“I am.”
“You’ve got cash.”
“That’s right.”
“Okay,” he says, echoing my tone. “Good. Then we won’t have a problem.” I know from all of that, that he is someone I can do business with.
He shows me three vehicles. I like the second. It is more like a van than an RV. And small enough that I know I’ll have no trouble handling it on my own. At the same time, it is large enough to have room inside for two people to move. Just. Also, it has a bathroom with a full shower. It is old and worn-looking enough that, had I been heading onto a long journey I wouldn’t have touched it. But the trip I have in mind is shorter than that and there won’t be a lot of miles involved.
The price is fifteen thousand. I offer him twenty. I let the number sink in before I explain.
“There’s a catch,” I say.
“There’s always a catch,” he says with no change in his expression.
I see him sit up to pay closer attention when I shut his office door.
“I want you to lose the paperwork on the transfer.”
“Come again?”
“I want the vehicle to stay in your name. It won’t be for long.”
“I can’t possibly do that,” but the way his eyes shift around, I know we aren’t far from a deal.
“Twenty-five.”
He blinks. Says nothing for ten, maybe fifteen seconds. Then: “How long?”
“If you keep the paperwork in your desk for a week, that will be enough.”
I can see the avarice in his eyes, so I push for home.
“You’ll probably get the vehicle back in any case.”
His head goes up at that. Then the blink again.
“In that case,” he says, “maybe I don’t even transfer it.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Maybe I hold the paper for a week, then report the vehicle stolen.”
I look at him evenly. “That would be best for me. If it were to happen that way, and without any ID from me today, another five thousand would show up for you within the month. Plain envelope. Unmarked bills.”
“We’re talking thirty grand, all in?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation.
He extends his hand. “Deal,” he says when he lets go. I suppress the urge to wash my hands.
We shake, then he helps me load my suitcase before giving me a tour of the van’s features. A solar panel. A generator. A refrigerator. A microwave. Where to fill the propane. Where to plug it in to fill the water. Where to plug it in to empty it out. And so on. I only half pay attention. I know that I won’t be around long enough to use most of these features.
I stop at a Walmart on the way out of town: home away from home for RVers everywhere. Inside, I shop, pushing my cart with purpose and direction. I get a first aid kit, Polysporin, hydrogen peroxide, and a big bottle of ibuprofen. I get a lot of small bottles of water and a plastic jug of vodka. The vodka is not for drinking so I am more interested in quantity than quality and there’s a lot in that jug.
I get tins of soup and some fresh fruit and a cheap camping kit that has plates and cutlery and even a little multipurpose cooking pot and a can opener. A few pre-made sandwiches. Towels. A stack of single sheets and a couple of blankets. Toilet paper. Garbage bags. Battery acid.
I have already unloaded my shopping cart before I realize—too late!—that the person in line in front of me is none other than L.A. news reporter Curtis Diamond. His purchases look exactly right for the situation: toothpaste, a three-pack of men’s briefs, a six-pack of Gatorade, and a couple of chocolate bars: nice quality, I notice. Probably the best they have. It’s obviously the purchases of someone who is going to be away from home longer than expected. As I take note of what he is buying, I also consider how what I am buying will look. I think to start packing my purchases back into the cart and heading to another register—or even just abandoning the stuff I’d accumulated and starting again—but before I can organize my thoughts enough to get in motion, he looks over at me. Any hope I have of him having forgotten me is banished instantly.
“Oh, hullo!” he says in a loud and friendly voice. “Written any good books lately?”
“Oh, yuh. Heh, heh,” I say, aiming to sound just as cordial. Likely failing miserably.
I see him move his open smile from my face to my waiting purchases and I cringe inwardly. He takes in the huge vodka. The piles of sheets. The battery acid. The giant bottle of ibuprofen. Garbage bags. His eyes rove on.
