Thriller 2

by Clive Cussler

  “Mitch—”

  “We had a snowball fight after dinner, and our motel has these Japanese soaking tubs out back, full of hot mineral water from the springs under the town. Say you wish you were here.”

  “That’s not what I said that night, Mitch.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I wish I could be there with you, but part of me’s so glad you two have this time together.”

  “There aren’t many days like this, are there?”

  “No.”

  “Now, I just want to hear you breathing over the phone.”

  He listened. He looked at the television, then the boy’s head, then the ice-blue sweater.

  Mitchell held the phone to Joel’s mouth.

  “Say good night to Mom, Alex.”

  “Good night.”

  Mitchell brought the phone to his ear. “Thank you, Lisa.”

  “Mitch, who was that? What have you—”

  He powered off the phone and set it on the bedside table.

  When the boy was finally asleep, Mitchell turned off the television. He pulled the covers over the both of them and scooted forward until he could feel the hard ridge of the boy’s little spine press against his chest.

  In the back window, through a crack in the closed blinds, he watched the snow falling through the orange illumination of a streetlamp, and his lips moved in prayer.

  The knock finally came a few minutes after 3:00 a.m., and nothing timid about it—the forceful pounding of a fist against the door.

  “Mitchell Griggs?”

  Mitchell sat up in bed, eyes struggling to adjust in the darkness.

  “Mr. Griggs?”

  More pounding as his feet touched the carpet.

  “Griggs!”

  Mitchell made his way across dirty clothes and pizza boxes to the door, which he spoke through.

  “Who is it?”

  “Dennis James, Ouray County sheriff. Need to speak with you right now.”

  “Little late, isn’t it?” He tried to make his voice sound light and unperturbed. “Maybe I could come by your office in the—”

  “What part of right now went past you?”

  Mitchell glanced up, saw the chain still locked. “What’s this about?” he asked.

  “I think you know.”

  “I’m sorry I don’t.”

  “Six-year-old boy named Joel McIntosh went missing from the Antlers Motel this evening. Clerk saw him getting into a burgundy Jetta just like the one you drive.”

  “Well, I’m sorry. He’s not here.”

  “Then why don’t you open the door, let me confirm that so you can get back to sleep and we can quit wasting precious minutes trying to find this little boy.”

  Mitchell glanced through the peephole, glimpsed the sheriff standing within a foot of the door under one of the globe lights that lit the second-floor walkway, his black parka dusted with snow, his wide-brimmed cowboy hat capped with a half inch of powder.

  Mitchell couldn’t nail down the sheriff’s age in the poor light—late sixties perhaps, seventy at most. He held the fore end stock of a pump-action shotgun in his right hand.

  “I’ve got two deputies out back on the hill behind your room if you’re thinking of—”

  “I’m not.”

  “Just tell me if you have the boy—”

  A radio squeaked outside.

  The sheriff spoke in low tones, then Mitchell heard the dissipation of footsteps.

  A minute limped by before the sheriff’s voice passed faintly through the door again.

  “You still there, Mitch?”

  “Yeah.”

  “If it’s all right with you, I’m gonna sit down. I been walking all over town since seven o’clock.”

  The sheriff lowered out of sight, and through the peephole, Mitchell could only see torrents of snow dumping on the trees and houses and parked cars.

  He eased down on the carpet and leaned against the door.

  “I was just speaking with your wife. Lisa’s concerned for you, Mitch. Knows why you’re here.”

  “She doesn’t know any—”

  “And so do I. You may not know this, but I helped pull you and your son out of the car. Never forget it. Been what, about a year?”

  “To the day.”

  Drafts of frigid air swept under the door, Mitchell shivering, wishing he’d brought a blanket with him from the bed.

  “Mitch, Lisa’s been trying to call you. You have your cell with you?”

  “It’s turned off, on the bedside table.”

  “Would you talk to her for me?”

  “I don’t need to talk to her.”

