Pawnbroker: A Thriller (28 page)

Chapter 130

I sat on the middle seat of the aluminum boat. Docker was behind me, one hand driving the outboard, if you can call it that; the guy acted like he had never driven a boat, going back and forth across the width of the water, almost capsizing it in the first little curve. The other hand gripped his .45 that rested on one of his giant knees and pointed in my general direction. We entered a deep bend in the channel and I saw the building. It sat in the middle of a clearing, around a hundred feet back from the bank. If a building can take on human characteristics, this one looked like a corpse. An ashen gray, glowing pale in the moonlight. Docker turned toward the bank, but he didn’t throttle down until we were ten feet away.

The boat made a screeching sound as it hit the shallow bank and continued forward, momentum driving it until the prop dug into the mud and brought us to a stop. It would’ve been the perfect time to make a move, but for the fact that I didn’t know where my kids and my father were. For now, I had no choice but to play along and hope I survived long enough to save them.

I looked back at Docker. He remained in his seat, left hand still gripping the outboard tiller. His skin looked the color of the old building, the color of someone...terrified. He was scared of water. That had to be it. He felt safe on the yacht, but being a foot away from the water was a different matter.

“You okay?” I said. I of course didn’t care if he fell over dead—would welcome it, in fact—but it couldn’t hurt to feign concern for the oaf.

“Course I’m okay. Get out,” he said, motioning with the pistol.

I stepped out, and he wobbled out behind me. We walked up a small trail through weeds that were at least five feet tall. I wondered where Penny was. This building was our rally point, the place she was to go to with the device and wait for me to tell her I had the girls and Dad, the place we were to go to, if possible, if things went wrong. It was obvious that our adversary had thought about the building before we did; it was undoubtedly the real reason he had insisted on changing our rendezvous point.

I continued to feel like an idiot for not anticipating all this, but I tried to focus on coming up with a new plan.

Along the way, I had watched both banks for a sign of Penny’s boat, but saw nothing. She would have known something was wrong when I dropped out of contact, so I could only hope she was nearby and prepared. If not, I was down to one flicker of hope: Teddy.

Chapter 131

P
enny stood with her back against a pine tree the diameter of a telephone pole, securely lashed against the rough bark with duct tape at ankles, waist, and neck. Her hands were behind the tree, bound so tightly with a nylon tie that her fingers were now completely numb. She wasn’t gagged, but she dared not cry out. Standing in front of her, with a look on his face that hovered shakily between satisfaction and full-blown insanity, was Sheriff Ricky Ballard, close enough that she could smell his sour breath.

“You know,” he said, “I knew I’d be killing you tonight, but having a few minutes, just me and you? That’s nice.” He leaned in and kissed her, ramming his tongue into her mouth so forcefully that she almost gagged. She tried to twist her head away but the tape around her throat was so tight that she choked. Then she felt his hands: one squeezing her breasts, the other grinding hard against her crotch.

His filthy tongue, the breath, the groping; the horror of it all seemed to fill her soul to the point of bursting. A wave of intense nausea swelled inside her. She fought for a breath, and when she finally got it, she surrendered to the nausea. Vomit raced up her stomach and exploded into her mouth, her nose, and into Ballard’s mouth. As he pulled away, she heaved again. The acrid stream splattered his face, his eyes. He staggered back, choking and coughing as he tried to wipe the acidic puke from his eyes.

Penny fought her own battle. Unable to bend over, she fought violently for a breath as her throat and larynx reacted convulsively to the vomit that ran back down her throat. In the struggle, she aspirated it. Her lungs burned from the vomit and her body screamed for air that couldn’t get through her seizing, constricted airway. The pain was intense, worse than anything she had ever experienced. Her vision faded to black and white as her oxygen-starved brain started to shut down. Penny Lane was dying, and she welcomed it. The convulsions weakened, then stopped. Tiny white flashes of light exploded in her field of view and her body went slack, held upright only by the duct tape. She saw Ballard coming toward her, but she was past caring. Her last thought was about Gray. She should have told him the truth.

Chapter 132

C
armen never knew such sensations existed. The pleasure was so intense that her mind couldn’t form words to describe it. She vaguely remembered the fear, but that was gone. She even remembered thinking the doctor was ugly and evil. Now...now she wanted more of him. He was on top of her. Up and down. In and out. Más, quiero mas. More. She looked into his face, his mouth open, his breath hot. His teeth were so yellow, like a lemon. Dientes de limón. That was funny. The music. Oh God, the music. She would never take the headphones off. Emilio. She would tell Emilio about this, how wonderful it was. Something about that, something about telling Emilio felt strange, but she couldn’t process it. Then the thought was gone, and there was only the pleasure, and the doctor. The wonderful doctor.

*          *          *

Wainwright couldn’t believe his good fortune. Most of the test subjects they furnished for his “clinical trials” were filthy trash straight off a long ride in a metal box. Fat or ugly, or fat and ugly, stinking Mexicans, women he wouldn’t touch with his cousin’s dally, much less his own. Oh, but how very different this one was. She was exquisite. Young, clean, gorgeous. He would very much like to keep this one.

