by R. J. Jagger
They searched longer.
Ten minutes went by.
Then fifteen.
“We’ve been here more than half an hour,” Jaden said. “Let’s get out of here while we still can.”
“Keep looking.”
“Someone’s going to notice that window and call the cops.”
“There’s no reason for anyone to be back there.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Just keep looking.”
“No. I’m serious. We need to get out of here.”
Waverly exhaled.
“Go if you want, I don’t care.”
The woman headed for the door and put her hand on the knob. She turned and said, “Good luck.”
“Bye.”
Waverly kept searching.
The door didn’t open.
She looked up.
Jaden was shaking her head as if doubting her sanity, then she came back in and said, “Maybe Bristol met with two lawyers. Maybe Gina Sophia was only one of them. Maybe the file is in someone else’s office.”
Waverly considered it.
It made sense.
It also meant going through another twenty or thirty offices. Most of them wouldn’t be interior ones like this one. They’d have windows to the outside. Flipping on the lights wouldn’t be an option. They have to get flashlights and come back.
“Five more minutes,” she said. “If we don’t find it by then we’ll go.”
“Good.” A beat then, “Did you hear that?”
Waverly focused.
She heard nothing.
“Hear what?”
“Quiet,” Jaden said. “Be quiet.”
She flicked off the light.
They stood there in darkness, breathing quietly and listening.
A minute went by followed by another.
They heard nothing more.
Waverly quietly opened the office door and looked down the hallway. Everything was dark. There were no signs of cleaning people, cops or anyone else.
“False alarm,” she said.
“I don’t know-”
Waverly flicked on the light and closed the door. “Five more minutes,” she said. “If we don’t find them by then, we’re out of here.”
A minute later a file caught her eye.
It was labeled John Stamp. The name was familiar but Waverly couldn’t place it. Then she remembered. He was a private investigator, reportedly the only good one in town other than a guy named Bryson Wilde.
What was he doing with an attorney?
Was he being sued by someone for breaking into their house?
Waverly opened the file.
Inside was a single piece of paper.
7/23/52
Meeting with Tom Bristol.
To do: Hire a PI to investigate the murder of Charley-Anna Blackridge. Got dropped off a building last weekend. Find out if there were witnesses. Find out what the police know. PI should keep Bristol’s name out of it. Keep this case strictly confidential.
Retainer received.
Pay PI well. Get him on the case immediately. Pay more than hourly rate to ensure loyalty and confidence.
Waverly passed the paper to Jaden and said, “Read it.” She waited for the woman to comply and then said, “There’s your proof. Bristol must have gotten wind that there was a witness. He hired Gina Sophia to hire a PI to find out who that witness is. Once he finds out, that witness will end up having an accident, a fatal accident. Doing the investigation this way keeps Bristol’s name out of it. The attorney is bound by law to keep his file confidential, even if she suspects later that Bristol hired her in hindsight to locate and kill a witness to one of his prior murders. You got to hand it to the guy, he’s a smart fellow.”
Waverly looked into Jaden’s eyes.
The woman was processing it.
It didn’t take long.
Her eyes narrowed.
“So what do we do now?”
Waverly tapped her foot.
“I don’t know but I’ll tell you one thing, I’ll bet he’s done the same thing with some of his other murders. I’ll bet he’s hired other lawyers to hire PIs to get information.”
“We need to find out what the PI is finding out,” Jaden said. “What’s his name again?”
“John Stamp.”
“Do you know him?”
“Not personally,” she said. “I know him by reputation.”
“Which is what?”
“Which is, he has phone numbers, lots and lots of phone numbers, people low, people high, people in between, lots and lots of phone numbers. Put enough money in his hand to spread around and he’ll find out anything you want to know.”
Jaden tilted her head.
“So how do we get inside his world?”
108
Day Three
July 23, 1952
Wednesday Night
River picked his way through the pitch-black terrain in the direction of the road, knowing he was probably veering off to the right or left but going in a straight enough line to hit it sooner or later. The land rose slightly upward, barely perceptible except for slightly heavier legs as he walked. Thirty steps later his head must have crested a rise because the Indian’s taillight came into view.
He exhaled.
Good.
Good.
Good.
No, not good, great.
He got there as fast as he could, fired it up and pointed the front tire into the terrain, slowly, weaving around yucca and boulders. The prairie cactuses were nestled in the undergrowth and impossible to see. The only way he could deal with them was by luck.
The stars were silent but the engine was consuming.
It sputtered and coughed.
It didn’t like the slow speed.
River shifted into neutral and revved it up with enough RPMs to smooth it out.
How far had he come?
With no marker on the road, it was impossible to tell.
