“Not much, but my knee is locked up, and I can’t move.”
“Call 911.”
“It’s not that serious; I’ll wait until you get back.” The old man hung up.
He was so damn stubborn. But she didn’t blame him. The thought of being picked up and hauled off by paramedics made her shudder too. Rox stepped outside, looking around for the tall trucker and/or the tattooed member. Neither was in the parking lot. They had to be inside one of the trucks, most likely exchanging sex for money, which would make Deacon Blackstone a pimp too. Rage and disgust burned in Rox’s gut. She wanted to snap kick the bastard in his face. The force of her reaction made her laugh out loud, a strange, harsh sound. If everyone could feel anger this acutely, no wonder the world was so violent.
She wanted to intercede in Tattoo Girl’s activity but couldn’t risk revealing her face up close—or her mission. Rescuing Emma was her priority, and she still had no idea where the girl was. But after she returned Emma to her parents, she would go after Blackstone with every police contact she had. She hoped like hell Emma hadn’t been working as a prostitute. The Carsons would be devastated.
Rox started for her car. The only other thing she could accomplish here tonight would be to follow the girls home and find the exact location of their base. But even that was iffy. The rural highway wouldn’t have any traffic this late, and her tail might be too obvious. And right now, Marty needed her.
Inside her car, she picked up the binoculars, scanning the side parking area for one last look. Near the middle, she spotted Tattoo Girl in the passenger seat of a big rig. She was looking down as if reading a text message. The truck driver was slumped against the driver’s side door, mouth moving and eyes flickering.
Was he drunk? Or maybe drugged?
Damn. She needed to get going, but this was too strange to turn her back on. She decided to watch for another minute or so. Headlights coming off the freeway made her slump low in her seat. Rox waited for the car to pull in across the street and shut off its engine before she eased back up. With her binoculars, she found the occupied truck again. The driver was still slumped over, apparently sleeping, and the cult girl seemed to be looking for something in the cab. His wallet? Was this a roofie-and-roll operation? Considering their supposed mission, that seemed especially sleazy.
Loud voices boomed in the parking lot across the street. Rox turned her binoculars to the three people who were climbing out of an SUV that had just parked. Young men who sounded drunk. Another car caught her eye. Someone occupied the driver’s side, sitting low like she was. She couldn’t determine the gender. The person wore dark clothes with a hood. An undercover officer? Did the police know about the members’ activity here, whatever it was?
Rox’s phone vibrated again, and she took the call. “Has anything changed?”
“I’m dragging myself to the toilet, but I don’t know how I’ll get up there to use it.”
“Hang on. If I push my speed to seventy, I’ll be there in—” Rox did a quick calculation. “Eighteen minutes.” She started the car and drove off, glancing in the rearview mirror for one last look. The watcher was still there.
CHAPTER 6
Wednesday, April 19, 6:35 p.m.
Deacon Blackstone opened his phony “Angela” Facebook page and did a search for the word suicide. After finding only a single non-useful instance among his connections, he quickly moved to Instagram. The girls on this site were often too young to recruit, but it was his best source so far. He’d found Skeeter at an AA meeting, but that had just been luck, and she hadn’t panned out for family cash or sexual willingness. But she was a hard worker who worshiped him, so no regrets. But at the moment, Instagram was a bust, so he scanned several western-state news sites for car and shooting accidents involving young girls. He’d found Bethany that way and still couldn’t believe his good fortune. The trifecta of guilt, family money, and sexual willingness was rare, but after Bethany had come Emma. Margo had found her, and there was definite promise there. But he’d learned not to count on anything, so he was always on the lookout for fresh golden girls.
The Seattle Times reported an accident involving a seventeen-year-old named Megan Grimes. The driver of the other car, a father of four, was in a coma, and doctors didn’t know if he would live. A surge of excitement rushed through him. This lead had potential. Her age bothered him only because of his healthy fear of statutory rape charges, but she could turn eighteen next month, so he tried to find her online. Megan had a Facebook page, but not many friends. Better yet. She also hadn’t posted in two weeks, which wasn’t encouraging, but he sent her a friend request anyway. Recruiting her might take months to accomplish, but probably not much time on a daily or weekly basis. Once he’d sounded Megan out, “Angela” would mention the Sister Love charity and see how she reacted.
