Client On The Run (A Nick Teffinger Thriller)

by R. J. Jagger

  She cranked it up and sang along.

  The ache in her head softened.

  93

  D alton was just about to walk over to Teffinger’s room and kill him when his cell phone rang. He checked the incoming number, saw it belonged to Samantha Dent, and decided he’d better answer.

  “Oh my God,” she said, “have you been watching the news?”

  He hadn’t.

  “They found G-Drop’s body,” she said. “It’s all over CNN.”

  Dalton’s stomach clenched.

  His equilibrium tipped.

  How could they have possibly found him?

  “Don’t panic,” he said. “They can’t trace anything to us.”

  “You don’t know that!” she said. “Who knows what kinds of fibers and DNA they’re going to turn up—”

  “Just stay calm. It’s actually sort of good in a way, because now that they found him the whole thing will blow over in a couple of days. By Monday morning he’ll be history.”

  “He’ll be history on the news, but not in the police station,” she said. “I’m getting out of town. I’m going to drop down so deep that no one will find me in a million years.”

  Dalton chewed on it.

  Actually it wasn’t a bad idea.

  Maybe he ought to do the same.

  Right now.

  This minute.

  “That’s not a bad plan,” he said. “Don’t ever tell anything to anyone, not even ten years from now.”

  “I won’t. You too,” she said.

  “Never,” he said. “I swear.”

  “I swear too.”

  The line went dead.

  The wind rattled the windows. The sound of an engine emerged above it. When Dalton pulled the curtain back and looked, Teffinger was driving off.

  He sat down.

  His brain cells were focused on DNA and fibers and Samantha Dent running for her life.

  After Jessie-Rae came out of the bathroom, Norma Jean made her lie face down on the bed and injected her in the ass with a syringe. After she passed out, she dressed her. Dalton made sure no one was around, opened the car trunk, carried the woman out the front door and dumped her in.

  She was exposed to view for three seconds or less.

  No one appeared during those three seconds.

  They left her purse and suitcase in the room and got the hell out of there.

  They hooked up with James Madden who led them deep into the cavity of an old building, in an underground room that smelled like wet rocks. The New Orleans humidity hung thick and oppressive.

  The air didn’t move.

  The quietness was absolute.

  Cave-like, almost.

  Not a sound from above could force its way this deep.

  They laid Jessie-Rae’s unconscious body on a mattress, tied her hands behind her back and closed the door on the way out, sealing her in darkness.

  They locked the door.

  Walking up the stone steps, Madden said, “This is sort of befitting. That’s the room where Teffinger got the death curse put on him.”

  94

  T he wind got even more fierce and then the rain came—thick, horizontal and almost opaque. Even with the windshield wipers on high, Teffinger could hardly see. When his phone rang, he didn’t need the distraction and almost didn’t answer, but was glad he did because Maggie Bender said, “We got a BOLO hit on Jessie-Rae’s car.”

  “Where?”

  “The Cajun Blue Hotel.”

  “Did you say the Cajun Blue?”

  She did.

  “That’s where I’m staying,” he said.

  “Meet me there.”

  He sped, dangerously close to hydroplaning, hoping against hope that Jessie-Rae had mysteriously appeared from out of nowhere and was waiting for him in his room. If that was the case, he was going to put her in his car and drive both of them straight to Denver. When he pulled up, though, all the action was in Room 120, two doors down from his.

  Detective Maggie Bender turned out to be as he pictured her.

  Black.

  Fifty.

  In good enough shape to still have a spring in her step.

  He liked her immediately and gave her a hug to prove it, but then got sidetracked by a dead rooster lying on the floor. Its head and feet were cut off. A bowl of blood sat on the nightstand. Ropes were attached to the four corners of the bed; they had been cut.

  A black thong hung on a lampshade.

  A suitcase and purse squatted on the floor in the corner.

  “Those are Jessie-Rae’s,” Teffinger told Bender.

  “I know,” she said. “According to the front desk, she checked in last night, paying cash. Why didn’t she stay with you?”

  Teffinger raked his hair back with his fingers.

  It immediately flopped back down over his face.

  Then he slumped into a cheap vinyl chair.

  “Because I was trying to get her to go back to Denver,” he said. “She must have checked in here to watch my back. Tell me about the rooster blood. I’m so far out of my league with all this occult stuff that it isn’t even funny.”

  She told him.

  Namely, according to her best guess, Jessie-Rae had been tied down and painted with blood.

  Cursed.

  They processed the scene as thoroughly as if it was a homicide. The $50,000 cash that Jessie-Rae got from her credit cards was nowhere to be found.

  Her phone was in her purse.

  Turned off.

  “So is she still alive? Or did they just decide to dump her body after they had their fun?” he asked. “How do these curses work?”

  Bender frowned.

  “Good question.”

  The rain pounded against the building with a vengeance. Suddenly the room was too small and Teffinger couldn’t breathe. He headed for the door.

