Richfield & Rivers Mystery Series 1 - Combust the Sun Page 17

  Wade nodded with satisfaction. It appeared the kidnappers were three in number and were all accounted for.

  I clambered up the hill to find Callie's beautiful blond hair disheveled and her white starched shirt stained with blood and dirt. I flung my arms around her. "Oh my God, I am so grateful you're alive." I laughed and cried at the same time. Tracing the source of the blood to her shoulder, I worried, "You've been cut. I think you need stitches."

  "It's okay," she said, and put her cheek on my chest and clung to me. I could feel my shirt grow damp from her tears.

  "I'm personally beginning to measure okay by whether we're in each other's arms." I leaned over and kissed her and looked deeply into her eyes. "I am so grateful that I have you back safe," I said again, not caring that Wade and several cops were staring at us, slightly mesmerized.

  I threw Wade a "stop staring" look that jump-started him. "Okay, gentlemen, get moving. Let's clean up this mess. Somebody scrape up these flying assholes and load them into the squad cars. Gimme your keys," he demanded of me. "I'll bring your car over here so she doesn't have to walk."

  I fished them out of my pocket, my other arm still wrapped around Callie. "Raider's got the real stone in his pocket, so we want to save that one. He swallowed one of the fakes, not clear exactly where that stone is in its journey," I said.

  "The guy I just killed?" Wade asked, handing my keys off to one of his men and signaling him to go get the car.

  "The blond guy." I nodded in Raider's direction. "Might want to tell the coroner he swallowed it about thirty-six hours ago. I think he passed it and that's how they figured out I still had the real one, but you might want to double-check. Don't want to get the two mixed up," I replied.

  "Shit." He shook his head.

  "Well that's where I'd start," I said with a little protect-and-serve humor.

  Taking advantage of our distraction, the capoeria-temp bolted. It must have been my adrenaline, or maybe just my anger at Callie's being injured by them, but I let go of Callie and moved ten feet to her right in time to put a stop block on him that I personally felt could have made me a first-round draft pick. His chin hit the stone walkway so hard that Wade laughed and then quickly tried to turn it into a politically correct cough. I got up slowly, really moaning this time.

  Wade gave me an almost imperceptible grin. "Miss your old line of work?"

  Callie was horrified. "Stop that, Teague! Let the police handle it."

  "Hey, that was pretty slick, gettin' us the pickup description," Wade complimented Callie, who smiled up at him. A cop complimenting a psychic in this part of the world was something one wanted to have on tape.

  Wade pointed at my dad's car being driven into the parking lot on the west side of the bell tower. "Hopper will drive you down to the station so we can fill out a report and then he'll take you on back home if you want. You both look a little worse for wear."

  "We should drive ourselves, Teague," Callie said.

  "Come on." I towed her toward the car. "Let's give ourselves a break and be chauffeured. Wade hardly ever thinks of anything useful. I'm going to let him win this one," I said as Callie and I walked up to the parking lot arm in arm.

  Given the choice, the young cop behind the wheel would probably have selected a root canal over chauffeuring two forty something women downtown in their dad's old car, but he pulled slowly and dutifully out onto Memorial and took a left, heading south.

  "You're going the wrong way. We're going to the police station," I said, thinking he must be new on the force and that's why he'd gotten this duty.

  "Actually, I'm going the right way," the officer said, tilting the rearview mirror to make eye contact with me.

  My blood froze. "Curtis!" I screamed.

  A second man rose up from the front seat. "And you remember our mutual friend, Gigante," Curtis said as Gigante pointed a gun at us.

  "In case you missed the last episode, I had to give the rock up at the bell tower to Raider, one of your associates. He was shot and killed. The police probably have the stone right now." I tried to remain calm and I kept a grip on Callie's hand.

  "The stones are no longer the problem. You are," Curtis said. And I began to worry that the blanket of cosmic protection Callie always promised us might be wearing thin.

