by Bill Cameron
“Hey, now. Slow down, little lady.”
He was six-six if he was a foot. Unlike Stuart’s compact, wiry strength, his was a boar’s power. Inexorable, rooted in its own dense gravity. With her free hand he grabbed her neck. “Let me go.” Her voice sounded remote in her own ears. I’m not who you think I am. His fingers dug into her throat, choked off her air before she could make another sound. No one nearby, no one on the street. No one to see.
He dragged her into the lot behind a minivan with missing side panels. She was a rag doll in his hand. He spun her, slammed her against the fence with enough force to bounce fluid from her eyes. A sharp ridge of iron cut into the back of her skull. His left hand remained clamped on her throat, but he eased up enough to allow her to draw a shallow breath. Her nose wrinkled against the cloying scent of Old Spice. With his right hand, he reached up and scratched at the corner of his eye. He inspected her as though trying to memorize her face.
“I’m not who—” He choked off the words before she could finish.
“You’re Elizabeth Spaneker.” Not a question. “Your father-in-law is worried about you.”
The air seemed to darken around her and she heard a sound like the rattle of a two-stroke engine. Maybe he was strangling her, or maybe she was being swallowed by terror. The man saw the fear in her face and smiled. An instant later, the sound resolved itself into footsteps on gravel.
“Heya—?”
Ellie twisted her head a fraction of an inch and saw the boy from earlier. He stood at the far end of the minivan, one foot on his skateboard, the other on the ground. Hands loose at his sides, shoulders still wet. Hiram’s man turned his head and suddenly released her, jerked his hand back as if from an open flame.
“Fuck off, kid.” His voice resounded in the narrow space between the buildings. “This isn’t none of your business.” Ellie thought of what Pastor Sanders told her. Do the last thing he expects. As Deputy G turned toward the boy, she shot her foot out, felt it connect with muscle and bone. The big man responded with a howl and eased his grip. Ellie scrambled along the fence, ducked a wild backhand slung her way. Her feet skidded on loose gravel as the boy kicked the back of his skateboard. The front end shot forward into Deputy G’s gut, chopping off his howl. As Ellie fled past the minivan she caught a glimpse of the two entangled, boy on his back, big man above with one knee on the ground and his arms splayed in a spread eagle.
“You little son of a bitch—”
Ellie bolted through the open gate and up the street, then crashed through the coffee house door. Just inside, she pitched up against a round table. For a moment she hung there, hands flat on the tabletop. The shop was half-full, customers seated at tables or on couches against the walls to either side. Ellie sensed them more as abstract shapes than human forms. Her gaze fixed on an Asian man behind the counter. Next to her stood a young woman who could be the sister of Raajit, the boy from the Ship Shop. They stared at her, openmouthed.
“Someone is after me. Please.”
The man hesitated for only a moment, then raised a hinged section of countertop. “This way.” Ellie followed him through a doorway into the kitchen. The sound of a dishwasher filled the compact space. She could smell lemon cleanser and ground coffee. The man continued through another door into a tiny office. Desk, computer, file cabinet, bulletin board pinned with calendar pages. Somehow he’d managed to fit a straight-backed wooden chair into the corner between the desk and the door.
“Wait here. I’ll call the police.” Ellie moved to the chair, but didn’t sit. The man studied her, sharp-eyed and concerned. Black hair shot through with silver framed his long, hard face. After a moment, his brown eyes fixed on a point below Ellie’s chin. “Did he hit you?”
“I—” Ellie had no breath. A sharp pain flared from her neck to her shoulders and down her back. She nodded.
From the other room, they heard shouting. Ellie recognized Deputy G’s voice, but not the words.
“Stay here. You’ll be safe.” The man turned and went back into the kitchen, closed the door behind him. Ellie sank onto the chair. From beyond the door, she could hear him attempt to reason with Hiram’s man.
