I’d apparently injured one rat badly. It remained motionless, lying on its side about ten feet away. It wasn’t dead; I could see its head move. Five or six of its comrades circled it and sniffed curiously at its wounded leg. Finally, the albino grabbed the injured rodent’s neck in its teeth and started to drag it back toward the hole in the wall. I wondered if rats formed a community with strong bonds. Maybe the albino, in a noble act, was taking the injured one to the nest to nurse it back to a state of well-being.
Halfway to the hole, he dropped it and sniffed at the rat’s bloody leg.
The albino let out a sharp, high-pitched shriek and tore into its exposed flesh, pulling off hunks of meat. Ear-splitting squeals cut through the hot night air as the other rats rushed to attack the injured one. I watched in horror as the rats became a tumult of roiling fur, tearing the injured one to shreds in a frenzy of blood and gore. The rats were like a horde of ferocious piranhas as they devoured their wounded companion. In a matter of seconds it was over.
The albino disappeared through the hole. The others, like good little soldiers with full bellies, followed, and the battle of the rat had ended. At least for now.
Morning twilight seeped in through the high windows, filling the warehouse with a dim gray light. I’d managed to stay awake all night and the rats hadn’t returned, but I still couldn’t work myself free from the duct tape and rope that held me to the post. To add to my pain and anger, I now had an urgent need to take a piss. Okay, I could hold it… for a while, at least. What I’d give to be back in my apartment reading the morning Times while sipping a steaming cup of coffee, after taking a long hot shower, of course.
I wet my pants.
I could tell by the path of the sun across the high windows that it was now past noon, maybe one o’clock. So much for them coming back in the morning. Earlier, I thought I heard the rumble of a truck going by and I’d yelled at the top of my lungs but, of course, the driver hadn’t heard me. I had doubts that I could hold out much longer. Fatigued and numb, I had a severe cramp in my neck and shoulders from holding my head up and back, but I didn’t dare sleep. Knowing the consequences of falling asleep is death by hanging is enough to give anyone insomnia. I wondered when the thugs were going to return. As unpleasant as that thought was, maybe I’d be relieved to see them. Then I remembered Rollo with his knife—and I trembled.
More time passed, but by now I had no idea what time of day it was. It was still light outside, but that’s all I knew. I had lost the ability to gauge the passage of time. It ran together and piled up, moving at its own pace. And anyway, what difference did it make what the watch on my wrist behind me said? Or the clock in my office, or when the happy hour at Rocco’s would start. Or even when my client, Roberts, would finally be out of the hospital and be cleared of all charges. I was here and I’d be here until time stopped altogether.
I heard a car or maybe a truck outside. The warehouse door rattled. Were the bastards returning? Maybe they figured Jimmy O’Brien has had enough. Had time to think it over. Maybe by now he’d decided that the Roberts case just wasn’t worth all the pain. Besides, what could he do? The cops had said his client had killed Vera and the old lady. And O’Brien had no defense and had never tried a murder case. Why should he start with this one?
And why make waves at this late date? After all, Roberts’s troubles had started almost thirty years ago. O’Brien was just a kid back then and he’d figure it was ancient history. In the grand scheme of things, what difference would it make if a loser like Roberts went back to the slam, this time for life?
But I didn’t have the papers.
The car or truck kept moving. It hadn’t stopped, after all.
C H A P T E R 39
The high windows changed from a pale shade of grey to black. Moonlight filtered in through the dust and dirt and cast the area in a faint bluish hue. I tried to figure out how long I’d been hanging on the post, but my mind refused to function. I had no idea of the hour or even what day it was; I just knew it was nighttime. Every muscle in my body had been strained to the limit. I was stiff and numb, my neck raw from rope burn. My tongue had swollen to twice the size of a grapefruit and my mouth was as dry as the Mojave. I had no feeling in my hands, apart from the million electric needles that tapdanced under the skin.
My kidnappers said they’d return. I was being tortured in absentia. The thugs wanted to soften me up. They wanted me to give them the papers. They didn’t want me to die. They couldn’t let me die. They’d better hurry. I was circling the drain and didn’t know how much longer I could survive before being sucked down.
