Speak the Dead (9 page)

22

N
aked, Sally dashed into the kitchen to grab the wall phone. She had only punched in the first five numbers of Jersey's number when she felt a presence behind her.

Sally spun around to face a nightmare.

The man she had seen in her vision was standing in the doorway. He was holding her cat in his arms, stroking it with one hand while holding it tight by the scruff of the neck with the other. Jiggy was struggling, but the man's grip was too strong.

“You shouldn't leave the water running…” His voice was slightly slurred by the hindered movement of his disfigured mouth, “… the tub could overflow.”

Sally had never felt so naked, so alone, or so vulnerable. She reflexively covered her breasts with one arm and twisted her hips to shield herself. In her free hand, she still gripped the phone. It was an old-fashioned Bakelite receiver and held some heft, but she doubted it would make much of a weapon.

“W-w-what do you want?” she stammered.

“There's no need to be afraid,” said the man. “Hang up the phone, turn off the taps, and put on your robe. You've certainly grown into a very beautiful woman, cousin, but I'm sure you would feel more at ease with some clothing.”

Sally glanced around the kitchen, her gaze flicking over everything that could be used as a weapon: knives, pots, a spice jar of Cayenne pepper. The man was taller than her, likely stronger than her, although he might be surprised, moving dead bodies around the funeral parlor wasn't for the weak.

“I'm not here to hurt you,” he said as though reading her thoughts. “But please don't do anything foolish.”

Sally fastened her gaze on the man's face and steeled her voice. “Let my cat go, and I'll do what you ask.”

The man bowed slightly and released Jiggy. The cat landed on its feet and immediately scampered under the protection of the television stand where she arched her back and hissed.

“A show of good faith,” he said.

Sally let the phone fall from her grasp and bounce on the end of its tether as she headed into the bathroom to turn off the taps and pull on her robe. Alone in front of the mirror, she glanced down at her half-finished glass of wine. Another weapon? She could smash the glass; use it like a knife. Sally lifted the glass and took a long sip to calm her nerves.

When she returned to the living room with glass in hand, she felt more angry than afraid.

“Who are you, and what the hell do you want?” she asked.

23

J
ersey rapped on the apartment door and waited. When it opened, a disheveled California blonde looked him up and down before yawning in his face. Once you got past the over-bleached hair, artificial tan, and too-white teeth, the blonde was mostly legs, and today they reached all the way up to a peekaboo hint of blue bikini panties before disappearing beneath a rumpled Wonder Woman T-shirt.

“Oh,” said the blonde with clear disappointment. “It's you.”

Jersey opened his mouth to offer a witty rejoinder, but the blonde had already turned her back to him. “Your teddy bear is here,” she called out while walking away. “And he's staring at my ass.”

“I'm not staring,” Jersey blustered, the color rising on his cheeks. “And… teddy bear?”

The blonde stopped and glared over her shoulder. “What?” She jabbed her hands onto cocked and boney hips. “You prefer Fuck Buddy?”

“I'm not—”

“Ignore her.” Amarela appeared in the doorway, hurriedly slipping her Smith & Wesson semi-auto into a belt holster. “She always wakes up bitchy.”

Jersey frowned. “I thought you two—”

“Bye, Babes.” Amarela cut him off mid-sentence as she gave the half-dressed blonde a quick kiss on the lips before shoving Jersey out the door and closing it behind them.

Before Jersey could protest, Amarela headed for the stairs. “You're early.”

“And your roommate is—”

“She's not my roommate,” Amarela cut him off again. “Why are you early?”

“We have an errand to run.”

“Oh?”

“Remember the asshole you spoke to yesterday? Next of kin.”

Amarela nodded.

“He tried to drop me in it last night.”

“How?”

“That,” said Jersey, “is exactly the question I want an answer to.”

the son of
the recently departed Nicholas and Alison Higgins lived in a two-story, off-white spackled house with a suspect moss-covered roof in a gentrification-coming-soon suburb in the city's diverse northeast quadrant.

Despite its outward appearance, the solid 1940s-era house had all the earmarks and potential of a smart fixer-upper rather than a woe-is-me hard luck story. The house itself sat on a large grassy lot directly across the road from the fenced ninth hole of the one hundred fifty acre Rose City public golf course.

Jersey rang the doorbell. It sounded like someone choking a crow.

“If he gets snippy again, can I shoot him?” asked Amarela dryly.

Jersey's mouth twitched. “Sure.”

Amarela studied the tired, working-class neighborhood as they waited. “You think his inheritance will come in handy? Mom and Dad had a nice big house, probably cash in the bank, maybe insurance. There's just him and the sister.”

Jersey started to answer when the door was opened by a slim man in his mid-thirties with a groomed five-day stubble that made him look like a wannabe actor or gigolo. He completed the look with a monotone dark suit over a charcoal T-shirt and matching sneakers. When he saw Amarela, he released an audible sigh of irritation.

“Peter Higgins?” Jersey asked.

“Yeah, but I'm burying my parents today, so if you don't mind leaving me the—”

Jersey placed both hands on the man's chest and shoved him into the house. Peter back-pedaled, swinging his arms in an effort to maintain his balance. When he finally succeeded in staying upright, Jersey and Amarela were standing in the entrance hall with the front door closed behind them.

