Bad Signs

by R.J. Ellory

“They took him already,” he said.

  “Took Luckman?”

  “Sure as hell did. Bundled him out of here and into the car and drove off down that way.” He indicated with a tilt of his head.

  “I heard he was shot,” Cassidy said.

  “Twice, as far as I could tell.”

  “By you?”

  “Nope. I shot him only the once.”

  “So who else shot him?”

  “Who the hell knows? By the time he rocked up here he was already bleeding.”

  “And they took him … the two men from the FBI? They took him in their car?”

  “Sure as hell did. Them and Sheriff Everhardt, off down that way.”

  Cassidy got back in the car and gunned the engine. He knew what was going to happen. He knew he was too late. His heart was racing, his hands were sweating. He could see Alice’s face as he tried to explain to her that he’d been too late. That he went out for dinner and he got back half an hour later than he should have, and he drove out here as fast as he could, but he was too damned late. He hoped then that he’d been wrong. That they’d both been wrong. He hoped that Clarence Luckman was the one who’d done these things—a young man who had been kidnapped from the Hesperia Juvenile Correction Facility and yet had become a worse nightmare than even his kidnapper; a young man responsible for the killings of Laurette Tannahill, of Marlon Juneau, the entire Eckhart family, of Rita McGovern and Lord only knows who else. He could face the prospect of being wrong in his assumptions with far greater ease than he would ever accept the death of an innocent young man.

  Cassidy hit the accelerator and took off in a skid of gravel.

  He left Officer Freeman Summers standing there ahead of the sheriff’s office with a smile on his face and a sense of pride in his heart. After all, hadn’t he—Freeman Summers—been the one to shoot Clarence Luckman, the worst murderer anyone had ever heard of? Sure as hell he was.

  He found them no more than two miles away. The beams of his brights illuminated the scenario in stark brilliance, and he knew then exactly what was happening.

  There were four of them—Sheriff Everhardt, Koenig, Nixon, and out ahead of them, leaning to one side, seemingly barely able to stand, was Clarence Luckman. His arm, his pants’ leg, the lower half of his jacket were all soaked with blood. He moved awkwardly to one side, and then as Cassidy’s car approached he tried to raise his hand against the brightness of the headlights.

  Koenig was there as Cassidy skidded to a halt.

  Koenig wrenched the door open. The man’s face was varnished with sweat. His cheeks were reddened, his eyes bright and fierce and accusative.

  “Get the hell out of here!” he shouted. “This isn’t your business now. Get the hell away from here, Cassidy!”

  “No,” Cassidy said. “You’re not going to do this. You can’t do this! Is this what you’ve been ordered to do? To just kill this boy in cold blood in the fucking street?”

  Cassidy pushed past Koenig and walked toward Nixon.

  Nixon stood there, a cigarette in his hand. It was the sheriff who held a gun, and it was aimed unerringly at Luckman.

  “Do as he says!” Nixon shouted. “Get the hell out of here! This isn’t anything to do with you anymore.”

  Cassidy felt the rage burning in his chest. “What the hell are you talking about? Isn’t anything to do with me? You’re going to let this man murder him? You’re just going to let this happen?”

  Nixon looked at Koenig. Koenig looked at Luckman.

  Luckman looked back at the four of them, his eyes wide, rolling white every moment or two, unsteady on his feet, his hand clutching his side, his mouth open. He took one staggered step forward and fell to his knees.

  Cassidy rushed forward. He stood in front of Luckman.

  “Get out the fucking way!” Nixon said. “For Christ’s sake, get out of the fucking way!”

  “It ends now,” Koenig added. “This is it, Cassidy! This is where it ends! He’s gonna die right here and now for what he did. He’s not going to jail. He’s not going to plead insanity and get three years in some fucking nuthouse. He’s gonna die right here and now. Think of the people he killed! Just think of what he did to those people!”

  Cassidy backed up. He knelt beside Luckman and put his arm around his shoulder to hold him up.

  Luckman looked back at him, blood on his lips, his eyes unfocused, his hair plastered to his face.

