Badwater

by Clinton McKinzie

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Luke shouted.

  “To check something out. Follow if you think you can keep up.”

  Luke cursed me but came after me.

  I began to jog, still dragging Mungo on the leash. There were more mud puddles and more fresh knobby tracks. There were definitely two vehicles, I decided. I could see where they’d played around, highballing at some corners and tearing up some small meadows. I ran on. The tracks met up with an old logging road and disappeared down it.

  thirty-three

  The first sensation to return to Brandy was her sense of smell. This was unfortunate, because what she smelled was vomit. Her own vomit, she suspected as her empty stomach heaved again. Something else, too, something cloying and chemical. But as her other senses lit up on the control screen of her brain, she realized that the stench was the least of her worries.

  Pain came next. It radiated at first from inside her head, throbbing with each beat of her pulse. It hurt so bad it made her want to vomit some more. Then she noticed the pain around her jaw and wondered if it was broken. And finally there was the sharp pain coming from both her shoulders because of the way they seemed to be twisted behind her. Maybe she’d broken both her collarbones, as well. But how?

  “Damn. Damn,” she moaned, but the words came out strangled and slurred. Something was holding her mouth open.

  It wasn’t easy to open her eyes because of the way they seemed to be swollen. And when she did manage to open them, she winced against the light. It took a few seconds to make out her surroundings. She expected the sterile horror of a hospital room—IVs and catheters and anxious parents leaning over her—but what she found instead was even worse.

  It appeared to be an abandoned cabin. The walls were made of logs, the gaps between them plugged with decaying mud. All the window frames were empty. The floor was nothing but a pile of planks. Only half the roof remained, hanging precariously over her head. Looking up, she could see blue sky and the tops of two rocky spires. Out the doorless doorway, she peered down on a small lake. The sun was reflecting off it, almost blinding her when she looked at it directly.

  She had absolutely no idea where she was, or how she’d gotten there.

  Brandy’s mud-spattered legs were stuck straight out in front of her from where she sat on some rotting boards. One knee was covered with dried blood, and a lazy fly was working on the wound. She tried to brush it away, but her arms wouldn’t move. They seemed to be secured somehow to a corner post behind her.

  Her shout was muted by a gag.

  For a little while she lost herself to panic. She bucked and fought and wept and screamed. But none of it did her any good. It took a while longer, but she finally managed to calm down by taking huge, sucking breaths around the gag. Only then did she manage to take stock of her situation. She started with a physical assessment of her body, because that was less scary than her surroundings.

  She knew she had a concussion. The pulsing headache and the vomit down her shirt were sufficient evidence of that. But she couldn’t remember how she’d gotten it. She was wearing bike shoes, shorts, and the soiled jersey, so it must have been while riding. Her mouth ached, but the jaw still worked. It was pried open by what tasted like duct tape that had been wrapped around her head again and again.

  She had to pause for more breaths before continuing.

  Her arms were pinioned behind her. More duct tape. It was wrapped tight enough around her wrists that her fingers were tingling—she could barely feel them when she tried to wiggle them against one another. They worked, but not well, and they felt as fat as sausages. They were secured around a post that didn’t budge when she shoved back with her feet and threw her weight against it.

  More deep breaths.

  Her bra felt strange. She realized it had been pushed up under her shirt. But the filthy jersey had been pulled back down over her breasts. She wondered if she’d been raped. But that part of her, at least, didn’t seem to hurt, and she was still wearing her riding shorts. With her thumbs she could hook the waistband and found that she was still wearing underwear.

  What the hell had happened, and how the hell had she gotten here?

  She had to work very hard to concentrate. Her head hurt so bad, and her thoughts kept veering off-course toward panic. She could remember being in the cave with Burns during the storm. She could remember how his face had looked in the flash of lightning as she rocked above him. And she could remember how different he looked the next morning, when he stared at her without any emotion in the doorway of her motel room. She could remember Bogey, reeking of his usual overdose of cologne, waking her up in the motel room and showing her the papers, then the fight they’d had. She remembered being incredibly pissed off and going riding. But that was all.

  She shivered. It was cold. Very cold. She couldn’t tell if the sun was going up or coming down.

  She tried again to remember. She had to have been riding, right? She could hear her bike cleats tapping on rocks. She’d been carrying her bike. It was starting to come back. Night was coming. She’d been hurrying, risking a crash. She had to get to the car before dark. And then she remembered everything. Her charred and smoking car, the figure coming out of the trees, the mocking, excited laugh, and the sound of footsteps running alongside her as she tried to flee. Everything but what she most needed to know. How she had gotten here. And who it was who had brought her.

  She let out a moan of frustration. Her mouth was dry, her cheeks and tongue swollen. The twists of tape in her mouth tasted and smelled like glue. The stench of the dried vomit on her shirt was almost overwhelming. But again she sensed something else, another scent. That sharp tang of leather and spice. She bit down on the gag and, dry as her mouth was, could actually taste it.

  Then she realized what it was. And she knew who was responsible.

