by J. L. Salter
“Is that where everything goes?”
“Everything that’s left after those divers get through,” Ramirez replied.
Kaser inquired who he meant.
“Divers, man. They hit every dumpster in this neighborhood, and maybe more. Those druggies go through everything on Wednesday night. Used to leave a stinkin’ mess.”
“So, what did you do?”
“I had a cop friend talk to ‘em, man.” Ramirez gestured as he spoke. “He told them it ain’t against the law to go through the garbage after it’s been thrown out... but it is against the law to litter. So they had to keep my place nice and neat.”
Kaser asked if that had worked.
“Even drug-heads understand plain talk, man. They didn’t want no trouble with cops. After that, they left the place cleaner than before they got here.”
“Did you know any of those divers?”
“Just druggies to me, man. All look alike,” Ramirez had replied.
Kaser asked if it was different divers or the same ones repeatedly.
“Same ones every Wednesday. After they got straightened out by my cop friend, they started comin’ while it was still daylight.”
“If they all look alike, how do you know these were the same each week?”
“They had a girl with ‘em, man. Pretty blonde. Well, she used to be pretty, until the drugs ruint her. Not much more than a scarecrow now.”
Kaser asked if he knew their names.
“Druggies don’t have names, man. They’re all just zombies.” Then Ramirez thought a second. “José might know them. My cop friend.”
“What precinct is your buddy with?”
Ramirez told him.
Kaser had looked down the alley. “So these drugged-out divers came here every Wednesday evening and went through this dumpster. What were they looking for?”
“Beats me, man. I didn’t care. It’s either my garbage or stuff other people sneak in there when I’m not looking. Long as they don’t leave a mess, I’m good.”
“Those divers have a truck or something?”
“Van. Ugly... old,” he’d replied.
Kaser asked about the year, model, or color.
“I ain’t the DMV, man. Light color, but bad paint so there was patches of bare metal... rusted. Maybe nineties. Not sure. Check with José Metoyer at the precinct.”
“Anything else you can remember that might help me find these divers?”
“I think they live in Long Beach, man. I heard ‘em say they sell some of this junk down there on the weekends.” Ramirez chuckled. “You believe stupid tourists would buy stuff from a few druggies that pulled it out of my dumpster?”
Kaser had seen stranger things. He thanked the manager.
“Hey, man, why you need all this? Somebody stole your stuff five years ago?”
“Well somebody took what I’m looking for. I’m pretty sure it landed here. I’ve got to figure out where it is now.”
“Good luck with that, man. Some tourist stopped at Long Beach an’ probably took it back to Wyoming.”
It was a day after the Ramirez conversation that Kaser had located Ricks in Long Beach, his brain fried like a double-yolked egg on a flat desert stone. After he’d found out what Ricks knew, Kaser figured that meth-head seemed a good candidate for a few little jobs which needed doing.
****
Shane sat in his recliner and stared toward the television. If asked what was on, he wouldn’t have known—it was just noise and movement.
His house in Long Beach was mostly straightened since the ransacking. Though the porcelain bird was in a safe place, Shane had left its broken case and the empty picture frame on the floor where they’d fallen. Wasn’t quite sure why. A few different times, Shane had started to deal with them... but they’d have to be discarded.
Though not a particularly deep philosophical thinker, Shane was occasionally introspective. Since he had not dealt with those two items, there must be a reason. The frame had held Bethany’s photo; the box once housed the ornament he’d never had opportunity to give her. Neither of those aspects of his life were over. The broken frame and cracked box would remain where they were, at least until Bethany was safe again. Then Shane could decide whether to deal with them.
But was Bethany in danger? Most certainly. Even if Ricks was not in the Nashville area, Bethany was already being followed by one person after being robbed by another. A few days apart, and just days after the burglary at his place. It was all connected somehow. But what could involve both of them that anybody would want? Doesn’t make sense.
It would kill Shane to wait two thousand miles away—he had to go to Tennessee.