  Uuugghhh, he gasped, and then he dry-retched and grimaced in pain. He clutched his side even harder and moaned once more.

  Nixon was there then, Koenig too, and they stood over Cassidy and Luckman, and there was such desperate rage and hatred in their expressions.

  Luckman opened his mouth, an attempt to speak perhaps, but Cassidy cut him short.

  “Not a word, son. Not a single word until you answer one question.”

  Clay Luckman—his face smeared with blood, the disbelief and shock and horror so evident in his eyes—waited for whatever that question could be.

  “You tell me the truth now, son,” Cassidy said. “You tell me the truth, and don’t you even think about lying or misleading us. You have no idea how much trouble you are in. You have absolutely no idea what will happen to you if you lie to us or mislead us. You understand me?”

  Clay—slowly, deliberately—nodded his head.

  “You tell me—”

  “My bro-bro-brother …” Clarence gasped.

  “Your brother?” Cassidy asked, and then he looked up at Nixon and Koenig. “What did you say?”

  “Bro-brother … he took … took Bail …”

  “Bailey?” Cassidy said. “Elliott Danziger took Bailey?”

  Clarence Luckman moved his head. He nodded once, and then his eyes rolled back once more and he went limp in Cassidy’s arms.

  Cassidy, feeling a rush of adrenaline and fear the like of which he had never experienced, did his best to get to his feet with the deadweight of Clarence Luckman in his arms.

  Nixon was then beside him. “Is that the girl?” he asked. “Is that the girl you were talking about?”

  “Bailey Jacobs,” Cassidy said. “He said that his brother has taken Bailey Jacobs.”

  There was silence for a moment, and then Nixon stepped forward to help Cassidy.

  “Into the back of the sheriff’s car,” Nixon said, and then he looked back at Cassidy, and in the stark illumination of the car headlights Cassidy could see the bloodless fear in the man’s face.

  “Not a word,” Nixon said. “Not a word, okay?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  Digger saw the lights through the window before Sam Munro had made it halfway from the highway.

  “Fuck! Shit! Fuck!” he said. The girl hadn’t even gotten all her clothes off and now some interfering motherfucker asshole was coming toward the house.

  “Jesus Christ Almighty,” he said.

  He grabbed Bailey by the arm and hurried from the kitchen and up the stairs.

  Once in Morton Randall’s bedroom he shoved Bailey onto the mattress and grabbed a pillow. She lay there for a second, motionless, wide-eyed, and then she realized what he was going to do.

  “No!” she screamed, and tried to get off the bed. Digger snatched at her foot and held her. He used the butt of the gun to sideswipe her. He caught her a glancing blow across the face, and for a moment she was stunned.

  That moment was all he needed. He held a pillow in his left, pressed the muzzle of the gun into it, and then pulled the trigger.

  The sound was quieter than he’d imagined. He had steeled himself for an explosion, but it sounded like nothing more than a bottle hitting the ground.

  She was motionless. Utterly motionless.

  “See,” he said. “Try and run away now, you little bitch.”

  He dropped the pillow, left the room, and hurried downstairs to deal with whoever had come from the highway to bother him.

  When he opened the door and saw Sam Munro there was a moment’s recognition. Something
in the man’s face seemed familiar. Had he seen Sam Munro standing beside his daughter he would have understood precisely why he felt a sense of déjà vu, but in that second it was unimportant.

  “Oh, er, hullo there … er, I was … I was looking for Mr. Randall. Is Mr. Randall in?”

  Digger smiled his best smile. “Sure he is. He’s right inside. Who are you?”

  “Oh yes, my name is Sam Munro, and I wondered whether Mr. Randall might have seen my daughter yesterday.”

  Digger frowned. “Your daughter?”

  “Yes, my daughter. Candace Munro.”

  “Right, right, right … Candace,” he said, and two and two made four and he knew that he would have to kill this son of a bitch as fast as possible.

  “Come on in, Mr. Munro. I’ll get Mr. Randall for you … He’s just in back. I’m Elliott by the way,” he added. “I’m Mr. Randall’s nephew.”

