Six Killer Bodies (24 page)

top walked in carrying a small bag. She nodded at Wesley.

“Rol up your sleeve, please.”

Wes looked back to E. “What’s this?”

“Nurse Kathleen is going to draw blood for a drug test.”

He panicked. “I told you I’d leave a urine sample.”

“This is more accurate,” E. said. “Rol up your sleeve.”

Wes’s mind raced. He was sunk.

E. stood and crossed her arms. “Wesley, rol up your

sleeve, or I’l summon an officer to take you into custody.

It’s your choice.”

Wes slowly unbuttoned and rol ed up his sleeve, revealing

the angry red scars left behind when The Carver had

whittled the first three letters of his name into Wes’s flesh.

E. gasped. “What happened to your arm?”

“Paper cuts,” Wes muttered.

As he watched his blood going into the vial, he imagined it

shimmering with the drug that made him feel like

Superman…and would send him back to jail. Sweat trickled

down his back. It was beyond dumb to have dosed before

his meeting. After the nurse left, he slowly unrol ed his

sleeve.

“How soon wil you have the results?” His high was

plummeting.

“In a few days,” E. said, her mouth contracting downward.

“I hope you haven’t been lying to me, Wes.”

He swallowed hard. “Are we finished?”

“Yes. I’l see you next Wednesday…if not before.”

He got the hel out of there, bursting through the door of

the building and into the sunshine to gulp fresh air. Except

the summer air was hot and sticky, catching in his throat.

He had to lean over to grasp his knees. His mind galloped.

Carlotta would be devastated if he went to jail…and Meg

would never speak to him again. His date with her tonight

might be the last time he’d get to spend with her—he’d

better make the most of it.

“Hey, shithead!”

He turned to see the black Town Car sitting at the curb,

with Mouse calling through the window.

“Get in.”

Wesley straightened, then trudged over to unlock his bike.

By the time he made it back to the car, Mouse had popped

the trunk. Wes stowed the bike inside, then walked

around to the passenger side and climbed in.

Mouse grunted and steered the car away from the curb.

The big man seemed to be nursing a bad mood, driving for

several long minutes in silence. With no fast-food bags in

sight, Wes wondered if he was on a diet and cranky from

the lack of carbs. Meanwhile, Wes wiped at the sweat on

his forehead, already craving another hit of Oxy, and

feeling a little light-headed from the blood loss.

“Something wrong?” Mouse snapped, breaking the

silence.

Giving in to the panic, Wes put his head down, his elbows

on his knees. “Man, I’m screwed.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“My probation officer just drew blood for a drug test.”

“And?”

“And when it comes back positive, my probation wil be

revoked and my ass is going to jail.”

Mouse made a rueful noise. “Told you drugs would mess

you up. What are you on?”

“Oxy,” Wes said. “But I’m trying to quit.”

“Too late for that shit.”

“I guess so,” Wesley said forlornly.

“Besides…you got bigger things to worry about.”

Wesley turned his head. “What?”

Mouse wiped his hand over his jowly face. “Jett Logan

came to see The Carver.”

Wesley felt his blood drain to his feet. “I…I thought Logan

left town.”

“Changed his mind.”

Panic wrapped around Wes’s lungs and squeezed like a

vise. “What did he say about the money he owes?”

Mouse put on his blinker to make a turn, taking his time to

respond. Finally, he swung his fat head around to look at

Wesley. “Funny thing—he said you tracked him down last

Saturday and got it. All ten gees.”

Wesley thought he was going to be sick.

“And then he said he told you about a card game he’d

been planning to play in. Said he even gave you the

address.”

Wes wet his lips. “I can explain.”

“How much did you lose?”

He wanted to cry. “All of it.”

Mouse spewed a creative combination of curse words that

questioned Wesley’s parentage, wisdom, and longevity.

“I’ll pay it all back,” Wes said.

“That’s a given,” Mouse said. “But why the fuck did you lie

to me?”

“I didn’t want to look like a screwup. I was high and played

like an idiot.”

Mouse backhanded him across the face so hard Wes’s ears

rang. “When you lie to me, it looks like I’m lying to The

Carver. Now I look like the screwup.”

Holding his head, Wes glanced around and recognized his

surroundings with a stabbing fear. The arm bearing The

Carver’s scars twinged, reminding Wes of the last time

he’d been in this part of town. Like a buffoon, he’d ridden

right up to The Carver’s warehouse and offered to turn

over a memory chip with incriminating photographs of The

Carver that Wes had set up with a transvestite, in return

for the loan shark not kil ing him.

The Carver hadn’t kil ed him, but he’d held him hostage for

twenty-five thousand dol ars, and carved a letter in

Wesley’s arm for every call he had to make to raise the

money—Chance, then Liz, then Peter Ashford. Chance

hadn’t been able to get his hands on that much cash

within the allotted time, and Liz had refused to be dragged

into something unlawful. Peter had come through, though,

because he was eager to cozy up to Carlotta’s family.

It had been their secret. Peter had agreed not to tel

Carlotta if Wes would help to smooth the way for Peter

and Carlotta to get back together. Wes had kept up his end

of the deal, interfering when Coop and Carlotta had taken

a road trip together, and tel ing Jack Terry to step back

because he couldn’t make his sister happy. The fact that

Carlotta had moved in with Peter meant that he’d done a

pretty decent job.

But Wes suspected that Peter wouldn’t be able to buy his

way out of this one.

To his credit, Mouse looked il as he pul ed into the parking

lot of the warehouse. Wes panicked and reached for the

door handle to escape.

But the handle had been removed.

“I was afraid you might try to run,” Mouse said with a

heavy sigh. “I’m really sorry it has to be like this.” He

parked the car, then heaved his big body out and came

around to the passenger side.

