Scratch Fever (15 page)

“No man ever made me come,” she said. “Do you think you can, Jon?”

“I’ll try,” Jon managed.

She sat on him

4

12

NOLAN ALMOST
missed the sign.

It was over to the left, a barn-wood sign about four by four, with the following words painted on in faded red: “THE BARN, Turn Right.” This was lit from beneath by two small floods.

He turned right, off the highway onto gravel. The road was narrow, its ditches deep, and to stay out of them, Nolan slowed to about thirty. He could see the structure up ahead, beyond the flattened cornfields, up to the right. It was stark in the moonlight, a barn with a tin shed growing out of it, like an outstretched arm.

In front of the barn was a graveled parking lot, and he pulled into it. There were no other cars in the lot. He got out of the little red Datsun, which he’d gotten from Sherry, tucking the silenced 9 mm, which he’d gotten from dead Sal, into his waistband. He hadn’t taken time to change clothes—he was still wearing the corduroy jacket and turtleneck and slacks he’d worn to Iowa City today, though that seemed like a year ago—and he felt less than refreshed.

The drive from the Quad Cities had drained him. He’d had a long day, too much of it spent behind the wheel of a car, and the rest poring over the books with Wagner and the Pier’s accountant, and drinking a little too much afterward. And then the shit had hit the fan, and he’d pulled the energy out of somewhere; the adrenalin had pumped and he’d managed to save that nice ass of Sherry’s and rid the world of that cocksucker Sal, whose body he’d dumped on a side road between the Quad Cities and Port City.

Right now he felt every one of his fifty-odd years, after a cramped hour-and-a-half in a small car, on a rolling, narrow two-lane highway, watching for speed traps, popping No-Doz to force his alertness to an artificial edge.

He stood and stretched and looked at the barn that was the Barn, letting the chill air have at him. Between the full moon and a number of tall posts with outdoor lights, the exterior of the structure was well lit, though its windows were dark. He didn’t bother trying the front, restaurant, entrance, but walked around to the side door.

He could see the rustic bar, with its booths and wanted posters, through the steel-cross-hatched window of die door; there were enough beer signs lit to get a look. Not a soul. He walked around the long tin shed—it seemed a block long—and found some more empty parking lot at the rear.

On the other side of the building, though, in still more parking lot, were several vehicles.

There was a big four-wheel drive, a Land Rover, two-tone tan; a snow plow; and a van.

The van was light blue with a painted logo on it that said “THE NODES.”

Jon’s group.

Jon’s van.

Nolan slipped out of his shoes.

It hurt to walk on the gravel in his goddamn socks, but it was quiet. The van had no side windows, but there were windows in back. On his toes (ouch—fuck!) he could peek in. He saw a lumpy bundle on the floor, a blanket over some stuff, he guessed.
Could
be a small person sleeping. He couldn’t tell.

He looked in the front windows; the driver’s and rider’s seats were empty. He quietly tried the doors on either side. Locked.

Now what?

Somebody was in the Barn. There had to be, or the owners were goddamn dumb. A big place like this, stuck between a couple of cornfields, full of booze and other inventory, not to mention furniture and fixtures—hell, there
had
to be a sleep-in watchman. Without one, you’d go broke in a week.

So somebody was in there—somebody who belonged to the tan Land Rover.

Which meant Nolan could go to a door and start banging his fist till somebody inside answered. And that somebody
might
know something about the abandoned Nodes van. Julie couldn’t have grabbed the whole goddamn
band
, could she?

He went to the nearest door, which wasn’t far from the parked Land Rover, and stopped.

Jon’s phone call had brought him here, but Jon was, obviously, in trouble. The kind of trouble Sherry had been in, no doubt, or worse. What guarantee was there that Nolan wasn’t walking into some setup right now? Knocking, announcing himself, could be very stupid. . . .

He went to the Land Rover and lifted the hood.

It took about thirty seconds for the sound of the sticking, blaring horn to get a reaction inside the building. A dog barked; some lights went on; movement within. Nolan was waiting, his back to the building, to the right of the door, 9 mm in hand, as the man looked out—a big man, tall, wearing a hunting jacket over a bare chest and shiny blue pajama bottoms. He had a shotgun.

The man was only partway out, the door open, leaning toward the Land Rover and its blaring horn; he didn’t see Nolan, who was behind the partly open door. That was good.

Not good was the snarling dog on the other side of that door, a big dog, from the sound of it, who may not have seen Nolan but obviously sensed him, and knew
exactly
where he was.

Fortunately, the dog was unable to transfer its knowledge to his owner, who said, “Stay back, Queenie—I’ll let you know if I need you.”