I gave up and let my body go limp.
My head slumped. The rope tightened around my neck. Then I got pissed.
“But I don’t have the papers,” I screamed, in a voice that wasn’t much more than a feeble croak.
I thought of Rollo with the knife, and stomped my foot. “Don’t cut me! I don’t have the goddamn papers.” I kept stomping, pounding the floor, faster and faster.
The edge of my heel scraped the post behind me. Tears came to my eyes. But I kept stomping. I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t stop. My shoe caught the post again.
It moved.
I stopped.
I could hear my heart pounding. The post had moved. I looked down but could only see my toes. I couldn’t bend my head enough to see the base of the post, but I’d felt it move. The post had moved off center by maybe an inch.
I pulled my leg up slowly, bent it at the knee and, like a mule kicking the barn door, I slammed my foot backward with everything I had. The post moved again. Only a little, but it moved!
My leg became a battering ram. Bring it up, pound it back, again and again. My muscles cramped—horrible cramps. Through excruciating pain I kept kicking. I was demented, a runaway engine, kicking, kicking. Adrenalin coursed through my veins and my body came to life. I kicked harder. And harder.
The post fell.
It fell on top of me and I lay there, sprawled on the floor, too weak to move. My head had struck the concrete and I fought hard to maintain consciousness. I took deep breaths, in and out, in and out. With no tension on the rope I was able to slip my head out of the noose.
My legs twitched—both of them. Could it be? Yes! When the post fell, my other leg tore free. But my wrists were still bound together behind the post. Think, O’Brien! Yeah, I had to figure a way to get a hundred-fifty pounds of rotten wood off my back.
With great effort I was finally able to move. Weak and half dead, I slithered slowly across the floor, pushing with my feet, dragging the post with me.
The thought of Rollo and Danny returning kept me going. I aimed for the closest upright beam. When I got there I moved in a complete circle and lined up the bottom of the post perpendicular to the upright. Then I pushed with my feet. The post, now wedged against the upright, started to slip between my arms and back. It took about fifteen minutes but my body finally came free of the post. With my hands still taped behind my back, I lay on the floor panting for a full minute before I tried to get up.
The thugs could walk through the door at any moment. I had to move. I had to get out of the warehouse before they returned. I rolled on my side, balled in the fetal position, and twisted until my legs were under me. I raised my head and pushed with my legs. I strained hard and managed to stand.
I stood still for a second, maybe two, before the room began to spin. With each revolution it spun faster. Lights flashed in front of my eyes, a kaleidoscope of garish colors. The room sped up, gaining speed. I couldn’t stop it. I dropped to my knees again and bowed my head almost to the floor. The room slowed, but my stomach continued to do aerobatic loops.
I dry-heaved. It felt like I was retching up my guts. I closed my eyes and waited. Christ, I wanted to sleep! I wanted desperately to lie down and go to sleep, but I knew if I did, I’d sleep in this abandoned warehouse forever.
I stood again, and this time the building stayed anchored to the planet. It wobbled a little but I
could handle that. Staggering one step at a time, I worked my way to the office at the far end of the warehouse. The office wall had windows with broken glass. Pieces littered the floor where they had fallen. I lay down carefully on my side again, close to the pile of glass fragments, and with my hands still behind my back I felt around with my fingers. I was able to pick up a long thin shard. I tried to cut the tape by feel but only managed to cut my arm. It stung, but I didn’t care. I kept working the sharp glass until I was able to wedge it between the tape and my wrists. I made only a small cut, but it was enough. When I twisted my arms back and forth and yanked them apart, the tape started to tear.
A minute later my hands were free.
I stumbled back to the post, grabbed one end and dragged it over to the small employee door—the door that the thugs had locked after they left. Using all the strength I could muster I hefted the post in the middle, balancing it in my arms, and with a grunt I swung it at the door like a battering ram. I kept at it until the door finally flew open.
