Port of Sorrow (20 page)

“His nose is still on his face.”

“Why does he have two noses, then?”

“What do I look like a nose specialist?”

“You might be, I ain’t never met one. Saw a foot doctor once though for toe fungus. He was nice. Gave me a sucker after. It was blue.”

“Would you hush and give me a hand here. We need to get him to camp afore he freezes to death. Grab his arms.”

Finn felt his shoulders and feet being hoisted off the ground. His head ached and he couldn’t find the energy to speak.

As the rain continued to splash onto his face, Finn wondered why his angels had dirty faces.

CHAPTER
41

Big Brother wanted to savor his gift.

With Wells’ help, he gagged and bound the terrified boy to a stiff-backed chair in a corner of the main room. The chair itself was already chained to a rusted steel ring bolted securely into the foundation wall. Specks of dried blood, vomit and urine checkered the floorboards around it and filled the cracks of a crude trapdoor.

Satisfied, Big Brother ordered Wells to bring in some dry firewood and build a fire in the massive stone hearth that dominated the corner directly opposite the boy.

The gift wasn’t as pretty or as smooth-skinned as Big Brother had imagined it would be, but he wasn’t planning on paying much attention to its face. With a forceful hand, he yanked down the gag, squeezed its nose between his fingers, dropped two blue pills into its mouth, and poured in some stale beer.

The gift had no choice but to either swallow or drown. After it swallowed, Big Brother repositioned the gag.

“Is that big enough?” Wells asked once the fire was lit.

“For now,” Big Brother agreed. “But it’s a wet night, you better bring in more wood.”

Wells grumbled a little, but didn’t waste any time before he dashed back outside. When he was gone, Big Brother went into the lone bedroom and retrieved his Polaroid camera.

“Smile,” he encouraged as he snapped off a picture of his present. He always liked to compare the wrapped and unwrapped versions because by the time he was finished, they were changed forever.

Sometimes, it didn’t show right away. But if you compared the photographs, you saw a definite slackness in the muscles of the face and a deadening of their eyes. Only one of his presents had ever talked about him afterwards, and that was because he was interrupted before he could finish. He wouldn’t have to worry about this one though. It was never returning home.

“Is there anything else?” Wells asked as he shook off the rain and dropped a heaped armload of split wood beside the fireplace.

Big Brother pondered the question and waited for Wells to glower with impatience before he pulled over a chair and stood on it to reach up between the open-beam rafters of the ceiling. With a sharp tug, he pulled down a pistol-grip shotgun wrapped in plastic.

“Kill the deputy with this,” he said, handing over the weapon. “Then leave town as fast as you can.”

“When can I come back?” Wells eagerly unwrapped the weapon.

“Give me about ten days to clear everything up, then we’ll be back in business.” It was so easy to lie to him, Big Brother thought. It always had been.

Wells checked the chambers of the gun. They were empty.

Frowning, he looked up at Big Brother only to be hit in the face with two cartridges.

“Load it in the truck. We don’t want the ammo getting wet, do we?”

Wells stuffed the cartridges in his pocket. “Is there any special way you want me to do it?”

“I want her dead, that’s all. Be as creative as you like.”

Wells grinned. “I got something in mind I think she’ll like.”

“Then get to it, I’ve got my own plans for the evening.”

Wells looked over at the boy, his body limp from drugs. “Have fun.”

Big Brother watched Wells drive away before dialing Little Brother’s number and saying three simple words.

“Don’t fuck up.”

CRY
RE
RAYNE WALKED
into the hospital room and took a seat. He purposefully took his time rearranging himself before pulling out his notepad and his FBI identification. He read through his notes carefully, making sure the patient couldn’t see them.

Finally, he looked up at the ceiling mirror to lock eyes with Gilles. He showed him his identification just to be sure he knew who he was talking to.

“The tests came back from the lab,” Cryre lied as he looked back down at his notepad. “We know you killed the cook.”

Gilles blanched.

“We also know you took your sweet time about it. You tortured the poor lad with your nightstick.”

