by Paul Bishop
Isaac had repressed his feelings for twenty years before his father ate his gun for dessert. He blamed his father for his mother's spoiled disposition. If his worm of a father had stood up and smacked her in the mouth, life might have been different for all of them.
Taking over the running of the family business was a nightmare. Cordell's people skills were learned from his mother. He began to lose employees, customers, and money at an astonishing rate. His mother, however, insisted on still living in high style, while demanding more and more. Cordell found himself as trapped as his father.
When his mother was killed by a hit-and-run driver, Isaac felt guilty relief, but also an overwhelming sense of abandonment. His tormentor was gone, but also the rock to which he’d been tethered.
Miriam was there to rescue him.
Sweet, divine, loving Miriam. A surrogate mother in the body of a temptress. She swept him off his feet. He bought her diamonds and rings. In return, she filled the void left by his mother. She gave direction…driving him to achieve despite his incompetence.
When he thought about it later—and he had a lot of time to think about it later—he realized there was only one difference between Miriam and his mother—his mother led him around by his nose, while Miriam led him around by his cock.
One woman repressed his sexuality while the other exploited it. Both women savaged his emotions for their own gain. Over the years he spent in prison, the love he'd had for them turned to the white-hot hatred now droving his every waking hour.
In prison, he had learned to hate. He had learned to fight, to stomp, and to destroy. He had discovered inside himself what he liked to think of as his feminine side – the same greedy, selfish, controlling traits of his mother's character.
He had also learned to wait. Prison had given him a lot of practice. Ten years’ worth of waiting, until another woman had appeared to tell him she was going to get him paroled.
Isaac hadn't believed Janice Ryder. He'd applied for parole twice and been turned down. But Ryder fought for him, spent hours going over and over the circumstances of the case with him until she knew each aspect more clearly than he did.
Cordell knew he hadn't murdered his wife. He knew she must have gone over the side of the boat of her own free will, probably wearing scuba gear she'd put on after making her phony distress call. After Roark, his supposed business partner, had told the police Isaac planned to murder Miriam for the insurance money, it was clear Roark must have been waiting in a boat to pick Miriam up.
After those revelations, more became clear to Isaac concerning the insurance policy he knew nothing about—the insurance policy condemning him and making Roark rich.
Miriam liked rich men.
Janice Ryder, on the other hand, didn't seem to care about money. She never asked him pay for the effort she put into getting him paroled. He still had no idea why she had championed him. He asked her once, but she had ignored the question and distracted him with further talk of getting him released. He didn't understand it, but he didn't care. All he’d cared about was getting out.
But it hadn’t done much good..
He'd spent ten years in prison, while somebody else enjoyed life outside with a million dollars in his pockets. For ten years, Isaac dreamt about having the money and the freedom to spend it. He wanted the money and he wanted revenge. But first, he needed to be free. Janice Ryder won his freedom, so he didn't care what her motives were.
Circumstances, however, were now following a familiar sequence. Sitting in the lockup, Cordell wondered if Janice Ryder would stay with him, or would she abandon him like every other women in his life.
Chained to the men on either side of him, he waited churning half in anger and half in fear.
A deputy, his gut hanging over his belt walked along the line of prisoners. The name on his grubby shirt identified him as Deputy Booker. His partner, a tall, sleek model wearing wraparound sunglasses was Taggert. Holding a clipboard, he followed Booker down the row. As Booker read the name on each prisoner's wristband, Taggert ticked the corresponding name on his clipboard.
When Booker checked Cordell's wristband, he recognized the name.
“Lookit here,” he said to his partner. “A celebrity.”
“Who?” Taggert worked the transportation detail because it gave him three hours every shift to work out on-duty. However, this benefit was often outweighed by having to deal with Booker and the idiots who were chained together.
“This here's Isaac Cordell,” Booker announced loudly.
“Never heard of him,” Taggert said. “What show is he on?”
“He ain't on no show,” Booker told him. “He's a criminal celebrity.”
“A mob guy?”
“Better. I read about in the newspaper. He figured out a way to kill his old lady twice. Can you believe it? Wacked her ten years ago, but then she comes back to life. He has to get himself out of jail and whack her again.” Booker's big oval face grinned into Cordell's.
The challenge was there, unspoken, but with a physical life of its own. Booker had the upper hand. He could do or say whatever he wanted, and Cordell had to take it.
“Broads,” Booker projected fake sympathy. “Can't even trust 'em to stay dead.” He laughed, dropping Cordell's wrist to move on to the next man.
When the line was checked and approved, Booker led the chained men outside to a transportation bus. Getting everyone situated on the bus as they fought with the confusion of being attached was like a Keystone Kops caper. Eventually, an awkward truce was struck between comfort and security, and Taggert eased himself into the driver's seat.
Booker stood at the front of the bus, his baton held easy in his hand. “Listen up. There ain't no emergency exits and no emergency oxygen masks, barf bags, toilets, beverage service, or in-flight movies. If we crash while driving over water, there ain't no flotation devices, so you might as well bend over and kiss your butts good-bye.” He paused for an appreciation of his humor, but there were no takers.
