by John Avery
"That should do it," he said. "Let's get the heck out of here."
Chapter 46
His Woman
Needles had taken the white van and gone to get burgers for himself and Beeks; he sat alone at a red light drinking a cup of coffee. His cell phone rang and he set the cup in a holder and answered the call.
"Needles," a woman's voice said, "this is Brandy."
Needles was quite surprised. "Well, hello, Brandy," he said politely.
"I'll get right to the point," she said. "You know about Johnny's meeting with that woman tonight, right?"
"At Sally's… yes." He glanced at his watch. 6:02 p.m. "In just under half-an-hour."
"Well, I had lunch with him today, and he got drunk on his ass, and told me a lot more about that meeting than I wanted to hear."
"I'm listening," Needles said.
"You've heard how he and I first met, right?"
"At church, right? He was your Pastor."
"Well, that's not really how it happened."
Needles smiled. He wasn't surprised. The whole affair had been shadowy from the get-go, and he'd learned to take Souther's stories with a grain of salt.
"My real name is Barbara Fischer," Brandy explained. "Two weeks after my sixteenth birthday my parents and I had this huge fight, and I had seen this ad online for a modeling job at a new agency downtown and decided to check it out — you know, to get back at them."
Needles had no idea where this was going — and the smell of the food was making him hungry.
"So, anyway, the people were really nice, and they took a gazillion pictures of me. And, well, apparently they liked what they saw, because they sent me straight upstairs to the owner's office. And you won't believe who it was?"
The light turned green, and Needles plucked a few French fries from the bag and proceeded through the intersection.
"It was Johnny Souther," she said. "That's how we met."
Needles sat up in his seat.
"I was totally star struck," she went on, "and Mr. Souther knew he'd hooked me. So he came right out and told me that Black Eagle Studios was in reality a front for his prostitution ring, and that during my first shoot the photographer would be taking more than just pictures."
"You've got to be kidding me," Needles said.
"Yes… and by then I couldn't back out, of course — I knew too much. Besides, I knew the money would be good, and I had zero desire to go back to my parent's house anyway. So he got me a place to stay and renamed me Brandy Fine, and I spent the next two days trying to psych myself up for my big debut."
Needles was speechless. Johnny Souther, a pimp? How could I not have known about this?
"… But then, at the last minute, Mr. Souther canceled everything and took me out for dinner and drinks — just the two of us — and we've been together ever since."
"So, what does this have to do with Ashley Quinn?" Needles asked. But no sooner had he said it did it dawn on him.
"Can't you see?" Brandy said. "Johnny wouldn't go to all this trouble if all he wanted to do was kill Ashley."
"He'd have done that by now," Needles said. "And he's not thinking prostitution here… he wants her all to himself."
"Right. And don't think for a moment that her son is out of the woods," Brandy said. "That exchange he promised her? It's crap. Johnny may be a sociopath, but he's not stupid. He knows he can make a lot of money with a pretty teenage boy."
Needles's stomach was in knots. "What about the digital recording? Why not just take her?"
Brandy gave a sad laugh. "Digital… that's cute. He used to leave cassettes. Listen… the recordings are one of Johnny's methods of courting a girl. For some weird reason he thinks they're clever — like that stupid hat. I think they're sick. I've heard him locked in his den recording them, and it makes we want to puke. He only makes tapes for the special girls — and they're the first to kick off when they reject him. I know this because I was friends with girls who got tapes right before they got iced. He wants to have her, Needles. And if she doesn't like it… she's dead."
"But why the sudden compassion?" Needles asked, still struggling to digest it all. "Where were you when the other girls were in trouble?"
Compassion? Brandy thought. Who said anything about compassion?
"The others were never a real threat," she said proudly. "But Johnny has never lusted for any woman the way he lusts for Ashley Quinn — not even me. I saw her picture. I know she's gorgeous — probably smart, too. I don't need a woman like that strutting about in my territory. I'm his woman, okay? I've been his woman for ten years. And I will be his woman, until the day he fucking dies."
Needles grabbed another handful of fries and put the pedal down. He knew what he had to do.
Chapter 47
I Can Ride
Aaron and Willy dragged their bikes through the secret entrance to the outside, preparing for the ride across town to Sally's Diner.
Aaron stopped and took out his cell phone.
"What's up?" Willy asked.
"Do you remember Michael? The guy with the cool loft?"
Willy nodded.
"Yeah — well, he'd want to help us."
"You're right," Willy agreed. "He would."
Aaron gave him a puzzled look. Then he dug Michael's number out of his shoe, keyed in the number, and pressed CALL.
– Michael was out roaming the city in desperate search of Aaron. His cell phone rang several times, but he couldn't answer it — his phone was back in his loft, in the pocket of his jacket where he had left it.
"He's not picking up," Aaron said sadly, pocketing his phone. They swung their loaded rifles around to their backs and climbed on the bikes.
Just then a pair of headlights swept around the far end of the cannery, temporarily blinding them. The boys froze like a pair of frightened deer, straddling their bikes, not knowing what to do.
It was Needles, alone behind the wheel of the white van. He pulled up and skidded to a stop next to them.