Cryre looked up again and locked eyes with the deputy.

“Are you a faggot, Deputy Gilles?”

Gilles sputtered. “What! No! Of course I’m fucking well not.”

“Then why did you feel the need to penetrate the victim with your nightstick? If it was your nightstick and not your—”

“It was the nightstick. I’m not bent.”

“You didn’t rape him?” Cryre asked.

“No. I just, I just . . .”

“Humiliated him?” Cryre suggested.

Cryre watched the realization cross Gilles’ face as he suddenly realized he had just admitted to murder.

“I’m not saying another bloody thing.”

Cryre laughed mirthlessly. “A bit late for that.”

“You tricked me,” Gilles said. “That will never hold up in court.”

“I’m afraid it will.”

“You never read me my rights.”

“As an officer of the law, you know your rights better than anyone. Besides, you aren’t under arrest

yet.”

“Fuck.”

“No thanks, you’re too rough for me.”

Gilles glared at the agent in both confusion and anger.

“But do you know something, deputy?” Cryre continued. “I don’t really care about the cook.”

Gilles eyes widened.

“Nobody seems to miss him; nobody’s kicking up a fuss. Why break my balls over something nobody cares about. The stripper, however, comes from some old money back East and they are whining something fierce to my boss. If I could clear that case, I would be golden. And the person who helped me crack it could expect my gratitude.”

“Gratitude?” Gilles asked.

“Washington State has the death penalty, I believe. Lethal injection is used unless you prefer hanging. Awfully nice of them to allow you the choice, don’t you think?”

Gilles gulped. “I was under orders to kill that cook. It wasn’t my idea.”

“Then tell me,” Cryre began, “whose idea it was.”

When Gilles finished talking, Cryre immediately dialed Roy Bastet’s office in Washington. It was time to bring in a team

and fast.

CHAPTER
42

Trapped beneath the dribbling, cone-shaped head of the stand-up shower, Julia wished for a bathtub. Any ordinary bathtub would do. It didn’t need Jacuzzi jets or gold-leaf taps, just a deep porcelain pocket that she could sink into up to her neck; somewhere to unwind with a chilled glass of wine, the gentle flicker of candlelight and some bath salts.

A man to scrub her back might be nice, too, she thought as she turned off the spray and stepped onto the cold linoleum floor. But unlike the bathtub, he would need to be special.

A man with a light touch in a strong hand, who cuddled and kissed, thought morning-breath was sweet, stayed true, and was honest and kind. A man who supported her every time she changed her mind, was independent but couldn’t stand to be apart. A man who cried at the sad parts and laughed at the funny; a handsome and rugged man who would sweep her off her feet . . .

Julia sighed as she wrapped herself in a thick towel. Men like that don’t even exist in the movies, she told herself as she switched on the TV and flopped on the couch to dry her hair.
Harvey
, the black and white version with Jimmy Stewart, was playing on PBS.

Julia curled her feet underneath herself to study the lanky yet handsome man on the tiny screen. He looked a little like Finn, she thought, squinting her eyes. But she doubted Jimmy Stewart ever dressed as a female lounge act. Then again, a man who dressed up as a woman yet was still secure with his masculinity could be the perfect blend . . .

She laughed at the thought, dismissing it, and then suddenly had a craving for popcorn.

With a cold can of orange pop in one hand and a bowl of buttered popcorn in her lap, Julia sat in the dark to watch the rest of the movie. She would have preferred
The Philadelphia Story
or even
It’s A Wonderful Life
, but at least it wasn’t a Hitchcock. She had all the murder and mystery she needed at work without watching it on TV.

When the movie was over, Julia unfolded the couch and crawled into bed. There, she took a few deep breaths and closed her eyes. Her body was bone tired, but her mind was still wide awake.

WELLS PICTURED WHAT
he would do to her, how she would plead and beg and grovel and give him anything he wanted just to stop the pain.

This could be his greatest night ever.