“Looks like you’re heading to an interesting party,” he says in a tone that’s intended to be light, like he’s making a joke, but that I can tell is covering up genuine curiosity. And maybe something more than that.
I search my brain but there’s just no good explanation for what I’ve got there. So I decide not to try.
“You don’t wanna know,” I say honestly, but also finally. He can tell I’m not going to say any more, and so maybe he’s curious? But he decides not to press. He has a pretty good idea I’m not going to say.
He makes his purchases but turns again to me before he heads out the door.
“Remember what I said yesterday: call me any time.” He lets his eyes roll back to my purchases, now beginning to be rung in. “I figure you’ve got a story for me.”
I nod and wave while I wish him away.
After that, the sailing is clear. I finish buying my load of crap, then I drag it all out to the RV, pack up, then head on my way.
When I get on the road, it’s a funny adjustment, driving something so big. I’ve never done it before. I underestimate how wide I am and nearly wipe out the pumps when I stop to fill up. But then I kind of get the hang of it. The sheer size of the thing. The sway on the road and the way every little breeze seems telegraphed from outside the vehicle right into my hands on the wheel.
After a while, I settle in. It’s sort of like driving a watermelon. And while it’s kind of exhausting and I wouldn’t want to have to do it for long, I know I’ll manage easily with the relatively short distance ahead of me.
I wonder, briefly, if Atwater will be as I left him. Then I chide myself: it seems to me virtually impossible that he won’t be. Unless some animal has killed him, which I wouldn’t count as a loss at all.
The road ahead. That’s all there is. What else does anyone need?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
AT THE PARK, I pull the RV into the spot I’d selected, aware that the sheer bulk of the vehicle will hide the place where I dumped Atwater from any kind of casual view. And the spot is well sheltered from a distance by trees and bushes. And it is dark. It has been more than ten hours since I left him and I have mixed feelings about what I might find. Will he still be breathing? Do I even really care? Sure, I have a plan and I’m fairly certain I have the fortitude to pull it off. But is it the right course, really? Or am I, at some strange level, playing the part of an exceedingly cruel god?
I ignore those voices and push on. I am aware it is a chance I have to take.
He is awake when I pull the tarp off him. His eyes fix mine with a blend of fear and loathing.
I can smell piss and shit and feel heat roll off him—the fever of infection. There is drool and maybe a bit of puke at the edge of the binding I used on his mouth and his eyes have a kind of yellowish tinge. When I pull the tarp back, he regards me with the wary expression of a cornered dog. I take care to stay clear of his teeth.
I pull the Bersa out of my bag and take some small pleasure when his eyes widen at its appearance. Good. It means he still cares about staying alive. Which means I still have a chance to do what I intend.
I pull the gag out of his mouth carefully. The last thing I want is a bite, and I keep that cornered dog image firmly in my mind. It is not inaccurate. A dangerous dog. He’s probably been that his whole adult life. Or longer.
“Bitch,” he spits when he can. But the voice and the energy are weak. He’s cursing me, but he’s on autopilot.
“Now,
now, William,” I say. “You’d better be nice to me. I’m the one with food and water.”
“What makes you think I give a fuck about your food and water?”
“You’d rather die.” It’s not a question.
“This is bullshit. You can’t keep me here like this. I know my rights.”
I laugh. The kind of laugh that feels good because it is so honest and pure. He looks at me like I’m crazy, but I see the fear grow in his eyes. It feels good to be on the receiving end of that look. It is the best gift he could give me. And in that moment, he is not wrong: I am crazy and fear is his best response.
“Your rights? You think that’s the conversation? Do I look like a cop, William?”
“I guess you kinda do, yeah.”
I reflect briefly. He’s right, of course. I probably do. But still.
“I am not.”
“What do you want with me?” There is a helplessness in his tone. Something childlike. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. Plus, I don’t really have a fully formed answer. Not yet.
“You’re lying there in your own shit. I’m going to cut you loose and get you cleaned up. We’ll talk later.”
