“It’s my thing with anybody who wants to fuck with me tonight, when it comes to Charlie Preston. Don’t call the cops. Don’t do a fuckin’ thing. I’ll see you later,” said Billy.
“Wait! We’re coming with you!” Aggie said, rushing to his side.
If they called the police, Billy would probably end up back in jail. Aggie Stark might even find herself in trouble for the first time. And when the system got hold of a kid, that was never a good thing.
They probably wouldn’t find Charlie anyway.
“You’re rationalizing, Sal,” said Hawk, reading her mind.
“We’d better go with them,” she told him.
“I know,” he said. “Give me a minute.”
He got the Smith & Wesson.
Sally forced down the panic in the pit of her stomach, made an effort to convince herself that what they were doing wasn’t asinine, dangerous, illegal, futile at best. She failed miserably. But when Billy turned to start walking, she said, “Wait a minute. We might as well take my car.”
Sally Alder had done plenty of creepy things in her picaresque life, but driving slowly down Laramie’s empty streets, stopping at empty, dilapidated houses, getting out, prowling around, and getting back in the car ranked among the creepiest. Billy, of course, knew where every party house in Laramie was. To Sally and Hawk’s dismay, Aggie seemed familiar with a good many of those places. The girl was clearly too much of an athlete to be disabling herself with drugs and alcohol, but it seemed to Sally that if even such an all-American girl knew so much about how to sneak out, and where to go to get wasted and raise hell and meet the most disreputable punks in town, parents these days had the hardest job in the world.
Billy had a plan. At each dark, rickety house, Hawk, Sally, Aggie, and Beanie would stay well clear of the building, but walk around looking for signs of recent disturbance. “I’ve done my share of B&E,” he told them. “If anyone goes in, it’s me.”
Aggie protested, but Billy held his ground. “This ain’t for you, kid. Just hangin’ around won’t get you busted. I got a lot less to lose.”
He didn’t bother with the first three places. “Nobody’s been here,” he said, inspecting dusty doors, windows, basement dormers. “No footprints in the dust. No smears anywhere on the windows.”
“You’re a regular Inspector Columbo,” said Hawk.
“I know my business,” said Billy, flashing a grin that was gone, replaced by a grim expression, in an instant.
And so it went. House after house. Some had once been solid two-story buildings, now subdivided into scummy apartments. Others were not much more than clapboard and shingles slapped together into boxes, now falling apart, but in good campus neighborhoods. Future tear-downs, Sally bet. By the time they’d visited seven places, Sally and Hawk were more than ready to give up and try to convince the kids that it was time to call it a night.
“One more,” Billy insisted. He looked hard at Aggie. “Maybe you better not come. You never been to this place. Ain’t nobody there now, but it used to be a little rougher than anything you’ve seen. A real hellhole. It’s out in West Laramie.”
Hawk was puzzled. “I can’t imagine that real estate speculators would be buying up West Laramie hellholes.”
Billy just looked at them, grim-faced. Clearly he was debating with himself, wondering whether he owed them an explanation. Finally he reached his decision. “Yeah, okay. I doubt your land grabbers would give a fuck about this place. But Alvin the Chipmunk used to live there. He did a lot of business there. Put it this way. It wasn’t a very safe place to be.”
“Aggie,” Hawk began.
“Forget it,” she insisted.
“I’ve had enough of putting you in danger,” Hawk shot back.
Billy snorted. “She’s in a lot less danger tonight than just about any other Saturday night I can remember,” he said. “You never been to some of those parties. And it’s not just the kids. One time, I remember, the cops came in with their guns drawn, yelling and screaming, and made everybody get down on the floor. They were freakin’.”
Aggie bit her lip. “Well, I guess I could see why. I mean, how do you think the police feel about walking into a place where half the people are sixteen years old, toasted out of their heads and packing heat?”
“You were at that party?” Sally asked her, aghast.
“I’m going to tell my parents everything tomorrow,” she told Sally. “So don’t worry.”
Great. That would take care of everything. Clearly they couldn’t turn the girl loose, knowing that her parents were out of town. Who knew where she’d go, or what she’d do? If she went out on her own and stumbled across Charlie Preston, Sally didn’t want to think about what might happen.