Trembling with apprehension, I stepped outside and glanced at the lights of Long Beach, shimmering silently off in the distance below. I saw nothing else, no cars, no people, nothing but the pumpjacks bowing and raising in their eternal homage to the god of oil.
How do I get off this hill? Which way to go?
Headlights jumped out at me.
A car had turned onto the road at the far end of the oil field and was speeding toward me. Ducking back into the building, I flattened myself in the shadows against the wall next to the door. Could it be Danny and Rollo? That thought filled me with dread.
The car neared, then stopped right on the other side of the wall. Someone killed the engine. I heard the car door open. The rats had come back—the two-legged kind.
Quickly glancing around, I spotted a three-inch diameter pipe about four feet long resting on the floor a few feet away. The end of the rusty pipe stuck out from under a jumbled mass of cable. I moved fast, tugged on the pipe a few times until it came free, then darted back to my hiding place.
I heard Danny outside. “Hey, Rollo, shit! The bastard busted loose!”
“What do you mean?”
“Look at the goddamn door. It’s all banged up.”
“Do you think he’s still in there?”
“He’s dead if he was dumb enough to stick around,” Danny said.
“You gonna kill him?”
“Yeah, the boss said to get rid of him this time. He ain’t gonna tell us nothing.”
“What if he’s gone?” Rollo asked.
“We’ll go to his goddamn apartment and kill him there.”
“Can I cut him up? You said I could cut him up.”
“Come on, Rollo.” I heard the terrifying sound of an automatic weapon being ratcheted.
Wiping the sweat from my palms one hand at a time, I gripped the pipe like a baseball bat.
Danny stepped cautiously through the doorway, holding a gun straight out in front of him.
I stepped forward, took a hard swing, and connected. His face exploded like an overripe watermelon. Blood gushed. His knees buckled; he went down. His gun skidded across the floor.
In the dim light, Rollo bellowed and came at me with his knife. But I’d anticipated his move and spun to my left. The blade nicked my right arm. I dropped the pipe, but didn’t feel the cut. Adrenaline took over and blocked all pain as it pulsated through my system. The powerful drug gave me strength and agility. I felt invincible.
I had learned at the police academy that when a bad-ass comes at you with a knife, it’s not a fight—it’s murder. And to come out alive you had to remain focused. I braced and locked onto Rollo.
His eyes blazed and he rocked on his toes. I kicked at the knife in his hand, missed. He charged me again. I dropped and rolled.
He stood above me. I kicked him in the balls. He doubled over and moaned, but didn’t drop the knife. I sprang to my feet.
Our eyes met. “You motherfucker! You’re dead!” Rollo shouted and lunged at me again.
I sidestepped the blade, which missed by inches. With both hands I grabbed his arm, the one holding the knife.
He jammed his free hand in my face, clawing for my eyes and tearing open my wounds. Warm blood ran down my face. I tried to twist his arm, break the knife free, but the bastard was strong.
Suddenly, I let go of him, made a fist and punched him in his gut with all I had left. His eyes bulged. He made a noise that sounded like an imploding pressure cooker.
Rollo dropped the switchblade. I hit him again, harder. Then again, one to the jaw.
He staggered backward and I picked up the knife.
We both saw Danny’s automatic at the same instant, right at Rollo’s feet. He took his eyes off me, went for the gun, came up and fired. But I wasn’t there.
He didn’t see me in the shadows, standing behind an upright beam.
“Where are you, goddammit?” He fired again. The report echoed around the building. He moved slowly, closer to where I stood, peering intently into the shadows. When he saw me, he swung the gun around, fired wildly, and missed.
I dove, grabbed him by his shirt, and thrust the knife blade deep into his belly.
With a startled look, he dropped the gun. He stood there shaking, the unmistakable rattle of death. His face turned white. He clutched his stomach and whimpered, “You fucking killed me.” Blood seeped though his fingers. Three seconds later he fell forward and didn’t move.
I tossed the knife into the puddle of blood that ran from under his body.