You’re a smart girl, Pastor Sanders had said. What was the smart choice now? Sit here and wait for the police? That might save her from Hiram’s man, but in the long run, it wouldn’t save her from Hiram. Cops were the last thing she needed. They’d have questions, would make calls. They’d know how to get at the truth, even if Hiram wanted to try to hide it.
She crept to her feet, cracked the door an inch or two.
“—don’t have time for your bullshit. Now get that bitch out here, before I—”
“Sir, the police are their way. You’d be wise to keep that in mind.”
The man’s voice was calm. He sounded like he could handle whatever Deputy G threw at her. Ellie didn’t want to stick around to see what that might be. The hinged counter wasn’t much of a barrier.
Across the kitchen she saw another door, pebbled glass panes suggesting a way out. Ellie peeked through the opening to the front of the shop, saw the Asian man’s back, his assistant at his side. Hiram’s man loomed on the other side of the counter, hands balled at his sides. His eyes seemed to pulse with red energy. Then somethingcaught his attention, a sound or movement behind him. As he turned Ellie dropped low, almost to her hands and knees, andscampered across the kitchen to the door. She heard new voices, but didn’t wait to see who they belonged to. The doorknob stuck for a second, then turned. She tumbled out into a narrow passage between the café and the auto repair lot, and nearly flattened the kid with the skateboard. He smiled at her, a broad, boy’s grin. “If you want, I’ll help you get away.”
November 19 — 6:57 am
The Fleshy Part of the Thigh
Doorway opened onto bright light and linoleum, the kid five steps ahead of Big Ed. The sound of the gunshot filled the kitchen, a black wall of force that compressed Big Ed’s eyes and set his ears alight. It never occurred to him the girl would have a gun.
Hiram leaned against the stainless steel stove. Somehow he’d got hold of the kid, had one hand wrapped over the boy’s shoulder. His right leg leaked blood. Not squirting—that was Big Ed’s first clear thought. Not squirting, no arterial flow. Even so, could be bad. Thigh shot. “Oh holy hell, help me, Ed.” Hiram slid to the floor, pulling the boy down with him.
“Get out, get out, get out!” The girl’s voice sounded like stressed metal. “Let go of my son and get out!” She stood in the shadows through a doorway across the kitchen.
“Be quiet.” Big Ed could hear a mechanical buzz in his ears, like he wasn’t talking at all, but the girl heard him. She turned the gun on him. In two sharp strides, he crossed the kitchen and gave her his backhand. She fell and dropped the gun—a revolver. As she reached for the piece he gave it a kick and it spun clattering through the doorway. She threw herself at him, shrieking, and he punched her in the face. She fell backward through the dark doorway, voice silenced. He turned to Hiram.
“Take the boy.” Hiram spoke through clenched teeth. “And help me up. We gotta go.”
Lips pressed together and larynx at his side, Big Ed’s raised eyebrows asked the question.
“How many people you think you can carry?” The old man’s voice cracked. “Leave her. We take the boy, she’ll come to us. Now help me.”
Big Ed pulled a dishtowel off the refrigerator door handle, bent down next to the old man. The bullet had hit the fleshy part of the thigh, in the front, out the back. The exit hole was pretty big, but Big Ed wadded up the towel and pressed it against the wound. With his free hand, he dragged open a drawer, spilling utensils, then another and another until he found what he was looking for. More dish towels. Hiram grabbed one of the towels and wrapped it around his thigh with one hand. Big Ed tied it off. It was already soaked through.
“How does it feel, boss?”
Hiram gave him a look. “Take the ... goddamn ... boy.”
Big
Ed picked the kid up by the middle and tucked him thrashing under one arm. The ringing in his ears from the gunshot blunted the boy’s high-pitched cries.
“Boss, can you carry the towels? I can carry the boy and help you to the car, but we need the towels to control the bleeding.”
“Jesus Humpin’ Christ, I got a fuckin’ bullet in me.”
“It went through.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
Big Ed hooked his free arm under Hiram’s armpit and hoisted him up. The kid kept squirming, but he wasn’t making so much noise now. They hobbled out the back door, Hiram gasping with each step. “We need someone to help with this.”
