Born To Bleed (The Roger Huntington Saga, Book 2)

by Ryan C. Thomas

  A host of other bad metal songs kept tempo for the rest of my drive. Somehow, without knowing it, I’d reached the exit into Rancho Vaiella, and took it so fast I almost scraped along the guardrail.

  You’re gonna die before you get there.

  I slowed down, gripped the wheel a bit looser, and headed out past the polo club. Its green fields flanked both sides of the road, dim white goal posts set off to the sides like dinosaur bones. What did these rich assholes want with Victoria? It couldn’t be money for a ransom; they had all the money in the city. White Slave Trade? That shit was just the stuff of myth. Did she owe them money for something?

  The road passed under a line of tall palm trees and then meandered past some estates until it reached the one main drag in Rancho Vaiella. It was a pretty short road compared to most main drags in So Cal. A host of restaurants, spas, coffee shops, bakeries, galleries, and real estate offices lined the sides but quickly disappeared as the road made its way up into the hills. Nothing but black trees and fence-lined properties for houses so far up in the hills they couldn’t even be seen from the road.

  These back streets were like a maze. The people who lived here liked it like that. It gave them a sense of security and privacy, like living in the middle of a labyrinth. I’d been here a couple of times looking for places to paint but had given up since security was tight and the cops would kick you out in a heartbeat for trespassing. There was barely any bit of land here that wasn’t privately owned by someone.

  I knew the name of the road I was looking for but not exactly how to find it, so I pulled over onto the berm and tried to get my bearing. I was at an intersection, and also at a loss. One other car passed me, slowed to check me out, then kept going. Some dude in a Ferrari.

  “Take a picture, buddy.”

  I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, feeling time slipping away with each beat.

  “Come on, which way, which way?”

  I rolled down the window and smelled fresh eucalyptus all around me. It mingled with hints of nearby horse ranches and exhaust from expensive cars. You could call it the smell of money, I guess.

  “C’mon, Tooth, if you’re still with me . . . they’ve got your hat.”

  The moon slipped through the trees and made the street sign on the left reflect back at me. It was as close to any spiritual instruction as I was going to get.

  “Thanks, man.”

  I went left.

  ***

  The road wound up further into the hills until I could see the valley of poor man’s civilization far below me. What it must be like to live up here every day, looking down on the peasants. No wonder so many of these people gave to charity; they did it out of pity. It made them gods.

  I passed a wrought iron gate leading up to an expansive mansion. I might have passed it by and kept searching for more clues except for the fact I could see the front of the house and two police officers at the door talking to a man in a black suit.

  I drove past and parked a little ways back on the road, left the keys on the seat, took the gun from beside them, put it down the back of my pants, and walked back to the gate. As I got close I saw a security camera over the top of it. A keypad was built in next to a mailbox on the front the gate. Wasn’t gonna get in that way. The wall that ran around the property was not very high, maybe five feet. Certainly low enough to get over. No spikes or broken glass shards set into the top of it either. The odds any cat burglars came up here to rob people were pretty slim. Robbing these people was too much risk. Cops wouldn’t think twice about exonerating these homeowners from shooting an intruder.

  I walked away from the gate, grabbed the top of the wall and hauled myself up enough to peer over the top. The two cops disappeared inside the house and the front door shut.

  “Just two? Not very suspicious, are we?”

  Still, I decided to wait. No use getting arrested for trespassing--and whatever else they had already dug up about this night’s endeavors--before I had a chance to make sure Victoria was really in there.

  It was one of those moments where I wished I smoked. At least it would have killed some time.

  As it was I listened to crickets and tried to interpret their language. All I got out of it was meaningless chirping. Not so different from humans, really.

  About five minutes later the door opened. I couldn’t hear the cops but I could see them shaking hands with the man in the suit, all friendly like. No doubt they were apologizing for the mistake and intrusion. The man in the black suit waved as the cops got back in their car, which was parked up the driveway, and then shut the door. The cruiser backed down the drive, waited for the gate to open, then backed out onto the road not far from where I was hiding behind a tree. They didn’t see my car because they weren’t looking. As far as they were concerned they’d just been the butt of some bad joke.

