Nailed (28 page)

Chapter 36

Didi DuPree stood before the bathroom mirror in Gayle Shipton’s house and shaved off his goatee. Too bad. He hadn’t had it long, but he’d already come to like it. The beard had made him look … what was the word he was looking for?

Jazzy. That was it. Like he could be blowing clarinet in some smoky little place back home in the Big Easy.

But he’d heard from a bartender at a place he’d doubled back to in his search for Colin Ring that the deputy chief of police had been there looking for the man, too. The barman had even been straight enough with him — and with the tips Didi had been leaving he’d better be — to say that he’d mentioned Didi to the cop.

Didi was pissed but he didn’t let it show. Best way to keep things cool was to be cool. He told the bartender it was no problem. He just asked what this cop looked like and what his name was so he could say hello if he happened to bump into him.

Oliver Gosden, he was told, and the barkeep gave him the description of a medium tall, muscular, dark-skinned nigger.

Didi thought he might see if this cop was dumb enough to have his address listed in the phone book. Small town cops sometimes were. Maybe he’d go burn down the cop’s house for him. Give him something else to think about while Didi was out tending to business.

After Didi had given himself a clean shave, he grabbed a tube of goop he’d bought at a drug store. Bronzing cream the label said. He was going to bronze himself up good. Get so dark they wouldn’t serve him lunch at a soda fountain in Mobile.

Didi knew he was part spade. How big a part he wasn’t exactly sure. He didn’t really care, either. He knew he had an African nose and mouth, and pale skin and fair eyes. He was white
and
black, and you couldn’t get any cooler than that.

Wave of the future, that’s what Didi was.

But right now he was going to explore his dark-skinned heritage. That thought gave him another idea. Made him smile. He found a pair of scissors and clipped his hair close to the bone. Then he took his razor and started shaving his scalp. He’d bronze up his melon, too.

Gayle came in while he was shaving his head. She’d put on some silver silk lingerie since he’d last seen her. “What are you doing?” she asked, her eyes wide.

“Creating the new me, baby. I ain’t just dangerous. I’m a man of mystery.”

Didi wiped off his head and bent over for her. “Feel that.”

She ran her fingers over his smooth pate.

“Imagine grabbing on to that mother while I’m licking your lollipop.”

“God!” Gayle Shipton exclaimed. “I’ve just got to have you do some dialogue for me,”

Didi grinned and started applying the bronzing cream to his scalp. “You done enough work you can go out to dinner with me?”

“Yes … but you know what you need?”

“What?”

“Wait here. I’ll be right back.” She returned quickly with a gold earring. It was a small, understated, elegant hoop. “I’ll have to pierce your ear,” Gayle said.

Didi laughed. “You go right ahead.”

Let’s see the cops or anyone else recognize him now, Didi thought.

Maybe he’d get lucky and find Colin Ring tonight. Show ol’ Gayle just how dangerous he really was. See if she could handle it. If not, he hoped she was done with her script. Wouldn’t be any rewrites if she got squeamish. But even if he didn’t spot his prey tonight, it’d be all right. Didi was learning the man’s habits, picking up his rhythms.

Ol’ Colin Ring would be buying his last round any time now.

Ron’s BlackBerry chimed while he was on the basketball court. Made him miss free throw number one twenty-three in a row. Right when he’d been thinking that a visionary league like the NBA might be ready to accept his suggestion for a designated free throw shooter. Somebody the coach could call on maybe only twice a quarter, once in any overtime period. Somebody who’d replace that useless twelfth man who sat on the end of the bench. Say some steely-nerved white guy who’d stayed cool when he’d been shot at, and would laugh at any chump fans trying to distract him as he calmly swished his two shots. Him, for instance.

Ron looked at the text message on his phone and called Corrie Knox. She answered on the first ring and did her best to sound calm.

“Can you get right over to Community Hospital?” she asked.

“Be there in five minutes.”

He didn’t need to ask why she was there.

“I’ll be in the emergency room,” she told him.

Ron pulled his uniform and his gun out of his gym locker, threw them in the back of his patrol unit, and drove to the hospital as fast as he could without using his lights and siren. No point fraying people’s nerves any more than they already were.

