Catch & Neutralize (16 page)

Scott headed into the room, a combination of awe and revulsion. One hand shot to his stomach, the other fist covered his mouth.

“Gross,” Scott muttered before making the sound of a pre-vomit cough. “I thought you were going to drive me back now.”

With a huff of expelled breath, Tiffany asked no one in particular: “Why do I always surround myself with psychos and pussies?”

Angie answered with a laugh.

Scott remained silent, eyes transfixed on the man missing chunks of skin.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Scott!” Tiffany screamed, sick of dealing with today’s issues. “It’s just a bit of blood. We all have it inside us. Stop acting like I’m asking you to feast from a porta-potty.” She took a deep breath, calming her anger. “Think you can help get him downstairs, college boy?”

Scott eyeballed Tiffany. “Seriously? Look at him. He’s a bloody mess.” Returning focus to Stockton, he shook his head. “No fucking way.”

Angie asked Tiffany: “Don’t you have plastic yard bags or Saran Wrap? Something to keep Scott from getting Stockton’s goo all over him?” To Scott: “That’s what you’re worried about, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I’ve got both,” Tiffany answered, handing the potato peeler back to Angie. “Yard bags are in the garage. Plastic wrap’s in the pantry.” Tiffany started towards the door calling over her shoulder, “I’ll go get them. Try not to peel Scott while I’m gone, Angie. I kind of like him with skin.”

Scott kept quiet, his complexion pale.

Chapter 29

The door stayed open as Tiffany disappeared into the darkness. The lights clicked on, her steps echoing down the hallway.

Scott sat on Tiffany’s bed. Eyes closed, his lips moving soundlessly.

Angie scoffed. “Are you actually praying, Scott?” She walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder, waited for his eyes to open. As soon as they did, she continued while shaking the blood-stained potato peeler in his face: “I can’t believe you’re praying after what you came here to do to me, you little prick.”

With blank eyes and mouth still moving, Scott grabbed Angie’s wrists and squeezed. She squealed as the potato peeler fell to the floor. It bounced with a clack and slid away. Scott jumped from the bed, hands flying around Angie’s neck. She backed up, trying to get away without luck.

Angie’s face turned crimson, eyes widening as her lungs failed to fill with air. Noises gurgled up her windpipe attempting to form words. She grabbed at Scott’s hands trying to pull them away, his strength too much.

It took several minutes for her eyes to roll back, for her body to go limp. Keeping pressure on Angie’s throat, Scott squatted and laid her down with a thump.

“Dumb bitch,” he muttered, shaking the stiffness from his hands. Strangling someone took longer, required more strength and stamina than he’d thought. Even for a petite little thing like Mrs. Carter, the act seemed to take forever.

Footsteps startled Scott. He tried getting to his feet as something walloped the back of his head. He landed on his buttocks, sending shards of pain up his spine. Hands to head, Scott leaned forward in dizziness. He was struck again, sending him down to the floor.

Scott laid moaning, head resting near Angie’s feet.

Chapter 30

Tiffany stood looking at the two. A slick area on the back of Scott’s head suggested open wounds. She’d struck him harder than she’d intended.

Although a large, purple bruise formed around Angie’s neck, her chest rose and fell rhythmically. Passed out from lack of oxygen, Tiffany surmised. A nasty bruise, but at least she was still alive.

And so was Scott.

For now.

Tiffany set industrial scissors on the tray of empty glasses, a sound of metal clanging against metal. Thick liquid streaked the scissors, dark and sticky. A clump of Scott’s hair lay trapped in the fluid.

Tiffany found additional bloody material on her hands. She wiped the residue against the seat of her jeans. Grabbing the pouch of zip ties, she secured Scott’s hands and feet by using five on each. She gave quick yanks to verify security.

“There,” Tiffany spat. “That’s what you get.”

She grabbed a pillow from the bed and, sitting next to Angie, gently placed it under her head. Guiding her sleeping friend’s hair back, Tiffany touched Angie’s bruised neck.

“I am so sorry, snow pea.” She gave another neck touch. “I never should’ve left you alone with that monster.”

Angie’s eyes blinked open slowly.

“I want to hurt him,” Angie whispered, sitting up unsteadily at first with hands going immediately to her neck. She pressed the tender area and winced. “I want to hurt him to death.”

“Of course you do. After what he did, I think you’ve earned that right.”

Tiffany took Angie’s hand, rubbing the palm against her cheek. Looking at Angie’s bruises, Tiffany’s eyes filled with tears.

“He has to suffer the consequences of his actions, of his stupidity.” She glanced at Scott and back to Angie. “We came so close to losing you because of,” she head pointed at Scott, “this lame excuse of a human being. We can’t lose you, Angie. The Institute…”

Angie leaned closer. “It’s okay. I’m okay. And, I know how you feel. I feel it too. We need to get rid of Scott. He needs to go away for good. In fact,” Angie suggested, “we should continue our game with just these two.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.” Tiffany pulled back searching Angie’s face, trying to understand.

“I mean, let’s get these idiots down to the dungeon and continue our game.” Angie’s lips curved into a grin. “Same rules but the dares have to involve these two.” She pointed at Stockton and then at Scott. “We’ll keep our
Party Girl Fund
jar down there with them. What do you say?”

