Last Call - A Thriller (Jacqueline "Jack" Daniels Mysteries Book 10) (12 page)

But I wasn’t a cop anymore. And I was getting a fulltime stiff neck, constantly looking over my shoulder waiting for Luther and friends to sneak up on me.

“Luther is going to jail, Harry.”

“Phin didn’t go after him to arrest him, Jack.”

“I know.”

“And you just enlisted the help of someone who used to snuff people for Uncle Sam.”

“I know.”

“And you aren’t exactly a Girl Scout yourself.”

“I know all of this, McGlade. But this is a rescue mission. Not an assassination. I’m not a killer.”

Harry swallowed more cake. “And what if Luther has done something to Phin?”

I sipped sour coffee and hoped I wouldn’t ever have to answer that question.

S
omeone slapped Phin awake, and for a moment he wasn’t sure where he was.

The memories came back, accompanied by pain. His ribs ached. His head hurt. His cheek stung from the waking blow. He remembered the attack on the street, passing out under the pile of bodies, and then…

Nothing.

He blinked, feeling dopey, realizing they must have drugged him. When he tried to move, he discovered he was naked with his hands cuffed behind him, his ankles chained to the legs of a steel chair. Phin looked up at the man who hit him.

For a moment, Phin thought the guy was wearing a Halloween mask. Then he realized it was his actual face. Gaunt and sunken. Horribly scarred. Eyes black and dull as a shark’s. Long, mangy black hair.

Luther Kite.

And standing next to him, just as scarred, missing an eye and stooped over, his Bride of Frankenstein, Lucy.

Phin hid his surprise. While he’d been hoping to find them both, he’d also hoped for more favorable circumstances when that happened.

In Luther’s hand was Phin’s notebook, and Phin reasoned that’s what he’d been slapped with, because Luther didn’t appear strong enough to hurt with a bare-handed blow.

“Are you with the police?” Luther asked. His voice had a timbre, like a rattle was caught in his throat.

Phin glanced at the stainless steel table next to him. On it were pliers, scalpels, a blow torch. He knew how this would play out. If he stayed silent, he’d be tortured. If he told the truth, he’d be tortured, and also put Jack and Samantha at risk.

He focused on the story he needed to stick to, rather than the pain that was coming. His best bet was a mixture of the truth, with lies. If he could get Luther to believe him, at least Phin’s family would be safe.

“No. I’m here for you, Luther. You and Lucy.”

Luther’s lips twitched slightly. He glanced at Lucy, and she shrugged.

“Who are you?”

“Duffy,” he said, using the name on his fake ID. It was an alias he wouldn’t forget. The name of a pet, plus the name of the town he was born. “Duffy Hanover. You killed my cousin.” Phin let his anger show. “You and your ugly bitch here dragged him behind your car.”

“Is that so?” Luther’s expression remained impassive, but that might have been because he had limited control of his facial muscles. “So why were you staking out my drug operation?”

Phin didn’t understand the question, but quickly put it together. Luther wasn’t saying he bought drugs. He was saying he
dealt
drugs. Somehow this human skeleton had wound up working for a Mexican cartel.

“I asked around. You two are pretty distinctive. Found one of your dealers, figured I’d watch until a new supply was dropped off, then follow him to you.”

“Asked around? Whom, exactly, did you ask?”

Luther was no longer looking at Phin. He was looking at the tools on the stainless steel table.

“Your pusher. The one who wears Hugo Boss. I flashed him your picture, he said you ran the syrup market.”

“And where did you get my picture?”

“YouTube,” Phin said.

Luther looked at Lucy. She said, “It’s a website, you can upload videos.”

“I know what it is,” Luther said. He turned back to Phin. “What video?”

“You and your girlfriend dragging some other poor bastard behind his car.”

Luther drew a finger over his misshapen nose. “And how did you link that video to us?”

“It’s called the Internet, asshole. Ask Google. That’s Lucy’s thing, isn’t it? Dragging people? And it’s not like either of you would be hard to pick out of a line-up.”

Luther’s eyes seemed to drill right into Phin’s skull and expose his thoughts. Phin focused on how much he hated this guy.

“What was your cousin’s name?” Luther finally asked after their stare down.

Phin went with something easy to remember. His middle name, and a street he lived on.

“Joseph Cermak.”

Again Luther glanced at Lucy. She shrugged. “Who can remember them all?”

“Where are you staying in town?” Luther asked him.

“Nowhere yet. Been living out of the car.” The mess in the rental would confirm it—empty food wrappers and water bottles, a thermos full of urine. Phin had also been smart enough to hide his room key and cell phone in the car’s trunk. So far, his story was sound. Phin figured it was simple enough for him to stick to.

Jack and Samantha would be safe.

“Well, you’ve found us, Mr. Hanover. Now what are you going to do to us?”

Phin set his jaw. He remained defiant as Lucy, stuck her crab-like hand, which was missing a few fingers, into her shorts and pulled out Phin’s butterfly knife.

“Be careful with that,” Phin said. “You might lose a digit.”

Luther made a barking sound, which Phin realized was a laugh. “You wounded six of my men, and killed three. Do you like to fight, Mr. Hanover?”

“Untie me and I’ll show you.”

“What do you think, princess?” Luther asked Lucy. “We can burn all his skin off, or we can put him in the games.”

Lucy’s lip twitched. “Let’s burn his skin off.”

