Triage: A Thriller (Shell Series)

by Phillip Thomas Duck

  “The bigger guy didn’t speak,” she said. “I wish the smaller hadn’t. He was charismatic but also…I can’t put a word to it. He scared me. And I don’t scare easy.”

  “Mean,” I said. “You’re mean.”

  “I wish I would’ve told you the other day,” she said. “He made it clear I should call if and when you contacted me. As soon as Jiang let me know you were headed up I made the call. I’m really sorry, Shell. I should have told you. I was afraid. I am glad to see you now, though, truth be told. I was afraid they would harm you in some way.”

  “That ship already sailed.”

  “They’ve been in touch?”

  “You can’t tell? I must be a fast healer,” I said. “They tied me up, beat me, and tossed me in the Passaic to drown.”

  Her eyes widened. “You’re…”

  “Alive still,” I said. “Despite their best efforts.”

  It hit her at once. “So you know about them? Shell, look,” she stammered, “I’ve been staying away because the whole thing has bothered me. I didn’t want anything bad to happen to you. I feel crummy about the whole thing.”

  “Which is why you warned me the other day?” I said.

  She bit her lip and tears began to well in her eyes. “Shit, Shell, baby.”

  I allowed her to slip her hand between the couch cushions.

  “I’m so sorry, Shell,” she said, her hand buried to the wrist in the cushions.

  “You’re safe,” I said, smiling. “That’s all that matters.”

  “I can’t stand this shit,” she said as the tears swelled.

  I took a tentative step forward. My only intention being to offer her support.

  “Stop,” she screamed, pulling her hand from between the cushions. The knife I’d known was there gleamed in her hand.

  “You don’t need to fear me, Cherie.”

  “I can’t take anymore of this shit,” she said between sobs. “I’ll cut you if I have to, Shell. Please, leave. Just go.”

  “You take care of yourself, Cherie.”

  “Is that a threat?” she screamed.

  I sighed, shook my head, and left her there.

  AFTER THE BUSINESS WITH Cherie, Elm Street didn’t hold the same dread in my heart. I needed sleep and I planned on getting a great deal of it. I’d make flight plans to travel. I didn’t have any specific ideas at the moment but I would be in route to somewhere in the next few days. You could count on that. As much as I hated to admit it, Nevada was lost unless she wanted to be found, or someone happened upon her. Happened upon her. That wouldn’t be any shade of good.

  But if I’d learned anything in my profligate life it was that things change from moment to moment when you’re living your life properly and even more so when you’re not.

  I spotted him almost immediately, posed suspiciously in the stairwell drop of a house several down from Nevada’s. He was smoking a cigarette—at least that’s what it appeared to be from a distance—and studying the street with a level of attention no insider would devote. Something about him was familiar and I spent the time it took to find a parking space to try and refresh my memory. When it finally clicked I felt a sense of accomplishment that had been absent for the past few days.

  He started moving the exact moment I exited the Accord. His pace wasn’t quite a trot but neither was it a leisurely stroll. He looked back and smiled as he turned the corner.

  It led to one of the less traveled streets in the neighborhood. Not much residential, mainly the back of a warehouse building and several alleys. I turned the corner in a jog, mindful I might be stepping into a trap, and because of that understanding, physically alert to respond to whatever presented itself. He’d slowed considerably and when I caught up and put my hand on his shoulder he turned without pause. He’d allowed me in too close, but I rolled with it. I would use the lack of maneuver space to neutralize any weapon he might have.

  Except he had none.

  And he wasn’t who I thought he was.

  I was about to apologize for my error when I looked into his eyes; they were the dead eyes of a stone-cold killer. I’d seen them in the mirror enough to recognize them at once.

  “Bow your head,” he said, a cloud of nicotine-tinged breath trailing the words. “Let us pray.”

  I turned and left him there with his laughter.

