by Arno Joubert
“And that’s how he found out about the underground oil?” Alexa asked.
Lucy Beck nodded. “That’s how he became suspicious. But he wasn’t absolutely certain until Dr. Ryan told him about it.”
Alexa turned to Ryan. “Why?”
Ryan shrugged. “He was a genius. I couldn’t keep the data from him, and he would have figured it out soon enough.” Ryan leaned back in his chair. “And I guess I wanted to come clean.” Ryan pursed his lips pensively and then looked up at Alexa. “This whole business wasn’t worth the killing and bloodshed that Andy has been planning.”
Alexa tapped her lip, deep in thought. She had to figure out a way to stop Anderson Fitch. And she had to find Neil.
They had taken a break, and Dr. Ryan had offered to make them all coffee. Alexa sat alone to the side of the room, mulling over what had been said. Whenever her thoughts drifted to Neil, her heart started hammering in her throat and she had to force herself back to the here and now, back to reality. And at this moment, Andy Fitch was her reality—the evil monster beneath her bed.
She knew that Andy Fitch was morally capable of destroying the majority of the refineries in the country, probably all of them, if he found a way to. He was a “line your pockets and live your dreams” kind of a guy. Money equals power, and in some sick way he thought that by looking after his own, he was giving back to society, and that made everything fine and dandy. His damn ocelots had a kitty litter box the size of a house, for freak’s sake!
After what he had done to her, she knew he lived in his own sick psychopathic world and that he would be able to justify any action as long as it contributed to his state of wellbeing. She wondered if he believed in karma. She snorted, causing a couple of inquiring looks from the men around her.
If Fitch managed to shut down most of the other refineries, and Refatex was the only refinery available, Brent Crude would be shipped here in a hurry. And he would fetch top dollar for his own stash of premium sweet crude waiting to be pilfered from beneath Dabbort Creek.
She guessed not many questions would be asked in the pandemonium that would ensue. If he could ship out his higher grade of oil to refineries that were capable of processing it, he could remove all traces of where it came from within a couple of months. He was a sick bastard, but he wasn’t stupid.
Alexa tapped her upper lip with her index finger and then stood up and took a seat next to Missy. “How do you go about shutting down the refineries?”
“You mean the procedure?”
Alexa nodded.
“You send a remote initiation code to a specific cellular number supplied by the Refatex call center. Easy as pie.”
“Can you cancel the shutdown process once it has been initiated?”
The older woman shifted her weight in her chair. “If you have the cancellation codes, yes.”
Alexa nodded slowly. “Who has access to these codes?”
“Refatex. The process is strictly controlled by the supervising staff at the call center.” Missy drummed her fingers on the table. “You phone in to the Refatex Operations call center, and they give you a code to send to the specific number.”
“Who else?” Alexa asked.
“Anderson Fitch,” she said with a shrug. “Patricia and Fitch have the master copies.” She pursed her lips. “I met with her a couple of days ago, and she wanted me to take them.”
“Why?”
Missy sighed. “She said she feels like a sitting duck, thinks Fitch is out to get her.”
“She could be right, Pauline.”
Missy nodded slowly, her lips pursed. “Call me Missy, everybody does.”
“And Chris Fitch is Patricia’s son?”
Missy nodded.
“The guy with the cowboy hat always hanging around at the inn?” Alexa asked.
Missy nodded again. She didn’t seem to be in a talkative mood anymore.
Alexa removed the drawing of the cowboy beating the young woman that Mary-Lou had made. “Who is this?” she asked and handed the picture to Missy.
Missy’s hand went to her throat. “That’s my daughter, Lily. My husband passed away when she was still a baby.” She glanced up at Alexa and blinked. “Chris Fitch got her pregnant.” She shook her head. “He beat her to death and then tried to kill Mary-Lou.”
Alexa handed her another drawing of a cowboy looking up from below a Stetson with a grin on his face. “Is this Chris Fitch?”
Pauline took the picture and nodded. “Yes,” she said and looked at Alexa. “Where did you get this?”
