Kill Her Again (A Thriller) (33 page)

“Think I’m gonna pass, Cuz. I’m beat.”

“Sorry to hear that. But don’t worry about it; we’ll rent a car and let you know what happens.”

“Assuming you can wake me from my coma.”

They said their good-byes and Jake clicked off, trudging toward the front door.

He was already inside, the door closed behind him, when he realized that somebody was sitting in his armchair.

Jake froze at the sight of him:

A small, Hispanic-looking man with two black eyes and a badly broken nose, wearing a neatly tailored suit. He was holding a Beretta 9mm, with a suppressor attached.

“Where are your friends?” he asked.

“Let me guess. You’re not the owner of the Tercel.”

“I work for Mr. Troy.”

“That would’ve been my next guess,” Jake said.

“Your cousin and the FBI woman. Where are they?”

“Sitting with a police stenographer as we speak, you stupid fuck. Which means your employer is shit out of—”

The Beretta went off with a small
pop
.

Jake felt a dull, burning thud in his chest as he flew back, hit the door hard, then slid to the carpet.

Something felt loose inside him. Loose and leaking. And as the light started to dim, he knew he was about to get more sleep than he’d bargained for.

Thoughts about past and future lives suddenly filled his head, and if Danny was right about all this nonsense, he wondered what the next life would have in store for him.

In the end, he supposed it didn’t really matter.

Just as long as Ronnie was there.

“
THE DEPUTY IS
dead,” Arturo said.

The voice on the line sounded thin and nasal. “What about the others?”

“He was alone.”

“Shit.”

“You’ve only yourself to blame. You had them all in one place last night.”

“What was I supposed to do? Pop them in my car? Don’t be ridiculous.” He paused. “So where do we go from here?”

“Not to worry,” Arturo said. “You have the ability to track a cellular GPS signal, yes?”

“I’ll have to jump through a few hoops.”

“Then you had better start jumping and put a trace on Pope’s cell phone.”

He recited the number from memory.

The voice on the line raised half an octave. “This is all getting a little out of hand, don’t you think? How many bodies do we have to pile up before Troy is happy?”

“As I recall, Captain Billingsly,
you
were the one who came to Mr. Troy, looking for a handout. Are you dissatisfied with the arrangement?”

“I-I didn’t say that,” Billingsly sputtered.

“Then stick to your commitment and don’t ask questions. We don’t like people who ask questions.”

“Sorry,” Billingsly said. “I’ll get right to work on that number.”

Arturo looked down at the dead man and smiled.

Compared to him, The Ghost had been a rank amateur.

4
2

I
N THE END
, it took them four hours to drive to Allenwood.

Anna rented the car, a Nissan Pathfinder, on her bureau account, which, to her surprise, hadn’t yet been suspended.

They took the I-15 past the Mojave National Preserve, then cut over to the 58, through Barstow and Boron and California City.

As she drove, Anna looked out at the desolate desert landscape and again wondered how people found themselves out here, living so far away, it seemed, from civilization. Yes, they had their shopping malls and their satellite TV, but the sun would bake you alive and turn your skin as rough as alligator hide, and she just couldn’t fathom the attraction this part of the world held for those who lived here.

About halfway through the drive, they switched off, Pope taking the wheel for a spell. Anna settled back in the passenger seat, trying to get some sleep, but was too keyed up to manage it.

She knew that Pope was doubtful about this trip. That he thought a visit to Antonija Zala was most likely a waste of time. And she appreciated his willingness to come with her anyway.

When she looked at him, sitting behind the wheel, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, she thought about how natural they were together. As if, without even knowing it, they had been searching for each other all of their lives. All of their
many
lives, perhaps.

She imagined herself as a seventeen-year-old Roma girl, posing for Jonathan O’Keefe’s camera, and later, sneaking off in the darkness to be with him. To feel his hands upon her, just as she’d felt Pope’s hands last night.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he’d said to her this morning.

And although she felt the same, she hadn’t been able to express it. Despite what they’d been through together, despite her complete abandon when they had made love, she couldn’t commit herself beyond the moment, because she had no idea how all of this would turn out.

And Red Cap’s success rate did not encourage her.

Unlike Pope, Anna
didn’t
think this trip was a waste of time. Knew in her gut that Antonija Zala would have the answers she sought. Just as she’d known she was meant to be here.

She felt as if she was being guided by a sixth sense. Some sort of cosmic homing device had been planted in her brain and she was zeroing in on the signal. And no matter what anyone else might think, she had to follow that signal until she found its source.

T
HEY SAW THE
amusement park well before they reached the city proper.

Its rusted, steel-framed roller coaster was easily visible from the highway, standing out in stark relief against the desert sky.

Close by stood the mountain itself, all plaster and peeling paint, the sign atop it missing several of its letters:

B G MOU T N

It was surrounded by a sagging, weatherworn aluminum fence, topped with several coils of barbed wire.

Anna was saddened by the sight of it. It seemed to represent hope gone sour. Someone’s dream destroyed by time and indifference. A lifeless body lying on the side of the road, decaying in the hot desert sun, as the cars whizzing past paid little or no attention to it.

She thought about Jillian Carpenter and little Suzie Oliver riding that roller coaster, screaming in terror and delight as their car rose and dipped and turned. And in a way, this park represented them quite well.