He doesn’t say anything. He just looks up at me from under hooded eyes. I’m not sure what to say either, so I get down to business.
“I’m going to toss you the knife,” I say. “You’re going to cut yourself loose, then let the knife fall. Make any funny moves, and I will drop you right where you are. The reason you are still alive has nothing to do with any reluctance on my part to kill you. Are you clear on that?”
He nods yes, but I can tell he doesn’t fully believe. I decide to move forward with my plan anyway. His opinion is not high on my list of priorities.
He cuts himself loose, tosses the knife where I’ve indicated, then stands in front of me, shoulders slumped, hands at his sides, waiting. He seems beaten. For now. It surprises me that I have no feeling about that, one way or the other.
“Strip,” I say.
He hesitates.
“Trust me,” I say, “this is not for my pleasure. You smell like shit and piss. We need to get you cleaned up. Throw your clothes into the bushes, over there.”
“But I got no other clothes.” His voice is weak, and with the edge of a whine to it, he sounds like a child who has almost been pushed too far.
“Don’t worry about it for now. I’ve seen a naked man before. I’m not expecting you’ll offer up any surprises.”
“I’m thirsty.” It is a snivel. A better person would feel badly about how good that makes them feel. I don’t go there. It just seems better not to.
“Yuh. I guess you would be thirsty by now.” And I’ve anticipated this and am ready. I toss him a plastic bottle of water. “This should help.”
He opens the bottle, dropping the cap to the ground, then turns it up to his face so quickly, a third of the water splashes down his front uselessly. It is like watching a dog drink, if dogs had opposable thumbs. But watching him I think that a dog would be more efficient.
“You’re going to take a shower.” I hook a thumb at the RV behind me. “And don’t get any ideas. I rigged a camera in there. I’m going to watch you.”
“But my rights …” he says again, though he sounds less sure this time. I can see that he is wondering if, just maybe, he might not get any rights, after all.
“You don’t have rights, asshole.” My voice is flat. I don’t recognize it. “Not out here. The only ones you’ll have are the ones I’ll give you. Now go shower up.” I use the muzzle of the Bersa to point the way, feeling tougher than I intended. And also feeling less so.
I’ve left a bar of soap for him in the tiny bathroom, a towel and a couple of sheets, and, as I told him, I rigged a small camera in there, as well. I managed to hide the camera neatly in the molding and I am proud of my work. Unless he really goes hunting for it, he is unlikely to see it at all.
He does as I directed. I’d been counting on him being hungry enough and in so much pain that he wouldn’t put up much of a fight. That had been part of my plan, as well. Because a real fight between us with him at full strength would see me losing handily, and that’s not conjecture. So I don’t take any chances, and I use every advantage I have.
When he emerges from the bathroom, his skin is pink and rosy and he’s fashioned one of the sheets around himself into a sort of crude toga. It will do.
The injured shoulder is open to the air and I can see the beginning of an angry infection there. I have to work quickly. I don’t need to be a doctor to tell me that, without care and antibiotics, Atwater won’t be much good to me or anyone after a couple more days.
I am standing at the front of the RV and toss him one of the Walmart sandwiches, indicating he should sit at the table. He snatches the ham-on-rye out of the air and barely takes the time to pull the plastic off before wolfing it hungrily. I am glad that he is well enough that he still feels like eating.
I keep my distance, the gun in one hand, and I’m starting to realize the magnitude of the task I’ve taken on. It dawns on me that it is possible that watching him could be a full-time gig for a few days. I have acted on impulse and, to a certain degree, on instinct. And now I am fully committed, but at what price? And where does this road lead?
I give him time to eat the sandwich and drink a couple of bottles of water before I get down to business.
“There’s pen and paper just to your right there,” I say. “See it?”
He nods.
“I’ve got a list of missing children here. We’re going to go through this list together. You’re going to tell me about those missing kids and where they are. Or use the paper to write things up if it helps the process.”
