Five Uneasy Pieces Page 2

  She had turned pensive now, and it had been a quiet ride. I tried to coax some information, like a name or a home town or something, out of her. But she wasn’t talking. I had no idea what I would do if the friend wasn’t there. I figured we could cross that bridge when we got to it.

  Eventually, she had me turn onto a road leading through a section of tall cattails toward the beach. We crawled up to the foot of a terraced, wooden house on stilts, gray with age and exposure to the elements. Waves pounded on the surf in a soothing, if incessant, roar.

  She looked around. “I don’t see his car.”

  “Maybe he’s not here yet,” I said. Or maybe he’s not coming, I thought. My heart sank.

  We got out of the car. I followed her up a flight of steep, rickety steps to a small landing in front of a weather-beaten green door. It was unlocked and we strolled right in.

  “Travis!” she called. The room, dimly lit with a bare-bulb ceiling light, featured an old sofa that looked like it was upholstered in burlap and a table with three plain wooden chairs. No one answered. A short, dark hallway led to another room.

  “Damn.” She began pacing, chewing on her thumbnail.

  I sighed and crossed the room to the shadeless window. “What now?”

  She didn’t answer. I glanced outside. From our vantage point, I could see the black waters of the ocean lapping at the beach, thin lines of foam delineating the waves. The moon was higher now, casting a bright irregular stripe onto the water’s surface.

  Time for a reality check, I thought.

  “I’ll be straight with you. If it weren’t for your condition, I probably wouldn’t even be here,” I said. “But I’m here now. And he’s not. So maybe we should think about other options?”

  She said nothing.

  “I can give you a lift to the bus station,” I said. “Or, if you live a reasonable distance from here, a ride to that place.”

  “I can’t go home,” she said. “I’ve got no home to go to.”

  Great, I thought.

  “Well, I’ve got work to do,” I said. “I’ll give you a lift back to town.”

  “He’ll be here,” she said. She affected a cool look. “Go. I’ll be fine.”

  “Are you kidding? In your condition?”

  “I wish you’d quit going on about that.”

  I would have to talk her into going back to Ocean City, I thought. Some place where she could get help, if she needed it. As I gazed out the window, something caught my eye, in the cattails.

  “Hey, I see a car,” I said. “A jeep, I think.”

  She made a stifled cry. I turned and got a brief glimpse of a man and a raised gun. Felt the shock of the gun connecting with my head. My knees buckled and, as they say in the old detective movies, everything went black.

  *****

  Voices and squeaking. And darkness. Eventually, I realized that was because my eyes were closed. Inside my head, a gnome in spike-heeled shoes was rhythmically kicking my skull. I tried to move my arms. They were pinned behind my back. My face was flattened against something. My whole right side, actually. The floor. I was on the floor, and the squeaking came from the floorboards, as people walked about.

  “What do we do about her?” A young man’s voice.

  “What’s there to do? We leave her.” The girl.

  “I don’t know, Kaitlyn. What if she’s with the DEA?”

  “Don’t you think she’d have some I.D. on her if she was with the DEA?”

  “Not necessarily. Not if she’s working undercover. Maybe she was sitting outside Eddie’s place for a reason.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  I opened my eyes, just a crack. I’d fallen behind the table and chairs. Through the legs, I had a pretty good view of them both–what I could see in the yellowish light between squinted lids, that is. The boy had a chunky, Junior Varsity build, and buzz cut hair. He walked around the room, making superfluous gestures as he spoke. The girl—Kaitlyn—had one hand on her hip and a look of disbelief on her face.

  “You really fucked up, bringing her here,” he said.

  “Exactly how long was I supposed to wait for you, Trav?”

  “I told you. The jeep’s busted.”

  “And I was supposed to—what?—take a bus? If I were you, I’d be more worried about Eddie. By now, I’m sure he’s figured out that I took some of his stuff.”

  Travis didn’t seem convinced. “I dunno.”

  “Travis,” Kaitlyn said, sounding more than a bit anxious. “Let’s take the car, let’s drive to the airport, and let’s get the hell out of here, before Eddie figures out where we are.”

