Her street was a little more than two miles away from the hospital. The houses on Wharton were mainly duplexes, built after the Second World War. Gnarled maple trees, some a hundred years old or more, provided shade for the entire street and created an effect not unlike entering a cave. Jill supposed it was good to have them because they provided at least some relief from the heat.
She saw the cop car in her driveway and immediately thought, a cop car in the driveway could not be a good sign. It was like getting a phone call at two in the morning. It was always bad news, like someone had a heart attack, or there was a horrible car crash and a family member was lying mangled on a highway.
Jill pulled the Corolla up behind the silver-and-blue patrol car, threw it in park and climbed out. The police car’s left rear tire sagged, low on air. The driver’s side window was open and voices buzzed on the radio. There was no sign of an officer.
She approached the house, which was painted yellow with black trim and always made her think of a bumblebee. The front porch ran the entire width of the house and on it was a glider that creaked with the slightest breeze. Jill kept promising herself she was going to park herself in that glider and read a good novel, but she’d been too busy.
She opened the screen door, took her keys out of her purse and inserted the house key into the lock.
The door creaked open. She would swear on her mother’s name that she’d locked it that morning. Jill looked up to see a cop taking up the doorway and gasped.
“I’m sorry, Miss Adams. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Is there something wrong, Officer?”
“Nothing wrong. And you can call me Ed. Everyone else does.”
“He gave her a big smile, but it lacked any sign of warmth. The fact that the cop had been shorted in the looks department didn’t add anything to the smile. His head was shaved bald, the forehead lined and cracked like a dried riverbed. His face looked as if it had been carved by an angry sculptor: sharp cheekbones, a pointed chin. And the eyes, seemingly locked in a permanent squint.
“How do you know my name? Are you sure I’m not in trouble?”
The cop threw his head back and laughed, revealing big, yellowed teeth. “No trouble. I make a point of having the townspeople let me know when someone new moves in. I like to come out and personally greet folks like yourself.”
Something about him made her uneasy, but if asked she could not put her finger on the exact reason. Maybe it was the fact that she knew she’d locked the door before leaving. Had “Ed” somehow jimmied the lock? Surely she was being crazy, maybe reacting to what Matt Crowe said about the cops being crooked.
“Mind if I come upstairs for a minute?”
She wanted to come up with an excuse why he couldn’t, but none came to her and after all, he was an officer of the law. What harm could come to her in the company of a police officer? “I suppose not.”
He moved out of her way and she entered the vestibule. Jill fumbled with her keys for a moment and dropped them on the mosaic tile floor. She bent over to pick them up and suddenly wished she had stooped instead. She could feel his gaze affixed to her backside, probably checking out her panty line through her white uniform pants.
Unlocking the door, she climbed the stairs and opened the big wooden door that accessed her apartment.
“I’m Ed Rafferty, by the way. I’m the police chief in Lincoln.”
Oh, great
. She was dealing with the head honcho.
Jill passed through the dining room; the chief followed her.
“You’re a nurse, huh?” Rafferty hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and scanned the ceiling, as if checking the structural integrity of the house.
“Yeah.”
“I always loved nurses. Something about the uniforms.”
Maybe because you can see through the pants if you look long and hard.
“How long at the hospital?”
“A month. I lived in Buffalo before I moved to Lincoln.”
He flashed the yellowed grin again. “Well, it’s nice to have such a lovely lady gracing our community. Pretty girl like you
must
have a boyfriend.”
Jesus, he was getting personal. She wished he would leave. “Not at the moment,” she replied.
“Recently separated?”
“You could say that.”
Her fiancé, Jerry, had called off their year-and-a-half engagement this past January, saying he wasn’t ready for marriage. She found that odd because buying the ring and getting engaged was his idea in the first place. It was even stranger that a month after the breakup she saw him at the movies with an overweight blonde in stretch pants and a tropical shirt. The woman looked ten years older than him.
She hadn’t said anything to them, but had watched while they held hands and kissed throughout the movie like horny teenagers.
After that incident, she decided to get a job in another town. She had enough of Buffalo; it held too many bad memories. A fresh start was what she needed and she hoped to find it living and working in Lincoln.
