Killing Bliss

by EC Sheedy

  Dear Jesus. He had Sandra. Wasn't she enough of a burden for any man?

  His jaw trembled, and his mouth went dry. He'd suffered enough. He would suffer no more, no matter what he had to do. He would stop Bliss. Forever.

  First he had to calm down, get information—about the girl. He licked his lips, forced himself to focus while he still could. At the moment, no headache drilled into his thoughts, and other than the terror that bunched at the base of his skull like stones, his thinking was clear.

  Bliss thought him weak and spineless. All true enough, but years with Sandra had instilled a useful slyness and the talent to deceive. He hoped they would serve him now. Bliss always called him Groveling Grover or good-old-Wayne. He would expect him to be diffident and ingratiating; he wouldn't disappoint.

  "Hey, Wayne-man, how the hell are ya?"

  A hand slapped his back, then clapped on Grover's shoulder and squeezed. He looked up and into the blue eyes of the man he planned to kill.

  "Frank. Nice to see you again." The words cut his tongue on the way out.

  Bliss snorted his disbelief, his underlying disapproval, then smoothed a lapel. "Yeah, sure it is, Grover."

  On a closer look, his revulsion at Bliss's touch was replaced by a sharp stab of envy. Frank had his mother's good looks, he noted, tall, golden-haired, and leanly muscled, handsome by any standard. Wayne had never come close to physical beauty—as Sandra, and his mother before her, reminded him at every opportunity.

  "You look well," he added, remembering Frank's vanity and not above playing to it. But the truth was, he did look fit and very strong, which troubled him.

  Bliss laughed. "Yeah, like you care how the fuck I look." He patted his flat stomach. "Doesn't hurt to spend seven years in the gym, though." He poked Wayne's soft belly. "You ought to try it sometime, Grover. That gut of yours could use some trimming."

  Wayne ignored the slur, nodded. "Yes, I suppose you're right. Now where can I take you?"

  "Got the money?"

  Wayne nodded.

  Bliss put out his hand. Wayne clasped it as though it were intended as a handshake and leaned forward. "Considering the amount of security in the airport, both in uniform and out, I don't think it's wise to exchange the funds here." He shook Bliss's hand and let it go.

  Bliss glanced around, then looked back at Grover, his expression speculative. "Getting some smarts in your old age, huh?" He picked up the bag he'd put at his feet, held it out for Wayne to carry. "Let's hit the nearest bar then. I could use a drink." He clapped a hand on Wayne's back. "And you can fill me in on all the exciting things that go on in the life of the underpaid social worker."

  "This way." Wayne took his bag, tamped down his jittery nerves. He didn't need a drink, he needed a chilled brain and icy nerves, so he wouldn't tremble when he pulled the trigger.

  * * *

  A half hour later, they were in the back booth of a place called Jaeke's, a tavern a few miles north of Sea-Tac.

  Bliss ordered a beer, a double burger, a side of deep-fried onion rings, and dug in. "You know, I haven't been able to get enough real food since Smithfield. Christ, that place had the worst goddamn cook ever to ladle slop in a prison kitchen." He swigged back some beer and tossed a glance at Wayne. "So, how's things going anyway?"

  The question was half-civil, and Wayne replied, "Could be better."

  "Now why doesn't that surprise me?" He took another bite of his burger and cocked his head. "Where you getting your rocks off these days anyway, Grover? You still into getting your lily-white ass whipped?" He pulled a disgusted face. "Weird, that crap. You wouldn't catch me letting a woman beat on me. No fuckin' way."

  Wayne's stomach curled into a hard ball, and his face flamed. Thank God the bar was dark enough that the piece of dirt sitting across from him couldn't see it. He said nothing.

  "You must have hated losing Ma like that. Brett and I could vouch for the fact the bitch was good at doling out the pain. Must have been one long boner for your kind. But a stroke of luck the way things turned out." He shook his head, lifted his lip in a half smile. "Mama bought the farm, and Brett and me inherited it. Funny, huh? Hell of a lot like having your cake and eating it, too." He laughed, obviously pleased at his own joke.