“We’ll stay in the car,” Sally said. “We’ll call the police the minute things get weird.”
Hawk drove. Billy rode in front, giving directions. Sally, Aggie, and the dog sat silent in the backseat. Laramie had been quiet. West Laramie felt ghostly. The moon was out, and the night had turned cold. Sally wished she was wearing a sweater and jeans. She was shivering in her leather skirt and fishnets, and her boots pinched. Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was the tension. Hawk reached over the seat, grabbed her hand, felt her trembling. He might have smiled reassuringly. But he didn’t.
They turned off on a dusty side street, pulling up in front of an aluminum siding–clad ranch house, surrounded by a sagging chain-link fence. Sally was paying attention, noting the name of the street, Blueberry Lane, and the number, 66. Wasn’t that cheery? The siding had once been painted Rust-Oleum red, but most of the paint had peeled off. The yard was littered with smashed cans and broken bottles. Party-house landscaping. It didn’t strike Sally as evidence of great merrymaking.
Beanie the schnauzer, who’d been more or less quiet all night and was now half dozing in Aggie’s lap, suddenly jerked to attention, ears cocked, and set up a racket barking.
“Shhh, Beanie,” Aggie said, to no effect. The dog was bred for barking at trouble.
“Something’s definitely fucked up here. I’m going in there,” said Billy, opening the car door and reaching in his pocket for his gun.
“Hold on, kid. I’m going with you,” said Hawk, getting his own weapon out of the Mustang’s glove compartment and opening his own door.
“Wait a second!” Sally said, stroking the dog. Between her and Aggie, he’d quieted down a little, but was still growling low, barking intermittently. “You’ve got your phone, right, Billy?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Yeah.”
“Aggie’s got hers, right?”
The girl nodded.
“Give it to me.” She punched in the menu for calls, selected the “outgoing,” and said, “Which number is Billy’s?”
Aggie told her.
Sally scrolled to the number and hit “send.”
Billy’s other pants pocket exploded in a tinny version of the William Tell Overture.
“Answer it,” said Sally, “and leave the connection open. I’ve got my phone too. If there’s trouble, we’ll hear it, and we’ll call the cops.” She dug in her bag, pulled out her own phone, turned it on, and set it in her lap.
Billy looked skeptical, but stuck the phone back in his pocket, leaving it connected. Then he and Hawk slipped through the unlatched gate of the chain-link fence, disappeared around the side of the house.
The dog whimpered, making it plain that he wanted to get out of the car. Aggie held him tight. At least he’d stopped barking. Sally held Aggie’s phone to one ear and plugged her other ear with a finger. She was having a hard time hearing what was on the other end of the line, getting a lot of interfering noise from the rustle of Billy’s saggy trousers. She heard what sounded like footsteps. Then a hushed voice. “There,” the voice whispered. “That basement window. It’s open. I think I see light.”
“Let me go,” said a voice she knew almost as well as her own.
“Fuck that,” came an adamant whisper. “Stay out he
re and watch my back. Get help if you need to.” Followed by a scraping sound and a thump. Sally imagined Billy crawling in the window, jumping down.
Footsteps.
And then, “Okay, Munk. Drop it. I mean it. Right fuckin’ now.”
“You’re shitting me, Reno. You just go ahead and drop that piece of shit. I’ll shoot her in the head, you know I will.”
Now Hawk ran around the front of the house, yelling to Sally. “Call nine-one-one! They’ve got her in there. Call the police, now!” he said, running in the front door of the house, Smith & Wesson drawn.
Before Sally knew it, Aggie sprang out of the car, the dog leaping out and sprinting ahead of her.
Sally was hot on Aggie’s heels, hanging on to both phones, dialing 911 on her own. “Tell the sheriff to get out here right now!” she told the dispatcher, giving the address. “They’ve got Charlie Preston!”
Aggie was halfway down the basement steps by the time Sally caught up with her, nearly ran into her. The dog was barking hysterically, while Aggie struggled to hold the leash, breathing hard. Sally could see why.
They were all staring at the sight of Charlie Preston, bound and gagged on a filthy mattress, eyes wide with terror. The basement stank of cat piss and mildew. Alvin the Chipmunk, jeweled cross glinting bloodred in the beam of a tiny reading light, was holding a gun to Charlie’s head. In his other hand, he held Billy Reno’s nearly identical weapon, aimed at Billy himself.
