Johnny Cakes (The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles)

by Paisley Ray

  NOTE TO SELF

  Kicking myself for not making a quick call to let Agent Cauldwell or Stone, hell anybody, to let them know where I was headed.

  Not convinced that Mom’s prophecy shouldn’t really be labeled a curse.

  CHAPTER 32

  Ina Tirade

  The rain fell off the roof, splattering as it spilled onto the ground. The light inside gradually moved from dark to grim and I guessed the sun was close to rising. I shut my eyes and awoke as my head bobbed forward and the rest of my body followed, tipping the chair.

  A warm salty taste ran down my throat. Was that blood in my mouth? I ran my tongue over my teeth. As far as I could tell, they were all intact. That was more than I could say for Katie Lee. “When I looked toward her, she and the chair were missing. Sweat beaded on my forehead and a trickle stung my eyes. I started to sob as I called, “Katie Lee.”

  “Trying to crawl away, Ms. O’Brien?”

  Being scared shitless and fatigued had taken its toll, and words croaked out my mouth. “I haven’t done anything. Only what Schleck asked. I packaged the posters to the addresses she provided.”

  He tipped me upright. Leaning the chair back, he began to drag me through the warehouse. The mental and physical stress drained my fight and helpless tears wet my cheeks. I tried to work out of the tape, but it was wrapped too tight. The metal chair legs scraped across the wood floor and a vibration ricocheted up my spine. Jack Ray kept quiet, which was worse than his threats. His demeanor had changed and beneath his silence I detected a cold-hearted determination. I panicked and prayed that he hadn’t hurt Katie Lee. And as much as the professor put an acidic taste in my mouth, I didn’t wish her harm. She made a mistake, a lapse in judgment with Jack Ray. We all make boyfriend mistakes, but hers had turned deadly.

  My chair bumped and tottered up a ramp where more low-hanging fluorescent lights secured by a chain illuminated a forklift parked to the side. There were three industrial roll-up doors on the loading dock. Jack plunked me between Katie Lee and the professor. Their chairs rested inside metal tubs, the kind you filled with ice and beer. Both their faces looked pasty white. The professor’s cheek had a baseball-size bruise and Katie Lee’s lips were swollen and chapped. They were alive.

  One of the loading doors was open a quarter of the way. Somewhere beyond it, a metal chain clanked in the wind and I could hear the Savannah River sloshing in the storm.

  A piece of machinery that had a rotating mustard-colored barrel spun. Jack had ditched his suit for jeans, a birds-of-paradise tropical shirt, and a pair of worn leather slip-ons. Moving toward me, he had my tub. After plunking it down, he muscled my chair inside it. “What are you doing?”

  “With your unexpected company, I had to wait for the Contractors Supply House to open.”

  “You’re going to a lot of trouble for no reason.”

  “No reason!” He laughed. Not a hearty laugh, but a choked, spiteful one. “The professor and I had everything worked out. Didn’t we, Silvia?”

  Schleck’s matted hair and smeared make-up face gave her a crazy-lady look.

  “Hiding high-quality fakes behind cheap poster art?” I asked.

  “You deceived me,” Schleck muttered.

  “Is that what helps you sleep at night?” Katie Lee asked.

  Jack began tearing open sacks and dumping the grey powder into the machine. As he moved to a corner where there was a spigot, he said “Rachael O’Brien. Seeing you’ve only had a couple of decades under your belt, you’ve developed a trained eye and managed to acquire an impressive knowledge of art. I have no doubt you knew exactly what you were doing when you began pulling some pieces aside. Thanks to your father, you have a long client list. So tell me, how much did you get for my Klee, the Beckmann, and the Grosz?”

  “Wait, what?” Schleck asked.

  “Oh Silvia, stop being a moron. You didn’t actually think the checks I sent were for the sale of shoddy poster art.”

  It was hard to hear above the churning machine. Her voice cracked. “I thought you were a Baron. That you wanted me to be comfortable.”

  Jack pushed the machine to Schleck. Working a handle that tipped the turning barrel, he spilled gray paste into the pan she sat in. “Hans, what are you doing?”

  “I still have the missing paintings,” I blurted out.

  He looked to me.