The girl moaned, and he put his hand over her mouth. “Shan’t have that, my dear girl,” he said into her ear. She struggled to breathe. “Can you be quiet?” She nodded and he removed his hand. Her smile was back now. She ran her tongue out and raised her head toward his. It was a dream. This nubile creature, beneath him, wanting him—

“Well well well,” a voice said behind him. A familiar voice. Wainwright froze, literally in mid-thrust. The girl writhed, tried to pull him back down.

“You’re quite the ladies’ man, doc,” Ballard said.

Wainwright pulled completely out of the girl and started fumbling with his pants, trying to get them back up from around his ankles.

“
No pare,” the girl said. Don’t stop.

He was on his feet now, zipping his fly. He looked down at her. “Shut up!”

“Oooooh,” she said, and gave a seductive come-here motion with her finger.

Wainwright bent over, grabbed the wire, and jerked the headphones off her, then turned to face Ballard. “I’m glad you could make it, sheriff.”

Ballard walked toward him. “Oh, I’m sure you are, doc.”

Wainwright gave a nervous smile. “Indeed I am. I do hope you understand I had no choice in the...the...how shall we put it...in my sudden change of employer?”

Ballard smiled, stepped closer. “I understand perfectly.”

Wainwright’s gaze drifted to Ballard’s right hand, which rested on the butt of his holstered gun, then back up to his face. He had been sweating for the past several minutes, but a different kind of sweat came now, the cold kind.

The girl made a whimpering sound. Both men looked her way. She looked disoriented, terrified. She tried to cover herself with her hands.

“Looks like she’s losing interest in you,” Ballard said. “Hard to imagine, stud like you.”

“What do you want, sheriff?” Wainwright said, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice, failing.

Ballard smiled and stepped closer.

Chapter 133

“D
amn it, Ray Earl! How come you always got to pull some shit like this?” Rocky stood bent over, hands on his knees, trying to regain his breath from the sprint it took to catch Ray Earl before he rode right up to the front door of the building.

“I’m real sorry, Rock.”

Rocky looked up. Ray Earl stood beside his bicycle, head drooped. He was wearing a blue Blockbuster Video shirt with a picture of Shrek on the front. He looked like a scolded kid.

“What am I gonna do with you, Ray Earl?”

“I just wanted to collect some evidence and solve the case like Grissom, Rock. That’s all.” Now his lip was quivering.

Rocky shook his head, the way he had a thousand times before. He had long since stopped trying to explain his relationship with Ray Earl Higgins. He wasn’t sure he understood it himself. He just knew that since the second grade, when Seth McGowan pushed Ray Earl down in the cafeteria and then led the rest of the bullies in a “
re-tard...re-tard...re-tard” chant, he had looked after him. (Rocky busted Seth in the head with a metal Starsky & Hutch lunchbox, and both he and Ray Earl wound up suspended.) Ray Earl needed him, and in a way, Rocky supposed he needed Ray Earl, too. So, here they were in the woods, no more than a couple hundred feet from what was no doubt the building from hell.

Ray Earl’s head popped up.

“What?” Rocky said.

“I hear something.” His voice was quiet, barely more than a whisper.

Rocky cocked his head. “I don’t.” He knew better than to discount his friend on this point. Ray Earl was a few cigarettes shy of a pack in some ways, but he made up for it in others. Like hearing. “Sounds like what?”

“It’s a woman. Somebody’s...doing something to her, Rock.”

And then Ray Earl took off in a wide-open, head-down run.

Chapter 134

It was a classic August night in Mississippi, which is to say it was miserable. The air was thick—tangible. The old gravel walkway crunched beneath our feet. We were no more than thirty feet from the front door to the building now. The door was ajar and I could see a glow inside, not electric, something powered by camp fuel maybe. Twenty feet. My kids and my father could be right through that door. Ten feet. I walked up the steps and onto a small porch, then stopped and looked back at Docker.

“Go on in,” he said, still holding the gun on me.

I pushed the door open and stepped into a large room, basically the size of the building, although there were a series of doors on the far right that led somewhere, showers probably. I knew this place had originally been built as a barracks for government workers during the Depression. Two Coleman lanterns sat roughly in the center of the room, about ten feet apart. Docker stepped in behind me and shut the door as I looked to the left.

Lying on the floor near the left end was a man’s body. Even from this distance I could tell it was the hawkish man from Bobby Knight’s funeral. A pool of blood spread around his head, and his hair looked matted with it, stuck to his head. Beyond him, a girl—she was Hispanic, looked to be in her late teens—was holding clothes in front of herself, trying to hide her nakedness. She looked terrified. And standing there beside her, pointing a gun in our direction, was Ricky Ballard. My girls and my father were not here.

“Put the gun down, Docker,” the sheriff said.

