The Book of 21 (22 page)

“Turn around.”

Kim looked perplexed.

Marco made a spinning motion with his hand and barked, “You heard me, turn around.”

She turned and held her breath, wondering if he was going kill her. After a second, she felt something cool against her wrist. She tensed at the sawing motion initially, but then the ropes securing her hands fell free.

She heard Marco’s voice say, “OK, turn back around.”

While she turned to face him, she rubbed her wrists to get some feeling back in her hands. She saw Marco stuffing a small pocketknife into his hip pocket. When he was finished, he held out the travel pack of tissues again.

“OK, take these and do your business.”

She took the tissues, and asked, “Where?”

“What do you mean, where? Here,” he replied, backing away.

He was only five feet from her. She planned to have more space but it would have to do.

“OK,” she sighed.

Kim squatted down and pushed, but found she had developed a case of stage fright. She looked back up at him, and said, “I’m sorry, but it’s not easy like this.”

“It’s as easy as it will get. What do you want? Do you want me to leave you alone out in the field? Is that what you are up to?” He jerked hard on the rope. “Are you fucking with me, or do you really have to go?”

“No! I really have to! I’m sorry, it’s just not easy.”

“Shut the fuck up and get it over with.”

Kim pushed hard and released a noxious blast of gas. Looking back up at Marco, she saw his face contort. After looking down and focusing on a tuft of grass in front of her, she silently reminded herself, “One chance, Kim, you have one fucking chance to stay alive. You do what you have to do.”

With another push, she evacuated something more solid. Looking again up at Marco, she saw he had his head turned toward the field full of cow manure, searching for a breeze that might be more fresh than what he was currently experiencing. At that moment, she knew she had him, but she started to gag at the thought of her own plans. Her mind again silently barked, “One fucking chance, Kim. Do what you have to do. Make it count.” She reached behind her, grabbed a fistful of steaming feces, and then whipped it at Marco’s head.

The dung missile splattered onto the side of Marco’s face, and he recoiled from the sensation and smell. As Marco tried to shake free of the matter clinging to his face, Kim grabbed the rope with both hands and ran to him. Driving her right knee up into his groin, she did her best to lift his feet from the ground.

With a thunderous cry, Marco crumpled.

Kim pulled hard on the rope and heard a horrendous zipper-like noise as it tore the flesh on his left hand. She ran like mad for the car, grabbed the keys from the lock on the trunk, and dove into the driver’s seat.

Turning the key, she heard the engine sputter to life and jammed her foot down onto the accelerator. The car sprang down the dirt road. In her rear-view mirror, she saw Marco stand and stagger into the cloud of dust that the car had left behind.

Trying to find a paved road that would take her to the highway, she took the first right she came to, and then the next. Finally, the car came up on a strip of asphalt, and on the corner was a sign pointing to Interstate 80.

She flew down the road toward the highway. She would sometimes go home to Madison on I-80 during vacation, and upon seeing the concrete ribbon, she knew where she was. From here, she would get back to Philly in a few hours.

Kim ignored the signs for the stores near the interchange, and ripped onto the ramp to I-80 East.

As she slid onto the highway, she felt herself relax. She knew she was going to make it, and she began to giggle at the memory of Marco’s face covered in her crap.

Driving toward the peach glow warming the horizon, Kim smiled. She always loved the dawn, and she would get to see the sunrise. On that thought, she realized how close she came to having this be the last sunrise she ever saw. Then her hands began to shake, and she fought to see the lines on the road through her tears.

Chapter 26:
Two Can Play That Game

While the first rays of dawn broke over the horizon, John limped his way along Market Street with Amy by his side. The clicks of their footsteps echoed through the crisp morning air. Occasionally, the hushed sound of a passing car gently broke against their ears like a distant wave on the shore.

In that quiet, he contemplated what events the day might hold. He always loved the time just prior to dawn—partly because its silence afforded him solitude and clarity of thought. It also gave him time to wax optimistic and hope that the day might be a good one. In the end, the day was rarely as good as he dreamed it might be, but he still liked to hope.