  “I think it might not be a bad—”

  “I had a meeting the next morning in Durango. Had brought him along, ’cause he’d never seen the Rockies. That storm came in overnight, and you know, I just…I almost waited. Almost decided to stay the day in Ouray, give the plows a chance to scrape the pass.”

  “I got a boy of my own. He’s grown now, but I remember when he was your Alex’s age, can’t say I’d have survived if something like what happened to your son happened to him. You got a gun in there, Mitch?”

  In the back of Mitchell’s throat welled a sharp, acidic tang, like tasting the connectors of a nine-volt battery, but all he said was, “Yeah.”

  “Is the boy all right?”

  Mitchell said nothing.

  “Look, I know you’re hurting, but Joel McIntosh ain’t done a thing to deserve getting dragged into this. Boy’s probably terrified. You thought about that, or can you not see past your own—”

  “Of course I’ve thought about it.”

  “Then why don’t you send him on out, and you and me can keep talking.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just…I can’t.”

  Mitchell heard footsteps outside the door. He got up quickly, glanced through the peephole just in time to see the battering ram swing back.

  He stumbled toward the bed as the door exploded off its hinges and slammed to the floor, two men standing in the threshold—the sheriff with the shotgun trained on him, a deputy with a flashlight and a handgun.

  Mitchell shielded his eyes—specks of snow blowing in, luminescent where they passed through the LED beam—couldn’t see the man behind the light, but the sheriff’s eyes were hard and kind. He could tell this even though they lived in the shadow of a Stetson.

  The sheriff said, “I don’t see the boy, Wade. Mitchell, let me see those hands.”

  Mitchell took a deep, trembling breath.

  “Come on, Mitch, let me see your hands.”

  Mitchell shook his head.

  “Goddamn, son, I won’t tell you—”

  Mitchell swung his right arm behind his back, his fingers wrapping around the remote control jammed down his boxer shorts, the room fired into blue by the illumination of the television, the laugh track to Seinfeld blaring, Wade screaming the sheriff’s name as a greater light bloomed beside the lesser.

  Sheriff James flicked the light, felt the breath leave him as he blinked through the tears.

  He leaned the shotgun against the wall and stepped inside the bathroom.

  The cheap fiberglass of the tub had been lined with blankets and pillows, and the little boy was sitting up staring at the sheriff, orange earplugs protruding from his ears.

  The sheriff knelt down, smiled at the boy, pulled out the earplugs.

  “You okay, Joel?”

  The boy said, “A noise woke me up.”

  “Did he make you sleep in here?”

  “Mitchell said if I was a good boy and kept my earplugs in and stayed in here all night, I could see my daddy in the morning.”

  “He did, huh?”

  “Where’s my daddy?”

  “Down in the parking lot. We’ll take you to him, but I need to ask you something first.” The sheriff sat down on the cracked linoleum tile. “Did Mitchell hurt you?”

  “No.” />
  “He didn’t touch you anywhere private or make you touch him?” “No, we just sat on the bed and watched about spiders and stuff.”

  “You mean, on the TV?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s that?” The sheriff pointed to the notebook sitting on a pillow under the faucet.

  “Mitchell said to give this to the people who came to get me.”

  Wade walked into the bathroom, stood behind the sheriff as he lifted the spiral-bound notebook and opened the red cover to a page of handwriting in black ink.

  “What is it?” Wade asked.

  “It’s to his wife.”

  “What’s it say?”

  The sheriff closed the notebook. “I believe that’s some of her business.” He stood, faced his deputy, snow melting off his Stetson. “Get this boy wrapped up in some blankets and bring him down to his dad. I gotta go call Lisa Griggs.”

  “Will do.”

  “And, Wade?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You throw a blanket over Mr. Griggs before you bring Joel out. Don’t want so much as a strand of hair visible. Shield the boy’s eyes if you have to, maybe even turn the lights out when you carry him through the room.”

  The deputy shook his head. “What the hell was wrong with this man?”

  “You got kids yet, Wade?”

  “You know I don’t.”

  “Well, just a heads-up—if you ever do, this is how much they make you love them.”

