Racing the Devil

by Jaden Terrell

  He nodded. “I get what you’re saying.” He gestured toward a small black machine that sat to the right of the mixing board. “See this bar? You can see the shape of the music—or whatever—on it. A wide splash represents something loud. Getting smaller means diminishing sound. Once it’s in SADIE, you can take sounds out, put them in, change the pitch speed, which raises or lowers the pitch. So you could do what you were talking about. Mix and match to make a different message.”

  “Any way to figure that out? If that’s been done?”

  “The FBI could probably do it.”

  “If I called you on the phone and recorded your voice, would that give me a good enough recording?”

  “Mmmm. It might be. But the quality might not be so hot. It would be better if you had some kind of recorder on the phone. If you got my voice on an answering machine, it might do.”

  Or if I had a recording device in your receiver.

  “Sonny Vanderhaus,” I said. “He’s pretty good at this stuff?”

  A smile flashed beneath his beard. “Man, Sonny is an absolute genius. Tapes, video, CD’s, Photoshop. He’s multimedia.”

  “He DJ’s too?”

  “Yeah. He does a live show three nights a week on WCNE. Same guy runs it who does AudioStyle. They broadcast out of here; the station’s just down the hall. ‘Raising Caine’ is their slogan. Cutting edge stuff.”

  “But the Sunday show . . .”

  “WPRZ. PRZ for Praise. Sonny isn’t really into all that stuff. He’s more into alternative rock, shock rock, industrial. But the church gig pays okay, and his girlfriend sings there sometimes.”

  “Anybody else here when he does the show?”

  “Not usually. Why?”

  “Just wondered.” I was beginning to see how Sonny might be in two places at one time. “The live show. Is it music? Call-in? What?”

  “Music, jokes, discussion. Whatever Sonny feels like doing.”

  So he could have pre-taped his “live” show and left the studio without anybody knowing. The perfect alibi.

  I thanked Kerry for his help and left. I had no doubt Sonny would hear that I had been there, but that didn’t matter. Let him worry. It might make him careless.

  FOR SOME REASON, ASHLEIGH SEEMED less than delighted to hear from me. “This is not exactly a good time . . .”

  I cut her off. “What did you do with the tapes? The ones you got off my phone?”

  “I . . . What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I saw you take the device out of the receiver.”

  She was silent.

  “Come on,” I said. “What did you do with them?”

  “Are you recording this?” she asked. “Is that what this is about?”

  “Am I . . . Oh, for Christ’s sake, Ashleigh. If I was going to nail you for this, I would have done it a year ago.”

  “Then I don’t see what this has to do with anything.”

  “And you won’t, unless you tell me what you did with the tapes. Did you destroy them? Please, tell me you destroyed them.”

  “No.” Her voice was thin and breathless, as though the air were being squeezed from her lungs.

  “Did you give them to someone?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “So you still have them?”

  “Jared . . .”

  “Ashleigh.” I could hear annoyance and exhaustion in my voice. “Go and see if the tapes are where you left them.”

  She heaved a deep sigh. “If it will make you happy, all right. Hold on.”

  She was gone a long time. Too long. I heard her breathing on the line for some time before she actually spoke. “They’re gone.”

  I almost felt sorry for her, wondering where the tapes had gone, wondering who might hear them. It could mean the end of her career. It could mean federal prosecution. Nothing good could come of this for her, and she knew it.

  “Did you take them?” she asked.

  “No. Tell me, were they labeled?”

  “Just with your first name.”

  “Ever met a guy named Sonny Vanderhaus?”

  Silence.

  “Ashleigh.”

  “He’s in radio. He interviewed me once, for that show he has.” “And did you tell him about the tapes?”

  “Not on air.”

  “Of course, not on air.” I wanted to add a few choice epithets, but somehow I managed to stay calm. “Did you tell him about them, ever?”

  Her voice sounded like someone was pinching off her air supply. “We went out after the show. He’s a really charming guy. And very cute.”

  “You went out after the show. And then?”

  “Well, we went back to my place. And we drank a little wine. And we got to talking about the worst things we’d ever done. He’d been arrested once, for joyriding.”

