Catch & Neutralize (20 page)

Chapter 37

Tiffany called after Angie: “Put your clothes in a garbage bag and tie it up. We’ll wash your shoes. Leave them and the bag outside your door.”

After hearing the desired response, Tiffany closed the door. Her bedroom was filled with agents wearing industrial suits, electrical noises, and the stench of chemicals. She had no doubt the place was going to look new, but it needed to be aired out.

Tiffany slipped on her way to the window but managed to regain balance without falling.

“Watch your step, Dr. Bell,” one of the cleanup crew cautioned, his face hidden behind an opaque helmet.

She opened the window and a swift gust of wind rustled the heavy curtains, fluttering her curls. Pain shot from finger to shoulder.

Wincing, she brought her finger up for a look see. The blister’s size had diminished but turned to a golden colored pustule encircled with angry shades of damage. She planned to pop it while showering and wondered again about the substance on the floor of her office. Maybe she’d report it to The Institute for further investigation, but it probably wouldn’t be good to have them poking around her personal business. They could happen upon things best left unseen.

Tiffany grabbed a change of clothes and headed into her private bathroom. No hint of the previous disorder, completely spotless. She set her gun on the shelf closest to the shower because even with a house full of agents, one could never be sure.

Freshly washed and with damp hair, Tiffany was greeted by crisp airflow. She closed the window and perched glasses atop her nose. A cold front expected tonight with the possibility of snow.

Of course, it was going to snow.
Possibility of snow
when in the mountains translated to
absolutely going to snow
. Tiffany rubbed her arms, glad to be bundled up in a thick sweater, jeans, and knee-high boots.

All cleaning crew agents and the garbage bag containing her soiled clothes were gone. The crew had done an excellent job cleaning up Stockton’s gunk and removing Scott’s body. Her bedroom odorless and not a bullet hole in sight. They’d put everything in its proper place.

Tiffany headed downstairs wondering about Laura’s reaction to her gift. Laura didn’t know he’d been caught, didn’t know she’d been deemed most appropriate for providing his elimination.
Knowing Laura
, Tiffany thought,
she’s either going to be ecstatic or enraged
. Both options were bound to come with certain intensity.

The cleanup crew did an excellent job of restoring the stairwell, surrounding walls, the ceiling, and even replaced the chandelier with an exact match. Angie was right: CAN Institute did have an impressive cleanup crew.

Angie had yet to make it down to the living room or kitchen. She must be one of those long shower takers, probably how she wards off stress. Long showers and alcohol consumption.

Out the garage and through the courtyard, Tiffany located Stockton’s cop car parked discreetly in shadows. The toenail clipping shaped moon competed for dominance against tiny stars and was succeeding. The pinks and peaches of sunset had faded. Only a dusky shade of gray separated Earth from sky. The trident water fountain splashed and gurgled nearby. Tiffany paused, eyes closed, entranced by its calming sounds.

From beyond the fountain, she heard whispering. Her eyes flew open.

“Who’s there?”

Except nonsense prattling from the fountain, there was no reply. From behind the bushes, shadowy movement and rustling noises caught her attention. Having left her pistol in the bathroom, she was in no shape to investigate.

Just a squirrel or rabbit anyway
, Tiffany assured herself.

She trotted to the car, thought about going back inside for gloves and decided against it. It wouldn’t matter if her fingerprints were on the car when, and if, it were ever found. She’d grown up in the deserts of New Mexico. There were numerous places to stash, conceal, bury, or otherwise dispose of items as large as (or even larger than) a police vehicle. Besides, she could wipe it down later if she wanted.

A burst of wind blew ice-cold droplets from the fountain against Tiffany’s face. Water trickled down her cheeks and neck. A light breeze crackled leaves over grass, the temperature making her shiver. She wiped her face and the lenses of her glasses before searching for a way to get inside the police car.

Tiffany found Stockton’s spare key hidden inside an enclosed cubby of the car’s light bar. She drove it into the garage and immediately started snooping. The inside was cluttered with police gadgets, empty Hollite coffee cups, protein bar wrappers, and a laptop. There seemed to be nothing unusual inside, nothing suspicious. Tiffany sighed pressing her lips together. Stooping down, she checked for a trunk release.

“There you are,” she murmured, proud of herself.