Deacon glanced at the clock. It was time to go. He shut off his computer, grabbed a jacket, and headed into the wide hall. He hoped not to run into any of the residents, including his girlfriend, Margo, on his way out. He had dealt with all the female bullshit he could handle for the day. He made it outside with only one brief encounter. The sun was setting as he climbed into his Bronco, but Deacon didn’t mind driving in the dark. Margo worked the graveyard shift at the hospital, and they were both late-night people. Plus he liked having the road to himself.
Forty minutes later, he pulled into the Linnwood Care Facility and headed inside. The girl at the reception counter gave him a friendly greeting as he passed. He’d visited many times already, and they all knew him. The young ones liked him, but the older gals were pretty cold. Fuck ’em.
He knocked on the door of his father’s room, waited a few seconds, then stepped in. The old man’s hearing was shot, so he often didn’t even respond. Tonight he looked up from his reading and smiled. “Deacon. What are you doing here?”
Visiting, like he did most Wednesday nights. Deacon walked over and patted his dad’s shoulder. “Thought I’d drop in and play some checkers.” The old man liked the game, and it gave them something to do together. Regular conversation had become impossible. His dad looked shriveled too, as though his body were drying out like an apple left in the sun. Christ, it was hard to see him this way. Yet it was perversely satisfying too.
“You’re on.”
Deacon got the board from the closet and set up the pieces. After the first game, his dad took a break to watch one of his shows. Deacon let his mind drift between making responsive grunts to his father’s comments. Afterward they played another game, but halfway through, his father lost his focus and started mumbling about one of the caregivers.
“What a dumbfuck move,” the old man said suddenly, staring at the board.
“I think that’s the game.” Deacon glanced at the clock. It was after nine, and visiting hours were over. That bitch of a nurse would barge in any moment and remind him. Deacon got up from the small table and walked around to the back of his father’s wheelchair. “I’ve gotta go. You need anything?”
“Get me the hell out of here.”
“Besides that.” No way in hell could he take care of the old man. Even though his girlfriend was a CNA, she refused to consider it. His dad needed too much hands-on wiping and feeding. And he got mean again sometimes. He’d been abusive to the whole family when Deacon was a kid—only back then, he hadn’t realized other dads weren’t like that. Then the old man had mellowed a little after Mom died. Now that his mind was going, he was reverting back to his true self. But here in the private nursing home, they had orderlies and medications to deal with him. Deacon patted his dad’s shoulder. “I’ll see you next week.”
“Bring Tess.”
Who the hell was Tess? Deacon had learned not to ask. “I’ll try.” He grabbed his jacket and stepped toward the door, hoping to get out before Nurse Ratched came in.
The door opened, and a big, ugly woman in pink scrubs stood there with a tiny woman in a gray suit. Too late.
“Mr. Blackstone, will you come
to the office? We need to talk.” The little one motioned at him to follow.
Deacon kept moving, and they stepped aside to let him leave the room. At six-three and 240, he found that not many people stood their ground in front of him. He turned left, ignoring their request.
They followed him, still yapping. “You need to get caught up on your payments or find another facility.” The tiny woman’s voice was both shrill and loud, like a mean little dog.
Deacon choked back a response that would have made his army buddies blush. “You’ll get your damn money.” He glanced back and made eye contact just long enough to shut the bitch up, then strode down the hall to the side exit.
Seven grand a month was fucking outrageous, and the old man’s pension covered only part of it. Deacon had exhausted his own personal savings after the first six months. But paying the old man’s bill gave him a source of pride, as if he’d finally done something his dad could respect. Now he was behind on two payments and didn’t know how long he could hold them off.
