Ray's Hell: A Crime Action Thriller

by Matt Rass

  RAY IN THE MANSION

  The congressman set DC down on an ornately upholstered bench in the foyer and whispered, “If you move from this spot I’ll call the police, understand?” She was dazed and nodded her head weakly in response, not looking him in the eyes.

  Ray was dragged into the congressman’s office and dropped unceremoniously into the clutches of an expensive leather office chair.

  “C’mon guys, take it easy,” Frank said, following behind. “Don’t be so rough with him.”

  It was a bullshit comment and Ray knew it. Beside him, the old queen from the Ramada Inn with the painful looking facial chemical peel, pulled a matching chair within an arm’s length and studied the damage done to Ray’s face. To Ray’s left, standing at a bar cart with drink in hand, a fat gold ring inset with a diamond on his pinky finger, was Carl “Cinder Block” Barron.

  The congressman closed the office door on the house full of gawkers, took a glass of scotch held out to him by CB and introduced the other two men and himself. “These are my associates, Bradley Summers and Carl Barron. My name, if by chance you didn’t know whose party you just crashed, is congressman Frank Silver.”

  The room remained silent except for the stretching sound of the cherry leather chair as the congressman settled in behind his rich, brown desk. “Those boys went too far, Mr. Price,” the congressman said. “Of course I didn’t see how it started, but do you want me to call the police?” He reached half-heartedly for his desk phone.

  Ray shook his head. “No.”

  “Can you get our friend a tissue and a glass of water, Bradley?”

  “Sure,” Bradley said, rising from his chair like a ballerina.

  “Would you like something stronger?” the congressman asked Ray, nodding toward CB at the bar.

  “No,” Ray said. “Water’s fine.”

  CB unbuttoned his suit jacket, revealing the butt of a gun strapped in a shoulder holster as Bradley pulled an unopened bottle of water from a cabinet under the bar. Ray wasn’t intimidated by CB’s silent stalking as the older man angled himself to Ray’s side and then behind, but instead watched as Bradley unscrewed the bottle of water and filled a glass. Ray wanted to make damn sure he wasn’t Cosby-ed again.

  “I’m told your brother is missing,” the congressman continued. “He worked for my brother Tony at the club?”

  “His name is Sam,” Ray said, turning to see what Carl was up to.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Bradley delivered the glass of water and a tissue, which Ray tore into two, rolled up and stuffed into his bloody nostrils.

  “My brother’s name is Sam,” Ray repeated. “Sam Beck.”

  Carl circled and took the spot to the right of Ray left vacant by Bradley. Bradley stayed at the bar sipping his own drink. A spritzer or something.

  “And the sheriff’s department doesn’t have any leads?” the congressman asked.

  “Your nephew Alex is a suspect.”

  “I don’t think he is,” Bradley interrupted.

  “No,” the congressman said. “Bradley’s right. We’ve heard about your theories from our mutual friend at the sheriff’s department, John Thomas, and I can tell you unequivocally that no one from my family had anything to do with your brother’s disappearance.”

  Ray had noticed Carl’s surprised reaction when the congressman mentioned John Thomas’s name. Perhaps being a former sheriff, Carl was surprised his boss was communicating with someone in the department without his knowing?

  Ray finished the water, took the bloody tissue from his nose, dropped it in the glass, and handed it back to Brad. “What do you want from me?”

  “I want to hire you,” Frank said.

  Ray laughed.

  “I’m being blackmailed for an exorbitant amount of money because of my indiscretions,” Frank continued.

  “Which are?”

  “Completely innocuous, I can assure you.”

  “But, when viewed by a voting public, would be disastrous,” Bradley interjected.

  “Why me?” Ray asked.

  “You’re a police officer; you’re from out of town,” Frank said.

  “Also we don’t want to make this public,” Bradley added.

  “What do they have on you?” Ray asked.

  The congressman looked at Bradley, who started to say, “We’d really rather not say…,” but then the congressman’s two eleven-year-old grandchildren barreled into the office, completely unaware that it was occupied and toppled one over the other.

