Skin Puppet: Reightman & Bailey Book Three

by Jeffery Craig

  The girls had been awakened in the middle of the night and ordered to stand by the doors of their cages. Puppet, trailed by Dorrie and Georgie, had walked down the narrow aisles and peered into each metal enclosure, nodding and ticking items off some kind of list carried in the blue-gloved hands. One by one, they were instructed to exit their cage, and were then fitted with a metal cuff around their ankles. The cuffs were attached by stretchy cords to the other cuffs, until groups of three were formed. After being warned to keep quiet, the small huddles were led out of the aisle and herded up the wooden stairs, accompanied by Dorrie and Georgie. Once those two returned to the basement holding area, the process continued.

  The process moved faster than Lucy expected and a terrified gasp caught in her throat when the door to her cage was opened. She and Jessica climbed off their cot as instructed, each grabbing their thin gray blanket.

  “Come on out, and stay quiet!” Dorrie directed. “If you make any noise…well…then I get to play a little.” She swung her prod from one hand to the other and grinned.

  Once the two girls were out of the cage, Georgie pulled a cuff from the cloth backpack hanging from one shoulder. He knelt on the floor and attached the cuff to Lucy’s ankle, checking to make sure it was snug. As he leaned forward to check the fit, Lucy thought she saw a gun tucked into the back of his pants. He reached into the backpack and retrieved another cuff, before shifting his attention to Jessica. As he reached for her ankle, a single blue-gloved hand landed on his shoulder, and he froze in place, eyes wide.

  “It looks like he’s afraid,” Lucy thought to herself, while trying to make sense of the situation. Her mind was still foggy from sleep, but she thought he was scared...of Puppet.

  Georgie looked up, and Lucy saw Puppet stare at Jessica for a long time before finally pointing back to the cage. Lucy saw him glance toward Dorrie, and then Puppet slammed the clipboard into the side of his face.

  “What the hell?” Georgie exclaimed, clutching his cheek, and then drawing his hand away to check the smear of blood now covering the tips of his fingers. Lucy started trembling at the look on his face. She didn’t cry out. She had learned to be quiet.

  Dorrie stepped forward slightly as Georgie eased himself up from the floor. Once he was standing, Lucy saw one of his arms start to reach behind him toward the place the gun was hidden, but he stopped and lowered his arm and bowed his head. After a couple of deep breaths, he straightened. “Back in the cell,” he growled toward Jessica. “I guess you ain’t going on this trip. Now move it!”

  Once the girl was locked in again, they proceeded to the next cage. As she was pushed forward, Lucy looked back, seeing Jessica’s wide, terrified gaze through the metal bars.

  Lucy’s ankles were hooked to the girl beside her with the stretchy cord, and then another was joined to them. Lucy didn’t know their names since they’d just arrived a few days ago. She chanced a quick glance over her shoulder, hoping to see the girls she knew, but Dorrie yanked her forward by the shoulder before she could spot them. Their little trio was herded back down the aisle, and up the stairs.

  Once they reached the top, they were directed through the doors and down a hallway. There, the stretchy cords were unhooked and they were told to climb into a big tub with a lid and huddle down. Climbing in as instructed, she noticed the tub had wheels. Once all three of them were crammed inside the tight space, Georgie called out, “Put your heads down, dammit! And keep your traps shut!” Lucy ducked as the lid came down, shutting them in the dark. Then the tub lifted and tilted, and they started moving.

  “Damn, these are heavy.” Lucy could just make out the words and thought it was Georgie. “Get the door and help me steer this thing through.”

  The three inside were jostled around, and one of the girls started whimpering. Lucy could smell the distinct odor of urine, and knew one of her companion had wet herself. The whimpering grew louder, and a succession of big bangs sounded on the lid of the tub.

  “Shut up, little mice, or you’ll be sorry. Shut up, shut up, shut up,” Dorrie sang.

  “Shhh," Lucy whispered frantically. “Shhh…please….please be quiet...”

