by S W Vaughn
To reverse his fortunes by moving his mistress into his rival’s former job, like a living chess piece. Complete with sacrifices.
“Well, sir, I’d better get back to my friend,” Jude finally said. “Thanks for having me over, Mr. Costas. It was good to see you.”
“Any time, son. I thought the world of your father,” he said. “Still do.”
“I appreciate that.” Couldn’t say the same for his father, who’d probably never appreciate anything again.
He stood, shook hands with Mr. Costas and headed for his car, hoping Danica hadn’t actually been right all along.
Because if she was, the real Sherry Price was dead.
Chapter 17
The resemblance wasn’t just passing fair. It was strong. Sherry Price and Karen Copeland could’ve been sisters.
Back at the motel, Jude stared in disbelief at the side-by-side images he’d arranged on his laptop. Sherry was a hazel-eyed brunette, Karen was a blue-eyed blonde, and the former was slightly more full-figured than the latter. He thought Karen might be a little shorter, too. But they had the same facial shape with upturned eyes, high cheekbones and slightly pointed chins, the same body type. Both had small hands and slender fingers.
Give Karen Copeland dyed hair, colored contacts, a bit of strategic makeup, and a few additional pounds or padding — and heels to make up the height difference — and she could’ve been the woman he saw in the county building.
She’d been an actress. ‘Out of work’ when he knew about her, but that meant there had been work at some point. He didn’t want to believe there was any possibility of truth to this theory. Wouldn’t have believed it even with the resemblance, except for that fact. She was an actress. Which made it possible she could pull this off.
He wanted to talk to Lisa, to find out if she actually knew where her mother was or what she was doing. But that would involve going to the sheriff’s station, a place he intended to avoid as much as possible while Lobo and his gang were looking for him. For all he knew, Quinton could have an ‘insider’ on the Providence Falls police force. Maybe even Sheriff Singer.
As soon as the thought occurred, he dismissed it. Singer was a surly son of a bitch, quick to judge and slow to act, concerned only with ‘his’ community, but he was an honest man. It was the reason he kept getting elected.
Jude couldn’t vouch similarly for his deputies, though. He’d only met two of them, and neither seemed like specimens of integrity. Armstrong in particular. In fact, if he was forced to pick someone likely to be working with Quinton, he wouldn’t hesitate to choose Armstrong. The arresting officer who obviously knew his arrest was bogus.
It was going on noon now. Time to grab something a little more substantial than the stale powdered mini-donuts he’d choked down for breakfast, and then figure out how to tell Danica she’d been right.
This was one I-told-you-so that no one was going to enjoy.
Jude spent most of the afternoon in the motel room. Researching possible connections, thinking, and trying to recover a little from two days of excessive alcohol, scant sleep, and multiple brawls. The damage he’d taken in the fights had been minimal compared to what it could’ve been, but it still slowed him down.
There had to be a way to prove all this. The easiest thing he could think of was exactly what Danica had been asking the sheriff to do from the beginning. Investigate ‘Sherry.’ As a county employee, her actual fingerprints had to be on file somewhere. Maybe he could break into the building and lift prints or something.
Like the recorded call, it wouldn’t be admissible evidence. Both of those things together might convince Singer to actually investigate, but even then the situation might not be resolved.
It depended on just how invested and desperate Quinton was in his scheme. He might consider killing a small-town sheriff acceptable collateral damage — especially since it was likely he’d already arranged Bernard Copeland’s death somehow.
Jude was supposed to meet Danica at seven, at the same diner they’d went to before. A little after six, he was about to head out and run a few errands before dinner when a phone rang. Not his cell … the room phone.
Frowning, he answered with, “Yes?”
“Mr. Wyland.”
He could almost place the voice, but not quite. “Who is this?”
“It’s Sheriff Singer.”
“Oh,” he said flatly. He already knew Singer had at least half a brain, maybe even a whole one. Of course the man would be able to figure out where he was staying. “Look, if any of your files went missing, it wasn’t me.”