  HARRY HUNSICKER

  Harry Hunsicker seems to know an awful lot about taking that short step from respectable citizen to flat-out criminal. His award-winning series featuring investigator Lee Henry Oswald is a high-octane tour of the seedier side of Dallas. His story “Iced” has that same feeling of a world turned upside down. The lead characters bear a shocking resemblance to people we might know—even to ourselves—pillars of society crumbling in an avalanche of bad decisions that seemed perfectly rational at the time. All you can do as a reader is hang on and hope, against all odds, someone makes it out alive.

  ICED

  Bijoux Watson’s body slipped underneath the muddy waters of the Brazos River without a sound, a mangled pile of flesh that had once been the biggest purveyor of black tar heroin in all of east Texas.

  Chrissie and Tom watched it float downstream, both breathing heavily after dragging the remains to the edge of the water. After a few moments the corpse rounded a bend and disappeared. Chrissie and Tom looked at each other and smiled.

  Then they screwed, right there in the mud and gunk, tossing their clothes aside in a tangled heap, their bodies sweaty. Tom felt the crystal meth they’d smoked an hour before course through his limbs like a bolt of sunlight, his groin jonesing for Chrissie and her tight body.

  Bijoux was finally dead.

  When they finished, they lay side by side on the dirt and listened to the cattle egrets trill overhead and the traffic lumber across the bridge going to Bryan/College Station. The air smelled of water and decaying vegetation and sex.

  Chrissie dug a rumpled pack of Virginia Slims from the pocket of her denim skirt. She lit one and blew a plume of smoke sky-ward.

  “I love you.” Tom ran his index finger in a circular pattern around one of her breasts.

  She sighed and pitched her cigarette in the river. “Daddy always said don’t get lovin’ confused with screwing.”

  Tom felt needles cartwheel across his intestines as the last of the meth ricocheted across his battered synapses. He tried to remember what sleep was like.

  “But, baby. You said—”

  “Bijoux’s gone.” Chrissie stood and brushed the leaves and dirt from her body. “Things’re different now.”

  Tom tried not to cry as she dressed, an enormous fatigue making his limbs as heavy and stiff as tree trunks. His skin hurt and his vision turned black at the edges.

  Chrissie buttoned her skirt and tramped up the muddy slope without a word.

  He lay there for a few moments, thinking about Chrissie and the way she contorted her face when she had an orgasm, the sinews and tendons in her neck and how they came to the surface of her silky skin. He thought about doing her again and about the last hit of Ice, the crystalized amphetamine, in his briefcase in the car.

  Tom scrambled into his clothes and ran after her.

  Two minutes later he stepped off the path and onto the asphalt parking lot near the boat landing on the east side of the river. Bijoux Watson’s lemon-yellow Jaguar was the only car visible.

  Chrissie stood by the front passenger door with her arms crossed, staring intently at the smudged and cracked windshield.

  Tom walked over and stood next to her.

  Explosive residue, blood and liquified body parts coated the inside of the glass.

  Bijoux had been in the driver’s seat, a two-kilo package of what he thought was Mexican skag sitting between his legs, when Tom pressed the button, detonating the ten blasting caps nestled in the bag of Piggly Wiggly brown sugar. He and Chrissie had been thirty yards away, underneath a live oak tree with their cigarettes. Bijoux, a loan shark, pimp and dope dealer, was a rabid antismoker.

  Tom said, “Guess we didn’t think this through.”

  “No shit, Einstein.” Chrissie closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose Town was ten miles away. They’d ridden here with the dead man to make the transaction, claiming the stuff was hidden by the river.

  “What’s your plan now?” she said.

  Tom opened the front passenger door of the car.

  A rank wave of hot air that smelled like blood and feces hit his face, making him gag for a moment.

  He took a deep breath and grabbed his briefcase, dislodging what looked like a one of Bijoux’s testicles. He plopped his carryall on the hood of the car, opened it and rummaged through the contents until he found the foil-wrapped nugget of methamphetamine. The pipe lay underneath some loan documents due at the title company a week ago, next to the Glock .40-caliber pistol he’d started carrying ever since he’d gotten tangled up with Bijoux Watson.