  I scaled the wall, landed in the yard on the other side, made a split-second decision that would probably get me killed. I ran along the wall to the driveway and sprinted up it in plain sight. The motion lights on the house were still on from the cop car. One camera on the side of the house was covering the long driveway, but I just hoped to hell no one was watching it anymore.

  I made it all the way to the car port without incident, stopped to take a breath, and waited to see if anyone came out. Aside from the cars there was no good hiding spot. If someone did come out I was fucked. But as the seconds ticked off and no one came, I considered myself temporarily safe. Guess the monitors weren’t watched religiously.

  There were two BMWs, a Lexus, a Cadillac SUV, a Porsche, and a Rolls parked side by side in postcard fashion. At the far end was a white SUV, covered in dirt.

  Bingo.

  I skirted over, grabbed the handle on the side door and pulled it open. The inside was empty. A black rug had been laid on the floor. If there was any blood on it, it probably wouldn’t show to the naked eye. Smart.

  Not that it mattered. The damn cops hadn’t bothered to come back here and check on anything.

  I shut the door and slinked around toward the rear yard. Stone statues ringed an inground swimming pool. Off to the left was a covered outdoor seating area with a full kitchen setup and plastic couches. Yard globes illuminated the pathway to the pool, which was itself haloed from soft yellow lights underneath the water. I could see steam coming off the surface. Heated. Nice.

  The yard extended downslope to a gardener’s shed. As sheds went it was bigger than most one-story houses. It meant nothing to me but for the fact the front door was open a crack. I suddenly had this nagging feeling someone was watching me from inside it.

  I drew my gun, cocked it, and sprinted to the outdoor kitchen, wanting to get a closer look. Here, a few yards from the shed, I felt the hairs on my arms stand up. I wasn’t sure why. Something just felt wrong.

  Victoria is in the house. Hurry up.

  No, something’s wrong with that shed.

  You’ll be seen. There are motion sensors everywhere.

  That little voice in my head was right. It usually was. I could see the sensors hanging over the windows of the house, mostly angled toward the pool. Apparently they didn’t care if anyone stole the lawn furniture in the outdoor kitchen. Probably just didn’t want local kids hopping the fence for a free swim. Every kid who lived around here no doubt had their own pool but kids like adventure, and pool hopping has been an American pastime for decades. Those sensors wouldn’t register near the shed.

  At least I hoped.

  Fuck it, I took the chance, and scuttled to the shed as fast as I could, pushed the door open further. Inside was dark. It smelled of cut grass, dirt, wood and residual heat from the day’s sun. From the wan light of the lawn’s globes I could see a host of landscaping tools. Lawnmowers, weedwackers, chainsaws, pruning shears, saws, bags of fertilizer . . . the kind of place Skinny Man would have a wet dream in.

  But all in all pretty typical of a gardening shed. So then why was my Spidey Sense tingling?

  “The
re’s nothing here,” I whispered. “Wasting time, pal.”

  But there was something here. I could hear it. A noise that shook me. I realized now I’d heard it from outside. That’s why my mind had zeroed in on this place.

  Crying.

  Someone somewhere was crying. A woman. The low, terrified type of crying one does when one is being held against their will. The same type of crying Jamie did hours before she died.

  I spun in a frantic circle, visions of my sister dancing in my wacked-out mind. Visions of a woman with an ax in her head bursting out of Skinny Man’s kitchen. Dear God, help me. I do not ever want to hear the sounds of a woman crying again.

  “Where the hell is it coming from?”

  It seemed to rise like vapor from the ground, entering my body through the soles of my feet and traveling all the way up to my heart. I couldn’t tell if it was Victoria or not, but whoever it was they were in trouble.

  The cops should be called back, I thought. But I knew the cops would disregard any more calls to this property. I knew whoever was crying was in serious danger and I was the only one who knew they existed.