  “Do you know how much hard time you can do these days for drugs? Just for drugs! You can do life. Did you know that? Federal sentencing guidelines, babe. They’re a bitch.”

  That seemed to stun her a little. “But they don’t care about people like us. Besides, I don’t think she’s with the feds.”

  “So why was she waiting at the motel?”

  “I dunno.” She paused. “I never asked. But, for Christ sake, she’s not a cop.”

  “So how would you know?”

  “Cause she would have arrested me or something by now, stupid.”

  “For what, stupid?”

  “You tell me. You’re the one who’s so sure she’s a narc.”

  While they argued, I was quietly working at the rope around my wrists, using one of my fingernails to loosen the knot. It was a frustrating exercise, trying to work the knot and keep from moving too much. Fortunately, they weren’t paying attention and the furniture blocked their view of me.

  Travis bit a thumbnail. “Maybe I should just shut her up for good.”

  “Travis! Jesus!” She stared at him, eyes crazy with fear. “This woman saved my life. Besides, they may get me for drugs, but I’m not doing time for murder!”

  He snorted. “Hell, Kate, you’d probably do less time.”

  He took a gun out of his waistband and turned it over in his hands a few times, as if he were trying to figure out how to use it. My armpits suddenly gushed sweat and my guts turned to liquid. I worked harder at the ropes, but it was going to take time. So many guns and so few brains, I thought. Humphrey Bogart. The Maltese Falcon. Stop thinking about old movies, you moron, and start coming up with ways to beg for your life. Because it looked like that’s what I’d be doing in a few seconds.

  But Kaitlyn had other ideas.

  “No, Travis,” she said. “No way!”

  She grabbed for the gun. As they struggled, I kept working at the knot. The gun dropped to the floor. Suddenly, the door flew in, hitting the wall with a bang. The two of them jumped. A man rushed in—the blond man from the motel—and grabbed Kaitlyn, holding her arm behind her back with one hand and a gun to her head with the other. He kicked the door shut behind him.

  The man smiled, a baring of teeth that was anything but humorous and that deepened the scar that ran from cheekbone to jaw on the left side of his face. His eyes were light gray. They looked as cold and pitiless as shark eyes.

  Gesturing at the gun on the floor, he said, “Kick it here.”

  Travis hesitated. The man scowled and pulled back the hammer on his gun. As he jammed the barrel against Kaitlyn’s head, she whimpered involuntarily.

  Looking resigned, Travis shoved the gun with his foot toward the blond, who stooped to pick it up. As he rose, he suddenly lunged against Kaitlyn, shoving her, belly-first, into a nearby wall so quickly she had no time to cry out. She hit with a sickening crack that took the air out of my lungs and crumpled to the floor, holding herself protectively.

  “Bastard,” Travis muttered.

  “Excuse me, what?” the blond said, in a voice both calm and menacing. “You steal my shit and I’m the bastard?”

  His restless gaze swept the room and returned to them. “Who’s that?” he asked Travis, gesturing vaguely toward me.

  “Some broad.”

  “So what’s her part?”

  “She’s not i
nvolved, Eddie,” Kaitlyn said. “She was just there.”

  “Huh. That’s handy. Don’t look all that handy now, does she?” Again, he gestured with the gun. “Turn around. Put your hands to the wall. And don’t fucking move.”

  Travis complied. Kaitlyn was still on the floor, frozen in place. Keeping his eyes on Travis, Eddie grabbed Kaitlyn by one ankle. She yelped as he yanked her, on her back, to the middle of the room.

  “Hey!” Travis cried.

  “Shut up!” Eddie shouted back. Travis glowered. I continued my slow work on the ropes. I was starting to make some headway now.

  Eddie got on his knees between Kaitlyn’s legs. Jesus, was he going to rape a pregnant woman? But then, something was odd. Something about that loud crack when she hit the wall, stomach-first.

  Eddie threw up Kaitlyn’s dress. Something like a plastic bowl was underneath, held in place with straps. Eddie undid the straps and removed the bowl. It contained a burlap sack. From the sack, Eddie pulled out four plastic bags of a white substance. Heroin, maybe.

  As Eddie put the goods back in the sack, he said to Kaitlyn, “All right, you get up by the wall, too. Now.”

