by Ken Douglas
“ Police. Open up,” they heard. Then they heard a key being inserted and a door opening. J.P. got up and moved over to Rick’s bed and sat next to him.
“ It’s okay,” Rick whispered. “They don’t know we’re here. They’ll go away in a few minutes.” It wasn’t necessary to listen at the door, the paper thin walls offered no barrier against sound.
“ I don’t understand, they’re not here.” J.P. recognized the motel clerk’s voice.
“ Did they have any luggage?” a fast-talking voice asked.
“ The boy had a bird in a wire cage.”
“ That’s them,” a deep voice said.
“ They only checked in two hours ago, it doesn’t make any sense, them leaving like this,” Deep Voice said.
“ The bathroom’s been used, the beds have been used, and the key is on the bureau. It looks like they just wanted a place to shower and rest awhile,” Fast-Talker said.
“ I didn’t see them leave,” the clerk said.
“ Were you on the front desk the whole time since they checked in?” Fast-Talker said.
“ Most of the time. I went across to the mini market for cigarettes about half an hour ago.”
“ Then if they left while you were across the street, you would have missed them?” Fast-Talker said.
“ I guess so.”
“ Thanks for your help.”
“ Do you think they’ll be back?” the clerk asked.
“ No,” Fast-Talker said, “I don’t, and you can go.” J.P. heard the clerk leave the room.
“ Okay, Mr. Storm, we tried,” Fast-Talker said. “It looks like they flew the coup. Now, you want to tell me what’s going on?”
“ I told them when I called the station.”
“ Humor me.”
“ I’m a private investigator working for the RIAA. I was staking out the Page house, hoping Gordon would show. When he did, I decided to wait till morning and see if he would lead me to a warehouse full of bootlegs. I wanted to bust him real dirty.”
“ Did you know he was wanted for murder?” Fast-Talker said.
“ No, I didn’t,” Storm said.
“ What happened next?”
“ He came running out of there like a striped-ass ape, dragging the kid, and came straight here. It looked like they were here for the night, so I went back to the house to see if I could get the Page lady to tell me anything.”
“ Did you think she would?”
“ I didn’t know, but nothing ventured, nothing gained,” Storm said.
“ And that’s when you found the house all torn up?”
“ Not exactly. I knocked on the door and when I didn’t get any answer, I went next door and woke the neighbors and got lucky. The neighbor lady had a key. She said she watches the house when the Pages are away.”
“ So the neighbor let you in?” Fast-Talker said.
“ She came over with me. I waited outside while she checked the house.”
“ And you didn’t go in with her?”
“ I’m a private investigator. I got a license to protect. I don’t go into anyone’s home unless I’m invited.”
“ So the neighbor went in?”
“ And came out a few seconds later, screaming her head off. I didn’t have any choice, I went in, saw the house and dialed 911. You know the rest.”
“ Do you have any idea where Gordon will go next?”
“ He’ll go to Tampico.”
“ How can you be so sure?” Fast-Talker said.
“ One, he has a house there, and two, he’s sweet on the boy’s mother.”
“ Do you think he’ll harm the boy?”
“ I don’t know, but he has every reason to think he got away with what he did tonight. He’ll go to Tampico. I’m sure of it.”
“ Well, he won’t get there. If I remember right, there is only the one road into town from the Pacific Coast Highway. If that’s where he’s going, they’ll get him by morning.”
“ I hope they do,” Storm said.
“ You want to come down to the station and write out what you told me?”
“ Be glad to.”
J.P. went to the window and peeked through the curtains as the men left. “Rick,” he whispered, “come here quick. It’s the man who killed my dad.”
Rick looked out and got a clear view of the big man and the two policemen as they stood under a street lamp in the parking lot. They were too far away for him to hear what they were saying, but close enough that he recognized the big man as the man who went to get the sheriff and never returned that horrible day. The day Ann died.
However that day he hadn’t said anything about the RIAA or bootlegs or given any indication that he knew who Rick was. Rick shook his head, he couldn’t understand. Had the RIAA hired someone to kill the bootleggers? That made no sense, none at all. But there he was, the man who had killed J.P.’s father and he claimed that he worked for the RIAA.
