by Carolina Mac
His leg felt a little stronger today, and that was a good thing. He needed both legs to make his plan work. On the other hand, his right arm had become a problem. Shoulder to elbow, with layers of skin stripped away by the rough bark of the tree he’d hit, flying out of the squad car, infection had set in. Swollen and oozing pus, he had nothing to clean it with and no medication to put on it—for a mess as big as this one, he’d need a whole roll of gauze and a hundred band aids.
He glanced in the mirror over the sink as he got ready for his big night. No razor meant no shaving the last few days. A beard made him harder to recognize and that was a plus. Maybe his new buddies had a ball cap he could use later if he needed it. And a jacket. He’d need a jacket.
Out the back door and around behind the row of trailers—he knew the way in the pitch dark. He smiled thinking of the night ahead.
Fat Boy grinned as he opened the door. “Game is about to start, neighbor,” he said. “We’ll give you a chance to win your money back.”
The money I lost was just an investment.
“Nice of y’all,” said Race with a fake grin.
Fat Boy pointed at the table where the other two were drinking beer. “Take a seat.”
“Thanks,” said Race, “I didn’t want to be late.”
MISTY AND HOODOO walked for an hour following the dirt track that led away from the shack. They trudged through thick woods and found no main road, no neighbors—no sign of civilization. As it grew darker, Misty realized the terrain had become rougher and there was no longer a track to follow. She knelt down and hugged her dog. “What should we do, Hoo? It’s dark and I don’t know the way back to the shack. I think we’re lost.”
Hoodoo whined and laid down beside a tree. Misty sat down beside him and cried.
TWENTY-FOUR empty Lone Star cans were scattered on the kitchen floor beside the poker players. “Got to take a piss,” said Race, “deal me out.”
He used the dirty, stinking bathroom, then stepped into the narrow hallway. He listened to the three drunk bikers arguing in the kitchen and figured they wouldn’t miss him for a couple of minutes. He slipped into the closest bedroom, switched on the light and picked up what he could use from the dresser—the Harley keys he shoved into the pocket of his jeans, a seal knife he stashed in his boot, the burner phone he pushed into his other pocket along with the roll of cash that was just sitting waiting for him to take it. Lastly, he picked up the Glock, loaded it from the box of ammo sitting next to it, and stuffed more ammo into his back pocket.
He finished up, strode to the door and his hand was on the light switch when Fat Boy came looking for him. “Hey, are you coming to play your hand?”
Bang.
Race shot him through the right eye at close range and dodged out of the way as the big biker’s body crashed to the floor.
Chairs scraped back in the kitchen and the other two hollered and headed his way. “What the hell? Was that a shot?”
Bang.
Race took three steps past the bathroom and shot Craig in the temple. He dropped to the floor blocking the hall where it entered the kitchen. With a grunt and a sharp stab of pain from his leg, Race stepped over Craig’s body, and at the same time kept an eye on the last biker.
Mike growled and came at him across the kitchen, his boot knife in his hand. “You son of a bitch. Coming in here and acting all friendly. I’ll show you friendly.” He bared his teeth and viciously swiped at Race with his knife. Race jumped to the side, switched the gun into his left hand and grabbed the knife out of his boot with his right. With a loud growl, he lunged and buried the seal knife in Mike’s ribs. He smiled as he cranked it one turn to the right. Mike gurgled out a couple of words, then fell to the floor spewing blood from his mouth.
Race grabbed two Lone Stars for the road, took a leather jacket off the hook by the door, flicked off the lights and went outside to see which one of the bikes the keys fit.
The black chopper roared to life when he turned the key. Race smiled when he heard the familiar rumble. He stowed the beer and the weapons in one of the saddlebags, put the jacket on and reached for the helmet hanging on the bars. He wasn’t much of a helmet guy, but it would hide his face, and that was more important than looking cool. He backed the bike out onto the road, revved it up and headed for the park gate.
He passed the squad car posted just inside the gate, slowed down at the highway and used his signal. He turned north and gave ‘er.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Saturday, December 16th.
