The Scavenger's Daughter: A Tyler West Mystery

by Mike McIntyre

  I nudged the Bandit and raised a finger to my lips. I pointed down at Shard. The Bandit nodded.

  I pulled my phone from my gym bag. I pressed the TALK button and tucked the phone in my sweatshirt pocket to muffle the beep.

  I used the illuminated keypad to dial Hector. He picked up on the fifth ring.

  “You’ve reached the voice mail box of Special Agent Hector Rodriguez of the FBI…” the message began.

  Damn!

  I hung up and dialed Walton. It rang once before rolling over to voice mail. He had to be on the line.

  I hit the REDIAL button. Still busy. I pressed REDIAL again and again.

  Come on, Walton, hang up!

  I dialed SDPD’s main Homicide number. A female dispatcher answered.

  “This is Tyler West,” I whispered. “I need Detective Walton.”

  “Sir, can you repeat that?” she said. “I can barely hear you.”

  I looked down. Shard had found the key and was walking toward the storage unit to open the door. He’d hear me if I spoke up.

  “Hello?” the dispatcher said.

  A Southwest Airlines 727 was on final approach. As it neared us, the sound of the jet engines grew louder.

  “Sir?” the dispatcher said.

  The roar of the engines wasn’t yet loud enough to cover my voice. But if I waited until the plane was overhead, the woman might hang up.

  “Anyone there?”

  I had to risk it. “It’s Tyler West,” I said in a louder voice. “Get me Walton. I have Friar Tom’s location.”

  Shard turned around, but he didn’t look up.

  “Oh, my!” the dispatcher said. “Hold the line.”

  I listened as the dispatcher tried to raise Walton. There was crackling radio communication in the background. I heard several male voices, but not Walton’s.

  Come on, Walton, be there!

  “I’m here, West,” he finally said.

  Below me, Shard stood in front of the storage unit door, inserting the key. I couldn’t speak.

  “West, you there?” Walton said urgently.

  I scanned the sky. No planes approached, no jet engines to cover my voice.

  “West?”

  Shard removed the padlock and opened the bolt latch. He looked around to see if anyone was watching, then bent over.

  I glanced across the drive to another storage unit. It had a corrugated metal roll-up door, the kind that makes a lot of noise when opened.

  I eyeballed the door and estimated how long I had to speak once Shard started rolling open his door below.

  “Shard is in the back unit at Sea Breeze Mini-Storage!” I blurted into the phone as soon as I heard the door flinging open. “I can’t talk anymore or he’ll hear me.”

  “Okay, I got it,” Walton said. “Sea Breeze Mini-Storage. We’re on our way.”

  I leaned back and quietly exhaled.

  “Don’t do anything until we get there,” he said. “Do you hear me, West?”

  CHAPTER 112

  I stepped to the end of the catwalk and peered down at the entrance to Shard’s storage unit. I craned my neck to look inside for Jordan, but the roof blocked my view of all but the first two feet of the concrete floor.

  The storage unit was big enough to hold torture instruments like those at the Museum of Medieval History. Images of Jordan trapped in some barbaric device seared my mind.

  Shard disappeared inside and left the door open. He apparently didn’t plan to stay long. What if he left before the police arrived?

  “You’ve got to lower me to the roof,” I told the Bandit.

  “He’s got a gun,” he said. “Wait for the cops.”

  “The U-Haul is running. Once he gets Jordan inside, they’re gone.”

  “He’s probably packing up his torture chamber. There’s time.”

  “Get me down, now!”

  “If he hears you on the roof, he’ll kill you.”

  “I’ll take that chance.”

  “I can’t let you do it, Ty. It’s suicide.”

  “Stop me just short of the roof, then,” I said. “I’ve got to be ready if he makes a move.”

  The Bandit thought about it. He pulled something from his bag and said, “Put this on.”

  I stepped into a harness that reminded me of the parachute I wore my one time skydiving. I took the two-day class, but never made it out of the plane. When we had reached the jump zone, I froze.

