Catch & Neutralize (18 page)

Chapter 33

Scott watched Angie and Tiffany struggle with Stockton. He planned on getting free and doing way more than just watching. He needed to show these bitches who’s really in charge here, make them beg. Scott pulled at the zip ties keeping him on the floor.

Visions of kneeling behind Tiffany with her wearing horse bridle played on repeat. Scott imagined flat nylon over her head and cheeks, studded leather squares covering her eyes, a metal bit resting at the back of her tongue. A slight tug on the reins would choke her, control would be his. His fantasy wouldn’t be complete without a braided leather riding crop.

Dr. Tiffany L. Bell had many physical similarities to his mother, Janelle Candace Dovy aka J-Elle Candi Pants, stripper extraordinaire. The two shared the same small-boned body type, small firm breasts, tiny waist, and nice squeezable pear-shaped ass.

Scott always loved looking at his mother’s ass while she practiced. Apparently so did James Scott Dovy, Jr., his father the low ranking military man fit for deck mopping and paint scraping. He may not have been great in his money making career, but James Dovy had been quite popular in the circles of graffiti artists and small-time drug dealers.

Scott had never been proud of either of his parents and was glad to have not been named James Scott Dovy, III. Instead, he’d been given his grandfather’s first name as a middle: Allen. Scott A. Dovy, as good a name as any and much better than the 3
rd
in a string of lazy losers. Scott did appreciate the fact his mother had done away with the bad namesake in a fairly decent, if not tidy, manner.

Scott knew from a young age his mother was a flirty lady, super pretty and youthful for her age. Even after squeezing out two kids, she’d held onto her shapely figure and wasn’t given a single stretch mark or unsightly sag. In fact, now in her early fifties, she still looked hot in a bikini according to his old neighbor and friend, Dave Whitfield.

Sometimes as a little boy Scott got pissed off at the gawking eyes of his dad’s work buddies, a bunch of fucking perverts. At the same time, Scott also knew much of the necessary items required for living came from his mother. Wadded ones and fives, some wet, some sticky, some both. With her long legs, round rump, and pouty lips, J-Elle Candi Pants brought in at least triple the income of his sorry excuse of a father.

Scott remembered his mother’s negativity towards his father. And although he didn’t like hearing it, he knew his mother was right. He knew his father was a useless shit pile not even fit enough for garden fertilizer.

One evening just two days after Scott’s twelfth birthday, his mother, still dressed in her Candi Pants costume, came home breathless and sweaty.

She whispered, “With your brother off to protect the country and your father gone, it’s just the two of us now. Together forever, Scotty Boy.”

Her mouth smelled of stale cigarettes and beer. Scott snuggled into her, feeling dark strands tickle his cheek, red lips warm alongside his ear.

“Your father brought us nothing but gloom and despair. I’m glad he’s gone. We don’t need that unlucky charm sucking the life from us. You and I are superheroes of our own destiny.
You
are my lucky charm, Scotty boy.”

Scott nodded against her thin halter top feeling the rigid knot of nipple poking his cheek. He’d seen other men touching her when the babysitter couldn’t come, when Scotty had to accompany his mother to The Panty Club. He wasn’t supposed to watch her or the other girls, but there were ways of sneaking peeks. He picked his head up and ran a finger over one of her protruding nipples.

Laughing, she pushed Scott’s hand away.

“That’s not the way you touch your mother, Scotty Boy. That’s only for babies and daddies. You’re not a baby anymore.”

Scott wanted so much to be a baby again. “I’m sorry,” he’d told her replacing his head, eyes locked on her nipple protrusions.

She’d rubbed his head, petted it really, and told him, “It’s okay, Scotty. You’re my little man and that’s what men do.”

Many years later, on a cool October evening, his mother invited him over to help put up the Halloween decorations, which actually meant she’d sit on her ass drinking while he did all the work. Scott didn’t mind. He knew his mother, knew about her tactics and manipulations, had lived with them for most of his life.

Working on her fifth Moscow Mule, swinging on the porch bench, breath smelling of vodka and ginger beer, Scott’s mother called him over. She patted the cushion next to her, a half-burnt cigarette in her hand producing hazy smoke waves and a stench Scott wanted to avoid.

“Come have a seat next to your momma, Scott boy.” Her eyes fluttered in the orange and purple tree lights and the candlelit pumpkins. She giggled, revealing deep, bouncy cleavage barely hidden behind her v-cut top. “I’ve got something important to tell you.”

Scott did as told, being the good son she’d always wanted him to be. As he sat down, he stole a glance at his watch and hoped this talk wasn’t going to make him late for his date with Carley Schuster.

Carley was one of those free and easy girls from the next town over. The rumor floating his neighborhood claimed she was a 16-year-old sex kitten that’d gone through all the guys in her town and wanted to test out the fresh meat of someone older. At 20-years-old and thinking himself a stallion, Scott planned on being the special on her fresh meat menu tonight.

