by Jude Hardin
“What does that mean?” Mr. Dirty said.
“It means Dennis doesn’t have to give them any more money. It means they’re his friends. It also means that Mr. Colt here lucked out.”
Mr. Dirty looked disappointed.
I was lying on my side with my feet at the edge of the tailgate. I mustered enough strength to sit up. My vision was a little blurry, but I could see that there were three other gang members in addition to Fatso and Mr. Dirty. They were standing off to the side smoking a joint.
“I need to get back to Green Cove Springs,” I said. “The man who kidnapped Everett Harbaugh lives in the same house with pretty boy here. His name is Trent Appleton.”
Fatso turned back to Mr. Dirty. “This guy he’s talking about live in your building?”
“I don’t know, boss. I don’t pay any attention to stuff like that.”
“He’s in apartment two-B,” I said. “I saw his name on the mailbox.”
“I reckon we need to give him a visit then,” Fatso said.
This was working out way better than I’d anticipated. Maybe I hadn’t signed Everett’s death warrant with my big mouth after all. Maybe I’d issued his pardon.
I insisted that Fatso drive the truck back to Green Cove Springs. I didn’t want to ride with Mr. Dirty, even if he was supposed to be on my side now. Even after he gave my gun back and apologized and tried to shake my hand. I didn’t want anything to do with him.
I sat up front in the cab this time. The pickup actually leaned to the left when Fatso scooted in behind the steering wheel. For a minute I thought it was going to roll over onto its side. There was a half a pack of Kool Super Longs on the dash. I helped myself to one, used the truck’s lighter to get it going.
I looked around and got my bearings and figured out what side of town we were on. It didn’t make much sense, but I didn’t say anything about it.
“Sorry again about the misunderstanding,” Fatso said. “Sydney gets a little overenthusiastic sometimes.”
“Sydney. That’s his name?”
“Yeah. He’s all right. You’ll see.”
“He knocked one of my teeth loose,” I said.
“I know someone who can fix it for you. Soon as all this is over. OK?”
“I have my own dentist, but thanks. Maybe I’ll just send Mr. Dirty the bill.”
Fatso had said that his name was Sydney, but he would always be Mr. Dirty to me.
And he would always be on my shit list.
“What makes you so sure this Trent Appleton guy has Everett?” Fatso said.
I told him about the research I’d done on the Siblings Boards website. About Stephanie Vowels and Philip Davenport.
“There’s no way that’s a coincidence,” I said. “They both came from the same donor number, and they both died on their twentieth birthday. Everett’s next. There’s no doubt in my mind.”
“Yet the police wouldn’t help you. That’s amazing.”
“Seems that way to me too. They said there was no evidence that a crime had been committed. They’re idiots.”
“I’ve been saying that for years,” Fatso said.
We made it back to the address in Green Cove Springs. My Caprice was parked on the street in front of the house. Everything looked the same, except there was a newspaper on the front steps now. It was dark and quiet. Everyone was still asleep. Fatso steered the pickup into the open slot where it had been parked previously, and Mr. Dirty and the other three hoodlums rolled in a few seconds later. I climbed out of the truck. A dog barked in the distance.
Fatso got out and walked around to where I was standing. Mr. Dirty joined us, while Wynken, Blynken, and Nod stayed by the bikes and passed around another joint.
“What’s the plan?” Fatso said.
“He’s up in two-B,” I said. “I think the three of us should just bust on in there like a SWAT team. Your stoners over there can wait outside in case Appleton gets away from us.”
“How’s he going to get away from us?” Mr. Dirty said. “There’s no back door in these units, and I don’t think he’s going to jump out the window. It’s about a twenty-foot drop.”
“He probably won’t get away, but I like to plan for contingencies. He might have a rope ladder. If I was a kidnapper and a murderer living on the second floor, I would have one. Hell, he might have a bazooka in there for all I know. Or a machine gun. That’s why I want to take him by surprise. I’m hoping he won’t have time to react.”
