by J. A. Kerley
“Better now?” Victoria asked as Rein climbed into the Escalade.
“Much, thank you.”
Chapter 35
Professor Sinclair stared down the hall. Music came from Krupnik’s rathole, she was in there assembling whatever, or preparing for a class. Trotman was still out, thankfully, though he’d called yesterday as though his absence was a big deal. One of Bramwell’s addled Gender Studies TAs had pestered Sinclair with questions all morning, Sinclair finally telling the mindless dweeb to learn to use a library. Another of Bramwell’s robots arrived wanting to send her a fax about class schedules. He informed the automaton that sabbaticals were how academics escaped from academia and faxes.
Having finally found silence, almost – what was bubbling from Krupnik’s hole, the Dixie Chicks? Jesus! – he sat in front of his computer and traveled to the special site, logged on.
2 Members online
PROMALE: Who’s there?
HPDRIFTER: Good timing, I was just checking in and hoping to see you.
PROMALE: Nice to be appreciated.
HPDRIFTER: More than you know. I read “The Women’s Movement as a History of Lies”, Promale. I stand in awe of your scholarship. You take an ax to the FemiNazi shibboleths, no … an atomic bomb! You have the potential to be a great intellectual leader if presented to the right crowd. Your time is about to come.
PROMALE: May I ask what you mean, Drifter?
HPDRIFTER: The Great Upheaval is close at hand. We need your ideas and your scholarship.
PROMALE: I humbly beg for any assignment I might receive.
RAISEHELL: Fucking A, dudes. What’s shaking? Damn, the bitches are wearing me out at work. I’m about to chop some serious cunt throat. What assignment is this? What’s a Great Upheaval???
HPDRIFTER: We can no longer meet in this room, Promale. There are safer places.
PROMALE: I agree. Dynamite the bridge.
RAISEHELL: What you talking about, no longer meet here?
HPDRIFTER: The return addy on your piece of genius, Promale … still operable?
PROMALE: Use it to contact me. We’ll make new arrangements.
RAISEHELL: What’s going on?
HPDRIFTER: Hey, Raisehell …
RAISEHELL: What?
HPDRIFTER: FUCK YOU, SPY
BITCH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
PROMALE: Well put, Drifter. Later.
HPDRIFTER: We have much to discuss … my brother.
1 Member online
“S 87 2 Amllo MS 1103.”
I read the message to Cruz, its brevity indicating it was sent in haste. Harry and I were standing from our table where I had polished off two cheeseburgers and Harry had nibbled an ounce off one pork chop. I studied the vast plain of asphalt and trucks knowing Cruz was out there somewhere. I felt bad she had to eat alone, but she wanted nothing to do with Harry. It was like all his needles had locked in red and he couldn’t dial them back.
“South on Highway 87 to Amarillo,” Cruz translated. “I figure the rest is the tag number. officer Early is one savvy lady. I’ll find out who owns the vehicle.”
“Where from here?” I asked.
“Go out the east side of the truck stop, that’s 87. I’ll put myself behind you.”
Harry went to pay the bill. I wandered outside where the din of diesel engines was close to deafening, the smell of fuel and exhaust soupy in the desert heat. I still had the binocs swinging around my neck. They’d drawn weird looks inside the restaurant – was I a food inspector? How did field glasses fit in the equation? – and I’d diddled with them like I was performing some form of repair.
I lifted the binoculars to my eyes, looking for Cruz. I saw her vehicle about three hundred yards away at the end of a line of parked trucks, drivers catching up on rest. I waited for the cruiser to move, then adjusted the optics into tighter focus and saw the vehicle was unmanned.
Where was Cruz?
I scanned the area: trucks and more trucks. A Kenworth loaded with a refrigerated silver trailer roared between the cruiser and me. When the truck passed I fixed on the motion of a black Yukon with windows tinted equally dark, a CB-style whip antennae on its bumper. Shifting back I saw Cruz stepping into her vehicle, heat rising from the asphalt making her appear to ripple.
Where had she been?