Tiffany pushed her glasses up and looked from Stockton to Scott and back at Angie. She licked her thumb and rubbed at blood crusted on Angie’s cheek. “Sure. Fine with me.”

“Thank you.” Angie smiled as she slipped her hands into Tiffany’s. “That’s what I really want. But, that’s not
all
I want.”

Tiffany nodded. “Okay, let’s get them situated downstairs first. Then we can focus on other things.”

“Deal.” Angie smiled. “I also want to update some of the technical rules.”

“Technical rules?”

“Yeah.” Touching her throat as she spoke, Angie explained: “If one of us doesn’t accept or complete the challenge, then the other can choose to do it for twice the price.”

For clarification, Tiffany asked, “So, let’s say you challenged me to trim Stockton for five-hundred bucks. If I say no and you do it, then instead of you putting five-hundred in the
Party Girl Fund
, I’ll have to put in a thousand?”

Angie flashed another grin. “You’ve got it, smart stuff.”

“All right, I guess.” Tiffany looked from Scott to Stockton, Stockton to Scott. “But not until we’ve gotten both down to the basement or dungeon or whatever. They’re way too heavy for either of us to go at it alone.”

“Sounds good,” Angie agreed, standing. “Do you have a stretcher, doctor?”

Tiffany’s curls shifted with a headshake. “No, not that kind of doctor.” She thought for a moment. “But, I’ve got one of those luggage carrier hitch things in storage. It has wheels, but the carriage part is totally flat. It’s not like a box. It’s just a platform. We’ll have to strap them individually, take one down at a time.”

“That should work. Where’s your storage?”

“I haven’t used it in a long time, so I’m sure it’s filthy. Anyway, the storage closet is in the garage.” Tiffany pointed to a large roll of plastic wrap she’d dropped by the door. “We can roll Stockton up in that so he doesn’t drip everywhere.” Her eyes roamed the floor around Stockton. “There’s already a gigantic mess to clean. Don’t want to add to or make a pathway out of it.”

Angie’s eyes followed. “Yeah, sorry about that. I’ll totally clean it.”

“That’s mighty nice of you,” Tiffany answered with sarcasm. Then with a smile, she pushed at her glasses. “Let’s just focus on getting them downstairs for now. The rest can wait.”

~

“Just as dusty as I thought,” Tiffany said pulling the luggage hitch from the storage closet. “I haven’t seen this thing in forever.” She wiped a hand over its gritty surface. “Used to belong to my college boyfriend, Riley. Hot as he was smart and all mine until he joined a band. Quite a successful one, I might add.”

Tiffany stood up straighter, shoulders back, head high. She seemed like she felt proud and important to divulge the information. “I see his pic on those music mags from time to time. He’s still as gorgeous as ever. Even with all that makeup he wears now.”

Tiffany’s eyes floated to distant memories as she removed her glasses and wiped the lenses. “He used to lug our bikes and camping equipment around on this,” she said caressing the luggage carrier, “hitched to the back of his old grocery getter.”

Glasses perched back on her nose, she went on: “His parents gave him the car in high school. We always joked about how crappy it was, started calling it The Retro Mobile. A 1992 Dodge Colt in this terrible, dull orange shade.” She laughed. “Really it was a piece of junk, and Riley was too poor to buy something new. We thought it was cool, though, especially after decorating the chipped paint with stickers from our road trips and concert expeditions. Had so much fun in that little junker. Our relationship was as close to perfection as you can get, like two nuts in a sack. Then I went to grad school and he started touring with the band. We drifted apart, lost touch.” Tiffany sighed. “Sad how good things rarely last.” She fell silent lost in memories.

“I noticed a heavy metal mag by your bed. Didn’t know you listened to that style of music,” Angie said. “So? Which one is he?” She looked at her hands and made a face. They were covered with dried blood and smudged filth. Wiping them on her borrowed dress, Angie asked: “Is he the tall one? Does he sing? If you’re still in touch, maybe you could…”

“No. No, Angie, not that one. Riley is the shorter one holding a guitar.” Tiffany sighed with annoyance and slid her glasses up. “I can’t do anything to introduce you if that’s what you’re suggesting. I don’t have contact with Riley anymore, and I don’t personally know any of the other band members. Let’s just forget it okay?”

Angie held her hands up and took a step back in a gesture of surrender. “Yeah, sure. I just wanted to get front row seats and backstage passes. But, never mind. Forgotten.”

“Good. Let’s get the Tweedles moved so we can get to other things.”

“Perfect. I’d like to get cleaned up and eat. I’m getting hungry.” Angie nodded at the luggage hitch. “You got that or does it take two to carry?”

Tiffany pulled a lever on the contraption and wheels popped out from underneath. “I’ll roll it to the stairway and then if you’ll help carry it up, that’d be great. It’s not heavy, just awkward.”

“No problem.”

Other than toting a handbag and gun, Angie was obviously not used to physical or manual labor of any kind. Tiffany watched Angie inspect her newly chipped nail polish, heard irritation slipping through her words: “I wish we would’ve had Scott bring Stockton down before you hit him.”