I looked back at Docker. He had been caught totally off guard. His gun was still pointed vaguely at me, which meant Ballard had the advantage. Docker dropped the .45, and it hit the wood floor with a thud. Ballard motioned with his gun for us to move to the center of the room. We complied.

Ballard walked toward us. When he was ten feet away, he raised the gun and shot Docker. A small bloody spot appeared in the middle of Docker’s chest. He looked down at it, a confused look on his face, then fell face forward onto the floor. He didn’t move. Ballard kept coming. I raised my hands.

“Look, Ballard,” I said, “I don’t—”

“Shut—the—fuck—up.” His voice was quiet, calm. I shut up.

Keeping the gun on me, he walked over to Docker, nudged him with his foot, then delivered a vicious kick to the big man’s ribs. Docker didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. Now Ballard turned his full attention to me. He started circling, and I kept turning in place so I would be facing him.

“You shoulda kept your nose out of my business, pawnbroker.”

I drew a breath to respond, to tell him that I never intended to be in his or anybody else’s business, but the shot rang out first. I looked down at my chest, but saw nothing. Had he shot me in the head? Then Ballard’s knees buckled. He sank slowly to the floor in a kneeling position, looked up at me, and slumped backward. A thin stream of blood trickled from the back of his head and down to the floor. I raised my eyes. Standing in the doorway, long-barreled revolver still extended, was Teddy Abraham.

Chapter 135

H
e had come through. My last hope, my best friend, had come through. I ran to Teddy and wrapped him in a tight hug, then backed away, kept my hands on his shoulders. Looked him in the eye. “Thanks, Teddy.”

He just nodded, no doubt in shock over having just shot a man. It was a feeling I remembered with stark clarity. I heard the girl whimpering, released Teddy, and hurried over to her. I knelt and tried to get her to look at me. She was shivering, mumbling something over and over in Spanish.
Hombre mal? My Spanish was rudimentary, but I had made it a point to learn the basics when we started getting more Hispanic customers. Bad man? Evil man? Who knows what the dead guy had done to her? I looked around for something to put around her, but saw nothing, so I kept my head turned as much as possible and helped her back into her clothes.

Still kneeling, I turned my attention to the hawkish man on the floor. The back of his head had been bludgeoned and I was pretty sure he was dead, but I still checked for a pulse, checked for breathing. I found neither. I stared at his face and again the phrase “like a hawk” popped into my head, just like it had at the funeral when I first saw him. There was something, right there on the tip of my subconscious, but I couldn’t coax it out. I sensed something behind me and turned to look. Teddy was standing behind me, watching.

As I turned back toward the man, I glanced at Teddy’s shoes. Now something else sparked in my mind, also deep, refusing to come into the light of conscious thought. And then it started leaking out, a little at a time, then faster: like a hawk. As kids, Teddy and I spent a lot of time at each other’s house. It wasn’t unusual for him to spend the whole weekend with us, nor for me to stay at his house for two or three nights in a row. On one of those occasions—we were maybe seven or eight years old—they had family visiting from England. Relatives of Teddy’s mother, I think.

One of those relatives was a teenager, a cousin to Teddy, I think. He was sixteen or seventeen, which seemed way old to us at the time. He was an odd-looking guy, and after they had left, Teddy’s father had said, “I swear, that boy’s got a face just like a hawk. Never seen anything like it.”

Teddy’s mother had chastised her husband, talked about how the boy was going to be a doctor someday. But Mr. Abe—that’s what all the kids called him—was a clown, and the scolding just caused him to pick up the pace. “Just like a hawk, I tell you!” Then he started squawking like, well, I’m sure it was supposed to be like a hawk.

I looked back at the dead man’s face, replaying that obscure forgotten memory from thirty years ago. Ian was his name. And there was no doubt in my mind that it was Ian who lay before me with his head bashed in. But that was impossible. How could Teddy’s cousin from England happen to be mixed up in this? I put my hands on the floor to push myself up from the kneeling position.

As I got up, my gaze was again drawn to Teddy’s shoes. That mental spark was picking up power, too. I froze, fingertips on the wood floor, half-crouched, and looked more closely at the shoes. Blue and white New Balance runners, old and worn. And then, in one instant, that spark flashed brilliantly, and exploded into understanding. Sweet God in heaven, please, no.

But I knew. Those sneakers, a beat up old pair of New Balance running shoes, were the shoes I saw in the motel video. The feet of the cameraman that had come into view as he moved around the room, recording my wife. Teddy was the cameraman.

I remain frozen in the same crouched position, wondering what to do, but knowing it was too late. Teddy knew I had figured it out. I felt it, a tension in the air, a feeling as palpable as hot or cold. I straightened up slowly. He was pointing a gun at me, the same one he shot Ballard with, shaking his head slowly.

“How?” he said.

“Your shoes. They’re on the tape.”

He nodded, then motioned toward the door with the gun. “Outside.”