The front end of the bike felt mushy.
Was the tire losing air?
Did it have a cactus thorn in it?
The headlight lit up the top of it up very well but from River’s angle it was impossible to tell if the rubber was compromised. He didn’t see a thorn. That didn’t mean anything though.
He kept going.
The bike got more and more difficult to steer.
He brought it to a stop, got off and felt the tire.
Damn it.
Damn it.
Damn it to hell.
It was soft.
Whatever air left in it wouldn’t be there for long.
He got back on and headed farther into the terrain. Within moments the rubber was flat and unwieldy. River kept the handlebars in an iron grip to keep the bike upright.
As best he could tell, he was about where he should be. Any farther and he’d be overshooting. He stopped, swept the headlight around and shouted, “January!”
She didn’t answer.
“January!”
No answer.
He looked back towards the road, or at least in the direction he thought the road was. He memorized the direction in connection with the position of the moon. Getting disoriented wouldn’t be good.
He killed the engine.
The silence of the night was complete, uncut by even a wisp of wind or the batting of an insect’s wings.
“January!”
No answer.
“Make a sound if you’re out here. Anything.”
No sounds came.
He listened harder, holding his breath, stilling the passage of air in and out of his lungs.
No sounds came.
He’d probably veered to the right or the left, but which? He fired up the engine, turned the front end to the right and paralleled the road.
January didn’t appear.
Then something bad happened.
The tire broke away from the rim, shredded or cut or whatever. Whatever the reason, i
t didn’t matter. The rubber was off. Only the rim was left. As hard as it had been to control the front end with a flat, it was ten times worse with just the rim. The metal dug into the dirt.
Turning was hard.
He kept going.
Suddenly the front end stuck and the bike tipped to the left. River braced his foot down but not quick enough to get leverage.
He lost control.
The bike went down.
The headlight shattered.
The world went black except for a red glow at the rear end. River got the bike upright and turned the headlight switch on and off. It did no good. He felt the light and found jagged glass.
It was shattered.
A strange smell wove through the air.
What was it?
Gas?
Yes, that was it, gas.
What happened?
Did the gas line get pulled loose?
River got oriented with the moon and continued parallel to the road.
He could see nothing except stars.
The smell of gas got worse.
It must be getting on the engine or exhaust and burning.
Suddenly the engine died.
River cranked it over.
It wouldn’t start.
Damn it.
He tried again.
It wouldn’t start.
He tried again.
Same.
A rock twisted his foot. River worked it out of the earth to find it was the size of a basketball. He raised it over his head with both arms and smashed it down onto the guts of the bike with every ounce of strength he had.
The sound was terrible.
The taillight went out.
There.
They were even.
He looked at the sliver of moon, got oriented to the road and headed that way at a quick walk. Thirty steps later he stumbled on something.
It was January.
109
Day Three
July 23, 1952
Wednesday Night
When the line died, thunder pounded through Wilde’s veins. “This is a problem,” he said. “I don’t know who was on the other end of that line but I do know one thing, it wasn’t who I thought it was.”
“You mean that Tarzan guy?”
He nodded.
“Dayton River,” Wilde said. “It wasn’t him. I can’t believe it wasn’t him. How come it wasn’t him?”
“Maybe it was that other guy, Mitchum.”
Mitchum.
Robert Mitchum.
The name hadn’t been in Wilde’s brain for some time. Hearing it out loud made his shoulders tighten.
“Maybe,” he said. “Either way I have a bad feeling about this whole thing.”
“So what do we do? The cab’s waiting-”
“I know.”
He grabbed a pack of matches from his pocket and ripped one off. London snatched them from his hand. “We don’t have time for that.”
“I have to think.”
“We don’t have time to think.”
He knew that.
He knew that only too well.
“If we follow directions, he’s going to kill her anyway,” he said.
London made a face.
She wasn’t convinced.
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know, I just do.” A beat then, “She’s seen his face, that’s how I know. He’s better off if she’s dead.”
“He only wants the map.”
“Right, but he wants it without complications.”
“So what do we do?”
“I have to catch his ass.”
London took a step back.
“No.”
“It’s our only chance,” he said.
She didn’t agree.
“No, it’s too dangerous.”
“We don’t have a choice.”
“No. Even if it works, he might not say where she is. She’ll end up rotting to death.”
Wilde grabbed London’s hand and pulled her outside to the cab.
They hopped in the back.
The driver was a strong male in his early thirties. He stared directly at Wilde and narrowed his eyes.
“Drive,” Wilde said.
“Get out,” the driver said. “Both of you.”
“Drive,” Wilde said.
