The Laura Cardinal Novels

by J. Carson Black

  Mickey Harmon un-padlocked the gate and swung it open, waiting for Galaz to drive through. They jounced across the potholed parking lot around to the back and parked in the shadow of the building. Mickey got out of the 4Runner and into the backseat. Galaz left the engine running so he could run the air conditioner.

  “Where’s Musicman?” Galaz asked Harmon.

  “Parked down the road between a couple of trucks. Must think he’s invisible.”

  Galaz laughed. “I’ll bet he’s waiting for it to get dark. You should leave the gate open, make it easy for him.”

  “He might call the police,” Harmon said.

  “He won’t. He wants her for himself. There’s no way he’d give her up—not voluntarily.” A smile flickered on his face, not reaching his eyes. “What do you think, Laura? You’ve been hot on Dale Lundy’s trail for some time. You think he’s going to give up now?”

  “No.”

  “See, Mickey? Cardinal knows her quarry.”

  She stared at him, feeling the ache in her eyeballs. Tried out her voice again. “You used me to find him.”

  He laughed. “It pays to have a crack investigator on the home team. At a certain point I didn’t need you anymore, though—Jay tracked down his ISP before Charlie did.” He turned to Harmon. “Just remember, Mickey, I want Lundy alive. I want the last thing he sees to be me doing Summer. I want him to know he’s been dominated. He’s got to learn that he can’t defy me.”

  He tapped the steering wheel, the only sign that he was nervous. “I’ve got to figure out what to do with Laura here. Any ideas?”

  Harmon grunted.

  “I didn’t think so. That’s why you never got higher than the third level.”

  The third level? He must be referring to the game Dark Moondancer. Pushing forty, and he was preoccupied with a kid’s game. It was the first thing about this whole situation that made her want to laugh out loud. The feeling didn’t last long.

  Galaz’s fingers drummed on the steering wheel: Tap, tap, tap. “Jay was easy, but if one of our criminal investigators disappears, that’s going to look bad. I really wanted to have some time with Summer, but it doesn’t look like it’s going to happen now.”

  “I dunno. You could maybe take her someplace else—“

  “No. There’s the time element. I’ll be lucky if I have a half hour. Laura here is the head of a task force, people will be calling, they’ll come looking for her. This whole thing could blow up in our faces. Better just go ahead and cut my losses.”

  Laura asked, “Why Dark Moondancer?”

  “Why? Because it’s more than a game, that’s why. Dark Moondancer transcends fantasy. To get to the highest level and become Dark Moondancer, you have to make it real. Things you would never dream of doing in your regular life—you’ll do if you want to win. This game isn’t for the faint of heart.

  “The problem with Mickey here, and Jay—they always pulled their punches. They had no commitment. No vision.”

  Across the empty lot east of the warehouse, Laura saw cars crawling along a road that paralleled the railroad tracks, the last rays of the sun flaring off their back windows. Too far away to signal. She traced their movement with her eyes, though, watching them turn and go out of view, becoming swallowed by the rise of land and the creosote. One of them was a brown Caprice, the kind Buddy Holland drove. Now she wished she’d brought Buddy with her.

  She said to Jay, “After all these years, you’re still playing this game?”

  “It’s not just a game. It’s a way of life. There are smart people and dumb people, powerful people and losers. Dark Moondancer is a metaphor for power.”

  “Do you still play it, Mickey?” she asked.

  Mickey grunted something intelligible. Scared to say anything in front of Mike Galaz?

  “Did Jay?”

  Galaz said, “Jay was nothing but a rich crip who outlived his usefulness. Although he did buy me this warehouse for my extracurricular activities.”

  “Did he have anything to do with Julie’s murder?”

  “You saw the note.”

  “The one you wrote and planted?”

  He smiled. “You think the three of us did it? That’s what you think? Jay, Mickey and me?”

  Even through her pain, Laura was amazed at her own curiosity. She wanted to know how long Galaz had been killing. She wanted to know if Jay had helped him kill Julie Marr.

