1st Impressions Page 13

  “You guys have never fought before?” she asked.

  “Not like that. I totally lost it.”

  “Because you thought she’d slept with me?” She stroked my cheek.

  “Yes,” I said finally. “Because I thought she’d slept with you.”

  She kissed my ear.

  “I felt like my best friend was stealing from me. I kind of overreacted.”

  “You kind of do that,” she said, kissing my cheek. “But I’m glad that’s how you feel. And if I didn’t have to go check to see if my car is still where I left it, I’d like to take about an hour telling you how I feel.” She gave me one last kiss on my forehead and pushed herself off the bed, heading straight for the shower. I followed her.

  It didn’t take us long to dress, but I was surprised when I checked my watch to see how much time had passed. It was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon. Hurriedly, we left the motel room and headed for the parking lot where Erica confirmed that her red Miata was missing.

  “I guess I better report it,” she said sadly. “I didn’t even think to set the car alarm. I just never expected that someone would steal it in Cedar Hills.”

  “That fool Grimes probably thinks you ran the old man off the road yourself. We’ve got to talk to Sheriff Booker first. I still think this is connected to the other crimes, even if Martha doesn’t.”

  “You think whoever took it knew it was my car?” she asked. “Maybe they’re trying to pin my uncle’s death on me by getting me mixed up in this.”

  “Or maybe they’ve seen you and me running around together and they’re trying to scare us off.”

  “Or maybe they just ripped off the coolest wheels in town,” she said, trying hard to smile. Considering the fact her car had just been stolen, involved in a crime and then left smashed in a ditch, she was handling this very well, I thought.

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s run out to my place. I want to see if Tom Booker has called me back, and I think it’s probably better for you not to be seen hanging around right now. Not until we at least tell him what’s happened. Otherwise, Grimes is likely to haul you back in for another polygraph.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was one of those Sundays when the hot sun beat down on the blue water in shimmering waves. Sailboats, fishing boats, jet skis and speedboats sliced through the water, sending up white spray behind them. I would have loved to spend the rest of the day on the lake with Erica, taking our time, showing her the places I’d found, finding new places with her. But instead I sped toward home.

  I knew someone had been there as soon as I docked, because there was water on the dock from someone’s bow line. Meaning we’d just missed them. Probably the sheriff, I thought, or Sergeant Grimes.

  As soon as I reached the front porch, I knew something was wrong. The sliding glass door was wide open and the cats were not there to greet me as they always did. I supposed they’d gotten out after whoever had been here had left.

  Cautiously I entered, preparing myself for signs of burglary, but everything seemed in place. Walking from room to room, I tried to ignore the growing sense of dread I felt creeping up the back of my neck.

  “Cass! In here!” Erica’s voice from the bathroom startled me.

  Across the bathroom mirror was an ugly scrawl of red spray paint, the letters dripping, still wet and shiny. “Two Less Pussies To Stroke” was the gruesome message. Below it was a large, block-style swastika and a smiley face, blood-like paint dripping from its toothless grin.

  Knowing it was pointless, but unable to stop myself, I began a frantic search for Gammon and Panic. I looked under beds, in closets and outside. I called their names repeatedly, and even checked my storage shed, all the while fighting back tears. But I couldn’t give in to them yet. Not while there was still a chance my kitties were alive. Those bastards had just left, and I had a good idea where they were going. I just hoped they hadn’t hurt my cats. There was no doubt in my mind that the sick, Nazi-loving assholes had something demented and tortuous in mind.

  Back inside, Erica waved me over to the phone where she was rewinding my answering machine. “Cass, listen to this.”