A couple of the charity’s new recruits had family money, and he was working on a plan to unload some of it, but these things took time. Emma was especially skittish about discussing her parents, but he was making progress. She was warming up to him physically too. Keeping her at home in the complex was crucial to his seduction strategy, but she was a virgin—and still withdrawn from her accident—so it could take months to win her complete confidence. He needed another fast-track plan to round up some cash.
Out in the parking lot, he gulped in fresh air. The damn nursing home always smelled like shit. For that much money per resident, you’d think they could afford some disinfectant. Deacon climbed in his Bronco and stared at his cell phone. Just call him! He had a friend, an old army buddy, who owed him a favor. They hadn’t talked in a while, but Deacon had kept tabs on Greg and knew he was doing well financially as a realtor. They would call it a loan, with the unspoken understanding that it might never be paid back. Oh fuck! He hated to ask a friend for money. Only for his father . . .
Deacon looked through his contacts, relieved to find the number still there. He changed phones every once in a while and always bought prepaid anonymous devices with cash. He kept his name off everything. By now his name should have just about disappeared from public records. Except his military service, of course, and he regretted that whole bullshit experience. The government had no business in his personal life or finances, and now with the internet connecting everything, it was more important than ever to stay under the radar.
He couldn’t call Greg without downing a beer first. He drove down the road to a tavern, noticing a rehab center across the street. The reformers and do-gooders were everywhere. But they attracted insecure and guilty girls and could be a good source for recruits. But not tonight. He didn’t have the focus for it. Deacon went inside, ordered a house tap beer, and stared at the bartender’s boobs while he pounded it down. She was too fleshy and jaded for his taste. He liked lean, young, and pliable.
After sitting just long enough to let the alcohol hit his system, Deacon headed for the parking lot without leaving a tip. Not after paying five bucks for a beer. In the car, he pulled out his phone, and it rang in his hand. Margo. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with her. “What’s up? I’m just leaving the nursing home.”
“Nothing. I just got to work and wanted to say hi before my shift started.”
She wanted him to feel guilty for not saying anything to her before he took off. “Yeah, we kind of missed bumping into each other today.” Margo was unpredictable, a mix of sweet nurturer and harsh taskmaster. She’d been his caregiver for a week after a motorcycle accident. One day, she’d given him a blow job as he lay there helpless, and he’d become infatuated. She’d shared his antisocial attitude, and they moved in together a month later. He’d lost interest in her after a few years, but she made a good partner for the charity, and she gave great head. Unlike the younger girls, who either didn’t like sucking cock or didn’t know what the hell they were doing.
“How’s your dad?” she asked.
“The same.” He stepped out of the Bronco and lit a cigarette, only his third of the day. “The little Nazi who runs the place ambushed me on the way out and demanded I get caught up on the payments or find another home for him.”
“It’s a bluff. They won’t kick him out.”
Margo sounded confident, as always, but Deacon knew better. “Yeah, they will. They’ll dump him at an urgent care place or a hospital. We need some cash. And right fucking now. Any likely donors?” While he looked for new recruits, Margo trolled for bleeding heart suckers on social media sites. She had a couple of phony GoFundMe sites going too. The soup kitchen cost real money to run, and they never had enough. But he liked feeding veterans, maybe the only worthwhile thing he’d ever done.
“No, but I’ll make some calls tomorrow.” He heard an odd sound in the background. Then Margo said, “Maybe we should hit up Emma’s parents for a donation.”
“We will, but I still think it’s too soon.” He took a long drag of nicotine.
“Deacon.” She paused. “When we score that big pile of cash from her, let’s be smart. Shut down the charity, take the money, and get out of town. Go someplace warm and dry.”
This again. Fuck, she was annoying. “Not while my dad is living his last days.” Even after the old man passed, he would probably find another excuse. He liked controlling and screwing the girls. The thought of a life with just Margo freaked him out. So boring. So . . . unsatisfying.
“He might live for years,” she complained.