  She had to know.

  Galaz sensed that need and abruptly changed the subject. “You’re not so different, you and the pedophile. There are a lot of things I can take, Laura, but being patronized is not one of them. I don’t take that from anyone.”

  What was he talking about? “Patronize you?”

  “Come on, Laura. Don’t play that game.”

  “Honestly, I don’t know what you think I did.” In her mind she reviewed her actions of the last few months. She had always been polite, always did as she was told, was very careful in fact because she didn’t know him well. She’d gone out of her way to stay under the radar, to do what he wanted, even going outside the department and working with Jay Ramsey because he asked her to. She had done everything—except show up at his party.

  He couldn’t be that petty, could he? Why would the fact that she didn’t show up to his parties make a difference to him either way?

  Galaz glanced at his watch. “Times a wasting. Mickey, you’re going to have to do the honors.”

  Mickey Harmon got out and opened the passenger door.

  “Better take the cuffs off. That would look bad if anyone driving by looked too hard. Laura, can you walk under your own steam?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Get her on her feet and see.”

  At 22nd and Park, Buddy Holland got caught at the light. By the time he made the turn onto Park, both the Suburban and the 4Runner were gone.

  He put on the afterburners, gunning it up to eighty to catch the cars ahead, but none of them were the vehicles he was looking for. Galaz must have turned off somewhere in between. He backtracked and found himself cruising through the warehouse district, his instincts telling him they were here somewhere. But where?

  The sun was going down and it was getting harder to see. He scanned the roads, empty except for big trucks and semis parked for the night, the blank-windowed factories and warehouses. Then he saw something out of place—a small white car tucked in between two trucks.

  A white GEO Prizm crammed to the ceiling with junk.

  He drove down the road and pulled in behind an empty office building to think.

  Buddy didn’t know what kind of connection there could be between Dale Lundy and the meeting between Laura Cardinal and Lieutenant Galaz. Something was wrong, but he didn’t know what. And now, here was this amazing coincidence. A ’94 GEO Prizm parked between two trucks.

  He got out of the car and slipped behind the empty building. He walked to the next block, cutting back between two warehouses, following an internal alley. He emerged fifty feet or so from the car.

  Getting darker by the minute.

  He drew his weapon, using the back end of a big tractor trailer for cover. He went from one truck to another until he was behind the truck parked to the left of the GEO. This gave him a good back view of the GEO, including the driver’s side.

  No signs of life. No movement inside that he could see, but with stuff piled that high, it was impossible to see past the back seat. Buddy squinted at the license plate. He didn’t need to call in to get Dale Lundy’s plate number; he knew it by heart.

  He was right. It was Lundy’s car.

  He thought about going back to the Caprice and calling it in, but just then he heard footfalls down the road, the crunch of shoes on dirt. A hundred yards up the road he saw a figure almost obscured by darkness—just the white of his shirt. Walking north.

  Headlights appeared at the other end of the road, lighting up the weeds along the side of the road. Buddy watched as the man ducked behind a palo verde tree
until the car had passed. Then he was walking again, heading up to the street Buddy knew from his previous pass was a dead end.

  He flashed his MagLite on the back of the GEO, approached it at a slant, gun trained on the driver’s window. Adrenaline pumping, knowing he should identify himself, but aware that the man walking up the road might hear. With every step, he saw more of the interior of the car.

  Empty.

  Relief like a douse of ice-cold water. Summer wasn’t there. But where was she?

  Buddy looked up the road. The man was almost to the cross street. Buddy watched as he crossed the street and walked along the chain link fence on the other side, then stopped. Too dark to tell, but Buddy assumed there was a gate. The man just stood there, peering in. Even from here Buddy could tell he was scared. It was in the way he hung back, the nervous movement of his head as he looked around.

  What do I bet it’s you, asshole?