Rick thought about calling out. He could tell the police who the killer was, that they were talking to him right now, but what if they didn’t believe him? What if they arrested him? What would happen to J.P.? He decided to wait till morning and call Sheriff Sturgees in Tampico. At least he was a police officer who would listen to him.
He kept watch as the two policemen and the killer with the deep voice got into the police car and drove off.
“ Okay, J.P., let’s smooth up the beds. We don’t want it to look like anybody’s been here.” With the boy helping, they had the beds looking like a motel maid had done the job in short order.
“ Now what are we gonna do?”
“ We’re going back to our old room. It’s the last place they’ll look for us and with unmade beds and the dirty towels, they won’t rent it again tonight.”
“ Does that mean I have to go up into the roof again?”
“ Yeah, I’m afraid it does.” Again Rick hoisted J.P. through a trapdoor into the dark attic and minutes later they were back in their original room, stretched out on their respective beds, staring at the ceiling. J.P. fell asleep first.
Rick thought about Christina. He prayed that she and the girls were safe and well. He blamed himself for what had happened tonight. If he hadn’t taken off right away for Tampico, he would have been there to meet the killer. He had abandoned her and the twins and now they were running scared, or worse, dead. It was his fault and he felt like shit. He stayed awake for another two hours, but finally closed his eyes and fell asleep at around three in the morning.
He woke three hours later with his head in a fog. He’d been dreaming about Ann and didn’t want to leave her, so he closed his eyes and tried to bring it back. He pictured her walking along the beach, yellow hair blowing in the wind. She turned to face him, smile shining, eyes sparkling. He never wanted to leave that place between sleep and not sleep. That perfect place, where happiness reigns supreme and nobody ever dies.
She had been the focus of his life, his reason for living, his past, present and future. She laughed with him, talked with him, fought with him and loved him. When she died he was left adrift, a wandering sailor on a leaking raft. He ached for her and he fought to stay asleep.
He walked toward her and her smile faded, her eyes darkened. “You don’t belong here,” she said, and he was cut to the quick. He pleaded silently with his eyes and her eyes answered back and she said, “You can’t stay, Flash. I love you. I’ll always love you. I’ll be with you soon and I’ll never leave,” she said, her smile returning, “but you have to go now,” and she faded from his sight as he came awake.
He rolled out of bed, stumbled into the bathroom, where he closed the door. He didn’t want to wake J.P. until he had to. The boy had been through a lot in the last three days and Rick wanted him to get as much sleep as possible, because they had a long day ahead of themselves.
He ran cold water into the wash basin, splashed his face, trying to wipe the sleep away. He looked in the mirror and winced at his reflection. The bags under his bloodsho
t eyes and the worry wrinkles on his forehead were like a flashing neon sign, saying that this man needs rest. He was bone tired. The few hours of restless sleep only seemed to exacerbate the problem. The cold water was no help.
He ran a hand over his face and mentally kicked himself for forgetting his shaving gear. He held a hand in front of his mouth, exhaled, then frowned. The toothbrush was in his bathroom up north, sitting next to his razor. He bent into the sink and took a mouthful of water, gargled and ran a finger over his teeth, a poor substitute. He felt lousy.
He stripped off the clothes he’d slept in and started the shower. When the water was warm enough, he stepped in and stood under the spray. He thought about Christina and the twins and prayed again that they were away safe, alive and well.
The sound of the shower running woke J.P. He looked over at Rick’s empty bed and rubbed his stomach. He was hungry. He reached into his pocket and grasped the money his father had given him. He was thinking about Ding Dongs and cold milk.
He pulled down the covers, slid to the side of the bed and put on his shoes. He figured he could go to the mini-market across the street and surprise Rick with breakfast. He tiptoed to the door, eased it open and stepped out into the morning. Stretching his arms, he met the day with a yawn and started across the parking lot. He thought about running across the street, there were no cars out this early, but he decided to cross at the light. It was a few feet out of the way and might take a few seconds longer, but his mother had taught him to never jay walk.