“Who was it, and how bad is it?” the chief asked when he saw Corrie at the hospital. He had his badge pinned to the waistband of his gym shorts, and his holstered gun in his hand. A cop didn’t leave either of those items in his car. Not even in an affluent place like Goldstrike.

“It was my partner, Tucker Marsden,” Corrie explained. “He’s going to be okay, but he’s got a compound fracture of his right leg and multiple lacerations and puncture wounds.”

They walked over to an empty waiting area. Ron asked how the attack occurred and Corrie told him.

“You’re all right, though?”

“Only my pride is bruised, Chief. Only my pride.”

“I don’t see what you could have done that you didn’t do.”

“I don’t either,” Corrie admitted. “But I’m sure something will come to me.”

“Maybe next time you should carry a knife,” Ron suggested. “You can’t get a clean shot, just grab your blade and wade right in.”

For just a second Ron thought he’d pissed her off, that she might wade right into him. But then the image he’d conjured caught up with her and she laughed her deep laugh.

“Thanks for the jab,” she said. “I’m not usually prone to self-pity.”

“Sure. You’ve never let your partner get eaten by a lion before.”

“Okay, okay. I’m over it.” Then Corrie finally noticed the gym clothes Ron was wearing. “Interrupted your game, huh?’

He shrugged. “Just shooting free throws and spinning some middle-aged fantasies.”

“Fantasies, huh?”

“Yeah … about how I could find a place in the NBA.”

Corrie laughed again “Wow! You do have a rich imagination.”

“Hey,” Ron objected. “I want you to know I could have beat you at HORSE the other night.”

“Oh, yeah? How?”

“By dunking the ball.”

Corrie repressed more laughter. “You really expect me to believe that?”

“Want to put some money on it?” Ron asked evenly.

She looked him over, paying particularly close attention to his legs.

“How tall are you?”

“Six-two.”

“Palm the ball?”

“With either hand.”

She had one more question: “And how old are you?”

Ron had never been shy about his age, but now he had to force himself not to hesitate before answering. “Forty-eight.”

Corrie looked him over again, this time from the bottom up. She studied his face. She calculated. She came to her decision.

“Tell you what,” she said. “You show me you can dunk … and I’ll indulge any other fantasy you may have for, say, a period of twenty-four hours.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Excluding any third parties, yeah. If you show me you can dunk.”

“And if I can’t?”

“I’ll still be nice to you. Buy you a cane and a shawl. Visit you at the old folk’s home once a month.”

Ron started to laugh, but he cut it off as an ER doctor approached. He nodded to Ron and spoke to Corrie. “Warden Marsden is ready to be taken to his room. We’ve set his leg, debrided his wounds and sutured his scalp back in place. He’s sedated now, and tomorrow we’ll be transferring him, at his request, to a hospital near his home.”

The chief asked, “Doctor, how many people are aware of this attack?”

The physician tallied the number in his head. “Six ER staffers that I know of. Two have gone on break, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve started talking about it with others.”

“I wouldn’t either,” Ron said. “Did you notify the mayor?”

“No.”

Corrie shook her head when Ron asked her if she’d spoken to anyone outside the hospital about the attack. He rubbed his face and cupped his chin.

“This is not something I want to keep secret, believe me. I just want to pass the word in the way that will do the most good and cause the least amount of fear.”

“I’ll talk to my people,” the doctor said. “We’ll do our best to keep it in-house, at least for tonight.”

“Thank you,” Ron said. “I’ll go see the mayor. I’m sure he’ll have some idea of how to proceed.” Ron was about to leave for Clay Steadman’s house when Corrie asked if he could wait for her for just a second. She wanted to say goodbye to Tucker.

He said he’d meet her in the parking lot.

Two minutes later, she joined him at his patrol unit.

“I was wondering if you have someone you could spare, someone to go after the cat with me. I think I can track it, but I’m not ashamed to admit I’d like someone to cover my back now that Tucker’s out of the picture.”

“There’s no one else the state can send you?”

