Fool's Ride (The Jenkins Cycle Book 2)

by John L. Monk

  “Who calls you that?” I said.

  He was pulling at the collar now, working his finger in the keyhole.

  “What?” he said.

  “Who calls you Clifftonite?”

  “Never-fuckin’-mind who calls me that! Now let me go!”

  “These people who call you Clifftonite,” I said. “Are they women?”

  “What if they are?”

  “You ever knock them around a little?” I said, and winked to show it was just us guys here. “You know, when they get out of line?”

  “Clifftonite don’t hit women,” he said. “What do you think I am, huh?”

  He hadn’t met my eyes that time, not until the end—almost like he realized he needed to look me in the eyes or it’d seem like he was lying.

  “What’s this really about?” he said. “Did Sherry … you been talking to Sherry?”

  “I’m guessing you like to hit people and talk later. You definitely seem like a hothead. None of the other guards like you very much. You ever hit any of them?”

  “Fuck no!” he said, more believably than when I’d asked if he hit women.

  Maybe none of the others mouthed off to him the way I had tonight, so he’d never had to get physical with them.

  “Why don’t you sit down?” I said.

  “I don’t wanna sit down!” he yelled. “Let me go!” Cupping his mouth, he tilted his head to the ceiling. “Help! Someone! Help!”

  I turned my back on him and went upstairs. He was still yelling for help when I shut the over-built door on him, cutting off his cries until I had to strain to hear them. Whatever Fred’s problems, he did good soundproofing. As an afterthought, I latched the throw bolts shut in case Clifftonite burned through the chain with his heat vision.

  Quickly, I gathered paper towels, some linen from an upstairs closet, a few sodas, some packs of cookies from my trip to the store, and stuffed them all in a bucket from the garage.

  Cliff was still screaming for help when I carried it all down to him.

  Keeping out of reach of his Popeye arms, I tugged the mattress away from him. I cleaned up as much of the puke as I could, turned the mattress over, and covered it with the fresh linen.

  “What are you doing?” Cliff said. “I’m not sleeping down here—you need to let me go right now, goddammit, or … I swear to God when I get out…”

  The tenor of his threats sounded more desperate than furious, as if he were losing hope.

  “Couldn’t keep your hands to yourself,” I said. “This is sort of your fault, you know.”

  “I’m sorry!” he yelled, hands together, imploring me. “I’m sorry a hundred times, okay? If I knew you was a crazy sonofabitch I would have been nicer. Let me go, I won’t tell no one. My fuckin’ word. My word’s good, just ask anyone.”

  I said, “But you do hit women…”

  “I don’t hit no fuckin’ women!”

  “And all that profanity…”

  After the linen was arranged, I took out the sodas and cookies and set them on top, then nudged the mattress closer to him so he could reach it.

  “Use the bucket if you have to,” I said. “I know it’s gross, but … Dammit, Cliff. You ruined everything, you know that? The Dan of Steel had a perfectly good trip this time and now you’ve gone and messed it up.”

  Cliff stared at me, mystified, like I was spouting fourth-grade math problems at him and told him no calculators.

  “Messed what up?” he said.

  “Now listen,” I said. “I need to get back to work. After I deal with Gerald tomorrow, you’ll be free.”

  “Gerald who?” he said. “What do you mean back to work?”

  “When I die, don’t worry, they’ll send someone to investigate. I’ll carry a note in my pocket with something creepy on it so they check the basement and freezer.” I sighed, feeling bad again. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. You’re kind of a dirtbag, but I don’t think you’re a murderer.”

  “I’m not a murderer, I keep telling you!” he shouted, sobbing a little now. “You let me go now, goddammit!”

  I started up the stairs.

  “Turn the light back on!” he screamed.

  “Whoops, sorry,” I said, and flipped it back on. “Force of habit.”

  Turning my back again, I left him chained there, crying and pitiful in his big muscles and steel collar.