  The congressman exploded out of his chair, and Ray was surprised at the old man’s swiftness until he understood that Frank Silver’s demeanor prior to this had all been an act. He had merely been playing the part of a distinguished old gentleman. But now he was enraged. And despite a late attempt at concealing his anger, his boiling red face spelled it all out. He was an evil SOB.

  Ray turned in his chair to look at the two boys. Their looks of horror at the sight of the old man towering behind his big desk were replaced with genuine fear when they saw Ray. And it wasn’t his cut and swollen eye that scared them—their eyes barely registered his wounds. It was his blackness. Ray could see it in them and he hated that shit. The prejudice. The generational racism.

  Bradley stood and moved toward the children as the congressman took his seat again. “C’mon boys, you know you’re not allowed in here,” Bradley said. He started to shepherd them out, but not before the effeminate one, Nathaniel, could turn and take one last glance at Ray.

  The door closed and Ray stood. “Your brother Tony is blackmailing you,” he said.

  The congressman leaned back in his chair and blew a raspberry. “Can’t be,” he said and looked suspiciously over at Carl.

  “He’s got secret video of me, why not you? You ever been to his loft downtown? The one with the fuck paintings on the walls? You should ask our friend John Thomas about what they found behind those paintings.” And just to rub the congressman’s dysfunctional family in the ground some more, Ray said: “But if I was you, I’d keep an eye on those two young boys before they start sucking on each other’s peckers.”

  “What?!” The congressman slammed his hand on the desk. “What, what, what?!”

  “I mean, if they haven’t started suckin’ on ’em already, that is,” Ray said, winking at Bradley.

  The congressman stood and pointed at the door. “Get the hell outta here you sunovabitch.”

  Ray turned from the open door and stared at the congressman. “I’m gonna find out how you were involved in my brother’s disappearance,” he said. “And when I do, I’m gonna come back here and kick your ass.”

  “You just try. I dare you. This is my town, and in my town, you ain’t nothing but a nigger.”

  “Then you’re ’bout to get woke to your nigga nightmare.”

  “Get out.”

  Ray turned to leave and looked back at the other two men. Bradley’s hands were laced in front of him, but still shaking like the last two leaves on a branch, and Carl stood solemnly with a thin smile on his face, as if to say “I’ll be seeing you later.” Ray nodded at him. “Yeah, I’ll be seeing you later,” he said.

  “Sooner than you think,” Carl said.

  Ray was surprised to see DC had been left sitting alone in the foyer of the mansion, until he turned to see a stern, older woman with crossed arms standing guard down the hall.

  “You’ve got a contusion on the side of your head,” Ray said to DC.

  She scrunched up her face. “A what?”

  “A bruise,” Ray said then turned to the older woman and shouted down the hall. “Did you call her an ambulance?”

  “Can you just leave my house now?” the old woman said.

  “Crotchety old bitch,” DC said to Ray, loud enough for the woman to hear, “Gave me this dish rag from under the sink for my head.”

  “If you don’t leave now,” the older woman yelled, “I’ll be forced to call the police.”

  “Can you believe s
he actually searched for a rag, from under the goddamn sink, to stop my head from bleeding?”

  “Class used to mean something,” Ray said. “Now it just means you have friends at the bank.”

  “I wouldn’t want all the money in the world if I had to be like them.”

  “OK. Let’s get you to a hospital.”

  “I’m fine.”

  She stood but wobbled and swooned into Ray’s arms where she continued to melt until he straightened her.

  “These white people weaken me,” she moaned.

  The sun had fallen behind the treeline and it was noticeably cooler as they exited the house and crossed the grass to the Caddy together. Andre was long gone, but his busted-up Monte Carlo was still part of the tree out front.

  “Where to now?” DC asked.

  “The hospital,” Ray said, opening the passenger side door for her.

  “Oh, wow,” she exclaimed. “A puppy.”

