Dead River (45 page)

He watched as Kelly turned her back to him. She appeared to be looking at the same red-headed asshole kid from yesterday. The boy shrugged his shoulders, and she finally turned back around and gave Sikes a cold glare.

“Find everything okay, sir?” she said in an equally cold voice.

“The name’s David.” Sikes paused for a second and then said, “Kelly.”

Then Kelly looked down, just like yesterday. No eye contact.

“Aren’t you open ’til twelve-thirty?” asked Sikes as he slipped his billfold from the back pocket of his baggy blue jeans. “I might come back for another movie,” he said, throwing a twenty on the counter.

“Yes,” Kelly muttered quickly, still not looking up.

Sikes stood motionless, only an inch or two from the counter, and no more than three feet separated him from Kelly. Then he stuffed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans along with his billfold and felt the light switch flick in his head. That simple flip of a switch that lets him know what to do. Everything was different now with Kelly, it had shifted to a different plane, a higher level of understanding. He always knew what had to be done in these situations, because Gabriel was always there to guide him along the way.

“See you later, Kelly,” he said, taking the movies and his change from her reluctant hand.

 98

ONLY FIVE MORE blocks and he’d be home. His Nike Airs let out a faint squishing sound each time they hit on the flat concrete sidewalk. He made the turn onto Boca Tigre Drive, his breathing synchronized to the steady stride of his legs as he closed in on the last three blocks. Adam could now see the light-brown shingles that topped the roof of his house through a small clearing in the thick clumps of trees on the south side of his expansive lot. The Saturday morning air was crisp and clean, mixed with an undertone of the fresh, briny breeze coming off the nearby Atlantic. The cold air reddened his cheeks and danced on the tips of his exposed ears.

His muscular thighs bulged in his black, spandex running pants, as he picked up the pace. Clouds of steamy white air formed directly in front of his face, each quickly disappearing only to be replaced by another one. He was actually feeling stronger the closer he got to his driveway, so he started into a sprint, covering the last hundred yards before walking up the driveway to cool down.

Inside the Riley home Peter Carillo jerked his body up straight on the couch in the living room, dropping his paperback onto the coffee table without bothering to mark the page he was just reading. The rapid chirps from the security alarm signaled an entry into the house. He ducked out of the room and into the tiled foyer, his hand gripping the holstered pistol on his belt. He watched as Adam stepped through the front door, closing it behind himself.

“Morning,” Adam said, his eyes locked on Carillo’s hand resting on the pistol.

Carillo took his hand off the gun. “Good run?”

“Yeah, it’s perfect running weather,” Adam said, forcing the words out between heaving gasps.

“Can’t say as I’ve done that for a while, but probably should.”

“Great way to relieve stress,” Adam said. Then he held up his right hand. “Hold on, I need to reset the alarm. Be right back.”

The two men were planted at opposite ends of the leather couch in the living room, each with a cup of steaming coffee, talking like fraternity brothers. This was Carillo’s most amazing ability: lightening up tense moments. This was actually very ironic, because in spite of all the months he’d spent in Vietnam, he didn’t come back a hardened, emotionless zombie incapable of caring about another human being, like so many others that came before and after him over there. That’s not to say he hadn’t been fighting his own personal emotional battles for years because of the stresses brought on by war, or “Post-Vietnam Syndrome” as they called it when he was discharged. No, that would be a lie. He would be lying to himself, and Carillo decided many years ago he would have nothing to do with that. He would face up to any and all problems he might encounter after the war, after the killing and watching his buddies die in that godforsaken jungle of a country, after having Ozzie “Big O” Barrett die in his arms.

There were the nightmares, the night sweats, insomnia, a bleeding stomach ulcer, and migraine headaches, but no flashbacks. None of those horrible brain farts where reality and the past seemed to become one and the same. He was lucky in that. Damn lucky.

“You all right?” Carillo asked.

“I’m okay,” Adam said then sipped his coffee.

“How’s your wife and daughter taking this?”

“My wife and I haven’t been talking much lately.”

“Hmm.” Carillo figured it was best not to ask any more questions along those lines. “How about your daughter?”

“An emotional wreck. She’s afraid to go to work, apprehensive to even leave the house.” Adam rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand. “I don’t know.”

“About what?”

“Everything.” Adam sat up straight on the couch. “All of this is like a nightmare, and I can’t seem to wake up.”

“Look, this guy’s going to make a mistake, and we’ll nail him.”

“Then what, he’ll be let off again on another technicality?”

“I can’t control what the courts, the lawyers, and state attorneys do, but I can do something from the law enforcement end of it. If this twisted asshole wants to play games, we’ll beat him at his own game.”

“I sure hope so.”

“But you know something?”

“What?”

“I don’t think he’s going to call here again.”

“What makes you think that?”

“A gut feeling.” Carillo faced Adam. “This guy’s a sick bastard, but not stupid. In fact, quite the opposite. He’s not going to risk getting caught making a phone call here.”

“Then what’s he going to do?”

“Don’t know. Maybe go after—”

“Who?” Adam interrupted.

“I don’t know, maybe somebody else.”

