A Stranger Lies There (22 page)

The brick university buildings glowed a volcanic red in the city light. NYU flags hung lifelessly in the humid warmth like wilted purple flowers. A bowling alley near the school featured late-night bowling until 4a.m. Pounding techno music escaped from its open front doors. Inside was a velvety gloom. Lanes illuminated like airport runways at night, with purple, glow-in-the-dark pins delta'd at their mouths. The pins scattered in eerie, slow-motion silence under the intense volume of the music. I took in the surreal scene for a while, then noticed a lounge further inside. It was no more well-lit than the rest of the place, except for the pool tables squatting under white rectangles of light from the low-hanging “Budweiser” lamps. The bartender was watching two college-age girls playing at one of the tables. Probably trying to think of a way to strike up a conversation. I asked for a beer, and turned to watch the game. The bartender caught my eye and grinned. The girls knew we were looking at them, enjoying the power they had and the ease with which they could so thoroughly occupy our attention. Their hair dropped from behind their ears each time they attempted a shot, and they laughed softly after one of them missed badly, glancing our way without a trace of embarrassment.

I finished the beer, put a tip on the bar, and got out of there, emerging into the relative light of the nighttime city. The heavy threat of rain hung in the air, the clouds overhead bruised an ominous yellow by the city lights.

It was close to ten when I got back to the club on Bleecker. Inside was completely packed. Most of the few dozen tables were taken, and people lounged on the sofas scattered around the room. It was two deep at the bars. Waitresses squeezed between customers with drink trays balanced precariously above their heads. The only space remotely clear was the dance floor in front of the stage. I knew that would change once the show started, so I headed there to claim a spot near the hallway leading to the restrooms and backstage. I wanted to be sure to catch the band right after their set.

Again, as at the bowling alley, it was primarily a college-age crowd. Most of them clustered in groups, having animated conversations over the music on the PA, which fought to be heard over the din. The rumbling bass and thumping backbeat could actually be felt more than heard. I was standing near a speaker cabinet off to the side, and it rattled my bones from those few feet away. I could only imagine what it would be like once the band started playing.

Suddenly the lights dimmed and a cheer went up. The crowd surged forward, filling the dance floor in front of the stage. Fog poured from the smoke machines as the band members slowly drifted onstage.

The guitarist picked up his instrument and plucked a single, distorted note. It washed over the room, then seemed to shatter into brittle pieces. The bass player—the guy I'd spoken to earlier—and the drummer locked into a slow-burning groove, before bursting into a manic, hyperspeed riff. All the lights went on like camera flashcubes, momentarily illuminating the guitarist pounding out chords like his life depended on it. Pandemonium after that, the horde jolted into furious motion.

The aggression and power of the music was cathartic, reverberating in my skull and loosening some of the pent-up anger I'd held inside for the last week. But I kept clear of the moshing that was warming up like a popcorn machine in the middle of the dance floor.

Pretty soon stage-divers were scrambling up and launching themselves, arms spread wide, into the crowd. I couldn't breathe in the relentless press of people against the stage. Before I knew it, I found myself in the maelstrom—sharp elbows, brutish shoulders and stomping boots quickened by the escalating tempo. Everything went black, only to be lit up again in gleaming shards of light, strobes timed to the tribal beat and throwing silver knives throughout the room, now a seizure-inducing display of stop-start motion, a dizzying succession of frozen images flashing across my vision. I didn't know whether to go right or left, but it didn't matter because I was suddenly on the floor, under the writhing hulk of yet another stage-diver who'd picked the wrong guy to catch him because I'd never seen him coming, but who somehow managed to bounce right back up—resilient bastard—leaving nothing but the crowd closing above me like the surface of the ocean after a pebble's dropped into it. Losing air, I felt a boot-tip in my ear and another one in my ribs, then saw a hand reach down, felt two more grab my shoulders and pull me up. A flicker of light showed two men pushing their way toward me. Security, I thought, coming to help, but they were gone in the next lightning flash so I looked the other way, searching for an opening. That's when they grabbed me, gripping my arms and belt and forcing me toward the offstage exit while the music raged on. Something didn't feel right and I fought against them. The onslaught of noise buried my shouts and curses, and the violence of the audience masked my struggles. The next thing I knew, I was stumbling off the dance floor into the rear exit corridor. In the split second before they pounced on me I saw that it was empty of anybody that could help as I was shoved out the back door and into the dark alley beyond it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