But to her dismay, she already had to deal with a leering creep, who turned out to be the Chief of Police, of all people.
“That’s a shame,” he said. “Somebody break your heart?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Tsk, tsk. With that beautiful black hair and those killer eyes, I don’t see how anyone could resist you.”
“I really have a lot of unpacking to do. If you’ll excuse me,” she said pointedly.
He smacked his lips together. “Yes sir, irresistible.”
“I have to unpack.”
“No problem, hon.”
“Don’t call me hon.” She felt a hot flush of anger rise in her but quickly suppressed it. She was dealing with the Chief of Police, not some pickup artist on the prowl at happy hour. She didn’t want to wind up in jail.
“As long as I don’t call you late for dinner, right?” He smiled again and she thought it might be the same way a hyena smiles before tearing into its prey. His friendly small-town-cop act was wearing thin.
“Thank you for stopping by, Chief,” she said. “That door off the kitchen leads to the steps and the side entrance. You can use that.”
He winked at her. “I’ll be seeing you around.” Hands in his pockets, he ambled through the kitchen and went through the door.
Jill padded through the kitchen. She shut the door that lead to the steps. When she heard his lumbering steps hit the bottom landing, she slid the security chain in place.
C
HAPTER
7
Rafferty looked up at Jill Adams’ house from the driveway. What was she doing up there right now?
Picking her lock had been a brilliant idea. He had watched her car pull in behind his, enjoyed the look on her face when she saw the squad car in the driveway. She was the same girl Dietrich had pulled into the warehouse, no doubt. Half of him wanted to rip off those white pants and have his way with her. The other half wanted to sink his teeth into her flesh, maybe tear off a piece from her buttocks while she screamed. That would come later, at Harvest time. Then she would be his. Human lust versus the need to hunt. That was pretty much what he felt toward human females.
He pulled out of Jill’s driveway and turned right, pushing the cruiser up to forty-five and cutting off a guy in a red Saab. The guy had the balls to honk his horn at him. Rafferty checked the rearview. The Saab’s front end swerved over the double yellow.
I’d stop his ass if I had time
, he thought.
When he pulled into the lot behind the station house, Clarence was standing at the gas pump. With one hand, he held the nozzle in his cruiser’s tank, and with the other, he idly scratched the back of his neck. That pump was another source of joy for Rafferty. Maybe once a year he caught someone trying to steal gas from it. They didn’t try to steal a second time.
Rafferty parked the car and climbed out. It was close to four
P.M.
and the sun was beating down on the blacktop. As he walked across the lot, the chemical smell of tar rose up and his feet smooched against the softened asphalt. He approached Clarence at the pump.
“Afternoon, Ed,” Clarence said.
“How’s Hamil doing?”
“He’s been pretty quiet. Haven’t had to beat him.”
“Too bad for you,” Rafferty said. “Release him. And tell him if he pulls that shit again he’ll get it worse.”
“Right, Chief.” Clarence shut the pump off and returned the nozzle to the holder.
Rafferty went inside. He had phone calls to make.
Inside, Linda stood at a file cabinet, its top drawer open. She jammed a report in the top drawer and slid it shut as he passed her on his way to his desk.
He dialed the number for Jimbo’s garage. The phone rang three times and Carl Downey, the other mechanic, answered.
“Get me Jimbo,” Rafferty said.
“Is this the Chief?”
“You got it. Where’s Jimbo?”
“Hang on.”
Carl hollered for Jimbo, his yell squawking in the receiver.
Damned moron
, Rafferty thought. He held the receiver at arm’s length.
When he returned the receiver to his ear, Rafferty heard the clink of metal on metal, the whiz of an impact wrench and then Jimbo telling Carl to go check the rotors on the Ford in bay two.
“Jimbo here.” Old Jimbo’s voice always sounded like he had gargled with razor blades. Jimbo was the best source in town for information on Outsiders. He owned the town’s only gas station, and he saw all kinds go past his rusted pumps.
“Rafferty. Seen any action in town lately?”
“Had a young piece of tail come through here for gas a few times. Fine, she was. Said something about just moving into town. Other than that, not much.”
“I knew about her already.”