“Sure. But Fish and Game is a bureaucracy like any other part of government. It might take two days, three, or who knows how long. I want to go out tomorrow morning. You don’t want to wait, do you?”

“No,” Ron admitted, “I don’t. Look, I’d go with you myself, but there’s no way, politically, that I can afford to take time away from the Cardwell investigation.”

“I appreciate that. I didn’t mean you specifically.”

“Shit. I feel like I should do it, though.”

“Look, all I need is someone dependable. Someone who won’t lose his nerve in a tight spot.”

Oliver Gosden, Ron thought immediately.

Right behind the name came the idea that, in light of Mahalia Cardwell’s
curse,
maybe it would do the town some good to see a black man help bag this frigging beast.

“I’ve got just the guy you need,” Ron said. “He’ll meet you at police headquarters.”

“We’ll need to head out first thing,” Corrie informed him.

“He’ll be there.”

Assuming the deputy chief didn’t quit after he pulled him off his Colin Ring investigation and made him go play Dan’l Boone, Ron thought.

Chapter 37

Wednesday

Ron was halfway out the door of his cabin with Corrie Knox the next morning when Clay Steadman called. He asked Ron to come over to his house immediately. The chief wanted to ask if he could postpone the meeting for thirty minutes, but his gut told him Clay had something serious to discuss. As of last night’s deliberation about the latest attack by the lion, Clay hadn’t decided what to do.

Apparently, now he had.

The problem was, Ron had called Oliver last night and told him to report in to headquarters at five a.m. that morning, but he hadn’t told him the reason why. Now, Ron wouldn’t be there to explain.

He informed Corrie of the situation. She took it in stride.

“Your deputy chief is the guy you say he is, he won’t let either of us down.”

Warden Knox drove off in her GMC 4x4 to collect her new hunting partner. Ron, still filled with misgivings, went to see the mayor.

Terry Castlewood was up early, moving quietly about the kitchen of his home while his parents still slept. He ate two bananas and washed them down with a pint of orange juice: potassium, magnesium, calcium, Vitamin C, and fructose. Everything he’d need for his morning run. He made a quick pit stop to empty his bladder, then stepped out to his backyard to stretch.

He knew his parents wouldn’t like him going out for a run all alone, what with that mountain lion scaring the bejesus out of everyone. But, hell, it’d been a couple days now since the big cat had picked off that pooch. It was probably long gone by now. And, anyway, it was time to begin training for football.

Terry was the starting tight end on the Goldstrike High School football team. He’d made all-state last year, and, as a senior this coming year, he’d be a team captain. He had to be in shape when the squad got together for its first practice.

He had three scholarship offers already and expected at least a dozen more by the time his final high school season was over. Two years from now he intended to be an all-American. By that time the pro scouts would be saying he caught the ball like Kellen Winslow and was as tough as Mike Ditka — in Terry’s opinion the two best tight ends ever to play the game.

At six-four and two-forty, the boy figured he was the perfect hybrid of his two idols.

And with plans like his, he was not going to let anything interfere with his training program. Including the police warning people not to run alone until the mountain lion was caught. To hell with that. He had to run, and it had to be uphill. That was how you built up leg strength.

Just to be on the safe side, though, Terry slipped back into the kitchen and helped himself to his mom’s carving knife. The thing had a blade on it that was a good six inches long. He fastened it to the outside of his left forearm with two rubber bands.

At first light, Terry slipped out of his backyard and bounded along the street toward Highway 38, heading up into the mountains.

The August sun was brightening the day, but at 6,000 feet elevation, there was the first hint of autumnal coolness in the air. It wouldn’t last long, but the brisk air charged Terry up. Made him glad he woke up early and got a jump on the rest of the world. He loped along the mountain road with the fluid ease only strong young muscles can provide. He was on the brink of greatness; he could feel it.

As he strode along, climbing the slope of the mountain, Terry looked at the forest on either side of the road. From what he’d heard, that mountain lion couldn’t go much more than a hundred and sixty pounds. A guy that size, Terry would eat him alive. He’d almost
like
to have the damn thing come after him.