  Chapter Twenty

  Until I finished my business, I needed to keep Cliff’s car at the house. Fred’s minivan was stuck in the warehouse district, and I still needed it. I also needed to finish my shift, to stave off suspicion if Cliff was reported missing. So I called a cab to take me back to the security trailer.

  Forty minutes later, I paid my fare and waved goodbye to my laconic cabbie. He didn’t wave back. Sam would have waved and followed up with an offer to take me home when I was ready. I wondered how ol’ Sam was doing and if he realized who was in his cab that day. Was he following the media sensation and telling his friends and family how he’d driven evil Ernest Prescott to his own movie?

  I sighed. Of all the dumb things I’d done, losing my temper with Cliff stood out as one of the big ones. He liked to hit people, so what? Maybe that’s as far as it went. Maybe it went farther, but how would I know? He didn’t hurt kids, he wasn’t a killer, he just seemed like a hothead. Working with the best knowledge I had, purely on facts, nothing he’d done warranted me killing or crippling him with irreversible brain damage. But chaining him up like that … I’d go so far as a possible maybe on that one, because who doesn’t need a good scare to straighten them out once in a while?

  If this had happened even two rides back, I wouldn’t have been so concerned. But that terrible smokestack of death—with the dying over and over a thousand and one times—that was solid confirmation the Great Whomever was real and not some figment of my imagination. He could punish and he could reward, and I needed to be careful.

  After the night’s exertions, I didn’t feel like reading anything. A check of the monitors showed the graffiti artists were gone, and I felt a little bit sad about that. I was also wiped out.

  I closed my eyes and leaned back in my chair. Then, in a while, I wasn’t so sad anymore.

  * * *

  “Fred, man, wake up,” a voice said after no time at all.

  It was bright out, which didn’t make sense at first. There was a guy standing over me—my relief.

  “Hold on,” I said, and scrawled Nothing to report on the first line, then double quotes down the next seven lines.

  “Can you get any lazier?” he said, shaking his head.

  “If I felt like it,” I said, and left.

  Like every other night, I was still tired by the time I got to the house. The Mercedes remained parked in the driveway. I’d left Cliff’s keys on the counter in the kitchen and they were still there. I almost went down to check on him, but I had a big day ahead and needed my rest.

  Around noon, I woke up with a headache and a stiff neck. After a shower and clean clothes I felt a little better, but could have really used some aspirin. Sadly, none of the cabinets had any medicine. Maybe Fred liked pain? Come to think of it, I didn’t know much about the guy except he liked to kidnap people. Sort of scary, thinking of it that way, considering my own behavior last night with Cliff.

  I put off eating long enough to go down and check on my prisoner.

  He was sitting with his back against the post, staring at me.

  “How’s your head?” I said.

  “It hurts, that’s how.”

  “My head hurts too,” I said. “I need to go out and get some stuff. You want anything?”

  “You could come a little closer.”

  “Other than that?”

  Cliff turned away and shook his head. Then he seemed to deflate. “Some toothpaste? Water?”

  I nodded, and turned to go.

  “And some TP,” he added. “You sick son of a bitch.”

  “Will do,” I said.

  T
he more time I spent with him, the more I realized he wasn’t evil, he just wasn’t that smart. He thought with his emotions. Me too I supposed, and if that made him dumb what did it make me?

  Thirty minutes later, I came back with a bunch of stuff from a nearby drugstore: pain killers, toilet paper, toothpaste, a soft-bristled toothbrush, and a case of bottled water.

  “Now, Cliff,” I said. “This is your big day. If everything goes as planned, you’ll be out within twenty-four hours.”

  “I want out now!”

  “You brought this on yourself,” I said. “Don’t forget it. Now just hang tight and a little later the cops will be here to let you go. I’ll even leave you the key, for when they arrive.”

  Way on the other side of the room, which was empty except for the things I’d brought down, I placed the key on the floor against the wall.

  “How am I supposed to reach it?”

  “You’re not,” I said.