  “When the professor was out of the office, I hid them behind the file cabinet.”

  “Jack, let me go.” The professor cried out, “You and I still have a chance. We can love each other again.”

  He kept the machine going and concentrated on filling Schleck’s bucket then moved on to Katie Lee’s. Sweat dripped off his forehead as he finished loading the goop around her feet.

  “It’s warm.” Katie Lee’s said in a scraggily voice, and she began to cough.

  Jack filled a Styrofoam cup with water and held it to her mouth so she could wash away her tickle throat.

  “Quick dry cement,” he said.

  I needed time and I couldn’t think of any other way than to keep him talking. “I couldn’t find records of the art in any catalogues. It nagged me. How so many fine art pieces could have turned up. At first I figured they were fakes. Good fakes.”

  He sneered and his eyes lightened. My quandary amused him and he stopped to lean against a dolly.

  “These were painted prior to World War II. And you chose to pretend to be a German Baron. Adolf Hitler studied art. He had definite opinions on what was proper art.”

  “Very astute, Ms. O’Brien.”

  A compliment? He could keep those to himself.

  He shook his head and a quiet chortle erupted. Realizing I’d stalled him, he swallowed his blithe mood and yanked the lever that dumped a pile of the cottage cheese consistency mixture into my tub. It splattered on my legs, ruining my favorite jeans. The gritty slop slid down my ankles, covering my Dr. Scholl’s sandals.

  Asshole.

  Drowned out by the storm and the grinding of the machine, my voice seemed lost. “The art under the posters. It’s the lost degenerate art from Hitler’s reign. Thought to be destroyed, but you found it?”

  “The what, from where?” Katie Lee asked.

  Jack Ray strode back to the mixer. His lips moved as he had a private conversation with himself.

  “How? Where did you discover it?”

  With an effortless flick of his arm, Jack lifted the accordion metal door, letting a mix of wind and rain sheath our faces.

  “Who cares y’all. This stuff is hardening. The man is going dump us in the Savannah River.” Katie Lee shouted.

  Outside, divots of rain plunged into the charcoal water’s currents.

  Dipping a finger in the mix that covered Schleck’s feet, he muttered, “Not long now.”

  My body began to shudder. This was it. I was going to plunge to a watery death, with my least favorite professor and the crazy southern girlfriend I adored. My God, my mother’s prophesy. I was in an old paper factory where a rocky shore butted against the Savannah River. Rock and paper. But what about the scissors? Cutting. What was around that could cut us free? Mom was new to this scrying. What if she misinterpreted? Instead of scissors, the warning should’ve been water. As in, I was going to the bottom like a pebble you tossed in.

  “A contact. You must have a contact in Germany.”

  Buy time. Get him talking.

  Jack looked at the three of us. “I’m feeling generous so I’m going to grant you one last wish.”

  “Let me out of here,” Katie Lee said.

  His shoulders became twitchy then stopped. “I’m going to tell you how fate turned my life around. Two years ago, after everything that happened with my business records sequestered, and all my paintings seized by the FBI in search for fakes.” He glared at me. “Thought I was finished. Then out of the blue, an old German walks into a bar where I’d been working on forgetting—one bottle of Schnapps later, and I’m back in business.”

  “I
s this going anywhere?” Katie Lee asked.

  “I had a hand in your lucky turn of fate.” I said, trying to help him see the positive side to this mess. He almost laughed until Schleck piped up.

  “You told me your friend was the only living descendent of an uncle he hadn’t seen since he was a child.”

  I guess she knew more than she’d let on.

  “Turns out the uncle was a hoarder, and my German friend is the owner of a modest cottage and barn in Germany, both stuffed with forgotten paintings.”

  “The uncle worked for the Nazis?” I asked.

  “Very good, Ms. O’Brien.”

  “Didn’t this friend get an expert to look at it?” Katie Lee asked.

  Jack’s eyes twinkled. He looked to Schleck.

  Her chin tilted up before it sunk to her chest.

  “As a self-proclaimed expert, you’ve been gracious enough to take the junk off his hands,” I said.

  “I offered him a nice sum for all of them. We’re both happy.”

  The professor began to shake. “He destroyed so many. Stole from the Jews. My ancestors. How could you?”