Yeah, he could see it now. He’d do in the beast, and its head would be mounted at the Muni Complex. There would be a plaque with his story on it:
Terry Castlewood killed this lion with his bare hands.
Okay, maybe not barehanded. He slipped the carving knife off his forearm and held it in his right hand.

But even if he did the big cat in with a knife, the reputation he’d have going into college would be awesome. What defensive lineman or linebacker would ever think he could scare Terry after he’d killed a lion? And the coaches, they’d —

Terry was so lost in fantasy he never felt the mountain lion stalking him, never heard its charge, never saw it pounce on his back.

He was slammed to the road surface like he’d been gang tackled. The skin on his back felt like it was being ripped off in sheets. He knew then that the lion had him, and he’d made a terrible mistake. In savage confirmation of this judgment, he felt the lions fangs sink into the flesh around his neck.

But here the lion
was
overmatched. Terry had a twenty inch neck of which he was inordinately proud. He’d gone to great lengths to strengthen his neck to take on 300-pound linemen without getting it snapped. The big cat had to extend its jaws so wide, around so much dense muscle, that it couldn’t bring enough pressure to bear to sever the boy’s spine.

The bite was more than sufficient, however, to make every muscle in Terry Castlewood’s powerful upper body spasm. The force of the sudden, unexpected contractions threw the lion off Terry and flipped the boy onto his back.

Now, he could see the lion — and the big cat was coming back for him. It was with more than a little surprise, but not much comfort, that he realized he still had the carving knife in his hand. Years of being trained never to fumble the ball had instinctively made him keep his grip on the knife. But it seemed a pitiful defense against the horrifying array of dagger sharp teeth advancing upon him.

Still, he extended the blade. He didn’t feel much like Tarzan now. Nothing like the hero he’d imagined himself to be only moments ago.

The big cat stopped and snarled as it saw the steel blade glinting in the sun. The animal recognized that its prey was putting up a defense. The lion darted to its left, hoping to circle the knife, but Terry kept the point of the blade between him and the predator. It’s shriek of frustration made Terry’s bowels turn liquid.

The mountain lion feinted the other way, but Terry grimly kept the cat at bay with the knife. Then the boy saw the lion gather the muscles of its rear legs. He started to shake, fearing the animal was about to attempt to leap over the knife and fall on him from above. He might be able to get the knife up in time to impale the cat, but it would still come down on him, and who knew if there’d be anything left by the time it was done with him.

He had to stop the big cat from pouncing, so he scrambled to his knees and thrust the knife at it as far as his arm could extend. He didn’t even come close. The mountain lion backed off with a casual speed that mocked Terry’s attempt. But then it made a mistake. Trying to remove the last obstacle between itself and its meal, the cat swiped a paw at the knife. The knife did go flying from Terry’s hand. But the animal’s footpad hit the knife’s blade, and Mom kept her cutlery sharp. Blood poured from the cut.

The mountain lion roared with pain. It held its wounded paw off the ground.

Some deep-seated instinct for survival made Terry bounce to his feet. The lion snarled at the boy as he got up but it made no move to attack him. Terry thought the beast must be reluctant to put any weight on its injured, bleeding foot.

“Go on,” he shouted, his voice ragged with fear. “Go on, you motherfucker, get the hell out of here!”

But the cat didn’t run off. Instead, it lowered its wounded foot and advanced one tentative, limping step at a time on him. Terry backed up. He tried not to stumble, but he thought giddily if he’d had a cliff edge nearby he might prefer to jump than to let the lion have him.

His eyes darted to the verge of the road. He saw several loose rocks there. Without taking his eyes off the animal, he bent to scoop one up. Injured or not, the mountain lion was gathering itself for another run at him.

Terry’s hand closed on a rock. He rose to full height, and fired it at the cat. The chunk of stone the size of a baseball caught the animal on the shoulder above its wounded foot. It’s howl froze Terry to his bone marrow. But when he saw the beast recline on its haunches to relieve the pain in its front leg and paw, the spell was broken.

The boy ran down the mountain road faster than he’d ever run before. Roars and bellows followed him as the predator saw its prey disappearing. The soundtrack of many a future nightmare drove Terry to even greater speed.