I landed on the wet pavement outside, where it took me a moment to figure out it was raining. The club's back door slammed open and a car pulled up, its front tire stopping inches from my head. The sound of car doors opening as I struggled to stand, then a glimpse of the two men from inside behind me. Both wearing black, their faces hardly visible in the dank alley light before they threw me into the back seat of the car. Then I heard what sounded like ripping fabric and felt a cold steel gun barrel jammed under my chin as duct tape was slapped over my eyes and wound around my wrists. Four doors thumped shut. The tires skidded briefly on the wet pavement, and my body was pressed back into the seat as we took off.

“Sit still,” someone warned. “Unless you think I can miss with this gun right under your chin.”

I decided to take the man's advice. The back seat was cramped, with three of us squeezed in. I was in the middle. No room to maneuver. I kept still, trying to concentrate on what I heard and on the turns we were making. I could only hope to learn something by what these men eventually said or did to me and pray to get out of this in one piece. I wondered who they were and how they'd found me. In my mind I saw the bartender on the phone, looking away from me when our eyes met. Had he called these guys after overhearing my conversation?

Nobody said a word during the ride, which lasted less than fifteen minutes. I could feel us stop several times and round a few corners. The two men that boxed me in were quite bulky; I could sense that from their weight against me. I also knew from when all four doors had shut in the alley that there were two more people up front. The driver opened his window a crack, only to shut it again a second later. After that it was just the light rain swishing under the tires, and the occasional movements of the men in the car.

Then the jolt of a driveway and a slow cruise until we came to a stop. The doors opened and I was pushed into a heavy mist scented with salt air and decay. They marched me out of the weather into what seemed like a large enclosure. Our footsteps echoed remotely on a concrete floor; a metal door slammed shut behind us. An abandoned warehouse, I thought, judging from the airy coolness inside, near the docks from the salty tang I'd perceived outside.

Dim light filtered around the edges of the duct tape as we walked further into the building. The iron grip of a fist bit into each of my arms. We stopped and I heard someone mount a set of metal stairs then make his way over a platform or catwalk to a point just above my head. A steel chain rattled, its loops clinking together, then ran over metal—a bar or railing—before dropping onto my shoulder. One guy raised my arms, still bound, over my head while another looped the chain tightly around my wrists, his hot breath in my face, as he clicked a padlock home. Pockets turned inside out, I was relieved of my wallet, the motel key and the map. I heard footsteps on the metal staircase, and a ring sliding on the handrail as he came down. They left without a word, their steps receding into silence.

Nothing now except the sound of my own labored breathing, beads of sweat beginning to pop out on my face and neck. Hanging from that chain, trying but unable to catch my breath. No way could I stand here all night like this.

“Okay boys, when's this party gonna start?” My voice resounded in the far corners of the building, and I could hear the nervous quaver behind the bravado.

No reply, just the intensifying rain pelting the metal roof high overhead.

“Hello? Anybody there?”

The rain continued all by itself.

“Shit!” I muttered under my breath. The seconds stretched into minutes. Straining to pick up the sound of any movement, it was my sense of smell that first caught a change. Just a whiff at first, then it sharpened. Acidic. No, citrus. I sniffed again. Oranges. Someone was peeling an orange not ten feet away from me, and just as I identified it, the voice came.

“Mr. Ryder,” he said, chewing, the scent of orange getting stronger.

His nonchalance pissed me off. “It's not polite to speak with your mouth full.”

“You'd prefer I finish first?”