  HOSPITAL

  At the top of the embankment, near the entrance to the hospital parking lot, Carl parked his Town Car and watched as Ray carried DC through the St. Andrews emergency doors.

  Once inside the hospital, Ray walked right into the path of the buzzcut dude from the Welcome Tavern.

  “Sergeant Ray Price,” the buzzcut dude said, removing his credentials. “My name is Lance Hauer of the FBI.”

  Ray drew a breath of relief. He nodded down at DC in the wheelchair. “She doesn’t have any ID, or insurance. Can you make sure they treat her anyway? She’s had a passenger side window impact and she lost consciousness.”

  “I don’t think we can pay her hospital bill,” Lance joked, “but I’ll make sure she’s treated.”

  “She’s also pregnant,” Ray said.

  “No problem, but I need you to stay here so we can talk. You want me to get a doctor to look at you, too?”

  Ray shook his head and Lance split off.

  “I don’t need no doctor,” DC said.

  “Yes, you do,” Ray said, wheeling her to the waiting room. “Wait here.”

  DC stared at the room full of white people staring right back at her.

  Ray found an ATM beside the concession kiosks and withdrew five hundred dollars. He returned to DC and gave her the wad.

  “They’ll prolly want to keep you overnight, so tomorrow I want you to go to the bus station and get a ticket to Detroit.” Ray gave her the keys to the Caddy. “Leave the Caddy in the bus parking lot. Once you get to Detroit, there’s a hotel near the bus station called the Trumbull and Porter,” he continued. “Register under the name Diana Ross. I’ll meet you the day after tomorrow.”

  “But I don’t—”

  “Don’t argue,” Ray insisted. “That’s the way it’s gonna be. Let the doctors look you over and make sure you’re OK before you do anything. If you have to stay in the hospital then call me at this number,” he opened his wallet and handed her his business card. “That’s my last card,” he said.

  She started to cry. Ray crouched down in front of her and took her hands in his. “Everything will be fine,” he said.

  Lance returned with a nurse and told Ray everything was settled. He then said, “I need you to take a ride with me.”

  The nurse blocked her mouth and whispered to Lance, “Is that Ray Price?” she asked. Lance nodded. “I went to school with him,” she said.

  Ray kissed DC on the forehead and she welled-up again. She clutched her pink rabbit’s foot and the keys to the Caddy close to her heart.

  “Excuse me,” the nurse interrupted, enthusiastically. “Hey, Ray, whaddaya say? It’s me, Kelly Carlson from school.” She gave a foolish howdy-do hand wave but kept her distance—waiting to be invited into his space.

  “Good, thanks,” he said, dismissively. “Can you make sure my friend here is taken care of?”

  “Sure, yeah. So how are you? OMG. It’s been like, forever. So are you home for good or what?”

  “No,” he said, “I’m home for bad.”

  THE LANCE DRIVE

  The FBI agent’s car turned onto West Main Street heading for the bridge as rain began to patter on the roof.

  Ray petted the puppy in his lap. “What’s your name again?” he asked.

  “Lance Hauer,” the agent said.

  “And what are you investigating?”

  Lance glanced at his side mirror, looked into his rearview, and checked his blindspot as if making sure no one was eavesdropping. “We’re looking at congressman Silvers’ potential financial crimes,” he finally said.

  “And what do you know about my brother, Sam Beck?”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know anything about your brother.”

  “So there’s no chance he’s in federal custody?”

  “Afraid not. I didn’t know who he was—or you, for that matter—until today.”

  “Why’d you come at me so hard in the hotel the other day, then?”

  “I’d just learned of a source at that location.”

  “‘Joe the Junkie?”

  “Joe Locke, but yeah, he may have a tiny bit of a meth addiction. When I saw the commotion in his room from the street and got to the lobby… seeing you carrying that woman there, from the hospital… I had no idea who either of you were.”

  “Does your source know anything about Sam? That hotel parking lot was the last place he was seen and his window is right above it.”

  The car ambled up onto the bridge and idled behind two other vehicles. The puppy yipped as the windshield wipers streaked across the glass.