Someone shouted, “Danny! I heard shots. You didn’t kill him, did you? I don’t want any part of this. We gotta get outta here.”
Morelli, backlit from the moonlight, stood in the open doorway.
I picked up the automatic pistol and walked toward him, aiming it at his heart. “There’s been a change of plans, Morelli.”
“Oh, God!” He threw up his arms. “Hey, man, don’t shoot! I’m unarmed.”
“Gimme the car keys.”
He tossed me the keys to the Buick. I caught them with my free hand.
“Who do you work for?” I asked.
“I work for Danny. Is he dead?”
I kept moving closer. “Yeah, he’s dead. Who’d Danny work for?”
“Some rich guy. That’s all I know, honest.”
“Yesterday you called someone to tell him about me.”
“Just-just some number Danny gave me. A guy answered. I-I told him Danny took you to the oil patch. That’s what Danny said to tell him. That’s all I know, honest, mister. He was… he was going to pay me to drive him around a couple days. I didn’t know what he was planning. Honest to God, I didn’t know!”
“Tell me the phone number.”
“I don’t remember, 213-2 something. He wrote it on a paper. I threw it away like I was told to do.”
Morelli was scared shitless and I felt he was telling the truth. I wouldn’t get any more out of him, and he hadn’t done anything to me. He was just a flunky, Danny’s errand boy. I didn’t want to haul him to the police station. I’d be there all night, probably forever while cops asked me tough questions as they filled out a million forms. They’d lock me up until it was all straightened out.
“Get the hell outta here, Morelli. If I see you again, I’ll shoot you.”
He ran out of the warehouse, moving at about a hundred miles an hour.
I stood there for a moment and took several deep breaths, exhaling slowly. Did I feel any remorse for taking two lives? No, these weren’t human beings at all. They were cruel, inhuman monsters with not an ounce of humanity between the two of them. They slaughtered a defenseless old lady for money, and probably many other helpless people. They deserved what they got. The sun would shine tomorrow and the world would be a brighter place without them. No, killing them didn’t bother me at all.
At the doorway, I turned and took one last look at Danny and Rollo lying in their own blood.
I heard them first, the
high pitch of their squeals. Then I saw the red, shining eyes of the albino and the others as they squeezed through the opening. More flooded into the building, dozens, sniffing and moving slowly toward the bodies.
“Rats-A-Roni,” I said, and left.
C H A P T E R 40
I climbed in the Buick and popped open the glove box, looking for a registration or anything that would help ID the owner of the car. Nothing, no documents of any kind. In fact, the Buick was spotless, no telltale signs that anyone had even been in the car. The thugs were pros and didn’t leave a clue as to who they were or whom they worked for. I put the gun inside and closed the glove box.
Winding my way through the oil field, I drove down the hill and caught the 405 Freeway, heading back to Downey. The ride was smooth and at this late hour the traffic was light. I felt invigorated, glad to be free of the nightmare I had just endured.
But by the time I made the turn onto the 605 about ten minutes later, the adrenaline effect had begun winding down. I started to feel fatigued and listless and my body started to hurt.
I lightly touched my face and it stung. Pulling my hand away I glanced at it: blood! I took a quick look at my lap, and to my shock I saw fresh blood there too. I began to feel nauseous and the pain from the cut in my arm intensified. I reached over and felt that wound, then pulled my hand away. More blood.
My vision started to blur. I blinked several times. The red taillights of the cars in front of me pulsated in and out of focus. The headlights from the cars on the other side of the freeway converged into a hazy white ball. I drove erratically and couldn’t keep the Buick between the lines. My head spun, but I kept going, not knowing if I’d make it home without killing myself.
A couple miles later my hands slipped from the wheel, and my head dropped. I fell into a black void.
An air horn blasted. I snapped up just in time, shook my head and glanced up. The Buick was out of control, moving fast, heading straight for an overpass pillar.
I jerked the car to the right, bounced back into the fast lane, and just missed the semi that had blown its horn. The driver must’ve thought I was another drunk heading home plastered out of my mind.
JO03 - Detour to Murder Page 25