When they reached DiFlore’s Diner, he tottered up the stairs.

Amy stopped in her tracks, and said, “You have to be kidding.”

“I never kid when it comes to coffee,” he chuckled. He held the door and waited.

The two of them made their way to the bar.

A smiling Effie promptly beckoned, “Good mornin’ folks. Having coffee today, John?”

“As always.”

While Effie poured two cups of coffee, she peered at Amy and then said to John, “I see the quality of your friends has increased dramatically since yesterday.”

“It sure has,” he said with a smile.

A few seconds later, he realized that he sat here with Ben Shalby just yesterday morning, and his smile suddenly faded. So much had happened that it seemed impossible to have been only twenty-four hours. He looked at the date on his watch and reassured himself that just one day had passed.

Now, he knew he had to go confront Shalby. He disliked the man—everyone did. If Shalby was dirty, then John would have no problem putting the old bigot inside a prison.

Cops on the inside had a particularly poor chance of survival, so John knew it would be a death sentence one way or the other. Even if Shalby survived, John would take solace in the idea that big inmates would take turns getting inside Shalby.

Effie’s voice shattered his morbid train of thought.

“What are you having today, darlin’?” she asked.

“Just toast,” he muttered. “I have to run out quick.”

Amy’s eyes darted between John and Effie, and she blurted out, “I guess I’ll have the same.”

John shook his head as he took a sip of coffee. After a moan to indicate a negative reply, he swallowed and said, “No, get what you want.”

“But if we are leaving…”

“
I’m
leaving. You stick right here with Miss Effie and wait for me. I’ll be right back.”

Amy shook her head. “No.”

“Yes. Look, you just wait here for me. I have to check something out, and it would be more dangerous for both of us if you went with me.”

“Why, John?”

“Trust me. I don’t want a replay of last night. Order what you want for breakfast. I’ll be back soon.”

Amy looked at Effie. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Effie darted a glance at John, and then leaned in to Amy. She smiled warmly, and cooed, “You look like a french toast girl. How’s that sound?”

“There you go,” John chuckled.

Amy sat, silent.

“Come on, Amy,” John persisted, “you have to eat, and I have to check something out. Have the french toast and relax. I’ll be right back.”

Amy nodded once.

Effie scratched the order down and confirmed, “One french toast and one… toast.” While tapping her chin with her pen, she asked, “Are you sure you don’t want a fried egg sandwich John? I’ll wrap it up to go.”

“You’re the best waitress I’ve ever known, Effie,” John replied with a resurrected grin.

“Yeah well, it pays the bills,” Effie laughed, as she headed back toward the kitchen.

Amy stared at the saltshaker.

“Look, Amy, this next stop could get nasty. I don’t want anyone to grab onto you and use you as a bargaining chip. I’d never forgive myself if this guy hurt you.”

She smiled weakly, and sighed, “OK, but I don’t even know where you are going. What if something happens to you? How will I know? What will happen then?” Her eyes began to tear. “What should I do then?”

“If I don’t come back in a couple of hours, you call the news and get the story out on the headlines. This is bigger than those wackos who abducted you last night. I think Dunglison found something they wanted, and it got him killed. I think they are looking for what he left behind.”

“Why don’t we just go to the news people right now?”

“Because, the way it’s set up, I’ll look like a disgruntled cop who is trying to get even with the force. I need more before we go to the press. If I don’t get more, these people will get away, screw me over, and eventually get what they want.” John’s mind flashed to the idea of selling cigarettes at the Stop-n-Go, but he continued, “The point is that I want my life back, and I’m not going to let these people beat me. If they kill me, then OK. At least you might have a dead cop’s body to prove that something doesn’t add up.”

She thought for a second, then shook her head and replied, “So, you are going to risk your life just for your
job
?”

“I do that every day.” He looked down at his coffee and, for a second, wondered why.

Amy closed her eyes and shook her head again. “Isn’t there anybody we can go to for help?”