“What’s up, momma? I’ve gotta go soon.”

Over two more Moscow Mules and a set of unusually loud hiccups, Scott’s mother told him all about his father going away. Scott found out his father did not leave all those years ago, nothing as simple as he’d always thought. Something far more interesting than that had happened.

His mother admitted to having an affair with one of father’s military buddies, a man that worked on guns. That man’s name was Chief Maxwell Brownstow who Scott vaguely remembered from a backyard barbecue. Chief Brownstow killed Scott’s father in exchange for sexual favors from his mother. Apparently, his father rested at the bottom of the ocean somewhere in the Atlantic or, as his mother suggested, “quite possibly in the belly of a Great White. Sharks will eat just about anything, even old dirty tires.”

Scott showed up an hour late for his date. It turned out Carley Schuster wasn’t so easy after all, at least not while awake. Cute little Carley turned out to be his first on a long list of Sleeping Sex Kittens. Since the very first time, he’d tagged that term for his handiwork and his sleeping beauties. And it was like the cartoon
Sleeping Beauty
, only way better. Carley Schuster had been his first sleeping beauty, and with the mess she’d made on his passenger seat, he’d been her first as well.

Scott dumped Carley on the sidewalk in front of her parents’ house, shoulder length cocoa curls splayed like a broken crown, knee length skirt speckled with blood. He’d returned to his mother’s house, elated yet frantic. He’d never seen that kind of blood before, never wanted to deal with such grotesque fluids from a girl’s… didn’t want to think about from where for fear of never looking at a girl the same way again.

Scott’s mother helped him with the mess, showing him the power of bleach and telling him all about planning for the future by laying down a plastic garbage bag and covering it with a piece of cloth or towel. And, her words: “Be sure to burn the evidence afterwards, Scotty boy, or they’ll get ya. I can’t help ya if you’re too stupid and careless about your business. Nobody can.”

My mother
, Scott now thought,
is quite a resourceful woman. She knows how to get shit done.

Once Angie and Tiffany left the room, Scott stopped struggling with the zip ties. He needed to think about his next steps. He needed a plan.

Scissors!

The scissors on the table practically shouted for him. Scott could see handles, black and curved and shiny. He needed to knock that table over, grab the scissors. He’d get away and teach those dumb bitches a thing or two about decent attacks. Specifically, teach Tiffany what happens when you try tricking a trickster.

Chapter 34

The darkness down here was exactly as one would expect from a dungeon. Dim and murky like a dank hole dug deep into the Earth. Naked bulbs lead down a long hallway, empty except for a line of doors down either side. Six total.

Tiffany stopped at the last one on the right, and pulled a spirally plastic bracelet of keys from her pocket. They jangled on the orange ring as she searched for the correct one and slid it into the lock.

The lock was not in the doorknob as Angie thought it be would or even on a deadbolt. No, the lock was hanging from a rusty latch attachment. When the lock clicked, Tiffany pushed the door open. It screeched, a desperate plead for WD-40. The room beyond pitch black, a chilly pit of nonexistence smelling aged and stale.

Tiffany pulled the key bracelet around her wrist and entered the room. Movement sensors initiated a line of overhead lights, each clicking on one-by-one. They hummed and flickered, casting low light throughout the room.

“So,” Tiffany said holding her arms out and turning to face Angie, “this is it, the dungeon. It’s perfect, isn’t it?”

Angie scanned the area. It was much bigger than she thought it would be. It looked like a cross between an empty prison and a mad scientist’s operating room, maybe a laboratory. On the right back wall, a stove and sink surrounded by a sizable variety of cabinets and drawers. In the back center of the room, two empty medical beds, one reclining and the other flat, neither sheeted for use. Between the two, a rectangular work table, nothing on it. Behind those against the wall set another table, this one long and filled with bottles, test tubes, beakers, and other unknown equipment. A stainless steel table situated against the left back wall across from the stove held various operating utensils. Vintage medical lamps dotted the room, appearing as though they’d time travelled from 1970.

Floor to ceiling cages situated on either side of the entryway, six in all. Angie turned slowly, taking it all in. Just beyond the cages, which were more like jail cells, hung tapestry-like curtains. Crimson colored with scrolling black print tied in the center with matching velvet ropes.

“This is amazing!” Angie dropped the carrier’s handle and threw her arms around Tiffany. “I’ve always wanted to work in a place exactly like this. I’ve dreamt about it.”

Tiffany smiled, returning the hug. She took a couple steps back and pushed at her glasses. “Well, it’s dusty but it’ll do. I should’ve cleaned it up before tonight. I hadn’t planned on this happening until next week.” Tiffany walked the room checking surfaces. “Probably better with a little grit, makes it more unsettling for our guests.”