  "Your mother wasn't all bad, Frank." Wayne reverted to counselor mode, gripping the table edge to the point of pain, terrified his rage—or fear—would burst like an abscess, and he'd leap across the table and strangle him. No, that wouldn't do. He needed information, needed to know the name of the girl, needed to know if Harding was on her tail. Needed to protect himself, now more than ever.

  "You know, Grover, you're right. Old Belle definitely had her moments, taking in all those needy kids like she did." Bliss snorted softly. "Matter of fact, she's the reason I'm about to pocket a half mil—maybe more, if I play it right."

  "How's that?"

  "Because a certain high-toned hooker who currently goes by the name of Fallon West, but was once known as Dianna Lintz, is about to lead me to the end of the rainbow."

  "The pretty one," Grover said softly, another piece of the puzzle slipping into place. He tried not to look anxious.

  "Uh-huh. Beauty herself."

  "Where did you find her?" Stay calm, Grover, stay calm.

  "San Francisco. Vain little bitch was stupid enough to show up on TV a couple of years ago on the arm of some rich geriatric type. I had a few friends on the outside, so it wasn't hard to track her down. And when I found out she was a hooker"—he gloated—"hell, nothing's easier to find than a working gal, them being creatures of habit, after all."

  Grover's blood iced in his veins.

  Bliss and Harding hadn't found the same girl.

  Susan said the girl Harding found was "right in her backyard." And if Beauty were coming here, to Seattle, she had to be meeting Addilene somewhere. His head throbbed, and he closed his eyes, rubbed at his temple. Behind his eyelids was only blood.

  No...

  A voice from somewhere in the depths of his building headache murmured that the girls should live, go on with their secret lives...

  But the risk.

  His stomach contracted in fear and his head thrummed.

  Bliss, busy ogling a young girl wearing only enough to avoid imprisonment, turned away. "You know who else is gonna be at the end of that rainbow?" He turned back to Grover, smirking.

  Grover, busy worrying about the girls, how he'd kill them, if he could kill them, didn't quite hear him. So he shook his head, took a drink of beer. He hated beer, and this early in the day, it made him nauseous.

  "A badass we all know and love. Our very own Gussy-baby—the last person on earth you want to clap eyes on."

  Vanelleto. Grover's mind went sand blank, and his blood jellied in his veins. If Bliss found him, no doubt Harding would, too. And Gus Vanelleto was the biggest threat of all.

  Frantic, his heart cartwheeled in his chest, and his gut cramped painfully.

  Get a hold of yourself, Grover. Breathe.

  He took his own advice and brought himself down. Everything was okay. For now, all he had to do was keep on top of things, maybe let Bliss live a little longer—until he led him to Vanelleto, at least. Yes, that would work. And to make him do that, he needed to gain his confidence. But how? All he wanted to do was run.

  When his hand trembled, he secured it around his beer glass. "You'd better be careful, Frank," he said, when he'd leveled off enough to speak. "You remember how, uh, tricky Gus was." Read that cunning—and dangerous.

  Bliss put down his burger, took a napkin from its metal holder and dragged it across his mouth. "Yeah, like you give a rat's ass what happens to me. Give me a break."

  "I don't wish you any harm, surely by now you know that." He twirled his beer glass, tried to don a sincere expression. A thought came to him, lightning fast. So fast he had no time to think it through. "And I have tried to help you through these past years." He stammered it out, his brain racing ahead. He blessed the God who gave Bliss
an inflated ego and a soft brain.

  "Help? Are you nuts?" Bliss said. "I've been fuckin' blackmailing you, Grover."

  "Yes, I knew you saw it that way, and that was all right. But I never resisted you, did I?" He paused to let that fact, as true as his own fear, take on a new spin. "The truth was, I wanted to help. I always kind of thought I owed it to Belle—you know, for what I'd done and all. The trouble I caused."

  Bliss frowned and looked at him as if he were the village idiot on dumb pills. "You get saved or somethin'?"

  "No." Grover soldiered on, prayed he wouldn't choke on his own lies. "But I did get too involved. And I did put those kids in your home, and in the end, that's what caused her death. If I hadn't done either of those things, you and your brother's lives might have turned out differently."

  "Jesus, Grover, what're you trying to pull? You were looking out for number one—just like everybody else. Like me when I called that vicious bitch you live with, told her about you and Ma."

