by Jack Lacey
‘Fuck you!’ he yelled.
‘Fuck you...’ I yelled back.
Seeing the stack of straw behind him suddenly, I lunged again, this time ramming the fork fully home. The gunman yelled out in agony, tried to released himself, then dropped his gun...I came at him with my fists as the thunder boomed above us, felt the crunch of bone on bone, and his total submission.
I drew a breath and picked up the gun, then found a pail of water to bring him back to reality.
‘What the...’ he cried out, as if raised from the dead.
‘You’ve been following me since Minneapolis. Why?’
‘Fuck you,’ he said wincing, trying to free his skewered hand.
I edged closer and pressed the gun against his forehead.
‘Why?’
‘You’re as stupid as you look if you think I’m gunna tell ya, fella.’
‘You’re going to look pretty stupid when I blow your head wide open...fella,’ I said, beginning to get frustrated.
‘If you knew my boss, then you wouldn’t be threatening me, pal. So if you’re gunna shoot me, you better get it over and done with right now, cus you aint getting nothing out of me.’
I stared at the guy and saw the defiance in his eyes. He wasn’t going to tell me a damned thing, no matter how much he was threatened…
I frisked him with my one free hand, pulled out his wallet then stepped back and checked the contents. Inside was a driving license. The name read, Tony Lutz. He was from Louisville, Kentucky. I raised an eyebrow. He was a long way from home...
Next, I pulled out a picture of some kids and a plain-looking woman who I assumed to be his wife.
‘One last chance, Tony…Tell me why you’ve been following me or I’ll get in my car, drive straight to your house and strangle your kids in front of your wife.’
He laughed through bloodied teeth as if he knew I wouldn’t. Angrily, I slammed the butt of the gun across his face rendering him unconscious again, then unloaded the weapon and tossed it into the shadows.
I needed to get the hell out of there and fast, in case anyone at the farm could discern gunshots from thunderclaps, then get the hell out of the state, maybe even the whole damned country before I had the full force of the law breathing down my neck again.
I pulled some money from the gunman’s wallet, released his arm from the pitch fork and bound him tightly with some bailer twine, before rolling him underneath a hunk of rusting farm machinery out of view. I stared down at the body at my feet for a second, trying to absorb the insanity of what had just happened.
The last time I’d had a gun pulled on me had been one hell of a long time ago. Some polish farmer armed with a shotgun, as I was escaping over some freshly ploughed fields with the child he’d previously abducted, clutched under my arm...That job had been a close call. And I still had some lead shot embedded in the back of my calf muscle as a souvenir.
I walked over to the doors and eyed the atrocious weather outside. Another thunder clap slam-dunked the landscape a few miles away, followed by some intense lightning flashes, which lit up the entire sky a few seconds later. I stared down the access track. There weren’t any headlights coming up to investigate...
I darted out towards the gunman’s Chevrolet and jumped in, then rifled through the doors and glove compartment hoping to find something that would give me a clue as to why I was being tailed.
Finding the car pretty much empty, I stepped back out into the rain and checked the trunk. Nothing in there either. I ran over to the bailiff’s truck and flipped the bonnet, then yanked a few important leads out from the engine so that I wouldn’t be followed anytime soon. Back in the gunman’s car, I spun it around and headed back to the highway, feeling better for having swapped vehicles, but apprehensive about leaving someone like Lutz tied up in the barn. A guy who was going to be pretty damned pissed when he’d finally freed himself, the sort that was probably going to come after me intent on revenge.
I pulled out my cell and rang Tug’s number. He picked it up straight away.
‘Good to hear from ya, buddy. How far you get?’
‘Somewhere in Iowa, but I’ve been tailed since Minnesota by some hot-head from Kentucky armed with a semi-automatic.
‘No kidding?’ Tug said sounding alarmed. ‘You sure are a damned trouble magnet, Blake, you know that? Do you know what the guy wants, who he’s working for?’