“Mary-Lou drew it.”
Alexa handed the picture to Bruce. He studied it and his eyes widened. “But this is—”
“Bis Latorre,” Alexa spat as she slammed the table with a fist.
Laiveaux grabbed the picture and examined it. “Merde, that lying little—”
“Could that be why he joined the League?” Bruce interrupted.
Missy blinked and then sighed, close to tears. “Yes. He was convicted of first-degree murder, open-and-shut case. My daughter was dead, and what did that worthless piece of shit decide to do?”
She looked around, but nobody said anything.
“He ran away. And now the coward’s back, like a dog returning to its own mess.”
Alexa breathed in deeply. She would deal with him when the time came. Her primary objective was to kill Fitch and then find Neil. “Why did they try to kill you, Pauline?”
Pauline looked at her lap. “Bingo nights, I guess.”
“What?” Bruce asked confused.
Pauline closed her eyes as she sighed. She looked like she was going to have a nervous breakdown, her hands trembling in her lap. “Whenever Fitch is in town, we have what we call bingo nights.” Her eyes dropped to her lap. “That’s when I show him all the evidence that I have gathered.”
Alexa frowned. “What evidence?”
Pauline glanced at Alexa and bit her lower lip. “Anything he could use against his enemies.” She lowered her eyes again. “Like the incriminating photos that he had of you,” she whispered.
Alexa eyes widened and she jumped up. “You took those?”
Pauline nodded guiltily. “Fitch knew that you would check the room for bugs, but I could easily get close enough because I had the keys to the adjoining room.” She straightened her dress. “A simple matter of sneaking in and not getting caught.”
Alexa glowered at her, a fiery heat making her face feel warm. Bruce cast her a questioning glance, but she ignored him. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. “What else?”
Pauline shrugged. “I told him that you were heading to the refinery. He was waiting for you.” Pauline looked up at Alexa, her face contorted into a tortured grimace. “I’m so sorry, Alexa.”
Alexa glowered.
“He would have killed me and Mary-Lou,” she said, looking at Alexa pleadingly. “You must understand. But Patsy and I decided to come clean, and I didn’t give Fitch any more information.”
“And that is why he decided to get rid of you?” Bruce asked.
Pauline nodded, sniveling. She looked up as she dabbed at the corner of her eye with a Kleenex. “I’m so sorry.”
Bruce tore the rat pack open with his teeth and removed the noodles. The twenty-four hour ration pack contained everything a soldier needed to function at his peak, a total of 3,500 calories of energy. The packaging is probably tastier than the freeze-dried ingredients it contained, he thought.
He filled a tin mug with water from a kettle set up in the makeshift kitchen of the mess hall, dumped the contents of the silver packet into the mug, and stirred it with his finger. The days were too sweltering for heated beverages; they never boiled the water through the day. The ingredients went down easier when washed down with liquid, though.
He pulled out a chair and sat down, slurping up the bland ingredients in the mug, trying to coax the floating pieces of flotsam into his mouth without spilling.
Alexa had left an hour ago with Missy to have
her wounds redressed. He smiled. That’s why he loved her so much. Alexa forgave easily; you simply had to ask.
He looked up as a car squealed to a halt in the parking lot. The driver switched off the engine but didn’t climb out. The warm muffler box ticked as it cooled down, the golden logo of Dabbort Creek Police Department’s insignia shimmering on the car hood.
Deputy Dwight Harvey’s shoulders heaved up and down slowly as he took a couple of deep breaths. He nodded as if in conversation with himself and climbed out.
Bruce watched as Porter intercepted him, bowing his head down as Harvey animatedly explained something to him. Porter turned around and marched to Bruce.
“The deputy would like a word with you,” he said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. “Something about a murder.”
Bruce nodded and Porter waved the deputy over.
Harvey stood in front of him, fanning his blushing face with his hat. “Good day, Major,” he said and blinked twice. His armpits were soaked.