  Yeah, I thought. Among other things.

  She went on. “But that wasn’t the worst thing. He said the worst thing was, he once dated a woman just because she had some money, and she was going to back his show. And I said the worst thing I’d ever done was tap your phone.”

  “And did you tell him where to find the tapes?”

  “No. I just said I’d kept them. You don’t think he would have stolen them? How could he have gotten in?”

  “That break-in you had a few months ago. Your buddy, Sonny, has some experience with breaking and entering.”

  “But why—”

  “Any chance you told him about the combination to my glove compartment?”

  When she finally answered, her voice was small. “I thought it was funny, that’s all. That you know your horse’s birthday.”

  “Yeah. Real funny. Here’s a word of advice, sweetheart. Next time you tap someone’s phone, remember to destroy the evidence.”

  RUVEN TOMEY REACHED ACROSS the table at the International House of Pancakes and plucked a crisp slice of bacon from my plate.

  “Sonny Vanderhaus,” he said, thoughtfully. He stuffed the whole slice into his mouth and talked around it. “Yeah, I ‘member him.”

  Ruven was a guard at DeBerry Correctional Facility, where Walter Christy and Sonny Vanderhaus had served time. An amiable giant, Ruven not only knew every convict in the place by name, but also each one’s favorite foods and what he’d wanted to be when he grew up.

  “You remember anything about him?”

  “Uh huh.” He picked up a pitcher of warm maple syrup and drenched his pancakes with it. “He was real, real smart. Had a rough time, though.”

  “How so?”

  “Too good lookin’. From the first day, he was everybody’s punk. Up until ol’ Christy made up to him.”

  “Walter Christy?” I tried to keep my voice steady.

  “Uh huh. That’s the one.” Ruven shoveled a dripping hunk of pancake into his mouth and chomped. “They wasn’t supposed to be in the general pop, but you know how that goes.”

  Sure I did. ‘Accidents’ happen. ‘Mistakes’ are made. Just like the one Hal Meacham had made when he shoved me into a cell with the likes of Breem and LeQuintus. “Christy and Vanderhaus were friends?”

  He wiped at his mouth with one huge paw. “Sure was.”

  “How’d that happen?”

  “I’m tellin’ you how it happened. Sonny got a craw full, finally. Some asshole or another goin’ at him all the time. One day in the laundry room, one of the cons tried to get Sonny off by hisself. Sonny blew a gasket. Big ol’ fight broke out.”

  “Walter was there?”

  “That’s right. And Walter’d had hisself a hard time with some of these shitheads too.” He scooped a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth and washed it down with a long swallow of orange juice. “He was standin’ by the steam iron, and when one of these guys came by, Walter tripped him up and shut his head in the press. Lordy, you shoulda seen it. Christy holding the lid to the iron down, and that guy—name of Bulldog Landry—kickin’ and squealin’. They had to pull Christy off the iron, and when they finally got
him off, Bulldog didn’t hardly have no face left.”

  “Jesus.”

  He flashed a smile that rounded his cheeks and made the skin around his eyes bunch. “That’s ezzackly right. Nobody messed with Walter after that, and Sonny was right up under Walter’s wing. So nobody messed with him any more either.”

  “Were they lovers?”

  “Well, Sonny was into women and Christy was into little girls, but you know how it is in prison.” “So they might have been.”

  “Be surprised if they wasn’t.” His plate empty, he gestured toward mine.

  I pushed it toward him. “You think they were tight enough to keep it going after prison.”

  “Oh, definitely, man.” He bobbed his massive head and stuffed another piece of bacon into his mouth. “Ol’ Christy used to say Sonny was the son he never had. Then, when Sonny got out, he’d come back to visit Christy. Guess that father-son thing went both ways. I bet Sonny flipped a lid when Christy blew his-self to kingdom come.”

  “THERE’S DEFINITELY A LINK between them.” I held the cell phone to my ear and eased onto Old Hickory Boulevard.

  “Forget Walter,” Frank said. “He’s not your guy.”

  “You’re sure about that.”