Big Ed couldn’t respond with a boy in one arm and an old man in the other. The larynx was in the hand pinned by Hiram’s right arm. He carried the two down a short stoop to the paved walk that ran along the side of the house. The sky was brightening, salmon-streaked clouds against deep blue, but it was still more night than day. The windows of the house next door remained dark. Big Ed propped Hiram against the stoop railing, put the larynx against his neck.
“Do you think you can get to the car?”
“Sure, dancing a fucking ballet the whole way.” Hiram leaned into Big Ed, gripped his forearm. Together they hobbled up the path, Big Ed half dragging Hiram. When they got out to the sidewalk, Big Ed tried to put the kid down, but his little feet started scooting the moment they touched pavement. Ed hoisted him up again, pressed on to the Accord. Any moment he expected to hear the girl screaming from her front porch, or the sound of sirens. It was supposed to go different. They were supposed to take charge of the boy and the girl, and rely on threats to keep the husband quiet. Big Ed didn’t know the Bronsteins had a gun. Since when did hippies come strapped?
As they reached the Accord, the front door of the house across the street opened. Big Ed dropped Hiram and crouched down. A woman in a robe stepped out onto the porch and bent down, grabbed a newspaper. She glanced at the front page, then turned and went back into the house.
Big Ed looked at the kid, pointed at the back passenger door. “Get in.” He tried to squeeze a growl into his mechanized voice. The kid ignored him, kept thrashing. He remembered his own brats, all those years ago. Tantrum machines and poop factories. He yanked the door open, tossed the kid like a sack onto the back seat. Slammed the door. Hiram moaned beside him. He opened the front door, helped the old man into his seat.
“Let’s go already. Get on the phone, call Myra.”
“Are you sure that is a good idea?”
“Just call the bitch. She’s blown fellas from Oroville to Bellingham. She’ll know someone to tap.”
“I cannot use the phone and drive.”
Hiram slumped against the door post. “Jesus, next time remind me not to hire the handicapped.”
Big Ed reflected upon the Desert Eagle in silence. After a moment, Hiram groaned.
“Christ, what a baby. Gimme your phone, I’ll call her. What’s her number?”
“It’s the only 503 number in the recent calls list.”
“Saved under ‘crack whore’?” Hiram managed a whimper-laced chuckle.
“Just the number.”
Big Ed tossed Hiram his cell phone, trotted around and got behind the wheel. Hiram’s breath came in gasps as he thumbed the key pad. Ed drove down 60th, then east on Division. He wanted to loop around the far side of the park, make sure they hadn’t been picked up by law enforcement before they headed back to the Suburban. After a moment, Hiram snapped the phone shut.
“Problem?”
“I can’t work this goddamn thing. Where the fuck is she?”
“She’s at some motel on Burnside, not too far from the bridge.”
“Like I’m supposed to know where the hell that is. Just get hold of her.”
“We should get rid of this car. I will call her from the Suburban.”
But Big Ed didn’t like it. Myra was too reedy, a bomb waiting to explode. Take a city block with her when she popped. But she was the one who brought the situation to Hiram, the land swap and all the rest. She was the one who told them where the pressure points were, who revealed the secret that brought Hiram Spaneker out of Givern. And when did that ever happen? So Big Ed nodded, found the turn that led back into the park. He slowed down as he climbed up through the trees, looked around to make sure there were no early morning joggers or dog walkers nearby. All he saw were wet trees wrapped in still air.
“Ed, what’s wrong with the kid?”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s damn quiet back there.”
Big Ed glanced over his shoulder, but couldn’t see anything. Sudden cold anxiety coiled through him. Had he thrown the boy too hard? He braked, rolled the Accord to a stop on the side of the park road. Turned, leaned over the seat back. Hiram breathed through his teeth.
The back seat was empty. No kid, not on the seat, not on the floor.
He turned, looked at Hiram. Hesitated.
“What the fuck is it, Ed? What’s wrong?”