Hawk stood by helplessly, his own gun useless.
“Welcome to the party,” said the Chipmunk, smiling nastily. “Say your prayers.”
“The cops are on the way,” Sally said.
That stopped him for a moment, but the hand holding the gun to Charlie’s head and the other one aiming at Billy remained steady. “We’ll be gone before they get here. Don’t mess with me, Reno. I got the Lord’s work to do.”
“If I know you, Munk, it’s the Lord and a whole fuckin’ lotta green. What’s the bitch paying you, anyway?” Billy yelled over Beanie’s barking.
“Watch your language, Reno. Mrs. Preston’s saved a whole lot of souls, including your own mother. She’s practically a saint, and she’s just trying to clean up this town. What’s a loser like you know about anything?”
“I know I’m not a murderer, Munk. Or did you give that up when you gave your life to the Savior?” Billy asked.
“Sometimes you have to take one for the Lord. But you wouldn’t know about that. You’re nothing but a second-rate thief. Too bad for you, Reno. Breaks my heart to think of you burning in hell for eternity.”
“But you’ll be singing in the heavenly choir, right, Alvin?” Sally said, taking a chance. “After all the help you’ve given Bea. Like when you put the bomb in that car at the doctor’s office. Like when you shot at me through my bathroom door. You’re a real angel, you know that?”
The Chipmunk scowled. “You’ve got nothin’ on me. Can’t you shut that dog up?” he asked, fury rising in his voice.
The dog was beyond human intervention, all his instincts kicking in, snarling, snapping, bellowing shrilly, a schnauzer recognizing a rodent, his natural enemy.
The Chipmunk swung Billy’s gun toward Beanie, taking aim.
“No!” Aggie screamed, lunging toward her dog.
“Aggie!” Sally yelled. “Don’t!” She dived at the girl and dog.
The Chipmunk grimaced, tensed, pulled the trigger.
And blew his own hand off.
Chapter 27
Rounders and Lovers
Her hearing would never be the same. For days after, Sally had ringing in her ears. She went to see an audiologist, who did tests and shook her head. That ballistic event in a closed room, coming not that long after the explosion at the doctor’s office, the gunshot in her bathroom, on top of all those years of playing in loud bar bands, was bound to take a toll.
But at least the blast had distracted everyone from the hideous bloody sight of Alvin Sabble, as the police charged in, as the ambulances took Charlie Preston and Alvin off to Ivinson Memorial, as paramedics checked out the rest of them and let them go. Sally had a nice gunpowder burn on the back of her leather skirt, and one of Beanie’s eyebrows had been singed half off, but amazingly, everyone was okay. That is, if you didn’t start thinking about how the whole experience might have affected Aggie Stark, let alone what kind of recovery Charlie Preston had ahead of her.
Eventually the ringing went away, and Sally reflected that a little hearing loss was a reasonable price to pay for saving Charlie and seeing Beatrice Preston brought to justice. When the police went to question her, Bea professed to know nothing about Alvin Sabble’s holding Charlie prisoner in an abandoned basement. She speculated that the same people who were behind her husband’s death had kidnapped her daughter from the private facility where she’d been receiving treatment. But Bea refused to divulge the name or location of that private facility. And within days, Scotty Atkins had rooted out financial connections between the Shelter Clinic, WWJS Realty, and the Traditional Family Fund, enough that he now had grounds to dig deep into Bea’s own affairs. They were holding her on everything from fraud to child abuse to conspiracy to commit murder.
Bea released one public statement, through her attorney, a high-priced woman who’d once been on O. J. Simpson’s legal team. The whole thing, said the lawyer, was nothing but a case of religious persecution by a sheriff who had a long history of criminal activity and liberal politics. She was confident that Beatrice Preston would be exonerated.
In which case, thought Sally, Bea shouldn’t have betrayed her henchman. Wesley King was opening up like a can of corn. According to King, everything he’d done, he’d done at Mrs. Preston’s orders. Early on the morning of the murder, Bea had called Brad to say they’d found Charlie’s car in the alley, and that he should go to pick it up. When he got there, of course, King was waiting for him with the Nut-Buster lug wrench he’d taken from the Miata. The same wrench he’d used on Charlie herself, before she’d taken off.