  Grover lowered his head, ignored the sweat building up on his brow. "Back then, yes, I wanted to protect myself, didn't want the disgrace of losing my job, my standing—"

  Bliss snorted again, stuffed an onion ring in his mouth.

  "But believe it or not, I did feel guilty, and you coming at me for money like you did helped me ease that guilt. Somewhat, anyway." Grover faltered, formed his risky lie, and forced himself to meet Bliss's cynical gaze. "The thing is, I'm dying, Frank. I have a few months at most, so I won't be able to help you much anymore. This"—he shoved an envelope with ten thousand dollars in it across the table—"is the last of it. I've already organized my affairs to take care of Sandra, and as to your calling my employer, telling him about Belle and me, what I did..." He lifted a shoulder. "It doesn't matter now."

  Frank's brow furrowed. "You're full of shit."

  "I wish I was. I really do, but what I'm full of is... disease." He'd leave what disease to the idiot's imagination.

  "Christ." Bliss actually moved back in his seat as if germs were coursing in antlike masses across the wooden tabletop.

  "So you see, I'm glad you'll be doing all right—that you've found your, uh, rainbow." Grover folded and refolded his napkin, but didn't look down at it. "Not that I'm surprised, you always were incredibly bright and capable." He choked out the last lie, and took another drink of his beer.

  Bliss still looked suspicious, but Wayne finally had his full attention. "Like you noticed my brain power while you were humping mother dearest?" Still cynical, his voice had an edge of wistfulness, as if he were setting out on a flattery-fishing expedition.

  Wayne nodded. "Hard to miss, Frank," he said, leaving a silence before adding, "But it is strange, isn't it? How things turn out? After all these years, you'll finally get some justice for what those kids did to you. In a way they owe you—maybe even more than I do."

  "Damn straight." He shoved his burger plate aside. "You know, Grover, you're not half bad." He stopped, and his face went into neutral. Grover knew the look; every teenage boy he'd ever dealt with had it down pat. It was a you-can' t-get-to-me look, used like white-out over the emotions, to accent how tough they were. It was usually accompanied by a curled lip. Bliss skipped the curled lip, but he had the blankness nailed, when he said, "You know, back then, when you were doing the dirty with Belle, you were pretty okay with Brett and me. Better than most of her johns."

  "Thank you, Frank." Grover, his lie exhausting him, kept his face sober, avoided trudging deeper into Bliss's emotional landscape.

  Bliss drank the last of his beer, nodded toward his glass, hesitated, then asked, "How about another? You being on your last legs and all, a man shouldn't deny himself."

  Grover's smile was weak—and sincere. "So true." He nodded at Bliss's vest pocket, where sat half his retirement savings. "But you're buying."

  Frank laughed. "Sure, Grover, why the hell not?"

  "And about your plan, son"—he thought the word son a nice touch—"there is one problem you should know about."

  Bliss was flagging the server. "Uh-huh," he said distractedly.

  "Someone has found the other girl."

  His head swung back as though whiplashed. "What are you talking about? Who?"

  "A private investigator, by the name of Cade Harding, hired by the grandmother of the missing boy."

  "Grandmother?" He frowned. "Shit, I forgot about her. Susan something. She came nosing around with questions a couple of times. Way back." He stopped.

  "She's still looking after all this time? Hiring PIs? Must have more money than brains." His face was flat, thoughtful.

  "She never stopped looking."

  "Waste of time and cash. Damn little screamer. She'll never find him now." He looked away.

  Wayne swallowed his repugnance at Bliss's casual disregard for the life of an innocent child.

  He should die. He deserves to die.

  His hands stopped shaking, and his heart found a steady rhythm for the first time since he'd sat down with Bliss. He felt right suddenly... convinced the world would be a better place without Bliss in it. "Maybe not, but Harding has turned up one of the girls, and based on what you've told me, it has to be Addilene Wartenski—"

  "She was a kid. Doesn't know nothing."

  "Maybe not, but if she leads him to Gus before you get to him..." He shrugged and let the suggestion carry its own weight. "It could cause you some trouble."

  "Shit."

  Grover left him to stew in silence before adding, "If you like, we could keep in touch for the next while. If you keep me informed of your whereabouts, I'll keep you informed of Harding's. That way, you'll have no unwelcome surprises."