  “Where you going?” Maggie asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  He got in his car and spun the tires.

  The vehicle lunged into the storm.

  He couldn’t shake the image of Jessie-Rae being tied down and painted with blood; probably while he was sleeping peacefully two doors down.

  Not having a clue.

  95

  D akota called Yardley mid-afternoon in tears. “You’re not even going to believe it,” she said. “Adam Osborne summoned me to his office a half hour ago. He closed the door and said my services were no longer required at the firm.”

  “He fired you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “He didn’t give a reason.”

  “Un-freaking-believable.”

  “I’m already on the street,” she said. “I mean literally—I’m talking to you from the 16th Street Mall. He took me back to my office, let me get my purse and personal things, and escorted me to the elevator. He said HR would contact me this afternoon to go over health insurance coverage and stuff like that, but I was officially discharged starting immediately. He even took my keycard and laptop.”

  “The bastard.”

  “What do I do?”

  “For right now, stay calm, go home and don’t talk to anyone about it,” Yardley said. “I want to be sure you don’t say anything that they could later allege to be slanderous.”

  “We need to sue them.”

  “We will,” Yardley said. “This is retaliation, pure and simple.”

  “I need to get drunk so bad my teeth hurt.”

  Yardley paused, and then said, “Come out to the marina tonight about seven or eight. We’ll get drunk and you can spend the night.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No problem.”

  “I mean it, thank you so much.”

  “Don’t thank me too much, I feel partly responsible for what happened. If I had been a better lawyer, I would have shut you down right away and told you to just concentrate on not making waves.”

  Dakota chuckled.

  “Do you think that would have worked?�
�

  She called big rick at Physical Graffiti Tattoo and asked, “Any luck?”

  The attractive-in-a-scary-way man moaned.

  “Nothing,” he said. “I’ve been through all the receipts I could find, which weren’t many. It’s not our policy to give ’em out unless someone asks. If you ever find out who he is, tell me instead of the cops,” he said. “I want to introduce him to a few of my power tools.”

  She mumbled thanks and slumped back on the cushions.

  Another dead end.

  The boat rocked, meaning someone had stepped on deck. Coyote climbed down into the cabin and said, “You don’t look so good.”

  “I was hoping to be able to feed you Robert’s last name today,” she said.

  “And?”

  “And it isn’t going to happen.” She exhaled and added, “I have a friend coming over tonight to get drunk. You want to join us?”

  She did.

  She did indeed.

  96

  D alton drove Norma Jean through the storm until they found a public phone with no surveillance cameras. The woman called Teffinger and said, “Do you want your woman to live?”

  A pause.

  “Just let her go,” Teffinger said. “She has nothing to do with anything.”

  “Sure, no problem, we’ll let her go,” Norma Jean said. “In return, we’d like you to do a little something for us, to show your appreciation.”

  Silence.

  “Like what?”

  “Do you remember that road you were on this afternoon? The one out in the county that you turned right on, hoping the blue car behind you would follow?”

  “I remember.”

  “Go there at eleven o’clock tonight,” she said. “Take your seatbelt off. Then get your car up to a hundred and run it head on into a telephone pole. Once we confirm that you’ve done it, and that you’re dead, we’ll let the woman go.”

  “You got to be nuts.”

  “If you don’t do it, then we’ll kill your little friend at 11:05. You’ll be next, at some point down the road, except it won’t be anywhere near as fast and clean as what we’re offering now. It’s your choice. And you only get one chance to make it.”

  The woman hung up.

  She looked at Dalton and said, “Let’s get out of here.”

  When they got back to the French Quarter, where the sidewalks were eerily devoid of humans, Dalton fought his way through the storm to the river, to watch the whitecaps and feel the earth shake. The rain pelted him but he didn’t care. It was warm. He hugged a concrete ledge, nestled in and pushed drenched hair out of his face.

  The river was empty except for the turbulence and spray.

  The sky was wild.

  He liked it.

  It made him feel alive.

  He needed to decide whether to get out of the voodoo business. It was hard to believe that it had been five years since James Madden recruited him. In that time, the voodoo priestess, Ida Wrisp, had put thirty-three death curses on people. In each case, the person requesting the curse had been personally screened by James Madden and had not been allowed personal contact with the priestess. And in each instance, the person placing the curse delivered a healthy fee to James Madden—typically $100,000 to $200,000. Ida Wrisp, bless her naive little heart, knew that fees were paid, but had no clue how much. Madden gave her enough money to be able to live in her strange little world without worry.

  That’s all she wanted.

  That’s all she needed.

  The rest of the money got split between Madden and the three finishers—Dalton, the pirate and Norma Jean—who made the death curses come true.

  Dalton did seven of them.

  The pirate did nine and Norma Jean did the rest.

  Madden hadn’t done any in the last five years. But before that, he was a one-man show, reportedly responsible for making several years worth of curses come true.

  Ida Wrisp didn’t know that she got help.