  Laura was able to hobble from the car to the warehouse door, every muscle screaming. Her toes clenched, her teeth aching, her nerve endings shrieking like the high strings on a violin. Every shuffling step was an agony. She wanted to lie down. She wanted to curl into a ball. But Mickey had taken off the handcuffs so she needed to test her limits in case she had a chance to get her weapon back. Otherwise, she knew the end of her pain would also be the end of her life.

  Once inside, her freedom ended.

  “Carry her, Mick,” Galaz said, his voice impatient. “Otherwise it’ll take all day.”

  Mickey slung her over his shoulder.

  The warehouse was empty except for broken glass. In the huge, cavernous space, their footsteps crunched on glass and concrete, echoing in the rafters high above. The last light of the day poked through the jagged holes in the many windowpanes. The intact windows had been painted over dark green, giving the place a murky, aqueous cast.

  They didn’t have far to go. Half of one side of the warehouse was a suite of offices—cheap wallboard painted mint green, doors removed. Their destination was the corner office, closest to the back door.

  “Who’s there?”

  The voice belonged to a girl. It sounded creaky, as if she wasn’t used to speaking. Just inside the door, Harmon set Laura down.

  She was facing into the room, but her mind balked. She stared at her feet, at the floor, a kind of disconnect. She didn’t want to see what had been done to Summer. Her job was finding the bad guy. Her job was to pick up the pieces. Her job was to comfort the families. There was nothing she had ever done that had prepared her for this.

  She couldn’t do anything for Summer. She was helpless.

  Galaz said, “What’s the matter, Laura? You’ve been looking for her all day—aren’t you the least bit curious?” At the same moment, Mickey Harmon poked her in the back.

  She couldn’t see this. It would do her in. She couldn’t help Summer, she couldn’t help herself. For the first time in her life, Laura wanted to give up. Give it up, let it go. Like slipping into a warm bath. A certain comfort when you knew it was hopeless, and you were just waiting for death.

  One more push from Harmon and she was in the room.

  She smelled the stale air, fear riding on it. Fear and sweat and tears. And the coppery smell of old blood.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, the way she did sometimes when the alarm went off and she insisted on sleeping a little longer, knowing that once she opened her eyes it was all over, she’d have to get up.

  “Please …” the girl said, her voice drifting off. So pathetic that Laura felt a warm surge of emotion, tears climbing up into her throat.

  When she heard Summer’s voice, her resolve came back.

  She willed her eyes open.

  When Buddy was a kid, he was obsessed with American Indians. He read books about them, watched movies, pestered his parents to take him to Indian ceremonies—especially the Apaches, who were the toughest people on earth. During the Indian wars, an Apache could cover seventy miles a day on foot. The Apaches trained their infants not to make noise because they might alert the enemy. They lived on stealth because otherwise they would be eradicated. Now his days of stalking the low-rent neighborhood in south Phoenix where he grew up came back to him.

  He was quiet. Like air, threading through the cracks of the world.

  Silently he tracked Lundy through the dark parking lot of the Chiricahua Paint Company. Adhering to his training: Always find cover. Cover was something a bullet couldn’t go through, like the engine block of a car. That was something that had been hammered into his head over and over. Find cover. If you can’t find cover, find concealment. And if you can’t find concealment, look for an escape route.

  Lundy was a lightweight: A guy who picked on little girls. Watching him creep along the warehouse wall, flinching at every noise—it could have made Buddy complacent, but it didn’t. The minute you let your guard down, that was when fate got you. He’d seen it many times in his twenty-three years in law enforcement. Just a little bit of inattention, and you were dead.

  So he did not underestimate this man. Hated him, yes, but even the hate he had to push down deep inside. He had to clear the fear for his daughter out of his mind if he wanted to help her.

  Not much cover around here, so he went for concealment.

  The little man had his back to the warehouse wall, inching around like he was on a ledge twenty floors up. Clear he didn’t know what he was doing.

  Time to take him out.

  Buddy was behind him in an instant, one arm around his neck and his other hand over his mouth. He was tempted to administer a choke hold, tempted to take the choke hold too far.