One dead. One broken.

Pope pointed toward a highway sign. “There’s the turnoff.” It read: ALLENWOOD.

“This is it,” Anna said. “I can feel it. The place where it all comes together.”

Or falls apart, she thought.

I
T WAS AN
old, mid-sized city whose better days were behind it. Its population was well into the thousands, but was only half what it had been in its heyday.

Anna had looked it up on Wikipedia, which had described it as one of the fifteen poorest cities in the state. Big Mountain had been its stab at pulling itself out of a sustained economic slump. There had been an upturn in the beginning, but when the park ultimately failed, the fallout had been disastrous, leaving a city whose residents relied largely on welfare and public assistance.

Antonija Zala lived in the heart of what a dilapidated sign said was GYPSY TOWN.

“Not very PC,” Pope said as they drove past.

The streets were dusty and pockmarked, the storefronts in serious need of paint and repair. Some of the windows were boarded up. Others mended with masking tape.

“One-twenty-three Bronson Avenue,” Anna said, consulting the directions she’d printed out. “Turn left at the stop sign.”

Pope made the turn and drove slowly down a street that was more or less identical to the previous one—except for one major difference, which they nearly found out about too late.

“Shit!” he shouted, slamming the brakes.

They came to a skidding halt just inches from a large sinkhole, and Anna felt her stomach lurch up into her throat. The hole—more of a trench, really—spread all the way across the street, making it impossible to go farther by car.

Letting out a shaky breath, Pope backed up, then pulled the Pathfinder to the curb.

“A few barricades and a couple of warning signs would’ve been nice,” Anna said.

Pope shrugged. “We’re probably the first traffic this place has seen in months.” He killed the engine and unlocked the doors. “Looks like we’re on foot.”

Fortunately, the sidewalk was still intact. They climbed out of the Pathfinder and continued up the street, checking the addresses as they went.

Number 123 was set back from the street, not immediately visible until you were right up on it. It was a large, ramshackle Victorian, a remnant of an older neighborhood, whose owners had apparently refused to cooperate when it came time to revamp and rebuild.

There was a sign in the front window and Anna felt a stab of disappointment the moment she saw it.

It featured a red neon palm with the words FORTUNE-TELLER above it.

And beneath, in smaller print, it read:

MADAM ZALA KNOWS ALL

4
3

“
MADAM ZALA KNOWS
all,” Pope said. “So much for that lead.”

Anna ignored him.

Despite her disappointment, at least she knew she’d been right to come here. Her sixth sense was tingling now, telling her she was exactly where she was meant to be.

Either that, or it was warning her. She couldn’t be sure which.

A set of dilapidated steps led to the front porch and a tattered screen door.

“You sure you want to do this?” Pope asked, eying the place warily.

“I’m sure.”

Without even realizing it, Anna grabbed his hand as they climbed. When they got to the porch, they stood there a moment, unable to see past the screen.

“Come in, come in,” a voice said. Female. Warm. Friendly. “Madam Zala has been expecting you.”

“I’ll bet she has,” Pope muttered, just loud enough for Anna to hear.

Ignoring him again, she pulled the screen door open, and they stepped inside. With the storefronts on either side shading it from the sun, the place was dimly lit, and it took a moment for Anna’s eyes to adjust.

When they did, she saw a modest but tastefully decorated living room, full of furniture that had likely been there since the house was first built.

An ornate sofa faced the door, and an attractive, dark-haired woman of about forty sat smiling up at them.

Antonija Zala, no doubt.

For some reason—perhaps because of the photographs she’d seen—Anna had expected her to be wearing a shawl and a long skirt. But to Anna’s surprise, she wore muted pink slacks and a bright green tube top, looking much like a relic of the 1970s.

“You’ve come for a reading, yes?” the woman said. Her accent was vaguely Eu ro pe an, just like Red Cap’s.

Before coming here, Anna had wondered how she’d handle this. Show her credentials and question the woman as if she were a suspect? Or simply let it play out naturally?

A direct confrontation, she’d decided, would only force Zala to put her guard up. Better to try to engage her in conversation, then ease into the subject of Red Cap.

In preparation, Anna had kept her Glock hidden under her blouse, nestled at the small of her back. She was just another tourist.

“Yes,” she said, in answer to the woman’s question. “Can you help me?”

“Help? Perhaps not. Advise? Yes.” The woman’s gaze shifted between them. “Just one of you? Or both?”

“Just me,” Anna said.

“But I’d like to sit in,” Pope told her.

The woman held out a hand, palm upturned. “Fifty dollars.”

Anna and Pope exchanged looks; then Pope brought out his wallet and opened it.

“Twenty,” he said.

The woman frowned. “Thirty-five.”

Pope pulled out a twenty and a ten and laid them on the outstretched palm. “Take it or leave it.”

The hand closed with a snap, folding the bills, fingers tucking them into her tube top. She gestured to a nearby doorway with a beaded curtain.

“In there,” she said. “I will be with you in a moment.”

T
HEY SAT IN
silence at a small round table, covered with a lacy cloth, a single, unlit candle at its center. The walls were blank. No photos. No paintings. No mirrors. The window to their right faced the crumbling gray brick of the neighboring building, close enough to touch.