 99

ADAM SLOWLY WHEELED his Volvo into the gun shop parking lot, where it stood out among the pre-Clinton vintage sedans and mud-splattered pickup trucks. Inside the shop, Arno scribbled Adam’s name on the waiting list for the firing range; there were five people ahead of him. He perused the handguns in the dingy glass case, thinking back to the conversation he’d had with Peter Carillo earlier that day. His mind was racing. It shifted to thoughts of Sikes out of jail, unpunished and a free man. These thoughts triggered a single, solitary word that was becoming increasingly intense. Revenge.

“Looks like we’re backed up this afternoon.”

Adam spun around. “Damn, Bill! You’ve got to stop sneaking up on me like that.”

“I didn’t sneak up on you, sonny.”

“Sorry, I’m a little tensed up today.”

“Everything all right?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. I’ve just got a lot of things on my mind.”

Bill pointed to the corner of the gun shop. “Let’s go sit in Arno’s flea-ridden, fake-leather chairs over there.”

Adam followed Bill to the corner of the shop and for the first time noticed he had a slight limp in his right leg.

“Damn these chairs stink to high heaven,” Bill said, wrinkling up his nose. “Probably been farted on more times than you or I can count.”

“I’m curious about something,” Adam said.

“What’s that, sonny?”

“It’s sort of personal.”

“Personal?”

“Yeah. If you don’t want to answer my question, that’s fine.”

“Ask away,” Bill said, shrugging his shoulders.

“Did you ever have to shoot anyone when you were a cop in Kentucky?”

A thin smile formed on Bill’s face, and the saw-toothed scar on his left cheek glistened under the overhead lighting. “Just once,” he announced.

“Once?” Adam asked, almost disappointed.

Bill nodded. “It was during my third year as a cop in Finchville. Someone robbed Grady’s convenience store just before old man Grady closed for the night. The man got away with about two hundred bucks and a twelve-pack of beer.”

“And you were on duty?”

“Yup, by myself. Anyway, Grady called it in after the robber left. He gave a description of the guy, the car, and the direction he took off in.”

“How long did it take for you to catch him?”

“Not long. About two miles from the convenience store, alongside the road, I spotted the car, but no one was in it. When I pulled my patrol car off to the side I saw a man in my headlights. He was in the ditch taking a piss. I couldn’t believe it. He was taking a damn piss. I stopped my car with the headlights still on him, got out, drew my pistol, and told him to place his hands on his head and walk toward me.”

“Did he?” Adam asked.

“No. He dropped his dick, pulled out a gun, and fired a shot in my direction. It hit the right front fender of my car. That’s when I opened fire and put two rounds dead into his chest.”

“Did he die?”

“Hell yes, he died. I’m sure he was dead by the time I made it down the ditch.”

“Damn! You could’ve been killed.”

“It scared the shit out of me, but I didn’t panic. You can’t panic when you know you have to do something like that. It was either him or me. All I could think of was how much I wanted to be with my wife and kids when I got off duty that night. And that’s all it took.”

“You’re lucky he didn’t shoot you.”

“He did.”

“I thought you said the bullet hit the fender of your car.”

“It did, but it ricocheted and got me in the right thigh.”

“I noticed you favored your right leg tonight. Is that why?”

“Sure is. It bothers me now and then, but it’s all right.”

“How about the man you shot?”

“What about him?”

“Did it bother you?”

“You mean that I shot him?”

“Yes.”

“Hell no.” Bill paused a moment. “Shit no. You gotta do what you gotta do, sonny.”

 100

IT WAS TWO-EIGHTEEN Sunday morning when Detective Carillo was proven wrong. On the second ring Adam grabbed the phone on his desk. He’d fallen asleep reading in the chair in the corner of the study.

“Hello.”

“Mr. Riley,” the metallic voice exploded in the receiver.

Every muscle in Adam’s body seemed to tighten at once, the fog of sleep quickly lifting from his head. “Go to hell!” he shouted.

“It’s not me that’s going to hell.” A short pause. “Is Dawn sleeping soundly, Mr. Riley?”

“You sick asshole!”

“Now, now, Mr. Riley, that’s no way to talk to someone who’s here to help you. You see, I’m to deliver your daughter to God.”

“I said, go to hell!” Adam shouted, slamming the phone down.

Adam stormed into the living room. Carillo was still hovering over the equipment on the small table.

“Why’d you hang up on him?” Carillo barked.

Adam bolted in Carillo’s direction, stopping just short of the equipment table and snapping his right index finger out only a couple of inches from the detective’s face. “You said he wouldn’t call again.”

Carillo leaned to his right slightly to open up a gap between his face and the protruding finger. “I said it was a gut feeling. I can’t predict exactly what he’s going to do.”

“Obviously no one can, you can’t even keep him behind bars,” Adam said, dropping his arm to his side.

“I know this is frustrating—”

“Frustrating! It’s beyond frustrating! It’s lunacy, a goddamn living nightmare!”

“If you want to help us, you’ll have to cooperate—”

“Cooperate! What the hell do you think I’ve been doing?” A portentous half-grin spread on Adam’s face then quickly disappeared. In a much more composed tone he said, “I think I’ve cooperated enough.”

“Sikes will eventually slip up, and we’ll be there to get him.”

Adam pursed his lips. Refusing to say another word, he headed for the study. It’s time to begin the detailed planning, he thought, as he leaped up the stairs two at a time.