Dead River (46 page)

He locked the study door behind him and plopped into the leather chair at his desk. Leaning back, staring at the ceiling, thoughts were zipping around in his head like flashes of lightning. Dawn’s life is in jeopardy, there’s no question about that. Sikes isn’t going to stop until he’s stopped, and that means dead. The judicial system can’t do anything. That’s already been established. What about taking the life of another human being? What about it? Would he then be no better than the killer he had killed? That one’s going to take some more thought. Would God forgive him? What about Thou Shalt Not Kill? What about that? Sikes didn’t have any problem taking the life of Sara Ann. An Eye for an Eye, and a Tooth for a Tooth? Yes, there it is: proportional retribution, punishment proportional to the actual, demonstrable harm done. Maybe God would forgive him. At the moment it didn’t matter, he had to do this. Sikes didn’t deserve to live. He would be killing a murderer, a killer of children. Sikes had to die.

Whatever the final plan turns out to be, it would have to be mapped out down to the last detail. Nothing can be left to chance. Expect the unexpected. And certainly no one can know of this plan. Adam knew that was one of the primary reasons people got caught: they had to tell someone. They had to explain their reasons for killing as a way to achieve some kind of absolution after the guilt started eating away at them, or they needed to brag about it. But no matter how well you know someone and trust them and want to tell them everything, the secret has to stay with you.

Then there was the alibi. No crime, especially murder, can be cleanly gotten away with without a rock-solid alibi. But then there was the most important issue: how would he take the life of Sikes? But Adam already had that one figured out. He’d spent many days and nights thinking about the best way to end the nightmare. It would be with a gun, but not his gun. This would require a special purchase, a throw-down gun, one that could never be traced back to him.

When Sikes is found dead, Adam knew that he would be the number one suspect. Plan, plan, and more planning; a solid alibi, no evidence left behind, and silence were to become his mental mantra over the next several days.

 101

THE FINAL DECISION Adam had to make Sunday afternoon was a very important one: which one of the fake beards would he purchase at Kramer’s Novelty Shop on Church Street in downtown Orlando? He’d ruled out the ZZ Top look, too flashy. It had to be something more subtle, more realistic looking. After a half hour of perusing the shop’s inventory he found what he needed. It was perfect. The color of the beard was similar to his natural hair color. The purchase was made in a Boston Red Sox ball cap, a pair of Costa Del Mar sunglasses, and a black Old Navy sweatshirt that he hadn’t worn in years. He paid in cash.

He merged easily into the scanty traffic on I-4. The typical gridlock on the Orlando freeways was non-existent this afternoon. Once on the 528 Beeline and heading east for Cocoa Beach, Adam adjusted his cruise control and whisked down the four-lane highway, continuing to plan his blueprint for murder. A series of unrequited questions popped into his head; he tried to answer them one by one.

What would he do with the items he just purchased? He desperately needed a safe place to keep them. His house was too risky. If either Val or Dawn found the disguise it would raise too many questions. Stashing them at work was also out of the question. There were simply too many meddlesome co-workers, and his assistant, Sally Grabel, commonly known as “Sally the Snoop,” would have half of Cocoa Beach informed of his “new look” by the end of the day.

The best place would be the trunk of his car, he concluded. Neither Val nor Dawn ever drove the Volvo. He could hide the beard and wig in the spare wheel well. And once he was done with the disguise, both would be tossed into a small fire he’d stoke up in his backyard by the river, along with any other items that necessitated destruction.

Where would he purchase the throw-down gun? A local hang out in Orlando, the Whiskey Barrel, was a real biker bar, not one of those contrived bistros found in Daytona Beach that catered to droves of wannabe bikers at Bike Week. No, the Whiskey Barrel was a true biker bar, with the beer, the drugs, the thugs, the fights, and the biker bitches. Adam heard about the joint after moving to Cocoa Beach several years ago. There was story after story floating around about the unsavory characters that hung out there, and he was certain he’d be able to obtain the information he needed. His mantra played over and over inside his head. I have to approach the right person, he thought.

 102

HE HAD KELLY CAPRON stuffed into the back seat of the Olds, face down with her hands bound tightly behind her back with a thin piece of white nylon rope. She lay sprawled out and limp, head full of chloroform, and her nose buried deep into the ratty vinyl seat that was smeared with streaks of dried, crusty ketchup and grease from the bottom of a soaked hamburger bag from McDonald’s. He checked his watch. The dimly-lit green hands pointed to twelve thirty-five. The back parking lot of the Blockbuster store in Sharpes was dark and distant from the vivid images of Kelly that flowed through Sikes’s head. Yes, it had begun. The heavy stone wheel in the center of his skull started its grinding rotations, propagating rhythmic pulses of splendid pain. He reached down, feeling the magnificent protuberance in his groin.

This is how it always started, and now he was here. Here to do what had to be done. Gabriel always knew what to do. He would be united with Kelly tonight, a union of their souls. It would be a celebration of his commitment to her, and Kelly’s next step toward a new universe.

Sikes surveyed the parking lot one last time and then hopped into the driver’s seat, carefully pulling out into traffic.

Monday afternoon Adam disappeared from work at four, slipping past Sally Grabel undetected, and was on the road to Orlando within ten minutes. Earlier that morning he’d packed a gym bag with everything that he figured was necessary for an evening at the Whiskey Barrel.