“There’s safety in numbers,” Mr. Dirty said. “I say we all go up there. All six of us.”
“We’ll do it Colt’s way,” Fatso said. “Grab the shotgun.”
Mr. Dirty shrugged. “All right, boss. Whatever you say.”
He opened the passenger’s side door of the pickup truck, reached behind the seat and pulled out a pump-action shotgun. It was an angry-looking weapon, with a pistol grip and a vented barrel and a ribbed fore stock. For some reason, I doubted that it had ever been used for skeet shooting or hunting.
Mr. Dirty racked a shell into the chamber.
“Let’s do this thing,” he said.
Fatso instructed Wynken, Blynken, and Nod to spread out around the perimeter of the property. They seemed happy to comply. Actually, they just seemed happy. Period.
Fatso, Mr. Dirty and I walked around to the front of the house and mounted the porch. Mr. Dirty lived there, so of course he had a key to the door. He slid it in and opened the deadbolt. The three of us walked inside. There was an ADT keypad on the wall by the door, its flashing red LED letting us know that we had sixty seconds before the alarm sounded.
The sticker on the window wasn’t a bluff after all. It was a good thing I hadn’t tried to pick the lock. Mr. Dirty punched in the code, and then he and his twelve-gauge led the way up the stairs.
I pulled my .38 from its holster, held it ready at my side.
As far as I could tell, Fatso was unarmed. “Step aside,” he said.
Mr. Dirty stepped out of the way, and Fatso rammed the door with his shoulder. He put all his weight into it. The jamb splintered and before I knew it we were inside the apartment and Mr. Dirty was shouting for the man standing there in boxer shorts to get on the floor. He didn’t have to say it twice.
Appleton lay facedown with his hands laced behind his head. It seemed that he knew the drill. A quick look around told me that he was alone in the apartment.
“I’m clean,” he said. “I swear, man, I haven’t touched the stuff for six months. No smack, no oxy, nothing.”
He thought we were narcotics officers. I decided to let him go on thinking it.
“Bullshit,” I said. “Tell us where your stash is, or we’re going to tear this place apart.”
“Go ahead and tear it apart. You won’t find anything here.”
I gave my newfound friends a nod, and they went to work. I didn’t care if Appleton had any drugs or not. I just wanted to put some fear into him, and of course I wanted to find Everett. Maybe he was tied and gagged in a closet, or under the bed or something.
I stood there with my foot on Appleton’s back and my gun aimed at his head while Fatso and Mr. Dirty searched the apartment. It was a small pad, one bedroom and a kitchen and a living room and a bathroom. Fatso and Mr. Dirty made a nice show of turning the place upside down. They threw books from shelves and cushions from chairs and pots and pans from the kitchen cabinets. Mr. Dirty used a switchblade to slice open the Naugahyde ottoman. He pulled the stuffing out and threw it on the floor. He seemed to be enjoying himself.
When they were finished with everything, they met back in the living room. My foot was still resting on Appleton’s lumbar vertebrae, and my gun was still pointed at his head.
Fatso held up a zip-lock bag with a syringe and a spoon and three squares of aluminum foil in it.
“This is all I found,” he said.
I took the bag from him and stuffed it into my back pocket.
“You checked the closets?” I said.
; “Of course.”
“What about the attic?”
“There’s no access to the attic from this apartment,” Appleton said.
I dropped to one knee and pressed the barrel of my .38 against the back of his skull.
“Where’s Everett Harbaugh?” I said.
“Who?”
“Your offspring. The third child generated from your dealings with Klein Fertility a couple of decades ago. I know about Stephanie Vowels and Philip Davenport. Tell me where Everett is, or I’m going to splatter your brains all over this floor.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I pressed down harder with the gun barrel, digging the front sight into his scalp. Blood trickled down the side of his neck and dripped on the cheap area rug beneath him.
“I’m talking about murder, asshole. You killed Stephanie and Philip on their twentieth birthday, and you’re planning to do the same to Everett. The more you try to deny it, the worse this is going to go for you.”
