Before Jim could continue, he heard Alison’s stomach rumble a long, irregular tune. Then Alison burped through a twisted mouth, grimaced, and held a hand to his stomach.
“Ulcer naggin’ at ya?” Jim asked with concern.
“Yep. Like an army of ex-wives.”
“When was the last time you ate?”
“Don’t remember. Been a busy couple of days.”
“You gotta eat, Alice. Or that thing’s gonna rip you apart from the inside.”
“Yeah. Easy for you to say. You don’t have the captain breathing down your neck.”
“I’ll tell you what. How about we take a break and I throw something together in the kitchen. I’m sure there are some fresh ribeye’s in the walk-in. Maybe hand-cut some curly fries to help calm the beast in your belly.”
“Works for me,” Alison said, never taking his eyes off the Emily photos. “Just none of that fucking horseradish. Probably kill me right now.”
* * *
Emily made it to the alley behind Jim Miller’s house without incident. No chromed-out SUVs, no cops, no creepers, no tweakers, no biker dudes—no street urchins of any kind. A minute later she came across his house. She recognized it instantly, or what was left of it—a shroud of hanging plastic covered the back door and its windows.
She scaled the fence and walked through the back yard quietly, stopping a few feet past the scorched patch of dirt where the Orange Man had disappeared. She stood in front of the makeshift plastic door. The material was thick, with hanging folds in it, but she could see inside. The house was mostly dark except for a night light in the kitchen. She waited and listened, but didn’t hear anything, nor was there any movement in the shadows.
Jim was either asleep or not home. But which? Then it hit her: check the driveway.
Her feet moved on their own, taking her around the first corner of the house and along its side, passing through the squeaky side gate, beyond the fishing boat, and into the front yard. The driveway was empty; only oil stains remained. Jim wasn’t home.
That left one other option—his café. She went back into stealth mode, and in less than the time it takes to make spaghetti, she was standing behind Miller’s restaurant. This time, she found lights on in the building: both in the back and along the side.
But who was inside?
Her friend, or someone else?
Last time she entered this place at night, Rob the Rapist jumped her, tied her up naked, and was ready to do unspeakable things to her.
A memory flashed of Derek smashing Rob’s face with the baseball bat. She smiled, thinking of her courageous white knight who appeared just in time to rescue her. Right before the twisted child killer had a chance to forcibly take her virginity.
Since Derek wasn’t going to be part of the equation this time, she needed to stay alert. She went to the side of the building and snuck along the outside wall to the first window, passing a pile of junk that Jim must have been storing for God knows what.
Across from the window and along the fence was a wooden trellis covered in a web of dormant vines. There was also a string of metal garbage cans—each with a lid sitting awkwardly on top. Emily could understand the need for the vines—to give customers a nice view of greenery as they enjoyed their meal; but the trash cans? Perhaps someone was in the middle of taking the trash out when they were interrupted. It would explain why they were partially blocking the narrow pathway along the building. She shrugged, then leaned around the edge of the window to take a peek inside the dining room.
Her heart lit up when her eyes found Jim Miller seated at a table—the very table where she and he had first gotten to know each other. The same table from the night when he tracked her down and bought her dinner, then showed her a spread of photos documenting her life.
A full smile came over her lips when she realized that her hunch had been right: Jim was at his café, and he looked healthy. Then her smile ran dry when she noticed something else—his lips were moving. A moment later, his hands and arms began to gesture wildly.
Someone else was in the room—probably sitting across from him.
However, from her position, she couldn’t see who it was—a half-wall separating the adjacent row of booths was blocking her view. She dropped to her knees and crawled below the window frame to change her position. Fifteen feet later, she was at the far side of the second window, where she stood up and put her back against the wall. Again, she leaned in slowly to take a look, keeping as much of her body hidden as possible.
The change in angle worked. She could see the face of the other person. Jim was talking to his Marine buddy, Detective Alison. On the table between them were several empty plates, a whiskey bottle, a couple of shot glasses, a folder and . . . several photos. What? Photos?
Her jaw dropped when Jim picked the snapshots up and put them in the folder. Right then, she knew—the photos were of her. Emily felt a sharp, stabbing pain in her chest. Right before her eyes, Miller was betraying her to the cops. The cops! He must have been telling Alison her entire story—what else could he be doing? How could he? After all they’d been through together?
She wanted to scream at him and pound on the window for him to stop, but didn’t. Instead, her logic took over, reminding her of something important. Something that she had strayed from: her rules—the concrete set of dos and don’ts that she used to follow like a religion. Rules designed to keep herself out of situations like this.
Rule Number Seven: Don’t get involved. Nothing good ever comes of it.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. She had her rules for a reason. This exact reason. How had she let herself get this far off course? This far from her metaphysical center. Yet, despite all her logic and mental training, her emotions were too powerful. The tears came and her logic went, retreating into the darkness.
“Why, Jim? Why? How could you do this to me?” she whispered through quivering lips. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “I trusted you. And now this?”
