An Arm and a Leg (22 page)

Baby Face turned his face toward her, and Uncle Mike’s voice belatedly rang in her head.
Never look directly at someone you’re hiding from or trying to sneak up on. That person will subconsciously sense another human presence and look toward his watcher.

Frankie ducked her head, bent her body at a right angle, and walked until well away from the window. When she straightened back up, the barn lay directly in front of her. The barn’s position in relation to the bunkhouse and farm store made its entrance invisible from any incoming and outgoing traffic.

Telling herself she could probably be charged with trespassing, she made a snap decision and swerved toward the barn door. After sliding the door open barely wide enough to slip through, she squeezed her body through the opening. She pulled the door closed behind her, and instantly became enveloped in darkness.

An old familiar fear clawed its way up Frankie’s stomach and into her throat. She breathed deeply and slowly, counting each breath as Angela had taught her. Eventually, her pulse rate slowed and her eyes grew accustomed to the scant amount of light sifting through a tiny overhead skylight.

Along with the expected odors of burlap, grain, and chicken-farm ambiance, a hint of another smell caught her attention. Most likely trapped dead mice or rats in need of disposal. She wrinkled her nose and let go a barrage of sneezes.

The builders had sprayed the interior corrugated metal walls of the barn with yellowish liquid foam insulation, which had hardened into bizarre, melted-wax shapes. Various farm implements hung suspended from a series of hooks fixed to steel crossbeams. Some of the implements were recognizable as of the same type Uncle Mike had used on his ranch. Others looked strange and fierce. Storage bins lined one long wall, and an assortment of machinery lay scattered around the floor.

Unsure of what she might find and not knowing quite why she felt compelled to do so, Frankie made her way through the barn. She peeked inside receptacles and raked her fingers through the grain stored in open fifty-five gallon drums.

Toward the back of the barn sat a large, tarpaulin-covered object. More out of idle curiosity than anything else, Frankie lifted a corner of the heavy fabric, exposing the front wheel well of a vehicle. Perhaps someone’s vintage automobile awaiting eventual restoration.

At that moment the barn door opened. Sunlight exploded into the darkened space and illuminated the partially uncovered vehicle. Frankie stared down at the green pickup driven by the two men who shot Tim.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“Well, well, lookey what we got here,” Baby Face said. He advanced on Frankie, his arms slightly bent, his fists clenching and unclenching. “If it ain’t the trouble-making bitch herself. Now that you know who killed your poor brother, what’re you going to do about it?”

“I’m going to see you fry.” Frankie glared into Baby Face’s eyes, surprised at the emotions chasing each other through her solar plexus. In all the time she’d spent looking for the men who killed Tim she’d never given any thought as to what she’d do once she found them. And now that she stood in front of one, the primal emotions infusing her gut nearly took her breath away.

“You think so?” The young man’s face turned deep red-purple as he strode toward Frankie. He stopped in front of her and stared into her bi-colored eyes. “Well Freak, I asked you a question. You think so?”

Frankie wanted to rush at this monster who killed her brother. She wanted to tear at his hair and claw at his face. She wanted to pound him into a mass of jelly. But instead, she pulled herself up to her full height and spat in his face.

Fighting an enraged man focused on doing serious damage is a far cry from the benevolent self-defense instruction Frankie received at the hands of her loving Uncle Mike. This was not an action packed movie fight scene in which blow after blow is sustained by the good guy with minimal effect. Even one solid punch to Frankie’s head would addle her, leaving her completely at the mercy of her attacker.

Look for a weak point.

In the instant following Uncle Mike’s words, Frankie spotted the man’s strangely shaped little finger. She grabbed it and jerked backward as far as the webbed flesh would allow.

Baby face yelped and tried to jerk his hand free, but Frankie’s hands and arms were strong from years of playing the organ. She held on tight.

Her attacker writhed. He shifted his balance and grabbed a fistful of her hair with his free hand. Tears spurted into her eyes as he jerked her head from side to side.

With no time to think or plan, Frankie had only milliseconds in which to act. She allowed her instinct to take over and the muscle memory from her uncle’s training to kick in. The man grabbed her by the throat and tried to position his thumbs on her windpipe. She clapped the palms of her hands over his ears. If she couldn’t pop his eardrums, perhaps she could at least cause enough pain for him to loosen his grip.