  Brandy rocked back and forth and kicked her legs. She shouted through the crude gag and jerked at the twists of tape securing her to the log wall until her voice was hoarse and her wrists were raw. She did these things not to free herself—she’d given up on that—but in an effort to stay warm and sane. It wasn’t panic that most threatened her now. It was fury.

  Bogey.

  thirty-four

  Late in the afternoon, William J. Bogey stood on the courthouse steps to address the assembled press. There was a bigger crowd today, but it still wasn’t the mob of news vans and eager, coiffed reporters shouting questions that he had been gunning for since this whole thing began. But the lawyer was finally getting some national attention. There were just five or six print journalists with notepads and microcassette recorders and three photographers dutifully taking shots with their digital single-lens-reflex cameras.

  I hung well back, waiting to ambush the lawyer when he walked to his car. As tepidly interested as the reporters appeared, I worried that a sighting of the much-maligned QuickDraw might be like blood in the water for a school of piranhas. More reporters might flood into town and turn it into the feeding frenzy Bogey was undoubtedly hoping for. I’d dealt with the media enough for this lifetime.

  I couldn’t hear whatever bullshit Bogey was spreading before them, but I assumed it was something similar to what he’d been shoveling around for three months. Stuff like “The county attorney is scapegoating my client for political gain.” “Badwater is using Jonah Strasburg to alleviate its grief.” “Jonah Strasburg will never get a fair trial in Badwater.” It might be true, but it was still bullshit. He wanted Jonah scapegoated and tried just as much as anyone in this town did.

  Added to it now, I would learn later, were statements like “My co-counsel’s disappearance can only be the result of elements in this town that will do anything to see Jonah Strasburg, an outsider, blamed for a child’s tragic but entirely accidental death.” He would also accuse police and the prosecutor of failing to take the disappearance seriously.

  I loitered nearly a block away while Bogey finished answering questions from the somewhat dubio
us assembly. They’d already been briefed on the possibility of a hoax by Luke. The defense lawyer posed for a final picture, shook hands all around, hefted his briefcase, and crossed the street.

  Worried that he would run the other way if he saw me coming—or worse, call the reporters to his aid—I waited until Bogey was nearing his Mercedes SUV before stepping out from behind a tree and heading for him.

  But Bogey didn’t run or call for help. He just scowled and kept on coming.

  “I have a few questions for you that those reporters might have forgotten to ask,” I said, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk.

  Bogey stepped a little to one side and brushed by me.

  “You’re really something, Agent Burns. I was just asking those reporters, ‘How many people does he have to kill before they lock him up?’ ”

  I grabbed his arm. He tried to pull it away, but only half-heartedly. He looked toward the courthouse, hoping someone was watching. I looked, too. No one was.

  “Stop for a second. Goddamn it, stop,” I told him. “Listen. I’m trying to help your client. I’ve been trying to help him all along.”

  Bogey stopped resisting, so I let go. But he didn’t say anything. He raised his eyebrows and waited.

  In my nicest voice I asked, “I just want to know one thing. Off the record. Is this a hoax? Another publicity stunt? Is Brandy just hiding out, waiting for you to score some points?”

  I stared hard into Bogey’s eyes, hoping to catch a signal if he tried to lie. Bogey stared straight back. He didn’t flinch, or redden, or look away.

  “Agent Burns, I sincerely believe that you had something to do with Brandy’s disappearance. God help you if I’m right, because I will not stop until you’re finally prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go and do what’s supposed to be your job and try to find my co-counsel.”

  On the way out of town, I fell prey to a perverse impulse and pulled off the highway and into the turnout by the river. Mungo and I walked out onto the big rock. Standing on the very edge, I stared down into the sink twenty feet below.

  It was clearly visible this late in the season. The river was much lower. So much so that the water was riffled everywhere but in the shadow directly beneath the rock. The dark water down there spun ominously, with foam, sticks, leaves, and other debris riding the current. And if that wasn’t enough of a warning, there was a sign posted atop the rock, and another bolted to the side of the rock where rafters coming downriver could see it.

  “Warning: Whirlpool!” it said.

  I had a bad feeling. If someone was to dump Brandy’s body, this would be the most logical place to do it. The only location where you could pretty much guarantee it wouldn’t ever be found. Even if her disappearance had nothing to do with the trial, then all the publicity would certainly suggest this place. Hell, even the signs suggested what a fantastic spot this was to hide a body.

  I wondered if I would eventually have to go back down there and take a look. Just the thought made me shiver. I could picture her under the water, laid out like Cody on those coffin-size logs. Or maybe slipping through them and beyond into the most horrible darkness I could imagine.

  The possible suspects were few.

  There was no chance it was a bear or a mountain lion. Although both species killed someone in the woods around here every few years, they would have a hard time flicking a Bic without opposable thumbs. It was possible that there was some kind of random two-legged predator traveling through or even living nearby. DCI had more than eight open cases of young women who had disappeared without a trace in recent years. One of them, a trail runner, had even vanished in a forest not too far away from here. But that had been almost ten years ago. Unless the perp had been in prison for something unrelated and just gotten released, it was unlikely Brandy had fallen prey to the same killer.

  That left the Mann twins, who, despite being related to Cody, didn’t have much of a motive other than that they didn’t like lawyers—or cops.