“You talking about that website?” he said. “The Sibling Boards?”
“Damn right that’s what I’m talking about. That’s where I put two and two together. From there, it only took a minimal amount of research and deductive reasoning. A chimpanzee could have figured it out. The jig’s up, Trent. You can die today, or you can start rotting in a jail cell today. It’s up to you. I know it’s not much of a choice, but one way or another, you’re going to—”
“I registered on that site out of curiosity,” he said. “Just to see how many kids my sperm produced. I’m on there anonymously. I haven’t had any contact with any of those people.”
“Right,” I said. “So it’s just a coincidence that Stephanie and Philip share your DNA, and it’s just a coincidence that they were killed the day they turned twenty, and it’s just a coincidence that Everett, who also shares your DNA, went missing four days before he turned twenty. That’s a lot of coincidences, Trent. Wouldn’t you say so?”
“Go ahead and arrest me. I’m not saying anything else without my attorney being present. I have rights, and you’re not going to treat me like a piece of dirt. Even if I am on probation.”
“Here’s a newsflash for you, Trent. We’re not cops. I’m a private investigator, and my friends here are members of a motorcycle gang. So we can’t arrest you, and we’re not overly concerned about your rights at this point.”
“I’m going to sue every last one of you,” he said.
“You’re not going to sue anyone. You’ll be lucky to make it through the day alive. Just tell me where Everett is, and I’ll hand you over to the police. They’ll go a lot easier on you than we will. I can promise you that.”
“I don’t know anyone named Everett. I didn’t kidnap anyone, and I didn’t kill anyone. And that’s the truth.”
“Let’s take him to the clubhouse,” Mr. Dirty said. “If he knows anything, we’ll get it out of him.”
“Is that what you want?” I said to Appleton. “You want these guys to have a go at you? Personally, I’m opposed to torture as a means of interrogation, but it’s almost like we don’t have a choice with you. Just tell me what I want to know now, and you can avoid a world of hurt.”
“If I knew anything, I would tell you,” he said. “You got to believe me, brother. I wouldn’t hurt a fly. I’m a vegetarian, man. And a Christian.”
A Christian junkie. That was a new one on me.
“I’m going to give you one more chance,” I said. “And then I’m going to turn you over to Fatso and his bald friend here. Where is he, Trent? Where is Everett Harbaugh?”
He didn’t say anything. He started sobbing like a little kid. Mr. Dirty kicked him in the thigh with the toe of his boot, and he started sobbing even louder.
“How do you want to handle this?” Fatso said.
“Let’s get him outside and into the truck while it’s still dark,” I said. “Did you guys find any rope or duct tape or anything while you were tossing the place?”
Fatso thought about it. “Be right back,” he said.
Mr. Dirty lit a cigarette. He offered me one, and I took it. Another Kool Super Long. The smoke was thick and cold and it made me cough. He pulled out a small bag of weed and loaded some into the bowl of a glass pipe, what they call a carburetor. He lit the bowl and took a long drag and passed it to me. I don’t usually partake, but I needed something to steady my nerves. I took one hit and then passed it back to Mr. Dirty. He finished it off, tapped the ashes out and put the pipe back into his vest pocket.
Fatso returned with a spool of dental floss and a box of trash bags and a roll of Scotch tape. He used the floss to tie Appleton’s hands behind his back. He looped it around about a dozen times and tied it tight, and then he did the same with his ankles.
“What are the trash bags for?” I said.
“I thought we’d wrap him up. Just in case someone rides by or looks out a window while we’re loading him into the truck.”
“I have a better idea. Let’s just roll him up into the rug and carry him out that way. I saw it on a movie one time.”
“That’ll work,” Fatso said.
He pulled a red bandana out of his back pocket and forced it into Appleton’s mouth. He secured it by wrapping Scotch tape around his head several times. He and Mr. Dirty positioned Appleton to one side of the rug and rolled him up inside it, like the cream filling inside a Ho Ho.
