I turned to my left, saw a shadowy figure holding a rifle and walking toward me.
“Oh shit oh shit oh shit. I was aiming for his legs, I swear.” It was Leslie. “I was shaking and I tried to raise it just a little. I swear. You gotta believe me.”
CHAPTER 10
I got up and found my breath. “Thank God, you’re a bad shot.”
“Holy shit I killed him. Oh my God this is not good. I saw him pointing the gun at you and . . .”
I found the strength to walk toward him, limping and wheezing. I held my hands out so he could see I didn’t have a weapon. “He was gonna kill me, Leslie.”
Leslie raised the rifle and pointed it at me. “Stop right there. I don’t know what this shit’s all about but I don’t want any of it.”
“Leslie, look at me. Look at my face. I can barely move. I’m not gonna give you any trouble. But please listen. Three men just raped my friend, killed her boyfriend, and just took her somewhere to do . . . I don’t know. I need to--”
“Who are you?”
“Stay on target, Leslie. Do you hear what I’m saying? I have to go right now and find her before she’s killed. I know what this must look like but you gotta believe I didn’t come up here to cause trouble. So please stop aiming the gun at me.”
For the first time Leslie spotted Gabe’s body over by the grave. “Who’s that?”
“That’s the boyfriend I just told you about. They made us dig our graves. They’re kidnappers and rapists. You following? Look at my hands and clothes, Leslie. I’m covered in dirt because I just dug that fucking grave. Tell me you’re following me?”
Leslie nodded, but he looked pretty damn confused. “How do I know any of this is true? And why didn’t you mention it before?”
“Didn’t know if I was onto something or just being panicky. It’s a long story. So here’s the thing. I really really need to go. My name is Roger Huntington. These guys are in a white SUV. One of them has a tattoo of an eagle on his head. He said he was in the joint once, so they probably can find his photo in a prison database somewhere. You can tell the cops all that.”
“What the—! You can’t leave! The cops will think I killed these guys myself. I mean, I killed that one there but I didn’t mean to and I thought I was stopping something—”
“You did. And I thank you.”
“But . . . but . . . how are you gonna find her? Don’t you want to talk to the cops and—”
“They’ll spend more time questioning me than looking. I sort of have a . . . a history.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Nothing to worry about. But let’s just say I’m on record.”
“I knew it. There’s more to this shit than you’re telling me.”
“It’s not like that. Just, sort of, got into a fight a while back.”
“Yeah, well, ain’t we all. I got nabbed for a bar fight a few years ago. Apparently it’s uncool for a man like me to like Kelly Clarkson.”
“I don’t think it is.”
“Man, can she sing. Sweet as an angel.”
“Leslie, please.”
Finally he lowered the gun. “Fucking-A, I was just looking for the damn kids. They’re still out on their motorbikes somewhere. I hear all these voices and figure I’ll see if this SUV you mentioned been cutting across my property like you said--”
“Leslie, I don’t have time for a conversation. I really do have to go! Can you call the cops and take care of this? My friend is in real danger. Look, I have a card.”
I patted my back pocket, but realized the goons had taken my wallet. Probably still had it. “Shit. Okay, I don’t have a card. You’re gonna have to trust me, because I’m walking to my car. My friend Victoria Watson has been kidnapped. Her boyfriend Gabe was shot by that fucker in the hole there. They can match the bullet and gun and powder burns and all that shit. Her car is still parked out at the lake a ways back. That’s what you tell the cops. So you either have the gist of this or you’ll have to shoot me in my back.”
I took my car keys and Walt’s cell phone from Walt’s pocket and headed toward the driveway. The phone looked cheap and plastic and disposable. Leslie, to his somewhat uneducated credit, let me pass. Just before I rounded the house to the front he called after me. “Hey, Roger, if this is true—”
“It’s true,” I called back.
“Then kill the bastards.”
I nodded. I don’t know if he saw me and I didn’t care. This was a race against the clock and I had no idea how to even begin finding out where’d they’d gone.
I got in my car and started it up. Next, I took out Walt’s cell phone and hit redial. The name said GOLDILOCKS. I’d heard Walt mention that name in the house. Meant nothing to me but at least it was the beginning of a trail.
The phone on the other end rang and rang and then just clicked off. I scrolled through the call log and saw that every name was in Mother Goose code: GOLDILOCKS, BIG BAD WOLF, HUMPTY DUMPTY, BO PEEP, JACK HORNER, etcetera.
I tried calling a couple other numbers and got the same response. They would ring and ring and then go dead.
I got out of the car and looked at the street to see if I could find those tire tracks again, but it was too dark now to make out anything discernable.
“Shit.” I got back in and drove.
As I sped down the street toward Leslie’s house I scrolled through the phone’s functions and found a photo of Victoria. I couldn’t tell where it had been taken because the background was just a white wall, but she was smiling, partly looking the other way, unaware she was being spied on.
That did not make me feel good. They’d been watching her for a while. It made me feel sick.
I cut the car across Leslie’s property once again and headed for that desolate road. I wanted to go back to Victoria’s car one last time and look for anything that might help me find them.