“That’s not why I’m calling.”
When the sheriff didn’t elaborate further, he said, “You gonna tell me why, then, or should I guess?”
Singer cleared his throat. “Didn’t you tell me your intention was to prove Miss Murray’s little theory wrong?”
“I did,” he said carefully, not sure where this was going yet.
“Then why was she in here this afternoon, ravin’ away about how we needed to reopen the investigation into the Magnolia fire?”
“Oh, Christ.” Chills raced through his veins as he recalled Quinton’s words: I’ll contact our inside people, find out if anyone’s been asking questions. “Who did she talk to?” he demanded.
“One of my deputies. I came in at the tail end of it—”
“Damn it, who?”
The sheriff paused. “I don’t like your tone, boy.”
“I don’t give a fuck what you think about my tone,” he snarled. “Did she talk to Armstrong?”
“Well, I … why the hell’s that matter?”
“She did. Goddamn it!” He was already getting his cell phone out, swiping to her number. “Is Armstrong at the station right now?”
“Mr. Wyland—”
“Is he there, or not?” he roared.
“No. His shift ended an hour ago. What is going on?”
“Danica was right, about all of it. And there’s a hell of a lot more she doesn’t know,” he said. “I have to go, Sheriff.”
He hung up before the man could respond and tapped to call her phone.
It went straight to voicemail.
“Shit,” he said as her greeting played. When it beeped, he left a terse message for her to call him immediately, and then grabbed his gun and jacket and headed out.
Chapter 18
Jude used his phone to get Danica’s address from the DMV. The battery was almost gone by then, so he plugged it into the car charger as he headed across town to the same neighborhood he’d been in that morning, talking to Mr. Costas. His childhood stomping grounds.
Coming back here hurt every time, but his worry for Danica buried the pain.
Why the hell couldn’t she have waited just a few more hours? He knew the answer to that — her mile-wide stubborn streak. He should’ve taken that into consideration when he talked to her earlier. Given her something to go on, some sign that he was making progress so she wouldn’t try to speed things along herself.
Now she could be in serious trouble. Maybe even dead. And it’d be his fault for leaving her to do her own thing instead of watching her back.
Just like what happened to his partner.
He spotted the address ahead, a small blue Cape Cod with white trim and red shutters. Very American. Her car was in the driveway. Hoping that was a good sign and he’d find her in there getting ready for dinner, he parked at the curb, got out and headed for the house.
Halfway there, he saw something that was decidedly not a good sign. The front door was ajar.
His hand went to his gun and stayed there.
He stopped at the door and listened for a minute. Inside, he heard the muted babble of a television and the hum of an air conditioner, but no movement. She could just be watching TV, or in a room where he couldn’t hear anything from her. But he couldn’t ignore the open door.
He pressed the doorbell, heard it chime somewhere in the house. “Danica?” he called. “You home?”
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Still nothing but the television and the A/C.
He tried one more time. Doorbell, call her name, wait. No response. He gripped the gun beneath his jacket and walked inside.
The living room was just beyond the door, and unoccupied. Same with the open-floor dining room and step-up kitchen. That left a hall presumably leading to bathrooms and bedrooms. “Hey, Danica,” he called as he headed that way. “Anybody back there?”
Something creaked just behind him. He whirled, already drawing his gun — but he hadn’t gotten it halfway out before a hard object was jammed beneath his ribs and immense, buzzing pain surged through his body. Either a Taser or a goddamned cattle prod.
He didn’t get the opportunity to tell which one. A hard blow to the back of his head spiked him into blackness.
Opening his eyes was not a thing Jude wanted to do. Neither was moving, for that matter. The next thing he knew was a grinding ache that permeated every cell. There were voices somewhere outside his ringing ears with a strange, hollow quality. And it was cold.