  Sheriff Booker’s gravelly voice came over the line. “If you’re there, pick up. Well, I guess you’re not. Listen, I got your message, and I want you to tread lightly. Please don’t make another move until we’ve had a chance to talk. I’ve been doing a little research. You got me thinking about people who kill in groups. It’s not as unheard of as you might think. Manson got people to kill for him. Others have too. Almost always, there’s one real strong leader that the others look up to. Like a cult figure. In some cases, there are only two, one submissive, the other dominant. But the group can grow. Look at Jonestown and that group in Waco, Texas. And often, once the murdering starts, it’s like a fire out of control. That may be what’s happening here.” He paused, sighing heavily. “Anyway, I talked to the Pinkerton boy, and I have to tell you, that’s one scary kid. Cool one second, ready to explode the next. But so far I’ve got nothing concrete linking him to any of the crimes. I’m gonna go have a chat with that boy Dunk, like you suggested. One way or the other, I feel this thing is about to break wide open. By the way, the autopsy report shows Trinidad was stabbed to death, probably with the same knife that was used to sever his penis. Turns out he didn’t drown at all, for what it’s worth. Oh and Cass, one other thing. Betty Beechcomb called nine-one-one last night. Said her husband had gone berserk and was threatening her with a butcher knife. By the time a unit arrived, Ed Beechcomb had disappeared, and he’s still missing. I told Grimes what you said about her having an affair with Trinidad, and he’s put out an APB for Ed.”

  The long beep sounded, cutting off anything further he might have wanted to say. Well, I thought, the anger churning inside my gut, Beechcomb might well have killed Trinidad, but he sure as hell wasn’t the one who had just kidnapped my cats. Suddenly, those jars of formaldehyde leaped into my mind, and my jaw clamped down so hard that I tasted blood.

  I dialed the sheriff’s office, and this time rather than his voice mail, I got Doris, his secretary, which surprised me since it was Sunday.

  “This is Cassidy James,” I said. “Is there any way I can get hold of the sheriff?”

  “Oh, you’re the woman detective he’s been working with. I feel as though I know you, I’ve heard so much about you the past few days. Unfortunately the sheriff asked not to be disturbed except for dire emergencies. He’s out on a case right now. I’m just here trying to catch up. Things have been so chaotic lately! Can I take a message?”

  I didn’t know Doris, and in a town this small, anything I told her might well be passed along to the next person she saw. “Just have him call me as soon as he gets in,” I said, and with a fury I didn’t know I possessed, I stormed toward my bedroom.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “What are you doing?” Erica asked, following me down the hallway.

  “I’m getting my jacket,” I said. “Then I’m going to find that fort Jessie told me about.”

  “Don’t you think you should wait for the sheriff, Cassie?” Worry lines etched her forehead. “He said for you to tread lightly, I heard him.”

  “Yeah, well, tough shit,” I said, my anger unfairly coming out at Erica. I reached out and touched her cheek, silently pleading with her to understand. “I can’t let them hurt my cats,” I said, more softly.

  “You don’t know for sure that it was them,” she said. The ensuing silence told us we both knew it was. “What if they’re there right now? You can’t just do this by yourself. These guys are sick! I really think you should wait and let the police handle it.”

  I reached into my closet and removed the .38 from the holster hanging next to my purse. I carried both about equally often, which was almost never. I slid the gun into the waistband of my jeans, the way Martha had taught me, letting my jacket hang over it. When I turned around, Erica was staring at me, her mouth open, eyes wide.

  “Ca
ssie, this has gone far enough. Let the police handle this.” Her brow was furrowed.

  “It’ll be fine, Erica.” I zipped up my jacket. “There’s no time to wait for the police. These are my cats, and I’m going to get them.”

  “You’re off the case,” she said, blocking the doorway.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. I hired you and now I’m firing you. You’re off the case, starting now.”

  “This isn’t your uncle’s case anymore, Erica. It’s my case. Come on, step aside.” Gently, I pushed her arm, but she held firm, blocking my way.

  We stood looking at each other, our eyes locked. Finally, she inched over and let me pass.

  “If I’m not back in two hours, call Martha and the sheriff,” I said.

  She followed me down the walkway to my dock. “I’m coming with you,” she said.

  By the look in her eyes, I knew there was no point in arguing. I may have won one stare-down, but Erica Trinidad was not about to let me win this one. I hopped into my Sea Swirl and Erica untied us. She climbed in, sat beside me, and in silence we jetted over to the county dock.