“How long have you been doing this?” Rein asked Victoria, barren brown land stretching for miles on either side of the vehicle, the sky endless blue. Rein had become fascinated by the people in the system.
“It’s my second year.” A pause. “I do it for my sister, Nina. Nina was abused by her husband.”
Rein said, “I’m sorry. Can I ask what happened?”
“My two sisters and I thought Nina had a perfect marriage. She had a beautiful home, her husband was a dentist who volunteered his time to coach baseball after school, gave big to charities. He wanted to get involved with local politics, be a town commissioner. But Nina was living in hell: abused, mocked, stripped of every bit of self-esteem.”
“I understand,” Rein said, feeling shame at her lie.
“He was sick and depraved and used my baby sister in filthy ways, sexually. Somethin’ might have clicked with us, except she lived in Macon, Georgia, and the rest of us live in Texas and New Mexico, so we only got together every year or so.”
Victoria looked at Rein with apology in the vivid eyes. “Sorry. Talkin’ about this is prob’ly too close to what you’re tryin’ to get away from.”
“I asked you, Victoria,” Rein said gently. “Remember?”
“Then I’ll tell the story to the end. A psychologist living down the street from Nina saw certain signs in my sister, got the full story. She finally convinced my sister to leave him after … her husband – I cain’t bring myself to say his name – burned her with a cigar in places. Private places. Inside the private places.”
Rein could only shake her head.
“Nina up and left him. A week later he came crawling and crying about how he loved her and missed her and how he’d changed completely. You can prob’ly guess what happened.”
Rein closed her eyes as if that would blunt the horror. “Nina went back to him.”
“Things started right back the way they were. I … I uh, have a hard time with the next part.”
“That’s all right, Victoria,” Rein said. “You don’t have to go on.”
“I do, I got to get it out. My sweet, tortured baby sister went down in the basement one day and hanged herself from the plumbing. She couldn’t leave that life, she couldn’t stay in that life, so she left life itself.”
Rein closed her eyes, wondering, How do these monsters gain such power?
“You know what the legal system did to him?” Victoria continued. “Nothing. Even though my sister left a note tellin’ all that went on, he got his lawyer to keep it out of evidence at the trial.”
“But wasn’t the suicide note …”
Earrings jangled as the driver shook her head. “The reason for the trial in the first place. He was a slick one, that lawyer. Slick like pond scum. Between Nina’s husband and his lawyer, they made Nina the crazy one. They said she was blackmailing him, threatening to hurt herself and claim he’d done it unless he gave her more money. They said Nina had burned herself … claimed she needed pain to have pleasure. They made up lie after lie after lie, turning my baby sister into a sick money-grubber who was the one threatening him. Nina was dead and they still poisoned her, poisoned how people thought of her.”
Victoria wiped tears from her eyes. Rein said, “I can’t imagine what you must feel about –”
“Wait,” Victoria said. “The story ain’t done yet. My older sister, Jenna, she’s got a temper. She confronted Nina’s husband after the trial, packed along a pistol. She stood on his front porch and called him ever’ name in the book. He grinned and said she’d feel better if they went inside and had a nice hot fuck.”
“My God,” Rein whispered.
“Jenna tried to sh
oot his balls off but only nicked the bastard’s thigh.” Victoria let a long breath escape. “Long story short, Marla: I’ve got one sister dead, another with four more years to do in prison.”
“What about the husband?” Rein asked. “The dentist? What happened to him?”
A mile of sun-baked prairie passed by before Reinetta got her answer. “He got elected to the city council in his town. And he’s married again. With a kid this time.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Rein saw Victoria’s multi-ringed fingers tighten on the wheel. “You asked why I do this, Marla. Maybe I can keep one family safe from what mine went through.”
For the first time Rein felt visceral anger, personal anger, at the killer. She also felt proud to sit beside a woman who had turned bereavement into salvation by offering her help to people she didn’t know. Suddenly Rein understood the depths of madness and depravity that made the underground railroad not just important to women, but essential.