  I checked the street signs. We were at 211th, zigzagging toward Okmulgee, a rural farming community with lots of backwoods and vacant fields, neither of which boded well for us. Curtis checked his rearview mirror and suddenly whipped the car off the road, driving it across a leaf-strewn field, rutted and bumpy from plowing in too-damp weather. The car came to a stop under a canopy of oak trees hidden from the road. The perfect location for a murder.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The police will be here in about two minutes," I lied, trying to sound irritated rather than frightened. "Just take the car and leave us here."

  Curtis turned off the headlights, opened the glove compartment, and took out a pair of latex gloves. He'd become organized and industrious, not a good sign. Telling Gigante to keep the gun on us, he got out of the car, leaving the driver-side door open, and popped the lid on the trunk. I turned to watch. He removed something and snapped the trunk lid shut with such intensity that it bounced the car up and down like a rocking horse. Now I could see him approaching carrying two gas cans.

  "This is going to be your transportation to the netherworld, ladies," he said happily, peering into the car through the open door.

  "Why are you doing this? This could land you in prison," Callie said.

  "Doin' it because I get paid to do it. Just a job. Nothin' personal," Curtis replied coolly, and I could see that Curtis was a man who had no trouble sleeping nights, because his conscience played no role in his life.

  Gigante got out of the car, leaving us in the backseat, his gun still trained on us. Curtis moved quickly, dousing the ground around the vehicle in a wide circle, then he soaked the interior, splashing gasoline on me. I screamed for him to wait, and he paused for just a second. I knew we were nearly as good as dead. We had to get out of this car before it became a firebomb. It's strange where my mind went in that split second when I knew we were about to die. It went to my father, and the funny way he swore, and the clever things he said. What irony that a man who was such a fastidious dresser could leave the floor of his car in a jumble of Dixie cups and hearing aids and old lighters.

  The gas can was in my face when I screamed, "You're missing an opportunity here! Why haven't you raped us both? The evidence of any sexual assault is going to be burned up anyway."

  My remark was so bizarre and unexpected that his arm stayed suspended in midair, the gas can dangling from it. He seemed to evaluate the idea for a moment, then rejected it. "You're dying," he said, about to toss the gasoline on us.

  Gigante spoke for the first time, saying something in Spanish, apparently interested in what I'd suggested. He argued his case quietly, with a shrug of his shoulders, seeming to know how to work Curtis. Curtis momentarily dropped the can to his side and relaxed his body for an instant. Gigante yanked the back door of the car open with one hand and had his other hand wrapped around Callie's arm. At least I would not see her burned. Now we were either raped or dead, and the former bought me time. Callie gave me one last resolute look, her small hand trailing across mine in a gesture that nearly tore out my heart as the man with the huge head literally ripped her out of the backseat and disappeared with her into the darkness. The idea that he could hurt her created in me an explosion that would have dwarfed whatever explosion Curtis had planned for us.

  "You are one stupid fucking cocksucker!" I screamed at Curtis. It had the desired effect. He nearly ripped the car door off its hinges to grab me by the legs and haul me out feet first. I didn't go easily, buying myself just a split second to scoop up my dad's old Bic lighter from under the seat, the lighter that had bounced over a hundred roads and might or might not have any juice in it, its dusty, transparent case now resting in my palm. I lan
ded on the ground face first to the sound of Callie's screams and Gigante's curses in the distance. Curtis straddled me, ripping at my jeans, trying to peel them off me. When that failed, he raked my leg with a knife that cut into my skin as he attempted to cut my jeans off.

  My thumb scraped across the serrated wheel of the cigarette lighter: once, twice. The second time a tiny flame flickered above the gasoline-soaked ground, and then suddenly, the dry leaves went up in a whoosh, chasing the gasoline trail and encircling the car. A gust of wind, sent by angels no doubt, caused the fire to jump to the car upholstery, which burst into flames. The other gas can that Curtis had left beside the car exploded with a loud bang, launching tiny pieces of shrapnel into the air. Curtis shouted for Gigante as the fire encircling the car became a veritable wall, and I was miraculously inside that wall of fire, shielded by the flames from my would-be killer.