“What the hell do you—”

Jersey held up his hand to silence the protest. “Where do you get off assaulting an officer of the law?”

“Assault? I never—”

“Detective Valente. Did this man just swing his arms at me in a threatening manner?”

“Yes, Detective Castle, he did.” Amarela's smile was thin and cruel. “Both physically
and
verbally.”

“You won't get away with this,” Peter protested. “I know—”

“You know too many people, Mr. Higgins,” snapped Jersey. “But if collecting the insurance on your parents is important to you, then I'm only interested in one.”

Peter licked his lips and glanced up the stairs behind him. Jersey wasn't sure if he was planning to make a run for it or just checking that his wife wasn't listening.

“Which one?” he asked.

“Who told you I was at the funeral home last night?”

Peter's shoulders relaxed. “So you were there. What did you do to my father's body?”

“I never touched him,” said Jersey. “I was interviewing a witness, but how did you know I was there?”

Peter licked his lips again. “I received a phone call. He didn't leave a name.”

Jersey reached up and pinched the flesh between his eyebrows. “An anonymous call? You expect me to buy that?”

“Yeah, it's the truth. There was no Caller ID either. I checked 'cause he sounded kinda creepy.”

“In what way?”

Peter shrugged. “He made these slurping sounds, like he was speaking through a mouthful of spit.”

“And what did he say?”

“Just that you were—”

“He mentioned me by name?”

“Yeah. Detective Castle.”

“Go on.”

“He said you were at the funeral home and you were doing stuff to the bodies.”

“Doing stuff?” Jersey asked.

“Yeah, interfering he called it. Interfering with the bodies.”

“So you called the mayor?”

“Well, I mean what would you do? Christ, those are my parents.”

“Did he mention anything about a message?” Jersey asked.

“A message? No. What message?”

Jersey turned to his partner. “I'm done. You can shoot him now.”

24

I
n the car, Amarela chuckled.

“The look on his face was priceless,” she said. “I thought he was going to shit himself.”

Jersey rubbed the knot between his eyes again. “He's probably already on the phone to the mayor's son, who'll tell the mayor, who'll tell the commander, who'll tell the lieutenant, who'll—”

“Take us off the case that he's already taken us off of?” Amarela asked.

Jersey grinned. “Something like that.”

“So we should avoid going into the office, then?”

Jersey's grin grew wider.

as they traveled
back across town, Amarela asked, “So what do you know about the insurance on his parents?”

“Nothing. It was a bluff. I took what you said about the money coming in handy and thought ‘what the hell.' Even if he's completely innocent, his parents dying at a time when he needs the dough is bound to make anyone feel guilty.”

“It made him a sweat a bit.”

“I noticed that, too.”

Jersey shared Sally's late-night theory about a killer being hired to murder the wife, but then double-crossing the husband.

“Nice theory, but instead of a double-cross, what if the killer was hired by the son instead?” said Amarela. “Both parents dead in an apparent murder-suicide, the kid inherits, and everyone gets paid.”

Jersey squeezed the steering wheel. “And if you have the right contacts to skip the autopsy, the bodies are buried before anyone becomes suspicious.”

“And no one
is
suspicious,” began Amarela.

“Except us,” finished Jersey.

Amarela stared out the window in silence for a few moments before adding in a quizzical tone, “And why are we suspicious again?”

Jersey laughed. “There's someone I want you to meet.”

On the second
floor of the four-story building, Jersey knocked on Sally's apartment door.

When there was no answer, he pressed his ear to the wood. He could hear the low drone of a television inside.

He knocked again. Still no answer.

“She could've gone out shopping or something,” said Amarela.

“She was tired,” said Jersey. “She's only been home about two hours.”

“Oh?” Amarela queried.

“We went for coffee and muffins. Nothing devious.”

“Muffins? You
are
a teddy bear.”

Jersey groaned. “Don't give me a hard time for being normal. What was up with
Dawn of the Dead
Barbie at your place? I thought you and Clarissa split.”

“Short story,” said Amarela. “I was horny.”

Jersey blanched and knocked on the door again. This time he heard a cat's meow.

“I would say that's probable cause,” said Amarela with a snicker. She reached out and turned the door handle. The handle was unlocked and the door swung open. She looked at Jersey, her expression serious. “That's not good.”

Jersey's jaw clenched tight as he withdrew his weapon and followed Amarela into the apartment.

“Sally!” Jersey shouted. “Sally, you in here?”

A multi-colored cat hissed at Jersey before scampering under the television stand to hide behind a box of DVDs. Its ears were tucked low and its eyes were filled with distrust.

Amarela moved to the bathroom and nudged the door open with her foot.

“Tub's full of water, but no naked girl.”

Jersey eased over to the bedroom door and turned the handle. He entered in a combat crouch, but apart from a pile of discarded clothes and a rumpled bed, the room was unoccupied.

“All clear,” he called before making his way back to the main room.