  The woman actually thought she cast real magic. So did the people who came to her. As far as they were concerned, when the woman put a death curse on someone, that person died. If the curse didn’t work, the money was refundable.

  Of the thirty-three people cursed in the last five years, thirty-one were dead. The Starbucks cashier in South Beach—Jesse Montgomery—would be thirty-two.

  Teffinger would be thirty-three.

  At that point, Ida Wrisp’s success rate would be a hundred percent.

  Dalton had been at it a long time.

  Time wasn’t on your side in a business like this.

  And then there was this whole fiasco with the pirate getting tattoos from women several years ago and now killing them in the same manner. How or why the pirate came up with such a bizarre scenario still baffled Dalton. One thing he did know, however, is that the pirate was passionate about it. He couldn’t stop talking for two weeks about how he put a bullet in the back of Andrea Copperstone’s head.

  Dalton listened with a distant amusement.

  It didn’t really concern him.

  That is, until the pirate decided to do Lindsay Vail, who lived in Denver—Dalton’s town. The pirate wanted to split the work to add an extra safety measure, which was a technique that the two of them had used successfully in two voodoo kills. Under the pirate’s proposition, he would do all the surveillance work on Lindsay Vail and feed the information to Dalton, who would do the actual abduction. Then the pirate would take over and do the kill.

  Dalton was initially hesitant.

  Then the pirate said that he wanted Dalton to give the woman a tattoo—the same tattoo that the woman gave him years ago, and at the same place on the body, namely the stomach.

  The woman was attractive.

  For some reason, the thought of tattooing her abdomen, as some kind of pre-death marking, sparked Dalton’s imagination.

  So he agreed.

  The pirate did the surveillance and then flew to New Orleans to coordinate with James Madden regarding upcoming curses.

  Dalton stayed in Denver and did the abduction.

  That was last Saturday, almost a week ago now.

  Unfortunately, it turned out to be more complicated than he anticipated. Another woman was in Lindsay’s house.

  A woman who ran screaming into the night.

  A woman he had to chase down and stab.

  A woman named Julie Pratt.

  The pirate gave Dalton $50,000 to compensate for the unexpected mess.

  Dalton accepted it and called it even.

  After that, though, he was no longer interested in doing the abduction part of the equation. So when it came to the next woman on the pirate’s to-do list—Dawn Hooker—Dalton agreed to do the surveillance but no more.

  The rest would be up to the pirate.

  Then there was the whole g-Drop mess. Everything had become too complicated. Dalton was never supposed to be this far out on the edge.

  He needed to get all the risk out of his life.

  He needed to downsize his dark side.

  He pushed to his feet, hunched against the storm and began to muscle his way back to James Madden’s place. His mind was made up. Quitting time was here. He’d made his money and had his fun.

  Now it was time to get out and ease fulltime back into the GQ life.

  First, of course, Teffinger needed to die.

  That was more important now than ever.

  After that, Dalton would tell Madden he was through.

  The question would then be whether Madden would let him out or have him killed.

  97

  M inutes passed, then hours. Teffinger came no closer to finding Jessie-Rae. The storm intensified, the daylight transitioned to twilight and the lights of New Orleans started to kick on. He was driving out to the voodoo shop where the snake bit him, mysteriously pulled to it for some reason, when Sydney called and asked, “Are you still alive?”

  Teffinger looked at his watch.

  8:38 p.m.

 
; “Yeah, but don’t ask me at this time tomorrow,” he said.

  “You sound weird.”

  “There’s some stuff going on.”

  “Define stuff.”

  He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to waste time telling her about the phone call from Kristen Starkell since she couldn’t do anything about it one way or the other; but he told her anyway.

  She let him finish and said, “You want to know what I think?”

  “No.”

  “Good, because here it is,” she said. “I think they’re trying to get you to believe that they’re actually going to sit back and do nothing until eleven. In my opinion, it’s nothing more than a scheme to throw you off base and to get your guard down. They’re going to kill you before 10:30, while you’re not watching your back.”

  Teffinger chewed on it and realized something.

  She was probably right.

  “You’re right,” he said.

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Act so surprised when I’m right.”

  He chuckled.

  “Sorry.”

  “So what are you going to do? Try to track down the blue car?”

  He hadn’t thought of that, but she was right again.

  They had inadvertently given him a clue—namely, that they had in fact been following him earlier this afternoon in the blue car, like he suspected. If he retraced his steps, maybe he could find a gas station camera that picked up a license plate number.

  He should have been doing that hours ago.

  “I have to go,” he said.

  “I’m coming down,” she said. “I don’t care what you say.”

  “Forget it,” he said. “The airport’s closed anyway.”

  Silence.

  “Nick, these are going to be some hard words, but I want you to listen to them anyway,” she said. “They’re going to kill Jessie-Rae no matter what you do. You should just get out of there now and save your own life.”

  Teffinger said nothing and hung up.