“It was only supposed to be the woman. My instructions are to abort.”
“You have new instructions now.”
“No.”
“Get going, now,” Wilde said.
“Screw you. Get out of the cab and do it now.”
Wilde hardened his face.
“I’m going to count to three-”
“Don’t make it difficult,” Wilde said.
“One-”
“Drive!”
“Two-”
“Did you hear me?”
“Three.”
Wilde pulled his knife and made it visible.
“I have nothing against you but don’t force me-”
The man’s arm moved with lightning speed. His hand grabbed Wilde’s wrist and squeezed it with a python force. Wilde wedged loose, stabbed the man in the upper thigh before he even knew what he was doing, and pulled back.
The man grabbed his wound.
“You bitch!”
“Drive!”
“You stabbed me, you little bitch.”
“That’s right and I’ll do it again. I’m not screwing around here.”
The man winced.
Then he shifted into first, said “Your funeral, asshole,” and took off.
The night shot by.
“Where’s she supposed to throw the purse out?”
Silence.
“I said-”
“Okay, okay. Clarkson and 12th.”
“Cut over to Delaware.”
“But-”
“Just do it.”
The man complied.
At 10th Wilde said, “Stop here.”
The man pulled over.
Wilde got out, leaned in the open door and said, “Circle back around and follow your instructions. If you screw up I’ll hunt you to the ends of the earth. That’s a promise.”
He slammed the door.
The cab jerked away.
London stared out the back window all the way to 11th, where the taillights disappeared around the corner.
Wilde made his way through the shadows to as close to the throw-out point as he could, then wedged his body into the thicker shadows of a ragged hedge. If the man was in the vicinity, Wilde didn’t see him.
He waited.
The gun was tucked in his belt.
The knife was in his left hand.
He couldn’t use it to kill the man. London might be right in that Alexa might be stashed away where she couldn’t be found. That would be a bad way to go, trapped and abandoned. Wilde might be able to find her. Once he had the guy identified, he’d have a good chance of backtracking. Still, you never know. If he couldn’t, it would be too horrible to think about.
There was still time to back out-just leave the guy alone and hope he releases Alexa like he said he would. There was at least some possibility he was telling the truth. If that was the case, everything Wilde was doing at this exact second was the exact wrong thing. Alexa might end up dead because of him, not in spite of him.
What to do?
What to do?
What to do?
Suddenly headlights came up the street.
The passenger window was open.
London was next to it.
Her hair was blowing.
Her face was tense.
A purse flew out and landed on the sidewalk.
The cab kept going.
London kept her face pointed forward as the taillights disappeared up the street. At any second, a figure would come out of the shadows and grab the purse.
What to do?
Shoot him in the leg or let him go?
Think!
Think!
Think!
He pulled the gun out and cocked the trigger. He was too far away for a clean shot. If he went for the guy’s leg he’d be just as likely to get his face, either that or the air. He’d need to be within four or five steps to shoot.
A dark silhouette appeared on the opposite side of the street, walking briskly up the sidewalk.
It was a man.
He wore a black T-shirt.
Strong arms stuck out.
He looked briefly for cars, then around in all directions, and trotted across the street. He snatched up the purse without breaking stride and kept going.
Wilde waited for a few heartbeats.
The man didn’t look over his shoulder.
Wilde waited another second.
Then another.
Then another.
Then another.
The silhouette increasingly receded into the night. When the distance was right, Wilde came out of the shadows and fell into step.
Her chest pounded.
With the knife in his left hand and the gun in his right, he picked up the pace.
The distance started to close.
He kept his footsteps as quiet as death.
Now he was thirty steps behind.
Now twenty.
Now ten.
Suddenly the man turned.
His arm rose.
From the end of that arm, a small flash of orange flame pierced the darkness, here and gone just that fast, simultaneous with an ear-shattering explosive pop.
110
Day Four
July 24, 1952
Thursday Morning
The only window shade in Waverly’s roach-in-the-wall hotel was a spring-loaded, pull-down deal with tattered edges. She woke up Thursday morning when the first rays of daybreak pushed around the borders of that piece of junk. She laid there, torn between getting more sleep and getting things done, before finally rubbing her eyes and swinging her legs over the side.
She took a hot shower that got her 70 % awake.
Then she headed over to the White Spot to take care of the other 30 % with coffee, ending up on a barstool at the end of the counter with a piping hot cup in her hands and a gal named Jane behind the counter that kept that cup topped off.
This insanely early, the diner was a graveyard. All the barstools were empty, plus most of the tables. Two seats down, on the counter in a glass cake holder, was a stack of donuts. The ones on top were concrete but the ones underneath might actually be edible.