He’d been terribly lonely since Bethany first left, but continued to hope she’d return. Somehow, even though Bethany never said so, Shane had always believed that she’d come home once her brother didn’t need her anymore. Why remain in exile after the reason for her departure had... departed? Surely, she was supposed to return. But that had been nearly a year ago and there wasn’t even a hint that Bethany was considering a move back.
It was wonderful to finally hear her voice again in those recent phone calls, even though at least one conversation had seemed rather terse. Was Bethany angry that he’d called or upset at how long it took him to call again? Had he erred in not continuing to attempt contacts? He didn’t think so at the time: he’d leave voicemails and she wouldn’t get back. He’d write short notes but she wouldn’t respond. A long distance relationship was tough enough if both parties were working on it, but impossible if the effort was merely one-way. So Shane had lost hope.
Now things ought to be better—right? Shouldn’t Bethany be pleased to hear from him? Shouldn’t she want him to come for a visit? Didn’t appear so. She still seemed angry and tense. Possibly even hostile. Was most of that because of the break-in and stalker? Possibly. But Shane felt like it was aimed at him. Maybe it was. Maybe Bethany still hadn’t forgiven the way he’d handled her departure. It hadn’t made any sense at the time—leave your lover, your job, and the wonders of Southern California for a Podunk exit on a nondescript Tennessee Interstate. Whoever heard of Verde-town anyway?
And weren’t small towns supposed to be safe? Obviously, not this burg. So, after nearly three years of trying to get her day-to-day safety out of his mind, Shane worried again—and realized, with some conviction—it must be one of his purposes. Everyone had a few purposes on this earth, and one of Shane’s was to protect Bethany. He’d lost someone dear several years before. If he’d only been there, maybe he could have saved her. But he wasn’t, and didn’t... and Sophia had died. Shane couldn’t let that happen again. He couldn’t lose another lover.
He’d been with Sophia about two years—not all that long, but their relationship was intense. Sophia’s insight and compassion—and TLC, of course—had helped chase away some of Shane’s demons from Desert Storm. Ah, but those old demons never went too far. And they always knew their way back into Shane’s mind—awake or asleep.
He opened a gaudy Cuban cigar box made of smooth, soft wood. Inside, on top, were two unframed five-by-seven photos. The first was Shane in full battle dress uniform. He could barely distinguish the blacked-out 82nd Airborne Division patch—he’d been in the 1st Brigade Combat Team. He was understandably proud of his jump wings and his unit.
The second photo was taken when he received the Bronze Star for his role in the ill-fated rescue on the outskirts of Kuwait City. Shane often revisited that nightmare and how horribly wrong everything went... mostly because of timing.
But he couldn’t let his mind be cluttered with Desert Storm. As Shane put both photos back into the wooden box, he spotted a snapshot of three grungy dumpster divers. He kept that out and replaced the box on the mantel. “It’s always about timing. And if I don’t get to Bethany before somebody else does...” He didn’t complete the thought.
Just as Sophia had helped chase away Shane’s deeply-entrenched demons after Kuwait City, Bethany had
helped chase away the equally pernicious demons after the loss of Sophia. But nothing on earth could give Shane any peace if he somehow lost Bethany forever.
He had to ride to Tennessee. Doc, the owner/manager of Major Daze Choppers, Inc., owed him two weeks of paid vacation—and Shane finally had a reason to use it.
Not only was Shane worried about Bethany’s safety, but he fully remembered again how much he wanted to hold her... touch her... make love with her. How much he needed her. Craved her, loved her—and truly had never stopped.
Two thousand miles or two hundred—whatever it took to close the distance between them.
Chapter Twelve
October 8 (Saturday mid-afternoon)
Beth was the ad hoc hostess since it was her own suggestion to get all three heads together. The third head, of course, was Jeff’s and he’d phoned earlier to see if Beth was home. She’d told him to come on over; Connie was already there.
Jeff arrived, breathing heavily from his long walk in the mid-afternoon sun. It was probably a mile and a half—along the paved walk on the south edge of Highland Drive and then south a few blocks into Beth’s Old Highlands neighborhood. Jeff seemed to enjoy walking, which is probably why he was able to stay in such excellent condition.