  He said quietly in Dale Lundy’s ear, “Make a sound and I will kill you. Do you understand?”

  A quick nod, his eyes bugging out.

  He dragged Lundy backwards, off his feet—the guy was as light as a feather. Dragged him under a tamarisk tree. The salt cedar’s boughs trailed almost to the ground, affording him all the privacy he needed.

  He had Lundy cuffed and on his stomach, one knee pressed into his back. Thinking about how much he’d like to pound his head into the pavement, crack it like an egg.

  “Where is she?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know—“

  “Don’t fuck with me. Where is she?” Pressing his knee harder.

  “She’s in there.”

  “Why?”

  “It wasn’t my fault. I tried to save her, but he got her anyway, I tried, I tried …" Blubbering. New blue Keds skating in the dirt.

  Buddy fighting panic now—who got her? “Is she hurt?”

  “I don’t know—I don’t think so. She looked okay when he took her in there.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Two, three hours ago? I can’t remember—it could be longer than that.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Dark Moondancer.”

  He shook Lundy until he rattled. “Are you playing games with me? Because if you are—“

  “No no no! Dark Moondancer. That’s his name. It’s the truth, I swear to God, it’s his nick. He took her away from me, all I ever wanted was for her and me to—”

  “Shut up!" He heard the savagery in his own voice. Out of control. Gritted his teeth, tamped down his revulsion. His voice quiet. “If you don’t shut the fuck up about that I’ll kill you.” He took a deep breath. “Tell me about Dark Moondancer.”

  “I don’t know him really, except from the Internet. He … he and I have had transactions over the years. He knew I was in town and he wanted to … to meet Summer.”

  Buddy gave him a hard slap to the head. “Go on.”

  “He’s evil. He likes torture. That’s why I refused to let him meet Summer. I wanted to protect her.”

  “What are you saying? He’s torturing my daughter in there?”

  Lundy gasped. “Your daughter?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Oh God. Ohmygod, I’m dead. Oh God, please don’t hurt me!”

  His vo
ice hopeless.

  Buddy felt something crack in his heart.

  Laura stared, taking in everything at once, but unable to completely assimilate it. Breaking it down object by object, things she could name. A gas can on the floor. A trouble light. Extension cords. A video camera. A work table. Tools arrayed neatly on the table’s pristine surface—pliers, a vise, an electric drill, a staple gun. The tool cabinet was like the one her father owned, candy-apple red. The kind you got at Sears.

  Shackles bolted to the walls. Meat hooks dangling from the ceiling. A machine that looked custom-made, padded, something you’d see in a gym, but with shackles, chains, and pulleys at each end. A modern-day rack? Photos tacked to the wall, eight-by-tens of the hell he had committed on young women and girls—she counted three different women, photographed from all angles. Tied up, eyes bulging with fear. Before and After shots.

  Digital photos of Jessica Parris after death.

  A place for Let’s Go People! to unwind.

  Laura took it in, trying to stay clinical. She almost lost it as she stared at the mattress on the floor, though, soaked through with old bloodstains. So many reds, browns and blacks they formed a hard, shiny slick.

  Mickey prodded her deeper into the room.

  “You two girls know each other?” asked Galaz.

  When Laura finally looked at Summer, she felt both relief and revulsion.

  The girl was bolted to one wall, huddled down as far as she could get, but her arms were held high above her head. Wearing a little girl’s dress.

  Unhurt, physically. But how did you face something like this without losing a grip on your soul?

  Twelve years old

  She looked at Galaz, the supercilious smile on his face. Seeing living, breathing women as something to torture for his pleasure, because he was so empty he couldn’t get a high any other way.

  If there’s a way for me to kill you, she thought, I will.

  Buddy secured Lundy to the tree with the cuffs after tearing strips of the man’s shirt for a gag. Arms behind him, cuffs looped around a sturdy bough. Lundy on his knees.