Going to the Bad (25 page)

I had to act, but I didn't want to do it alone. For the second time that night, I took Merle Haggard Drive to Rosedale. I drove my news van all the way behind the strip mall and parked next to the van.

Bouncer and his mother were still there doing their illicit work. He heard me and came out the back door. “Why are you back?”

“I don't want to cause you or your mom problems.” I glanced down the alley, but didn't see the pickup.

Just in case, I pushed past Bouncer and entered the back room. “Let's talk about this inside. I could use a pair of strong hands to help me with something.”

His mom still sat at the table slicing pages out of Bibles. “Don't you have friends to help you?”

“They wouldn't be good for this kind of thing. I need someone strong.”

Bouncer puffed up. “What exactly is the problem?”

“I'm being followed. The guy might be dangerous.”

I explained what I wanted to do and why I'd need help. Bouncer agreed partly because he liked using his main asset, his muscles, and partly because he would have done anything to ensure I didn't hurt his mom. I also wondered if I was the recipient of a little bit of that chivalry the dancer had mentioned.

Before we left, Bouncer went to get his coat. As soon as we were alone, I asked his mom, “Were you and Carter a couple?”

“For a few months. We covered El Centro, the Salton Sea—all those towns down there at California's butt hole—pretending to be father and daughter.”

“Why father and daughter?”

“Partly the age difference, and partly because you sell more Bibles that way. Folks like families when they're buying religious stuff.”

Bouncer walked in wearing a leather jacket. “I'm ready if you are.”

I stood, but asked her, “Is Carter dangerous?”

“Nah. There was never any meanness in him. Just couldn't stand to be weighed down by anything.” She looked at Bouncer, then quickly away. “He thought love meant being stuck to someone with Krazy Glue or something. He didn't want that.”

Christmas, 6:40 a.m.

I
drove out west of the city toward Interstate 5. Bouncer
rode shotgun with me in the news van. My first instinct was for an immediate and even violent confrontation with the driver of the pickup that had been following me. Fortunately, I'm aware that my first instincts aren't always good. Anxiety over Rod's safety urged me to quick action, but I needed to pick the terrain with care.

The sun would soon be up, but with all the fog, you wouldn't have known it. Consequently, the pickup stayed close. It followed us through a series of house farms where stucco ranchers blossomed in rows like heads of lettuce.

I wondered if Carter King lived in a similar neighborhood. A thief and small-time grifter hidden among the happy families. Would a man like that ever settle down to respectability, even late in life? Bud hadn't. Maybe Erabelle had been the closest he'd ever come to becoming Allan Hawkins instead of good old Bud.

The modern buildings ended and actual farms and orchards began.

I took my eyes off the asphalt in my headlights to glance at Bouncer. “I didn't want to say this in front of your mom, but there's a chance that Carter King is the one following us.”

“So?”

“You won't have any hesitation taking him down, will you? I mean, he was a friend of your mom's.”

“I get it. You think maybe he's my dad.”

I didn't, but maybe I should have.

“The math works out,” he continued. “But, you know, either way, he ran out on her. I have no loyalty to the man.”

“Hasn't Laurie ever told you who your father is?”

“She said he died in the war and stuff, but I looked it up. There was no war in 1984.”

I felt bad, so I said, “Maybe he was in Granada.”

“Operation Urgent Fury was in 1983 and only nineteen men died.”

I hesitated. “Lebanon?”

“It doesn't matter.” His voice lost its indifference. “I figure either he's dead or he's gone, and they both amount to the same thing.”

After a moment's silence I said, “My dad's dead.”

“Then you know I'm right.”

We rode in silence for a few minutes until we reached a suitable orchard. I stopped at a narrow access road cutting into the almond trees. The pickup, now just a pair of tiny headlights in the rearview mirror, slowed too. “You good to go?”

He lifted the roll of duct tape. “Ready whenever you are.”

“Why would you even bring that?” I grabbed for it, but his hand jerked it away. “What is it with you and duct tape?”

“It's convenient for tying people up.”

