her sprawling to the floor. She lay on the cold, hard tiles, quietly moaning, not daring to move.
The cold felt good against the hot stinging pain that was burning up the side of her face, consuming her whole head. He kicked her—only gently really—in the ribs with the pointy toe of his boot.
She gasped and scrambled into a sitting position, shuffling away from him on her ass, her skirt catching, riding up over her athletic thighs. He followed her across the room, keeping his groin inches from her face, a faint smell of stale urine and cigarettes lingering on his faded jeans.
‘Wrong answer, chula.’
He crouched down, grabbed her by the throat. He squeezed, broken fingernails sharp on soft skin. She couldn’t breathe. She got both her hands on his wrist, tried to pry his hand away. He dug his fingers deeper into the side of her neck, shutting o
ff the blood flow, making her head swim.
She tried to get words out—anything to make him stop—but his grip was too tight. All that came out was a strangled cry in the back of her throat. She shook her head from side to side. He grabbed a big handful of hair on the top of her head, wound his fingers into it, held her still.
‘You know something,’ he said, pushing his face right into hers, ‘I’m a lying son of a bitch. I said you only get one chance, but this is your lucky day. I’m gonna give you one more.’
He let go of her hair. Held up his index finger and wagged it in front of her face. She followed it with her eyes, wondered idly how he managed to get so much dirt under his fingernails, the bizarre thought coming from nowhere.
‘But this really is the last chance. Understand?’
She stared at him. Unsure if she was expected to answer. He cocked his head like he wanted one. When it didn’t happen, he grabbed her hair again, nodded her head up and down for her, each downward push choking her harder against the hand crushing her neck.
Up, down, choke, up, down, choke . . .
Behind them the other guy was going noisily through the kitchen drawers. All she could think was please God, don’t open the next drawer.
‘Sounds like José is looking for something special in there, doesn’t it?’
He laughed in a way that turned her stomach. José pushed the drawer shut, moved on to the next one.
No! Give up now. Look in the cupboards instead. Anywhere else.
But the subtle stiffening of his body told her he’d found what he was after. She could see the evil grin crawl across his face just from the back of his head. He let out a low whistle.
‘Man, she’s got some expensive knives. Those Japanese Sushi ones.’
She looked back at the guy holding her. He nodded, his brown eyes never leaving hers.
‘I know the ones you mean. Razor sharp. You can do really thin slices with them.’ He released his grip very slightly on her throat. ‘You know, I don’t think we’re going to need them.’ He was talking to José but looking at her. ‘Are we?’
She shook her head so violently from side to side she almost choked herself. He seemed satisfied. He let go of her hair, dropping his hand from her throat as he stood. His knee joints clicked loudly, then he stepped away to join his friend. The pair of them waited while she coughed and spluttered, drawing the air back into her screaming lungs.
The one called José was still holding one of the knives. Caressing it. Weighing it up in his hand. Feeling the perfect balance. She recognized it instantly, her stomach turning over.
‘You didn’t give me a chance,’ she said, her voice cracking and petulant. ‘I was going to say I don’t have it here.’
The two guys looked at each other.
‘You are so impatient.’ José jabbed the other guy in the arm with his finger and grinned. ‘Why didn’t you give the lady a chance to finish? Think of all the time you’ve wasted.’
As he talked, his gaze flicked back and forth between her face and the knife in his hand. The implication of how he’d have used that time was clear.
The other guy shrugged.
‘Shit happens. Where is it?’
‘I moved it. I wasn’t happy with it in the house. It’s in a storage unit.’
She gave them the address. José wrote it down on a scrap of paper.
‘Now all we need is the key.’
She nodded.
‘It’s upstairs. I’ll get it.’
The two guys shared a look—can you believe this joker?
‘Nice try. Go with her José.’
He put a hand under her armpit, yanked her roughly to her feet. Held her steady until the strength had returned to her legs. She was still shaky as she led the way upstairs. She wasn’t surprised when he goosed her on the way up. She couldn’t have cared less. He’d left the knife in the kitchen. That was all that mattered.
But it was when his finger was thrust rudely between her legs that her second mistake first crossed her mind.
***
THEY WENT INTO HER bedroom. The key was in the nightstand drawer for safety. There was something else in there as well—her Kel-Tec P-32. She’d bought it two years previously when her neighbor’s husband had been shot during a home invasion. She’d gone to the gun store the very next day. The guy had recommended the P-32 because of its light weight, small grip size and light trigger pull. She’d spent a few hours at the range and then it had sat in the drawer ever since. But the seven-round capacity magazine was full, as it always was.
Her whole head hurt. Really, really hurt. And her throat. He’d crushed something important, some of the little bones in there, she knew it. It hurt to swallow.
How dare you attack me?