This maneuver might have worked had her aim been better. But the man moved his forearm upward and partially deflected the move. Her attempt served only to further enrage him.

Baby Face snarled. The raw sewage odor of his breath enveloped Frankie in a stomach-churning cloud. He dug his thumbs into her neck and pinpoints of light burst in her vision.

In one fluid movement Frankie straightened her arms down at her sides, brought them up, around, and above her assailant’s arms. She brought her forearms down with all her might on top of Baby Face’s straightened elbows. He relaxed his hold just enough for her to wriggle from his grasp at the same time she drove her knee into his groin. He grunted and bent over at the waist, giving her the opportunity to bounce her forehead against his nose in a perfectly executed head butt.

Stars swam into her vision at the same instant blood spurted from the man’s nose. He yelped and grabbed the air where Frankie had been standing, but she was already running toward the open barn door.

Before she’d gotten further than a few feet, her adversary tackled her from behind. He catapulted her face down on the ground, positioned himself astraddle her back, and pinned her arms down with his knees.

As if her hair were the rubber band attached to a toy punching ball, he grabbed a fistful and repeatedly slammed her face into the dirt. With barely enough time to register gratitude for the softness of the soil, flashes of light burst against Frankie’s retinas. She tasted blood and realized she’d bitten her tongue.

As a strategy of last resort, she stopped struggling and lay inert. Baby Face stopped his attack.

For several seconds, he sat unmoving, breathing heavily. “You can stop playing possum now.” He stood, reached behind his back for a pistol, which he pointed at her. “You’d better be glad I got to check with Bellamy before I get to play with you, because it’d sure enough be my pleasure to make you dead. Get up, and don’t do nothing stupid.”

“Doctor Bellamy?”

Baby Face cocked his head sideways. “Yep, Doctor Bellamy. Looks like Miss Smarty Pants ain’t so smart after all. Get up.”

When Frankie didn’t move, the young man motioned with the barrel of the pistol. “I can empty this into places that won’t kill you, but that’ll sure as hell hurt,” he said. “Now get up.”

****

The sun had climbed well over the Sandia Mountains by the time Nick pulled into the hospital parking lot. He’d left Taos early that morning after a long, restless night. It was as if he stood in front of one of those arcades where fifty cents bought a chance to get a stuffed animal, but the loose mechanical claw always dropped the coveted item before it got to the chute. Something vital to the case was staring him in the face, but just when he thought he had it in his grip, it slipped away.

He’d first talk to the hospital personnel whose statements he’d read, then he’d chat with Dr. Bellamy. He knew he was grabbing at what might turn out to be a fistful of smoke, but someone might let something slip. Or might remember something they’d forgotten to mention in an earlier statement. A rock climber before his tour of duty, all he needed was a tiny outcropping or indentation to put some weight on. Even a slight unevenness in someone’s response to his questions might get him moving in the right direction.

He made his way through the hospital doors. Too early for the information desk to be open, so he took the elevator to the second floor in hopes of finding someone who could point him in the right direction. Anyone who might know a nurse named Landowski.

After walking down a long corridor, he came upon a nurses’ station, behind which sat a young man, his head bowed over a computer. The young man took his time finishing the sentence he was typing, sighed, and looked up at the deputy.

“All I can tell you is what I told the woman who was here earlier…Mina no longer works here.”

“The woman you’re talking about, was she short, with auburn hair and different colored eyes?”

“Yes, that’s her. She got really upset when I told her Mina had resigned. I got the feeling she was going to Mina’s house when she left here.”

Nick swiveled on his heel and headed for the exit. “Thanks,” he said over his shoulder.

Once back in his pickup, he reached for the manila folder on the passenger seat and found the nurse’s address in his notes.

“Twelve twenty-three Richardson,” he said into the GPS sitting on his dash. While the directions downloaded to his pickup, he headed for the hospital parking lot exit.

He should have used stronger language in telling Frankie to leave the investigation to him and Pritney. He should have threatened to charge her with interfering with an investigation. But it had seemed the more reasonable he tried to be, the more obstinate she became. And now she wasn’t answering her cell.