“Just my friend, Harry Mulgrew, and all he can really do is tell us what he found in the dirt and fibers from the crime scene. He’s not cut out for what I have to do next. He might be more of a liability than a benefit if I go to him now.”

John realized that he needed to call Harry soon and see if he found anything useful in those fibers and blood droplets. He knew, however, that he should move away from where he was stashing Amy before he turned on the cell.

“So… what if this Harry person doesn’t find anything?”

“In that case, we’re screwed.” After a second, he continued, “Look, if I don’t come back, you go to the press and tell them the story. Tell them I went to see a homicide detective, and now I am missing.”

“Which detective?”

John thought about Shalby’s name splattered all over the news. No matter how much he wanted to believe the boor was dirty, he had to make sure before he spat out the name. If the phone information was planted, he might be playing into the story these people wanted.

“I’m not sure he’s dirty, so let’s leave it at that. There’s a good chance I may be misreading the facts. If something happens to me, I don’t want them to waste time giving this guy a body cavity search and wind up missing someone else.”

John pondered whether he should drop Sanford’s name, since Mezzalura used it to manipulate the events of the evening. The problem was that he was not sure Sanford was dirty either; Mezzalura could have manipulated his personnel file and then had someone drop it on the lieutenant’s desk. She might have mentioned Sanford’s name in order to simply add to the confusion, and in that case, naming Sanford might mislead any investigator as much as naming Shalby.

John sighed, rubbed his head, and murmured, “Let them take a good hard look at all of them.”

At that point, Effie set a brown bag and Styrofoam cup of coffee on the counter.

“There you go,” Effie purred. “The french toast will be along in a few minutes.”

“Thanks, Effie.” John lifted the bag and slowly brought himself to his feet.

Amy grabbed his arm, and asserted, “I don’t like this, John.”

“I don’t either. I’ll be back soon. If you need to call me, use the diner phone and leave a message on my voicemail.”

John took a step and felt the twinge of pain in his ankle. He realized it might be slow going to Shalby’s place. Looking back to Amy, he reminded her of the timeline by saying, “Give me two hours before you go anywhere.” He then turned and hobbled his way out of the diner.

Limping in the direction of Shalby’s townhouse, he unwrapped the fried egg sandwich and took a bite. The boost of nutrients from the sandwich energized him—almost as if he was getting high off the greasy block of egg and toast. He had no idea that he was so thoroughly starved. He figured that he must have been living off adrenaline for the last several hours.

Every step brought a twinge of pain in his leg, and he was wondering whether his ankle would hold out for the six-block walk to Shalby’s, when a homeless man tottered toward him. John noticed that he and the man shared a similar limp. After a second, however, he considered just how random this encounter could be, given his run-in on campus yesterday.

The vagrant stopped in front of him, extended a hand, and asked, “Any spare change?”

John looked at the man. Homeless people dotted the city. Though most people tried not to notice them, John was giving the man a wary examination right now. After a few seconds, John made a judgment call that this guy was legitimate—a decision largely based on the odor wafting off him.

The man moved his hand, as if John failed to see it, and prompted again, “Eh? Any spare change?”

John took a sip of coffee and thought about the facelessness of the homeless. They were hidden in plain sight. Right now, he could use a little of that cover.

He took another bite of sandwich, looked the man in the eye, and asked, “Want to make twenty bucks?”

“How?” the man growled.

“Sell me your hat and coat.”

The man thought for a bit, then counter offered, “Make it forty and you have a deal.”

John pinched the breakfast sandwich between his thumb and the coffee cup in his left hand, while he dug for the money with his right. After a few seconds, he held out the cash.

The beggar put forward the hat and coat, but then drew the garments back and said, “I’ll need your coffee and sandwich too.”

“But…” John realized the fact that his lips touched both items probably were of little matter to the man and replied, “OK.”

The man took the sandwich and stuck it in his maw, then took the coffee. In return, he handed John his coat and hat. After taking the money from John, he sealed the deal with a nod of his head and, through his grate of rotten teeth, said, “Pleasure doing business with you.”