He kept still until most of his senses clarified. He was lying on his stomach on a frigid hard surface, his arms behind his back and held there with cold metal. Handcuffs. His ankles weren’t bound, at least. The voices were male, not far away but arguing in tones low enough that he couldn’t make out the words.
He opened his eyes, blinked a few times until the light stopped searing them. This was an empty walk-in cooler, the room-sized kind that restaurants used. Metal walls, metal floor. A tall, slender object propped in a corner. He was along the back wall, and a group of three men stood by the closed, thick metal door.
Lobo. Armstrong. And Ronnie Quinton.
Quinton’s eyes met his. The smile he offered was far from the down-home friendly grin he wore for the billboards. “Our guest is awake,” he said. “Armstrong, get him up.”
The deputy strode toward him and grabbed him by the cuffs. He bit back a snarl of pain as he was hauled upright, then deposited on his knees. “I warned you to stop poking around, didn’t I?” Armstrong said.
“And you shouldn’t have bothered with a warning,” Quinton snapped at him. “Now we have an even bigger mess to clean up. We have to find out who he’s talked to, what he’s told them. There may be more breaches.”
Jude spat on the floor. Already, flecks of blood decorated the saliva — probably thanks to the electrocution from that cattle prod in the corner. “Which one of you fuckbags juiced me?” he said.
Lobo grinned in response. “Knew you’d come lookin’ for your bitch,” he said. “How’d you like that little shock? I got more where that came from.”
“Keep your mouth shut, Duran.” Quinton glared at him. “The only talking I want you to do here is with your fists.”
Jude ignored the sinking feeling in his stomach. “Where’s Danica?”
“Miss Murray?” Quinton smiled again. “She’s in a very dark place,” he said. “But forget her for the moment. I want to talk about you, Mr. Jude Wyland. Current private investigator, former CIA agent and U.S. Marine, and good ol’ hometown boy. That is quite the resume, I have to say.”
Jude stared evenly at him. “You forgot ninja and meddling son of a bitch.”
The smug look on Quinton’s face flickered into fury, and he directed it at Lobo. “How the hell did he hear our conversation?”
“The fuck am I supposed to know?” Lobo said, holding his hands up.
“Never mind. It doesn’t matter now.” Quinton turned his attention back to Jude. “Tell me, Mr. Wyland,” he said. “Are you still in contact with the CIA? Have you told them anything?”
“Yeah, I told the President,” he said. “He’s on Air Force One right now, coming down from Camp David to bust you personally.”
Quinton jerked his head. With a grin befitting his name, Lobo strode across the floor cocking a fist, and drove it full force into Jude’s jaw.
Okay, that hurt. A lot.
“Mr. Wyland,” Quinton said. “Have you spoken with anyone at the CIA?”
“If I did, how the hell do you think you’re going to handle it?” he shot back. No matter what he told this guy, they’d just keep beating on him. Eventually they’d kill him. But the longer he strung this out, the more time he’d have to think, to find a way to survive.
Of course, the downside was a longer beating.
“I have a few options. None you need to concern yourself with, though,” Quinton said, and nodded once.
This time Lobo’s booted foot hoisted into his gut, lifting him a few inches off the floor. He came back down with a gasp.
“Did you speak to anyone in the CIA?”
Jude spat more blood. “I don’t know. Does your mother work for them?”
“Armstrong. Get him on his feet.”
The deputy obliged, crossing the cooler to fist a hand in his hair and yank him up. While Armstrong held his cuffed arms, Lobo treated him to a barrage of blows that left him sagging in the deputy’s grip.
Eventually the blows stopped coming. Jude lifted his head and met Lobo’s grinning face with a cold stare. “Quinton and Deputy Crooked here are going to rot in prison,” he said. “You, I’m just going to kill.”
Lobo gave a forced laugh. “Not happening, buddy.”
“I guess we’ll see.”
