Wonderland (10 page)

THIRTEEN

Under the Clown Museum

B
lake had no idea what day or time it was; all he knew was that he was starving, and if the rat ever came back to visit, he wasn’t opposed to killing it with his bare hands and eating it raw.

Okay, maybe not. He had a squeamish stomach to begin with, but it was crazy the amount of fucked-up thoughts you could have when you were hungrier than you’d ever been in your entire life. A beetle had crawled by earlier and he’d missed it by one swipe. He used to think it was disgusting to eat bugs, like the contestants were forced to do on that old reality show
Survivor
, but now he understood that if you were starving, that beetle might have tasted like Chex Mix.

The only thing that outweighed his hunger was his fear that he was going to die down here. Slowly, painfully, alone, and in the dark, with only a trace of dim ambient light coming from somewhere in the tunnel. In this moment he truly couldn’t think of a worse way to go. Drowning, fire, gunshot, bleeding to death—all of those things would be a faster death than what awaited him.

Blake was in a dungeon of some kind, that much he knew. Wonderland’s midway was the last place he’d been, and the only positive thing about being on an involuntary fast was that it cleared the fogginess out of your brain, allowing you to start remembering things.

He could remember sneaking into the park and climbing the Wonder Wheel. He was certain he’d taken pictures once he reached the top, but whether he’d gotten a chance to upload them, he couldn’t recall. That was where things started to get a bit hazy. He’d seen movement down below, someone in a golf cart, and then the wheel had begun to rotate. He’d lost his balance, almost slipping right off the goddamned wheel, but he’d managed to hang on long enough to get closer to the bottom.

And then he’d fallen. He estimated he’d dropped maybe ten feet, not enough to kill him, but enough to create massive bruises on both legs, a sprained shoulder, and what he suspected might be a mild concussion.

After that, everything had gone black, and at some point later on—much later on? a little later on?—he’d woken up on the floor here with his arms and legs bound. Then he’d passed out again, and when he woke up the second time, his arms and legs were free.

His best guess was that he was somewhere in the bowels of Wonderland. The crazy part was that he’d heard stories about this dungeon from his dad, but he’d always dismissed them as urban legend. He never thought it actually existed.

The joke was on him.

The space he was in could best be described as a jail cell. Concrete walls made up four sides of the ten-by-ten-foot space, and there were metal bars where there should have been a fourth wall, with a locked door in the middle. The key to the door hung on a metal hook outside the bars, about five feet out of arm’s length, just close enough to torment him. He had a flush toilet, a sink with running water (which tasted clean, but you never knew), a small bed with a thin mattress and no pillow or sheets, and a thirteen-inch tube TV mounted to the upper rear corner of the cell, which didn’t work. Whoever had built this had set it up to be a space someone could stay in for a long time, assuming you had food.

Which Blake did not. His stomach felt like it was grinding all the time, and when he wasn’t thinking about how to get the hell out of here, he was thinking about food. He dreamed of food. He thought of all the food that was above him at the park right now being wasted: french fries carelessly falling out of paper cups, half-eaten hot dogs with ketchup and mustard being thrown into the trash, stale mini-doughnuts being tossed away and replaced with fresh ones.

He went over to the sink and splashed more water into his mouth. It didn’t really help, though—if anything, the water made him more hungry. But he had to keep drinking, because he had to stay alive. Because it couldn’t end like this. Whoever had brought him here was surely coming back.

Walking over to the bars, he put his hands around the cold metal and shook them as hard as he could. They rattled, which was a somewhat satisfying sound, but they weren’t budging. The bars were probably a foot deep into the concrete that also made up the floor and ceiling.

“Help!” he shouted again. “Help! Anyone! Please!”

He continued to rattle the bars, but it was no use. Nobody could hear him. Nobody was coming. His hand went to his pocket, feeling for his phone, which of course wasn’t there. He’d done this several times already; he was never without his phone, and he felt naked without it. But even if he could call someone, there’d be no cell service down here. And of course, the battery would be dead by now.

All Blake could hope for was that enough time had passed for people to actually be concerned about him. He was known for being the kind of guy who had no problem disappearing for a day or two, without feeling the need to tell anyone where he was going, or where he had been. Sometimes he went off on his own, and sometimes he went with friends. Derek Dozier had never been the type of father to worry about him, anyway.

Maybe this time, though, his dad would sense something was wrong. Maybe this time, he’d know his son was in real trouble and needed help. Blake could only hope.

He shook the bars some more, then broke down in tears, something he rarely did. A minute later, the crying had graduated to full-on sobs, the likes of which he hadn’t suffered through since he was a kid. They heaved up from his chest in painful spasms to the point where it was hard to breathe.