  Lance turned to look at Ray, and Ray could see the Special Agent was considering just how much he wanted to share. “All I know about Mr. Locke at the moment is that another cooperating witness was worried about his safety in relation to an ongoing case of ours. I enquired with the local sheriff about any suspicious activity at this bar and hotel prior to the other night, and it was communicated to me that your brother was reported missing, but that Mr. Locke and your brother were not known to be acquaintanced—despite both of them being convicted drug dealers.”

  Ray digested all that as the Special Agent paid the toll and continued off the bridge.

  “Then what the hell do you want with me?” Ray asked. “Where are we going?”

  “We think we found your brother,” Lance said.

  SILVER CITY MOTEL

  Ray could see the glow from the portable generator lights illuminating the rear of the Silver City Motel as the FBI agent’s car pulled off the side of the highway and climbed the driveway.

  Behind them crept Carl in his Lincoln Town car with the headlights off. He performed a U-Turn and returned back to Benson Bridge.

  The work site in front of the property was so recently set up that the construction tape strung around the perimeter still hung as tightly as the newly unfurled police tape.

  Ray exited Lance’s car, and both men approached a female Sheriff’s Deputy. Lance gave his name and showed his identification. She shone her flashlight down on his ID. “He’s with me,” Lance said, indicating Ray.

  The officer spoke into her walkie-talkie and nodded for them to continue.

  Ray’s body ached as he walked up the drive to the side of the motel and then toward the rear of the building. He was aware Lance was speaking to him, but he didn’t listen. The sounds around him were swallowed by a high-pitched hum, the police lights bounced off of the darkened trees behind the motel. Ray’s baby brother was somewhere back here. Alone. Dead. But there was still a chance; the FBI dude had said, We think we found your brother. Think.

  Ray’s mind raced ahead of his footsteps. He tried to project himself to the night Sam was in the parking lot: meeting with someone he knew, someone he did business with, someone who wanted something from him that wasn’t drugs, wasn’t revenge, and wasn’t seventy-five thousand dollars…

  Two detectives greeted Ray and Lance, then from behind them, John Thomas appeared and the look in his eyes told Ray everything that he needed to know. That he feared. It was Sammy back
here. “I’m sorry, Ray,” he said.

  Ray’s heart dropped into his stomach and he felt as if he was struck from behind by a giant, unseen force, and his spirit was being sucked out of him.

  Lance frowned at Ray as the other two detectives started to discuss the details of the discovery and John tried to ask about Ray’s wounds, but Ray tuned them all out. He was here as a brother, not a cop. He had no authority to be here, so he would respect their position and privacy as professionals. Appreciate that he had been invited as a courtesy. That, and he was pissed off. Anger had quickly replaced his stolen spirit. Whoever had left Sam here, whoever had killed his baby brother, would pay with their lives next.

  “Ray?”

  Ray’s eyes flashed to John, Lance, and the other two cops.

  “Would you make a positive identification?” John asked.

  Ray walked like a ghost past the group to the tarp covering the body behind them, the rain on his face making it difficult to hold back his tears of rage.

  A crime scene technician completing his notes handed Ray a pair of shoe covers with the words Police emblazoned in a repeating pattern on the bottom soles. To Ray, the words were a distant memory, something he used to be; like seeing your name etched years before in the bark of a tree: Ray loves Mandy.

  He stepped down into the two-foot-deep grave. The mini excavator that must have accidentally discovered his brother stood sentry at the top of the hole. Ray’s feet sunk into the soft earth as he squatted to lift the tarp and stare at a black man lying face down. He scanned the area for evidence before disturbing the body—even though he knew whatever had been here had already been collected by forensics. The clothes on the body were the same as what Sam had worn on the night of his disappearance: baby-blue button-down shirt, navy dress pants. A single bullet hole in the back of the skull matted the body’s kinked hair. Ray only had to turn over the body partially to see it was Sam, but he wanted to see if the bullet had exited the face. But there wasn’t an exit wound.