  Griping about being interrupted, Gigante released Callie and came lumbering over, slapping at the flames that had now engulfed Curtis's shirt as he fought to get to me. A hissing sound and then another explosion, this time from the trunk of the car as a fireball shot into the air and the whole field lit up like the Fourth of July. Gigante had gotten in the path of the white-hot debris, and he was screaming and cursing. Curtis shouted for him to jump the flames and grab me.

  From behind me, Curtis, shirtless now, flung himself through the flames inside the ring of fire and began pounding me, enraged that he'd been tricked. I knew he was going to kill me. Adrenaline kicked in, and I flailed at him with my arms and fists. Had I been more rested, or less battered, I might have had a fighting chance, but not now. I could hear Callie screaming for me, somewhere outside the fire ring, telling me to fight him, as she too tried to get to me. Curtis was winning resoundingly. I was winded, my muscles were cramping from holding him off, I was choking on the gasoline smells, and he knew he had me.

  He wrestled me onto my back, straddling me, and pinned my arms to the ground above my head. Letting go of my left arm for only a second, he brought his fist down across my jaw in a smashing blow that opened my lip. I could taste the blood trickling down my throat. He went for a second blow. I arched my back for leverage, then yanked my knees up, butting him in the back and rocking him forward toward the fire. He jerked back to keep from being singed again and lost his balance. We both staggered to our feet. Callie screamed for me to watch my back. I turned around just in time to see Gigante lunge and then fall into the flames. I had taken my eyes off Curtis, and he flattened me. My head cracked against the hard ground one last time.

  I remembered hearing fire trucks approaching in the distance, then nothing. Then very loud sirens nearby, then darkness. Then the sensation that lots of hands were pulling on me. Someone was trying to unzip my pants, and I was fighting them. Callie's voice was soothing.

  My body was being lifted. Somebody had my face. I felt hands on my face. I heard someone say, "Dead," and I wondered if I were.

  "You okay, Teague? It's Wade. You okay?" My body was being jostled along on something white. A mattress? I was under a roof. Wade and Callie were there. I was Dorothy, back in Kansas, trying to describe her dream to the farm hands. Wade's worried face reminded me a lot of the Scarecrow's.

  Callie was holding an ice pack on my mouth, and her arm was streaked in blood. A man wearing a hospital jacket was sitting next to her. She removed the ice pack for Wade to have a look, then put it back, and everything went dark.

  There's nothing like having someone stab your lip with needles to bring you back into focus. Numbing was the worst part, the stitching only annoying. The police filled out endless paperwork while nurses came and went. I described for Wade how Curtis had disguised himself as a member of the LAPD and had even interviewed me after Barrett Silvers's attack. In fact, he'd been so convincing as a cop, I'd kept in touch with him every step of the way, letting him know where I was. That's undoubtedly how Caruthers's boys knew where and how to get us. I suggested Wade phone the LAPD and warn them about Curtis.

  "I guess you were out during that part," Wade said, glancing at Callie.

  "Curtis is dead, Teague," Callie said.

  "The Gigante guy is too," Wade added.

  "How badly did he hurt you, Callie?" I asked.

  "Curtis interrupted Gigante before he could rape me," Callie answered.

  "Good. That saves me digging the sonofabitch up and beating him to death," I said with bravado for Wade's benefit, but deep down I was just grateful and relieved Callie had escaped him. "Did we find out who he worked for, or any of the details?" I asked, and Callie shook her head.

  "He was banging your head into the ground and Callie was on his back, trying to pull him off you, when we arrived. One of my guys jumped him and went a couple of rounds before it got ugly and we had to put him away."

  My parents came through the emergency room doors looking frantic. Callie had called them and assured them I was all right, but after seeing my lumpy face, they weren't convinced. I told them there was good news/bad news. The good news was that we were alive. The bad news was their car went up in smoke.

  "That's okay, honey," Mom said sweetly, "we didn't really use it that much," which made me laugh, which in turn hurt from my waist to my teeth. While day-to-day events baffled my parents, crisis was their finest hour.