  “But I…I…”

  “I know,” Lucy told her. “It’s okay…just don’t think about it and be quiet.”

  “I’m scared…”

  Lucy struggled against the sudden tightness in her throat to force the words out, almost too soft to hear. “Me too…”

  They bounced around for a while longer, and then she heard Georgie again. “You pull, and I’ll push.” A series of bumps caused the girls to hit their heads against the lid, and then something changed. The wheels were making a slithery sound, and whatever they were being pulled over seemed rough instead of smooth or bumpy.

  “It’s like…gravel…like the paths at the park,” Lucy thought. “We’re outside.”

  After a few minutes, the sensation changed, and things were smoother, then Georgie grunted, “This is the part I hate.”

  “Let me take the front this time while you push,” Dorrie suggested.

  “Why in the hell do I always have to push?” Georgie snarled.

  “Cause you’re stronger.”

  The tub swirled and tilted sharply, then they started moving again. Lucy could hear Georgie cursing and yelling and then there was a big bump, then another, and another, before it stopped.

  She could hear heavy breathing, and then the tub tilted and started moving again. A short time later, they halted, and the lid was opened.

  Lucy had only a second to blink against the sudden harsh, glaring light before Dorrie grabbed her arm and jerked her to her feet.

  “What the hell is that smell?” Georgie asked.

  Dorrie shrugged. “Pee. Another little mouse was naughty. Hurry up and get the other two.”

  “Shit! That’s four tonight. Why do I always have to get the wet ones?”

  Dorrie giggled as she manhandled Lucy out of the tub. She flicked on her prod, which made a buzzing sound. “Stand still,” she ordered Lucy as she pulled a cord out of her pocket, then knelt down to loop it through the cuff on Lucy’s ankle.

  In short order, the two other girls were removed from the tub, secured, and then marched quickly across the room toward a big door. Dorrie jostled them forward. “Go on! I don’t have all day!” She pushed them forward across a metal ramp and into the back of the truck, where Georgie quickly fastened the cords to the metal bars and forced a small, wadded-up cloth into each of their mouths. Dorrie stood over them menacingly while Georgie picked up a roll of gray tape from the floor of the truck, ripped off a small length and placed it over their lips, sealing the edges to their skin with rough fingers.

  “Only a few more groups to go,” Dorrie observed as they moved to the back of the truck. She giggled and started singing, “To market, to market, to sell some fat pigs. Then home again, home again, jiggidy-jig.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Georgie grumbled.

  Dorrie just laughed, delighted with herself.

  Lucy started trembling again, and knew she was about to burst into tears. A slim, strong hand slipped into hers. Lucy looked into the calm, dark eyes of the older girl next to her and remembered her name. “Diane.” She gripped the hand tighter in return.

  ***

  Montoya was nearing the end of his patience. After following the group of drunks to yet another bar, it appeared they were moving again. At least now they knew the asshole was on to them. For the last thirty minutes, he’d been openly taunting them, using some kind of weird accent. He’d also called them the ‘muck-raking press,’ which confused Montoya until he realized he thought they were following them to snap photos catching him in some sort of sordid situation.

  “Is he pretending to be English or something?” Agent Sims asked.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, ever since he’s been in this joint, he’s been talking in that weird accent and jabbering about London, and seeing the Queen, and…tube stations. Just now he told h
is little party it was time to head to Piccadilly Circus.”

  “Piccadilly Circus?”

  “I swear that’s what he said,” Sims assured him. “Oh shit! There they go.”

  Montoya pushed his way through the bar crowd to the door; Sims following close on his heels. When they hit the sidewalk outside, they spotted their target about fifty feet away, headed toward the corner.

  “Are they skipping?”

  Montoya increased his pace, ignoring the question, although it sure as hell looked like that was exactly what the group was doing. Now, they were all talking in those high-pitched, fake accents. And giggling. The group reached the corner and increased their collective speed until they were practically running.

  Montoya started jogging in order to keep up.