‘Not sure. Some ex-con probably, hired to do someone’s dirty work. He wasn’t the smartest.’
‘Jesus, what in the hell did he want with you? Do you think it’s something to do with that burnt-out rig?’
‘I don’t think so. The guy picked me up at the Longfellow Gallery. He may have bugged your friend, Walter’s office for some reason? Maybe he’d heard that I was interested in the girl through him? He’s from Kentucky after all, which is where she is supposed to have gone.’
Tug fell silent for a moment
‘And Chrissie might be hanging out with those damned kids too. Jesus...Do you need anything?’
‘The number of your wife’s friend would be a good start...’
‘Anything else I can help you take care of down there?’
‘No,’ I said firmly, not wanting the complication of Tug driving down and getting involved. A cop snooping around was a sure-fire way of scaring people off who had information.
‘Okay, if you say so...’
He reeled off Martha’s number and his wife’s again then I extracted myself from the conversation having got what I wanted. Next stop I decided was the Street Level Café in Lexington, Kentucky. Hopefully there I’d pick up a new lead for Olivia and Ethan, and maybe Tug’s errant wife too.
If the café drew a blank, then there was always this friend of Chrissie’s to tap up. Maybe she’d have a clue as to where in the mountains I could begin my search, know where there were some active protests going on?
For a second my thoughts returned to the guy back in the barn. If he were indeed something to do with the girl’s disappearance, then what in the hell was I getting involved in, just by heading down there? What was supposed to be a straight forward tracing job was beginning to look anything but...
I shook my head in bewilderment and lit the stale cigarette I’d found in the glove compartment, reflecting on the case piece by piece as the ash burnt slowly down.
It was looking increasingly as if Olivia had walked into some serious trouble in the Kentucky mountains, or back in Minneapolis. The hundred dollar question was what? The next one after that was, would I find her in one piece by the time I’d tracked her down anyway?
For a second I wondered if it was worth Deacon’s money or the stress to find out, and more importantly, whether I wanted another teenage death on my hands if things didn’t turn out right. That would send me into a tail spin, I was sure of it...I put the wiper blades on double time, then leaned forward on the wheel and looked up at the tar-black clouds racing overhead.
‘What shall I do sweetheart, eh?’ I asked, as if Laura were up there listening again.
A vicious thunder clap broke above me a few seconds later, so loud I thought it was going to blow the glass out of the windows. I shook my head and turned on the radio, believing she had just given me her answer, a similar warning to the one I’d received back in Jed’s truck on the highway at the beginning of the case, and one that I still wasn’t quite ready to hear…
Chapter Fourteen
‘turned over’
Lexington, Kentucky. Early eve.
I needed a beer, maybe three after the long drive. Luckily I found the bar I was looking for easily enough, halfway down a quiet side-street in what seemed a respectable part of town. It didn’t look like the sort of place to give a stranger hassle, and for that, I was mightily glad after all the excitement.
After the barn situation I’d decided to get the hell out of Iowa pretty damned quickly, and travelled across most of Illinois the night before, passing through Springfield and St Louis before resting
up near Mount Vernon in a cheap motel for a few hours, paid for by the money I’d pulled from the gunman’s wallet.
The next morning I’d crossed the state line into Kentucky unhindered by any further troubles, then worked my way east towards Lexington where I eventually made contact with Martha Reynolds, the friend of Tug’s wife.
After being initially suspicious, she explained that she hadn’t heard from Chrissie in quite a while, before offering the number of another friend of hers who lived in the centre of Lexington who she said might be able to help better.
The woman was a regular face amongst local environmental activists she’d explained, so there was a good chance they may have come across Olivia already if she was protesting up in the mountains.
If I was lucky, she might be able to put me up for the night too, if I was stuck for somewhere to stay. Not that I needed free accommodation now. I still had at least another three hundred bucks to work through from the bounty hunter’s wallet, as well as the gunman’s, and that was after purchasing yet another winter coat and a clean pair of cargo pants from an out-of-town store.