He knew if the big cat caught up to him it would find a way to kill him.

But it didn’t catch him. With his heart about to burst and his lungs on fire, Terry pushed through the gate of his backyard. He barely had time to register the horrified face of his father in the kitchen doorway before he collapsed.

Oliver Gosden, early to work, didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of the idea yesterday. Mahalia Cardwell was still in town. She was Colin Ring’s only known source of venom against Jimmy Thunder. So if he wanted to find Ring, why didn’t he just ask Mrs. Cardwell to call the Brit and invite him to her suite.

And if the old woman wouldn’t help him out, he could muscle the people at her hotel to fake a call to Ring, saying Mahalia Cardwell wanted to see him, and draw him out. Then Oliver could have another talk with the sleazebag, and dog his steps from there.

There was no more need to go chasing after the sonofabitch. He’d tell Ron that was just what he was going to do . . . but where the hell was the chief after he’d dragged Oliver out of bed so early.

The deputy chief started flicking his cigarette lighter open and shut.

He was just about to go get a cup of coffee when Warden Knox poked her head in his office. Not a bad looking woman, Oliver thought. He wondered if the whispers going around the department about her and Ron were true. She seemed pretty young for the chief to him.

“Good morning, Deputy Chief,” she said. “May I come in?”

Oliver nodded. He was surprised, however, when she closed the door behind her. She took a seat in a guest chair and looked right at him.

“The chief hasn’t called you in the past few minutes, has he?”

“No, but I expect him any minute now.”

“I’m afraid he won’t be coming. Not right away.”

Oliver wondered how she knew that, but he wasn’t about to ask. Crossing the threshold into your boss’s private life was always an iffy proposition. And not one to his liking at all.

“In that case, I have some matters to attend to, Warden Knox.” Oliver started to rise.

“If you’ll just give me a minute, Deputy Chief. The chief asked me to talk to you.”

“He did?”

“Well, actually I said I’d do it because the mayor called the chief to his house.”

“What’s this all about?”

“It’s about backing me up.” Corrie told Oliver what had happened to Tucker Marsden the previous night.

“And Ron Ketchum said
I’d
back you up?”

Oliver couldn’t help it, he flashed on all the old jungle movies from his boyhood. It was never the great white hunter who got eaten by the lion. It was always the poor black Stepin Fetchit helper who called the boss,
“Bwana.”

Corrie saw the trepidation on Oliver Gosden’s face. “The chief said you wouldn’t lose your nerve in a tight spot. He said you could look the devil in the eye and not blink.”

“The devil doesn’t scare me. He’s a city boy like me. But going out in the woods, looking for a —”

There was a knock at Oliver’s door.

“Excuse me, sir,” Sergeant Stanley said, opening the door. “I thought I saw Warden Knox step in here.” He looked at Corrie. “There’s been another attack. A boy named Castlewood out on Highway 38 not twenty minutes ago. He’s being taken to Community Hospital right now.”

Corrie looked at Oliver. “I’m going to talk to that boy. Then I’m going after that cat. I’d like to have some backup, but if necessary, I’ll go alone.”

The look on Corrie Knox’s face left no doubt she was serious.

“Well, shit,” Oliver said.

But he got up and went with her.

After telling Sergeant Stanley to call his wife and tell her to keep their son at home and indoors that day.

“The first thing we have to do,” Clay Steadman told Ron Ketchum, “is inform the town of what happened last night to Warden Marsden. I’ll speak to the media again this morning.”

Ron nodded. He had expected nothing less. Still, it grieved him that the media circus that might have been about to fold its tents and move on would now extend its stay indefinitely.

“The next thing we have to do is involve the community in a positive way, and I’ve already taken some steps in that direction.”

“What do you mean?” Ron asked, feeling uneasy. He looked at the mayor across a coffee table positioned between the two men in Clay Steadman’s living room.

“I mean that we’ve got to give people the sense that they’re defending themselves.”

“Isn’t that my job? The job of my department?” Ron felt his forehead grow hot, and he knew he’d have to watch himself here. He and the mayor had never really butted heads, but this might be the first time.