  “Looks like they’re headed to the next street, right in front of the State House,” Sims huffed.

  Sure enough, Montoya could see the Capitol Building straight ahead, just across several lanes of surprisingly heavy traffic. “Why’s traffic so heavy this time of night?” he asked as he ran.

  “It’s Friday. It’s the big party night,” Sims answered between breaths. “No one in this part of the South parties much on Saturday….you know…because of church on Sunday.”

  Montoya grunted as he processed that bit of information. The revelers were reaching the intersection, and Anthony shot them a manic grin before pointing toward the government building. “Onward! To Buckingham Palace!”

  The two agents continued their pursuit. Montoya saw Jake Anthony look to the right, before dashing into the surging traffic.

  “Stop!” Sims shouted, once he realized what was happening.

  Jake Anthony never saw the red dually, double cab pickup that hit him straight on, flinging his body up into the neighboring lanes and onto the hood of a small sedan. Multiple drivers frantically jammed on their brakes, desperate to stop, but the sedan was rear-ended by the driver behind it, knocking Anthony’s body off the hood, and onto the pavement. The sedan rolled forward, trapping him beneath the car.

  Montoya and Sims skidded to a stop. Montoya yanked the badge off his belt and held it up as he made his way to the victim. “Call 911!” he instructed his partner.

  The driver of the pickup was jogging toward the body. “I didn’t mean to hit him!” he shouted. “I swear, he never even looked. Oh, man! I didn’t have time to stop!”

  Montoya raised his badge. “Sir, stay by your truck!” he commanded as he swerved through the now stopped jumble of vehicles. “Help is on the way.”

  As he neared the sedan, he caught sight of the driver huddled across the steering wheel with her hands in her face. He jogged to driver’s side door, and opened it. “Ma’am, are you all right?”

  “Oh, my god!” she gasped. “Did I kill him?”

  He leaned forward, keeping his tone calm, but forceful. “Ma’am, I need you to step out the vehicle and wait for me on the sidewalk. Are you able to do that?”

  She lifted her face and turned toward him, eyes wide with shock. “Are you with the police?”

  “No, ma’am. Special Agent Montoya, FBI.” He flashed his badge. “Are you able to exit the vehicle?”

  “Yes…I think so…yes.”

  “Good. Please wait for me on the sidewalk. Someone will be with you soon.”

  Once she was on her way, he hurried around to the front of the vehicle and knelt by the passenger side front wheel. The minute he saw the victim, he was confident of the situation, but crawled slightly forward to make sure. In the distance, he could hear the piercing wail of sirens.

  He eased himself out from under the car, and took the hand offered by his partner. “Thanks.”

  “Is he…?”

  Montoya nodded as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face. “Yes. Looks like a broken neck. Hell…he was probably dead before he landed on the hood of the car.”

  The sirens were closer now. He stepped away from the car, and looked back at the shocked, huddled group of partiers on the corner. “Anyone else hurt?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. One irrelevant death is more than enough.”

  It took Sims a minute to process the words. “Irrelevant death?”

  “Yes.” Montoya tucked his handkerchief back in his pocket. “It’s a pretty good way to describe it, I think.”

  “Sir?”

  “Famous celebrity, drunk out of his mind, thinks he’s in London being chased by paparazzi. Steps out into traffic, looks the wrong way, and finds himself flying through the air after being slammed by a half-ton dually truck barreling down the street in front of the State Capitol Building. What in the hell could be more irrelevant than that?”

  After thinking it over, Agent Sims agreed Peters had a point. “We’d better call Edmondson. You want to do it, or should I?” he asked.

  “You can. It’s good practice.”

  “For what?”

  “Getting your ass handed to you on a plate.” Looking at his face, he took a little pity on him. “Don’t worry. It never lasts long. Edmondson’s one of the good guys.”

  ***

  “Bad?” Melba asked when Edmondson ended the call.

  He didn’t answer immediately, choosing instead to roll down his shirt sleeves, retrieve his jacket from the back of a chair and shrug it on.