He had never planned a kill before. On purpose that is. A tiny part of him always held back. True, he had humiliated and tortured numerous conquests, but he had always been aware he would be letting them go. This time, however, he would end the night with murder. There was nothing he couldn’t do to the rookie because there was no way she was ever going to talk.

He grinned fiercely as his truck bounced along the gravel road just miles from town.

THE FIRST THING
Finn felt when he opened his eyes was pain. It was everywhere: face, head, neck, back, arms, legs. Even internal pain: lungs, chest, stomach, throat, eyes.

He tried to sit up, but his head whirled and his stomach churned. Fortunately, it was empty.

“Don’t try to move,” said a familiar voice. “You’re badly injured.”

Finn focused on the face that entered the light above him. It was Abery. He tried to speak, but his throat was bone dry. Instead of words, he released a groan.

Abery fetched a glass of water, dipped her finger in it and wet Finn’s lips. When his tongue darted out, she rewarded it with a few more drops. Slowly, she worked his body up to accepting a full sip, then another.

With his voice at a croak, Finn thanked her.

Abery smiled and wiped his forehead with a damp cloth. “You’re very lucky,” she said. “Hoppy had a feeling you’d get yourself in trouble. It was she and Browder who found you.”

“Thank them for me,” Finn said, “but I have to go.” Finn attempted to sit up again, but the dizziness and pain forced him back down.

“You can’t go,” Abery said. “You probably have a concussion. I think you may have to go to the hospital for X-rays.”

Finn shook his head, regretting it instantly as another wave of nausea broke over him.

“I heard them talking,” he said. “Julia is in danger.”

“So will you be if you try to exert yourself. You’ve been badly beaten.”

Finn grit his teeth and forced himself to sit up. The nausea returned but he fought it off.

“I must go.” He dropped his feet over the side of the cot.

The tent flap was pulled aside as Finn gracelessly got to his feet. Hoppy entered just in time to catch him in her huge arms as his knees buckled.

“You’re in no shape to move, my friend,” said Hoppy, holding him steady.

“A friend needs me,” he insisted, trying to will the muscles in his legs to work.

Hoppy was silent for a moment as Finn forced himself to stand on his own. She rewarded his determination with a smile.

“I can give you some tea that will help rebuild your strength.”

“I don’t have time—”

Hoppy silenced him. “If you don’t drink my tea, you will be useless to your friend.”

Finn was too weak to argue.

Hoppy smiled as she told him to wait with Abery until she returned, then she lifted the flap and vanished into the turbulent storm.

Finn sat down on the bed, his head pounding and his muscles aching. He turned his eyes to the ceiling and prayed he wouldn’t be too late.

CHAPTER
43

Little Brother sat inside his car, shivering against the dampness of the night. His eyes were locked on the front entrance to Julia’s second-story apartment, and he wished Wells would arrive soon so he could turn the damn engine on.

A set of high beams turned onto Main Street two blocks away, sending Little Brother diving below the dash. Wells’ truck pulled a U-turn one block from Julia’s apartment and killed its engine.

Little Brother snuck a peek over the dash to see Wells tucking the shotgun under his arm and walking calmly to the ground-floor entrance. It only took him a few seconds to bypass the flimsy security of the door before he was inside and heading up the stairs.

Little Brother rubbed his clammy palms on his pant legs before turning the ignition and flipping the heater up to high.

Now all he had to do was wait.

WELLS PRESSED HIS
ear against the apartment door. Everything was quiet inside. He glanced down at the crack beneath the door. Everything was dark. He studied the lock. No deadbolt. For a cop, this gal was too stupid to live.

It took him seven seconds to pick the simple lock. A couple more to unscrew the hall light and plunge it into darkness.

It’s amazing what you can learn if you’re sent to a good reform school.

A COOL
FLUTTER
of air floated into the cramped room. It was the third night in a row that Julia hadn’t been able to sleep, but it was the first time she had noticed a draft.

Peering across the darkness, she saw nothing, but then a creak of the floorboards made her sit up straight. There was someone or something in the room with her. She could sense it.

Silently, she slipped out of bed and crawled naked along the floor to the bathroom. The tiny closet beside it held her Glock. She heard another creak and sensed rather than saw the intruder’s movements.