  NONE OF THE REAL life people I’d been involved with over the past few days insinuated themselves into my dreams. Not Conrad Colleti and Shepard Calabrese with me down at the river, not Darren Sweet with his brain matter splattered on the motel pillow, neither of the whores, Cherie or Butterfly, nor Mrs. Lippman or Nicholas or Nicky, not the boy with the dead eyes. Not Nevada. Instead, for some reason, I dreamed of SWAT, invading the home where I was hunkered. When I risked a look out of the window in my dream I could spot them perched in nearby trees. I could hear them scuffling across the roof, searching for a viable means of ingress. Eventually I heard them bullying the doors and blowing out all of the windows. I was left in a house that was nothing more than exposed support beams and sawdust-covered foundation. Despite the structure being completely open to the elements my dream was ambiguous in regard to time. Was it day or night? That question was never answered. Nor was the issue of whether or not I was captured, or, what my charge was even.

  I just woke up. It wasn’t with a start. I sort of eased from dream state to consciousness. I stood and stretched, with my back aching because of the uncomfortable couch. It was past nine o’clock in the evening, so I’d slept for more than six hours—plenty of rest for me even when I went to sleep bone tired.

  I searched each room again, and found even less it seemed than during my initial scouring. Rather than allow frustration to settle in I dialed a phone number I discovered on a piece of paper held by a magnet on the front of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

  She answered between the third and fourth rings, her voice thick with sleep. I had no doubt that anyone queried would find her restless voice was still far superior to my own.

  “I was hoping you’d pick up,” I said.

  “What time is it?” she asked, and rumpled something on her end.

  “Thirteen minutes after nine.”

  “You’re…” The thought faded as she yawned. Immediately, a wakeful energy took shape, her voice strengthened. “Sorry about that.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”

  “You and your favors,” she said, feigning disdain. “What is it this time? You need me to loan you some flour?”

  I smiled even though she couldn’t see the gesture. “A few eggs actually,” I said. “But sure, bring some flour, too.”

  “IT’S A SWEDISH STAPLE,” I explained to Siobhan some time later.

  “Mmm.” She finished chewing a bite, wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. An expensive paper napkin but paper just the same. “Flying Jacob you said?”

  I nodded, refilled her glass with wine. Barbeito Bual Madeira from Portugal. “Flygande Jakob.”

  She took another bite. “Peanuts, bananas…”

  “Chicken breasts, bacon, sour cream, onion, and a few other things I won’t divulge.”

  “You didn’t have to go through all of this trouble,” she said, taking another bite before she finished the words.

  I smiled. “You were going to loan me flour, it was no trouble.”

  “And eggs,” she noted. “So you’re right, my goodwill deserved this reward.”

  Instead of borrowing the items, I’d invited her to dinner, ran to the grocery store and picked up what I needed, cooked it. A little over an hour from thought to conception.

  “So I take it you haven’t been able to track down Darren?” she asked.

  This wasn’t where I wanted to take the conversation. I wasn’t sure what I could tell her and what I needed to keep to myself. Despite that, I quickly made a decision. I’d like to say it was the wine that loosened my inhibitions, but beauty is ten times more intoxicating.
>
  “Nicholas is the owner of the bistro,” I said.

  “Old guy with an accent? Yeah, I’ve spoken with him.”

  “Nicholas knew who Sweet was the minute I mentioned his name, but he thinks he’s running a hospital and privacy should be protected like medical info.”

  Siobhan’s eyes really came alive when she smiled. “I’ve heard and seen for myself how persuasive you can be. I can’t imagine it ended there.”

  “It didn’t.”

  “You’re going to make me work to get the full story?”

  “How badly do you want to hear it all?”

  “You’re not nice.”

  Maybe the playful milieu would soften the blow of the story’s violent end. Then again, maybe nothing could.

  “Nicholas has a son,” I went on. “Nicky. He was a lot more forthcoming than his old man.”