“I hope he does.” He felt obligated to say it, just to put her in her place, but he was tired of this conversation. He still loved his dad, but the man he visited had become a stranger. And the monthly payments were crushing him.
“See you in the morning.” Margo hung up.
Deacon was glad he hadn’t mentioned his plan to call Greg for money. If things went badly, Margo would never know he’d tried and failed. He climbed back in his rig, found the number again, and pressed Call. His fists clenched while it rang. Maybe Greg had a new number. He finally picked up and said hello.
“It’s Deacon.”
“Hey, buddy. How the hell are you?”
The familiar voice brought back that good feeling of knowing someone had your back. The only good thing about serving in the military. “I’m all right. And you?” Deacon started the Bronco and frowned. The engine sounded rough. He’d have to check it out tomorrow.
“Can’t complain. Although I do anyway.” A booming laugh followed.
Deacon realized how much he missed Greg, one of the only men he’d ever bonded with. As much as he loved women, being surrounded by them 24/7 could be draining. “You still play b-ball every damn day?”
“I’m down to three days a week.” A pause. “What are you up to? Last time we talked you were looking for work.”
Deacon hesitated. No one knew where he was or what he did. Could he trust Greg? Probably. “I never found a job, so I created my own. I run a soup kitchen for homeless veterans.” That was one version of how it happened. He’d really wanted to do something noble for other veterans, hoping to impress his father, who thought his service in Afghanistan was a waste of time—unlike the old man’s service in the “good” war, World War II. Margo had gone along with the charity, but on the condition that they kept some of the money they would collect for themselves. Then her estranged daughter, Ronnie, had showed up again, and Deacon had sent her out to panhandle for donations. That had got him thinking about young girls with low self-esteem and how easy they were to manipulate. The Sister Love idea had blossomed from there. A way to help his war buddies, earn some respect and money, and surround himself with pretty young things at the same time.
“Dude, that is some serious shit,” Greg responded. “Good for you.”
Deacon laughed, trying to keep it light. “The charity keeps me out of trouble.”
“Do you operate on donatio
ns?”
“Mostly. We also have a small grant from a larger foundation.” More bullshit. They’d been turned down repeatedly, but the lie made them sound legit.
A pause. “Is that what this call is about? Are you looking for a donation?”
“Sort of.” Deacon’s stomach clenched. “My dad’s sick, slowly dying, and his nursing home is costing me everything.” It was now or never. “I was hoping you would loan me some money. Just short term.”
“How much?” Greg’s tone was wary.
“Twenty grand, if you can spare it.” Suddenly nervous, Deacon put the car in gear, eager to be on the road.
“Holy shit. I don’t have that kind of money.”
Liar! “Can you get it for me though? I wouldn’t ask if this weren’t important.”
“I’m sorry about your father, but I need cash too. We’re trying to have a baby, and we need in-vitro treatments. Even with insurance, our twenty percent will be at least ten thousand, and Kerry will need time off work too.”
Just what the world needed, another fucked-up kid. “Come on. A baby can wait a little while. My dad is dying.” Deacon took a left out of the parking lot and headed for the highway.
“You can’t just call me after four years of silence and hit me up for twenty large. It’s bullshit!”
Four years had gone by? Deacon felt his face flush. The bastard had conveniently forgotten his promise. “Hey, you owe me. I saved you from being court-martialed. And you said I could call in a return favor. Anytime!”
Greg made a scoffing sound. “So you lied for me. I know it was a risk, but it didn’t cost you any time or money.”
Rage gripped him, and Deacon had to pull off the road. “Don’t make it sound like nothing. We both could have been locked up. I saved your ass, and now I need your fucking help.”
“You prick!” Greg’s voice blasted in his ear. “You sold military fuel to Afghans and pocketed thousands of stolen dollars. If I turn you in, you’ll go to prison.”
Oh crap. He couldn’t believe Greg was using that against him. “Everyone did it, and you wouldn’t rat on me.”
Guilt Game_The Extractor Page 5