And then he heard something. Footsteps.

They got louder as they got closer, and instinctively Blake backed up, moving away from the bars. A male figure appeared, dressed in all black, right down to the ski mask covering his face. In one hand he was carrying a cardboard box.

He stood in front of the cell, a few feet away from the bars, staring at Blake with eyes that appeared black in the very dim tunnel.

“Who are you?” Blake said.

No response.

“Who are you?” Blake screamed. “Let me out!” He rushed back toward the bars, his arms reaching through, clawing. “
Let me out let me out let me out!
”

It didn’t faze the man in black, who reached into the box and began tossing food into the cell. It was all prepackaged stuff—candy bars, chips, cookies—but there were also a few bags of dried almonds, a few bananas and oranges, and a couple of plastic-wrapped sandwiches. The sticker on the sandwiches said
SEASIDE MARKET
, which was the grocery store on the south end of Main Street.

Blake went right for the sandwich, a limp turkey and Swiss on day-old rye bread. He almost forgot to rip off the plastic, and when he took his first bite, his stomach cramped with equal parts pain and pleasure. Nothing had ever tasted so good, and he had to stop himself from cramming the entire thing in his mouth.

Forcing himself to chew, he looked up. His captor was gone.

FOURTEEN

T
he Devil’s Dukes Motorcycle Club shared a parking lot with Clove Street Auto Repair. Both were owned by a man named Tanner Wilkins, a longtime resident of Seaside who was a biker and an ex-outlaw. While the Devil’s Dukes were described on their website as simply being “a place for Harley riders and cigar aficionados to meet and discuss shared interests,” the long list of incident reports filed with Seaside PD, ranging from disturbing the peace to drug use to assault in all degrees, told a different story.

Two patrol cars were already parked outside, and a handful of Devil’s Dukes members were standing around the front entrance, dressed in typical biker gear—jeans, shirts, and leather vests with the DD logo sewn onto the back. Officer Nate Essex, who’d been chatting amiably with the group, met Vanessa as she got out of her unmarked.

Vanessa liked Nate, a young redheaded rookie who’d joined Seaside PD a month earlier. The two had hit it off immediately; Nate was too new to be upset with her for unfairly securing her current position.

“So is this a club or a gang?” she asked him as they walked toward the clubhouse. “Any illicit business currently going on here? Drugs, guns, prostitution?”

The rookie shook his head. “I honestly don’t know, Deputy, but I’m told Tanner Wilkins runs a pretty tight ship these days. About ten years ago, Double D was heavily into gang activity—drugs mainly, and some gun running. Supposedly they’re clean now. At some point Wilkins decided to go legit, and other than a few old busts for marijuana possession and disorderly conduct, nothing much has happened here. Especially now that pot’s legal in the state.”

The dozen cars parked on the garage side of the lot were of various makes and models, but they all had one thing in common—they were all American made. “No Jap-crap,” as Vanessa’s father would have said, god rest his racist soul. There were three garage bays, doors open, and all contained cars being worked on by mechanics wearing coveralls.

A row of Harley-Davidson motorcycles were lined up neatly outside the clubhouse. Their owners scrutinized Vanessa from head to toe as she approached. She recognized Pete Warwick, Nate’s partner, and gave him a nod. She introduced herself to the group.

Leather vests and boots aside, the club members didn’t seem like outlaws. Only two were sporting beards. The other two looked like they could be bankers on their day off.

“So why am I here?” Vanessa asked, addressing Nate and Pete.

“Jenna Wilkins took a beating,” Pete Warwick said. “The witness says it was the boyfriend, Mike Bruin. He works as a mechanic on the other side of the lot.”

Vanessa didn’t recognize either name. She could only assume the victim was related to Tanner Wilkins in some way. “And where’s Jenna now?”

“Inside,” Nate said. “She refuses to speak to us, said she fell, but the witness assures us that’s not what happened.”

“Who’s the witness?”

“Her friend Debbie. She’s with Jenna inside.”

“Did you see what happened?” Vanessa spoke to the bikers.

“No, ma’am,” one of them responded. He had a long gray Vandyke, and the beard made him appear older, even though his eyes seemed young. “We didn’t see anything.”

“Injuries?” Vanessa asked.

“Lacerations on the face,” Nate said. “Black eye. Goose egg on the temple. Bruises on the arms, and a gash on the leg from where she fell.”

“And what’s the story with the boyfriend?”

“Well, it’s Mike Bruin,” Pete said, in a tone that implied the name should mean something to Vanessa. It didn’t.

“And where is he now?”