As soon as I’d reached the outskirts of Lexington I’d dumped the car behind some bustling Chinese laundry, found a steakhouse to re-fuel in then went to search for the bar Martha had advised to check out, if her friend wasn’t answering her phone. The place was a regular haunt of hers she said…
For a while I sat staring mindlessly at the T.V screen above, until some baseball player hit a massive shot into the crowd, much to the pleasure of a cluster of fans behind me breaking the relative quiet.
I turned and enjoyed the revelry for a while, then started thinking about the case again. I sighed audibly, not quite believing what had happened back at the truck-stop with the bikers, at the barn and both the diners, then wondered how many more surprises I was going to have to deal with before I found Olivia Deacon, and whether it was going make me feel any better about Laura’s death when I finally did. Christ, all I had to do was find a missing teenager. Did it have to be that bloody difficult?
I looked at my phone and contemplated giving Nancy another call, as well as Tug’s wife. I’d tried them both, six or seven times already, and each line went directly through to voicemail. I picked up the cell and stared at it for a moment, then absentmindedly at some city type hunched over his drink. He looked up suddenly and grunted in satisfaction as another home run was scored, before lowering his chin back into his upturned palm seemingly depressed.
My attentions shifted to a guy to my right. He was smartly dressed, wearing a white V-neck jumper and an expensive watch. He had his head lowered and was playing with his iPhone while drinking what looked to be a Bloody Mary. Next to him was a spare stool, then some tall guy sporting a conservative tie and a disgruntled expression. He was reading a copy of the New York Times.
‘Can I get you anything else, sir?’ the plump barman said suddenly, drying a beer glass as if in a trance.
‘Sure, I’ll have another one of these. They’re excellent.’
‘Bourbon Barrel Ale. Sure thing...’
I watched his rotund frame head to the fridge, then turned and scanned the rest of the bar to make sure I hadn’t picked up any new admirers. There were around twenty customers in the establishment all told. It seemed fairly empty for such a large concern, but then again it was still early evening. Most of the clientele looked like the sort who were just having a quick drink after a hard day’s work before they headed home to their husbands or wives.
‘There we are, sir.’
The barman placed the beer down in front of me along with some complimentary Pretzel sticks. I tipped him generously then pitched the question I’d wanted to ask since stepping into the bar.
‘Do you happen to know where I can find a woman called Nancy Stringer?’ I said discreetly. ‘She’s supposed to drink here sometimes. I’m a work colleague of hers from way back. We lost touch...’
The bartender nodded slowly pouring the fresh beer.
‘Sure...everyone knows Nancy. She’s lives about four or five blocks from here on Bloomfield Avenue in one of the old colonial houses. Pink I think it is, with brown wooden shutters. You can’t miss it.’
‘And what about the Street-Level Café? Do you know that?’
‘It’s roughly in the same direction I would say, sir...but just a little bit further on, off Rose Avenue.’
I tipped him again then noticed the newspaper guy studying me for a little too long. I returned his gaze for a moment then pulled away. He looked down at his paper. I obviously interested him; like I had the bailiff in Iowa…Maybe it was just my London accent drawing his curiosity?
I worked my way through the rest of the beer then decided to leave, not wanting to get too inebriated and wanting to sort out a decent hotel for the night before it got too late.
I walked along the bar towards the exit, head lowered as if deep in thought, then felt the eyes of the newspaper guy burning into me...
Outside, I rounded the corner, gave it a minute, then walked back in front of the window as if I’d changed my mind about my direction, and glanced in to check the scene. The guy with the newspaper was now standing in the corner on his cell, his back turned from the rest of the bar for privacy. Lexington’s walls had ears it seemed, as I suspected...