But Queenie had a mind of her own, and as the man stepped out of the doorway onto the gravel, Queenie lurched forward.

Just as she did, Nolan shut the door on the bitch, hard, catching the snapping animal by the shoulders, lodging it there.

“Order it back!” Nolan said, shoulder pushing against the door. The dog, which had shut up for a second, caught by surprise and pain, was barking hysterically, trying to get its big German Shepherd head around to where she could bite off Nolan’s left hand, on the door knob. Above it all, the Land Rover’s horn was going as though this was a jail break.

The guy was standing there, his back to Nolan, but partially turned, glancing over his shoulder to see the gun in Nolan’s right hand. His own shotgun was slack in his hands.

“Order it back, I said,” Nolan said, straining against the door.

“Queenie,” the man said. “Get back.”

The dog’s snapping turned into a quiet growl.

“Get back, Queenie.”

The dog pulled back.

Nolan shut the door. Behind it the dog still growled. Even the blare of the Land Rover’s horn couldn’t drown it out.

The big man in hunting jacket and pajama bottoms twitched, as if about to turn.

Nolan said, “You can’t turn fast enough.”

The guy kept his back to Nolan but turned his head just enough to give Nolan a “Fuck you” look.

Nolan said, “Toss the shotgun. Toss it good.”

The guy tossed it.

“Go fix your horn,” Nolan said.

The guy walked slowly toward the Land Rover. Nolan followed. The guy lifted the hood, stopped the blaring. He shut the hood, then turned and looked at Nolan and said, “I’m gonna . . .”

“You’re going to shut up,” Nolan said.

The guy did.

“I’m not a thief,” Nolan said, which wasn’t exactly true, but in this case was. “I’m not here to cause you any harm.”

“Go to hell.”

“Lean back against the four-wheel. Put your hands on the hood.”

He did.

“What’s your name?” Nolan asked.

“Fuck you.”

“Don’t be stupid. This isn’t a contest.”

“Bob Hale.”

“You the watchman?”

He bristled. “I
own
the damn place.”

“No offense. This van here.”

“What about it?”

“It’s the band’s, isn’t it? The band that played here tonight, correct?”

“Yeah. Correct.”

“What’s it doing here?”

“I don’t know. I’m surprised it’s still here myself.”

Nolan was afraid of that.

“Some of ’em loaded some equipment in a trailer and left,” Hale was saying. “They said the other guy would probably be by tomorrow for his amplifiers and shit, which is still inside.”

“The other guy.”

“Jon. The leader. Had a chance to get laid or something and bugged out. He’ll turn up for his stuff tomorrow.”

There was a sound behind Nolan; he turned, quick, and saw the rear doors of the Nodes van open up.

“Get out slow,” Nolan said. He was standing with his back to the building, which he didn’t like doing, but it allowed him to keep an eye on both Hale, by the Land Rover, and whoever it was climbing out of the Nodes van.

“Let’s see your hands,” Nolan ordered. “Over your head.”

It was a girl. A young woman in a denim jacket and jeans. So the bundle under the blanket
had
been a small, sleeping person.

“I wanted to make sure it was you,” she said. She was staying near the van. A busty little brunette with a pretty, heart-shaped face.

“You’re Jon’s girl, aren’t you?” Nolan said.

“Not his girl, exactly,” she said, shrugging. “But I’m who you think I am. I think.”

“Toni, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said. She seemed surprised that he remembered her name. And a little pleased. “Can I put my hands down?”

“Yes, and come over here.”

She went to Hale.

“Bob,” she said, putting a hand on his arm, which was still leaning back so he could keep his hands on the Land Rover’s hood, per Nolan’s instructions, “this is a friend of Jon’s. I didn’t want to worry you before, Bob . . . but something’s happened to Jon.”

He looked confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Somebody’s kidnapped him, I think,” Toni said.

“Did you call the cops?” Hale asked.

“Can’t,” Toni said.

“Better be quiet,” Nolan told her.

“Why can’t you?” Hale asked.

Nolan raised his gun.

“Just asking,” Hale said.

Nolan looked at Toni. She nodded. He looked at Hale. He said, “Jon and I are involved with some people who wouldn’t like the police involved. You don’t want to know any more than that.”

“You’re right,” Hale said.

“I’ll put my gun away if you’ll take us inside and keep your dog off.”

“Okay.” Hale shrugged.

“Go get his shotgun,” Nolan told Toni.

She did.

Nolan broke it open, handed the shells to Hale, then handed him the empty gun as well.

He turned to Toni. “Get my shoes, would you?”

“You’re in your stocking feet!”