“Enjoying his last few moments on earth,” one of the younger bikers said under his breath, and his friend with the Vandyke jabbed him with an elbow.

“Bruin’s in the second garage bay,” Nate said. “Officers Kelly and Cisco are talking to him.”

“Tanner’s gonna kill him,” the biker muttered again. “He won’t care if Mike’s stepdad—”

“Shut
up
, Ed,” Vandyke said. To Vanessa, he said, “We didn’t see nothing, we didn’t hear nothing.”

Nate was about to say something but was distracted by the shouting coming from one of the garage bays.

“I want to see Jenna!” a young man was yelling. He was trying to exit the garage, but two officers were holding his arms. “I want to see her! Let me go, you fuckers!”

“Why isn’t he cuffed?” Vanessa was incredulous. “He should be cuffed and in the back of the squad car.”

Nate and Pete exchanged a look. “Uh, well, that’s why we called you,” Nate said. “We weren’t sure if that was the right move.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Other than the fact that this had happened at a biker club, this all seemed like your standard, run-of-the-mill assault-and-battery charge. “There’s a victim. There’s a witness. Protocol has it you arrest him and bring him in.”

“Jennnnaaaaa!” the young man hollered from across the parking lot. “Jenna, I love youuuuu!”

“Christ,” Vanessa said. “Go arrest him. I’ll talk to Jenna.” She looked at the bikers. “I’d appreciate it if you gentlemen stuck around. We might need your statements.”

“We didn’t see nothing, we didn’t hear nothing,” Vandyke repeated. The other three dropped their gazes to the asphalt.

Sighing, she entered the clubhouse, where the light changed immediately from bright sunshine to dim. The first thing she noticed was the smell. The room positively reeked of pot. It seemed to be everywhere, and the sickly sweet smell was so strong she almost gagged.

It took a few seconds for Vanessa’s eyes to adjust, and when they did, she felt like she’d been transported to a different world.

Oak walls were stained a dark brown color. A narrow bar lined one side of the clubhouse, where an older man wearing a denim shirt sat hunched over on one of the stools, nursing a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. A few sofas and club chairs of different sizes were dotted throughout the space, and a sixty-inch flat-screen TV was mounted above the giant wood-burning fireplace. It would have been an entirely masculine room, except that the TV was showing the
Real Housewives of Beverly Hills
. Vanessa chuckled at the incongruence.

“If you’re looking for Jenna, head to the back,” the man at the bar said. He didn’t turn around. “First bedroom.”

“Did you see what happened?” She spoke to his back.

“Didn’t see nothing, didn’t hear nothing. I was sitting on this bar stool the whole time.”

The line of the day,
she thought. Following his instructions, she made her way across the clubhouse to where the bedrooms were. The first one’s door was slightly ajar. She knocked before pushing it open all the way.

A young woman in her early twenties was sitting on top of the sparsely made bed, skinny legs splayed out in front of her. One hand held a Ziploc bag filled with ice cubes to her head, and her eyes were closed and puffy. Another woman, early thirties, sat beside her on a chair, leafing through a celebrity gossip magazine.

Neither woman heard her coming, and they both jumped when the door squeaked.

“Jenna?” Vanessa addressed the girl on the bed. “I’m Deputy Chief Castro. You okay?”

Jenna opened her eyes. She gave Vanessa the once-over, noting the badge clipped to her breast pocket. “I’m fine,” she said, putting the icepack down. “It looks worse than it feels.”

“Bullshit,” the other woman snapped, closing the magazine. “Look what that fucking asshole did to her face. Fucking piece of scum. You arrest him yet?” she said to Vanessa.

“Shut
up
, Debbie.” The young woman’s voice sounded stuffy from crying. “I said I’m fine. I tripped and hit my head. I already told the other cop that I don’t need to go to the hospital. You can go now.”

“Actually, I can’t.” Vanessa stood near the edge of bed. “You’ve been assaulted, Jenna. I’m here to find out what happened, so I can help you.”

“I
said.
I
fell
.” Jenna put the ice pack back to her face. “I’m a klutz. What can I say.”

Vanessa glanced over at her friend. Debbie’s lips were pursed. She was clearly biting her tongue. “Can you give us a moment alone?”

“Just tell her,” Debbie said to Jenna, standing up. She folded her magazine under one arm. “It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last. Enough’s enough.”

She left and Vanessa stood up, closing the door firmly behind her. Then she took the chair that Debbie had been occupying. “Let me see your face,” she said gently.