  Kaitlyn got up slowly and stood beside Travis.

  “Face the wall like him,” he ordered. “Then, both of you kneel down.”

  “Eddie…don’t,” Travis said.

  “You’ve got your stuff,” Kaitlyn said. Her voice shook with fear.

  “And that’s it, huh? I take my shit and let bygones be bygones? I think not.”

  “Eddie, please!” Kaitlyn started to cry. Travis looked like he was about to. Under his jeans, I could see the muscles in his legs quiver spastically.

  “Believe me, it’s so much easier this way,” Eddie said. His voice was matter of fact, like that of a doctor discussing surgical options with a patient. “A bullet in the brain pan is a much easier death than a slug in the stomach. That’s so…painful and takes so long.” He grimaced in mock horror.

  I had worked the knot loose and the rope was coming undone. I prayed that the kids could hold out a bit longer.

  Eddie wasn’t willing to wait, though. This wasn’t Dr. No or Goldfinger, where he was going to engage his victims in small talk or devise complicated ways to kill them that they could defeat.

  “You have five seconds to face the wall and get on your knees,” he said. “Or I kill you where you stand. And, I promise you, it will hurt.”

  Kaitlyn moaned and Travis started muttering something that sounded like a prayer or a mantra. The rope slipped from my wrists. Everyone was too involved in their own personal extremity to notice me as I crept around the furniture. When I got clear of it, I sprang to my feet and lunged for Eddie’s gut. I was on him before he could react. We fell to the floor together. The gun dropped from his hand and slid a few feet from us. I scrambled for it.

  Behind me, I heard grunting and scuffling. I grabbed the gun and rolled into a sitting position. Eddie and Travis were struggling with the other gun. It went off with a startling bang. Broken glass tinkled and darkness swallowed the room. I flattened to the floor and started to crawl, trying to get my bearings. I groped with one hand, trying to avoid the shards of glass, and held the gun with the other hand. Slowly, my eyes adjusted. I could see two shadows wrestle, black on black.

  A widening crack of gray slashed through the darkness. It was Kaitlyn, slipping out the door, the bag in hand. “Travis!” she called out. “I’ve got the stuff!”

  There was another shot. A low moan in the dark. A thud as something heavy hit the floor. And other shot. I scuttled toward Kaitlyn.

  “Travis!” she yelled again.

  “Just go!” I said. The gun went off again, blowing off a piece of the door. Kaitlyn fled down the steps, with me behind her. She ran toward the sandy road, while I waited at the bottom of the stairs, hidden in the shadows beneath the house. The door opened and Eddie stepped out. As he took aim at Kaitlyn, I whirled around to the foot of the stairs and fired twice. Eddie curled like a leaf and tumbled over the side. I ran over to him. He was dead.

  I took his gun and dashed to my car for a flashlight, then up the steps, two at a time, to check on Travis. The flashlight’s beam caught him, crumpled in a corner, half his brains on the wall. An entry wound, like a third eye, was on his forehead, and the expression on his ghostly face was one of mild surprise.

  I went back down, calling Kaitlyn’s name. I trudged up the road a short ways, but saw no one and heard nothing except the sound of waves pounding the shore.

  As I walked back to the car, keys in hand, I heard a noise behind me, then felt a solid blow to the back of my head. Pain stabbed my already throbbing brain. Everything turned to grainy brown, with white spots, like an old movie. The ocean roar became an unbearable pounding. I struggled to stay conscious. The world spun, and I was on my back looking at the sky. The man in the moon stared back at me, a gawking spectator to my predicament. I could hear the car start. Darkness blotted out the moon’s stare.

  When I woke up, it was still dark. The car was gone. I was lying next to a large piece of driftwood. Kaitlyn had left me. I checked my fanny pack and my wallet was still there, money and credit cards still in it. Decent of her. I guess it was the least she could do, after I’d saved her life. Twice.

  I walked partway back to Ocean City, hitched the rest. I went to the beach and watched dawn break over the ocean, the sky turning to mother-of-pearl streaked with salmon, where the sun poked up over aqua-blue waters. Finally, I made my way back to the Bayside Villas, Unit 8. Mendez answered my knock. I must have looked a sight. Her mouth dropped open, but I held up my hand to stem the flow of questions.

