Picture Perfect (23 page)

“I thought so.” Sanders squeezed Lorrie's hand and went back outside. The cops had an all points on Balog and his companion for questioning but, as of now, they were prime suspects in a murder inquiry, and possibly a kidnapping.

Walking up to Feeley, Sanders said in a low tone, “Keep pretty boy over there occupied. I want to call in and I don't want him listening to my end of the conversation. Two can play this game.”

“We got nothing in common,” Feeley grumbled.

“Then asphyxiate him with your damn cigar. But keep him occupied.”

The Bureau chief picked up the phone on the first ring. “Carmichael,” he barked.

“Sanders here. Buzz, I want the okay to send Feeley into Newark. I've got a ninety-nine percent pure-gold lead I want him to check for me. We're just holding up the walls here, and the locals are withholding information. Feeley can be back by morning. I want him to check out the apartment that Balog was renting.”

“You got it. No new leads on the kid, or is this part of it? You've only been there a few minutes and already you've come up with a snitch. How reliable is he?”

Sanders's face was pained. He could hardly tell the chief that his “snitch” was a dog. “Yeah, she's reliable,” he answered without elaborating.

“Stu, I don't mind telling you this entire case is a pain in the ass. If I never see or hear from another local cop again, I'll die happy. Feeley tells me that Chief of Police Allen and his squad have been dubbed Allen's Assholes. True or false?”

Sanders strained to see Officer Ordway through the thick smoke coming from Feeley's cigar. He was combing his hair. “Sounds fairly accurate to me. I'll let you know my opinion tomorrow.”

“You holding anything back on the kid, Stu?”

“Only theories and personal opinions. You know they count for zilch as far as the Bureau goes.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I'm pretty sure the kid wasn't snatched by any syndicate. It doesn't fit. What I've got is a possible connection between this Balog character and the dead man. I say, if I find Lombardi's killer, I'll find the Taylor boy. I think the kid saw something he shouldn't have, got scared and ended up in Balog's pop-up camper.”

“Your snitch drop that in your lap?”

The pained look crossed Sanders's features again. “In a manner of speaking. You could say she pointed it out to me. I promised her the biggest steak dinner of her life if it pays off.”

“Is that on or off the expense account? You sly dog, I always knew you had it in you. A word of caution from one who's been burned—that young stuff out there can be hard to handle. They don't mind givin' if you don't mind gettin'. You know what I'm talking about, don't you?”

Sanders grinned. “This little lady, I can handle. I'll check in midmorning. Have a good night, Buzz.”

“You too, Stu.”

 

A harsh violet-colored light was coming through the plastic drapes when Cudge opened his eyes. For the briefest instant he couldn't remember where he was, or why. Then he realized the glare was the security light in the parking lot behind Snookie's.

Candy Striper was in the bed next to him, turned on her side to face him. She wasn't pretty now with her makeup streaked and her mouth partially open. Why did he always end up with the dogs? Each time she exhaled, the odor of stale wine and cigarettes assaulted him. She was a pig, he decided. He'd known it last night, but he'd thought she may have something to offer. He only hoped what she was offering wasn't the AIDS virus. “Lie down with dogs, get up with fleas” as the old saying went.

His head felt heavy and he could hardly lift his arm to read his watch dial. Four forty. In the morning? It had to be. It was yesterday evening when he'd brought the tire to the gas station next door to Snookie's. He sat up quickly, holding on to the wall for support. Shit! That mechanic had said he'd throw the tire into the back of the truck when he'd finished with it. What if someone had stolen it? All those drunks coming out of Snookie's—what if they stole his truck?

“Hey, what's the matter?” Candy groaned. “What time is it?”

“I gotta get outta here,” Cudge said, and rolled over her to get out of bed. The mattress sank beneath his weight and the bedsprings screeched in protest. Candy's body was lush and soft beneath him and he remembered flashes of what it had been like with her last night. Soft, warm, like he'd been plowing into a featherbed.

“You got an old lady someplace looking for you?” she asked sleepily.

Elva. How could he have forgotten about Elva? What if she decided to skip out on him? Go to the cops herself? Pin the whole rap about Lenny on him. Then it wouldn't be just that little kid to worry about, there would be Elva, too. Cursing under his breath that he'd ever gone into Snookie's and got entangled with Candy, Cudge searched for his clothing. He never should have gotten sidetracked. He should have stayed to watch the mechanic fix the tire then gone right back to the camper, just the way he'd planned.

“Hey, babe, any more wine left in that bottle? My mouth's dry.” Candy's voice was husky with sleep and hangover.

“Get it yourself,” he snapped. “I gotta get going. Where the hell're my boots?”

“Find 'em yourself.”

He bristled. “Watch your mouth. Where's my boots?”

“How should I know? They're your boots. What did you do with them?”

“I don't even remember taking them off.”

“You didn't. I did,” Candy smiled with satisfaction. “Hey, babe, why don't you crawl back in bed here? I got something to show you.”

“Save it,” he answered uncomfortably, not liking women to take the initiative. “Didn't you get enough last night?” He found his boots and something soft and rotten came off the bottom onto his hands. “Shit!”

“What's that?”

“Dog shit,” he moaned, looking for something to wipe his hand on, finally deciding on the bedcovers.

“Hey! Don't do that!” Candy sat up suddenly to inspect the damage. “Christ, ain't you got no manners? Don't wipe that stuff on the covers. One thing at least,” she said, turning on the lamp for a closer examination, “it's not dog do, it's apples. Even so, watch where you put it.”

“Apples!” Sure, now he remembered those rotting apples on the road where he'd pulled over in the pop-up. He must have stepped on them and gotten bits of the pulp wedged between the ridges of his soles. Apples. Elva. He had to get back!