He raised the larynx to his throat. “The boy is not here.”
“Not here? Jesus Christ.” Hiram’s voice cracked, half in anger, half in pain. He tried to twist, to look into the back seat—failed. He turned his black-eyed gaze on Big Ed. “What in fuck’s sake did you do with my leverage?”
November 19 — 2:15 pm
Shared Minutes
I can’t be bothered with whatever plans are being made by Susan and the others upstairs. I’m waiting down in the lobby, staring out the glass doors across the narrow street at the parking structure. Someone in the waiting area at my back is coughing—wet, ragged hacks with enough vigor to bring up organ meat. The eastbound Jackson Park bus stops and swaps passengers, but not until the bus pulls away does it occur to me I could have jumped aboard. As the coughing continues, I think maybe it’s time to call a cab.
“Skin, are you ready?”
I didn’t hear them come up behind me, Susan, Moose Davisson, Frannie Stein. No sign of Jessup. “For what?”
“We’re going back to the Bronstein house. I want to check on the crime scene team and see if we can find Eager’s cell phone number.”
“You want my help?”
“I thought you could use the ride.”
My gaze bounces from Moose to Frannie. Moose shrugs and looks away. Susan is willing to let me pretend to still be at least peripherally associated with the tribe, but Moose wrote me off a long time ago. Frannie Stein offers me a thin smile. She doesn’t know me, but I’m sure Moose shared a few choice tidbits.
I stare at the bus stop. “I’ll be fine. Thanks.”
Moose moves to the door. “We’ll meet you down there, Loo.” Susan turns, nods. “Sure, you two go ahead.” Frannie follows. Susan watches them as the automatic doors slide shut again, wait until they’ve crossed the street and disappeared into the parking garage. “Skin, come on. Let’s go.”
I try to fight my Pavlovian response to the silver bar on her collar. I don’t have to follow her orders. But in the end, there’s little point in resisting, and anyway I’ve got no enthusiasm for Tri-Met or for the cost of a cab.
I wait until we’ve cleared the garage and are heading down the hill. “Susan, what are you up to, anyway?”
“I’m going back to the crime scene.”
“Sure, that’s what Moose and Frannie are doing. What are you doing?”
“What do you mean? I’m doing my job.”
“Hauser never followed the investigators around crime scenes. Hell, even Owen left us to do our work without his nose up our asses.”
“You know major crime scenes bring the brass out.”
“Sure, but they stand around at the margins being self-important, not haunting the working cops. Why are you driving me around? Why are you going to Mitch’s house? Again. Why aren’t you back in the office?”
She doesn’t answer right away. I can see her chewing on it, trying to decide exactly what to say to me. “Y
ou think a lieutenant can’t be a little hands-on with a case this messy?”
“Is that what you’re doing? Being hands-on?”
She sighs. I’m badgering her. But I don’t like feeling as though I’ve got a babysitter. She got stuck with me twice today—teach me to live on a street too narrow for the mobile command unit. It’s always easier to deal with an ex-cop than a citizen. But setting up a command center in my living room wasn’t anything compared to Mitch fixing on me for his confessional.
“You didn’t used to be so angry all the time.”
“Maybe if you’d taken me seriously when I told you about Eager I wouldn’t have anything to be pissed about. Retirement doesn’t turn people into high-functioning morons.”
A silence stretches out between us and I start to feel like an ass. I sigh, stare out the window at the tree-clad hillside.
“I know that. In fact, after our talk this morning, I got to thinking and there’s something I want to run by you. We’ve been bringing in retired homicide detectives to do open case file reviews, to help take the pressure off the cold case squad. I thought you might be interested.”
“You want me to review case files.” All the women in my life feel duty-bound to load me up with busy work. I can’t blame them. It keeps my hands otherwise occupied.
“It’s got to be done, Skin. My cold case guys are good, but they’re swamped. They can’t drop everything every time someone calls wanting to know if there’s anything new on their dead father or husband or sister or daughter.”
“So you’re pulling in fogies to do the grunt work.”