“We'll be driving at approximately fifty-five miles an hour at an altitude of five feet,” he said, flogging a dead horse. “Our arrival time at county jail will be forty-five minutes. So sit quietly like good boys, and we'll get you de-loused in time for dinner. Don't piss me off and we'll all get along fine. On behalf of the pilot and myself, we hope you enjoy your flight and will join us again real soon.” He guffawed and sat down behind Taggert, patting him sharply on the shoulder.
Taggert, who had heard it innumerable times before, shoved the bus into gear and pulled into traffic. One days, he'd enjoy taking his baton to Booker and shoving it where the sun doesn't shine.
At the back of the bus, Cordell's bulk was squeezed in next to the Mexican junkie. The Mexican needed a fix, and was fighting hard for control. Snot ran out his nose and dripped from the ends of his gunfighter's mustache. He looked at Cordell with fearful interest.
“Are you really the guy Booker was talking about?” he asked quietly. “I read about it myself. I read good, man, you know? I'm teaching my kids.”
Cordell looked at the pathetic prisoner. “You ain't going to be teaching them much from jail,” he said.
“It's not my fault, you know? It's this screwed-up society. A guy like me don't got a chance, you know?”
Cordell swiveled his head forward. “Yeah. I know.”
Encouraged by this response, the junkie pushed on. “Are you really him? You know, the guy who killed his wife again?”
Cordell grunted.
“The paper said you got arrested by Detective Croaker, right? She's a real ball-breaker. She arrested me twice last year. She's bad news, you know?”
Cordell was silent. He'd been thinking a lot about Fey Croaker. Every time he moved, his testicles felt as if they had been snapped off. He thought about how good his fist felt smashing into her face. He thought about how bad it felt when the helpless kitten turned into a lioness. There wasn't much he wouldn't give for a second crack at her.
“D
id you know she put her own brother in jail?” The Mexican's question caught Cordell's attention. He turned his head to look at his seat companion again.
“What do you mean?”
The Mexican looked happy he was able to provide this big man with information. The protection of having a friend the size of Cordell went a long way in the jail system. “They sent me up to Wayside to do my ninety last time I got arrested.”
“What's Wayside?” Cordell interrupted.
“It's the county's honor ranch. They got medium and maximum sections up there, but almost everybody is in the minimum-security section. You can almost walk away from the place, but it's not worth it, since most people there a short-timers.”
“What about Croaker's brother?”
“Who? Oh, yeah. His name is Tommy Croaker, you know?”
“What was he in jail for?”
The junkie smiled. “He got a habit takes a bigger bite than mine. Ripped his sister off one too many times. She did him like a dog. Sent him up on a county lid for burglary, you know? Can you believe it? Her own brother?”
“Is he still there?”
“Should be. I got out a week ago after doing forty-five of my ninety. He still had six months. Croaker fixed it so he had to do the full stretch.”
Cordell's brain started to chum. He'd learned the ins and outs of the jail system the hard way. He knew with the right moves, he might get himself out to Wayside. There, he could make use of Croaker's brother. Junkies were easy to use. They'd do anything for a little dope.
Cordell had not been a bad man when he'd gone to prison, but prison had made him bad. He'd made his bones within a month—getting away with murder in prison while being in prison for a murder he didn't commit.
Now, they were trying to send him back to prison. But this time, they weren't going to send him down for a crime he didn't commit. Since they were charging him with murder, he'd have to get free long enough to kill someone.
And he knew the perfect victim.
Chapter 20
It was late again when Fey stumbled through the front door to her house and collapsed in a heap on her living room couch. She felt nauseous. Every bone and muscle in her body ached with fatigue.
Things had gone to hell after she'd left Cordell's arraignment. The pressure from the press had been turned on full blast, and she'd worked with Mike Cahill to prepare a news release and hold a press conference.
During the course of handling the press, another dead-body call had come in to the unit. This one turned out to be a suicide, but Fey still had to roll out with Colby to deal with while Monk and Hatch handled another spousal abuse arrest.
Suicides didn't add to the homicide stats. There were a number of homicide dicks who were aces at turning triple murders into double murder suicides. Not only did it keep your body count down, but it also solved the cases in the process. The paperwork was shuffled, the families of the victims were kissed off, and the cases were marked closed. Everybody was happy, including the murderer.
This case had been a straight-out overdose with no real possibility of foul play. It was an easy case, but it was far from pleasant. It worked out, but took its toll on Fey's time and energy. She felt like seven kinds of hell.
She knew she could have taken the day off. She'd fought to get released from the hospital. But the leaving the Goodwinter/Cordell case to Colby had galled her. He would have reveled in taking the credit for breaking the unit's unsolved streak, and she would have been out in the cold. The day's events and confrontations, however, left her wishing she'd stuck her head in the sand and hid.
Groaning, she rolled off the couch and made her way to the bathroom. From the medicine cabinet, she took a bottle of prescription-strength Motrin, shook two of the eight-hundred-milligram caplets into her hand, and swallowed them dry. She turned on the shower water as hot as she could stand and soaked her troubles for twenty minutes under the heavy spray.
