A Bitch Called Hope

by Lily Gardner

  The priest opened the top drawer of his desk, pulling out a large planner bound in maroon leather. He paged back and pointed in the book with his forefinger. “I had business out at Hunter’s Ridge until seven at which time I went to dinner at Jake’s.”

  “Did you meet with anyone at Hunter’s Ridge?”

  He looked at Lennox with frank contempt. “Do you know how insulting this is?”

  “I’m not trying to insult you, Father,” she said. “I need to verify every statement. Whether you’re a priest or a senator makes no difference in a court of law.”

  Mrs. Abendroth knocked and entered with a small tray. She placed Father Mac’s coffee on the desk.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Go home, now. Anything you’ve got left can wait for the morning. I’ll lock up,” he said.

  It was Lennox’s turn to glance at her watch. Six o’clock. Mac was probably one of those millionaires who sweated their employees’ overtime.

  “Do you want this door left opened?” she said, nodding her double chin in the direction of the door that separated Father Mac’s office with hers.

  “Please,” he said.

  Lennox and the priest listened as Mrs. Abendroth returned the coffee tray, turned off various office machines, gathered her coat and umbrella.

  “Good-night, Father,” she said. They heard the door click behind her.

  “Now where were we?” he said.

  “Did you meet with anyone at Hunter’s Ridge?”

  “Dan Pike,” he said and closed the planner.

  “Did the two of you drive together?”

  “No,” he said. “I met him there.”

  “Are you certain, Father? You didn’t pick him up at Pike Development?”

  His body stiffened. “I already told you that we drove separately.”

  “Would you look again? In your planner?” she said. “Just to make sure?”

  He stood up, braced both hands on the edge of the desk. “I’ve tried to cooperate with you for Delia’s sake, but you seem to delight in insulting me. I want you to go now.”

  She didn’t get it. One minute he was hostile, the next he was offering her coffee. Which, she noticed, he had not taken a sip from since Mrs. Abendroth left it for him.

  “One last thing, Father,” she said.

  She reached into her bag and withdrew Gabe’s drawing of the Hierophant. The likeness between the drawing and Father McMahon was unmistakable. The same tall rangy body, same pattern of baldness and red complexion. Same stained glass eyes, the same beaky nose.

  She smoothed the drawing in front of her then held it up to him until he looked at it. He sat down again. He looked like he was doing his best to control his mouth.

  “You’re famous on the comic book scene,” she said. “Leastways you will be when Gabe’s book goes into print.”

  “What are you showing me that for?” he said.

  “Don’t you recognize yourself?” she said.

  The muscles in his face and neck tightened. “Ridiculous,” he said. “You’re wasting my time.”

  “He looks exactly like you,” she said. “You’re the Hierophant in a comic book. He represents the clergy in the tarot deck.”

  “The occult,” Father Mac said heavily.

  “Do you know the artist?” she said. “His name is Gabe Makem.”

  Did the muscles in his shoulders tense? Did his eyes blink one too many times? She thought so.

  “Never heard of him,” he said. “What are you after?”

  He was doing his best to play it cool. Ah, but then that thin, Irish skin of his gave him away.

  She folded the drawing in half and slipped it back in its envelope and into her bag. She stood up. “Thank you for your time, Father.”

  Chapter 40

  It was a quarter after six when Lennox left the rectory. The wind had shifted, blowing hard out of the Columbia Gorge, the kind of wind that liked to tear the skin right off your bones. She ran to the Bronco and turned on the heat, not waiting for the engine to warm up.

  She drove two blocks south and turned on Burnside, moving towards the bridge and the area known as Old Town, thinking how spooked Father Mac looked when she showed him the Hierophant. It only made sense that there was some connection between Gabe and the priest, but what? Did she honestly think that Gabe would draw a character in his comic book that he was blackmailing?

  The sidewalks flanking the street were deserted, the clubbers staying inside out of the wind, the homeless retreating to whatever shelter was at hand. Lennox narrowly missed a garbage can lid rolling down the street.