  The ER doctor wanted to keep me overnight for observation, but I insisted on going home with Callie. I also demanded that Callie rebook our flight for the next day, which seemed to provide a mild source of amusement for those in charge. Horizontal people have less clout than vertical ones.

  That night Callie brought me liquids to drink through a straw and kept the ice packs frozen. My lip was now throbbing and I was feeling pretty cranky. Callie fluffed my pillows and reminded me that due to the concussion, she had to keep me awake for a few hours to be certain I wouldn't lapse into a coma, a state I felt could only be an improvement over my current one. When I finally fell asleep, I was unconscious until noon, arising to feign total wellness, although my body parts were so sore I could happily have become a drug addict. It was a solid week before I began to be able to tell one day from another.

  It was late evening, eight days later, when Wade drove us to the airport at Mach speed, gesturing with both arms and steering with his knees. It was a perfect prelude to flight. He recounted how he and his men had located the silver pickup and Callie, trussed up like a turkey, down below the hill. He'd given his man Hopper hell when he found out someone had kidnapped us right out from under him at the cemetery. As it turned out, the young cop had been tricked by Curtis into forking over our car keys. However, Hopper redeemed himself slightly when he followed up on a hunch about the reported explosion on 211th. Wade said when they arrived on the scene, I was unconscious and Callie had bitten a hole in Curtis's hand the size of a silver dollar.

  Callie interrupted Wade to say she still wanted to know how Caruthers or Isaacs knew the stone I'd left on Talbot's eye was fake and that the stone Raider swallowed was fake.

  "You left a stone on a dead guy's eye?" Wade grimaced.

  "Long story," I said. "Bottom line is there's something about those stones that we don't know yet. The bad guys seem to be able to tell 'em apart like kids."

  At the airport, we hurried off to the gate. I waved over my shoulder to Wade with tears in my eyes from sheer gratitude at our being alive, but also from the pain of lifting my arm up above my waist.

  Fifteen minutes later, we were taxiing down the runway, which always gave me the shakes. I'd had thrust/drag ratio explained to me, the physics by which objects the size of buildings are able to float on air. But rationally, it made no sense, and I was convinced that, at any given moment, the physics and mathematics behind the whole dubious process would finally be proven false and I would simply tumble out of the sky. I mentioned this to Callie, who put a headset on me and cranked the volume up to glass-shattering levels.

  I signaled the flight attendant to bring me a drink. Callie cancelled my order, reminding m
e I'd taken pain medication. When we were up in the air, surrounded by a black void, I began to relax. I could no longer look down and see how far there was to fall. I was able to think of the darkness as something solid, a metaphor for life, maybe. Callie leaned up against me reading her book, and for a moment, everything seemed like it would finally be all right. Callie's safe return to me was, I had come to realize, the most important thing in my life.

  I watched her put on her reading glasses. She propped them on the end of her straight, aristocratic nose, and I thought she looked smart and sexy as she studied her book about interstellar communication with spiritual entities. I just wanted to be with her like this, our bodies touching, even peripherally, as we moved through life.

  "What?" she asked sweetly, feeling me staring at her.

  "I like you in glasses. You look—I don't know—sexy."

  "It's the drugs, honey." She patted me and went back to reading.

  She's funny, I thought. I've spent so much time just lusting after her that I never realized she has a very funny wit.

  "Are you starting to like more than my ass?" she asked, never looking up from her book. I laughed at being caught thinking just that.

  We drove directly to the police station from the airport. Detective White stood ready to make notes, having been contacted by Wade. We began with Orca's, moved on to the murder of Frank Anthony at the Tulsa Health Club and the barter system at Marathon Studios, the prostitution and drugs that escalated to heavy-duty pornography and murder. I explained how Isaacs had been turned into Caruthers's personal puppet and Caruthers was probably behind the murders of Rita Smith and the attempted murder of Barrett Silvers. When Frank Anthony threatened to report the studio's nefarious activities, he was shot in the forehead, compliments of Hank Caruthers, whose initials were on the health club towel, and it was Hank Caruthers's goons who had just tried to light up our lives in Tulsa.