She turned and took off running, but her feet caught one of the trash cans sitting in the side yard, sending it toppling over with a loud clang. Its lid went flying, too, smashing into the fence, adding to the noise level. Emily was completely out of stealth mode now, and didn’t care. She increased her speed, crashing through more items stacked in the side yard, knocking down a dilapidated birdbath and a plastic patio set.
When she rounded the corner of the building, she heard a door opening and it was coming from in front of her. She looked and there he was: Miller—the traitor. Standing there with eyes wide. Staring at her like the bastard he was.
Their eye contact lasted only a moment, then she crossed the turf and flew out the gate. She thought she heard Jim yell something, but she didn’t care. He could go screw himself.
She didn’t stop running until she arrived at the side door of the shelter a few blocks away. She was winded and needed Junie—a friendly face and a kind soul—someone who would never betray her. Ever.
* * *
A few minutes earlier . . .
Jim watched Alison finish chewing that last mouthful of steak, take a slug of his whiskey, and put the glass on the table.
“So that’s it?” Alison asked, spinning the glass around in his fingers.
“That’s it. That’s all I know,” Jim answered, scooping the photos from the table. He tucked them away in his folder.
“What about the charred areas left behind after she disappears?”
Jim threw his hands up and began to emphasize his words with hand gestures. “No clue. I agree; they’re bizarre—but I can’t explain them. Not enough information. Now, if you were to arrange a firsthand look at them for me, I might be able to come up with something.”
“That’s never going to happen, Millsy. Captain would never grant a civilian that level of access. Especially a reporter. Despite what you may think, there are rules. And some of us try to abide by them. So, what about the Morgan kid?”
“They must have met on th
e street somewhere. Got a little teen romance going, I think. It’s totally harmless. They’re just kids. I don’t know what he was doing at my place, though. I thought he was supposed to be in juvie.”
“Yeah, I checked on him. He got out early. Some kind of new program.”
Miller cocked his head and furrowed his brow when he heard a strange noise. It was muffled but distinct, and sounded like it was coming from outside. Near the side yard where he’d left the trash cans sitting when Alison showed up earlier.
“I know that look,” Alison said. “Seen it many times when we were in the shit together.”
“I thought I heard something. Sounded like metal clanging together.”
“Probably a rat digging around in your trash.”
“That was no rat. Someone’s outside!” Miller said, flying out of the booth. He ran to the back door. Just before he got there, he heard the prowler smash through the old patio set outside.
Miller pushed the door open and caught a blur of movement to his left. He swung his head to investigate. His eyes locked onto the intruder while his brain gathered in the facts: Long red hair. Female. Slender. Pretty. Teenager. Holy shit! It was Emily Heart. She was crying, and obviously angry. She gave him a “how could you” look. Then, in a dash, she disappeared through the back gate and turned left.
“Wait! It’s not what you think! I can explain!” he yelled, but she never answered.
He ran to the back gate and went through the opening, but she was gone. He wasn’t surprised. He knew the girl was quick, and skilled at egress and evasion. He’d seen it. Outside the library the day he was gunned down by Alison’s men.
When he turned to go back inside, his eyes made a momentary sweep of the area to his right, panning across the far end of the alley. The end of the alley opposite from where Emily had darted off to.
His eyes caught a glistening flash. It took a second to register, but when it did, his mind realized that someone else was there—watching his encounter with the girl. Possibly standing near the neighborhood’s central telephone box. He thought he remembered something in the person’s hand. He stopped his pivot and peered back to double check. This time, he didn’t see anyone. Nor was there any movement.
Jim stared at the phone company’s control box, taking time to replay the momentary vision and focus on it. He thought it was a man standing in the moonlight—a very large man with a dark complexion. The stranger was wearing a colorful shirt and shorts—yes, shorts in the winter. Jim’s memory saw a pair of legs and knees. Plus, the man was carrying something metallic in his hand—like a briefcase. That’s what must have glistened and caught his attention in the first place.
The only other time Miller had seen someone similar was when he found such a person creeping around his back yard with an explosive briefcase—the Orange Man.
Shit!
Was he back?
Or was this a different one?
Maybe there was an entire detachment of Orange Men.
The hairs on his neck and arms started to tingle when he thought about the watcher and his intent. The Orange Man obviously wanted something from him, but he had no clue as to what.
He checked the area in all directions but didn’t see anything else suspicious. Maybe there was only one. Or none. He couldn’t be sure either way. His eyes might be playing tricks on him, especially during the emotionally charged encounter with Emily.
Just then he felt a firm tap on his shoulder, powering his adrenaline to full tilt. He spun around, ready to unleash a powerful fist at the Orange Man who he feared may have out-flanked him. However, Jim stopped his punch in mid-throw, realizing it was Alice.
Alison leaned back and put his hands in front of his face. “Whoa there, cowboy. It’s just me.”
Jim exhaled and dropped his fist, letting his nerves calm a bit. “Sorry, pal, but you can’t sneak up on me like that. Not when I’m already on high alert.”
“What made the noise?”
“A stray cat, I think.”
“Hmmm. Must have been some cat to make you that jumpy.”
“You have no idea.”