“Connie, you’ve met Jeff before, haven’t you?” Beth pointed as though it was needed.
“Oh, sure. Several times at the library. And, maybe at one of the summer music festivals.”
“Possibly so. Tanya loves her music. I’d rather read.” His smile showed even, white teeth.
“I brought your self defense book.” Jeff pulled it from his backpack and then took a swig from a small water bottle. When he pulled off his windbreaker, sweat glistened against the dark skin of his bare forearms.
“What else do you have in that bag?” Connie pointed. “Any snacks?”
Jeff smiled. “Nothing but an energy bar... and a penlight if it’s dark before I get back home.”
“How far are you walking these days?” Beth flipped through the book absent-mindedly.
“Normally, this is about my outside range—three miles round-trip—but today, my mom-in-law is visiting and it’s usually to my advantage to be out of the house as much as possible.” He shrugged.
“You look a lot like that movie star...”
“Denzel.” Beth interrupted Connie.
“Yeah, only shorter. I know.” Exasperated groan from Jeff.
Connie tapped his forearm with her painted nails. “I didn’t mean anything.”
“Sorry. I just get tired of the height comment. I’m five-seven and that’s it. Not every black guy is NBA tall.”
Jeff seemed rather testy, Beth thought. The mother-in-law must have gotten on his nerves. “Well, let’s have a seat.” She gestured. “After Connie and I spoke the other day, I thought all three of our brains should get together and see if we can get to the bottom of things.”
“This robbery and stalking is not normal stuff.” Connie’s sculpted nails flicked something invisible from her skirt. “And I figure Beth is too close to it to see what it’s all about.”
“I doubt I’d be much help.” Jeff took another sip of water. “Unless you need some research or something.”
Beth sighed heavily. “I don’t know what we need. Right now we don’t even have a starting place.”
“Except what Shane told you about the guy that broke into his place.”
“Hold on. Your ex-boyfriend also had a break-in?” Jeff hadn’t heard.
Beth explained everything, including the possibility that Ricks might be in Verdeville already.
Jeff asked for a description, which Beth provided. He jotted down a few notes on a small tablet from his backpack.
“Have either of you seen anybody like that?” Beth pointed to Jeff’s notes.
“Not in the library.”
“Not at the dealership.” Connie tapped Beth’s elbow. “You said Shane wondered if this Ricks guy was the stalker. Have you thought any more about that?”
Beth shuddered. “I never saw his face but I heard a voice this last time... only it was through my closed window with the engine running. Tell you the truth, I don’t remember what Ricks sounded like. But I know I’d recognize his smell: stale drugs and rotten dumpster garbage.”
“Lovely combination.” Connie wrinkled her nose.
Beth rose from the couch. “Anything to drink? I mean besides your water.”
“I could take a little sweet tea, if you have it.” Connie licked her lips.
“It happens I do.” The consummate hostess. “Jeff?”
“Sure.” He screwed the lid on the water bottle and jammed it back inside his pack.
“Is this your beau?” Connie must have spotted the framed photo which Beth had only recently placed on the end table. “Shane?”
Beth set three glasses of iced tea on coasters on the coffee table. “Still the ex-beau... and I doubt that will change.” She reached over and picked up the plain wooden frame. “That was taken at Mile Square Park about a year before I left, in Fountain Valley.”
Jeff craned his neck. “He’s no kid. Looks close to forty.”
“Uh, nearly ten years older than me... thirty-eight, actually.” Shane Holder was over six-one and weighed nearly two hundred pounds. Incredibly strong, but not the body-builder show muscle—quite agile, but he didn’t move particularly fast. “He’d already been in the army and out. He was going to school on the G.I. Bill when we met at Cal State Long Beach.”
“What part of the army?” Jeff leaned forward. “Any combat?”
“Shane was with one of the airborne divisions in the first Gulf War... when they liberated Kuwait and chewed up Saddam’s Republican Guard.” Beth put the photo beside her on the couch. “He saw plenty of action.”