He set the Volvo’s cruise control at seventy, leaned his head back against the headrest, and thought about the radio newscast he’d heard at lunch time. A young girl named Kelly Capron was missing, kidnapped from the parking lot of the Blockbuster store where she worked. It was reported there were no clues to go on; her parents were frantic and fearing for her life. Adam didn’t need clues; he knew the kidnapper, knew him well. This simply validated his plan.

The Marriott off the 528 Beeline, opposite Orlando International Airport, would be perfect. He veered the Volvo onto the off-ramp and then swung right on the service road leading to the ten-story hotel. After parking in the back lot, he retrieved the gym bag from the trunk. Proceeding through the hotel lobby he spotted the restrooms to the left. He walked confidently to the restroom entrance like he was a guest in the hotel, striding along with the belief that if you act like you belong somewhere, then that’s where you belong.

Adam emerged from the handicap stall after fifteen minutes and glanced around the restroom; he was alone. He gazed into the full-length mirror beside a row of three sinks and couldn’t believe what he saw staring back at him. It was the likeness of a goddamn rough and son-of-a-bitchin’ tough biker. The short brown beard matched the wig that he’d pulled back into a ponytail. He sported a black leather vest, no shirt, and a pair of grimy blue jeans with holes exposing both knees. Over the leather vest he wore a faded denim jacket, and his belt was wide and black with a plain silver buckle. His scuffed black boots were both laced with dirty white shoelaces. The bandido horrendo glaring back at him had the physique of Danny Trejo and the looks of Antonio Banderas. He turned slightly to his left, catching a side view, and then faced the mirror once more. He was ready.

It was dark by the time Adam got to the Whiskey Barrel. A cool breeze whisked around him as he walked toward the building, chilling the exposed skin on his bare chest. He entered through a large wooden door that had brown weather stains, a crack that ran down its center and deep gouges around the brass handle. Adam imagined a late night in the bar when an uncontrollable crowd of liquored-up and drugged-out bikers would begin brawling like wranglers out of a Zane Grey classic. He pictured in his mind a monstrous body clad in black leather being hurled through the air and hitting the solid wooden door.

He was now inside, and the smoke-filled room engulfed him, burning his lungs and tearing his eyes. He headed straight for the bar, looking around only with his eyes, not turning his head. The layout of the Whiskey Barrel was simple. It was a single square room with a smooth concrete floor, booths on both sides, a sprinkle of tables and chairs in the center, a small stage at the back, and a bar with a brass foot-rail. There was an out-of-place jukebox that played CDs in one corner, and biker memorabilia everywhere: on the walls, the ceiling, and even the backs of some chairs. The pictures on the walls were mostly vintage Harleys: knuckleheads, panheads, shovelheads, flatheads, and blockheads. Over the bar was a shadow box framing a denim vest that read “Hell’s Angels” on the back.

“What do you need?” the bartender asked dryly.

“Bud,” Adam said and dropped into one of the barstools.

He took one sip and lowered the bottle to the bar. Suddenly he felt a hand on his right forearm.

“Hi there, good-lookin’. Haven’t seen you in here before.”

Adam spun the barstool around and locked eyes with a drop-dead gorgeous redhead, probably in her late thirties. She wore a long-sleeved denim shirt with the first four buttons undone, and obviously no bra. He desperately tried not to stare, recalling the Seinfeld episode when Jerry explains to George Costanza that you have to glance at them, like the sun.

“Well, I’d say you’re the good-lookin’ one,” Adam replied, in a voice that he’d practiced several times.

“Ain’t you the sweet-talkin’ one?”

“I know good looks when I see ’em. Buy you a drink?”

“Sure. I’ll have what you’re drinkin’.”

“You got it. What’s your name? I’m Krueger.”

“Hi, Krueger, I’m Betsy.”

Betsy wasn’t included in the plan for the night, but maybe, just maybe she’d become part of it. “Okay, Betsy, let’s get you a beer.” Adam raised his hand halfway, motioning for the bartender.

“What kind of name is Krueger,” Betsy asked.

“Krueger’s my last name. I don’t use my first name.”

“Why’s that?”

“’Cause I don’t like it,” Adam responded quickly.

“I guess there’s no sense asking you what it is.”

“You guessed that right,” Adam said then took a heavy gulp of beer.

“You new to the area?”

Adam looked around, scouting for any curious ears, then leaned in closer to Betsy who had pulled up the barstool on his right. “You see, I just got out of the joint. I was in the state prison in Raiford for ten years.”

“Ten years, for what?” Betsy asked in a voice that signaled more intrigue than disappointment.

“Armed robbery.”

“So what’re you doin’ now?”

“Nothin’. But I have a couple of job interviews lined up.”

“Sounds like you’re doin’ all right.”

Adam shrugged his shoulders. “I guess. But this ain’t the greatest time of the year to be lookin’ for a job. Too close to Christmas.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“That and being an ex-con.”

“I’m sure you’ll find something.”

“I’m not even supposed to be drinkin’.” He raised his beer in a mock toast and took a long gulp. “You know, the thing I miss the most is my bike. I used to have an eighty-eight Softail.”

“What happened to it?”

“When my wife left me about five years ago, the bike went with her. She sold it.”

Betsy leaned in closer, smiling sarcastically. “That’s a shame, I mean about the bike. So what’re you ridin’ now?”

“Nothin’, I take the bus.”

Her hand found his forearm again, and this time she gave it a gentle rub. “If you need a ride, let me know.”

“I will,” Adam replied.

The juke cranked out Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Saturday Night Special” as Adam downed the last of his beer. He smiled in Betsy’s direction and concluded she would be as good as anyone to ask about what he really needed. He moved in closer, the scent of her perfume was intoxicating.