by Jude Hardin
“Nicholas. What are you doing here?”
“Just wanted to talk to you for a minute,” I said.
“I’m really kind of busy. Maybe we could—”
“You’re not busy. That’s vodka in your cup, and I can hear the TV blaring. I need to talk to you about what happened in L.A. Can I come in?”
She frowned and stepped aside. I walked into the foyer. I followed her to the living room and sat beside her on the faux suede sofa. She grabbed the remote and muted the television.
“What’s with the brace?” she said, gesturing toward my left hand.
“I had a little accident in Tennessee. Have the feds been to see you?”
“What?”
“The federal agents.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do know. But if they haven’t been to see you, then they don’t know you know. You know?”
“Nicholas—”
“Let me tell you something, Donna. I might not be able to prove it in court, but I know you were involved in all this. Somehow, you were involved. Everything was too much of a coincidence for you not to be. The murders at the Lambs’ residence on Thanksgiving Day. Your brother Derek being the only officer on duty and responding to the 911 call. Brother John being the same Brother John I’d tangled with at Chain of Light three years ago. The tilted crucifixes. That was the kicker, wasn’t it? You knew about the Leitha Ryan case here in Florida, and you knew those cuts on Edna Lamb and her daughter-in-law would draw me in. But why would a group like the Harvest Angels want to draw attention to itself by using a calling card like that? That’s what I should have asked myself in the first place. That’s where I messed up. I should have known it was a setup from the get-go. Other than Leitha Ryan, there were no other instances where murder victims were left with those types of cuts. That part of the crime scene at the Lambs’ residence was staged. And it was all for me, wasn’t it?”
She set her drink on the glass and chrome table beside the couch. Her eyes were bloodshot from the alcohol.
“What do you want me to do?” she said. “Give you a nice tidy confession like they do in the movies? Get out of my house.”
“I know you were involved, and I’m going to do everything I can to see that you’re punished for it.” I glanced at her laptop on the coffee table, and then back to her. “It’s all going to make a very interesting book, isn’t it? How much have you told your agent already?”
She swallowed hard. “Get out of my house,” she said again.
So I did. I got out of her house.
Before I left the driveway, I called the number on the business card Navy Blue had given me.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Six months and three surgeries after I drove away from Donna Wahl’s house, I sat in the waiting room of a methadone clinic in Jacksonville feeling sorry for myself. My hand worked well enough to screw the top off a jar of peanut butter, but it didn’t work well enough to play the guitar. And it never would. Not at the level I was used to playing at, anyway. I tried to tell myself I was lucky to be alive, and that in time I would learn to live with the loss and fill the void somehow, but something dear had been taken from me and I couldn’t help feeling a certain amount of rage every time I thought about it.
I couldn’t make money as a musician anymore, and my PI license had been suspended indefinitely pending some criminal charges I faced in Tennessee. I’d been cleared in the deaths of Lester and Chelton, but the police had impounded my rental car and had found the two packets of black tar heroin and my slam kit. My attorney said I would get off with probation, no problem, but it was doubtful that I would ever be able to work as a private investigator again. Not legally, anyway.
My professional life was totally messed up, and my private life wasn’t much better. Juliet and I were in counseling, but she wasn’t ready to stay in the same house with me yet. I was back living in the Airstream at Joe’s Fish Camp.
“Hey, you got a cigarette?”
The girl sitting three seats to my right in the methadone clinic waiting room had long blond hair and blue eyes. She reminded me of Brittney, only way thinner. Brittney had gotten accepted to the University of Florida. She was in the middle of her first semester, living in one of the freshman dorms with a roommate named Cai. Cai was from China. Brittney helped Cai with English, and Cai helped Brittney with calculus. I was proud of my girl, and I told her so every chance I got.
“I don’t smoke,” I said. “I quit a long time ago.”
“Got a dollar I can borrow? I need to get some diapers for my baby.”
“Where’s your baby?”
“At home with his daddy.”