“So, Jim, I have to ask. Do you always shout at stray cats? Telling them that it’s not what they think?”
“Oh, I take it you heard that.”
“Yes, I did. And so did the residents two counties over.”
Jim didn’t respond. He didn’t have the words.
“Was it her? The girl?”
Jim nodded. “That’s not all. I’m almost positive I spotted another one of those Orange Men. I only caught a glimpse, but he may have been carrying one of those briefcases. You know, the kind that go boom.”
Alison’s eyes flared, then he pulled a semi-automatic Glock from the holster on his hip. He held the weapon up and racked the slide, injecting a round into the chamber.
Jim stepped in front of him. “Stand down, Marine. If he was there, he’s long gone by now.”
“Still, I need to call this in. We should have a team sweep the area, just to be sure. Do you think he’s working with the girl?”
“I seriously doubt that. No, there’s something else at play here.”
CHAPTER TEN
January 7, 2015
5:01 p.m.
“For the third time, kid, the answer’s no. N-O,” Harry Striker said to Derek with a smug look on his face. Striker was a six-foot-three rail of a man with thinning, salt-and-pepper hair and a matching thick mustache that covered the entire area under his nose and then curved down around his mouth. It reminded Derek of the bristles on a massive push broom.
Striker was also the newly appointed general manager of the Quick-Mobile Arena in downtown Phoenix, a brand-new sports complex that was home to a minor league hockey team, the Phoenix Ice Dogs. Derek was in Striker’s office hoping to receive a special, one-day press pass to interview the head coach of the visiting hockey team for that night’s game: Tank Jackson of the Stockton Wranglers.
Derek had taken Emily’s advice and decided to do an interview for his Comp/Lit project. Emily was right—the interview was a much better choice to help launch the new Derek, and he planned to get it. He’d managed to talk one of his group home monitors into lending him his smartphone so he could record the interview, and then obtained approval to leave the mandatory homework session early.
Striker continued his diatribe. “This is not the time or place for rank amateurs, and I certainly don’t want any of my VIPs getting hassled by punks like you. And believe me, Tank Jackson is a VIP, and you are a punk. That’s right, Morgan, I know who you are. I have friends on the force and they’ve filled me in on your little escapades around town. The last thing this city needs is more freaks like you being granted early parole, and then being coddled by another one of the state’s failed rehabilitation schemes. Do you know why our taxes are sky-high? It’s because of pricks like you. Shit, it never ends! Every time I turn around, I read about another cock-sucking liberal handing out more tax dollars for programs that don’t work. Once a criminal, always a criminal, in my book. You can’t fix stupid.”
“But, sir. That’s not who I am anymore.”
Striker leaned forward in his chair, resting on his elbows as his face turned a dark shade of red.
“I really don’t give a shit! It doesn’t concern me, or my staff, or my VIPs. You probably don’t know this but that law enforcement officer you assaulted in the alley with the garbage can is a damn good friend of mine. In fact, he was the best man at my wedding. So, what I need you to do is take your personal redemption quest and get the hell out of my office and then off this property. I have more important things to do than cater to a deviant turd like you. Now, get out of my sight before I call security—I have an arena to run.”
Derek wanted to respond and set the record straight, but held his tongue. Everything his temper wanted to say would just get him in trouble and it wouldn’t change a thing. It didn’t matter anyway, because what Striker didn’t know was that Derek had an alternate plan, one tha
t didn’t involve dealing with an arrogant prick like him. Derek grabbed his backpack and stood up.
“I appreciate your time, Mr. Striker. I’ll let myself out.”
He left the GM’s office, passed the man’s secretary, then walked through the waiting room and into the hallway. He went to the bank of elevators, punched the down button, and waited for the lift to arrive. When the elevator door slid open he entered, hit the button for the ground floor, then slipped out before the door closed on him. He hurried around the corner and watched the hallway leading to Striker’s office. Nobody seemed to notice his deception, so he crossed the hallway to the emergency exit stairwell and followed it down to ice level, where the team locker rooms were located. He needed this interview, and he wasn’t going to let one man get in the way.
The lower levels of the arena were a maze of tunnels and hallways, allowing the staff to travel where they needed to go without interfering with the fans attending the games. Derek followed the sound of voices until he located the locker room area. He figured he would hide somewhere near the Wrangler’s locker room, then approach Tank as the team went by for the pre-game skate and warm-up. He found the perfect position—down the hallway and around the corner from the visiting team’s locker room, then settled in for the expected ninety-minute wait.
He thought through his list of interview questions. Tank Jackson was a legendary minor league coach, and had been an enforcer for seventeen years with the Boston Bruins. However, he was also just as famous for his prickly demeanor with the media, and rarely gave interviews.
That reputation wasn’t going to stop Derek. If there was one thing he knew about, it was hockey, and if there was one player he knew about, it was Jackson. Derek planned to blow Tank away with his knowledge of Jackson’s personal stats, and hopefully convince him to chat for a few minutes.
Glassford Girl: Part 3 (The Emily Heart Time Jumper) Page 8