By the time King got done talking, they’d have plenty on Bea. And by the time Alvin Sabble recovered enough to move from the hospital to jail, minus a hand, he might be feeling a little less loyal to the woman who’d brought him into the mess, then left him to swing in the breeze.
“I never thought I’d say this,” said Dickie Langham, slugging down Coca-Cola and tugging at his tie, “but thank God for unsafe, unlicensed, shitty little Saturday night specials. Not that I’m not sorry for Alvin the Chipmunk, but all that stood between somebody getting killed and what did happen was that gun being as badly made as it was. It’s a plain damn miracle that your precious Billy Reno didn’t blow himself up before.”
Sally took a sip of some very decent champagne from— where was it? New Mexico? But then, it would be excellent champagne. Burt Langham and John Boy Walton wouldn’t have anything less at what they were calling the “Wyoming Wedding Reception of the Century.” The Yippie I O was festooned with flowers and abuzz with guests dressed to impress. Was that the famous lesbian daughter of one of the most powerful politicians in America, sporting an Armani suit and smooching with her honey?
“You know what, Dick?” Sally said. “I don’t think Billy’d ever fired that gun before. In fact, I wonder if he just went somewhere and bought it the minute he got out of jail.”
“For a criminal,” said Hawk, snagging a bacon-wrapped prawn from a passing server, “he’s pretty bush-league. But the kid’s got a brain. He ought to get out of the crime racket and put his energy where it’ll do him some good.”
“Like where?” asked Dickie.
“From what you’ve told me, he’s a genius at hot-wiring cars. Sounds like he’d be a pretty good auto mechanic,” said Sally.
“Or maybe he could go to the vo-tech school and become a dental hygienist. Then again, anybody who had his hands in their mouth would have to worry about him snatching their fillings,” said Delice, jangling her bracelets and munching a morsel of rare, seared ahi. �
��Which is why I decided I’d better hire him on as a dishwasher when he came in yesterday, looking for work. There aren’t too many places you can fence coffee cups.”
“Didn’t matter a bit that you had another dishwasher quit on you, did it, Dee?” said Sally.
“Call it fate,” said Delice, gesturing with her glass of Patrón and setting more bracelets clattering. “I told him to let Charlie know she could have her old job back when she’s ready.”
Sally smiled, and sighed. She’d been down to Denver to see Charlie at a world-renowned clinic, where the girl was receiving treatment intended to cut through layers and layers and years and years of trauma. It would be a while before Charlie was back slinging a coffeepot at the Wrangler. But at least, Charlie told Sally, she had moments where she actually felt safe, maybe for the first time in her life.
Burt and John Boy, clad in perfect white linen shirts, black leather jeans, shiny black cowboy boots, and matching custom belt buckles featuring their linked initials, were circulating with gardenias for the ladies and gracious greetings for all. They were both absolutely glowing. She watched them exchange air kisses with Edna McCaffrey, who spotted Sally and Hawk’s group in midair kiss.
Sally had been feeling pretty elegant in her black Donna Karan, but Edna was a showstopper, all sapphire-blue satin and miles of legs. “Well, Dr. Alder,” she said brightly, striding up to them in a way that proved she knew a lot more about walking in spike heels than Sally ever would. “Seems you guilt-tripped Dave Haggerty into a frenzy of check writing. Ivinson Memorial Hospital will soon have a new research and treatment center specifically to work on preventing and dealing with domestic violence. The Haggerty Center, if you catch my drift.” She raised her glass and clinked with Sally, everyone following suit. “Great news for women and kids in this town. The bad news, of course, is that you let that particular fish get away. Come see me Monday morning, and I’ll give you a new list of development prospects.”
Sally’s shoulders sagged a little; Hawk put his hand on her back, leaned over, and whispered in her ear, “Yeah, I know. What have you done for me lately, and blah blah blah. Let me convey my personal delight in the fact that you’re not going to be kissing up to that scumbag Haggerty. Maybe I can even dig up a few rich guys for you. All of them will be seventy-five, fat, balding, and willing to give you money because they adore their granddaughters.”
Hello, Stranger Page 24