Bruce studied the man. He had no sympathy for him. His daughter had gotten hurt under this man’s watch, in his town, by one of his residents. Bruce nodded curtly.
Harvey pinched the side pleat of his pants and then pulled his collar away with his index finger. “Someone was murdered last night.”
“Who?”
“Patsy McBride, she was a waitress at Mo’s Diner.” Harvey looked like a Bassett hound, his jowls flapping up and down as he spoke.
“Okay,” Bruce said, watching the man intently.
The deputy shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Well, since you are from Interpol, I thought you would be interested.” He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. “It may be connected to your case.”
Bruce nodded. ”Give me a minute.” He punched a number into his cell and waited. Alexa answered after a couple of rings. “How is she?” Bruce asked.
“Doctor says she’s fine. Second degree burns, but she’s tough as nails.” Alexa had the musical tinkle back in her voice. “Already ordering everyone around and rearranging the reception area,” she reported.
Bruce smiled at the thought. “I have Deputy Harvey with me. Apparently a lady called Patsy McBride was murdered last night. She was a waitress at Mo’s Diner.” He looked at Harvey, who nodded, sweat dripping from his chin. The man was dissolving in front of his eyes. “Do you want to check it out?”
“I’ll meet you at the diner in five minutes.”
Bruce disconnected the call, stood up, and flung his jacket over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
Alexa kept the rental car idling in front of Mo’s Diner. Deputy Harvey’s patrol car approached, and he switched on the strobe light for a second and waved at her. Bruce was seated next to him.
They waited for a tanker truck to pass, made a U-turn, and drove in an easterly direction to the countryside. Five miles later, the deputy’s car slowed down at a sign that said, “Rio Vista.” He turned left onto a neat tarmac road canopied by trees. They drove for a hundred yards, reached a T-junction, and turned right, driving along the edge of the river. The view was amazing; the river was much wider here, hemmed in by a thick forest of trees on either side.
Harvey indicated that he was turning right into the driveway of a big, three-story country manor. Alexa leaned forward, shaking her head slowly when she saw the place. Patsy must have been getting some really good tips to be able to afford a mansion like this. The property was unfenced, and a large rolling lawn stretched all the way to the back. She followed Harvey’s patrol car to an empty barn at the back of the house, which had enough parking space for half a dozen cars.
They walked to the manor along a pebbled pathway beneath a pergola covered by vines. The building had a porch around the entire house, with various doors opening onto it. A wooden deck led from the front porch down to the river.
Alexa stood in front of the house, looking up as she admired the building. She had no desire to live in such a big house, and she always wondered why someone would want to spend the time, money, and energy to build, maintain, and clean something that they hardly ever made use of. A ten-column colonnade rose three stories high, supporting a large overhanging roof. She shook her head at the pretentiousness of it all. Honestly, why?
They ducked beneath some yellow crime-scene tape and entered the place through a large oak door. Alexa paused, marveling at the interior. The expansive space continued indoors; a massive sitting room led to a modern, open-plan kitchen. Large sliding glass doors led out onto a wooden deck, even larger than inside. She had to admit that the view from the deck was breathtaking, looking out onto the river and lush green forest behind.
The place was sparsely furnished, the bare necessities only. A couch and recliner stood tucked away in the corner facing a small television set that had been propped on top of a coffee table.
Harvey huffed and led them upstairs. They walked along an empty passageway, passed a couple of doors, and then entered the room at the farthest end. Alexa remembered how the Tasmanian Devil from the Looney Tunes cartoons used to leave a trail of destruction in its wake. This was similar; someone had deliberately smashed and broken most of the objects in the room, venting his or their frustrations on the dead woman’s personal belongings.
Three large holes were smashed into the wall above the bed, and blood splatters covered the wall. A large pool of coagulated blood was visible on the mattress. The vanity was lying on its side on the floor, and clothes and makeup lay scattered haphazardly, like someone had hurriedly searched through the room. Alexa closed her eyes and then prepared herself for the horrific sight she had tried to ignore in the periphery of her vision.