  When she reached the Burnside Bridge, the wind had scoured the sky of clouds. A few scattered stars pierced the sky. City lights reflected in the black water of the Willamette River beneath her. The traffic was light. Lennox turned the radio to the news. She’d passed the last set of bridge towers when a car hit her from behind, coming out of nowhere. Her neck jerked back, her head vibrating with the sound of metal on metal that spelled a whole new round of repairs. A black Land Rover had kissed hard against the back of her Bronco. A Land Rover of all things, the next best thing to being hit by a tank. She drove the last hundred yards off the bridge, watching the Land Rover behind her, making sure they stayed together until they could exchange insurance information. She turned right, pulling to the shoulder of MLK Boulevard, when the Land Rover smacked off her bumper again, this time jamming her against the steering wheel.

  Cussing the guy out, she struggled to push her door open. She had one leg out of the truck when a dark blue Camaro pulled ahead, cut right and stopped, blocking her Bronco. Two men. A Camaro. The Altar Boys. She was beginning to get it. No, she got it. Assault, armed robbery, the Altar Boys were capable of anything. Father Mac must have sicced them on her. That explained his squirrelly behavior—have some coffee, get the fuck out of here. He was sending her out into the world right when the Altar Boys could shanghai her ass.

  She jumped back into her seat, put the truck in four-wheel drive and climbed onto the sidewalk long enough to clear the Camaro and pulled back into three lanes of boulevard. Pedal to the metal. She’d be damned if she’d let them get away with it.

  It only took two blocks before the Camaro caught up with her and slammed into the driver’s side. The Bronco seemed to catch air. The Land Rover came up behind, its big block V-8 roaring. She tried to pull ahead of them but there’s no arguing with horsepower. They were faster, she was smarter; there had to be a way to duck them.

  The Camaro shoved hard on her left front as the Land Rover pushed her from behind, forcing her onto Ankeny. Her truck shimmied so hard, she was sure she’d blown a tire, but she stood on the gas, driving as hard and fast as the Bronco would go. A sudden right onto Third Avenue would connect her to Davis and the street grid, then it was sayonara assholes.

  She had the steering wheel in a death grip to hold it steady against the shimmy, then she cut right hard and fast, going up over the sidewalk around the corner. She made it to Third and they didn’t. Yes!

  Long rows of closed warehouses and parked semis lined both sides of the street as she sped past. She was a half a block from Davis. A half a block to safety before she saw the concrete barriers. Davis was closed for construction.

  Plan B. What the fuck was Plan B? She had about thirty seconds to figure it out. Third led left into a deserted warren of waterfront dead ends with freeway ramps overhead. She turned left and drove down a dogleg road, past the loading docks for Pacific Fruit. Lennox didn’t know this neighborhood. No one knew this neighborhood unless they hauled bananas. She figured if she connected to Second, she could loop back into the grid, and she had to get back into the grid if she wanted to save her hide. She turned right on Second when the Land Rover pulled behind her. Flooring the Bronco, she looked frantically for a side street or a sidewalk she could four-wheel over and ditch these bastards. But there was only chain-link fences and abandoned loading docks. The Land Rover rear-ended her for the third time, and it was time for Plan
C, folks, because her tire was all the way gone.

  The Camaro was waiting for her when she dead-ended into a warehouse parking lot. Grabbing her Glock from under the dashboard, she shoved it in her waistband and jumped out. The roar of the freeway overhead was deafening. A seven-foot wrought-iron picket fence ran the perimeter of the parking lot.

  What a landslide of shit! If she wasn’t running her ass off she would’ve wept.

  She sprinted back of the warehouse, the Boys right behind her. The back was fenced as well. A stack of wood pallets stood next to the back wall. She crouched beside them and thumbed the safety off her Glock. A short, stocky man ran out from the corner of the building. She IDed him as Emory Zimm, who had a long record of assault. Lennox braced wrist on wrist and sighted the Glock on his midsection.