Not a great comparison, but I was hungry, and a Ho Ho sounded good. Or a Twinkie. A Twinkie and a cup of coffee would have been splendid.
Mr. Dirty knotted some trash bags together and used them to tie the rug in three places.
“I think we’re ready,” he said.
“I need to take a leak before we go,” Fatso said.
While Fatso was in the bathroom, I took one of the trash bags to the pantry and foraged for something to eat. There wasn’t much. I grabbed a box of saltines and a bag of beef jerky, and I found a six-pack of Mountain Dew in the refrigerator. I stuffed a few of the crackers into my mouth and chugged one of the soft drinks before leaving the kitchen.
By the time I got back to the living room, Fatso and Mr. Dirty were carrying Trent Appleton out the door.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Ironically, The Five Points Posse’s clubhouse was not in Five Points. It was on the Westside, in an area called Ginger Tea Trail, not far from Laurie’s apartment. Based on the location, the name of the motorcycle club didn’t make any sense, but I guess The Ginger Tea Posse wouldn’t have sounded fierce enough.
I followed Fatso and the guys in my rented Caprice. I ate some more crackers and some beef jerky and I drank another Mountain Dew. The marijuana Mr. Dirty had turned me on to was some of the most potent I’d ever run across. I hadn’t smoked any weed in a long time, so I didn’t have much tolerance for it. One hit, and I was stoned to the bone. It had given me a severe case of the munchies, and it had made me sleepy. The caffeine in the soda helped me stay alert, but I knew it would only go so far. I was going to need some sleep soon, or something stronger to keep me awake.
Mr. Dirty backed the pickup truck into the driveway and opened the garage door remotely. I pulled in behind him. Fatso parked his Harley on the yard. Wynken, Blynken, and Nod didn’t show up. I guess Fatso gave them the rest of the day off.
I climbed out of the car and walked up to the garage. Mr. Dirty had already opened the tailgate and the hatch to the topper. He and Fatso were standing there waiting. Trent Appleton was still rolled up inside the rug. The three of us carried him inside, and then Mr. Dirty hit the switch to close the door.
“You think he’s still alive?” Fatso said.
“He better be,” I said. “If he dies, Everett dies.”
I didn’t know that for sure, but I figured it was a safe bet. When you’re dealing with a cunning sociopath, you have to think like a cunning sociopath. Everett was probably hidden in a place where nobody would ever find him. An abandoned warehouse or a storage unit or a boarded-up gas station
. He was probably bound and gagged, starved and dehydrated, knowing death was coming and hoping it would hurry up. The only way to save him was to make Appleton talk.
Mr. Dirty cut the trash bags with his switchblade and unrolled the rug with his foot. Appleton was naked except for the boxer shorts. He had a panicked look on his face, and his lips were blue.
“Get the rag out of his mouth,” Fatso said.
Mr. Dirty cut the Scotch tape and pulled out the red bandana. Appleton started wheezing, gasping for breath. His body was beaded with sweat, and he was shivering all over.
“You ready to tell me where Everett Harbaugh is?” I said.
He shook his head. “I don’t know, man. I swear on my mother’s grave.”
“If you don’t tell me, my friends are going to do very bad things to you. You will break, eventually, so you might as well save yourself the agony.”
He started sobbing again. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” he said.
I decided to try a different approach. Appleton was a junkie. The three squares of aluminum foil in his zip-lock bag were wrapped around three balls of Mexican black tar heroin. As a musician, I’d seen it plenty of times. It was the cheapest stuff you could get on the street, and addicts longed for it like babies long for milk from their mother.
“When was the last time you had a shot?” I said.
“Last night. Right before I went to bed.”
“I have your stuff out in my car.”
“I need it,” he said. “I’ll die if I don’t have it.”
“You won’t die, but you’ll be very uncomfortable. You’ll sweat and shake and vomit and hallucinate. So maybe that’s the answer to getting you to talk. We’ll just leave you here in the garage for a while. I’ve seen guys go cold turkey before. It’s not a pretty sight.”