  “Yes,” he finally answered. “Jake Anthony was just struck by a vehicle and killed.”

  “Killed? Where?”

  “Right in front of the Capitol.”

  “State House,” she responded automatically. “We call it the State House, not the Capitol.”

  He strode to the door without comment and then turned back and cocked one eyebrow. “So, are you two coming or not?”

  Toby was already out of his chair and halfway to the door before she managed to ditch her coffee cup and heft her purse up to her shoulder.

  Once in the car, he alternated between barking instructions into his cell phone, and filling them in on the detail. As they neared the scene with its flashing lights and hastily constructed barricades, he slowed the car to show his badge and speak briefly with the officers on duty before moving forward. Finally, they reached the area with the highest concentration of vehicles, and he pulled over.

  A curious crowd of gawking onlookers were gathered on the street corners and on the sidewalks, and Melba spotted pairs of officers talking to a woman on the opposite side of the street and a man standing near a red truck. The flashing light of the police cruisers and EMS van provided plenty of illumination, and Melba could easily identify Chief Kelly standing near the action. As they neared the van, two agents detached themselves from the contingent of officers and made their way toward them.

  “This place is a zoo,” Toby commented, before indicating the small fleet of news vans about one block down the street, just behind the roadblocks. “The press is going to eat this up.”

  “It’s all just speculation until they release the name of the victim. I hope they keep the witnesses buttoned up.” She took a quick scan of the area. “Looks like they have that part well in-hand,” she added before motioning him to silence as the agents began to fill Edmondson in on the details. Splitting her attention between the briefing and the niggling thought rumbling around in her mind, she tried to make sense of it all. “Jake Anthony was assigned a detail because he was the prime suspect in the trafficking ring,” she reasoned to herself. “But according to Montoya, he’s been pretty much drunk out of his mind for the last couple of days.” It didn’t fit. An operation of the suspected scope of this trafficking ring would require a sharp mind and a lot of coordination, and it was pretty obvious Anthony hadn’t been in any shape to pull off anything like that. In fact, he probably didn’t have the focus or wherewithal to manage something this big on his best day. He may have known about it, but he wasn’t the brain. “The first real action tonight started at Gro-Transport.” After mulling that over, she didn’t come to any further conclusion. “So where does that leave
us?”

  “Where does what leave us?” Toby asked, startling her out of her revere.

  She shook her head. “Sorry. I was just thinking things over.”

  “Care to share?”

  After quickly filling him in on her thought process, she waited until he signaled his agreement with her reasoning and then turned back to the briefing in front of her. Once it wrapped up, she filled Edmondson in as well.

  “Any movement from Grokov?” she asked once he’d processed the information and agreed with her thinking.

  “No. We thought we’d lost him, but he was finally spotted going into his apartment. There hasn’t been a peep out of him since. Apparently, he’s still laying low and there’s been no further movement.”

  “Not at all?” Toby asked. “That’s weird. A man as important as he is wouldn’t just hide himself away in his apartment. Are you sure there isn’t another way in and out of either place?”

  “None we know of,” Edmondson answered slowly, as he thought over Toby’s question. “We checked all of the entrances and exits and even looked over the plans for both buildings.”

  “Hmmm,” Toby responded.

  Melba knew him well enough to catch the moment he started to add something to the conversation and then stopped himself for fear of being wrong. “I can tell something’s going on in that brain of yours. Spill it.”

  “Well….I was just thinking. Did you check who built the buildings?”

  Edmondson’s eyes widened a fraction at the question. “I’m not sure. Why?”

  “Okay, this may sound kind of stupid, but maybe Grokov built the buildings, or revamped them or something, and somehow kept a secret exit from showing up on the plans.”

  Before Melba could comment, Edmondson started in. “You’re right, that does sound stupid…” He let his words trail off. After gazing in the distance for a minute, he continued. “But, it may not be.” He offered a wry grin in apology. “I think it’s worth checking again, and we need to pay Mr. Grokov a personal visit.”