“Is this where The Institute keeps their prisoners?”

“Just a few stragglers here and there. I’ve got one in cell 2 and another in 5 awaiting extraction, brought here by other soldiers.”

“I thought you said nothing was down here.” Angie started to pull a curtain open when Tiffany grabbed her arm, stopping her.

“Nothing
important
is down here,” Tiffany corrected.

Something didn’t feel right, but Angie decided not to press.

“Where do you want Stockton the Skinless?” She picked up the carrier handle.

Tiffany’s face scrunched. “Put that monster in the last cell on the right. The cells are labeled. Look above the doors. Cell 6.”

“Room 6, cell 6.” Angie’s eyebrows bounced twice. “Is there another 6 in this equation? Want to have a spooky Ouija Board séance down here?”

Tiffany inhaled loudly and exhaled even louder. Her face lit with laughter. “Don’t be silly. Let’s just get the baby killer in cell 6.”

Angie pulled the luggage carrier into cell 6 and tilted it until the plastic burrito of Officer Stockton Wood thumped to the floor. She asked Tiffany, “What now?”

“Make sure you stay out here,” she pointed outside cell 6. “I want to make sure he’s secure.”

Angie walked outside the cell with the empty carrier and heard something from behind the curtain of room 5. It sounded like the moan of somebody in pain.

Another sound, undeniably a moan.

With Tiffany fussing with Stockton, Angie decided to investigate on her own. She slid a hand between the thick curtains and pushed one side open.

Behind the curtain of room 5, a man sat hunched over in a wheelchair. Nude except for an adult diaper, his hands taped to the armrests. A thick piece of cloth covered his eyes. Duct tape covered his mouth. A large X had recently been carved into his sagging chest muscles. Blood and clear fluid oozed from it, collected in tuffs of gray curly hair.

The man’s head hung down. He moaned again.

Angie turned to see Tiffany slam the gate of cell 6, locking Stockton inside.

“You should get away from that dangerous prick. He’s here for The Institute,” Tiffany called. “They’re coming to get him soon.”

Angie didn’t know what to say. The pieces weren’t adding up. This didn’t make any sense, but she nodded anyway. “Who is he? What has he done?” she asked. “I mean, he’s an old man in a wheelchair.”

“You’d be surprised,” Tiffany said looking away. “He’s an abusive man. I’m saving his wife.”

“
You’re
saving his wife?”

“Yes, for The Institute.”

“You’re not a soldier. You said so yourself. The Institute wouldn’t have…” Realization hit Angie: Tiffany was some kind of vigilante, and that’s why Angie was ordered to keep an eye on her.

“The Institute will be grateful for my initiative,” Tiffany countered. “Now close the damn curtain. He makes me sick.”

Angie did and moved to the other curtain, room 2.

“Don’t,” Tiffany’s voice sounded flat. “You won’t understand.”

She pulled the curtain anyway and stared in disbelief, jaw dropping.

Tiffany wasn’t kidding.

Angie didn’t understand.

Garry Steinberg stood nude with arms chained to an apparatus mounted to the wall above his head. Duct tape covered his eyes and mouth. He appeared thinner and shorter without a suit, his body toned and almost hairless.

Angie covered her mouth. She couldn’t believe this. How was it that Tiffany had Garry, the marketing VP of Hollite Coffee, locked in a dungeon? Angie had seen him at the office yesterday morning. She’d met Tiffany last night. Tiffany would’ve had to collect Garry yesterday afternoon. Enough time for it to happen, but it didn’t make a damn bit of sense, and senselessness was becoming a pattern with Tiffany.

“Why, Tiffany? This is not good. Do you even know who he is?”

“Of course, I do.” Tiffany’s lips slanted in a half smile although her voice soured. “This is Garry Steinberg, the boss you hate, the boss you’d like to murder. Remember? And, in case you didn’t know, he’s also a drug smuggling PoS.”

“PoS?”

“Piece of Shit, Angie. Try to keep up, will ya?”

“What? He’s no drug smuggler. He’s the Vice President of Marketing for Hollite Coffee.” Angie planted hands on her hips. “Have you lost your mind, Tiffany? I mean, come on. I was assigned to investigate him for a possible connection to a bank robbery, but so far there’s no evidence or indication of it.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if he smuggles drugs
and
robs banks on the side. Hollite Coffee is the perfect place to work, and Vice President the perfect position to get the coffee needed to transport illegal substances. Coffee is frequently used for hiding drugs. Didn’t you know that? It masks the scent from drug sniffing dogs. Coffee’s been quite successful, I might add. Garry does marketing for a coffee company. He could travel with large quantities, no questions asked. Think about it.”