  A hard kick sent her sprawling before she was able to squeeze off a round. Then they were on her. The men threw a hood over her head and dragged her back up on her feet. She fought the dizziness and yelled for all she was worth and kicked. And connected. She felt the satisfying land of her boot against legs and heard the yelps and cussing of whoever was trying to hold on to her. She twisted her shoulders and bolted forward. Only to be jerked back just before one of them punched her in the gut, the guy putting some real muscle into it. When she doubled over he nailed her hard in the kidneys. Trying to catch her breath against the pain, she sucked up the stink of the hood and gagged.

  “Get the gate,” came a voice. Rough hands yanked her upright, pinning her arms back and up. The pain shot up through her shoulder. She yelled again. They marched her across the parking lot, the wind blowing strong and bitter. They stopped and she was out of the wind, the freeway sound muted. She heard a door slam shut.

  “Don’t let her try any shit,” she heard one of them say. Probably Zimm. Her arms were pulled even higher sending a fresh spasm of pain through her.

  Two men held her by the arms. They lowered her so she could stand flat, her legs kicked apart. The third man pulled her jacket off. It fell to her feet. She twisted and kicked sideways, hoping to connect hard enough to loosen her captor’s grip.

  She missed and got punched in the gut again. She fell to her knees. She couldn’t breathe.

  “Looky what we got here,” one of them said. Her Taser was yanked out of her pants.

  Her ears were filled with the sound of her heart pounding, her labored breathing, a blur of voices.

  “She’s got a fucking Taser.”

  “I want it.”

  “Watch it.”

  Lennox did her best to catch her breath. She felt the collar of her shirt jam against the back of her neck and heard a terrible rip, the sting of cold air as her sweater and shirt were cut down the front. Her flesh shrank from the blade as it sliced through her clothing. Rough hands jerked her shirt off her shoulders, her blood pulsing so violently it made her ears ring. She fought the urge to gulp air, straining her ears to hear everything.

  “Watch it,” one of them said. “She could have a backup piece.”

  They cuffed her.

  “Those are some serious tits.”

  She fought the bile that rose up her throat.

  “Later. Better find her backup piece or she’ll shoot your dick off.”

  “With her hands cuffed?”

  “Stand still and you won’t get cut,” a man said. His voice flat. The kind of voice that only laughed when someone got hurt. She could imagine him wielding a club of some kind, his eyes sparking as he inflicted pain. It had to be Zimm.

  She made herself breathe slow and even. Her bare skin hypersensitive, feeling air currents and the movements of the two men. Where was the third one—the one who tore her clothes off?

  None of them were touching her for the moment. And it was crazy to run blind and cuffed. Better to wait. She heard them search through her jacket pockets. One of the men was a foot from her if her guess was right. The other guy was some distance away, but she could still hear him. The man closest to her yanked her pants down to her ankles. He slapped her on the ass. Every inch of her flesh was stung by his hands and the cold.

  “The gun’s got to be in her boots.” A deep voice, rough from years of smoking. John Resnick.

  One of them yanked her knee up as the other one pulled her boot off. She lost her balance, slamming bare-assed on the concrete floor.

  “Now there’s a picture,” Resnick said. His laugh more like he was clearing his throat than a laugh.

  She pulled her legs together. Rape? A beating? Where were they going with this? Her options? Zip to zero.

  “I’ll be damned,” she heard one say. The third voice said, “No gun.”

  “Is it true what they say?” the one she figured for Zimm said. “Girl cops never cry?”

  “That’s what they say,” Resnick said.

  I’m dead, she thought.

  “Get her on her feet,” the third one said. “I got an idea.”

  She stood twenty long seconds wanting to run, realizing it was futile, before she was hit by a punch to her breast. A punch so hard it went straight through to the ribs beneath and radiated out, shocks vibrating along her nerve endings up her spine to the base of her skull. The fucking Taser. She fell hard on her knees, her jaw clenched so tight she felt a tooth snap. And her bladder go.

  She pissed herself like a little girl.

  Lennox heard Zimm say “Oopsy” and laugh.

  “Okay, asshole, your bright idea,” Resnick said. “Clean it up.”