Good point, I thought. The sooner this was over, the better. My chest was beginning to ache. “No need,” I answered.

“I apologize for our lack of manners tonight. This shouldn't take too long.” Another whiff of citrus. “If you're cooperative.”

“I can hardly breathe.”

“Somebody lower his arms,” he instructed his men. “Wouldn't want you to faint on us.”

One of them came up from behind and disengaged the padlock, undid a few of the loops to extend the length of the chain, then reclasped the padlock. My hands were now about face level.

“That better, Mr. Ryder?”

“You bet.”

“Good. You can thank me by answering all my questions.”

“Go ahead.”

“First, I should tell you about one of my friends here with us tonight. Star baseball player in college. Used to hit 'em a mile.”

I heard something whip by just in front of my face, felt a short burst of air.

“That's a fungo bat,” the man continued. “Normally used—”

“I know what they are,” I interrupted.

“Great. But I bet you've never been hit by one. One shot to the abdomen in the wrong spot, and you'll never shit right again.” He paused to let it sink in, chewing on another piece of orange. “You don't want to carry a bag of shit around with you for the rest of your life, do you Mr. Ryder?”

He was talking about a colostomy bag, which is what you got when your insides were screwed up. I shook my head slowly.

“So I won't have to ask you anything twice, will I? Because I hate repeating myself.”

“I'll be straight with you.”

“Excellent.” I could feel him approach. “Batting practice starts the first time you try bullshitting me.”

“Fine. Can we get on with it?”

“No problem.” He paused, stepped back. “Number one. Why are you asking around about that boy?”

I took a deep breath. “Somebody got killed in front of my house earlier this week. I'm just trying to find out who the victim was.”

“Why?”

I thought it strange that he didn't ask for further information about the crime, but answered the question anyway. “Because whoever did it got my wife next.”

A moment of silence. How much did they already know about this? I didn't have time to finish the thought before I heard something whip through the air, then a white-hot pain exploded in my belly. I saw red, and my gut was on fire. My legs collapsed beneath me and the chain bit into my wrists, where all my weight was now hanging. I twisted back and forth, unable to move my legs to find support. The pain was excruciating. But eventually, very slowly, it dwindled to a steady burning sensation. A smoldering fire rather than a full-on conflagration. My feet found the floor again and I steadied myself, trying not to breathe too deeply because of the pain, thinking the worst had passed.

Then I threw up. Agony, much worse than the initial blow because it went on until my stomach emptied. Wave after wave of half-digested food and throat-burning bile. It plopped wetly on the concrete while my gut screamed with exertion. I felt it splash my shoes and pants, and when I was done, a rope of mucus and saliva hung from my lip. I shivered in pain, hawked out a thick gob of spit and vomit. Chunks of food lodged in my nostrils. I gagged one last time, panting and whimpering like a gut-shot dog.

“Jesus, that's disgusting,” the man said. “Go and find a mop or something.”

“Me, sir?” came the less than enthusiastic reply.

“Who am I looking at? Just do it! Before it makes me sick.”

I heard the unlucky one muttering under his breath as he went in search of the cleaning supplies, and got a tiny measure of satisfaction from that. I still didn't know why they'd hit me though.

Then the warning. “A few inches lower, Mr. Ryder, and we're talking permanent damage.”

I swallowed a few times, trying to clear my throat. I could have used a glass of water but decided not to ask. “What's the problem?” I got out hoarsely. “I told you what happened.”

“I don't buy it.”

“It's the truth, I swear it.”

“You're lying. You'd be looking for the killer, not the victim.”

“It was all I had. I was hoping the victim would lead me to the killer.” He wanted more, so I told him about the possible drug connection.

“Where did that come from?” he asked skeptically.

“There's been a lot of drug activity out my way recently,” I explained, warming to the story. Let him lap it up, I thought, even if I wasn't sure about it myself. “Meth labs in the desert blowing up, escalating drug arrests. There's talk of a shakeout going down in the trade. Maybe the victim was involved somehow.”