Cowboy Ending - Overdrive: Book One (33 page)

Odds are I
failed miserably. I stick out in crowds at the best of times. Even
on “stealth mode” I tend to come across as very “Bull in China
Shop”.

Subtlety. Not
my best attribute.

Anyone got a
plus-three Cloak of Invisibility to lend me? Or a twenty-sided die?
Anything?

Geekiness.
Helps a dude when he’s scared.

The boards on
the porch creaked loudly as my feet hit them, giving slightly under
my weight. But they held. The door to the house was still slightly
open, no lights on inside that I could see. My eyes scanned all
around once again, looking for recent signs of life or
activity.

Nothing stood
out to my untrained eye.

I sighed.

My knuckles
rapped hollowly on the interior doorframe as I knocked.

Silence.

I gave it a few
seconds and listened hard for anything. No rustling. No rattling.
No scrambling sounds of people getting things together.

Nothing.

The door swung
open wide with a slight nudge from my old steel toed boot, allowing
me to peer inside.

No surprises at
first glance. No gaping pit right behind the doorframe. No gang of
ninjas hiding just out of site. No portcullis ready to slam down on
my head.

Just a plain
old dirty living room with overturned and discarded furniture bits
strewn about at random. Peeling wallpaper, cracked plaster and more
gang symbols spray-painted everywhere.
At least it smelled awful.

My nose
wrinkled as I stepped into the house, floor boards creaking under
my weight. I gave the living room a thorough once over with my
eyes, trying not to touch anything. Seriously, this place was
filthy. Next time I go exploring abandoned houses of gang members
I’m bringing gloves.

Down the side
hallway were smashed and discarded picture frames, some fast food
wrappers and cups strewn about at various locations. One picture
was still sort of hanging on the wall as I passed it. Showed a
gathering of people, not quite a family portrait though I assumed
everyone there was related. A group of aboriginal people hanging
around a barbeque pit, hamming for the camera. Kids with hotdogs on
sticks, older people holding up beer bottles and making faces. It
looked old, like maybe taken in the late eighties or early
nineties. No one in the picture was familiar to me.

Two rooms and a
bathroom. The tub was cracked and covered with grime, the shower
curtain nowhere to be seen. Toilet had seen better days and was
missing the top of the tank. Medicine cabinet had the door ripped
off its hinges, laying on the linoleum floor next to the tub.
Smashed. Pieces of mirrored glass lay in fragments on the floor,
cursing someone to seven unfortunate years. All of the cupboards
and drawers in the washroom were standing open, as if ransacked.
Likely that’s exactly what had happened, maybe several times in
someone’s frantic search for drugs or something.

First bedroom
had been designed for young children at one point. A small single
mattress in the corner, no frame or box spring. A filthy blanket
crumpled on top next to a thin pillow that looked like it had
recently been chewed on. No dresser, nothing at all in the small
closet. A broken lamp rested in the other corner from the mattress
and more garbage strewn about at random.

And at one
point someone had mistaken this room for the washroom.

Let’s move
on.

Master bedroom
was fractionally larger. Maybe a twin mattress on the floor, more
filthy rags acting as blankets and a separate one as a pillow. The
dresser in this room was empty save for some more garbage. Old
newspaper and some empty beer cases, complete with mismatched
bottles and shards. The top of the dresser was heavily scratched
and dusty, though not necessarily just because of dust given the
dull razor blades resting there.

It’s hard to
call what I was feeling “discouragement” since I had no idea what I
was really looking for. Some sign of life? A directional map
pointing to Keimac Cleghorn’s current location? A cell phone? A
great big neon sign?

The kitchen was
a complete disaster even compared to the rest of the house.
Cupboards were beyond bare. A leftover bag of rice was now
officially in use as a critters’ nest. The fridge door was
completely missing and the vegetable crisper had doubled as a
urinal at some point going by the stench. There was a plastic
kitchen table overturned and missing a leg against the back wall.
The stove was simply not there, even the outlet port ripped from
the wall with wires protruding and everything. I didn’t get a
tingle or thrumming sensation from any of the exposed wiring, so I
felt safe in assuming that Hydro had cut the power.

Go me, being
all intuitive.

The rear door
showed a crumbled parking pad and no garage looking into the back
lane. No backyard to speak of either. An old BMX bike missing a
chain and a rear wheel lay rusting in a rapidly diminishing snow
bank.

Stairs led down
into darkness.

Really wish
Hydro had kept the power on.

I spared a
glance out the filthy living room window. I could faintly see
Cathy’s outline in the front seat of my van through the grime and
dim light from outside. Looked like she was still on the phone.

A quick look,
then try the next location on Cathy’s list. You know she’s got more
than one place to try, Joe.

I steeled my
nerves and started down the stairs.

Thankfully,
none of them were missing. They were a bit wobbly which scared the
hell out of me about halfway down, but I steadied myself and
continued until I hit the thinly carpeted concrete basement
floor.

The faint light
coming from upstairs was surprisingly effective in helping me
navigate. Course, it’s not like there was much to navigate around.
A big open basement with no rooms and a short ceiling barely high
enough to keep me from ducking. A discarded washer and dryer set
were against the near wall, both of which had been used at some
point for a fire pit given the soot and blackness spoiling them
both.

My eyes scanned
the room carefully, trying to pierce the darkness in every corner.
Something was on the far wall away from the stairs. I couldn’t make
it out.

I crossed the
room.

Pictures.

Pictures from
newspaper clippings. From cheap computer printers. Maybe done at a
shop though more likely off someone’s home office.

Over a dozen
pictures all told.

Women’s faces.
Most of them aboriginal. All of them young and pretty. Names
printed sloppily in marker on each one. I assumed the names of the
women. What else was I to think?