  Then, pursued by cries and threats, I left him there, shut the door, and went upstairs to write the note:

  Dear Mortal Authorities,

  In my basement, you will find one of your race called “Clifftonite.” He is a terrible person, much given to profanity and hitting women and old men. It was my intent to destroy him, but I changed my mind for mysterious reasons known only to me. Perhaps I am simply lazy.

  In the garage, resting in the freezer, is a woman named “Sally.” She overdosed when I spiked her drink during a kidnapping attempt. You should assume there were more women before her.

  All hail Ernest Prescott!

  I signed the note Fred, added his address as an extra precaution, folded it up, and stuffed it in my pocket.

  I was about to leave when the phone rang.

  I answered it. “Hello?”

  “Fred? It’s me, Larry from work. You seen Cliff around?”

  “Nope,” I said, and became seized with the certainty that the fight and kidnapping had been recorded on video.

  “His girlfriend dropped by looking for him—says he was coming out here to see you.”

  “Is that right?” I said. “Well, you know Cliff…”

  Whatever that means.

  Larry laughed and said, “I know what you mean. I’ll tell her something. Sorry to bug you.”

  “No problem,” I said and hung up.

  Cliff had a girlfriend who cared enough to go looking for him. Maybe he was a jerk with guys and a pussycat at home.

  By the time I left the house, it was just after one o’clock in the afternoon. I was tempted to take the Mercedes, but no way could I do that now.

  I still had two hours to kill before I could make my next move, so I went to a fast food place. I couldn’t be sure when Fred’s credit card would give out on me, and I didn’t have any more cash, so I needed a place that could accept or deny me at point of sale.

  Though nothing fancy, the food was great. Especially the milkshake.

  At two thirty, I closed the book I’d brought with me, got in the minivan, and drove two miles to Brad Ratcliff’s neighborhood. Using the address I’d gleaned from his magazine subscriptions, I found the house easily—a corner townhouse in a low-income section of New Haven. I recognized his big truck right away.

  I parked a few cars back and waited.

  Maybe a minute later, the door opened and Brad came out wearing his guard’s uniform. He didn’t lean back in and yell something to anyone, and he didn’t stoop down and give an attack dog a big snuggly head rub. Both very good signs.

  After he left, I got out, walked up the sidewalk to his house, and pressed the doorbell. I didn’t hear it ring, so I knocked loudly while glancing around to see if anyone was watching. I gave it another twenty seconds, then leaned down low and slammed the door with my shoulder. When it didn’t budge, I leaned back even more, putting all Fred’s ponderous girth into it, and this time it not only flew open, the middle of the door caved in, too, almost folding. I hadn’t busted through the frame so much as the deadbolt had slipped out of the latch.

  The laws of motion, however, are nothing to be trifled with—I crashed inside and sprawled forward, painfully. The floor I was lying on was a section of purple tiling, veined like marble, separating the entryway from wall-to-wall purple carpeting. Tacky, sure, but it was someone’s home, and way more than I had.

  I got my knees under me and staggered to my feet, breathing heavily for my efforts. Then, after a quick look outside, I shut the door as best I could, pushing it in the middle so it flattened out like it wasn’t made of hollow cardboard.

  Leaning back against the door, I surveyed the room: yellow walls in a small living room, and a low wall separating it from the kitchen. There was a set of stairs on the right, going up. Farther along the wall, under the stairs, was a door that probably led to the basement. Leather couches in the living room, modern art prints on the walls, and bicycles near the front casement windows.

  Bicycles…

  One for a man, the other for a woman.

  “Hello?” I called out, hoping nobody answered. Then louder: “Hello?”

  Nobody answered.

  I took the stairs and headed up to where I figured the bedrooms were. At the top were three doors: one on the left, one on the right, and one straight ahead opened wide to an empty bathroom.

  I almost shouted hello again, but something stopped me. Cautiously, I reached for the door on the right and turned the knob, pulling back a little so it’d make less noise. I cracked it open and saw a woman, about twenty-five years old. She was sitting at a computer with a big monitor playing a video game.

  “Someone cover me,” she said in a serious tone, startling me clear out of my skin. But she wasn’t talking to me. She had on a hands-free headset.