He looks at me with an expression so incredulous it shifts towards the comical. I want to knock the look off his sick, smiling mug. I want that so badly I can taste it. So badly it makes me question my own wellness, but only for a beat.
“Why would I do that?” It comes out over a sneer. Like a teenager questioning bedtime, but even less endearing.
It is a valid question, though. I’ve thought that part through and am ready with an answer.
“Because I’m going to hurt you, William. If you don’t tell me. I’m going to hurt you in ways you can’t even imagine.” I drop my voice to a whisper. I can see him strain to hear me. “The things you did to those kids? Those things will pale in comparison to the hurt I’m going to rain on you.”
He shrugs. He doesn’t care. I have ways to make him care, but I know instinctively that’s not the place to start. So instead, I ignore the shrug. I ignore the insult implied by his carelessness. I ignore it and begin as though he hasn’t responded at all.
“Kandra Smithe,” I say, reading from the top of my list.
“The name doesn’t mean anything to me,” he says right away. He’s looking in the other direction and his voice is flat. Distant. I can’t determine anything from the tone.
I look at him. I’d put her at the top of the list because, of the kids that are still unaccounted for, little Kandra had been the one with the strongest clear connection to Atwater. She was four when she disappeared three years ago. The daughter of one of Atwater’s former babysitters, the little girl and her mother had lived down the block from him in a trailer at the back of a neighbor’s property. There had been lots of clean lines between Atwater and the missing girl. And her body had never been recovered. But I look at his face now. There is nothing. It’s like looking down an empty well.
“I don’t believe you.”
He shrugs.
“Maybe you don’t get how this is going to go.” I am containing a column of rage. I feel as though I am doing it admirably. I don’t think anyone would be able to tell what I’m holding back. Or maybe they would, but I know it doesn’t matter. Not now.
When he speaks, I can see he has missed the rage in me. Or he does not understand yet that it is going to make a difference to his future. He is used to being impervious. In ch
arge. He is used to choosing his victims in a way that leaves him in complete control. He is not in control now, but he doesn’t know it yet, not completely. I can tell from his body language and his face. He doesn’t yet fully understand. His next words solidify that idea.
“How is it you think you can tell me how to be, what to say?” There is an arrogance in his tone. A self-righteousness. Clearly, in this scenario, he is the injured party.
He is feeling more comfortable now than he was a while ago. He has been recently fed. His most basic needs have been seen to, though I figure by now his shoulder is giving him hell. Still, everything is relative. He feels clean, not hungry, not thirsty. He is no longer under a tarp in his own shit. He no longer feels as vulnerable as he did then. What could possibly go wrong?
He settles more comfortably into the narrow bench seat at the RV’s dining table and shoots a belligerent grin in my direction. Whatever else is happening, he figures he is in control.
I hold onto my quiet rage. Fan it a bit. Focus my energy. Ask again.
“Kandra Smithe. Please.”
He smirks and then I’ve had enough.
“Don’t be an asshole,” I say. My voice surprises me. It is low, close to the bone. There is a growl in it. It’s not like my voice at all, and he looks at me like he is taking my measure. I don’t know what he sees.
“What kind of stick do you have?” The words surprise me.
“Excuse me?”
“Like with a pony,” he says. There is a taunt in his voice. “To move him forward. Maybe you hit him with a stick. The way you’re talking, I guess you figure you’ve got one. What’s the stick you reckon you can hit me with? What’s the stick you think you’ll use on me?” And he is confident. I can hear that, too. He can’t imagine a stick exists that will work on him. He is confident, also, that he is a superior creature. A superior pony. Superior to me in every way.
I don’t answer his question off the hop. He has surprised me. I think for a little bit before I answer.
“A stick. I don’t need one. You tried to guess before what I do for a living. But you guessed wrong. No social work. And I’m no cop. I kill people. That’s my job.”
Endings Page 13