  Dropping to my knees, I put my ear against the metal floor of the shed. The voice was louder now. It was coming from under the floor.

  Buried alive? I wondered. Buried under the shed?

  That made no sense.

  My hands felt their way across the floor, looking for some type of hole. What I found was a metal ring, like the kind usually affixed to attic doors. I pulled it and a piece of the floor flipped up a few centimeters before catching on a latch.

  The crying wafted out and filled the shed.

  It was a trapdoor, locked from underneath.

  My heart began to hammer. Sweat sheened my face.

  I pulled again in some vain hope I could break the latch, but it wasn’t going to come up any more. I tried sliding my fingers in the crack but couldn’t even get my pinky in. I wasn’t going to get it open without the Jaws of Life.

  “No no no no.”

  I kept my voice low but tried to reassure her. “Victoria? Can you hear me?”

  There was no distinct reply, just more crying.

  If my gun had a silencer I would have shot the latch, but any report would bring everyone out of the house.

  I grabbed a saw off the wall and slid it into the crack, placed the teeth against the metal clip inside. Before I even started to cut I knew it was a ridiculous plan. It would take days to cut through it.

  I needed to find a crowbar. Check the SUV, I thought.

  “Where’s Walt?”

  I spun, saw Mr. Budweiser in the door of the shed. He had a gun. And it was pointed at me.

  CHAPTER 13

  I stood up slowly, raised my arms above my head, gun in one hand, saw in the other, which tapped the ceiling of the shed. The crying still drifted out of the trap door near my feet.

  “I said, ‘Where’s Walt?’”

  “Probably in the back of a meat wagon by now.”

  Mr. Budweiser smiled as he stepped into the dark shed. “Good. He was an asshole anyway. I heard about his stupid grave plan. I knew he should have just killed you but he had to be theatrical.”

  “Now that’s a big word for a man your age. You might want to sit down and take a rest.”

  “You’re funny. But I’m not Walt. I don’t play games and I don’t banter.”

  “Technically that was bantering. Just saying.”

  He was true to his word. He pulled the trigger.

  The gun went click.

  I flinched. Then reacted, lowered my own gun to fire, not caring about noise anymore. But he was on me before I could aim, picked me up in a bear hug and slammed me into the back wall. Teeth and blades from various sharp instruments bit into my back. We hit so hard I lost my breath for the second time tonight and we both bounced off, falling over each other. He tripped over a lawn mower and brought me down on top of him. I almost lost my grip on my gun but caught it by the barrel.

  One of his hands clasped around my throat and squeezed. His hands were dry and calloused, as big around as a professional wrestler’s. He constricted me like a stress doll, my eyes bulging from my head. I actually felt air puff out of the corners of my eyes. All my oxygen intake was cut off almost immediately. My testicles shriveled into raisins.

  I swung the butt of my gun into his face and caught him above the eye, heard something crack around his orbital bone. He roared and loosened his grip for a second and I got about a tablespoon of air back in me. But he ignored his own pain, grunted and huffed as he squeezed my larynx again so tightly I thought he would break my neck.

  “Say hi to God for me,” he breathed.

  “I would,” I whispered with my last bit of air, “but I don’t think He speaks idiot.”

  With another roar he lifted me off of him, stood up, and slammed me into another wall. More sharp tools clattered to the floor around us. I flipped the gun around, aimed it at him, but he grabbed my wrist before I could fire and twisted it until I dropped the weapon.

  “I’ll put ‘Funny Bitch’ on the shallow grave I bury you in out in the woods.”

  Spots danced before my eyes. So close, I thought, so close to finding Victoria. And yet I was about to die, no doubt about it. This guy was too big to fight with my bare hands.

  He punched me in the stomach for good measure. I had no air in me whatsoever. My head was going fuzzy from oxygen depletion.

  As my fists clenched from the pain I realized I was still holding the damn saw. I’d had it the whole damn time. With my last ounce of strength I put it against his leg and zipped it backwards. It cut through his jeans and he pulled his leg back. “Motherfucker!”