The one in the
middle. Dark haired. Dark eyed. A smile to light up the room.
Young.

I knew
her now. Memories of her at
Cowboy
Shotz
in a red dress at first, then a green dress
flashing into my mind. Flaring into place like lightning firing up
the darkened skies. Hanging out in VIP, entertaining bigwigs, her
hand on their thighs before escorting them up the marble
stairs.

The marker
scrawl underneath her face confirmed what I already knew.

Candace
Cleghorn.

“Son of a
bitch,” I whispered, my stomach a cold pit.

I scanned the
other pictures frantically, trying to recognize other faces.
Desperately begging my brain to send another lightning bolt of
recognition forward.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Wait, go
back.

Memory flashed
again, the back of my neck tingling like mad.

Dark slacks,
white halter top showing lots of cleavage, hair done up in curls
with a wine flute in one hand and her lips whispering sweet
nothings in Aaron’s ear.

Sherylin
Yellowtail, according to the scrawl written under her face.

I tried to
commit the other names to memory. I needed to take them to Cathy,
compare them with her notes/. Confirm if these were the missing
women that have been in the news. Then my brain kicked in, telling
me that Cathy could come in with her notes and confirm it with
me.

Duh.

I turned from
the wall, striding quickly towards the stairs. My mind racing
faster than my heart. The back of my neck tingling still, sending
shooting sensations of coolness down my body. Energizing me,
putting a spring in my step.

So many
questions.

Was this a
trophy wall? Was the abductor using this house as a staging ground,
planning his next move? Why all these women? Why keep their
pictures. What the hell were they doing in Keimac’s house? What was
that noise? Was he the abductor? Was his gang involved?

I took the
stairs up two at a time back into the demolished kitchen. Mind
whirling. Heartbeat accelerated. Flesh beginning to tingle.

Wait, what? A
noise?

I rounded the
corner heedlessly into the remains of the living room and came to a
sudden stop.

Five
aboriginal men dressed in dark colors, all of them wearing flashes
or headbands identifying them as members of the
Native Posse
. Tattoos were prevalent on necks and
exposed skin where available.

Two of them had
pistols trained on me. The remains of the scars on my chest
suddenly ached in memory. My heart pounded even harder, I could
feel it against the back of my ribcage.

Cathy was
there, two more gang members holding her arms tight. One of them
with his grimy hand gripped firmly over her mouth. The other with a
vicious grip on the hair at the back of her head. Her eyes were
wild, terrified.

I could only
imagine what the expression on my face looked like seeing her like
that. My knuckles cracked audibly as my fists clenched.

“Stand
still, motherfucker!” a fifth guy shouted. I knew him. He was
at
Cowboy Shotz
that night. A
little bit older, more tattoos climbing up his neck. A leader?
Front man? He had a pistol in his hands as well, raising it up in
line with my head. “You stand the fuck still, you hear
me?

My eyes bored
into his. Dude wasn’t impressed. I shuffled my feet slightly,
trying to get a better posture for attack.

The speaker
thumbed back the safety on his pistol and swung it around, leveling
it inches from Cathy’s face. Her muffled cry of fear was like a
kick to the balls. As was watching her thrash and try to kick her
way free, only to be gripped tighter by her captors.

The speaker
never took his eyes off mine. He raised his eyebrows in
question.

Shit.

I stayed
still.

Footsteps from
down the hallway preceded a sixth man coming into view, a fierce
scowl on his young features. A dream catcher tattoo high on his
right cheekbone. His dark eyes widening as he recognized my
face.

The face of the
man he shot.

Chapter
31

“What the fuck
are you doing in my house?” Keimac Cleghorn bellowed at me, his
voice cracking as he lurched forwards. Murder in his eyes, his
fingers reaching for my head as he moved.

He was stopped
short by the speaker’s hand smacking into his skinny chest,
knocking him back a pace.

Keimac looked
at the speaker, his face shocked.

“What the fuck
you think you’re doing?”

“Shut up.”

Keimac waved
his hands crazily, pointing first at me and then at Cathy. “This
motherfucker and his bitch are snooping around my house and you’re
gonna tell me …”

The crack of
flesh on flesh is always surprisingly loud when you aren’t
expecting it.

Keimac cried
out in pain and staggered back against the wall, holding his left
cheek with both hands. The speaker stood there and stared him down,
barely looking like he’d moved.

I blinked.
Impressed.

‘Next time I
tell you to shut up; you will shut the fuck up.” His eyes were
cold. Not furious. Not anxious. Not excited from the sudden
movement or the crazy situation he found himself in. Just cold.
“You hear me, Keimac?”

Keimac just
nodded, hiding his face away.

The voice got
even colder somehow. “Do you hear me?”

“Yeah,” Keimac
muttered, still hiding his face. “I hear you, Shawn. I hear
you.”

Silence reigned
for a few breathless moments. At least I assumed it was silence
because no one said anything. My heart was hammering so hard by
this point that the heavy thumping sounded like a bass drum in my
head. I tried my ass off to keep my poker face up as confidently as
possible, not wanting to give anyone a concern about the big man
with two guns trained on him. Trying to give Cathy as much
reassurance as possible from my posture. I met her eyes calmly. Her
wide and frightened eyes. I wanted to give her a nod of
reassurance. A wink. Something cool and collected.
I didn’t dare. It was taking all of my effort to remain still as I
was commanded. As it was I could feel every fibre of my body
quivering, wanting to respond to the surge of adrenaline being
supplied by the intensity and terror of the situation. The balls of
my feet twitched irritably. My fingers clenched white knuckled
tight into fists. My jaw ached from the effort of keeping it
clamped tight, not wanting to give away my anxiety with chattering
teeth.