Devil's Oven (26 page)

Watching Dwight rub his shoulder where his kick had landed gave Tripp a faint twinge of regret.

“Stay the hell out of my club,” Dwight said. “I don’t want to see your sorry ass here again.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think it’s going to matter much what I do,” Tripp said. Over Dwight’s shoulder, he saw three cruisers come around the highway curve and slow to enter the club’s parking lot, their lights strobing against the mist-laden clouds that had begun to slide off the hills and into the valley. “You’ve got company.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Hey, you think they’ll find me?
Pat sounded like he was playing hide-and-seek and it was all a great joke.
I don’t think they’ll find me. I think I’m going to rot in this plywood piece of crap you’ve got me in, buddy.

Dwight stood with his back to the stage, wishing Pat would shut the hell up so he could concentrate on the conversation with the cop who was standing way too close to his face.

The customers had all been shepherded out to the parking lot, and the dancers, except for Charity, were back in the dressing room packing up their gear. Charity and the two waitresses stood at the bar looking pissed off.

So the cop wanted to get cozy? Dwight got right back in his face.

“What
you
don’t understand is that you scared the shit out of all my customers when I already told you Bud didn’t come by here today. Not at any time. Why don’t you people listen to me?” he said.

The detective nodded. “We appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Yarbro.”

“So why the G.D. rush, then? Couldn’t this wait until morning?”

“That’s the thing about warrants, Mr. Yarbro. They’re like money to us, burning a hole in our pockets. Especially when someone’s dead, like Danelle Pettit, or missing, like Mrs. Tucker. We like to use them when they’re fresh.”

Pat snorted.
Fresh, he says. Wait until they get a whiff of my tighty-whities. It’s a damn shame what a man who’s about to die does to his undershorts. I’d be embarrassed if it had been anybody else but you. A man can relax around his friends, if you know what I mean.

Inside his head, Dwight screamed for Pat to shut up, but he tried to keep his face neutral for the cop.

“Well, good luck with that,” he said, stepping back. “I don’t know what you think you’ll find lying around here.”

Good one, man! ‘Lying around’!

“So you haven’t seen Mr. Tucker at all today?”

How was he supposed to answer that? Jim Fowler would be up shit creek if he told the truth. Then again, there were video cameras all over the courts building. They would know sooner or later.

“I might have seen him for a few minutes tonight over at the jail. We just talked about the club. Business.”

The things you do for that Bud guy
, Pat said.
What’s up with that? When did you get to be Mr. Sweetness and Light?

“Business?”

Business about how he had cut up and buried the guy who’d come to collect on Bud’s debt, and how that dead guy, Anthony, had managed to kill several people, up to and probably including Bud’s own wife. It was a bad business. Business that made him feel like he was losing his shit.

“This is part of the man’s livelihood,” Dwight said. “A lot of other people’s, too. A fact about which you people don’t seem to care.”

The overhead lights came on, causing the waitresses to make complaining noises, and at least one of the cops to shade his startled eyes. With the lights on, the club looked naked and vulnerable, like a classy woman without her makeup. Despite the chaos in his head, Dwight felt bad that so many outsiders were there to see the faded carpet and gash marks on the long, varnished bar. The catwalk needed polishing and the ceiling tiles were dingy with antique smoke.

And me the untidiest of all,
Pat said
. How long do you think this stupid tarp is going to keep my juices in?

“Hey, sir?” One of the uniforms was shouting across the room. “There’s a locked storeroom back here. Can we get a key?”

The detective looked at Dwight.

“Screw me,” Dwight said under his breath. He dug his keys out of his pocket. With the detective and officer following behind him, he tried to think of what all he had done after he killed Pat. His hand tightened around the key ring until it hurt.

Forgot about the cash, huh, buddy?

•  •  •

They were back in the office, Dwight sitting on a chair between the two detectives. All they needed was a bare bulb swinging from the ceiling to make the picture complete. They were even letting him smoke a cigarette. He noticed that the older detective, Burns, kept glancing up at the Pole Dancers’ Association calendar tacked on the wall. A brunette Miss March was in full splits, hanging from a silk scarf tied around one ankle, her breasts and ass snuggled into a tiny pink athletic bra top and boyfriend shorts.