  It was enough of a surprise for him that he didn’t see my other hand go for the gardening shears on the wall beside me. I aimed for his eyes but my world winked out of existence before I could see if I’d struck home.

  ***

  I knew I wasn’t out long, only a few seconds, because when I woke up Mr. Budweiser was lying on his back next to me, moaning. Still alive. The gardening shears were sticking out of his neck. I hadn’t hit his eyes but it was still a good shot.

  He was slowly trying to pull them out but, judging by the way he delicately touched the handle, some serious pain was impeding him. He gurgled blood as he swore.

  “You motherfucker. You motherfucker. I’m gonna fucking kill you. I’m gonna . . . ow!”

  My body felt lighter now that I had air back in me. Vision was irising like an old movie camera but was good enough for me to get my bearings. My throat was a different story; it throbbed with swelling bruises and when I swallowed it felt like drinking crushed glass. I rolled over onto my stomach and managed to get up on one knee, took a second to acclimate myself to the aching in my body. Mr. Budweiser saw me and did the same.

  He came at me on all fours, rose up like a giant praying mantis, like he was gonna hug me and eat my head. “C’mere, you piece of shit. Show you the meaning of pain.”

  He reached over and picked up my gun. “Gonna kill your ass.”

  As his arm came up to fire I flat-palmed the gardening shears. Hard.

  The tips ripped out the back of his neck with a sound like paper tearing.

  He went still. Not dead, just stunned.

  I slowly uncurled his fingers from my gun, took it from his hand, and whispered in his ear, “Where’s my hat?”

  He fell over and his eyes closed. Blood bubbles continued to fizzle out of the wound in his neck for a few seconds, then I felt the spreading pool of blackness on the ground, making my knees wet, and knew he was never going to answer me.

  The next minute was spent rubbing my neck and staring at his dying body. Sounds of crying beneath me provided the soundtrack to the scene.

  You killed him. You’re getting good at that, boy.

  I squinted. Ignore him, Roger.

  When I could move again I searched his body for anything that might open the trapdoor but found nothing. No keys, no miraculous
lock cutters that could fit in someone’s front pocket. His chest still moved, but it was slowing.

  By feeling around the mess for a bit, I found his gun over near the lawn mower. The whole time the sounds of Victoria’s crying made me shake.

  A quick look back outside showed me the motion lights were still on. Probably from when Mr. Budweiser cut across the lawn. That could be both good or bad. Good if the people in the house knew he was out here; they might ignore the lights going on and off. Bad if they were curious as to what he was doing, in which case they might come out to check.

  Again, my test-yourself philosophy cut through: screw it. With both guns, I sprinted back up the lawn, past the outdoor kitchen, back toward the car port. Waited another twenty seconds to see if anyone was coming to investigate, then made for the door on the side of the house near the driveway.

  It opened without a sound. Mr. Budweiser had no doubt left it unlocked. Idiot.

  I stepped into a dimly-lit entrance hallway lined with old portraits of puritanical-looking men in stiff black suits. They all had white beards and bushy eyebrows, had perfected the serious frown look. The kind of men that burned witches and beat their wives. A few ugly sconces bounced an orange glow off the musty wallpaper, some faded rendition of fleur des lis that reminded me of bad London hotel rooms you see in movies. Lack of windows had managed to trap eons worth of sweat and shoe funk in the walls. The whole place smelled like a gym bag. It was one ugly fucking hallway for such a mansion.

  I pulled out the clip from Mr. Budweiser’s gun and slid it back home, checked the chamber as well. All seemed in working order. I don’t know why it misfired in the shed but I sure as hell wasn’t complaining about it. Guns are prone to misfire, it’s a common occurrence, or so I’ve read. That’s why your typical gun magazine is laden with trite articles on proper cleaning techniques, about how to keep all the springs and levers well-oiled to avoid snags. A gun misfires once on a police target range, it’s removed from use for ever. But your run-of-the-mill perps are pretty lazy, don’t want to take the time to keep their tools in working order. Hopefully, if I needed it, it would do better for me.