I pulled out my wallet and handed her a five. I knew it would probably go for a pack of smokes and a pint of beer, but I didn’t care.
“Wow. Thanks. You know, I was just thinking. You don’t look like you belong here.”
“Funny,” I said. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
“I mean, you just don’t see many junkies your age. No offense or anything, but most hypes either kick young or die young.”
“No offense taken,” I said.
The girl at the clinic seemed interested in me for some reason. Maybe I was the only person who had ever given her five bucks without expecting something in return.
“What kind of work do you do?” she said.
“I’m a private investigator,” I said, just to be saying something. I didn’t want to admit I was a bum. “Insurance fraud, cheating spouses, deadbeat dads. Stuff like that.”
“Sounds boring.”
“It is.”
“Is this your first time here?” she said.
“How did you know?”
“Just never seen you around before. You going to do group and all?”
The thought of sitting in a circle trading stories with a bunch of strung-out hypes made my stomach churn.
“I’ll do whatever it takes,” I said.
“So how did you quit smoking? I think that’s even harder than smack. I mean, you don’t get dope-sick or anything, but it’s still really hard.”
The lady at the counter called my name. I told the girl I’d see her later.
On the way to the counter, I thought about the last question she asked me, about how I quit smoking. I had used nicotine patches and lozenges and gum, and some of the newer medications on the market. I had tried hypnosis, and I had read every book published on the subject, but the last time I quit, the time that had stuck, I didn’t do any of that. The last time I quit, I went cold turkey. The last time I quit, I walked by a trash can and threw away half a pack and resolved to never buy another as long as I lived. It was the hardest thing I’d ever done, and four years after the fact I was still dreaming about the things sometimes. Once an addict, always an addict. It never leaves you. It’s forever. What you have to do is recognize it for what it is, and then learn to live with it. You can never really defeat it. You can only keep it at bay.
The lady at the counter handed me a pill bottle with my name and social security number on it, and a paper cup half full of water. There was no lid on the pill bottle. It had one pill in it, a small round white tablet. I looked at it and rattled it around in the bottom of the bottle. I was supposed to swallow it while the lady watched. I handed the bottle back to her.
“I’ve changed my mind,” I said. “I don’t want this.”
I turned and walked away. I didn’t look at the girl I’d given the five dollars to on my way out. I kept my eyes on the exit door.
I drove back to my campsite at Lake Barkley. When I opened the door to get out of my Jimmy, the sandy-haired dog we call Bud came running up wagging his tail. He had his piece of nylon rope in his mouth. He wanted to play tug-of-war.
“I’m not in the mood, Bud,” I said.
He dropped the rope and barked at me playfully. When I started inside, he nipped at my heels.
“You’re persistent, you know that? Kind of like
me, I guess.”
I played tug-of-war with him for a few minutes and then gave him a nice long back scratch and belly rub. I opened the door to the Airstream and let him inside and gave him a Milk Bone.
I had one foil packet of black tar heroin in the little cupboard over the sink. One more time, I thought, and that would be it. I sat down at the table with my kit and started to unwrap the foil. Bud sat on the floor and looked up at me curiously.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I said. “One more time’s not going to be enough. It’s never enough. I’ll slam this one, and then I’ll hustle up enough money to get some more. Right?”
He started panting. I took it as a yes.
I got up and walked outside and tossed the packet into the rusty drum I use for burning trash. Bud had followed me out, and he had the piece of rope in his mouth again.
“I gotta go, Bud.”
I wanted to talk to Juliet before I started getting sick. I wanted to tell her how much I loved her, and how much I wanted things to be right between us again.
I opened the door and started to climb into the Jimmy. Bud dropped the rope and wagged his tail, obviously hoping I might let him tag along.
“Maybe next time,” I said, scratching his ears.
Then I thought why not.
I opened the passenger’s side door and he jumped in and we drove away.
Thanks so much for reading CROSSCUT!