  “Oh, okay. I didn’t know he had a nephew.”

  “Oh yes, Mr. Munro, there are a good few of us. We just don’t make a visit that often.”

  “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Elliott,” Munro said, and he held out his hand.

  Digger shook it, and then he stepped back to allow Sam Munro entry into the house.

  Digger directed him to the kitchen, and it was there—seated in the same chair where Bailey had sat only minutes before—that Munro waited for Elliott to bring Morton Randall down to speak with him.

  And it was there—with his back to the door—that his view of Elliott Danziger was obscured. He didn’t think anything at all until a strange sensation overcame him, and then there was a feeling of intense pain in his shoulder. He reached up, and there he discovered the handle of a kitchen knife protruding from his upper arm. The profound and indescribable disbelief then evident on his face stopped Elliott in his tracks. He had planned to drag the knife out and just stab the guy in the neck, but he couldn’t stop laughing.

  It was a surreal scene. Sam Munro, here on a mission to try and find his daughter, seated in the kitchen of Morton Randall’s house, and Randall’s nephew, this Elliott, had just dug a kitchen knife into his arm and was now howling like a hyena.

  Munro tried to get up. He felt faint. He lost his balance. He sat down again—hard.

  Digger went on laughing.

  Munro tried to get up again, and this time he managed it.

  Digger took one step forward and pushed him.

  Munro went sideways and collided with the stove. He reached up to the stovetop to gain his footing, and there his fingers met with the edge of a glass dish. He grabbed it.

  When Digger came for him again he just lashed out with that dish. He hit Digger fair and square in the side of the head. Cold pork and beans scattered across the floor. Digger went down like a stone. Boom.

  His arm howling in pain, Munro went for the back door, wrenched it open and stumbled awkwardly down the steps into the yard. He knew enough to understand that pulling the knife out was not a good idea. The knife had maybe severed whatever veins and arteries, and there was little blood, but to pull it out would be to dramatically increase the risk of enormous bleeding, and already he was starting to lose the feeling in his fingers and his hand. He had to drive. He had to get in the car and drive back to Van Horn.

  It did not occur to him in that moment that there was any connection between what had just happened and the apparent disappearance of his daughter. There was no reason for him to consider such a thing.

  All he knew was that he had to get to Kelt Everhardt. He had to find him and tell him that there was a kitchen knife in his shoulder and a crazy boy in Morton Randall’s house.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  “He is out there somewhere, I tell you,” Cassidy said again, and he seemed to be saying it for the hundredth time.

  “I appreciate your opinion, Detective Cassidy,” Koenig said. “I really do appreciate your opinion on this, but right now we have what we have. Clarence Luckman is the suspect. Sheriff Everhardt is going to see him to the hospital, and as soon as they have addressed his immediate wounds he will be arrested. If he makes it, and as soon as he’s out of danger, he is going to be charged. We charge him, then we interrogate him. That is the way it goes, and we have no reason to do anything different right now—”

  “And no real reason to charge him aside from circumstantial evidence … hell, no evidence at all, if I’m looking at this the way you are. However, if you have evidence that I don’t know about that puts Clarence Luckman anywhere near any of these killings, then I suggest that you tell me now and I’ll go ahead and fill out the goddamned paperwork myself.”

  “Look,” Koenig said. “I … we really appreciate your help on this, Cassidy, but you have to appreciate what we’re dealing with in return. This is a capital case. This is a killing spree the like of which the federal authorities have not seen in … Christ, I can’t think of a case that even comes close to it. Handled incorrectly, one mess-up, one failure to do this by the book, and we lose him. We have to get a confession, and it has to be an unbiased confession, and someone from the public defender’s office needs to be gotten here right now, and we start this thing without delay—”

  “But—”

  “But nothing, Detective. It has to be done this way, and if as a result of the interrogation we learn that this Elliott Danziger is still alive, and that he has been responsible for these killings, then obviously Clarence Luckman will be released.”

  “If he doesn’t die from the gunshot wounds …”

  “A police officer acted bravely,” Koenig said. “He did his duty. He was authorized to employ deadly force as needed to apprehend the criminal.”