When he reached the crosswalk, he reached with an outstretched finger to push the cross button on the traffic signal, but someone clamped a beefy hand over his face and he felt himself being lifted off his feet.
Feeling better, Rick turned off the shower and stepped out of the tub. He toweled off, glancing at his ghostly reflection in the steamed mirror for only a second, before he dressed. It was time to wake J.P. and get on the road. He left the warmth of the bathroom and stopped, staring at J.P.’s bed. The boy was gone.
He ran his eyes around the room and saw J.P.’s shoes just inside the door. They were sitting on a folded piece of paper. He pulled the paper out from under the shoes. It was note, someone had been in the room while he’d been in the shower. He unfolded the paper and read:
I have the boy. He dies tomorrow Like the others — In Tampico at sunset. Tell anyone and I’ll peel his skin off before sticking in the knife.
I’ll know if you call the police, so don’t be stupid. If you’re very lucky, maybe you can trade your life for his.
I am damned but so are you.
It was unsigned.
Chapter Sixteen
J.P. woke to pain in his arms. He was lying on his back, his arms underneath his body. It was dark. It was hot. He was moving and he smelled gasoline. He tried to scream through his cotton dry mouth, but he couldn’t move his jaw, and the sound he managed to get out couldn’t be heard above the constant rumbling noise of rolling tires on pavement. Something was over his mouth, preventing him from calling for help, and something was holding his hands behind his back, causing maximum, huge pain.
Instinctively, he knew he was in the trunk of a moving car. His hands were tied behind his back and he was gagged, like a victim in the old black and white cowboy movies his mom liked to watch-and he was afraid. Afraid to kick out against the trunk lid and cry out for help, because the man who had grabbed him from behind and put him here was surely the man who had killed his father, and if that man was the one that answered the racket his kicking feet made, there was no telling what he would do. And he was afraid not to kick out against his metal coffin, because what if no one ever came and he was left in the hot trunk to die?
But somehow he didn’t think no one would ever come. That man would come. The one who had done the horrible things to Christina and the twins. The one who had killed his father and Sylvia. The one who held him prisoner in this dirty, dark place. J.P. remembered well the story Rick had told and he remembered the Ghost Dog, and he knew who that man was.
When that man came, something bad would happen. J.P. was sure of that. But how bad, he asked himself? Real bad, he answered. He saw himself tied to a slow moving conveyer belt, a log in front and a log behind, heading toward a giant circular saw that would rip him in half, and nobody in white was coming to his rescue.
He felt the car go into a sharp right turn. Something fell and hit him on the head and he smelled the gas smell up close. From the bang the object made as it ricocheted off his forehead, he guessed it was a gas can. He tried not to gag on the fumes. It would not be good, he thought, to cough with his mouth taped shut.
The car made a sharp turn in the other direction, rolling him onto his side and something dug into his shoulder. He didn’t know what it was, it only hurt for a second, but it was sharp. He was afraid that if he rolled onto it again, it would cut him. He was worried that he would roll back and forth, with every turn of the car, and the sharp thing would cut into him like the pendulum in his favorite scary story.
One of the rear tires picked up a rock and it made a steady click, click, click sound that shot through to his heart, sending him shivers and clarifying the image of the swinging pendulum from the scary story.
Something moved over his legs. He heard it squeal. He wasn’t alone. He tried to lash out at the thing with his right foot and discovered that his feet were bound. Plus his shoes and socks were gone, he was barefoot. Now he was scared!
It moved again. There was no doubt in his mind about what it was. It had to be a rat. One of the rats from the pit. And the sharp thing was the sharp part of the pendulum. And every time the car turned, he was going to roll over the sharp thing, and it would cut him, and he would bleed, and the rat would smell the blood, and it would eat his blood, and it wouldn’t be enough to make it full, so it would eat him till he was dead.
The car turned again. One of the rear wheels must have gone over a curb, because J.P. felt the shock as the tire slammed down onto the pavement. The gas can bounced again, making a loud ringing noise that scared the rat into screeching and scurrying around the trunk. It brushed against him and he rolled over the sharp thing in a effort to get away from it. He was lucky it was lying flat or it surely would have cut him.