Time to give him up. Maybe you can get out of Podunkville before they find me under here. You owe that guy nothing.

“So far as I know, there’s nothing illegal about keeping money in a closet,” Dwight said.

“That would depend on where that money came from,” Detective Johnson said. He had loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. It was, after all, close to one in the morning. Dwight guessed the detectives weren’t used to working so late. Unless, of course, Detective Johnson had scheduled this visit for the benefit of the girls in the club. Dwight could see that his face was carefully shaved, like he had done a midnight touch-up before stopping in. “I’d say a hundred and fifty thousand bucks is a pretty large amount of cash to keep in a briefcase in a storage room.”

“Did you witness Mr. Tucker putting the cash in the storage room? Did he tell you what it was for?” said Detective Burns.

“He didn’t need to tell me because it’s my cash,” Dwight said.

“Bullshit,” Johnson said.

“That’s enough,” Burns said, nodding the Johnson guy off. He leaned forward in his chair. “But I tend to agree with my colleague.”

“That’s your problem, then,” Dwight said. “It’s my money. Legal. Prove that it’s not.”

Burns sat back. “Given that the building is owned by Mr. Tucker, and his initials are on the briefcase, I would have to conclude the cash belongs to Mr. Tucker. And that much money—well, a person would want that kind of cash if they were, say, thinking of getting out of town for a while.”

Or saving his own ass. Which it certainly didn’t.

Dwight mashed out his cigarette. Smoking didn’t calm him like it calmed other people. It stressed him out even more. There was so much he could tell these assholes, like the name of the ghoul—wasn’t that the old-fashioned name for zombies?—who was doing all the killing. And had Lila Tucker.

“What I don’t get is why you’re not out looking for the sonofabitch who snatched Lila. Bud saw him, and Bud wouldn’t lie to me. She’s probably dead out there already.”

“You know this?” Burns said.

“You people are so fixated on Bud, you don’t see what’s going on around you. That thing’s out there now, probably killing someone else, and all you want to do is ask me stupid questions about my play money.”

Johnson barked a laugh.

“You’re wasting our time, Mr. Yarbro. When did Bud Tucker bring that money here?”

“Am I arrested or something? I can stop answering questions anytime, right?” It was a rhetorical question. He knew what his rights were.

“Of course,” Burns said. “But we’re going to have to take that briefcase in for evidence.”

Now you’re screwed.
Pat, who had been quiet, was back.

The office door opened.

“Detective Burns?”

“Yeah.”

“I got a call from Kenny at the jail. Bud Tucker walked out of there about half an hour ago.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Lila woke to a draft cooling her face, opened her eyes to the same tenebrous quiet in which she had fallen asleep. As the horror of the past day flooded over her, she felt herself slipping back into that empty place where she was safe, that place where nothing could touch her. But the sound of heavy footsteps in the next room broke the silence and she lifted her head from the pillow, alert.

He’s going to kill me this time.

She knew this room. When Ivy was still working from the trailer, she’d had her change in here sometimes. There were two small windows in the wall, but being in the front of the trailer, they opened onto nothing but air. It was easily fifteen feet to the ground.

Wouldn’t it be better to die that way? If she doesn’t die, what then?

Pushing the quilt away, she tried to get out of the creaking bed without making too much noise. Despite the adrenaline rush in her veins, it wasn’t easy to get her arms and legs to respond. The unfamiliar clothes aggravated her wounds, her tender, bruised breasts. She lodged a thumb sideways in her mouth and bit down to keep from screaming aloud.

Ivy. Why is Ivy doing this to me?

She didn’t have any more time to think. She had to get out. She could hear him lumbering around in another part of the trailer. Ignoring the raging pain, and her subconscious, which begged her to let herself come away into that sweet, empty place, she made it to the door of the bedroom and peeked out.