FRUSTRATED that he’d been up half the night searching for something—anything that would lead him to Misty—and finding nothing, and depressed by the size and the emptiness of his Victorian albatross, Blaine brewed coffee in his sleek gourmet kitchen.
“Fucking hell, Lexi, what am I gonna do?”
Lexi ran to the back door and whined.
“Yeah, after you come in, what am I gonna do?” He stroked her huge head and opened the door. He stepped out into the frigid morning air and lit up a smoke. He shivered in just a t-shirt. For Texas, it was damned cold.
Annie probably wouldn’t even notice. She spent the first two dozen years of her life freezing in Canada.
His cell rang and jerked him back to reality. Lee County Sheriff’s office. “Morning, Sheriff. What’s up?”
“Three fuckin dead bikers, that’s what. I think your boy was in the trailer park the whole fuckin time.”
“Jeeze, three dead?”
“Two shot and one stabbed. A nice variety. Val is going nuts. I need you to work your magic on her.”
Blaine chuckled. “There was a time she hated me.”
“Well, that ain’t now. To hear her talk, you’re right up there in the Vatican—eatin dinner with the Pope.”
Blaine chuckled. “I’ll be there in an hour.” He called Jesse, then headed for the shower.
JESSE STOOD on the front porch of the Quantrall mansion smoking a cigarette before he went in for breakfast. Charity had been fussy in the night and he’d been up several times rocking her back to sleep. He didn’t mind. In fact, he loved sitting and holding his baby girl in his arms. She represented everything in the world that was innocent and pure.
Brian had diagnosed her with a slight cold and had given her a baby aspirin to get rid of the low fever she was running. Nothing to worry about. Easy for Brian to say.
Tyler was wrecked and didn’t leave her room all night.
Jesse’s cell rang on his belt.
“Morning, Blacky. You’re up early.”
“Haven’t found Misty yet and it’s driving me nuts, but that’s not why I called.”
“Problem?”
“Yeah, Travis and Farrell are on Kingsley and I can’t pull them off. Can you meet me at Laguna Palms for an hour?”
“Sure, I guess so. Did you find Race?”
“No but Sheriff Cumberland found Race’s trail—three dead bikers in one of the mobile homes.”
“Fuck, the guy is a killing machine.”
“I’m leaving now, but you’ll be there ahead of me.”
“Wendy will watch Charity for me. I’ll call her.”
Tyler mounted the porch steps and heard the end of Jesse’s conversation. “What do you need Wendy for? I’m here.”
“I have to go to a crime scene and I might be gone all morning.”
“That’s okay. I don’t want Charity leaving the house. She has a cold.”
Jesse smiled at his young brother. “Okay, Ty. You’re up.”
JESSE HAD SERVED so much paper inside the gates of Laguna Palms he knew the narrow gravel streets of the trailer park by heart. The place was a mecca for domestic violence, drugs and bikers.
Two or three of the mobile homes were inhabited by senior citizens who had retired to the park, expecting to experience the peace and quiet of country living. Their neat and tidy residences stood out from all the others.
Most units needed paint and cried out for maintenance and tlc of any kind. Gutt
ers were filled with leaves and squirrels’ nests. Grass was never mowed—if there was grass. Many had makeshift add-ons attached to the sides of the original units. Many front yards were bare dirt with a dog and a Harley chained out front.
Around on the back street closest to the bush, Jesse spotted the line of police vehicles and the familiar yellow tape marking the perimeter. He parked behind the ME’s SUV, hopped out and zipped up his jacket.
The first thing he noticed were the two Harley’s—one chained to the single tree in the yard. Three victims—two bikes. Chances were good Race was riding a stolen bike.
He crossed the dirt yard and greeted Val Wescott and her assistant standing outside the trailer. Val headed up the crime scene unit for the county, a stick of a woman with red hair and freckles. Her team was by the book and thorough. “Morning, Val. Heard it was a messy one.”
“Jesus, Jesse, could it be any worse? Blood, brains and tissue from here to hell and back.” She shivered then took a sip of her coffee. “I checked the victims and now I’m waiting for Doc Scanlon to have his turn. Once we get the bodies out of there we can start collecting evidence.”