  “Just got your prints back. One set of prints we figure belong to the wife. No record on her. Another set belongs to one Eddie Krutcher. Two-bit scam artist. This whole Church of the Reclamation thing is just a big racket.”

  “Pay your money and sin to your heart’s content.” I was no paragon of Christian virtue myself, but the idea rankled.

  “That’s about the size of it. There are warrants out for him in three states. We’ve got a car out after him now. So get this Walter-obsession out of your head.”

  “What about Sonny’s connection to Walter? What about the photographs? That’s Walter’s trademark.”

  “He’s not the only child molester with a fetish for white panties.”

  All right. I was willing to concede that Avery wasn’t Walter. That Walter really had died in that car crash, and that maybe Sonny had taken up with Avery because of his resemblance to Walter. But what if Sonny really had cracked up when his father figure died? What if he was going after everybody he thought had betrayed Walter? What if he’d been sleeping with Valerie to get close to her family?

  I punched the gas, and the van bucked forward. At this time of day, I’d be lucky to make it in an hour.

  When I finally arrived, the custom Corvette was in the drive. A quick glance into the Corvette told me the interior was gray, and a search of the barn told me Sonny and Valerie were probably in the house. But what if I’d read the situation wrong? What if I went barging in only to find them in flagrante delicto? I shook my head to clear away the fog. Was I acting out of concern or jealousy?

  I took a deep breath and ticked off the evidence. Sonny had been close to Walter. He had a history of breaking and entering. He knew about Ashleigh’s tapes and had the skills to obtain and use them. He’d been involved in child porn and knew how to doctor photos. He was blond and drove a red Corvette, the interior of which was gray.

  It may have been circumstantial, but it was an impressive list. And that meant that, sooner or later, Valerie would be in danger.

  I didn’t want to startle him, so I crept to the mud room door.

  Listened.

  Nothing.

  Almost every cop knows how to pick a lock. It isn’t a skill we use often, but it’s something we all learn. Gotta know how the bad guys do the things they do. As locks went, Valerie’s was no pushover, but it wasn’t all that tough. It took me maybe three minutes—three minutes of sweating and praying nobody drove up to the barn—before the tumblers clicked. I eased the door open and listened again.

  When I was sure they weren’t in the next room, I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.

  The living room was as I remembered it, nothing out of place, no sign of a struggle. The tan carpet and cream-colored living room set gave the room a sandy feel, broken by the Navajo blanket thrown over the back of the couch. One wall was devoted to Valerie’s trophies, some for riding, some for singing, a few for local beauty pageants.

  They were from a long time ago.

  Three wooden tack trunks lined the floor in front of the display, prizes for High Point Champion in Shelbyville’s Festival of Horses. A silver-studded show saddle straddled one of the trunks.

  A set of car keys on a Grateful Dead key chain lay on the coffee table. They weren’t Valerie’s.

  Cautiously, I made my way down the hall, opening each door a crack to make sure no one was inside. The silence bothered me, reminded me too much of the stillness at the Hartwell house.

  She’s all right. My heartbeat pounded in my ears. He isn’t going to hurt her. Not yet.

  No one was in the bathroom, no one in the linen closet. I tried the door that had been locked before, and this time it swung open. Photographs and clippings lined the walls.

  I moved in for a better look. Candid photographs of me—Lou’s surveillance shots?—were splashed between newspaper clippings from Walter’s trial and three-by-five photos of Walter, his wife and two little girls with haunted eyes. A graduation photograph of Amy with the eyes gouged out. One headline had been copied multiple times and pinned up throughout the rest of the display: CHILD MOLESTER DIES IN FIERY CRASH.

  Valerie’s voice broke into my thoughts. “He was my father,” she said. “And you killed him.”

  I was dumbfounded. Turning to look at her, I found myself staring down the barrel of a pistol.

  Everything clicked into place. The book on incest. The history of promiscuity. Ms. Birdie saying, those girls didn’t have much of a father figure. Ben Carrington’s suspicions that Amy had been abused by her father. Two women stumbling across a parking lot.