  “But we don’t know that he’s even a criminal! Jesus, can’t you see what’s there right in front of you? He even said it himself. The brother is here, for Christ’s sake. He said it! He said that the brother had taken Bailey Jacobs—”

  “He said that. He. Clarence Luckman said that. Right now Clarence Luckman is our suspect, Detective Cassidy, and I’d appreciate it if you would step aside now and let us do our job. The fact that his brother might or might not have taken this girl doesn’t change the fact that Luckman is a killer …”

  “You’re going to blow it,” Cassidy said. “Danziger is out there. I am certain of it. If we waste time now when we could be looking for him, then we will lose him. A couple of hours and he could be in Mexico, and then we are screwed.”

  “And the evidence that you have that says Danziger is out there, that Danziger is the one that did these things, is no less circumstantial than the evidence that implicates Luckman.”

  “Just look at him! Look at the boy! You saw him. You’re telling me that he was capable of doing the things we’ve seen, like Deidre Parselle? You really think that that boy was capable of stabbing a girl that many times? Of doing what was done to that girl?”

  “And your boy Danziger is no less a teenager, Detective Cassidy,” Koenig retorted. “All we have now is Clarence Luckman. He’s been on the run for a week. We have him now, thanks to Sheriff Everhardt. Now we get someone here from the El Paso DA’s office. This boy needs legal representation before we even get a word out of him, and then, and only then, will we find out what has really happened here.”

  “Un-fucking-believable—”

  “Detective Cassidy, seriously …” Koenig started, but he was interrupted by the appearance of Freeman Summers outside Everhardt’s office door.

  “Mr. Koenig?” Summers asked.

  “Not now, Summers. I’m busy.”

  “But, sir …?”

  Koenig turned. “Seriously, Officer Summers, I am dealing with something very important right now, as you can well see—”

  “Sir, I’m sorry, but I got Sam Munro out here and he desperately needs to see someone, and Sheriff Everhardt isn’t here …”

  “Hell, Summers, you can deal with it!”

  “No, sir, I think you’re gonna wanna talk to him. He has a kitchen knife sticking out of his shoulder
and he says there’s a crazy boy with a gun out in Morton Randall’s place …”

  Koenig’s eyes widened.

  “Oh, and another thing … he says that his daughter has gone missing.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  Digger was pissed. There was so much blood all over the girl upstairs that he couldn’t fuck her. I mean, even for him, it was just too much. That aside, he just could not work out how the dead girl in the outhouse … I mean, how the fuck did her father know to come out here, all the way down the highway to Randall’s place? He wrestled with that question for just a minute, and then he got it. It could only mean that someone had seen Randall’s pickup outside the garage where he’d gotten the girl from. Fuck. Fuck!

  Now what was he going to do? Hide in the house? He didn’t think so. Go on the road in Randall’s pickup? Not a good option. They knew what he would be driving, and they would find him in no time. What would Earl have done? Earl would have taken a hostage. That’s what Earl did in Hesperia, and that’s what he would do now. Oh, how he wished Earl were here! If Earl were here he wouldn’t be in this situation. Motherfuckers had to shoot the poor man down. God, it made him mad!

  Digger got the .45 and the rest of the ammo. He thought about taking other guns with him, but he didn’t want to be weighed down, especially if he was getting out of there on foot. That, now, was really the only option. Just make it however far he could until he got another car. Hell, a half mile down the highway he could flag down a ride, shoot the driver, and take the car. That would be fine. Then he’d be on his way, right out of here, perhaps down into Mexico where these sons of bitches couldn’t even touch him if they came knocking at his door. Sure as shit stinks, that’s what he would do.

  Digger spent a few minutes gathering up some items of clothing. He and Randall were close to the same size, maybe a couple inches in height, a couple on the waist, but it would be fine. A pair of pants, a shirt, a couple of T-shirts, an extra pair of shoes. He stuffed everything in a bag and dropped it in the front hallway. He then went out to the pickup and checked if there was anything in there he needed.