  His fingers fumbled as he jammed the drug into the bowl of the pipe. With the battered Zippo his father had carried in Vietnam, he ignited the crystalized narcotic. Two big lungfuls and all the confidence, power and cojones on the planet coursed through his veins, as thick and fast and strong as the muddy waters a few hundred feet away.

  Chrissie appeared at his side with a canvas bag she’d evidently found in the trunk. She opened it and pulled out a Ziploc sack full of dirty brown powder.

  “Bijoux always traveled with a stash.” She licked her lips and produced a needle and a blackened tablespoon from the bottom of the bag.

  Tom offered her the pipe.

  She grabbed it and inhaled deeply. Then, she set about cooking a dose of heroin.

  “Baby, don’t do that,” Tom said. “Shit’s bad for you, dirty needles and all that other stuff.”

  “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.” She lowered her voice. “It makes sex incredible.” She pointed the needle at him. “Gimme your arm.”

  Tom looked at the syringe and then at Chrissie’s face. Her eyes were wide with what he assumed to be anticipation. He wanted to say no, but because he had just ingested over a gram of primo Ice and had all the confidence, power and cojones in the world, he stuck his arm out.

  Chrissie smiled, found a suitable vein and slid the needle in, giving him half the load. She then injected the rest into a blood vessel in her thigh. Together they sat on the grimy asphalt and leaned against the side of Bijoux Watson’s bloody Jaguar. Tom felt like there was nothing he couldn’t do, no task or challenge he couldn’t accomplish. Except for the fact he had no energy, he thought at that moment he could climb Mount Everest.

  Chrissie fell against him and said that just as soon as they came down a little, she’d fuck him so hard his toenails would hurt.

  Later, it could have been thirty minutes or thirty seconds, Tom heard the crunch of tires.

  He opened his eye
s as a county squad car pulled up and stopped a few feet from the Jag.

  A deputy got out.

  Tom recognized him and struggled to remember the man’s name. Dean something. Dean, Jr. had been in his wife’s Sunday-school class a couple of years ago.

  “Tom? Is that you?” Deputy Dean squinted in the afternoon sun and leaned down to get a closer look. “Whole town’s looking for you. You ain’t been to the bank in three days.” The deputy rubbed one hand over his mouth, and his eyes got wide as he looked from Chrissie back to Tom. “You okay? What’s wrong with your pupils?”

  Tom nodded and pushed himself off the ground, the uppers and downers in his system making everything deliciously hazy and warm and happy.

  “Dean, it’s damn good to see you.” He enunciated each syllable with extreme precision. “The bank. Um, yes, the bank. The bank. They need these very important documents. At the bank. Very soon, Dean. Can you help me with that?”

  Tom turned his back to the officer and reached inside the briefcase

  “Uh, yeah, sure,” the deputy said. “Anything you need.”

  Tom remembered the man’s last name. Chambers. Dean Roy Chambers, his wife and two children lived in a double-wide on nine acres just outside of town. Tom’s bank had made the loan.

  “Who is she?” the deputy said. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

  “She’s fine.” Tom turned and smiled.

  Then he shot Dean Chambers in the cheek, about a quarter inch to the left of his nose, with the .40-caliber Glock.

  The bullet was one of those fancy armor-piercing hollow-points the liberal gun-control freaks loved to whine about. It made a big hole exiting the back of the deputy’s head.

  Chrissie snapped awake as the blast roiled across the empty parking lot.

  “What the hell?”

  “Took care of the issue, baby.” Tom squared his shoulders and sucked his gut in. “Goddamn, that’s what I’m talking about.”

  “You fucking killed a cop.” Chrissie stood up, legs wobbly. “That ain’t taking care of no issues. That’s making new ones.”

  “He’d seen us together, baby.” Tom stuck the gun in his waistband. His heart thumped a disco beat in his rib cage, whump whump whump. “Couldn’t do anything else. Besides, got us a ride out of here.”