Resigned to his fate, Wesley sat there sweating, knowing

he was powerless to do anything to escape. And if he did

manage to get away, he was only postponing the

inevitable.

Mouse opened the door and the look on his face was

almost parental—part anger, part disappointment. “Let’s

go, little man. Where are your phones?”

“In my backpack.”

“Leave it.”

Too late, he remembered the GPS chip that Jack had

inserted in the phone that Mouse had given to Wes, just in

case he was ever in trouble. At least they’d be able to find

his backpack, he thought hysterically. Maybe they’d put it

in his coffin when they couldn’t find anything left of his

body to bury.

Wes climbed out of the car, feeling drained. He knew The

Carver’s knife waited for him, knew it would be worse this

time than last, more creatively cruel.

Mouse patted him down, then grasped his arm in an iron

grip and walked him toward the warehouse. The big man

unlocked the door and opened it, then shoved Wes inside.

It was pitch black, with no windows. Mouse flipped a

couple of breakers on a box just inside the door and rows

of fluorescent lights came on in grids. The scent of building

materials infiltrated Wes’s lungs, along with other sour

smells.

He remembered vomiting in the room where The Carver

had had him tied to a chair, a room with lots of rust-

colored stains on the concrete floor. It had been the drain

in the floor that had scared him most, knowing that he

could be kil ed and bled in that room, like an animal, his

carcass then cut up and discarded. The Carver didn’t like to

be crossed. Wes couldn’t imagine a scenario in which the

man would let him live.

The walls were mostly studs, with a sheet of plywood and

insulation here and there. A couple of rooms remained

from some long ago use. The warehouse seemed to be

empty, like the first time Mouse had brought him there.

And once again, the big man led Wesley to a cramped little

bathroom in the bowels of the building and shoved him

inside. The door closed, then the deadbolt turned.

Wes slammed into a wall, then got his bearings and found

a light switch. A naked bulb in the ceiling sent a dim glow

over the hideous green bathroom. The rickety toilet and

leaning sink were sickeningly familiar. Everything was

corroded with dirt, and the place reeked of human waste.

He lowered himself to the ledge of the nasty bathtub and

put his head in his hands. He had no Oxy, no phone, no

way out.

And worse, he was going to miss his date tonight with

Meg.

21

Peter’s rueful sigh sounded over the phone. “I’m afraid

Brody was right. During the questioning, I got the feeling

the GBI wasn’t nearly as interested in your father’s

connection to Alicia Sil s as the APD was interested in

discovering whether your father had maintained contact

with her or someone else over the years.”

Carlotta, who had ducked behind a clothing rack to take

the call, put a hand to her head. “Was Jack there?”

“Oh, yeah. Jack was the lead interrogator. So much for his

offer to help.”

Anger barbed through her. Since Jack had been relegated

to the periphery of The Charmed Kil er case, his presence

there proved the police were more interested in finding a

way to apprehend Randolph, than proving him a serial

kil er. “Did you tel them that Dad called you?”

“No. But Jack did say the D.A.’s office would be asking for a

subpoena of the company’s phone records, so they’re

suspicious. Of course, al of this is under the guise of

investigating your father’s involvement with Alicia Sil s.”

“What did Brody say?”

“He told Jack the firm’s offer of a one hundred thousand

dol ar reward for Randolph’s return negated the possibility

that anyone there was working with your dad. Brody

insisted they wanted him found as much as anyone…which

played right into Jack’s hands because he asked for open

access to company records.”

“How did it end?”

“Brody walked the public relations line, but told them they

would need that subpoena.”

She sighed. “I’m just so sorry you got dragged into this.

And it took your entire afternoon.”

“I did it to myself when I dug through those old

employment records.”

“Stil …I know you did it for me, to get to the truth.”

“I’m just afraid this renewed interest might impede our

plans to look into your father’s case from inside the firm

like we’d planned.”

Carlotta closed her eyes briefly, forcing herself to

compartmentalize her problems. If she thought about

everything pressing on her, she might unravel.

Peter must have sensed her anguish because he made a

comforting sound. “Let’s just take it one day at a time.”

“You’re right,” she agreed with a sigh. “I should go. I’m not

supposed to use my phone on the sales floor.”

“Okay, I’l see you later tonight.”

She ended the call and stowed her phone in her jacket

pocket, then checked her watch for the hundredth time.

All day long she’d been antsy, thinking about Peter’s

interview and knowing that Coop was out on bail.

She longed to see Coop, to reassure herself he was okay,

but Jack’s warning to stay away remained vivid in her

mind. She didn’t want to give the GBI more ammunition

against Coop. Just knowing he was out of the detention

center—out of that jumpsuit, out of the shackles—had

made her feel better…at first.

When she’d taken her lunch break, she’d joined others in

the employee locker room who gathered around the TV

set to watch CNN. The prime suspect in The Charmed Kil er

case being granted bail was big news. District Attorney

Kelvin Lucas was catching hel from reporters for what was

perceived as a failure in the prosecutor’s office. Lucas

announced that no stone would go unturned by the legion

of police officers assigned to check and double-check leads

in the case, but surprisingly, the odious man hadn’t

appeared ruffled by Coop’s release.

In fact, Lucas seemed to go out of his way to repeat

several times that Dr. Cooper Craft would be under house

arrest in his single-family home in Castleberry Hil . It was

as if he were inviting every vigilante in the area to Google-

Maps Coop and take the law into their own hands. She’d

wondered if Lucas hadn’t opposed bail as vigorously as

expected, hoping that Coop might be slain before a trail

was even convened. If the evidence wasn’t overwhelming

enough to convict, a dead defendant would let the D.A. off

the hook.

Carlotta conceded that maybe everyone else was right—