Jesse smiled. “Mr. Ogilvie can be brutal. I’ve seen his handiwork more than a few times.”
“Why in hell is he still running around loose?” Val shook her long red ponytail. “I can’t fathom the way the law works sometimes.”
“Let’s go take a look.” Jesse pointed to the open door and let Val go ahead of him.
“Blaine coming?” Val asked over her shoulder and Jesse grinned.
“He’s coming from Austin.”
“Thank God, he’s on this one,” said Val. “Never a better cop was ever born.”
“Roger that,” said Jesse.
“You talking about me again?” asked Sheriff Cumberland with a chuckle. “Didn’t know my rep had spread so far.”
Val shook her head and set her kit on the kitchen floor.
It’s good to be back at work, even if it’s part-time.
Jesse stood in the dirty, cluttered kitchen and peered over Doc Scanlon’s back as he knelt beside the closest victim. This guy’s face was intact—he was stabbed in the side and lay in a lake of his own blood. The reek of it filled the trailer.
Second guy’s corpse was blocking the entrance to the hall. Most of his head was blown off. Race must have been right beside him when he pulled the trigger.
Third guy lay crumpled where he had fallen—half in the narrow hallway—half in the bedroom. A scenario played in Jesse’s head. Race makes an excuse to leave the others, bathroom probably, then he searches the bedroom for weapons. First guy comes looking for him and he’s first to die. Other guys hear the shot and then he takes out number two and then three. Jumps on a bike and leaves. See what Blacky thinks.
To Val: “First thing we need to do is sort these guys out and see whose Harley is missing,” said Jesse. “Then we can get a BOLO out on the tag.”
“Yep, I’ll have the ID’s, if there are any, as soon as Doc is finished.”
Chains clanked, heads turned, and Blaine stomped into the trailer. Jesse noticed Val’s face light up.
“Fucking hell, Val, can’t we meet in a bar?” He grabbed her in a hug and she laughed, something Val Wescott didn’t do a lot of.
“One bike missing,” said Blaine. “We got a chance for a BOLO.”
“Yep,” said Jesse, “but we won’t catch him easily.”
“Ain’t nothin easy about Race Ogilvie,” said the Sheriff.
WITH THE DEAD BIKERS off to the morgue and the whole country on the lookout for Race Ogilvie, Blaine and Jesse left Laguna Palms. Jesse tore home to check on Tyler and Charity, and Blaine hurried back to Austin to Julie Westover’s autopsy.
When he arrived at the morgue, Lopez was already there watching the pathologist make the ‘y’ cut. Blaine entered quietly so as not to disturb the doctor. He crossed the cold, gloomy room and turned his head until the worst was over. His stomach was upside down from worry, and all through the process, Blaine stared at the young blonde woman on the table and thought of nothing but Misty.
Should he be out looking for her in some remote area? But where? What spot was familiar to Kingsley—a spot the doctor felt was safe to take his next victim. No hint of it showed up in his history. Texas was a huge state brimming with wild country. Misty could be anywhere.
Nothing unexpected came out of the autopsy. Blaine was in a rush to leave, but Lopez stopped him in the corridor. “I still maintain, Julie Westover is a copycat,” said Lopez. “Too many differences.”
Blaine shook his black mane of hair. “He omits the bandana, attacks a girl without a dog and thinks that’s enough to throw us off? He couldn’t deviate from his main ritual—his warped brain wouldn’t let him. Give your big, fat head a shake, Kingsley. I, for one, am not buying it.”
“Guess we’ll find out who’s right in the end,” said Lopez.
“Fifty,” said Blaine.
Lopez grinned. “Fuck you, Blacky.”
FARRELL DROVE TO Austin to relieve Travis in the surveillance unit. His partner had volunteered to take the night shift and Farrell was grateful. With all the hours they’d been working between the two cases, he was beat. After a solid eight hours’ sack time, he was ready to go again.
He parked behind the camper, locked his truck and tapped twice on the door. Expecting to see Travis, Farrell looked twice when Lily opened the door.