My Nicholas Colt thriller series includes nine full-length novels: COLT, LADY 52, POCKET-47, CROSSCUT, SNUFF TAG 9, KEY DEATH, BLOOD TATTOO, SYCAMORE BLUFF, and THE JACK REACHER FILES: FUGITIVE (Previously Published as ANNEX 1).
All of my books are lendable, so feel free to share them with a friend at no additional cost.
All reviews are much appreciated!
If you would like to read the first four chapters of SNUFF TAG 9, please turn the page.
CHAPTER ONE
Dear Mr. Colt: You’re dead…
I broke the seal on a bottle of Old Fitzgerald, generously bathed some ice cubes, and took a sip. Satisfied the subject line couldn’t possibly be true, I opened the email.
It was spam, an advertisement from a company called Plots with a Twist. They were trying to sell me a hole to be buried in and a high-tech grave marker—a solar-powered, weather-proofed video screen embedded in a slab of granite. When your loved ones walked up and pressed a button, they got to watch all the good times you had when you weren’t a stiff yet.
I decided not to get one.
I finished my drink, closed the laptop, and headed down to the lounge. I had a one o’clock appointment with a guy named Nathan Broadway.
I’d driven to St. Augustine and checked into the hotel the night before, thinking a couple of days at the beach might be good for me. My adopted daughter Brittney was living in one of the dorms at the University of Florida in Gainesville, and my wife Juliet and I had been separated for some time. Juliet was living near Jacksonville, in the house we once shared, and I was back in my 1964 Airstream Safari travel trailer on lot 27 at Joe’s Fish Camp. It got lonely out there sometimes. I missed my daughter, and I missed my wife.
At 1:05, Nathan Broadway still hadn’t shown up. I took a seat at the bar.
It was Sunday, and the Jacksonville Jaguars were playing on the big screen television. There was a free buffet table set up against the back wall. Pigs-in-blankets, fried cheese, potato chips, and a bunch of other greasy salty fare designed to make you hang around and buy more six-dollar beers. A dozen people stood in line, waiting to cram as much food as possible on paper plates slightly larger than drink coasters. Near the front of the queue a tall woman in a business suit kept rubbing her nose with a handkerchief. When she sneezed in the general direction of the hot wings, I decided I wasn’t hungry.
“What can I get you to drink?” The bartender’s nametag said Sheri. She had a long blond ponytail I guessed to be fake, and a gold stud in her tongue I guessed to be genuine. Nice smile.
“Old Fitz on the rocks,” I said.
She made the drink and I started a tab. Jacksonville scored a touchdown on their opening drive. While they were getting set to kick the extra point, Nathan Broadway walked in and sat on the stool next to mine. He ordered an Amstel Light and said, “Mind if we move to a booth?”
I shrugged, got up and followed him to the table farthest from the television. A few people cheered when Jacksonville made the extra point. It was seven to nothing. Nathan Broadway and I sat facing each other. I guessed him to be in his early thirties. He wore a crewcut and jeans and an orange polo. Clean-shaven, looked like he went to the gym. He pulled an envelope out of his back pocket and handed it to me. There was a letter inside, typed on a single sheet of white paper, and a hand-drawn map.
Dear Nathan Broadway: You are cordially invited to come and play a game called Snuff Tag 9. We have provided a map for your convenience. You will need a vehicle with four-wheel drive to get there. Come alone. Pack as you would if you were going to stay at a hotel overnight. We will be expecting you on October 11 at approximately 8:00 p.m. If you choose not to come, you will die. If you try to trace this letter, or try to get the authorities involved in any way, you will die. If you show this letter to anyone, you will die. This is not a joke. We will kill you. Thank you for your cooperation, and we look forward to seeing you on the 11th. Sincerely, The Sexy Bastards.
I looked at the envelope. No return address, no postmark, no stamp.
I laughed. “Snuff Tag Nine. Sounds like some kind of second-rate action movie.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Broadway said. “It’s one of the most popular videogames on the planet.”