“Enough.” Quinton approached with measured steps. “I’ll assume you contacted the CIA, so I’ll have to destroy your reputation. That shouldn’t be difficult,” he said. “Now. Let’s discuss who you’ve talked to around here, outside of that slow-witted sheriff and the lovely Miss Murray.”
Jude grimaced and braced himself for a long, unproductive conversation.
Chapter 19
An hour later, they left him alone with Lobo.
Jude had counted on Quinton and Armstrong not wanting to get their hands dirty, and they didn’t disappoint. Quinton’s parting words had been something to the effect that Lobo was to wait fifteen minutes, and then finish him off in whatever way he wanted. Armstrong had taken his cuffs back and replaced them with rope.
The rope wasn’t tied very firmly because Jude had barely moved in the last twenty minutes, except in response to the blows. There was a lot of bruising, more blood than he liked. Probably a broken rib or two.
But he wasn’t as weak as he let on. Mostly, he was furious.
“What am I gonna do with you?” Lobo paced back and forth in front of where he lay on the floor, obviously relishing his assignment. “Still got the cattle prod, there,” he said. “Maybe I’ll give that another go. See what you look like with it up your ass.”
Jude didn’t respond. He was busy working his hands free of the rope.
“Ever had a cattle prod up your ass?” Lobo said conversationally. “Never tried it myself, but I’ve always wanted to find out what would happen. Not directly, of course.”
He almost had a thumb past the loop. Once he cleared that last bit of resistance, the hand would slide right out.
Lobo checked his phone. “Well, it’s been ten minutes,” he said. “Close enough. Think I’ll spend the next five toolin’ up on you a bit, before I get down to the real pain.” He turned and headed for the weapon in the corner.
Jude gritted his teeth and pulled hard. The rope yielded just enough to scrape past the sticking point, taking a few layers of skin along with it.
He barely noticed the sting.
By the time Lobo turned back, he’d pushed himself to his knees and stayed there, panting. He kept his arms behind him, holding the rope with his free hand. Waiting for an opening. He still had enough to go on, but another dose of that thing in Lobo’s hand would sap most of his strength.
If that happened, he was a dead man.
“Well, look who’s trying to fight back.” Lobo stopped about ten feet away, sparked the cattle prod a few times, and then reached behind his back and produced a gun. “We can’t have that,” he said. “I’ll just shoot you, and then I’ll fry you.”
Jude dropped aside just
as the gun went off. The bullet ricocheted off the back wall with a ringing zip, and Lobo ducked. It gave Jude enough time to roll once and lunge to his feet, already pushing toward a run.
“No fucking way,” Lobo snarled as he brought the gun up again.
Jude grabbed his arm with both hands and bent sharply. There was a dry crack, and Lobo screamed — but stayed on his feet. The cattle prod was swinging toward him. He wrenched the weapon loose, spun Lobo around and broke the other arm behind his back.
Lobo’s knees hit the floor. One hard twist broke his neck.
“Bit of advice for you,” Jude said as the body flopped down. “Kill first. Talk later.”
He retrieved the thug’s gun, tucked it in his own waistband and searched the body for keys. Wherever this place was, Lobo’s bike had to be around somewhere. He found the keys in a front pocket and a spare clip for the gun in the man’s jacket.
Finally, he limped to the cooler door. It cracked opened easily enough. He drew the gun, just in case Quinton or Armstrong had decided to hang around after all, and pulled the door open the rest of the way.
Outside was what looked like a restaurant kitchen, just as empty as the cooler. He made his way through to a large, unfurnished room with windows all around, and a door leading to a wide, tiled space.
He was inside Quinton’s half-built shopping center.
He started through the place, wary of any movement. Right now Danica was his only priority. He’d given Quinton nothing, but the man eventually gave up anyway — and he’d figured out why. The plan had always been to kill him, because they had another source of information. One Quinton probably thought would be easier to torture. Knowing Danica, the mayor was probably an extremely frustrated and angry man right about now.
She was still alive. In a dark place.
And Jude thought he might know where.
Chapter 20