  The Bandit looped a nylon mountain climbing rope around one of the billboard’s poles. He ran the rope through a carabiner and hooked the spring-hinged metal ring to my harness. He secured the rope with a ratchet he clamped to the catwalk.

  He said he’d lower me by letting rope pass little by little through the ratchet. Once I was within a foot or so of the roof, he’d stop me. If Shard tried to leave, the Bandit would drop me to the roof. I didn’t know what I’d do then.

  I passed the Bandit my night-vision goggles. “So you can see my hand signals.”

  I sat on the edge of the catwalk and looked down through the darkness, glad I hadn’t eaten dinner. My fear of heights seized me. There was no shaking it. It would have to come along for the ride.

  “Here, you might need this,” the Bandit said, handing me my sand wedge.

  I secured the golf club in the straps of my harness.

  “Ready?” the Bandit said.

  I nodded and swallowed hard.

  I scooted off the edge into space. I thought I fell ten or twelve feet, but it was only ten or twelve inches. The ratchet caught the slack and I stopped and bounced as the rope stretched.

  “Okay?” the Bandit said.

  I nodded, unable to get any words out.

  “It’s going to be a little jerky,” he said. “But don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

  He worked the ratchet, letting the rope out a few inches at a time. A jerking stop and bounce followed each short drop. I twisted and turned in the air like a mobile.

  In the distance, another plane landed at the airport.

  I heard the ratchet click above me. Each stop yanked the harness against my sore ribs. I timed the steady drops in my head, bracing for each jerking stop.

  I dropped and awaited the next yank. It didn’t come. The rope had snapped! I was free falling through the black night.

  I plunged through the sky, too shocked to scream. I flailed my arms. Air whooshed in my ears. I saw the storage unit roof rushing up to meet me.

  I closed my eyes.

  I tried, Jordan.

  Suddenly, my free fall stopped. The rope yanked my harness and I bounced up and down like a bungee jumper.

  “Sorry,” the Bandit called down in a whisper.

  When I stopped swinging, I saw I wasn’t over the roof’s front edge as I’d thought I’d be. Instead, I dangled over a point three feet in front of the storage unit.

  I couldn’t reach the roof. If I had to touch down, it would be on the ground—in front of the open door of Friar Tom’s torture chamber.

  I saw the U-Haul. The driver’s door was open and the motor still ran.

  I strained to listen for any sounds coming from the storage unit. All I heard were Shard’s footsteps crossing the concrete floor.

  Another car started inside the storage unit. A moment later, I gaped as Shard’s white Ford Econoline van backed out.

  He was getting away!

  I signaled the Bandit to let me drop. But before the ratchet released, Shard stopped the van and turned off the engine.

  I signaled the Bandit to hold my position.

  Shard stepped from the van. He had removed his wig.

  I held my breath, twisting in the gentle ocean breeze. The rope groaned.

  Shard didn’t hear it. He walked to the U-Haul, climbed in and put the truck in gear.

  He drove the U-Haul into the storage unit. I saw him through the windshield as he passed below. He looked up but didn’t appear to see me.

  He parked the U-Haul inside and turned off the ignition. I he
ard him walk back toward the doorway.

  I was a sitting duck. I waited for him to appear beneath me and shoot me.

  Instead, the footsteps stopped short of the entrance. The garage door rolled shut.

  I dangled in the air, clutching a sand wedge.

  CHAPTER 113

  Inside his storage unit, Friar Tom opened the back of the U-Haul. He formed a ramp from the truck to the floor with two boards.

  He climbed in back with Riff and Raff.

  “Sorry to keep you boys waiting. I hope those garrotes aren’t too tight. Yet, I mean. No need to rush things.”

  The deejays tried to protest, but the iron collars constricted their throats. All that came out were gasps and wheezes. Spittle formed at the corners of Raff’s contorted mouth.

  “Easy now, fellas. You’ll have your say. Now let’s get you someplace more quiet.”

  He balanced Riff’s chair on its back wheels and rolled the deejay down the planks. The chair reached the bottom of the ramp and slammed hard on the floor. Riff grimaced as his bullet-wounded rump bounced in the seat.