  I’d played the same game on another ride several years ago. Very fun, very addictive. I hoped to play it again one day.

  Judging from all the movement on the screen and the rigid way she was sitting, she appeared to be in an epic battle for all Mankind. Hoping she’d be occupied for the next few minutes, I quietly shut the door.

  The other room, a bedroom with nightstands bracketing a king-sized bed, was unoccupied. I went to the closest end table and opened the top drawer. Just as I’d hoped, Brad owned a handgun. My only reason for being there.

  It had been a leap of faith Brad would have one at all. But what manly hunter-guy with a big tough truck didn’t also like handguns? My biggest worry was he’d only have rifles and long shotguns. They’d do in a pinch, but I couldn’t hide them under my shirt no matter how big Fred was.

  Resting beside the gun was an extra magazine, nine millimeter. Quickly, I grabbed it and the gun and left the room, being careful not to bump anything. With luck, the woman wouldn’t know they’d been robbed until she went out later and saw the messed-up front door. By then I’d be long gone.

  After closing the bedroom door behind me, I hurried down the stairs, slipped the gun in my waistband, and left.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I now had a gun. This should have made me feel better, but now I had something else to worry about: I was having chest pains.

  They’d started after I fell through the door. At the time, I’d shrugged them off, lumping them in with the general pain of crashing to the ground in Fred’s large body. I’d been pushing the old guy pretty hard, and I was feeling jittery again, like at the mall after those pastries.

  “Then why’d you drink that milkshake?” I said.

  I didn’t care for my tone, so I chose not to answer that. Also, traffic was tight due to roadwork ahead and I needed to pay attention.

  My plan for dealing with Gerald was simple: knock on his door and gun him down. The direct approach. Then I’d wait for the cops to show up before shooting myself. I needed them to be there when it happened to ensure they got the note. I couldn’t risk some opportunist rifling through Fred’s pockets and robbing his corpse. An unlikely possibility, sure, but I was responsible for Cliff until he was free again.

 
; When I got to Gerald’s house, it was just after four in the afternoon.

  “Dammit,” I said.

  I’d arrived too late—he was backing down his drive. Probably off to hunt for more kids at malls and supermarkets.

  I followed him closely at first, then pulled back. My desperation was going to get me noticed. If I lost him today, something told me I’d never get another chance.

  The new plan was almost as simple as the old plan: wait until he parked at the supermarket or mall or playground, or wherever he was heading, then pull up and shoot him in the head. Preferably not at a playground. Bad for anyone to see something like that, let alone kids, but I’d do it rather than let him go free.

  Ten minutes later, Gerald got on I-91 heading north. I doubted he had run out of places to lurk with that awful backpack and unloved teddy. Briefly, I considered ramming him off the road, or pulling up to him and shooting him through the passenger window—plan C, if you will. But with my luck, I’d bump into him, spin out, then veer off an overpass into a bus loaded with nuns and supermodels.

  In the middle of my car chase, we hit several miles of bumper-to-bumper traffic that lasted an hour due to a bad accident. When it cleared, we kept going. Twenty minutes later I became curious. Intrigued, even. Why was a guy like Gerald Ross taking road trips? Some new job? Family that still talked to him? A kid of his own, of all things?

  After a while, I noticed my fuel gauge dipping down near a quarter full. Also, I needed to use the bathroom. If I thought I might lose him, I’d take a chance and try shooting him anyway.

  Eventually, the decision was made for me when Gerald exited east to a place called North Bradford. This was a particularly country area with big houses, open land, rich vegetation, and good old-fashioned distance separating people from their neighbors.

  The farther we drove, the more secluded it became.

  At this point in the tail, I’d pulled back even more. If he turned, I’d speed up to keep pace with him, but he kept going straight. About ten minutes later, he put on his blinkers and pulled down a long driveway bisecting a wide field of bright green grass. Way out in the middle of it, a large white house blazed in the day’s last light, a shock of white sail on a painted sea.