Holding her breath, she inched closer to the closet. She was stopped when a thin beam of light cut through the darkness to land on the pillow where her head had been only moments before.

The intruder cursed, the sound of his voice, so close, breaking the dam she was holding on her panic. She lunged for the closet door just as the flashlight beam swiveled in her direction. As she yanked open the door, heavy footsteps thundered across the floor. She felt for her gun belt, grabbed onto the leather and yanked the Glock from its safety harness.

Before she could bring the gun to bear, however, the intruder lashed out with his foot and slammed it into the closet door.

Julia shrieked as the door crashed against her wrist and the gun fell from her hand. Terrified, Julia twisted her neck to be met by the twin barrels of a pistol-grip shotgun.

“Don’t even breathe,” the intruder hissed as he reached down to grab his prey by the arm.

Julia recognized the voice, but before she could say Wells’ name, she was thrown across the room to crash onto her bed. Instinctively, she covered herself with the top sheet.

Keeping his flashlight aimed at her face, Wells crossed to the window and checked the heavy curtains were drawn tight. He then moved to the front door, felt along the wall, and turned on the lights.

“What do you want?” Julia demanded.

Wells grinned. “I’ve been in lust since I first spoke to you at the station. I want everything you’ve got to give.”

“You’ll get nothing from me, you bastard.”

Wells lost his grin. “We can do this two ways. The first is you smile nicely and do whatever I ask. The second is I beat you into road pizza and then you do whatever I ask. What’s it going to be?”

“You’re here to kill me.”

“Not if you do what I want.”

Julia knew he was lying. There was no way you could rape a cop and expect her to stay silent. She swallowed her disgust as she dropped the sheet to reveal her breasts. Adrenaline had swollen her nipples and she hoped Wells would mistake it for excitement.

Wells licked his lips with a purplish tongue as he pulled a silken cord from his pocket.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” he said as he walked towards her, dangling the cord. “It’s just that I don’t trust you.”

Julia shuddered as Wells grabbed her left hand and began tying it to the bed frame. The shotgun was pointed at her belly, but Wells was having difficulty tying the knot with only one hand. Unresisting, she stroked his hair with her free hand, drawing his ear closer to her mouth.

“What are you doing?” Wells demanded, pulling away.

Julia tried to blush. “I was going to talk dirty,” she said. “I thought men liked that.”

Wells couldn’t keep the smile off his face as he lowered his ear to her mouth. Julia kissed the lobe delicately, drawing it nearer with a barely audible whisper. Then she opened her mouth and grabbed it between her teeth.

With a fierce yank, flesh and cartilage tore from Wells’ head — a spray of warm blood shot out to splash across Julia’s face and chest in a slippery mess. She spat out the clump of flesh as Wells reeled back in agony, his hand clamped over the gaping wound.

Julia knew she had only seconds to act. Quickly, she tore her other hand free and lashed out with everything at her disposal: nails, teeth, muscle and bone. Nails raked down his face, teeth dug into his arms, and a sharp knee pummeled into his groin.

Wells howled like a wounded animal as he tried to fight her off, but still he kept a firm hold on the shotgun. The cold steel pushed against her abdomen and Julia knew he was fumbling for the trigger.

She didn’t have the strength to wrestle it away, but she wasn’t about to give in either. Grabbing the barrel with both hands, Julia pushed upwards with all her remaining strength. The steel slid from her belly, up between blood-slicked breasts, aiming towards her face. She screamed as she pushed even harder just as both barrels exploded.

The window facing the street shattered as pieces of bone and buckshot tore through the curtains with an incredible force. A torrent of blood rained over the two bodies like a monsoon.

LITTLE BROTHER JUMPED
in his seat at the sound of the shotgun and stared up at the falling glass with his jaw hanging loose. He couldn’t believe Wells had been so careless.

He reached for the door handle, but was stopped by the sight of someone dashing out in front of his car and crossing the road.

As the figure ran under the street lamp, Little Brother cursed.