When she exited the shower, Brentwood was sitting on the bathroom's tiled floor looking at her with disapproval. The cat's tail swished from side to side in obvious irritation.
“Ooops,” Fey said when she saw the animal. She'd forgotten about picking up cat food. Wrapping a towel around herself, she went to the kitchen to open another can of tuna. She was surprised, however, when she noticed a new set of cat dishes on the floor filled with water and dry food. The freaking cat was pretty self-sufficient, Fey thought.
Looking around, she noticed a note from Peter Dent, the neighbor who took care of her horses, attached by a magnet to the door of her refrigerator. Peter's cramped handwriting let her know he’d taken over the responsibility for the care of Brentwood and the horses.
He’d read about her case in the paper and knew she would be overworked. Fey sent up a prayer of thanks to the patron saint of good neighbors. She made a mental note to do something nice for Peter.
Brentwood sauntered toward the new feed bowls. She ignored Fey, as if letting her know she hadn't been fulfilling her responsibilities.
“All right, all right,” Fey said to the cat. “I get your point.”
She knew she should check on the horses, but she trusted Peter. The horses wouldn't react the same as Brentwood, but the cat had put her off stride.
Back in the bathroom, Fey exchanged towel for terry cloth robe. She knew she should have shaved her legs in the shower, but she'd been too tired. Shuffling into the bedroom, she saw the two messages on the answering machine she'd ignored two nights ago had been joined by two others. The other machine was empty.
Sitting on the comer of her bed, she stared at the first answering machine's flashing light. Four messages. Four hate-filled missives of confusion and despair. She knew they would be from her brother.
She wanted to reach out and wipe them clean. She wanted to throw the machine through the window and never be slave to it again, but there was always a shred of hope her brother would change.
In her heart, she knew he never would. It was impossible, though, for her to admit. She spent too many years and spilled tears, protecting her brother from the world. Now, she was faced with constantly helping somebody who refused to help himself.
As the eldest child in their abusive home, Fey let her father abuse her over and over to protect Tommy.
At school, she always intervening between Tommy and bullies or teachers. Later, when Tommy began committing petty crimes, she got him off the hook. He was never grateful.
Fey told herself Tommy was her brother, her blood, her kin. But when he turned to drugs there was nothing she could do. She felt like a failed parent. Taking care of Tommy had become an obsession, a fixation, causing trouble in both her early marriages.
Her mother died from cancer. Her father eventually drank himself to death. Fey felt minimal emotion over both outcomes. But Tommy's drug habit had turned him into a living corpse, and Fey felt the blame heavy on her shoulders.
The final straw came, however, when Tommy broke into Fey's house, ransacking it for anything to pawn for his next fix. After years of abuse, Fey's outrage exploded. She did everything she could to get him locked up.
Since then, she had severed her ties with Tommy except for the answering machine. He had the number and called often from Wayside Honor Rancho, where he was being serving his time. The calls were of two types—obscene and threatening, or pleading and pathetic.
The latter was designed to play on Fey's guilt feelings. Tommy would whine and cry, beg for forgiveness, plead for another chance, or at least a visit. He would swear he would never touch drugs again. He would do anything, if Fey would help him get out.
Fey knew better.
The obscene calls were far worse. Tommy's voice, pitched at the same tone as their father's, would spill vitriolic hatred down the phone lines. Sexual obscenities and threats of bodily harm crashed out in jagged waves. Fey never knew her brother to have such a vivid imagination before being put away.
As exhausted as she was, Fey was so low listening to the messages couldn
't make her feel worse. She punched the machine's replay button leaving the volume on low.
The first two messages were pleaders. Nothing unusual. The third message was filled with Tommy's anger, hate, and frustration. Again, nothing new. But the fourth call was a deadly new twist. As soon as she heard the voice, Fey pushed up the volume.
“Hello, Croaker.” The voice was an iced chill. Fey was rooted to the floor. She felt lightheaded, almost missing what Isaac Cordell said next.
“I turned your little brother into a squealing little girl. Did you know he likes man love?”
Fey collapsed to a sitting position on the floor. Her heart slammed around in her chest like a terrified animal.
“Tommy was so grateful he gave me your number and your address. I'll be there soon, but don't feel you have to wait up. I’ll let myself in.”
There was a short silence then the click of disconnection.
The tape ran on.
“Nine fifty-five p.m.” Fey flinched involuntarily as the machine's mechanical voice kicked in. “That was your last message.”
Chapter 21
For three long seconds, Fey sat motionless—a wildcat gathering strength for a killing charge. When she moved into action, it was at top speed with no time wasted on deliberation or worry.
Coming to her feet, she stepped to the side of her bed, bent down, and pulled out an Ithaca shotgun from behind the dust ruffle. Cradling the shotgun, she crawled across the bedspread to remove a .38 Smith & Wesson Chief with a two-inch barrel from between the mattress and box springs on the other side.
A woman living alone, Fey never took safety for granted. She didn't need to check the loads in either weapon. She knew they were hot. Every month, she removed the weapons from their hiding places, cleaned them. Every six months, she replaced the ammunition.