  It was close to five by the time we reached town. The trickiest part was getting past everyone in town without being seen. By now the police would be looking for Erica, thinking she’d somehow been involved in the crash of her Miata, even if Grimes was busy looking for Beechcomb.

  Meanwhile, it seemed everyone was out and about on this beautiful day. Pretending we were out for a leisurely stroll, we smiled and nodded as we passed familiar faces. We crossed Main Street, passing McGregors, Jess’s place, the tavern, the liquor store, the doughnut shop, the defunct gas station and the church. Just past the church, we headed east, following little Jessie’s directions. Clapboard houses painted green and pink dotted the tree-lined street. Dogs barked as we passed, and the sounds of televisions carried out through open front doors. Lawn mowers and weed-eaters whined, and now and then the smell of a barbecue wafted upward. This was Cedar Hills on a summer Sunday. Had I not been so worried about my cats, I might’ve actually enjoyed it.

  Abruptly, the pavement ended, replaced by gray gravel. We clomped along, fighting for traction on the slippery surface. Soon, the gravel gave way to a dirt path, at which point I took out Jessie’s map. We were probably only a half mile from town, but already we were out of earshot and sight of civilization.

  “This is it here.” I pointed to an old rusty beer can lodged atop a stake in the ground. We pushed our way through the thick underbrush, looking for the path Jessie had promised would emerge. I was beginning to think we’d missed it, when without warning we burst into a clearing. Sure enough, a sort of path led out of the bushes, along a dried creekbed.

  “You sure you don’t want to go back and call the sheriff?” Erica asked.

  I took her hand, and as we walked along side by side on the narrow path, a dreadful sense of urgency pushed us forward.

  I didn’t need to consult the map from that point on, because the path led upward toward a towering outcropping of granite, which we could see from some distance. I was glad I was in good shape because the climb was pretty steep. When we reached the rocky hill, it was only a matter of edging around to the south, and there in front of us was the dark opening of the train tunnel. It was impossible to tell how long it was, because it curved, allowing almost no light from the other side to penetrate the blackness. The tunnel barely seemed wide enough to hold a train, let alone two additional bodies, but I eased forward, squeezing Erica’s hand.

  “Jesus,” she whispered, her voice echoing against the granite walls. “I sure as hell hope you’re right about this hardly ever being used anymore.” So I had told a small fabrication. For all I knew, it was true. No point in worrying ourselves unnecessarily.

  At first, the light from the opening allowed us to see ahead, but as our eyes adjusted to the dark, so did the opening seem opening seem farther away, until soon we were using our hands against the wall to guide us. It was slow going, but we inched forward, sliding sideways like crabs, murmuring encouragement to each other as we went.

  We were almost to the bend in the tunnel, nearly halfway through, when I began to sense a faint vibration at my feet. At first I thought I was imagining it, letting fear sway my imagination. But the trembling grew stronger and by the time Erica dug her nails into my hand, the ground was shaking.

  Before the train even entered the tunnel, the walls began to vibrate and we pressed ourselves against them, knowing that in a few seconds the train would come hurtling toward us. An ear-splitting whistle shrieked through the darkness, and I thought Erica screamed too, but I couldn’t be sure because the roar of the train was deafening.

  “Hold on!” I shouted, but my voice was drowned out by the thundering, terrifying roar as the train neared. Its headlight was blinding as it rounded the bend in the tunnel, and a second later the train itself was upon us. The ground shook, threatening to topple us as the deafening din whooshed past, inches away. I could taste the burning metal, mixed with the metallic bitterness of my own fear. The heat was unbearable, hardly cooled by the terrible wind that tugged at our clothing, ripped at the skin on our faces. Slammed against the tunnel wall, we gripped each other’s hands. I squeezed my eyes shut, the air sucked out of my lungs. It seemed to go on forever, and even when it had finally passed, and we were unbelievably still alive, my ears roared and my limbs trembled miserably. Neither of us moved until the tracks had quit vibrating.

  Erica let go of my hand and slugged me in the arm. It hurt, but not as much as the indentations she’d left in my palm.