“Like you tied me up? By the way, how's your eyebrow? How did that work out for you?”

He struggled, not wanting to admit I was right. Finally he said, “There are two of us. You can rip the tape while I hold him down.”

“Whatever.”

I turned into the orchard. After driving a short distance I stopped. I jerked the van into park and slammed on the parking brake. My hand wrapped around the bat. The Mace was already in my pocket.

I left the van idling and ran into the trees on my side of the van. Bouncer went the other direction with the duct tape.

The orchard would have been a nightmare of fog and darkness except for a streetlight on the road. I went toward the hazy glow, but froze when I heard an engine. The pickup approached, idled, and backed up. The engine shut off, followed by the headlights. I wanted to go, but forced myself to wait. Then I heard it—the door opening, a long pause, then closing.

I moved. I came through the final trees and hit asphalt. The back end of the pickup peeked at me through the fog. I removed the pepper spray and held it in the air defensively. I still had the bat in my left hand, but I reasoned hitting the wrong person with pepper spray would be better than hitting the person with a bat.

I crept forward, passed the truck, and continued toward the entrance to the dirt access road. The sound of my own van idling reverberated off the trees and the fog, the rumble magnified and distorted.

I reached the break in the trees and stopped. This was where I expected my stalker to be. Why else would he or she have got out of the truck other than to sneak to the access road and spy on my van? But no one was there.

I heard a noise and saw movement directly in front of me. At the last moment I managed to take my finger off the pepper spray's trigger. I had to drop the bat.

“It's me, you idiot.” I tried to whisper, but it's hard when someone is holding you off the ground. “Put me down, Bouncer.”

“‘Bouncer'?” He dropped me. “You don't know my name, do you?”

“Keep your voice down.” I tried to get up from where I'd landed. “We can talk about this later.”

“I don't believe it.” He dropped his voice, if not the subject. “I'm out here risking my neck to help you, and you don't even have the decency to remember my name.”

“I never knew it, okay?” I know I should have tried to end the conversation, but a girl's got to defend herself. “You never introduced yourself, so stop acting all judgmental.”

“Fine.” Bouncer pointed behind me. “I heard somebody get out of the truck. How did we both miss him?”

“I don't know. Maybe he went into the orchard.”

I had an idea and looked toward the truck. “Or else he opened the door, saw the fog, and decided not to get out.”

Headlights flashed on at the same time as the engine roared to life. Seconds later the pickup barreled forward.

Bouncer tossed me into the trees like a rag doll. He wasn't far behind, but I appreciated my flying head start. We both ended in the dirt on the side of the road just as the truck sped by.

I thought the pickup was long gone, but out of the fog came screeching tires and the sound of an impact.

Bouncer ran straight toward the crash. I found the bat and duct tape in the road, then hurried to catch up.

“I got him,” Bouncer yelled. “Hurry, bring the tape.”

The pickup driver must have lost control and swerved off the road. The vehicle had plowed through several yards of grapevines only to hit a wood storage shed. In the light from the one still intact headlight, I could see Bouncer holding someone. The man wasn't especially short, but Bouncer was so tall that he easily held him by the back collar.

“Let go of me,” the man yelled.

Instead, Bouncer turned him around so I could see his face.

Not Carter King, as I'd hoped. The light was poor, but the red tint of the man's hair was still visible. It was Kincaid, the friendly neighborhood drug-dealing pharmacist.

“Let him go,” I said to Bouncer.

He did and Kincaid immediately went to the front of the truck where he'd hit the shed. “The bumper is loose. You know what this is going to cost me?”

“I don't care about your truck,” I shouted. “Where's Rod?”

He looked up from tenderly checking the hood for dents. “Who?”

“My boyfriend, Rod. Where is he?”

“How would I know?”

Bouncer practically growled. “Answer the lady's question.”

Kincaid flinched and gestured toward Bakersfield. “Isn't he back at that house? The Prius was still parked in the driveway.”