“Oh?” Jimbo hawked and spat, presumably on the floor of the garage.
“Keep your eyes open for any more newcomers. And remember, anything good you call me, got it?”
“I suppose. If I gotta share, then I gotta.”
Rafferty lowered his voice to a whisper. “No kills before Harvest. Unless I say so.”
Jimbo coughed, harsh and raspy. Then Rafferty heard the wet
twhock
of him spitting.
Maybe the old bastard will just keel over and die someday, choke on all that crap in his lungs. Serves him right for sucking down Pall Malls all day.
“Sure wouldn’t of minded stickin’ it to that little girlie who came through here. What’s her name, anyway?”
“Don’t get any ideas,” Rafferty warned. “I’m saving her.”
Jimbo cackled. “Well, if you want to share, Ed, you just give me a holler. My old pecker ain’t seen a beaver in years.”
“Keep it in your pants, you old pervert.”
Jimbo started coughing again and Rafferty hung up.
This town sucks
, thought Bill Jergens as he sat in the waiting area at Jimbo’s garage. He had come all the way out to this pissant little town to sell a new pager account at Drover Industrial Supply. When he got there, the guy told him that Drover had already gone with Mobile Comm, Bill’s main competitor. And the asshole had told him over the phone that if Bill came out personally, they would sign with Rapid Communications, Bill’s company. He felt like threatening the guy with a lawsuit.
To top it off, AAA had brought him to this stinking garage because his Lexus had refused to start. Forty thousand dollars for the car and it quit on him.
He sat in the area of the garage that doubled as an office and waiting room for the customers. There was a scuffed metal desk and an office chair with the stuffing poking out of the seat, three plastic chairs and a magazine rack. The rack held a copy of
Life
with a picture of Ronald Reagan on the cover. To top it off the place smelled like a cross between gasoline and a sweat sock.
The sun beat on the back of his neck. The collar of his shirt scratched his neck, and sweat beads formed on his forehead. He wished for a pair of Bermudas and sandals instead of a suit.
He had sold Chryslers, life insurance and even pawned off thousand-dollar vacuums on gullible housewives. Now it was pagers and cell phones, mostly sold to corporate customers.
He was pretty damn good at selling—been top salesman three years running—and he had the Lexus to prove it. He liked thinking the other salesmen drooled over it when he pulled in the lot.
Now, sitting in the garage, he began to get nervous, wondering what these small-town yokels would do to his prized automobile.
The geezer named Jimbo entered the waiting room. He was George Burns old, with a scraggly white beard and an off-center eyeball. The guy could probably see his left ear with that eye, Bill thought. Jimbo wiped his hands on the front of his coveralls, smearing them with grease. He approached Bill and stopped.
“That’s a pretty fancy car.”
Scratchy voice, probably a heavy smoker.
“What’s the damage?”
“Fella like you must make a lotta money.”
“I do all right,” Bill said. “What’s wrong with it?”
Instead of answering, Jimbo hawked and spat a wad of phlegm on the floor. Bill recoiled in disgust.
“Well, I believe it’s your alternator.”
“That car’s only a year old!”
Jimbo scratched his beard. “Yeah, but it’s a Jap car. Never did trust them to make cars, not after the War, that is.”
“What exactly is wrong with the alternator?”
“It’s just shot.”
“I want to see it.”
“Sorry, can’t let you in the garage,” he said and shrugged. “Insurance reasons.”
“If you don’t let me in there, I’ll call the cops.”
“Be my guest. Call ’em.”
This guy is a number-one jackass.
“All right, suit yourself,”
Bill took out his cell phone, flipped it open. “I’m calling 911.”
Jimbo reached out and grabbed Bill’s arm. “Well, maybe I
should
let you take a look. I’m getting a little crabby in my old age.”
Bill gave him a speculative look; after a moment, he put the phone back in his pocket.
“But it’ll cost you. Twenty-dollar consulting fee. That’s on top of parts and labor.”
“And what’s that going to cost me?”
“Oh, in the neighborhood of a thousand.”
“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m paying that much. I’m getting my car out of here if I have to put it in neutral and push it out myself.”
Bill stood and stomped into the garage.