“I don’t play any of that stuff,” I said. “So I wouldn’t know.”
“It’s really cool. You can play alone, or you can go online and play against other people. I’ve even played against people in foreign countries. I signed up for a tournament a while back, so maybe that’s where these sexy bastard people got my address. I don’t know.”
“You found the letter in your mailbox?” I said.
“Yesterday. I opened it and, I don’t know, it scared me. I thought about calling the police, but I was afraid whoever put the letter in my mailbox might find out and really kill me. I thought it would be safer to call a private eye. I appreciate you meeting me on a Sunday, Mr. Colt, on such short notice.”
I took a sip of my drink. “How many other private investigators did you call?”
“Only two.”
I tried my best to look crushed.
“So I wasn’t your first choice?” I said.
“You were third in the phone book.”
“Must have been an old phone book.”
“What do you mean?” he said.
“I mean it must have been an old phone book. I’m not a private investigator anymore.”
He looked confused. “What are you then?”
“I’m nothing. I don’t have any sort of license anymore. Long story. If it makes you feel better to call me something, call me a security consultant.”
“I thought I was going to be dealing with a licensed professional. Now I’m not sure. I mean—”
“I was a licensed investigator for a long time,” I said. “I know what I’m doing. And apparently I’m the best you’re going to get on a Sunday on short notice.”
He nodded. Took a swallow of beer and wiped his mouth with the cocktail napkin he’d brought from the bar.
“Okay,” he said. “So what should I do? You think someone is really aiming to kill me? They said it’s not a joke.”
“They said that, but it probably is a joke. These kinds of letters make the rounds from time to time. If it was me, I would wad it up and throw it in the trash can.”
He fidgeted with the napkin, twisting it into a skinny rope. “I don’t know. I don’t want to take any chances. I don’t like threats, you know? I mean, I can take care of myself, but—”
“So what do you want me to do?” I said. “There’s no way t
o trace the letter. We could take it to a laboratory for fingerprints and DNA, try to find the sender that way, but it would be expensive and I doubt anything would show up. I imagine whoever handled the letter and the envelope used gloves. The way I see it, you have three choices: you can ignore it, which is what I would recommend; or, you can rent a jeep and follow the directions on the map and find out for yourself that it’s only a prank; or, you can hire me for a hundred dollars an hour, plus expenses, and I’ll drive out there for you and report back that it’s only a prank.”
“A hundred an hour?”
“Yeah, and the clock started ticking at one.”
“So I owe you fifty bucks just for sitting here and talking?”
I looked at my watch. “That’s about right. So what’s it going to be?”
He stared at his mutilated cocktail napkin for thirty seconds or so, and then said, “How about we ride out there together?”
“Nope. I don’t take clients on jobs with me. If I go, I go alone. I’ll need a thousand dollar retainer up front. If there’s any left over, I’ll refund the difference.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a checkbook.
“I’ll need cash,” I said.
“Where am I supposed to get a thousand dollars cash on a Sunday?”
“At the front desk. I already asked, and they said it shouldn’t be a problem.”
“How will I even know you went out there to check it out? You’re so convinced it’s a hoax, you could just—”
“I’ll take pictures and email them to you from the site. That good enough?”
He studied the label on his beer bottle.
He was starting to annoy me. When you hire a private investigator, or a former private investigator who lost his license over a narcotics conviction and now calls himself a security consultant, or any professional, there’s a level of trust involved. If you don’t trust them to do the job you want done, don’t hire them. Simple. Broadway had gone down the alphabetical list in the phone book. That had been the extent of his research. Going down the alphabetical list in the phone book is a stupid way to hire a chimney sweep or a house painter or a guy to pump out your septic tank. Never mind someone you think might save your life. But Nathan Broadway’s stupidity was his problem, not mine. I needed the work, and if he wanted to fork over a thousand bucks to send me on what I figured would almost certainly amount to a wild goose chase, then I wasn’t above taking it.