  “I know him, too,” she said, nodding. “And something just flashed in your eyes. Nicky had some promising information?”

  “He sent me to a senior living complex where I met a fetching older woman named Mrs. Lippman.”

  “Nicholas. Nicky. Mrs. Lippman.” Siobhan shook her head. “This is beginning to sound like a crime novel. Too many names for me to keep track of.”

  “You sure it isn’t the wine?”

  She looked at me in disbelief, her mouth agape, eyes alive in a way the boy on the street’s eyes weren’t. “Is that what’s happening here? You’re quietly getting me drunk?”

  “Not at all.”

  “You’re lying to me, Shell.”

  Her beauty was free of any discernible blemish. It was hard to imagine her anywhere but against a breathtaking backdrop. “Why were you in Edge, Siobhan?” I asked her. “I knew your grandfather well, and your grandmother just in passing. But neither of them strikes me as the type to allow that to happen to one of their own.”

  Her smile vanished and I knew I’d crossed a line.

  We ate in silence for awhile. Finally I said, “There was a boy outside earlier, hanging around the street. Did you happen to notice him?”

  She shook her head without looking at me.

  “I followed him, confronted him. He looked like the boy I caught selling drugs to Renny that time. I was set to roust him, see if I could get some info about your cousin.”

  She looked up at me, but didn’t speak.

  “It wasn’t him,” I said. “I was mistaken.”

  Her gaze dropped from my face again. She’d stopped eating. The wine no longer held any sway over her.

  “Alright, the mood has changed. I don’t like this, so let me explain. You know some things about me,” I said as tenderly as I could. “I was just trying to know you a little better when I asked about Edge.”

  “I know nothing, Shell. You’re still an enigma.”

  “That’s not entirely true.”

  “Tell me about your family,” she said. “Brothers? Sisters? What of your parents? Nevada said you had a friend you were close to and that he killed himself. She said you wouldn’t share much beyond that, but that it was obviously a situation that darkened your soul. Tell me about this friend.”

  I swallowed. Didn’t respond.

  “Some things are best left unspoken. Let’s leave it at that, okay, Shell?”

  “Hard for me to argue with that logic.”

  “I’m glad we agree.”

  She resumed eating her meal, but gone were the gestures of approval after each bite, the murmurs of delight. It had taken me less than an hour to destroy something precious between us. I’d learned nothing from the experiences with Taj or Nevada.

  “You stopped your story at Mrs. Lippman,” she said a beat later.

  “You remembered,” I said, impressed. “You’d do fine with just about any crime novel.”

  She nodded. “Mrs. Lippman…”

  “Impressive old lady. She admitted knowing Sweet but told me she had no way of contacting him, but she must’ve because he called me last night.”

  “Wait”—she dropped her fork on her plate—“Darren called you?”

  I nodded.

  “What did he say?”

  “He was angry and scared. He threatened me. Then he realized who I was—Nevada must’ve mentioned me—and he changed course. He wanted to meet.”

  “Meet? This is great, Shell. When?”

  “Last night,” I said.

  “You met?” She was ready to burst or jump from her seat. “You’ve been holding out on me. What did he say?”

  “Nothing,” I whispered.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He asked me to meet him at the same motel where Nevada went missing from.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sounds like a trap.”

  “Not for me,” I said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “He was dead when I arrived there.”

  “Dead like…” She shook her head. “This is a mistake. Dead how?”

  “A couple in the head judging by what I walked in on. I didn’t stay to verify.”

  “A couple… You mean, like, shot?”

  “Not like shot. Shot.”

  Her shoulders slumped. She bit her lip. A slight tremble worked its way through her. “This is something bad, Shell.”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  “I’ve been replaying the conversation over in my head, trying to figure it out. Find some meaningful thread that will lead me to Nevada. Nothing.”

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  “Sweet was running scared. It might be a family issue of some kind. He thought I was with his uncle.”

  “His uncle?”