“Hey, Lily, didn’t know you were on surveillance.” He jumped up the step and went inside.
“Travis invited me, and I jumped at the chance. Always wanted to do it.”
“Boring as hell,” said Farrell. “Unless you hear something to break the case open. That happened to us a couple times.”
Travis vacated his spot next to the equipment and pointed out a couple of things to Farrell. “Not a damn thing is happening, and his vehicle hasn’t moved an inch.”
“Guess it’s good if he ain’t out raping anybody,” said Farrell. “Kind of good.”
Lily made a face.
“I’m taking Lily to I-Hop, then dropping her off and sleeping till the boss calls,” said Travis. “But… if anything big is going down, I don’t want to sleep through it.”
“Yep. I got it.”
MISTY WOKE shivering with the cold. She had found a spot deep in the woods where a couple of giant boulders gave her a little shelter. She slept on a bed of pine needles close to Hoodoo, but a cold wind had come up in the night and her teeth were chattering. “I’m cold, Hoo, but I’m worrying about how hungry you are. I have to find you some food.”
Hoodoo licked her face.
“Are you ready to do more walking?”
He jumped up and wagged his tail.
RACE OPENED his eyes and stared around the room. It took a second before he remembered. “Oh, yeah. Budget Inn. Best bed I’ve had in a while.”
He tried to sit up and realized his arm was stuck to the sheet. The sight of it almost made him gag, but he’d seen worse shit—a lot worse. “Look at that fuckin mess.” Green pus and blood had leaked from his arm overnight and bonded the sheet to his arm. He grit his teeth and bit the bullet. With a growl and one quick jerk, he pulled the sheet away from his arm. “Oh, shit, I should have left it.” Pain shot through his brain and he clutched at the source wanting to rip the arm off. The sheet had taken several layers of skin with it, opening the wound and causing the arm to bleed like a fountain.
He hustled into the bathroom, turned on the shower and cleaned himself up. “I should have taken a clean shirt from those assholes,” he mumbled. “I’ll buy a new one today—but first I need a bandage.” He wrapped one of the white hand towels around his upper arm and held it tight.
After the bleeding had slowed to a trickle, Race sat on the side of the bed to put his boots on. He noticed the phone next to him on the nightstand, and on a whim, he picked it up and dialed the ranch number.
Rosalie answered on the second ring and Race asked for Jackson. A couple
of minutes later, Jackson said, “Hello?”
“Hey, son, it’s Daddy. I’m just checking on you and Pye. How’s it going?”
“Good, Daddy. Pye is being good, but we both miss you a lot. When are you coming home?”
“Maybe not for a while, but I’m planning a vacation for you and Mommy.”
“Like a trip, Daddy?”
“Yep, like a trip to the ocean.”
“Should I tell Mommy to get ready?”
“No, it’s a secret between you and me.”
“I can keep a secret, Daddy. Promise.”
“Bye, son. I love you.”
“Love you, Daddy.”
Feeling more optimistic than he had in days, Race left the hotel without bothering with the free breakfast. He’d do a drive-through where nobody would be looking at him.
BLAINE PICKED UP COFFEE and a sandwich on the way home from the morgue. He’d exhausted every avenue he could think of in Kingsley’s past and come up empty. Other than beating the big asshole senseless like he was longing to do, there was nothing to do but wait.
He pulled into the driveway beside the house, reached for his coffee in the cup holder and his cell rang.
“Hey, boss, I’m moving,” said Farrell.
Blaine’s breath caught. “Can I catch up?”
“I haven’t got a read on where we’re going yet, but I’m guessing it’s to I-35.”
“I’ll head that way.”
I’ve got to let Lexi out for a minute first.
“Travis wanted to be called if there was a break,” said Farrell. “Better wake him up.”
Blaine tore into the house, let Lexi out the back door, filled up her bowls and whistled for her to come back inside. He patted her head once and left.
As he drove towards the highway, he called Travis.
Travis answered on the second ring, sounding groggy. Blaine figured he’d only slept about an hour. “What, boss?”
“We’re on the move. Get the dogs and head west on the interstate. I don’t know where we’re going yet.”