Fighting down the urge to floor the gas pedal, he followed instructions from the vaguely British female voice telling him to make a right turn at the next light.

****

Frankie’s eyes darted around the farm. But the bustling business of just an hour earlier looked like a ghost town.

“Too bad, so sad,” Baby Face intoned the children’s singsong taunt. “This place closes down at two o’clock. Nobody here now but us chickens. Get it? Nobody here but us chickens?” He slapped a hand against his thigh. “Oh man, sometimes I just kill myself.”

“Now there’s a thought.”

“Funny.” Baby Face hawked, and spat out a gob of coagulated blood. He drew the back of his hand across his blood-smeared face. Looking into Frankie’s eyes, he gagged, spat again and giggled. “We’re going to have us some fun. I’m going to teach you some of the lessons of life.”

“What you’re going to do is answer for my brother’s murder.”

Baby Face snorted again. “Not any time soon. Now walk, go on, over there.”

Several feet from where they stood lay the dome of an in-ground cistern used for water storage. About seven or eight feet in diameter, the dome resembled a huge upside down salad bowl. A round, chimney structure, perhaps ten inches high and twenty-four inches in diameter had been welded onto the cistern’s top. A metal manhole-type lid fit tightly into the opening through which farm staff would drop buckets and draw water in time of drought.

“Open it up and get in.”

When Frankie made no move to obey, the man lifted the gun up to her face. He grinned and pressed the barrel into her cheek, grinding the flesh against her teeth. Immediate and intense pain shot through her face and up her temples. “We don’t keep water in it nowadays, so you won’t drown. Now I said get in, or the first one will be through your face. In one side and out the other, maybe take a few teeth with it. It won’t kill you, but you’ll sure bleed.” He grinned. “The good news is it’ll make both your eyes the same color—black and blue.” Baby Face hooted again and clapped his hand against his thigh.

Frankie walked to the cistern and bent over the lid. Perspiration beaded on her upper lip, and her stomach muscles went taught. Once inside the metal enclosure, her chance of escape would be nil. She pretended to struggle with the lid. When Baby Face came closer, she threw the heavy metal cover at his head, turned, and ran.

After a couple of steps, gunshots rang out and puffs of dust blossomed at Frankie’s feet. She froze in place.

“You mess with me one more time, and I swear I’m going to kill you and tell Bellamy you just up and disappeared. He’ll be pissed, but he’ll get over it, you hear me?”

Frankie walked back to the cistern. She squatted down on her haunches, slipped her feet over the lip of the opening and sat on the rim with her feet dangling into the interior. The thin edge of the metal dug painfully into her buttocks as she bent forward and gripped the metal rim of the stovepipe opening. She began to lower herself into the cool darkness of the cistern. Pain shot through her hands and down her upraised arms as the full weight of her body came to bear on her fingers, the lip of the opening digging into the digits.

Extending her arms to their full length, she dropped into the blackness, her knees bent to avoid breaking her legs. She hit bottom almost instantly. Dust filled her nostrils and she coughed.

The air in the cistern smelled stagnant and foul. The horizontally rippled, galvanized steel walls of the cylindrical tank rose above her head. Shards of sunlight slanted through the opening, but the rest of the interior lay in darkness.

Baby Face’s head appeared in the circle of light, a black oval blotting out the sun. “You’re nothing special. We’ll see how pretty you are after a few days in here.”

“I thought you needed me alive.”

“I do. But how much alive is up to me.” Baby Face giggled as he slid the metal cover back into its sleeve.

The clang of metal striking metal set up a deafening echo. The ensuing darkness was thick enough to chew.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Nick knocked on the door of Mina’s condominium. He waited for several seconds before knocking again, harder. When the door moved a fraction of an inch, he pushed it open.

“Hello,” he called out. “Mina Landowski? Deputy Nick Rollins. I need to ask you some questions.”

Like a family of spiders backpacking to his scalp, a funny feeling started at the base of his neck—a feeling he knew all too well from his tour in Afghanistan. He unsnapped the strap on his holstered sidearm, rested his hand on its handle, and stepped further into the unlit condo.