He wanted to use his legs to push away from the sharp thing, but he was more afraid of the rat and he was having a hard time breathing. He lay still, catching his breath, scared, worried and anxious. He felt something move by his feet and he bent his legs, tucking his knees into his stomach.
He listened to the steady click, click, click and his ears told him the car was slowing. It must be a red light, he thought.
“ Come on, Mister Rat, please move, so I’ll know where you are,” he whispered. The rat answered his prayers and crawled toward him. J.P. felt, more than heard, its advance. “Just a little closer,” he said. He felt it with his bare feet. For a flash of a second, the thought that the evil man had stolen his shoes sent a flash of red anger along his spine, chasing away the fear. He lashed out with his legs.
He caught the furry beast under his feet as he straightened his legs, dragging it along the floor of the trunk, crushing its tiny ribs under his heels, and the trunk was filled with its scream. For a second he thought that it didn’t sound the way the rats in the movies did, but he didn’t wait to puzzle it out. Once his legs were straight and his knees were locked, he rolled onto his back, tightened his stomach, raised his legs, like his mother when she does her leg lifts, and brought them down hard onto the small beast, smashing the life out of it with his bare heels.
And as the life ran out of the little animal, J.P. knew that it was no rat. He started to cry as the light turned green and the car started to pick up speed. He had done a terrible, horrible thing. He was saddened like he’d never been saddened before. He felt worse than he did when his father had moved out. Worse than when his first pigeon had died. Worse than when Janis went missing and her parents were killed. And worse than he did the other day when his
father was killed.
It wasn’t right. He knew it wasn’t right, but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t make his father leave. It wasn’t his fault that the pigeon, or Janis, or her parents, or his father, or Sylvia were dead, but it was his fault that the little animal at his feet in the dark, smelly trunk was dead. If only it had been a rat, a big mean rat, a mean rat that was going to chew on his bloody side, a chewing rat that wouldn’t stop chewing till he was dead, but it wasn’t a rat, and he knew it wasn’t a rat. It was Torry and Swell’s cute, fluffy little kitten, and he hadn’t even named it yet.
She wasn’t going to eat him. She was probably as scared as he was-and he’d killed her. He wanted to get even with that mean, sleazy, lousy, punk of a man that scared him so much and tricked him into killing the little cat.
The car turned again in a wide arc. It felt like they were getting on a freeway as he slid toward the sharp thing and then he had an idea. Maybe it was sharp enough to cut the rope that was binding his hands behind his back.
He used his feet to push himself against the bottom of the trunk, moving the sharp thing from his upper to his lower back, so he could reach it with his hands. A small triumph. He felt the sharp thing and knew what it was. It wasn’t part of a sharp pendulum at all. It was a knife and as he ran his hands along the blade he knew what kind of knife it was and he was scared. It was a Jim Bowie knife.
He turned it and started working the rope against the blade, cutting into the fibers. His heart picked up speed. He began breathing fast, through his nose. He tried to stop his frightened tears and he started sniffling as his nose filled with snot. He sawed harder against the rope as panic rose. He wasn’t able to breathe. He tried to suck air through the tape that covered his mouth, but couldn’t. He felt his lungs scream as they cried for air. He swallowed snot. He got light-headed. He saw stars, gagged and passed out.
As he came slowly awake through a sleep-fog haze, J.P.’s subconscious was feeding him the words. Free the Dome Ring. Free the Dome Ring. Free the Dome Ring. He used to worry all the time about the Dome Ring. He wondered what it was and why everybody sang about setting it free. He thought some terrorists had it and wouldn’t let it go. Then on his fifth birthday he found out there was no Dome Ring. He felt foolish at first, but he’d grasped the idea of the Amazing Dome Ring held by evil bad guys and even if the real words in the song were Let freedom ring, he still saw in his mind’s eye, a silver and gold magic ring, with a small diamond dome on it, where the magic power powder was kept.