  “It’s a long story,” I said.

  “Never mind that,” she snapped. “We got some bad news, girl.”

  I came in and closed the door behind me. The bed was untouched and the T.V. set was on, the sound muted. “Your concern touches me. I probably have a concussion or two. But don’t let that worry you. What’s the problem?”

  She flounced over to the bed and perched on the end. Her slender legs, encased in purple capri pants, looked poised and ready to spring at a moment’s notice.

  “Our connection. We can forget about that big meet we had worked out.”

  I stared at her. My head was starting to pound again. It wasn’t the ocean this time. The T.V. set was tuned to the news. She picked up the remote. A reporter was droning about bodies found in Delaware.

  Mendez gestured at the screen. “Look at this. Ay. Here we are, only trying to maintain national security and all, and we gotta depend on Eddie, the two-bit drug runner from Philadelphia. What a waste.”

  The video showed a familiar beach house.

  “Looks like the little shit got into a shooting match with someone.” Mendez lit a cigarette. “Some guy in the house bought it, too. Piece of shit—all of them. Fuck it. You have breakfast yet?”

  I didn’t answer right away. I watched the two bodies being carried from the stilted beach house.

  THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT

  “I hear kudos are in order.”

  Mike Finnegan strode into the office he shared with Dan Marinelli, files under one arm and a battered briefcase swinging from the other. He parked the files on his desk and tossed the briefcase into a nearby guest chair. “Way to go, dude. You’re racking up an impressive record on those capital crimes.” He offered Marinelli his upraised hand. Marinelli slapped it in return, feeling Finnegan’s excessive give in response.

  Lame-ass, white-boy high five, Marinelli thought. No wonder the brothers make fun of us.

  “Thanks. I think I did all right.” Marinelli was having mixed feelings about the case he’d just won for the Culver City State’s Attorney’s Office. Chico Hernandez, a not-so-bright, emotionally-damaged, but sane man in his early twenties, had been accused of shooting a priest, Father Jaime Ramirez, who had allegedly abused Hernandez as a child.

  “All right? You got a conviction, despite all that psychological crap the defense trie
d to raise. I mean, the guy’s got problems, okay. But that doesn’t mean he can go around shooting anyone who messed up his life in the past.”

  Marinelli shook his head.

  “Maybe it’s just me. You know how I feel about priests. Especially those pedophiles. Hell, it was all I could do to keep from slapping Hernandez on the back and saying, ‘Attaboy,’ when I saw him in court.”

  Finnegan looked at him. “Dude. We’re talking about murder. Even a sick, twisted pedophile deserves better.”

  “I know.”

  “Besides, as the city with the second-highest crime rate in Maryland after Baltimore, don’t you think we could use the win right now?”

  “Totally. Still ... something doesn’t feel right about this one. Hernandez wasn’t retarded, just kind of slow. And he only spoke Spanish. The court assigned a translator to help Baxter get his story. Even then, she didn’t get much, from what she told me. He wouldn’t deal, but he wouldn’t fight either. So she ended up relying on that psych defense.”

  “Well, that’s Baxter’s problem, isn’t it?”

  “Sure. So why do I keep wondering what he wasn’t telling her?”

  “Again, not your problem. Defendant has the right to remain silent, doesn’t he?”

  “That’s not supposed to refer to what you tell your own attorney.”

  Finnegan gawked at Marinelli. “Quit worrying about it, you dumb guinea. You did your job and the public defender did hers. You won. End of story.” He grinned. “Now, sit back, smile and wait for your next plum assignment from Big Dick.”

  Marinelli nodded. Big Dick Dawson, Culver City State’s Attorney. He’d be happy. There’d be good headlines in the Culver City Chronicle’s morning edition—the kind of headlines that couldn’t hurt a State’s Attorney coming up for re-election in six months. Marinelli sat back and smiled. But he couldn’t seem to stop worrying.

  *****

  Three months later, Marinelli was at his desk, reviewing a new case file, when the phone rang.

  In mid-greeting, the familiar voice boomed from the receiver. “Dan, it’s Dick Dawson. My office. Now.”