I carried on and took the first right, then navigated the entire block so that I returned to where I’d started out and followed the barman’s instructions. After ten minutes or so, I arrived outside a row of quaint terraced houses as he’d described. I stood there for a while, enjoying the cool Kentucky air devoid of Minnesota’s biting chill, scanning the building for signs of life.
All appeared quiet from the outside. I turned and checked the street in both directions for any unwanted visitors, then the neighbours’ houses for signs of activity again. Out of the four, only Nancy’s place was shrouded in total darkness. I wondered if she was in and had just switched off her cell because she was having an early night, or it had simply run out of battery and she wasn’t home…
I swung open the gate, walked up the gravel path and tentatively knocked on the door. No one answered. I tried several more times politely then decided to try the alleyway a few doors down, which seemed to service all the properties from the rear.
I stood in the shadows for a moment and observed the woman in the first house washing up in the kitchen, then eyed the one next door. The lights were blazing, but all seemed quiet. After that it was Nancy’s. It was just as dark at the back.
My attentions flitted to the final house. The lights were on upstairs, the top room illuminated by a flickering television set it seemed, the sound of which was just about discernible from outside.
I walked casually up the path to Nancy’s door then saw it move suddenly in the breeze. My stomach tightened at the feeling of déjà vu. It felt as if I was standing back at the door of the flat in Minneapolis again...
‘Hello?’
No answer. I went in. The place was pitch-black, but smelt of woman, of musky perfume and fresh flowers. Something wasn’t right though. I could feel it in the prickly air.
‘Hello…’ I said again tensing, expecting someone to jump out.
I fumbled for the light switch and lit up the hall. Opposite was a welcoming living room with a polished wooden floor and a log burner in the centre, which was cold. I turned and tried the door to my left and found a medium-sized kitchen. Everything was in order. It smelt of dried herbs and cleaning products.
I stepped out and walked across the living room, past a flight of uncarpeted stairs, and tried another two doors beyond it. The first beneath, revealed a gleaming white-tiled bathroom, the second opposite, was a total mess. I tapped the door fully open with my foot then found the switch to illuminate more of the chaos.
The room looked like a study come spare room with a sofa-bed backed up against one wall and an empty desk opposite with a shelf above it used for filing, most of which was now scattered across the floor along with a handf
ul of broken pictures yanked from the walls. I turned around and headed back into the living room, picked up the poker from the hearth, then climbed the stairs one tread at a time, wanting to make sure I was all alone.
On the landing I discovered four more doors, three of which were fully open. I tried the closest one first. Just an airing cupboard. The next was a toilet. The one after that was a spare room with a single bed and built-in cupboards. It smelt cold. Unused. That just left the main...
I stepped in expecting to see further mayhem, or even a body. The room had been left untouched... The guys who’d turned over the study had obviously found what they’d wanted. I exhaled anxiously and scanned Nancy’s bedroom. It had pastel-coloured walls and built in wardrobes and a white metal-framed bed, with a couple of tasteful pictures displayed on the distressed side-tables either side of it. I strolled over to get a closer look.
One was of a guy I’d seen downstairs, who must have been a partner or someone close. The other was of herself with what appeared to be a sister or cousin, judging by the similarity in looks, the relative being an inch taller and sporting a neat blonde bob in contrast to Nancy’s long brown hair.
Seeing enough, I headed back downstairs, deciding it wasn’t best to hang around too long in case the cops were already on their way, or if Nancy returned suddenly and saw me in her trashed house and got the wrong idea.
I tip-toed over the strewn files and picked up a business card from the table advertising her services. It read:
Nancy Stringer
Environmental Biologist
73 Garland Square
Lexington
Kentucky
At the bottom was the usual set of numbers. One for a landline and the other for a mobile, different to the one I’d been given. I assumed it was just for work. I put the poker down and pulled out my phone, then punched in its number. I needed to make contact with the biologist sharp and let her know her house had been broken into at the very least. I pressed the dial button and heard it ring, then waited as it rang unanswered and went through to voicemail, just like the other cell.