Reinetta Early looked out the window, aiming her mind out over the boundless landscape, trying to will her thoughts into the mind of the killer, wherever in the system he was lurking. Find me, you bastard, she thought, Find me …
If you dare.
Chapter 36
“Got a make on the plates,” Cruz said on the speaker. “Vehicle owner and presumed driver is one Victoria Miles, 1153 Bluebonnet Way, Amarillo. Ms Miles is forty-four years old, no police record – at least, nothing beyond the usual speeding tix, but it’s west Texas, no one drives below ninety unless it’s a funeral cortège. They usually stick in the eighty-five range.”
“Get the dead buried then grab some beer and barbecue,” I said. Harry glanced into the mirror and I could tell he didn’t think it was the time or place for humor.
Cruz chuckled. “Like I said, it’s Texas. We’re about two hours out of Amarillo, so see you there. We’ve got things to discuss.”
“Like what?”
“First, let’s make sure our carrier’s home is where officer Early is safe-housed. We’ll find a place you can stick close to her, then we’ll have a little heart-to-heart.”
Cruz clicked off. Harry frowned. “What’s she talking about, Carson?”
“Got me,” I said.
I felt my elation at having a handle on Rein’s whereabouts dissolving. I’d had a slightly uneasy feeling about Cruz’s cryptic phone conversation in the car earlier, amplified by her odd absence from her cruiser at the truck stop. Now she wanted to have a ‘heart to heart’. Something was happening, but what?
As soon as Harry clicked off the connection, I felt my cell buzzing in my pocket. I fished it out and saw the caller’s name: SALLY.
“I have confirmation that our body in Utah, Miz Herdez, entered the underground railroad way over in Pittsburgh twenty-seven days back. The timing reinforces that the perp is keeping them somewhere for several days. Any ideas why?”
“He needs time alone with them, Sal. To show off. To bask in masculine superiority. I imagine it’s the highlight of this boyo’s life.”
“Jesus. I want to bounce Herdez’s death off Krebbs, see how he acts when I tell him a third woman is dead. If I can get to Krebbs, that is.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Remember Krebbs’s asshole mouthpiece, our old buddy T. Nathaniel Bromley? Guess what the Bromster did about an hour ago? Here’s a hint: Krebbs has suddenly turned into a grieving widower.”
“Grieving widower?” Then I understood and whispered, “It can’t be.”
“It is,” Sally sighed. “Bromley’s gonna sue the Mobile women’s center on behalf of Lawrence Krebbs, claiming they brainwashed his beloved wife into leaving him and sending her into a dangerous system that resulted in her death. The people at the center think this could paralyze the entire underground railroad, stop it in its tracks.”
“Has Bromley’s action hit the news? How are they dealing with it?”
“It’s low key so far,” Sal said. “Bromley’s subpoenaed the center’s records. I only got word because the center called and filled me in. Nothing’s hit the media because no major paperwork has been filed.”
“But the bomb has been set in place,” I said, picturing the coming newscast: Bromley before a bank of microphones outside the Mobile women’s center with a grieving and downcast Krebbs at his side, the attorney bloviating about the women’s organization plucking a confused Lainie Krebbs from her loving hubby’s side and forcing her into an anonymous system fraught with peril. Spoon-fed with Bromlinian sound bites, the media would lap up his words like starved Dobermans. The Missing Blonde story was about to get a new permutation: the Deadly Women’s Centers.
“What do you think Bromley’s waiting for?” I said. “Why isn’t he on the news right now?”
“The news down here is consumed with that last round of actions on the oil spill. But the cases head into arbitration next week.”
“You think Bromley’s waiting …”
“Until he’s got center stage to himself. It’s gonna be a helluva show.”
I hung up, shaking my head, and called Cruz. She listened in silence as I laid out the details, finally asking, “Who is this fucking Bromley character, Ryder? No – who makes it a human. What is he?”
“A guy with a huge ego and no boundaries.”