After a few seconds, the younger woman turned toward her. The right half of her face was swollen and red. By tomorrow it would be full-out purple. There were three lacerations on her cheek, one on her lip, and one on her eyebrow. Despite the injuries, she was a very pretty girl. Strawberry blond hair, pert nose, bright blue eyes. Skin the color of porcelain. Dressed in a loose floral tank top and a white skirt, she looked like the girl next door, and not somebody Vanessa would expect to see hanging out in a biker clubhouse.

“You really should go to the hospital and have that looked at,” Vanessa said. “You could have a concussion. That’s serious.”

“I hate hospitals.”

“I do, too. But concussions are pretty serious, regardless of how they happened. Also, those cuts look pretty deep. You might need stitches. If they don’t heal properly, you could have permanent scarring. Look.” Vanessa turned her face away slightly and lifted up her chin, pointing to a pink scar just along her jawline. It was about an eighth of an inch thick and two inches long, and wrinkled. “See that? Fell into one of the weight bars at the gym last year. Got infected because I wouldn’t get it looked at. Now I have this on my face forever.” It was a complete lie—if only the injury had happened at the gym instead of at home, and by accident, instead of on purpose.

“What? Serious?” Jenna looked horrified. “Fine, I’ll go.”

“Good. Now we both know you didn’t trip,” Vanessa said. “Are you worried that your boyfriend will hurt you again? His name’s Mike, right? Is Debbie right that this wasn’t the first time?”

Jenna clenched her jaw, not answering. She reached for the pillow beside her and clutched it to her chest. She looked very young and very vulnerable. “It’s complicated,” she finally said.

“You were arguing, I imagine. Maybe you lost your temper, moved toward him.” Vanessa kept her voice soft. “Maybe he shoved you just to get you to go away. Maybe he didn’t mean to shove so hard. You lost your balance.” She pointed to Jenna’s sandals, which were still strapped to her feet. “Three-inch wedges. I have a pair like that. Stepped on a pebble once, went sideways and hit the ground hard. Who knew wedges could be so dangerous?”

Jenna looked away, clutching the pillow tighter. “I wanted to hit him.”

“How come?”

“I thought he was cheating on me.” A tear spilled over onto the cheek that wasn’t swollen. “I mean, he is. Everybody here knows it. I was the last to find out.”

“That seems to be the way it always goes,” Vanessa said with sympathy. “It’s humiliating, isn’t it?”

The girl looked up at her, and she was so forlorn it was all Vanessa could do not to hug her. “I was yelling at him. He was yelling back, telling me that I didn’t know what I was talking about, even though I saw what she wrote to him on Facebook. He forgot to log out of his account, and I read all her messages to him, there were like a dozen of them, and I took screen shots, tried to show him I had proof. He wouldn’t look at them, and instead he accused me of spying on him, saying that I was crazy and paranoid.” Jenna shook her head, looking genuinely puzzled. “Why do guys do that? Why do they always say you’re crazy and paranoid when they’re the ones cheating on you? I hate that.”

“It’s what they do to get you off their back,” Vanessa said. “They make you feel like you’re losing your mind, that you somehow made it all up.”

“They must all take the same Douchebag 101 class,” Jenna said, and Vanessa smiled. “Anyway, he called me a stupid, paranoid little bitch, and that’s when I lost it. I lunged at him, and he punched me in the face. Twice. That’s when I fell.” Her face scrunched up and she began to cry, the sobs coming up painfully from her small chest.

“It’s not okay that he hit you, Jenna. Has this happened before?”

The younger woman didn’t respond. Her silence was more than enough. Then Jenna said in a tiny voice, “But it’s my fault. It happens when I get in his face. I know it makes him mad, and that I shouldn’t push him like that. I mean, it’s . . . it’s complicated.”

Spoken like a true victim.

Vanessa nodded and patted the girl on the ankle. “It’s not your fault, okay? It’s never your fault. But thank you for telling me. I know that was hard.” She plucked a tissue out of the Kleenex box on the nightstand. “When you’re ready, we’ll go to the hospital. Take some pictures, get you fixed up. It’s going to be all right.”

“Are you gonna charge him?” she said, blowing her nose. Vanessa handed her another tissue.

“If you don’t, I’ll kill him,” a deep voice from the doorway said.

Both women looked up. A tall man was standing there, maybe six four with muscular arms and only a slight paunch. Tattoos ran down from under the sleeves of his T-shirt, all the way to his wrists, where two huge hands covered in silver rings were clenched into fists. Messy salt-and-pepper hair and a scruffy beard framed a face that was mottled with fury. His complexion matched the red tee he was wearing. Instinctively Vanessa’s hand went under her jacket to her hip, where she wore her Glock, but he made no move to enter the bedroom.