  Or one woman stumbling under the weight of another, drugged out of her head? It suddenly made sense that Amy hadn’t mentioned her affair with the phantom Jared McKean to Birdie or to Ben. There had never been one.

  And Dakota’s colic? Had Valerie dosed him with milkweed and gotten Sonny to doctor the tapes?

  The gun in her hand trembled, but I didn’t think that meant she wouldn’t shoot me. If anything, it meant the opposite.

  “He killed himself,” I said.

  “Because of you.”

  “Because he was a monster.”

  Her mouth worked. “He never hurt anyone. He was gentle and kind and had a beautiful spirit.”

  “He told little girls that if they didn’t jerk him off, he’d get cancer and die.”

  “You just don’t understand.”

  “I get that a lot,” I said.

  “You ruined my life.”

  “Okay, I get it. You’re pissed at me. But why kill Amy?”

  “Figure it out, smart guy.”

  “Because she testified?”

  “Among other things.” She stepped back and gestured toward the living room with the gun. It looked like a Glock, a little smaller than the one police had confiscated from my truck, but plenty big enough to punch a hole in me. “Let’s go someplace more comfortable, shall we, lover?”

  I led the way, and Sonny came out of the bedroom and stood behind her. She handed him the Glock. “You hold this one. I’ll get his.” She reached around me and unsnapped the holster, slid the Colt free.

  “You kill your mother, too?” I asked.

  “Mother was an accident. I didn’t even have to do anything. Just watch her die.”

  “You mean, let her die.” I glanced around the room for something I could use as a weapon. A lamp. A trophy. Maybe a sofa cushion. “Quite a body count you’ve got going. Amy, your mother, Heather. I mean, Hope.”

  “Whores die every day,” she said. “Nobody cares.”

  “I get that. And I get Amy. But why Calvin and the girls? You still pissed because he dumped you?”

  Her eyes narrowed into slits. “I would have had him crawling to me on his belly. But that little bitch, Ta
ra, answered the phone that night. Couldn’t keep her mouth shut.” She rolled her eyes and added in a child’s voice, “ ‘Oooh, Aunt Valerie, why did mommy go to see you?’ Cal started asking questions. So . . .” She shrugged. “I wish it hadn’t happened.”

  “Made things messy, did it?”

  “Well, it definitely muddied the waters. It was too hard to pin that one on you. But I’m flexible. I wanted you to suffer through everything my father went through, but I guess I’ll just have to kill you instead.”

  Behind her, Sonny nodded.

  Valerie went on. “Of course, it will be self-defense. You killed my sister, and now you’ve come to murder me. You’ll shoot at me, but in your chaotic mental state, you’ll miss. My boyfriend will have no choice but to shoot you. It’s all terribly traumatic.”

  I cocked an eyebrow and tried to stay cool. “What am I supposed to have shot at you with? You know a nitric acid swab will prove I haven’t fired a weapon.”

  “I’m sure Sonny will figure out something.”

  “Like he did with Cal?”

  “Cal shot himself.”

  “I know. But you were holding his children hostage. You don’t have mine. Did you tell Cal you’d let the girls go if he pulled the trigger? Did you tell him you’d take care of them?”

  “Shut up,” Sonny said. “You don’t know anything.”

  I swung my attention his way. “It’s not just about Walter for you, is it? It’s about Valerie. I had her, you know that? She jumped me in the laundry room, and we fucked like rabbits.”

  His face blanched. “Shut up,” he said again.

  Valerie rolled her eyes. “Oh, just kill him,” she said to Sonny, and turned away.

  I didn’t wait for him to pull the trigger. A man can’t outrun a bullet, but sometimes he can outmaneuver another man. I ducked and threw out my left leg in a hook kick that knocked the Glock from his hand just as it discharged. It flew across the room and bounced off the curtained window and onto the floor.

  Valerie jerked the Colt around, and I dived for the Glock.

  Time seemed both to slow down and to speed up at the same time. I heard three sharp cracks, a strangled cry, a stream of curses that might have been mine.

  My hand closed on the Glock, and I rolled to my feet and pointed the gun at Valerie’s head.