  They pulled her to her feet by her armpits, her breast a bloom of pain. One of them put his hand on her injured breast, pinched her nipple. She screamed and gagged, the hood sucked up against her nose and mouth with every breath.

  “You lose,” Resnick said.

  “Bullshit! Yelling is not crying,” Zimm said.

  They shoved each other, still holding on to her. Their wrangling sent a fresh wave of pain going from her breast to her fingers. Zimm and Resnick. Good God. They’d beat her to death.

  She heard the door being opened and then she was marched out into the cold. The wind lashed her bare skin. They dragged her across the pavement, each rock bruising her feet. They must have come to a car; she could feel the cold bumper against her thighs. Then they pushed her into the trunk, her head slamming against the edge. They hadn’t minded her head. Or her legs— her shins scraped as they upended her into the trunk. The lid slammed closed. The trunk stank of exhaust.

  What kicked in against the pain and the fear was her training. The why’s unimportant; what mattered, the only thing that mattered, was the when. When was how long before they killed her. Where was a woods somewhere. They were in Northeast for now. They could take her up the freeway into the Gorge or maybe somewhere across the Columbia River past Vancouver, someplace where you could bury a body. Her one chance was to get the hell out of the trunk before they reached their destination.

  Chapter 41

  Lennox worked to pull enough breath through the hood’s stink. She felt the car back out through the gate, stop for a minute, then pull forward. Through the wall of the trunk, a blast of rock and roll. The speakers had to be inches from her head, the music pounding in her ears. But no matter how loud they cranked the music, how much her kidneys ached, her breast hurt, what needed all her concentration was getting out of the trunk, pronto.

  She rolled from her side to her back so that her arms were pinned beneath her and her knees were braced against the trunk lid. With her handcuffs biting into her back and wrists she rocked, working her arms under her hips. She needed to escape, whatever it took.

  The lead singer screamed from the speaker by her head. Lennox prayed, “Use the surface streets.” Where they were probably headed was a woods someplace. Once they got on the freeway headed out of town she wouldn’t have a chance.

  She curled her body tighter until she could reach her manacled hands behind her thighs and finally under her knees. Pulled each leg through.

  With her hands in front of her, she yanked the hood off h
er head and breathed in real air: cold, metallic, smelling of motor oil. A tiny light glowed from the taillights and lit the lip of the trunk. The rest of the trunk remained dark, its lid maybe a foot from her face. She fought back the claustrophobia. Claustrophobia was the least of her worries. What she needed was a gun.

  She kept herself still, sussing out the acceleration and braking motion of the car. If she were to guess, she’d say they hadn’t crossed any bridges, so that meant they were still on the east side and still in city traffic.

  The car stopped; she felt for the trunk latch. The catch didn’t budge. She fingered the edge of the latch and pushed down as hard as she could. These things were supposed to release from the inside.

  Then the car turned right and accelerated. Running her fingers underneath, she pressed. The lid popped open. She caught it with her cuffed hands and held it mostly closed.

  They were driving thirty, maybe thirty-five miles an hour near as she could tell.

  The car braked. Headlights from the car behind them pulled a distance of ten feet from her and stopped. It had to be a traffic light. She let the trunk lid go and, bracing her handcuffed hands on the lip, she threw herself out of the car.

  She landed on her side on the pavement. Fresh pain. Blinded by headlights. She took most of the impact on her shoulder and her hip. Bits of gravel ground into her flesh. She cried out and struggled to her feet, her manacled hands up to shield herself. Her pants were gone, her shirt ripped open all the way down the front, the edges flapping in the wind.

  In the blinding light of the headlights, she heard the sound of brakes and car horns. Lennox didn’t know how long she stood there, stunned by the cold and the light and the fear of getting run down. She heard the screech of rubber and half-turned to see the Camaro speed forward against the light. Lennox heard brakes and the hard crash of metal on metal. A panel truck broadsided the Camaro. Lennox saw a body thrown clear of the wreck. The traffic stopped both ways. Someone shouted. Lennox saw the Land Rover speed away.