  He was immediately suspicious again. "And for that you'll want what? Half?"

  "This isn't about money." Wayne shook his head, sadly he hoped. "I won't live long enough to spend it."

  "What then? Everybody wants something."

  "I just want what you want, Frank," he said, then to allay his suspicions, added, "And the promise you'll leave my wife in peace after I'm gone."

  "Ah, the little woman again." He stuck out his hand, looked relieved that Grover had asked for something in return. "Sure, Grover, why the hell not? Besides, leavin' that bitch of yours alone would be about the easiest thing I ever had to do."

  * * *

  After a serious round of pacing, cursing, and flat out avoidance, Cade picked up the phone. He was lucky; the person he wanted to answer did.

  "Brenton, this is Cade. We've got a problem, and I think backup is in order. I assume you carry?" Cade was licensed, but he'd gotten rid of his artillery years before. By now, he'd probably have trouble nailing a soda pop can from a foot away. But he wasn't going into this drama unprepared. Addy had no idea what wheels she'd set in motion, what to expect. She'd admitted as much.

  She wanted him in; he was in—his way. It was for damn sure the cast of characters he'd be dealing with would be armed to their back molars.

  "Not as a matter of course," Stan said, in his easy way. "Generally keep it in mothballs."

  "Well, get it out of mothballs and bring it here. Do the traveling salesman routine and check in. I'll watch for you. When you get here, I'll fill in the details. But for God's sake, leave Susan behind." One more person to look out for might prove one too many. If he could work things out with Addy, there was a chance of avoiding bloodshed—and finding Josh—but if he showed his hand too soon, she'd warn the others, then bolt herself. He'd bet on that. If that happened, he'd lose any possible lead to Josh—and Addy would be out of his life.

  Neither thought was palatable.

  "I'll do what I can. Care to tell me what's going on?"

  "Like I said, I'll fill you in when you get here. For now, it's enough that you know I've verified my original suspicion. I've found Addilene Wartenski." And she's going to break both my legs when she finds out I've called you. But while that made him feel like a rat, her safety came first.

  "You sure it's Wartenski?" Brenton sai
d. "Absolutely sure?"

  "It's her. And she's told me most of what happened the night Belle Bliss was killed."

  "Hell." he said. "You're good, Harding. Maybe you and I should partner up."

  "Not in this lifetime, Brenton. I'll take my thrills from plotlines and carefully edited mayhem." He forked a hand through his thick hair. "How soon can you get here?"

  "I'll be on my way within the hour. A few directions would speed me up, though."

  Cade gave him detailed instructions on how to find the place, then closed by repeating, "And Stan? Don't bring Susan. It's too soon."

  A pause. "Now that oughta be interesting. She's been a hound dog since she found out I knew where you were in the first place. She's not going to like being left behind, it being her missing grandson who started all these goings-on."

  "Being left behind is a hell of a lot safer than being in the line of a stray bullet." And if Cade couldn't stop it, bullets were definitely in the future of Star Lake.

  "You're right about that, and hell"—he laughed a bit—"if I can't shake off an itty-bitty woman, I'll have to retire my PI license."

  "See you, Brenton."

  * * *

  "'Itty-bitty woman'?" Susan said from behind him, her tone dripping in honey and laced with arsenic.

  Stan closed his eyes and cursed to himself, before he turned to face the music that would undoubtedly be his dirge. "Sweetie—"

  "Don't even think about it, Stan. Let's pack together," she smiled and raised her brows, but the gaze under them was implacable. "And if it's guns my nephew wants, it's guns he'll get. I have a Glock in the drawer of my bedside table."

  "Susan, please listen to—"

  She raised a hand—the one holding the bedroom cordless telephone—and glared up at him. "If I were you, Stan Brenton, I wouldn't say another word. It will take you at least a year to atone for 'itty-bitty.'" She stomped out of the room. "I've got a call to make, then I'm packing. Then, big man, we go and find my grandson. If we hurry, we can be there in a couple of hours."

  Chapter 18

  Grover watched Linda Curl through the glass window in his office. She was laughing into the phone. Probably a personal call, he thought. She had lots of those. Probably had lots of friends, one of those things called a "life."