  Or it was a hoax, set up by Brandy and Bogey.

  Despite having proven that she was capable of deceit and betrayal and a willingness to even whore for her cause, I couldn’t believe Brandy would do something this stupid. It just wasn’t necessary—Bogey had already all but won his case. With the information he had about the victim’s intoxication, not to mention the prosecution’s withholding of it, he certainly could laugh off the possibility of a murder or manslaughter conviction. Even after having done everything he could to insult and offend the town’s potential jury pool.

  It just didn’t make sense.

  I got back in the Pig and headed for the Mann ranch.

  thirty-five

  Above the high hill just beyond the barbed-wire fence, I could see dark clouds beginning to huddle over the peaks. They looked as intimidating as the day I’d been getting screwed in the cave, just two days ago. I hoped it wouldn’t storm all night this time. When you live in a tent, it’s hard to sleep when getting pounded by rain, rocked by wind, and bombarded with lightning. Not to mention when a woman who has betrayed you is missing, and your brother is trying to keep the peace in a violent jail.

  Once again, there were no cars in front of the Manns’ house. I could see several, though, through the windbreak of tall trees. None appeared to be the vehicles I’d seen the mother and father driving, but I could see the jacked-up yellow pickup that was registered to the twins. Good. I came up here hoping the parents would be at work, the younger boys at school, and the twins right here for a showdown.

  McGee had said I wasn’t a cop anymore, and I intended to take advantage of that. It was weird, but instead of feeling frightened and uncertain, I felt very free. And a little bit scary. I could do whatever I wanted now. As long as I didn’t get caught.

  Pulling in front of the house, I saw that what little luck I seemed to have for once was on my side. The twins were home. They were recuperating from their car crash injuries by sun-tanning on towels on the grass to one side of the house. They were also probably trying to burn off their steroid-induced acne.

  I drove toward them. Right over the rocks that edged the gravel drive and onto the grass. I stopped just a few yards from them. They both scrambled to their feet with difficulty. Zach’s right arm was in a sling, Ned’s wrist was in a cast. Blue-black bruises and abrasions showed all over them. Zach wore long denim shorts to hide his chicken legs, and Ned had on those colorful weight lifter’s sweats that had been unfashionable in the eighties.

  When they saw that I was braking, that I wasn’t going to run them down, they both bowed up a little, flexing and trying to look as intimidating as possible. I thought they looked like the most pathetic losers I’d ever seen.

  Hopping out of the Pig, I called, “Hi, guys. I was hoping to find you here.”

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “Who gave you permission to come onto our property?”

  I ignored the questions. I had my own.

  “Are your folks home?”

  “No. Now get the hell off our land.”

  “Where were you shitheads last night?”

  “Fuck you,” they said in unison.

  “Look, you tell me what I want to know, and I’ll leave you alone. You mess around, and I’m going to arrest you both. Again.”

  “You arrested us before and we were locked up for what, two hours?” Zach snickered.

  “Yeah, you’re going to arrest us,” Ned said. “All by yourself this time. Without a warrant, and on our land.”

  “Yeah. I am.”

  My smile and my certainty wasn’t what they were used to.

  “On what charge?” Ned demanded after a second’s hesitation.

  “Just for being assholes. And I’ll throw in something extra, like providing drugs to minors, or harassing officers of the court. Wait, I’ve got it—how about resisting arrest and another attempted assault on a peace officer? No, I guess that won’t work, seeing as how I came here
this time. Hell, maybe I’ll just have to shoot both of you. Take you to the morgue instead of the jail.”

  They looked at each other again, considering. By the way they hesitated, it was clear they knew something of my reputation.

  “Now, where were you last night?”

  “You can go blow yourself, man,” one finally ventured.

  I whistled for Mungo, who’d been watching through the Pig’s windshield. She put both her enormous front paws on an open side window and vaulted out.

  “Get mad,” I told her in Spanish, even though she could read the situation for herself and definitely remembered the brothers. She was already wrinkling her nose. At my command, she snapped her jaws twice and turned up the volume of the rumbling coming from her throat.

  “Holy shit!” Zach said.

  Ned began to back away, turning to run for the porch.

  “Stop!” I yelled. “You run, and I’m not going to be able to control her. She’ll hamstring you like a deer.”

  I meant it, too. I didn’t know for sure that she wouldn’t.

  So they stood very still, trying hard to look surly rather than scared. Mungo hunched just ten feet away with a lowered head and all of the hair around her neck and shoulders spiked. She was like a horrible Medusa, turning the brothers to stone.

  “Where were you last night?”

  Ned spoke up.

  “In the Shoshone. But we didn’t torch no car. And we didn’t kidnap no lawyer. Our brothers were late coming in and our folks sent us out to find them.”

  “Bullshit.”

  But before I could continue the interrogation and gauge whether or not they were lying, or even digest the information other than their admission that they were in the vicinity of the crime, the sound of a vehicle crunching up the drive could be heard. I grabbed Mungo’s collar before I turned and looked. It was Ed Mann behind the wheel of his big truck, the one with the Randy Weaver bumper sticker and the rifle in the back window.