The whole way there I racked my brain for anything they might have said about where they were going. Nothing came to mind. All I saw were images of Victoria splayed across that weight bench having her dignity and pride stripped from her.
When I got to the lake the water was so dark it looked like the night sky had fallen and spread out across the ground. In other circumstances I might have considered it romantic, but this night it was just ominous. All the other cars had gone for the day. Victoria’s car was where she’d left it. I wondered if the cops I’d called earlier had ever showed up, maybe even tried to find the owner of the abandoned vehicle, but seriously doubted it.
Nothing about the car had changed since I last saw it. The handprint was still on the glass. The cigarette butts were still littered on the ground. I tried the door but it was locked.
This was a dead end. What the hell was I thinking? Leslie was right: I needed to just go talk to the authorities.
But I knew Victoria could be dead by the time they did anything about this.
I tried that Goldilocks number again. Nothing but ringing.
I hung up and dialed Teddy in New Hampshire. How the hell I even remembered his number is beyond me. I’m so used to just hitting the auto dial on my cell phone. I guess we’d talked enough over the years it had lodged in my subconscious.
“Teddy, it’s me.”
“Roger! What the hell happened? What number is this?”
“In a second. Listen, a friend of mine was kidnapped.”
“What? Are you okay?”
“I think my nose is broken and maybe a rib, too. I’m in some serious pain here. Did you trace the call like I said?”
“Hang on, I need to get a pen and pad.” The line went silent for a minute and then Teddy was back. “Okay. I couldn’t trace the call because I don’t know what carrier you’re on. And unless you’re on one I have a friend at I’d need a warrant anyway. But I did call a Detective Chavez out there who said he’d try to call around and ping your number.”
“I didn’t see any cops.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. It’s not
always accurate. They can get a location off cell phone calls but if the tower was a ways off the search area could be pretty wide.”
“Well, nevermind. I found the guys who kidnapped my friend.”
“And?”
“And they killed her boyfriend and raped her. They were gonna kill me but I got away. I need to find her.”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”
“It’s not a joke, Teddy. I’m so angry and scared right now I’m shaking.”
“Did you call the cops?”
“Someone else is doing it for me. I had to leave. I think they’re gonna kill her.”
“Please don’t tell me you ran from a crime scene. That’s no good. Is anyone else dead?”
“One of the rapists. Guy named Walt. I didn’t do it, though I tried. Tried like hell.”
“This is bad, Roger. They have procedures to deal with this kind of thing and you’re gonna make it worse.”
“Teddy, you know as soon as they run my background they’re gonna keep me under lock and key. I can’t do that right now.”
“So I’m helping a wanted man right now?”
“Yep. Pretty much.”
Teddy sighed long and hard. “Ok. Fine. I hate my job most days anyway. What do you need from me?”
“There’s a number on this phone. I called it but no one picks up. Can you find out who it belongs to?”
“I can try. But it’s the same thing again. I may not get squat.”
“Just try.” I relayed the number to him.
“Okay, give me a few minutes and I’ll call my contacts, see if they can help. I’ll call you back at this number.”
“Thanks, Teddy.”
“And I’m calling Detective Chavez back as well. I need to report all of this. Don’t suppose you have an address where the dead guy is?”
“I didn’t look. But tell them a guy named Leslie is supposed to call, too. I’m sure they can put two and two together.”
“Okay, sit tight and try to stay out of trouble.”
“No promises.”
I put the phone in my pocket and walked around Victoria’s car some more. For some reason I felt there should be a clue here, like there always is in movies. Some piece of paper with an address on it or a matchbook from a bar or something.
Standing next to that bloody handprint got all sorts of scenarios going in my mind. How they’d rape Victoria again if I couldn’t find her. Rape her and then kill her . . .
I’d feed her to the dog and then rape the dog’s shit the next day.
It was Skinny Man, back in my mind. I closed my eyes, clenched my fists and counted to ten. When I was done I opened my eyes and saw him dancing around the empty parking lot, laughing his stupid laugh. Even though I knew he wasn’t real, was a figment of my traumatized imagination, I still wanted to rush at him and beat him to death.
Sad how all these girls die around you, huh, Roger? Fuck me, you should just cut their heads off instead of trying to make friends with them. Save everyone sometime.
“Shut up!”
My phone rang. The digital clock said ten minutes had passed. It felt like an eternity.
“Teddy?”
“Hey, I traced the call. It was easy because it’s a payphone. You got a pen and paper?”
“Yeah, hang on.”
I went back to my car and searched frantically but couldn’t find a pen. Instead I grabbed one of my paintbrushes and put some black paint on it. “Okay, go.”
Teddy relayed the address and I scrawled it across the blue sky of my painting from earlier in the day. The piece was ruined now, but in light of these events it couldn’t have meant less to me. I’d paint another one if I ever got out of this situation with a sane mind.
“I need you to MapQuest me,” I told him. “I’m at a place called Corazon del Agua.”
I heard him clicking away on his computer. A minute later he had directions. I painted them over the grass.
“Okay, I’m going,” I told him.