A large cross stood propped up on the bloodied mattress. The woman who had served them at the diner was nailed to it, her head sagging on her chest, a large bullet hole between her eyes. Her breasts were missing, two large oval cavities on either side of her chest the only evidence that she had once been a woman.
She had seen this before in the Congo: inhumane acts performed by crazed guerilla soldiers high on drugs, butchering whomever happened to cross their paths and then performing their final, cruel coup de grâce by denying the women their femininity in death.
The parabola of male chauvinism.
She ambled closer, inspecting the corpse. Her stomach had been cut open from the breastbone to above her pubic mound with a Y-incision, a flap of skin hanging above the groin, her entrails spilling out.
Alexa swallowed and then glanced sideways at Harvey, who was studying her intently. “Any leads?” she asked.
Harvey shrugged. “The neighbor heard a gunshot. We arrived a couple of minutes later. We guess he was busy with her for less than twenty minutes.”
“Forced entry?” Bruce asked.
Harvey shook his head. “Nope. Front door was unlocked.”
“So she could have known the guy?”
Harvey shrugged.
Alexa sauntered across the room. Framed paintings lay scattered on the floor. She picked up a certificate. It indicated that Patricia McBride had been awarded a doctorate in electrical engineering from Yale.
Harvey cleared his throat. “We used to joke about it, called her Doc. She worked up at the plant before. Said she hated it, wanted to do something simpler with less stress.”
“What did she do?” Bruce asked. He looked like he had eaten something rotten, a disgusted look on his face.
“She manufactured some stuff that they used up there.” He scratched his chin. “Way over my head, but she headed some research project twenty years ago.”
Bruce nodded toward Alexa. “Get Voelkner to check this out.”
Alexa put the certificate on a dressing table and then wiped her hands on her chest. She dialed Voelkner and requested him to have fingerprints taken at the crime scene. She moved closer to the dead woman, looking at the dozen silver bangles hanging around a limp arm. They were warped and bent out of shape. She pulled them from her arm and lined them up; they all had a neat circular indentation.
Alexa lifted the dead woman’s arm. She had a bruise on her forearm, probably from defending herself from a downward blow. Probably from a walking stick or a cane. She crouched and looked beneath the bed and then dropped to her stomach and wriggled underneath. She retrieved a bolo tie that had snapped, the same design that she had seen around Andy Fitch’s neck in the Texan Daily.
Harvey’s eyes widened and he pulled his collar from his throat, swallowing loudly. “Oh shit, not again.”
Alexa turned around. “What do you mean?”
Harvey mopped his brow. “Talking out loud, that’s all.”
She glanced at Bruce, who frowned angrily. He strode to Harvey, grabbed his neck below the chin, and pushed him up against the wall beside the macabre corpse. “What did you mean, you piece of shit?” Bruce yelled.
A vein throbbed in the deputy's temple as he stuck out his tongue, trying to lick his lips. He made choking sounds as Bruce’s grip tightened, and his eyes started bulging from his sockets.
Alexa touched Bruce’s arm. “Dad,” she said softly.
He let Harvey go, and the man slid straight down to the ground and landed on his ass.
Alexa crouched in front of the deputy and leaned in closer. “We’re waiting.”
Harvey gasped and rubbed his neck. “I’ve seen this all before,” he said, his eyes darting around the room. “Five years ago.”
“What happened?” Bruce asked, towering over the man.
Harvey swallowed, his jowls moving up and down. “The day that Chris ran away.”
“What do you mean?”
He looked around, his mouth agape. “I had forgotten, probably because it had upset me so much.”
“What?” Alexa asked impatiently, grabbing Harvey’s shoulder.
“It’s almost the same way that Lily Coulson was killed.” He swallowed again and then closed his eyes. “The cross, the wounds, the bolo tie.”
Alexa stood up and turned to Bruce. “Shit, do you think Chris killed his own mother?”
Bruce shook his head. “No, I knew Latorre. He would never do anything like—”