“Not many good fighters in the games. He could be worth a lot of money.”

“Burn him,” she said again.

Phin couldn’t think of anything worse than having all of his skin burned off, but the way Luther insisted on the games made him wonder if that was indeed the crueler option.

“Do I get a vote?” Phin asked.

“No, Mr. Hanover. But we can take your opinion under advisement.”

Phin forced bravado. “Kill me now, because if I get free, you’re both dead.”

Luther’s eyes widened. “He’s feisty. I think we’ll keep him around.”

“Then why did you even ask me for my opinion?” Lucy said. Her face made an ugly, pouting gesture, and she looked down at her shoes. Pink Crocs.

“I’ll tell you what, princess. We’ll put him in the games, but I’ll let you burn off one of his nipples. Would that make you feel better?”

Lucy nodded. Luther picked up the blowtorch and handed it to her. “I don’t like to disappoint her, Mr. Hanover. You know how it is with women.”

Lucy pushed a button on the torch, igniting the blue flame. As she brought it to his chest, Phin closed his eyes, determined not to give them the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

He lasted almost nine seconds.

W
hen you have very little power, your only recourse is to prey on the less powerful.

In Donaldson’s case, that meant the impaired, little children, or the elderly.

Children didn’t own cars. Donaldson could have waited for the bars to close and picked off someone drunk, but besides obtaining a vehicle he also needed a passport to get into Mexico.

That meant finding some old fart.

A nursing home wouldn’t work, because those living fossils were already too far gone to have vehicles. Casing a retirement home made sense, but Donaldson had tried that in other towns, and they were unusually well protected—probably because the elderly were so easy to victimize.

So Donaldson thought outside the box and hung out in the parking lot of a discount medical supply store. The heat was stifling, made more unbearable because Donaldson was mostly scar tissue, and scar tissue didn’t have sweat glands. He waited, slowly simmering, for two hours before the perfect opportunity presented itself.

Old man, at least eighty, driving a Cadillac from some long ago year when they still made them big. He parked crookedly, and when he got out he had one of those aluminum canes with four legs at the base. Donaldson watched him walk, slow and stooped, into the store, and he made his way to the Caddy.

Dumb old fool didn’t lock his doors. Donaldson slipped into the back seat, which was so roomy he was able to hide on the floor.

It being Arizona, the heat in the vehicle quickly rose to that of an oven baking cookies. It made the heat outside seem like the Arctic. The elderly bastard took his time, too. Donaldson sat there for at least twenty minutes, sure he could feel his eyeballs shriveling up as the goo inside them evaporated, before the driver finally returned.

Naturally, he got into the car without checking the back seat, and even threw his bagged purchase directly on top of Donaldson without noticing him. Donaldson checked the contents.

Enemas, and petroleum jelly.

Old people were just plain nasty.

Thankfully, the geezer cranked the AC, and for the first time since the library Donaldson felt relief from the punishing heat. Seriously, anyone would have to be certifiably insane to live in Arizona.

Donaldson couldn’t see the dashboard, but he knew they were going at least ten miles an hour under the speed limit. Each intersection required a full, six-second stop. And the driver managed to hit a curb every hundred meters, causing electric ripples of pain to shock through Donaldson’s body. By the time they arrived at the geezer’s house and parked in his attached garage, Donaldson was ready to kill the guy even if he didn’t get a car or passport out of the deal.

The old man reached behind him, his hand blindly seeking the bag, and Donaldson actually handed it to him. A moment later the garage door was closing and Methuselah was getting out of the Caddy.

Donaldson chose that moment to make his move. He let himself out of the rear door, and the dinosaur squinted at him as if he was watching television.

“What in the hell are you doing in the back of my car?”

“Do you live alone?”

“What was that?”

Donaldson raised his voice. “Do you live alone?”

“What?”

Jesus Christ. “Do! You! Live! Alone!”

“What in the hell were you doing in the back of my car?”

And the state still allowed this guy to drive?

Donaldson looked around the garage for some kind of weapon, and found a crow bar hanging on the near wall. He picked it up, the weight in his hands oddly comforting.

“What in the hell are you doing with my crowbar?”

Donaldson limped within pummeling range, and the old man grimaced. “Damn, son. What happened to your face? Someone hit you with an ugly stick so hard the stick broke.”

Donaldson countered the barb by hitting him with a stick of his own, bouncing it off the geezer’s dome. The old man staggered a few steps, then collapsed.

“Why in the hell are you hitting me with my crowbar, you ugly bastard?”

Donaldson bent down to get closer, even though the act was painful.

“Do you live alone!”

“No, I live with a whole church choir, you idiot.”

Donaldson smashed the crowbar against the man’s knee.

“My wife is inside!” he moaned.

“Where is your passport?”

“Airport?”

“Pass-port!” Donaldson rapped him hard with each syllable.

“It’s in my desk! Please stop hurting me!”

Donaldson was so tired, and so irritated, that he didn’t even enjoy beating the old man to death. It felt like work, not pleasure. A shame, since the fellow was tougher than he looked, and it took over two dozen whacks before his brainpan cracked open and spilled the goodies.

Skull piñatas usually cheered Donaldson up. The first time he ever split someone’s head, he walked barefoot on the warm, gray matter, letting it squish between his toes, and sang, “I’m always on your mind” to the corpse.

But now all he felt was tired.

After catching his breath he limped over to the house door and warily opened it up.

“Irving?” a woman called from another room.