Outside the door, the air smelled foul, like rotting meat and urine. She saw him in the light from the kitchen—the first good look she had gotten of him since he took her from her backyard. Instead of being half-naked, he now wore khaki pants and a pale blue sport shirt that made him look like an over-muscled golfer. Still, he was barefoot. He stood in profile, upending a peanut can, trying to shake something out of it but it wasn’t making any sound. Frustrated, he hissed and tossed it into the sink. It clanged around several times before it came to rest.

She felt a flush of satisfaction when she saw that the right side of his face was rent with four deep scratches. But there was no sign of blood, only grotesque, plum-colored flesh that looked like rotten meat. He went to the counter and picked up an open bag of pretzels, scattering several on the floor as he poured some into his hand. He turned around. Seeing her, he dropped the pretzel bag.

He rushed toward her, his feet pounding on the trailer’s shaking floors, but she was able to slam and lock the flimsy bedroom door before he reached her.

She pressed her back against the door and looked around for somewhere to hide. She couldn’t let him touch her again, couldn’t survive those brutal hands.
His neck also has the stitches.
She couldn’t bring herself to think about what that meant.
Even if he didn’t kill her physically, her mind, her soul couldn’t survive much longer. There were things worse than death. Things that had already touched her.

Out in the living room, he was trying to work the handle out of the door, whining like a frustrated dog.

If she dropped the fifteen feet to the ground, there would be more pain—a lot of it—and her body and mind resisted the thought. She made herself run to the window and push aside the blind. The glass was filthy, but she could see down the hill to a car passing on the highway. She pounded at the glass, screaming, and fumbled at the lock. Its lip was jammed tight, rusted to its bed. Down in the house, she saw movement at a window, a flicker of light, shining white hair. She screamed for Ivy. Ivy couldn’t let her die.

No!

Now the figure moved away from the window. Toward the door, maybe?

Please, please, please, Ivy!

The light down in the house went off.

A thought flashed through her head: If she survived this, she would make sure Ivy Luttrell paid for what she had done to her. Bud wouldn’t hesitate to kill Ivy if Lila told him.

The doorframe split, knocking the door—hinges attached—into the room so that it lay like a ramp onto the bed. He stood in the doorway, still smiling, obviously pleased with himself.

It was too late to get out.

His arms spread wide as though he would embrace her. He ran up the door, stooping so his head wouldn’t scrape against the ceiling.

Lila dove for the floor, trying to get underneath the bed. If she could make it to the other side of it, she might get out the door before he caught her. But she wasn’t fast enough, and he was on her. He grabbed her legs with a sound that might have been laughter and tried to pull her back. He mostly got hold of the too-large sweatpants and they began to slide down her legs. She dug her nails into the carpet to hold on, and felt the pants begin to peel off as he got a better grip on her.

She kicked and closed her eyes and screamed, loud and long. Surely Ivy would hear her. Ivy would take pity on her. How could one woman let something like this happen to another woman? What had she ever done to Ivy Luttrell? Dull, sad Ivy Luttrell, who’d had such tragedy in her own life. It was inconceivable.

When she opened her eyes, she found herself facing the back wall behind the bed. In the space between the nightstand and the bed, she saw the pointed tip of the walking stick she had seen, but not registered, when Ivy brought her into the room. She kicked at the man that much harder and gained an inch or so of ground. When she grabbed for the stick, it fell over. Her mouth was full of dust from underneath the bed, but she ignored it, and enjoyed the brief surge of hope she felt as her hand wrapped around the solid shaft of wood.

She didn’t struggle when he grabbed her again, but held firmly on to the stick.

•  •  •

As a child, Lila had spent all the time she could in the woods, and had often gone camping with the scout troop run by her third-grade teacher, Mrs. Jarvis. She had loved riding along the mountain’s muddy tracks in the Jeeps and pickup trucks belonging to boys in her circle of friends, sneaking beer from the refrigerator in her grandfather’s basement and drinking it beside one of the rocky streams far off the road. They sat on the rocks, scaring the crap out of each other at dusk with stories about the murders on the mountain, the people who had gone hunting or walking in the deepest part of the forest, never to be seen again. One of her favorite stories was of the man who had married and killed six different wives. He just dug the first grave wider each time he put a body in, so that the women all lay in a companionable row.