Angie’s eyes focused back on Garry Steinberg. Yes, she was angry with him for the way he treated her. Yes, she’d been angry enough to wish him dead. But not really, not
really
dead. Mostly, his advances were unappreciated and she wanted to not pretend to be his bubble-brained secretary anymore. He could be a major jerk, an asshole even. He could be an over-achieving, bossy, controlling, know-it-all, but she would never actually hurt him unless instructed by The Institute. And, The Institute was another story altogether. They’d been giving Angie grief about taking too long to get information from Garry, but she honestly couldn’t find a damn thing wrong or inconsistent. Never given the slightest hint that he’d been involved with the robbery.

Angie thought about Tiffany’s accusation, and the idea wasn’t so unbelievable. But, Garry Steinberg? Her mind raced. All those international trips he’s been taking, trying to get Hollite Coffee into the global market. Angie had arranged those flights and with extra fees for all those coffee samples, Garry smuggling drugs was a possibility. Bank robbery, not so much.

“It’s doubtful, but I suppose there’s a chance that Garry could be a drug smuggler,” Angie finally agreed.

“Now that we’re on the same page, let’s get ready for Stockton’s counterattack.” Tiffany pushed up her glasses, blister on her index finger forgotten.

She stopped and turned to face Angie. “I’ve invited my cousin over for dinner, as you know. We’re very close, more like sisters really. She’s been through some serious situations.”

Angie thumbed her earlobe, a habit picked up during childhood and surfacing usually during times of embarrassment or confusion. At this point, she was not embarrassed. “She’s coming over with Target Three, right?”

“That’s right. Stockton did some terrible things to my cousin when she was fourteen. He kidnapped her from a movie theater, kept her who-the-hell-knows for two weeks, and then left her behind the sales office of an abandoned car lot in the middle of nowhere. Trampled, broken, and naked, she pulled herself from behind the building. She passed out near the road where a family traveling from Texas found her. She wouldn’t be alive now if that family hadn’t taken a wrong turn on their way to the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta.”

Tiffany’s glasses slid down her nose giving the appearance of the world’s youngest granny. She pushed them up without fuss. “I have no idea what Stockton did to my cousin. Based on the magazines and movies I caught him with, I don’t want to know.”

“I’m sorry, Tiffany.” Angie stepped back unsure of her next move. “What’s your cousin’s name? How old is she now?”

“We’re all sorry, but not as sorry as Stockton is going to be.” Tiffany moved a step closer. “Her name is Laura, and she’s twenty-one.”

“But that was seven years ago. She’s sure it was Stockton?”

Tiffany stepped forward closing the space, hands fisted at her sides. “Positive. She’s changed from a child to a woman, but
he
looks exactly the same.”

Angie took another step back, distancing from Tiffany’s glare. “I was just wondering. Don’t get mad at me for that.” She rubbed an earlobe and continued. “Again, just wondering: how did Laura find Stockton? You and he used to date, did she tell you then?”

Tiffany’s expression changed, a smile of future karma played in her eyes. “That’s the remarkable part. A couple of weeks ago, Laura was on her way over for girl’s night. Nothing spectacular, just the two of us hanging out. We planned to snuggle up and watch old 80s horror flicks like
Nightmare on Elm Street
and
Friday the 13th
, eat junk food, have a couple of margaritas.

“Laura was almost here when she got pulled over for speeding. She says she wasn’t speeding, that she
never
speeds on that stretch of highway on account of me telling her it was a favorite for speed traps. She informed the officer of as much and demanded his name and badge number. She aimed to contest the ticket in court. He only gave his first name and recanted about the speeding. She says the officer flirted and told her, ‘be careful with how hard you’re pressing the gas pedal.’

“By the time Laura got here, she was a mess. Crying and shaking, told me about how she’d just seen the man that had taken her when she was little. A police officer. You can imagine how freaked out I was when she told me his name. How many officers in this area do you think have the name, Stockton? I checked and double checked, thinking there must be some mistake. That there was no possible way
my
Stockton could be a kidnapper. Then a week later, as though the universe needed to hand deliver more proof, I found him in my house with kiddie porn. Now, here we are with Laura’s assailant and the assailant of many.”

“Jeez.” An admiration-horror combo poured from Angie. “I’ve got an order to hold Stockton Wood for pickup. Do you want to keep it from Laura so she won’t have to think about him? There’s no need to rub it in.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I was thinking about giving him to her to do with as she chooses, a gift. Since she’s a soldier of The Institute and after what he did to her, Laura should be the one to eliminate.”

Angie wasn’t about to screw up this mission by deliberately ignoring orders. She didn’t agree or disagree with Tiffany. Instead, she asked: “What time are you expecting her? Eight o’clock?”

“Eight-ish. Laura’s always late. You know the joke about being late to your own funeral? She plans on putting something about that in her own funeral arrangements for a laugh.” Tiffany’s smile was heard rather than seen. “Even after everything she’s been through, Laura’s humor never fails. Her tough outlook keeps her strong. She’s like a comedic superhero.”