  “I hate you!” she yelled, punching me again, not quite as hard as the first time. “You flat out lied to me, didn’t you? I almost peed my pants!”

  “I did pee my pants,” I said. “But just a little.”

  She giggled at this, and for a moment we both laughed from sheer relief. Then, remembering why we were there, we continued edging sideways along the wall, using our still trembling hands to feel the way. I wasn’t nearly as afraid as I was before. The odds of another train coming right on the heels of the last one seemed impossible. Still, we didn’t exactly dally on the way, and before we knew it, daylight came pouring through the mouth of the tunnel.

  I blinked at the harsh light, glad to be out of the tunnel. My heart was still hammering and we rested for a while against a tree while I consulted Jessie’s map one last time. The fort was just over a small hill to our left, but as she had said, it was completely invisible from where we stood. We listened hard, straining to hear as we tiptoed our way up the hill. Birds were all we heard, and the rustling of trees in the breeze.

  “Stay here,” I whispered to Erica. “Let me go first. If it’s all clear, I’ll come get you. If there’s a problem, run like hell back to town and get help. Got it?”

  “Through that tunnel?” she asked. I didn’t answer and finally she nodded, her eyes wide, but clear.

  Bent over at the waist, I crested the hill and there, concealed in a stand of trees, was the fort. My pulse quickened. I stood motionless, listening and looking for any sign of activity. There was none. Cautiously, I went forward.

  The fort was actually of wood construction, built by the forestry service back when this area had been logged. From the height of the new trees, I guessed it hadn’t been used in over twenty years. It was a one-room building, wood plank, with windows on two sides and a rock chimney jutting out of the roof. A warm haven for the tired loggers. And a cozy hideaway for bored teens.

  The glass was broken out of the windows, whether from snowstorms, birds or vandals, who could tell. But the door was still on its hinges, hanging slightly ajar. I pulled my gun from my waistband, held it in both hands skyward and kicked the door open. I counted to three and then entered, using the standard cop crouch, aiming my gun in each direction until satisfied that the room was empty.

  Well, empty wasn’t quite the right word. The boys had made themselves quite a hangout. Boxes packed with liquor, cigarettes
and food were piled high against one wall. McGregors was stamped on the outside of each box, and I doubted if the boys had receipts for the goods. True to form, heavy metal posters adorned the walls along with pictures of women in bondage and several pictures of Hitler giving his famed salute. What really caught my attention, though, was the gun rack on the wall that housed a couple of shot guns and hunting rifles. The idea that these misfits had weapons didn’t surprise me, I guess, but it didn’t ease my fears any, either. Magazines were stacked in one corner, and I could easily guess their content. A crude wooden crate sat upside down in the center of the room, surrounded by beach chairs, an enormous boom box serving as centerpiece. I took in the sordid details, but all I could hear was my own inner voice crying, “My cats aren’t here! My cats aren’t here!”

  I’d been so sure that it was the boys who’d taken my cats, and that they’d brought them here. I’d even gone so far as to imagine jars of formaldehyde with other people’s pets floating within. I’d thought if I could only get here fast enough, I’d be in time to save my kitties. Now, I wasn’t sure what to do.

  I turned to go, stifling a sneeze that had been building since I’d entered. The room was musty, but there was something else. An unpleasant, chemical odor. Something familiar. Suddenly my heart leaped into overdrive. The odor I kept smelling was formaldehyde!

  I circled the room, searching, peeking into the fireplace, looking in boxes, coming up with nothing. Had they moved it? Had I scared them off with my poking around? I stared, thinking hard, then focused on the large, framed poster of Adolf Hitler on the wall. None of the other pictures had frames. They were simply affixed to the wall with tacks. But the giant Hitler was much sturdier, and the thick pine frame stood out from the wall. I moved closer and noticed that the formaldehyde odor got stronger as I approached. Carefully, I lifted the picture off the two nails holding it in place. Behind it was a recessed cupboard with three open shelves. And on the shelves lay enough hard evidence to put someone away for a long time.