Candy settled back against the pillows in a languorous pose. “What's your hurry, babe? It's not even morning. Come on back to bed. This time it's for free.”

“It's always free,” Cudge growled, tying one of his laces. “Your kind always are.”

“Like hell! That little parlor game we played is going to cost you exactly thirty bucks.”

“Don't bug me, Candy, I ain't in the mood. Right now you're treading on thin ice. You think I'd pay to screw an old whore like you?”

“Old whore! Listen, you'd have to pay anybody to jump in the sack with you. And double if they'd been there once already. You ain't exactly Casanova,” she mocked. “Tell me, you always have that much trouble gettin' it up or was it just the wine?”

Cudge loomed over her, standing close to the bed, hands curling into fists. “One more word and you're askin' for it. One more word. I don't want no more trouble, so just shut up!” He seemed to be fighting himself as he stood over her, forcing himself to back down, to quell his sudden rage. “Where's my shirt?” Not waiting for an answer, he looked around the shabby room.

When he moved away from her, Candy propped herself up on her elbow. “You don't really have any connections in Vegas, do you?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you were puttin' me on, so the deal's off. I told you, I've got expenses and that wine we drank together last night really knocked me on my ass. Far as I'm concerned, last night was a lost cause, and I ain't got nothing to show for it. So, how's about that thirty dollars I helped you win from that guy?”

“You gotta be kiddin'. That's my thirty bucks. I won it. You already got all you're gonna get.”

Candy sat up in bed, the blankets falling away to reveal her full, round breasts. “The way I see it, you parked your ass in my bed and that'll cost you thirty dollars.”

Balog faced her in the yellow lamplight, his eyes cold and hard. The air between them seemed to become dense and still. His square, cropped head burrowed into his powerfully wide shoulders; his barrel-staved chest expanded with each deep intake of air. Candy heard a high, frightened whine and realized with horror it was her own.

The corral gate in Cudge's brain swung open with nerve-cracking velocity. The beast lunged forward to freedom, sharp-edged hooves cutting into his brain tissue. Blackness obscured his vision. Rage ripped through him; he was almost senseless. Razor-tipped horns gored his sanity and attacked again and again.

Candy was helpless, defenseless as a rag doll in the jaws of a mad dog. She struggled against unconsciousness, fighting to stay alert, knowing it to be her only chance of survival. But when oblivion came, she surrendered gratefully.

The woman was still, no longer crawling across the floor to escape his onslaught. How long had she been like that? Still as death. Cudge backed away, stumbling over an overturned chair.

Incredulous, he looked down at his hands, just beginning to feel the tingle that preceded pain. He'd broken his little finger; it was sticking out at a crazy angle. Gritting his teeth, he straightened it and heard a sharp crack before it settled into place. Thinking he should wrap it to keep it in place, he searched the room, seeing one of the black stockings Candy had worn during her dance on Snookie's bar. It was thin and long, suitable. Winding the nylon around his knuckles, he looked around for anything he might have left behind. Now he had to pick up his truck and make tracks.

He didn't want to think about what he'd done to Candy. He didn't want to think about anything. He'd have to keep his head, keep his temper under control. From now on, he promised himself, every move he made would be planned. He wouldn't let the gate swing open again.

Davey woke slowly, trying to remember where he was. He opened his eyes to see Brenda still sleeping. Her arms were wrapped tightly around him. He had to go to the bathroom; it must be morning. He shouldn't have stayed, but Brenda had been so scared; he had felt her heart pounding when she held him. He didn't know what he had feared more: going off alone in the dark, or what the man would do if he found him.

He strained to see the hands on his watch. The big hand was on the seven and the little hand between the five and six. He felt confused, but knew he must leave the safety of the pop-up and try to find Aunt Lorrie. Through the mesh windows he could see daylight between the trees, streaking the sky a gunmetal gray. First, he had to go to the bathroom. He needed some food to take with him too, in case he got lost again. He had to be prepared. Should he wake Brenda and say goodbye? He should thank her for helping him.

Carefully and quietly, Davey inched from Elva's arms and stood up. He held his breath when his foot touched his discarded leg brace alongside the small refrigerator. Should he put it on? Maybe Aunt Lorrie would feel better if he wore it. He struggled with the familiar straps, trying to be quiet. Wincing in discomfort when the padded straps touched his chafed ankle, he remembered to pull his sock up the way his aunt had shown him.

Hurry, hurry, he told himself. He looked at Brenda. He knew he should thank her but if he woke her up she might want to keep him with her the way she'd done the night before. Aunt Lorrie had told him once that sometimes the right thing to do was often the hardest. So it must be the right thing—to leave without thanking her, or saying goodbye.

The sound of a car coming close stopped him.

“Brenda, Brenda, wake up. He's here. Wake up, please wake up,” Davey coaxed.

Elva sat up. “He's here, Brenda. I heard the truck.”

“Oh, my God!” Holding Davey's hand, she scrambled out of the camper. “Run, BJ, run!”

Davey didn't hesitate. He was out of the camper and running as fast as his legs would carry him toward the trees. On and on he ran, the patch pockets of the red windbreaker ballooning. He fought for air as he staggered through the sodden leaves and twigs. It was good that they were wet and didn't make any noise.

He needed to take off the brace; it was slowing him down. Could he stop? Did he have time? He
had
to stop. He had to take the time or the man would catch him. He sat down on a matted pile of leaves. The straps were tight and still damp from yesterday when he'd wet himself. The brace was always easier to put on than take off. There, it was off. He couldn't take the time to appreciate how good it felt to have his leg free. He had to run. He had to run fast.