A long pause before she came back, anger hard in her voice. “The Boulder center will surely be named a co-conspirator and, by extension, all centers engaged in relocating endangered women. When this Bromley asshole goes public, no more women are going to enter the tunnel. Maybe forever.”
“Jesus,” I whispered, realizing she was right.
“It’s a banner day for women’s abusers, Ryder,” Cruz said, bitterness in her voice. “They’re gonna be dancing in the streets.”
We hit Amarillo at four in the afternoon. At three we’d received a message from Rein giving us the Bluebonnet address previously supplied by Cruz. I figured Rein had sent the info from the home’s bathroom, operating like a seasoned professional, not missing a step.
Cruz had a line on a nearby motel. Harry wasn’t interested in lodging, and we did a drive-by of the tidy Spanish ranch in a new community of similar homes. “There’s an uncompleted cul-de-sac around the corner,” Harry said, eyes scoping out the neighborhood. “We can stay there tonight. Tell the local police we’re there, so if –”
“There’s motel a half-mile down the road,” I interrupted. “Beds. Hot water. Toilets. Remember such things?”
“A half-mile?” Harry said, like a half-mile was halfway to Borneo.
“Do what you want,” I said. “But tonight I need a shower above and a bed below.”
The motel was clean and bright and I was happy to toss my bag in the air and watch it land on a mattress. Fifteen minutes later I exited the shower to a ringing phone. I dripped to the bedside table to take a call from Lieutenant Tom Mason, our boss back in Mobile.
“Howdy, Tom,” I said, prepared to give the usual nothing’s-happening-everything’s-cool-talk-to-you-later report.
“I need the truth, Carson,” Tom said, his voice tight, not the usual relaxed drawl. “Is Harry fucking up?”
It was a punch to the gut. “What?”
“I heard he nearly blew a tail by trying to wave at officer Early from the surveillance vehicle. I also heard he tried to contact officer Early in the restaurant where she was making the transfer to her next handler.”
I sighed. “He’s protective about officer Early, Lieutenant. Maybe overly.”
“Didn’t you work this out in advance?”
“I thought so, Lieutenant, but Harry hasn’t quite –”
“I’ve received an ultimatum from the Colorado State Police, Carson. They want Harry off the case. Or should I just shut the operation down from this end?”
I saw the body in the morgue on day one of the case, a woman abducted and tortured by a mind so far off the rails there was no name for the location where it landed. I pictured a dead woman in a
sewage-treatment facility, just another piece of waste. I saw a woman’s face bobbing below the hole in a Utah park latrine.
“An undercover operative is our only way in, Lieutenant. The chances are slim that officer Early will cross paths with the killer, but it’s all we have. She’s doing a helluva job so far.”
“I’m calling Harry back to Mobile. He won’t be happy, but I’m not real happy either. You’re in charge, Carson. Find the killer and keep officer Early safe.”
I pulled on clean hiking shorts and a tee advertising fishing gear, added a ball cap, and stepped into battered running shoes. I walked outside; Cruz’s room was two doors down. I cringed at the blast of Texas summer and paused to let my eyes adjust to the light. Three parking slots down from Cruz’s cruiser was a black Yukon with a whip antennae on the bumper, a dead ringer for the vehicle I’d seen at the truck stop.
I walked to Cruz’s door and knocked. She was there seconds later, wet hair rolled into a white towel above her head, a pink robe around her slender body, bare feet. She smelled like mint and lilacs.
I jabbed a thumb toward the Yukon. “Is that yours?” I said, meaning the Colorado State Police.
The brown eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure I like your tone.”
“Harry’s getting yanked off the case. That was your doing, right?”
She stared at me. “Nautilus should never have been on the case. Failing that, he should have been pulled the day officer Early went into the system. I got nothing to feel bad about, Ryder. How you doing?”
She closed the door. There was nothing to do but wait until Harry got the news from Lieutenant Mason.
Harry roared into the motel lot fourteen minutes later, the van braking hard, leaving trails of burnt tire across the pavement. He jumped out, hands clasping like needing a throat.