“Me too,” Tiffany agreed, “but he was in the middle of strangling you. I did what needed to be done.”

“I know and appreciate what you did for me. It’s just this stuff sucks. It’s not what I usually do for the CAN Institute.”

“Not what
you
usually do?
I’m
supposed to counsel their soldiers and agents. That’s it. I’m way out of my element here.”

“How long have you done work for them?” Angie asked.

“Since right after my counseling internship, about 3 years ago. What about you?”

“Same, 3 years. I was recruited right out of college. I was, and still am, eager to make a difference. Too many bad guys out there getting away with too much. I’m sick of reading about it, hearing about it. You know how it is. And now I’m the objective of one of those bad guys. That makes it even worse. Cleaning up after these pigs is irritating.”

“No kidding.” Aggravation bubbled inside Tiffany. Their current situation was totally Angie’s fault, and now she wanted to complain about cleaning it up. Tiffany growled under her breath. “Why was Scott choking you anyway? How did that even happen?”

“I don’t know. I guess he thought he’d get away. Who knows?” Angie shrugged. “Anyway, after we’ve gotten everything situated and grab a bite to eat, I’ll need to go home to check in with my husband. He trusts me, but it doesn’t look good that I’ve been away overnight. He doesn’t know about my side gig. As you know, CAN Institute rules won’t let us tell anyone.” Angie’s pretty facial appearance turned sour.

“Of course, Angie. You should spend time with your husband. But,” Rubbing under her nose, pinky extended, Tiffany continued, “you should probably take a look at yourself before deciding. I mean, your eyes are bloodshot and there’s a big bruise around your neck. I don’t know, up to you.”

Angie twirled blood stained strands around a blood crusted finger. “I’ll stop for some Visine or something. I’m sure you’ve got a scarf I can borrow. I saw several in your closet. If you don’t mind?”

“Yeah, sure.” Tiffany agreed with a push to her glasses.

“I’ll come back in the morning. We’ll have all night to think about game challenges for our Tweedle Game Pawns.” Angie giggled, pitch rising. Her eruption ended with a snort. “Good name for them, by the way. The Tweedles.”

Even with all those years studying psychology, Tiffany wasn’t sure about Angie’s diagnosis. This bothered her. With straight A’s and all that training, Angie’s personality disorder, if she had one, remained a mystery. Tiffany simply needed more time with her.

“Hey,” Tiffany couldn’t resist, “do you mind telling me why you joined the CAN Institute?”

“It’s a long story, but the short of it is I joined so I can take care of my mother. She’s too sick to take care of herself, of her medical expenses. She raised me on her own. Took care of me without help from anyone, did without a lot of things so I didn’t have to. Now it’s my turn to help her out. The Institute pays well. I make as much doing side jobs for them as my husband makes fulltime, and he’s a geneticist. And, Dr. Bell, why did you join?”

“I joined because it’s a family business. My great grandfather—three greats back—started the Catch & Neutralize Institute in 1898 when he was just 15 years old. My little cousin is an agent, a soldier like you. And my mother runs The Institute now, first female in the CAN Institute’s history to hold power. It’s still run by its original principles, but much better with a woman at the top.”

Surprise turned to amazement in Angie’s eyes. “I had no idea. They didn’t teach any of that in training, other than the basic principles. Always follow instructions. Never use your skills for personal vendettas, personal gains, or to commit a crime. Never mention Catch & Neutralize Institute matters with anyone.” She took a deep breath. “It seems we’re breaking the last basic principle now.”

“Seems okay if you’re working with another agent. We’ve got to be on the same team, know the plan. That ‘no discussing principle’ was established so agents didn’t go blabbing involvement to friends, family, or random people. The Institute is a top secret business filled with high-security clearance.”

“Makes sense.” Angie agreed. “Is there a system of finding targets? I mean, there has to be, right?”

“There’s a lot of technical stuff that goes into finding targets. Broadly speaking, we work with the Federal Government. Sometimes the legal system doesn’t work the way it’s supposed to, and that’s where we come in. We have agents working all over the United States.

“Remember that drug dealer, Carmelo Abate, a few years ago? The one found
not
guilty of killing a dozen prostitutes in New York? Well, The Institute investigated and found that his partners persuaded jury members with various tactics. There were no payouts and no rewards. Apparently Abate’s people did research on jury members, stalked them, found out secrets. For example, there was Jury Member Four, Tim Roble, who’d knocked up his secretary and wife, both due the same month. Jury Member Seven, Handle Weeks, was an accountant embezzling money from his company,
a lot
of money. Then there was Jury Member Eleven; I won’t give his name. It was an emotional case. A homosexual with both feet firmly in the closet, the lights out, and the door padlocked. He was ashamed, embarrassed, afraid of his friends and family finding out. Since then, I’ve personally helped him deal with his feelings. He’s doing well now. Anyway, if Abate’s partners couldn’t dig up any jury members’ past or present skeletons then, of course, they’d threaten the jury member’s life or their family’s lives—children’s mostly, if they had any. To put it nicely, The Institute took care of Abate and his shady associates.