“Roger, I’m serious here. Be careful and don’t engage anyone. You find anything you call 911. In fact, here’s Chavez’s cell phone number.”
I obliged him and painted the numbers on the canvas.
“Got it.”
“I’m calling him back myself,” Teddy said. “I need to tell him about all of this. You’ll probably get there before he does. It’s the best I can do. You know I’m gonna vouch for you and explain what you told me but just so you know, cops will extend courtesies to one another but only so far.”
“Yeah, I get it. Talk soon.”
“Here’s hoping.”
I spun back once and looked for Skinny Man, but he was gone.
CHAPTER 11
Twenty minutes later I was standing in the parking lot of a liquor store off of Gardenia Avenue staring at the payphone on the wall outside the door.
A Middle Eastern man was working the counter, selling a six-pack to some college kids. I waited for them to leave before approaching.
“Help you?” he asked me.
“Maybe. Did you see anyone on that payphone earlier today?”
“Lots of people. Why? You look too young to be a cop?”
“I’m looking for someone.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, lots of people use that phone. You wanna buy something?”
“No. Okay, yes. Here, I’ll get this Snickers bar.”
He rang it up and charged me a dollar-fifty, which I found a bit steep for candy I wasn’t even going to eat; I just wanted to see if I could get more out of him. Luckily, I had a five in my pocket to broker the ruse.
“You hear anyone talking about kidnapping a girl on the phone?”
He laughed. “You serious? What is this a fucking TV show? Son, I can’t hear what people say on it. I don’t pay attention. I don’t even own it. Belongs to an outside company. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Are there video cameras outside?”
“Did you see any? No, just over the counter here.”
An older woman walked in and stood behind me at the counter. “You have Virginia Slims,” she asked, rudely cutting off my conversation.
I decided to stop bothering the guy and went out to the payphone. There was a big blue redial button on it so I dropped fifty cents in the slot and hit it. It told me the number I was trying to reach had been disconnected and no further number was available. Not that it meant it was a number associated with the people I was looking for, but it sent a shiver up my spine anyway.
I was about to get back in my car and cry when I noticed a small painting hanging on the wall inside near one of the coolers. I damn near ran inside and knocked that rude lady over as she was exiting with her smokes.
“Hey, careful!” the clerk yelled.
Ignoring him, I shoved aside a Captain Morgan display and took the painting off the wall. A plein air piece. Three palm trees and a little hut with surfboards leaning against it. My knees felt weak.
My initials were still scrawled on the bottom of the canvas.
I’d painted this piece about six months ago and gave it to Barry to sell.
“You buy this?” I asked the clerk, putting the painting on the counter.
“The fuck, kid. Go put that back!”
“I painted this. It’s my painting. Did you buy it?”
“You painted that?”
“Yes. It’s one of mine. I sell at Goldstein Gallery. Did you buy it?”
“Me? No, got it as a gift, kind of, from Barry.”
“You know Barry? Barry Goldstein?”
“Yeah, he lives down the street. He gave it to me one night, said he wanted some booze but was out of cash. I said okay because it adds some flair. Why? You want me to pay you for it?”
“No . . . no. I just . . . . Where does Barry live? He’s my employer. I need to talk to him.”
“Down the road there, around the corner. I don’t know what house but he comes in sometimes.”
I swallowed hard and
took a step back from the counter. “Tell me he didn’t come in here today and use the payphone.”
The clerk kind of tilted his head. I don’t think he wanted to tell me what I knew he was going to say, but he did it anyway. “Yeah, he was in a little earlier. Said he was on his way home for dinner.”
“And he used the payphone?”
“I think so, yes. Not really sure. I think it was him.”
I was out the door before he could say anything else. My Camaro spun out in the parking lot as I sped to the nearest side street.
“Keep it together,” I whispered, “don’t lose your shit yet.”
Skinny Man appeared on the passenger seat beside me. No, lose it. Use it. You know what you’re good at. Let the blood flow.
“I don’t have time for you right now, asshole.”
So what? I have plenty of time for you. For your friends and girlies. I want to play.
I swung my arm into him and hit the seat. The action made me swerve to avoid a car parked on the side of the road; when I straightened out the apparition was gone.
“Don’t lose it, Roger. Stay on target.”
I went another two blocks before I spotted Barry’s BMW parked in the driveway of a two-story house with a good-sized front yard. He was apparently doing all right for himself financially. And here I was living in a crappy studio apartment. It just made me even angrier.
I parked on the side of the road and walked up the front steps, knocked on the door. From the other side I heard the familiar voice of the man who spent his days trying to threaten me. “Hang on!”
A second later the door opened and Barry stood there in his customary button-down and khakis. “Roger? What the hell are you doing here? It’s late.”
Hopefully not too late, I thought. I stepped inside, right around him. He turned and followed.
“You okay?” he asked. “What happened to your face? Your nose is a mess. Your eyes . . .”
I studied the art on his walls. Lots of cheap landscapes and the occasional photorealism piece. None of my stuff was hanging up anywhere.
“I said, ‘are you okay?’”
“Are you okay?” I replied.
Born To Bleed (The Roger Huntington Saga, Book 2) Page 9