Her cheek throbbed. She could feel her eye closing up already.
Humiliating me in my own home.
She’d have an ugly black eye for weeks.
Bastards.
‘It’s in the nightstand.’
Stupid. She should have kept her mouth shut.
But the guy wasn’t stupid. She was a woman living alone. A third of all Americans own a gun. There are three hundred million guns in the country—one for every man, woman and child. Most of them sitting quietly in bedroom nightstands waiting for nocturnal intruders.
He was moving fast.
She lunged for the drawer handle. Yanked the whole thing out onto the floor.
He was almost on her.
She dropped to her knees. Level with his crotch. Punched him in the balls.
It wasn’t a good punch. It was pathetic. He grunted, more in surprise than in pain.
Even so, it bought her a split second. Time to get hold of the gun. She grabbed it with her left hand. She was right-handed. No time to swap hands. No time to aim properly. She swung her arm towards him blindly. Pulled the trigger, the noise deafening in the small room. He let out a sharp cry, looked down at the fleshy part of his upper arm.
She stared, dazed, the sound of the gunshot reverberating through her already screaming head, at the blood soaking into his jacket sleeve, not knowing what to do next.
Like pull the trigger again, you dumb bitch.
Too late.
He lashed out with his foot, caught her solidly on the left shoulder. She screamed, dropped the gun as her arm went numb. It bounced once on the floor, ended up by his feet. He bent and picked it up. Then stepped away as the big guy burst into the room.
‘Are you hurt?’
José shook his head, smiled grimly. She stared, terrified, into his eyes, convinced he’d wanted it to happen like this all along.
As if he needed an excuse.
Already she felt the stinging pain as the razor-sharp steel slit her flesh open, watching in horror as her blood welled up and overflowed out of the wound.
‘Not as much as she’s going to be.’
They dragged her kicking and screaming back to the kitchen. Taped her arms and legs to a chair. Taped her mouth.
The one she’d shot, José, made a tourniquet for his arm out of strips of kitchen towel. It was only a flesh wound and it was his left arm. Like her, he was right-handed.
‘Pass me that knife,’ he said to the other guy, whose name she still didn’t know.
He didn’t so much pass it as stab it into the wooden table top. Then went back to rooting through her handbag.
José took hold of the handle and worked it free, a sick, satisfied smile on his lips now he’d got what he’d really wanted all along. He took hold of her hair, winding his fingers into it. Pulled her head back. Stretching her throat, exposing it fully. The sound of her desperate sobs squeezing past the tape that covered her mouth made his breath come faster, made his eyes shine, as the horror that lived behind them came fully awake.
‘Hey,’ the other guy called, her driving licence in his hand, ‘her name’s not Rachel, it’s—’
Chapter 21
DIXIE WATCHED AS A small, white dog cocked its leg and peed u
p the trunk of a young tree outside number twenty-three while its owner waited impatiently.
The dog finished but it wasn’t ready to move along yet. It strained at the leash, yapping and lunging towards the door, its nose twitching like it had caught a whiff of something malevolent behind it. The owner gave the leash an irritated tug but the dog was oblivious, the yapping turning into a low, rumbling growl at the back of its throat. The guy wound the leash around his hand, cranking it tighter and dragged it down the street.
Dixie placed the side of his head on the cool glass of the window. How to play it? He’d been sitting here too long already. He'd spent the last ten minutes debating his options until he'd been distracted by the excited dog. He didn't even know if his hunch was right in the first place. So here he was, sitting, drumming his fingers on the wheel, when the decision was taken out of his hands.
Without warning, the front door burst open. Two of Chico’s men, Victor and José, spilled out. José’s left arm hung limp and useless at his side, the sleeve soaked and dripping with blood.
What the hell were they doing here?
His stomach suddenly clenched as Chico’s text came back to him:
No problem. Come back here. We’ve got Carly. We’re picking up the money now.
Victor and José turned sharp left onto the sidewalk. They half walked, half jogged towards their car, trying to look inconspicuous—as inconspicuous as two shifty-looking guys, one of them with a blood-soaked arm, can do, hustling down a suburban street.
He didn’t have much time.
He grabbed the baseball bat he’d stashed behind the seat and jumped out. They were still arguing as he moved quietly up behind them. He felt like he was in an old Laurel and Hardy movie—Victor heavyset, José skinny, his pants puckered out in back where his ass should have been. All they needed were the bowler hats. It wouldn’t take much before a fight broke out, Victor smacking José’s head. Victor accused José of going too far. José kept pointing at his arm. Whatever it was, they were completely engrossed. Totally oblivious to him as he came up behind them. As soon as he got within reach, he raised the bat like he was standing at the plate waiting for the pitcher.
Hunting Dixie Page 9