  “History is ugly. I’ve rescued the art and am putting it back into circulation and into the hands of deep pocket connoisseurs.”

  “You’re scum,” Katie Lee said.

  “Sending them through the university was the perfect cover for importing. Customs agents wouldn’t spend too much time on college materials.”

  Schleck sobbed.

  He rubbed his hands together. “Struggling will be futile. Probably best to just swallow the water down and get it over with.”

  “You’re sick,” Katie Lee said.

  “We have a volunteer.”

  Using a dolly, he slid Katie Lee aboard, tipped her back and began to drag her toward the open door. Between curses, she started hyperventilating.

  Darting out from a far corner behind my back, Sheila said, “Hold it right there.”

  God she was Ballsy. This was no game. Didn’t she realize he had a gun?

  I’d never been so glad to see her in all my life. I just hoped to hell she wasn’t alone.

  “Jesus, what’s this? Another kitten.” Jack said to himself.

  Poised with a shotgun, Jet stepped out of the shadows. “Flex one muscle and I’ll shoot your general and his two colonels.”

  Reaching into his pant pocket, Jack removed his revolver. Using Katie Lee as a shield, he aimed between Schleck and me, in the direction of Sheila and Jet. Taunting her to fire, he asked, “How good a shot are you?”

  A glimmer of hope rose inside my chest. I knew The Gator Trap clay club raved about Jet’s rifle skills.

  “This is your last warning,” Jet said. “Drop your gun.”

  Squatting down, he positioned himself behind Katie Lee. Her eyes went big and round and she appeared to be struggling to regulate air in and out of her chest. “I was just going to say the same to you.”

  We all heard a clunk and I guessed that Jet must’ve put her gun down. Jack Ray’s mouth relaxed, but with a snap that echoed from behind his right shoulder his lips tightened and he swiveled his head toward that part of the warehouse.

  “Move real slow, Johnny Cakes,” came the woman’s voice from the dark.

  Not heeding the advice, Jack spun around, his gun looking for a target.

  Both guns flashed and the bangs echoed around the warehouse.

  Katie Lee pinched her eyes shut and the dolly collapsed backward. When she landed, she was still attached to the chair, but the bucket and chunks of partially dried cement scattered like pieces of a broken vase.

  The woman’s shot had blown his arm off at the elbow. Gooey red flesh and tendons hung loose from his shredded limb. Stumbling back, he gurgled in horror at the gushing blood that splashed his shoes and puddled at his feet. The hand on the floor still clutched the pistol.

  In the dawn light, the rain slowed to a steady patter. Jack Ray’s rigid body held a horrified gape while his ashen, transfixed face moaned like a birthing goat. From the shadows another blast bloodied a knee, causing him to sway backward at first then fall in a lump. Sheila raced to Katie Lee and Jet hustled to the professor. When Sheila saw all the blood, she collapsed. Mrs. Jetteson moved toward Jack Ray, the toe of her brown leather, water-stained hunting boot kicked the pistol and his severed hand away. His body shook in fitful convulsions, but the gore didn’t stop her from reaching in his pocket to retrieve the handcuff key. In a few quick steps, she was behind me, fiddling to free my wrists.

  “I don’t know what to say. How did you know where to find us?”

  “Sheila called the Savannah police, but couldn’t provide an address, only a description. After that, she rang our house, she gave enough details about the warehouse and the dock for me to recognize this district. One name stuck out. When she mentioned Jack Ray, I knew you were in trouble. Jet had told me about the nuisance you had with his cousin, Billy Ray’s unwanted attentions. At the Lowcountry boil, I saw a stranger follow you into our warehouse. I could see it in his eyes. He was going to hurt you. I put two and two together, got my shotgun and gave chase as you both ran into the swamp. Apples don’t fall far from the tree, so I figured you were in danger again.”

  I just stared at Ina Jean Jetteson. “I didn’t know you knew.”

  After uncuffing me, Ina Jean helped me to my feet. The cement hadn’t yet fully hardened and with her help I was able to pull free, but my shoes stuck on the bottom of the bucket. I hugged that woman with vigor and sincere thanks.