  Raff had a bumpier ride. The iron collar grated his skin down to his Adam’s apple.

  Friar Tom carried the boards to the entry of the soundproofed torture chamber. He made a new ramp—from the floor to the flap-covered hole in the interior wall.

  He backed up the planks, pulling Riff’s chair. He wriggled backward through the passage, keeping control of the deejay. When Friar Tom got his footing on the other side, he tried to pull Riff through, but the chair caught on the plywood edges of the entryway.

  “Damn! I knew I should have made that cutout bigger.”

  Riff’s eyes darted with fear.

  Friar Tom let go of the chair. It hurtled down the ramp, crashing to the floor. Riff moaned as the chair tipped over, slamming the shock jock’s head to the cement. Blood flowed from above his left eye.

  “Sorry about that,” Friar Tom said.

  He upended Riff’s chair. He could move the deejays into the torture chamber without their chairs. But he really wanted to test the two garrotes. He was dying to know which caused a more painful death.

  He scanned the front section of the storage unit. Any screams would be heard through the cinder-block walls and the metal door. But when the garrotes began to do their work, how much noise could the deejays make?

  Friar Tom rubbed his hands together and clapped. “Change of plans, boys. We’ll carry out our little experiment right here.”

  Riff and Raff struggled against the restraints.

  “I know, I know. You were looking forward to seeing my infamous torture chamber. I’m sorry to disappoint you. But as they say in your line of work, the show must go on.”

  He wheeled Riff’s chair next to Raff’s and patted the bleeding deejay on the shoulder. He stood behind the shock jocks, within reach of the handles that tighten the garrotes.

  “Ready, boys?”

  Riff’s hands trembled against the armrests. Urine ran down Raff’s leg and puddled on the floor.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  He reached for the handle behind Riff’s neck, then paused.

  “I almost forgot. Silly me.”

  He disappeared through the cutout into the soundproofed part of the storage unit and returned with his boombox. He set the boombox on the floor in front of the deejays and inserted a blank cassette tape.

  “I know what professionals you guys are. Since you won’t be able to make it to the station Monday, I thought we’d prerecord the debut of your new syndicated show.”

  Raff tried to stomp his foot and yell.

  Friar Tom raised a hand. “I know what you’re thinking. You have nothing to worry about. I’ll personally see to it that your station manager gets this tape.”

  He leaned over and pressed the RECORD button on the boombox. He walked behind the deejays and stood near Riff’s garrote handle.

  He spoke in a rapid, breathy baritone, mimicking the familiar voice of over-the-top drive-time deejays heard coast to coast:

  “Good morning, America! This is Friar Tom! Have I got a surprise for you today! Get ready for radio history. You are about to meet rock’s latest one-hit wonders. That’s right, this will be Riff and Raff’s first and last nationally syndicated show. But these two legendary shock jocks are going out with their most shocking show ever! Hold onto your breakfasts, folks, because this isn’t for the squeamish.

  “Now, let me set the scene. Riff and Raff’s necks are in garrotes. The first sound you hear will be Riff being throttled to death. You’ll have to listen carefully because I’m using the basic garrote on him. As I turn the handle, an iron collar will tighten around his neck, slowly asphyxiating him. I doubt there will be much noise, but I’ll be sure to describe the visuals—bulging eyes, blue face, jutted tongue, and so on.

  “After Riff is sent to that great sound booth in the sky, Raff will have the mike to himself. Now, you will definitely hear his final sign off, because Raff drew the deluxe model. His garrote comes with a sharp iron point. As I turn the handle, the point will penetrate and crush his vertebrae. At the same time, his neck will be forced forward, and his trachea will be crushed against the iron collar. I like to call it the old Snap-Crackle-Pop.

  “For any kids who may be listening out there, let this be a lesson. This is what happens when you grow up to become foul-mouthed, useless, wastes of flesh.

  “Alrighty, then, lets get started.”

  He grabbed the handle behind Riff’s chair and gave it a quarter turn. The deejay let out an audible gasp as the collar loosened.