  I nodded. “His Uncle John.”

  “Uncle John?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Jesus.”

  I frowned. “You know his uncle?”

  “Not his uncle, Shell. Uncle John.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Uncle John,” she repeated.

  “I’m lost.”

  She took a deep breath. “Uncle John is this so-called community activist. He involves himself in everything. Police brutality issues, drug and gang issues, anything happens around here, Uncle John makes sure he’s a part of it.”

  “You think that’s who Sweet was afraid of?”

  “It makes sense.”

  “Scared of a community activist?” I said, skeptical.

  “Most people are afraid to say so, but the prevailing thought is that Uncle John is just a common street thug.”

  “A street thug? Why would anyone think that?”

  She looked at me. “Probably because he is.”

  SEVENTEEN

  I FOUND HIM WITH a crack whore the very next day, eating fried chicken and French fries slathered in ketchup in a small too-bright soul food restaurant whose retail neighbors on both sides were shuttered, gray security gates covered with graffiti sheathing their storefronts. He hadn’t proved very difficult to find. I’d simply mentioned his name to several anonymous people on the street. By the fourth person, I had complete knowledge of his lunch habits. “Pinky’s,” the unintentional snitch told me. She had hair the color of dirty mop water and an odor like a burned boiled egg. Not surprisingly, when I offered her a twenty-dollar-bill she snatched it away, an animal intensity in her eyes, and disappeared without so much as a “thanks”. I stood there and considered the road I was traveling. Darren Sweet had been scared to death of Uncle John, and, considering the disbarred lawyer’s ignominious end, the fear seemed rightly justified. Yet this Uncle John was a man I actually wanted to confront? Unsolicited? The smooth edges of my thought process reminded me of my commitment to avoid any and all violence, the futility of a missing person’s search beyond the first seventy-two hours, and the already damaged and weakened state of my physical condition.

  Unfortunately or fortunately—depending on your perspective—I’m mostly rough edges.

  Pinky’s was not crowded, but t
heir sit-down lunch business far surpassed Picaso’s. Two young black thugs sat at the first table by the door. They were dark, muscular and—judging by the swell of discarded chicken bones gathered in front of them—famished. Darren Sweet’s word.

  A second seating had two lovers sitting and holding hands across the empty table, engaging one another in a silent conversation, their shy smiles the only words they needed.

  Four late-teen girls occupied a third table. Their conversation could not seem to stretch more than a few seconds without peals of jarring laughter.

  A man staining the pages of his paperback novel with fried fish batter grease sat at the fourth table. I narrowed my eyes to absorb the author and title on the cover: Walter Mosley’s Black Betty.

  Uncle John was the final patron, seated at the table closest to the order counter, facing the door. He was sitting back comfortably in the booth seat, his long legs stretched out under the table, his full attention devoted to the crack whore. I noticed the ripple of muscle in his forearms. The slightest movement and they gave the impression of a small animal scurrying under a rug. He wore a dyed black beard and sideburns that ended a half inch above his ears. His head was shaved bald and both ears were pierced and filled with studs too large to be actual diamonds. His clothes were khaki shorts and a burgundy T-shirt, brown leather sandals. I could smell his cologne from the curb outside. My best guess was that he was in his fifties, and I had no doubt he had started flirting with trouble early in life and the love affair had yet to end.

  The crack whore wasn’t actually eating with him, but rather standing over his table while he spoke softly to her. She wore too-short shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt that did little to flatter her small but sagging breasts. Her sandals were plastic and filthy. She punctuated every word with some form of fidgety movement. The lopsided bandanna tied around her hair desperately needed to be straightened.

  She stopped mid-sentence when I slid into the booth across from Uncle John. He reached forward, secured a plastic cup of crushed ice and grape soda, and took a healthy sip. He set the cup down carefully on the table. Not once did his eyes look my way.

  “Excuse you,” the crack whore said, looking at me with eyes rimmed by red.