A skinny, acne-faced kid with “Carl” sewn on his coveralls looked over at him. There was a Ford up on the lift and Carl was monkeying with the front brakes.
Bill’s Lexus, black and gleaming, waited in the bay next to the Ford. Jimbo followed Bill into the garage and slid up next to him. The hood of the Lexus was propped open; Bill leaned over the engine pretending to inspect the car’s components very carefully. He furrowed his brow, hoping the geezer wouldn’t catch on that Bill had no idea what to look for. “There doesn’t look like there’s anything wrong under here.”
“Well, you got no juice. And I say it’s your alternator.”
“Are you telling me you’re guessing?”
“Not guessing,” Jimbo said, and tapped his finger against his temple. “Instinct.”
That was it. Bill would go outside and call a tow truck on the cell. He had to get out of this place. It stunk.
Bill started to move for the door, but Jimbo put a hand on his chest. Bill shoved forward, but Jimbo held him in place. He was surprisingly strong for an old man.
“Maybe I misjudged you. You seem like a decent guy, and you sure don’t take any bullshit.”
Bill beamed a little, happy with himself for getting the old man to back down. With any luck he’d be out of this Podunk town in a hurry. Bill glanced at the other mechanic, who had stopped working on the brake job and now stood at the overhead doors. He pressed a red button and the doors hummed and clacked before closing. That was weird. Why the hell would he do that?
“Let’s sit down and talk about this and I’ll level with you. It’s just going to be more of a hassle for you to have this towed again anyway. Sound fair?”
“All right. But you’d better not try and screw me.” Bill wagged his finger at Jimbo. “Got it?”
“Hey, I know a tough customer when I see one. Let’s go into my office and talk.”
As Bill stepped forward, something solid thudded against the back of his head. The ground rose up at terrifying speed, and a second later, everything went black.
The fat guy in the expensive suit twitched and flopped like a snagged trout. After a few seconds, he stopped. The back of his skull now had a divot in it. Jimbo looked at Carl, who held the tire iron, now specked with blood and hair. A big grin crossed his face, and his breathing had quickened.
Jimbo wound up and punched Carl square in the chest. Carl rocked back a step.
“Now I’m gonna have to deal with Rafferty, you numb fuck!”
Carl continued to stare at the body, an idiot grin on his face.
“Carl!”
Carl looked at Jimbo.
“If you had to hit him, why did you hit him in the noggin?”
“He was giving you trouble,” Carl said, wiping the blood from his face with his sleeve.
Half-wit
, Jimbo thought. He didn’t have a problem with teaching the fat salesman a little lesson, but now Fatty was dead and if Rafferty found out, Jimbo might be joining him in the afterlife.
They had to get rid of the body, and quick.
Jimbo looked down at Fatty, guessed him to weigh two-fifty, maybe even two-eighty. He squatted down and rolled Jergens over, then stepped over the dead man, hooked his arms under the body’s armpits and heaved. One of Fatty’s tassled loafers slipped off, and the smell of shit was overwhelming. Apparently, Fatty had let loose when Carl caved in his skull.
He thought for a moment about canning Carl, and then dismissed the thought because he needed the help at the garage.
“Where you going with him, Jimbo?”
“To the local barn dance, asshole. We’re gonna do the do-si-do together.” Jimbo shook his head. “Where the fuck do ya think I’m going with him?”
“Uh, I dunno?”
Jimbo jerked his head, indicating for Carl to get over and help. “Get his legs. We’ll stuff him in the dungeon.”
The dungeon was a six-by-six room off the garage where Jimbo kept a bench grinder and old tires.
Carl scurried over and lifted the salesman’s legs.
The guy had a black splotch on his pant leg, most likely motor oil from when he hit the floor. Carl snickered at the fact that not only was the big shot dead, his suit was ruined too.
His good time was short-lived when he thought of Rafferty coming in and poking around the station. If he found the body, they would be in violation of the rules, and if Rafferty exploded, he wanted to be two towns away.
They dragged the body to the door of the dungeon, Carl grunting and cursing under his breath the whole time.
“You got no right to swear. You caused this mess and I’m gonna hafta pay for it.”