He recognized Aaron and lowered his window. "What the hell are you — " He saw the rifles, and answered his own question. "Oh, you can't be serious…"
He stepped out of the van, leaving the engine running. "Get in," he said. "We're going with you." He walked over to unlock the big roll-up door
The boys looked at each other, surprised.
"Did you say ' we?'" Aaron asked.
"Beeks will want to come with us," Needles said.
Aaron inhaled rapidly as from a knife in the gut. " Beeks is in there? " he gasped, covering his wound with his hand.
"I think he's down in the practice range," Needles said. "You boys load up your bikes while I look for him. I'll just be a second."
He rolled the door up just enough to duck under it then disappeared into the cannery.
Willy's face had popped a sweat. "What should we do?" he whispered.
Aaron heard ominous groaning sounds coming from the direction of the boiler house. "Come on," he said, and they dropped their bikes and ran inside the warehouse after Needles.
He was lighting a lantern.
"Needles," Aaron said, coughing hard. "You don't understand. We gotta leave! "
" Listen," Needles said. "Beeks is the toughest son-of-a-bitch I've ever met. If there's a fight tonight, I want him there. You got that?" He checked his watch. "Souther said 6:30… it's 6:15. We have time. Wait here, and don't move till I get back."
He picked up the lantern and started toward the back of the warehouse.
Aaron coughed hard again, but this time it really hurt. " Needles! " he cried desperately, clenching his teeth in pain. He gestured feebly in the direction of the boiler house.
"The boiler… it's…" He trailed off.
Needles stopped, turned and looked back, his face suddenly ashen, then said in a low, knowing voice, "What did you do…?"
Aaron stood with his arms limp at his sides, the weight of tears behind his eyes. How could he possibly admit what he'd done? How cou
ld he ever own up to something like that? It was supposed to have been a harmless prank. Nothing more. Just the death of an old building that was ready to die anyway.
"I–I rigged the boiler…" he said at last. "It's going to explode."
" What? " Needles gasped, jerking his head in the direction of the boiler house. " Have you lost your mind? Can't you undo it?"
"It's too late, Needles. I can hear — "
" Damn it! " Needles said, his attention returning to Beeks. "You two go on without me." He set the lantern on the floor and took off running, disappearing into the darkness of the cannery.
Aaron was numb. He stared at the empty space that had been Needles.
Willy heard the boiler. He put his hand on Aaron's shoulder. "You know we can't go after him, Aaron…"
"I know."
"We gotta jet…"
"I know."
"Can you ride?"
Aaron just stood there staring after Needles, the light from the lantern showing on his face. His fatigue was intense. He hadn't really slept in three days… and now this. He had nothing left. He was ready to lie down right there on the cannery floor and die.
Willy took him gently by the shoulders and looked him in the eye. "Aaron, listen to me. Your mother needs us, okay? Can you ride?"
Aaron looked at him oddly for a long moment; then his eyes sharpened and he slowly gathered himself and answered the question.
"I can ride."
Chapter 48
High Pressure
Needles arrived at the practice range out of breath. The hatch was open, and that light was shining up from down below.
He called down the steps. "Beeks!"
Beeks couldn't hear a thing under his earmuffs.
POP! POP! POP! Three rounds through the bulls-eye.
" Beeks! " Needles shouted.
No response.
" Damn it! "
He started down the ladder, then stopped short when he heard a loud metallic, groaning sound. Then a tremendous bang made him shiver, and he climbed quickly down the ladder.
POP! POP! Two more rounds through the bull's-eye.
Needles ran over and yanked the earmuffs off Beeks's head.
Beeks nearly shot him in the face. "What the fuck? " he said.
"We have to get the hell out of here, Beeks!" Needles said. "The boiler's about to explode!"
" What? "
"Come on!"
Beeks mumbled something under his breath then dropped everything and followed Needles up the ladder. Needles climbed up out of the hatch, then turned back to assist Beeks.
Beeks missed a step and banged his shin hard. "Motherfucker!" he exclaimed, biting his lower lip in pain.
" Come on, Beeks! Move your fat ass!"
The groaning sounds became an intense rumble that moved through the earth beneath them like a demon locomotive on a trip through hell. Needles held out his hand to help his oversized friend, then went cold when he heard a long, metallic, ear-grinding scrape, like a ship running aground on a rocky point. He looked over his shoulder toward the boiler house, then back down the hatch at Beeks. Beeks could see their fate reflected in his eyes.
Another low, shuddering rumble shook the building… then
BOOM!
– The force of the blast smashed through the cannery like a great wrecking ball. Splintered brick and shards of steel shot through the structure like the shrapnel from a thousand mortar shells, ripping Needles to pieces as he was flailed to the floor. Beeks flew backward down the ladder and hit the ground on his neck, snapping his spine. The massive, steel boiler tank rocketed into the desiccated water tower, which then smashed its full weight through the cannery's sheet-metal roof, causing a chain-reaction collapse of the floors and interior walls. Burning embers ignited by the furnace sprayed out over the wood-framed structure, starting ancillary fires fed by shattered lanterns and sheared-off natural-gas lines. A tornado-like firestorm, hot enough to melt iron, burned the Alton Brothers Fish Cannery, along with the two trapped men, to a smoldering shell.