Connie picked it up. “Speaking of movie stars—” though no one was at that moment, “—your biker looks a lot like that guy in the Sackett movies. What’s his name?”
“The old guy was Ben something.” Beth wasn’t much with names.
“Not Ben Johnson. Younger.”
Jeff studied the photo. “Oh, you mean Sam Elliott. He was great in a bouncer flick, too. Also played a first sergeant in a Vietnam war movie.”
“Sam Elliott. Yum.” Connie returned the frame to the end table and took a sip of her tea. “How did y’all meet? On campus, I guess...”
“Off-campus, actually. I’d been out fairly late with some girlfriends and headed back to my dorm alone, when two guys jumped out from behind a van. Scared me to death.”
“I bet they were black...”
“You’re way too sensitive, Jeff. No, as a matter of fact, they weren’t.” Beth continued. “Shane was just riding by on his motorcycle and saw what was happening. He whipped that bike around like it weighed thirty pounds. Before I could blink, Shane was up on the sidewalk right beside me. I could feel the heat from his dual exhaust pipes on my leg.”
“What happened?” Jeff scooted his chair closer.
“Well, the two punks were startled, of course, but I guess they figured they still had the numerical advantage. Plus one had a gun and the other had a piece of iron.” Beth held her hands about eighteen inches apart.
“So they still intended to go through with—uh, whatever?” Connie gasped.
As Beth nodded, tears formed but didn’t fall. “One creep told Shane to buzz off... that they’d picked me out for themselves. But he just sat there, straddling his Harley... the motor rumbling.”
Connie’s eyes grew large. “And?”
“Then he slammed down the kickstand, but kept the engine idling and—without taking his eyes off the creeps—he reached back and slipped the carabiner clip off his chain.”
“Mountain climber clips?” Jeff made an approximate shape with his fingers.
“Yeah, Shane always kept his chain around the sissy bar and secured it with a carabiner, so he could get to it faster than taking time to undo a padlock.”
“Sissy bar?” Connie.
“The thing I’d lean back against when I rode behind him. Any more questions about Shane’s bike?” Beth’s exasperation was theatrical. “When those guys saw his logging chain, their eyes got pretty big.” About the same size as Jeff’s and Connie’s eyes. “Then Shane made a little speech.”
“Speech?” Jeff looked mildly disappointed.
“Let’s see... he said, ‘If you two wake up at all, it’ll be Intensive Care. And you’ll wish you were never here. But it’s a lot more likely, you won’t ever wake up... and the buzzards will eat your guts for breakfast’.”
Jeff smiled. “He actually said that?”
Beth nodded. “Sent chills up my spine. No telling what it did to those punks.”
“That’s pretty good dialog.”
Connie tapped Beth’s knee. “So what happened?”
“The creeps looked at each other real quick... and then back at me. Guess they’d never been challenged before.”
“Probably gang-bangers.” Jeff nodded slightly.
Beth shrugged. “Then one of them pointed to Shane’s motorcycle and said, ‘You ain’t so much’... or something like that.”
Jeff finally sampled his tea and smacked his lips softly. “I wouldn’t guess a couple of armed punks would be too worried about one biker with a chain.”
“Well, in those days, Shane still looked pretty rough around the edges. And he had other weapons on his bike.”
“For heaven’s sake, what happened?” Connie was never one for suspense.
“Then Shane said, ‘Don’t be here by the time I count to ten.’ One of the creeps tried to laugh it off but the other one got visibly nervous. So Shane hung the chain over one shoulder, put one hand back on his handlebars, and he started counting. Real calm and slow. When he got to seven, he suddenly revved the throttle. Those guys nearly jumped out of their stolen shoes. Probably wet their britches.”
“They took off.” Jeff looked relieved.
“Shane saved you from...”
Beth nodded. “I was shaking like a tall weed in high wind. After the punks disappeared, Shane turned off his Harley, dropped the chain, and hugged me. Tight. It was like we’d always known each other.”