  I didn’t need to fear the person who shot Billy Ray, I’d never needed to. Stone, Agent Cauldwell, and Bubba, they had nothing to do with the swamp.

  “It was …”

  Her hand stroked the back of my hair and she gripped me by the shoulder. Her soft blue eyes met mine. “Some things are best left unsaid, don’t you think?”

  After a nod of agreement, I hugged her again.

  NOTE TO SELF

  Ina Jean has one smooth trigger finger and can aim like a hawk. I owe her two times over.

  MAY 1989

  CHAPTER 33

  Stuck in Your Throat Like a Hair in a Biscuit

  Sunday afternoon at The Flamingo House, sunlight streaked into the family room. The air-conditioner floor vent below the slider door threw out chilled air that created a film of condensation on the glass. Out on the deck, relaxing in a jelly folding lounge chair, Jet flipped onto her stomach and I noticed the red welts from the plastic strapping.

  My books and notes for finals were spread across the dining room table. Francine commandeered the breakfast bar stool, Katie Lee had set up a card table while Sheila lounged on the sofa with the newspaper. “Can I interest anyone in The Seventh Sign? Brad Pitt’s in it. Showtime is in an hour.”

  “Enough with the signs,” I said.

  Folding the paper back to a manageable size, Sheila shrugged questioningly at Katie Lee.

  “Isn’t that a thriller?” she asked.

  Sheila nodded.

  “I’ll pass, I’m still having bad dreams about waking up in that warehouse.”

  “Francine’s back faced Sheila.

  “Francine? How about it? You and me?”

  With effort, Francine peered over her left shoulder. Her wordless response was No.

  I could see Jet’s feet tapping to the beat that came from her boombox. She was old school and preferred to spend her free time with bands like Yes, Zeppelin, and Supertramp. Not easy listening or dance numbers, more of the kind of songs you listened to after an emotionally draining breakup or life-changing moment. I would’ve liked to bask beneath a subwoofer too, but I wanted to keep my scholarship, which meant maintaining a GPA above a B average. It was finals crunch time and as much as I tried to focus my thoughts on textbook material, I kept daydreaming about the Intracoastal Waterway that ran past Katie Lee’s New Bern back yard and Jet’s family seafood business on the May River. After everything that had happened, either of those places would do for a relaxing break. B
ut first I had to get through final exams.

  Lying on the sofa, Sheila had her head propped up on three bed pillows and intermittently sighed. We all pretended not to hear her, but Katie Lee and I exchanged glances when she put an open book on her face. I guessed she’d planned on cramming through osmosis. Francine’s back faced us all, but each time she took a bite of Melba Toast, slathered with pimento cheese, I found myself counting her every crunch. Using the eyes on the back of her head, she said, “Sinclair, go take a nap. Your yawnin’ is making it hard to concentrate.”

  “Maybe if you’d share your cheese spread, I’d have the energy to stay awake.”

  “Just ‘cause I pay you rent doesn’t mean I do your cooking. You’re able-bodied.”

  Katie Lee coughed.

  “Make your own spread,” Francine said.

  Bikini clad, Jet slammed the slider as she came in from the deck. Sweat ran down her chest.

  Francine turned around. “Lawd, you’re redder than a fox’s behind during pokeberry season.”

  “Pokeberry? Is that a sexual innuendo?” Sheila asked.

  Katie Lee giggled. “Pokeberries ripen in the spring. They’re poisonous. If an animal eats too many, it’ll get bloody diarrhea.”

  “Sounds like a southern thing,” I said.

  Sheila scrunched her face. “I’m southern and I’ve never heard of that berry bush. That’s disgusting.”

  “I’ll never understand why white folk purposely bake themselves in the scorching heat. Changing skin color is what reptiles do.”

  “Suntans give a healthy glow,” I said, envious that I wasn’t occupying the empty lounge chair on the deck. But the whole Professor Schleck-Jack Ray kidnap thing threw me. I still had trouble sleeping at night and concentrating on school, and I didn’t know if I could keep my GPA up this semester. Jack Ray what-if’s clouded my head and gave me intermittent bouts of panic that ended with sweat-drenched t-shirts. I knew Katie Lee was going through the same emotions, and she’d confided that her grades were in jeopardy.