Chapter 49
Distant Thunder
The rains had come again, and by the time Aaron and Willy reached the downtown area, they were pedaling through a downpour.
As they rode past the Community Plaza Bank building, Aaron checked the big clock. 6:25 p.m. They had to hurry.
Suddenly, from the distant waterfront, a huge flash, like a great nuclear flashbulb, lit up the surrounding buildings. There was a powerful, yet muffled boom — like that of distant thunder — but the boys knew that this was no thunderstorm. They skidded to a stop in the middle of the street, looked back and watched, horrified, as an irregular pattern of smaller flashes followed the first… then the corresponding booms… the ground beneath their feet shuddering with each concussion.
Finally the explosions subsided, and though there was much to say, the frightened boys were unable to utter even a single word.
They rode on, their ghostly shadows, cast by the hellish-red glow of the sky behind them, leading the way.
In the distance, sirens…
Chapter 50
The Diner
The green canvas awning hanging over Sally's Diner flapped violently in the wind like a grossly overweight bird attempting to take flight. The neon OPEN sign, protected from the heavy rain by the diner's plate-glass front window, blinked a sad welcome.
Inside, out of the weather, occupying his usual spot at the counter, was Michael St. John. One of only two customers that night, he had stopped off at Sally's on the way home after scouring the city in search of Aaron.
To Michael's left, an angular old man in a gray wool suit read a coffee-stained copy of yesterday's Times through tired eyes enlarged by thick lenses. Long white hair flew wildly about his head, suggestive of Albert Einstein. A glazed donut on a saucer before him bled cherry jelly.
Michael's swivel perch afforded him a panoramic view of the kitchen.
The cook, his face shiny and swollen from the heat of the grill, concentrated on the job at hand. Beads of sweat balanced on his bald head as he worked his spatula, flipping burgers in a shimmering pool of grease that splattered the front of his distended T-shirt with every turn. Bits of decaying lettuce clung to his shoes as he walked over and gave the empty order wheel a spin. He refilled Michael's coffee then returned to the grill as several roaches scurried to safety.
With one hand Michael held a novel; with the other he pulled sugar packets from a ceramic bowl and stacked them into a precarious tower.
If only I'd called the police that first night, he thought, maybe I could have helped him. But in his heart he knew it may have made things worse.
He added another sugar packet to his tower then returned to the top of the same page he had reread several times before.
– Ashley's rumpled Nova slowed and parked out front behind Michael's Aston.
She checked her watch. 6:25 p.m.
Through the downpour the diner door was a ghostly apparition. It called to her — as if it wished to devour her.
She drew in a tight breath of air, then picked up the gun lying on the passenger seat, pausing to consider her options. But she was incapable of putting a rational thought together, so she placed the gun in the glove box and stepped out into the rain.
– The diner's front door swung open, ringing a small bell and rattling the blinds. Michael's sugar tower fell.
He turned and saw a slender, attractive young woman walk through the door. She removed her damp, faux-suede jacket to reveal a simple, short sundress, hemmed a hand's width above the knee, that hung lightly over the curves of her breasts and hips. Inexpensive and a bit inappropriate for the current weather, he observed, but clean and very flattering. She wore simple eyeglasses that made her large eyes even larger. Michael's beloved wife, Jennie, had worn glasses, and he had always thought they added an innocence that he found enchanting.
Visibly anxious, the woman smoothed her dress with hands both delicate and strong. She removed her gl
asses, and as she leaned down to dry them using the hem of her dress, Michael couldn't help noticing the little price tag hanging from the zipper down her back. She wore a simple wedding band, but on her right hand.
She was obviously in some kind of trouble: her mascara was smudged, the area below her right eye bruised. Still, Michael could see the clear light of intelligence in her eyes, and found himself completely enamored of her.
– Ashley pulled strands of damp brown hair back from her face and looked cautiously around the room.
The diner was dimly lit, cramped, and hot — the air hanging heavily over the mismatched booths and tables like the breath of an old troll.
To her left, a rabbit-eared TV struggled to maintain a failing image amid dusty, burned out beer signs. To the right, on the far side of the large front window, hung a full-wall mosaic of the American flag, its red, white, and blue tiles surprisingly intact considering the condition of the rest of the diner. Cut into the mural below the field of stars was a door upon which the unisex restroom symbol had been crudely painted in white enamel.
Toward the back, separating the dining area from the smoke-filled kitchen, was a long, Formica counter with aluminum edging and a row of stools — each with its pitted-chrome base bolted securely to the floor, the cracked red-vinyl seats mended with rough duct-tape patches.
Her heart stopped when for a moment she thought she saw Johnny Souther sitting at the counter. She looked again and was relieved to see that it was just a handsome stranger.
She limped over and took a seat a couple of stools to Michael's right. She set her purse on the counter and laid her jacket next to it.
Michael tried his best to be discreet, but he couldn't take his eyes off of her, and when she repositioned herself — irritated, no doubt, by the cracked vinyl against the soft, smooth skin of her thighs — he felt weak.