“There's nobody here.” Amarela joined her partner and nodded at a near empty glass of wine sitting on a coffee table. “Looks like she was planning a relaxing bath before bed, but either changed her mind or was interrupted.”

“No sign of a struggle?” Jersey voiced aloud.

“Nothing. Maybe a boyfriend stopped by and made her a better offer.”

Jersey's eyes narrowed.

“Hey,” said Amarela, “I'm just saying. You've only known her one day. You don't know what she's into.”

Jersey entered the kitchen and found the wall phone dangling by its cord. He lifted the receiver and hit redial to watch the last number called appear on the base's tiny digital screen. Only five of seven numbers appeared, but Jersey knew the number well—it was his own.

“Bag the wine glass,” he called out, needing to displace his rising panic with action. “I want it tested for GHB or its ilk.” GHB was an acronym for gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid, a colorless, odorless liquid known by many names on the street, such as Easy Lay or Grievous Bodily Harm, but was most commonly referred to as the date-rape drug.

Jersey cursed under his breath. Sally was missing, and he couldn't get over the feeling that it was all his fault.

25

A
wakening in a dark, cramped and uncomfortable place, Sally's first thought was,
When did I fall sleep?
The last thing she recalled was the glass of wine and the odd thought that her consonants slurred before a heavy, incoherent weariness had suddenly fallen over her. After that, her memory was frighteningly blank.

Now her tongue was thick and wooly, her throat parched, and her ears stuffed with cotton. The aftereffects of a drug.

She cursed and blinked, making sure she was truly awake. The darkness remained undisturbed.

Stay calm
, she told herself, but even her inner-voice was shaky. As panic made her breath quicken and her heart race, the terrifying image of being trapped inside a coffin filled her thoughts.

Sally bolted upright, her stomach muscles doing all the work, and smacked her head with a loud bone-on-metal clang. Sally cried out as something sharp bit into her scalp, and with a whimper, she collapsed flat on her back again. A warm wetness dripped from a painful gash in her skull.

Cursing again, Sally tried to move her arms and legs, but they were bound together at ankles and wrists. She moved her head to the right and saw only a deeper darkness, but when she moved it to the left there was a pinprick of dim red light. Raising her bound arms, she felt the lid. The hard metal was flocked in a thin layer of cloth, not that it had done her head any good.

Concentrate. Where am
I?

Taking a deep breath, Sally tasted stale, sickly air. Beneath her, rhythmic waves radiated through tense muscles like a boat on a choppy lake. But the steady rumble and occasional jolt wasn't that of a boat.

She was in the trunk of a car, she reasoned, her head was throbbing, and she needed to pee. Badly.

Rolling onto her left side, Sally drew up her knees and kicked backwards with bound feet. Her feet hit the metal and plastic barrier between trunk and rear seat with a satisfying crack. She lashed out again and a second crack was followed by a loud snap.

Suddenly, the red light in her periphery flared brighter and she was thrown into the barrier with muscle-numbing force. As the car quickly came to a halt, the crunch of loose gravel replaced the steady thrum of tarmac.

Sally braced herself as a key entered the lock and the trunk lid lifted to reveal a dark silhouette against the backdrop of a beautiful sunny day. A thick cloud of dust floated behind the silhouette in a billowing cloak.

“You're awake,” said the silhouette, his words moist and slurred. “Sorry for the cramped accommodation. I thought it best to let you sleep.”

Sally blinked until her eyes adjusted and the nightmarish face of the man who had been in her apartment came into focus. She curled her lips, fighting against fear.

“You're bleeding,” said the man, his voice concerned.

“I need to pee.” Sally tried hard to sound defiant and strong—anything but terrified and weak.

“Of course.”

The man reached in, grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her from the trunk. Sally was surprised at the strength of him, but relieved to be standing on her own two feet on solid ground.

The man bent to the nylon strap binding her ankles and cut it with a tiny stainless-steel knife that appeared in his hand as if by magic. When he stood back up, he nodded at a small hedgerow just a few steps from the road and handed her a small travel pack of paper tissue. She held her bound hands out to him, but he made no move to cut those bonds.

Lowering her hands, Sally glanced around at their location—an empty country road surrounded by endless fields of pasture. There was no other traffic and no signs of any people; she couldn't even see a farmhouse. She looked down at herself.
Not naked, at least
. The jeans and T-shirt she was wearing had come from a pile of clean laundry that she had been meaning to put away for the last two days. As such, the pockets wouldn't even contain a piece of lint never mind anything useful.

“How long have we been traveling?” she asked.

“A few hours. I have water and snacks in the car once you've done your business. I also have Band-Aids for—”

Turning her back, Sally closed her ears to the man's false concern, and trudged to the bushes.

He never took his eyes off her for a moment.

There was nowhere
to run, Sally thought as she squatted behind the bushes. No homes with telephones, no farmers with guns, no lead-footed drivers with fast cars and a romantic notion to play Prince Charming.

She reached up to her torn scalp, feeling rivulets of blood beginning to congeal under her fingers.

What could she do with that?
she wondered.
Leave traces on the bushes in case Jersey sent a bloodhound to track her
down?

The thought was ridiculous. Jersey wouldn't even know she was missing. No one would.