  “Damn, I’m always getting my directions mixed up,” Friar Tom said. “Like my dear, old dad used to say, ‘Righty tighty, lefty loosey.’ I don’t know why I could never keep them straight.”

  Riff spoke in an urgent, raspy voice. “Look, mister, you don’t want to do this! Please don’t kill us! We’re not bad guys. We’re not like the shock jocks we play on the air. It’s just an act!”

  Friar Tom turned the handle back to its original position, silencing the deejay.

  “Did you hear that, folks?” he said into the tape recorder. “Riff and Raff say it’s all an act. They’ve just been fooling you all these years. Well, if that’s really the case, I guess you won’t miss them.”

  He slowly turned Riff’s garrote handle to the right, then stopped.

  He shook his head. The van.

  His white Ford Econoline was still parked outside. There had to be a dozen police and news helicopters in the sky at this very moment. If his van were spotted, all his fun would be over. As much as he hated to delay the festivities, he knew he had to get that van out of sight.

  He pressed the PAUSE button on the boombox.

  “Don’t touch that dial,” he told the deejays. “I’ll be back in a jiff.”

  CHAPTER 114

  I dangled in the harness, straining to hear voices inside Shard’s storage unit. It sounded like two people.

  Was Shard talking to Jordan? Was he about to kill her?

  I felt helpless suspended in midair. I had to get to the ground.

  When Shard had pulled the U-Haul into the storage unit and rolled down the door, I didn’t hear a bolt sliding shut on the inside. The door might be unlocked.

  If I could silently touch down on the asphalt, I had a chance to surprise him. He’d hear the metal door rolling open, but it might take him a second to react. It was my only shot to save Jordan.

  I motioned to the Bandit to lower me the last ten feet.

  He started to ease me down.

  Suddenly, the storage unit door rolled open. I was too stunned to signal the Bandit to halt my drop. But he must have heard the noise because I stopped falling. I swung in the air, my feet barely above the entry to the storage unit.

  The U-Haul backed out. Shard was at the wheel. I squinted through the windshield. I couldn’t see Jordan. Was she in the back? Was Shard fleeing with her?

  I scanned the streets. Where were the police?
I saw no flashing lights, heard no sirens.

  Shard was about to get away with Jordan.

  I started to signal the Bandit to let me drop, but stopped when I heard Shard turn off the U-Haul’s engine.

  He stepped out and closed the door.

  I sat in the harness, swinging in the air. If he looked up, he’d see me.

  He walked to the driver’s side of the Ford Econoline. The white van was parked below me. Shard was so close, I could spit on him. I held my breath.

  I looked out again in the near distance, hoping to see the police. I couldn’t believe what I saw.

  A golf cart was coming up the hill.

  It was a security guard, out making his rounds. He passed the first row of storage units and continued toward us.

  I silently begged the security guard to turn off in another direction. If he didn’t, Friar Tom would soon have another victim.

  The golf cart reached the second terrace of storage units but didn’t turn down the lane. It was coming straight at us.

  I frantically waved at the security guard, motioning him to stay away.

  He didn’t see me.

  Shard opened the van’s door. He didn’t see or hear the golf cart climbing the hill behind him.

  I kept waving wildly at the security guard.

  He finally looked up and saw me.

  “Hey, you!” he yelled. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  CHAPTER 115

  Shard whirled in the direction of the golf cart, thinking that the security guard was shouting at him.

  He stepped away from the van and backed toward the entrance to his storage unit.

  He stood directly below me. I heard him panting. He was close enough to smell. His sweat reeked of fear. I hoped he couldn’t smell mine.

  The golf cart cruised up the hill.

  “You’re not supposed to be up there!” the security guard called. “This is private property!”

  He tilted his head and said something into the radio mouthpiece clipped to the lapel of his uniform.

  Shard pulled the pistol from his waistband and crouched.

  The security guard saw the gun and swerved the golf cart to the right as Shard squeezed off a shot. The bullet missed the security guard and ricocheted loudly off the metal door of another storage unit.