“You know he's not there.” I raised the bat. Kincaid shrank back. Even Bouncer looked surprised as I brought the wood down on the truck's hood. “Tell me where he is.”

Kincaid screamed at the sight of the dent. “How would I know where your boyfriend is? I spent all night following you.”

I raised the bat again. “You're lying.”

“No.” Kincaid jumped between me and the truck. “I swear, I've been following you all night, even up to those crummy mobile homes in the mountains.”

I lowered the bat slightly. “Why were you following me?”

He glanced at Bouncer. “Can we talk about this somewhere private?”

“No way,” Bouncer answered for me. “You get alone with her, first thing you do is run.”

“Please,” Kincaid pleaded with me. “Certain aspects of my business require discretion, and we should talk about it privately.”

I turned to Bouncer. “He owns a drugstore, but he's selling meth on the side.” I looked back at Kincaid. “Now all three of us know, so let's talk. Why were you following me?”

Kincaid looked unhappy, but resigned himself. “I saw you last night out at the King place. I was getting gas and you pulled into the station by the freeway.”

I remembered pulling off to check Sally's missing dog flyer. I hadn't seen Kincaid, but since he'd left the farmhouse well before me, the timing worked.

“I got scared,” he continued. “You'd been in my store earlier, then I see you near the farm. I figure you're doing some kind of meth exposé or maybe the Kings' sold me out or something.” He put his palms together. “Please, I'm begging you to leave me out of your story. I won't survive in prison.”

“If you're so scared of getting caught,” Bouncer said, “maybe you shouldn't have gotten into this business in the first place.”

“I didn't have much choice.” Despite the indifferent audience, Kincaid made a valiant play for our sympathy. “You wouldn't believe how tight my margins are at the drugstore. Between paying for a security guard and all the business we've lost to the chains, I'm in the hole every month. It's this or bankruptcy.”

I rolled my eyes. “Bankruptcy would be a lot better than dealing drugs.”

“I'm not a drug dealer. I've been selling off Sudafed to this guy from one of the biker gangs.” Kincaid's gaze shifted to the ground. He seemed reluctant to say the next part. “It's only for a couple people, like Sally, that I've also been acting as a middleman, of sorts.”

“You're a drug dealer.”

His head shot up. “It's not a regular thing. Just for a couple people. That's why I took such a hit when Sally suddenly couldn't pay.”

“Let me guess. She got desperate and offered you a gold brooch in exchange for meth.”

He nodded. “I didn't even know it was gold until I got it cleaned up. The entire thing was black and covered in dirt. I only did the trade because I felt sorry for her.”

“You're a regular humanitarian,” I said. “I'm sure Brandon was thrilled you'd ripped his mother off.”

“I didn't rip her off.” His indignation rose, crested, then fell. “But, yeah, the kid came to see me. He said the brooch was worth a lot more than what I gave Sally. He wanted it back.”

“But you'd already sold it to Pawn Max.”

“That's right, but I gave Brandon half of the three thousand I got for it, that's how hard I tried to be decent about it.”

I pulled back the bat. “You got five thousand for it, not three.”

Kincaid leapt back as the wood hit the already damaged headlight. “Stop hitting my car!” he yelled. “Most people wouldn't have given the kid anything.”

“Most people wouldn't have sold drugs.” I stepped toward him with the bat raised. “Not to mention how you're making the kid manufacture your meth.”

“That was his mom's idea. We agreed I'd stake him some of the ingredients, and he'd make the meth for me. I won't have to deal with the bikers, and he and Sally get some cash.”

I wasn't surprised Sally had used her son. Drug addicts use everyone around them until there's no one left. “I'm guessing Sally also gets free meth out of the deal?”

He nodded. “At least this way she won't have to trade her mom's jewelry.”

I straightened. “Sally told you the brooch belonged to her mother?”

He nodded. “She said the old lady came through when she asked for help.”

I actually believed Kincaid. Maybe that was stupid, but in a weird way it made sense. It also meant I needed to talk with Mida again. Either Carter had given her the jewelry recently because she needed money, or he'd given it to her long ago.