Tiffany gave the lever a tug and observed the trunk lid slowly rising in the rearview. Without missing a beat, she hurried from seat to trunk. Other than a tire changing apparatus, the trunk appeared empty and remarkably clean in the dim light. Tiffany pursed her lips, thinking.

The garage light overhead couldn’t penetrate the open angle. The trunk light, which Tiffany mentally compared to Tinkerbelle’s anus, was simply too dark for use. In fact, both were useless.

She plopped down in the driver’s seat again and dug through the glove box searching for anything useful and found a police-issued flashlight. Tiffany used it to peer into the once black hole of the trunk. Like before, nothing unusual popped out. She snaked a hand over the trunk’s bumpy floor covering. Again, nothing.

“Where?” Tiffany stood back and stomped a foot onto the concrete, echoing in the confined space.

When no answer came, she tossed the light into the trunk.

“I’m going to kill you, Stockton,” she whispered, “nice and slow.”

Tiffany raked claw-like hands over the trunk carpeting again and again. Gray plastic started showing through bits of the cheap mat.

“Heh,” she snorted, nostrils quivering.

Scraping nails against where carpet met metal, Tiffany ripped up the remaining plastic piece. It flew from the car with enough force to send it past the fountain and banging into the gate, an asymmetrical Frisbee thrown by an untrained hand. It smacked the ground, upsetting chirping insects.

Pale steel glared at Tiffany from the car’s guts. With a push to her glasses and a curl tuck, she focused on the trunk’s contents. One small, unused tire sat in the middle custom-made dip. Its rubbery stench swamped the air.

Finding a tire was expected but the other materials, not so much. There were several overstuffed manila envelopes, each with a set of date ranges and a number in parentheses. A knot formed in Tiffany’s stomach as she opened one.

There were pictures, dozens of them, of Officer Stockton Wood posing with tearful underage girls. Some recent, some many years old. A distant buzz formed behind Tiffany’s eyes. She swiped through the pile like a trained card dealer, tortured body after body, one young face after another. She forced herself through until locating the one she needed.

Dark rage coursed through Tiffany, an emotionally volatile chemical overload. In a fit of uncontrollable fury, she threw her head back, deep growl transitioning into a high pitched scream.

“YOU. ARE. DEAD,” she yelled, head held high. “I will
kill
you! Let your foul blood enrich the innocent souls you’ve taken!”

Tiffany slammed the trunk with enough force to split its closing device. The lid banged open, tottering and groaning before giving up. Tiffany closed her eyes and stretched her neck from one side to the other in an attempt to settle down.

Her smile looked like a grimace in the trunk’s reflection. After more stretches and deep breaths, she tried again. Satisfied, she pressed the garage door gadget. Metallic sounds filled the sparsely filled area as it closed.

Tiffany hadn’t taken care of the blister while showering. She’d forgotten about it, and now the throbbing resumed. In her manic trunk searching, she hadn’t paid attention, hadn’t cared.

Bringing the pustule to her face for closer consideration, she lightly tapped the top without additional pain. She nudged its side with her thumb, expecting more of the same. Instead, it popped in oily disarray. Foul smelling slime sprinkled her glasses, nose, and cheeks. Tiffany squealed, startled. After wiping glasses over her shirt, she inspected the wound and found a new tiny cluster of blisters as though the original had spit out baby blisters. A fleshy, open circle replaced the first blister. It felt no better, no worse, the throbbing continued.

Although the air temperature was going down, Tiffany’s temperature was going up.

“Time to get ready.” Her words chimed like an angel’s chorus line, her smile now completely genuine. As a self-proclaimed master of deception, her insides bubbled with hatred and vengeance.

Chapter 38

Steam swirled through the air. Angie felt better after showering, but could really use a drink. Tiffany left an oversized turtleneck sweater, olive green, and a pair of tan colored jeans for her to wear. They fit well enough, but not exactly Angie’s style. She felt like a high school librarian and hoped she looked like a sexy one.

Downstairs, she looked for Tiffany, calling for her without answer. Angie went straight to the kitchen and made a Bahama Mama, copying Tiffany’s recipe.

She headed to the basement to check on Stockton while waiting for Tiffany, maybe do some snooping. Angie grabbed a candle and lighter from the kitchen and stuffed them inside her pockets. Getting caught down there in the dark alone with Stockton didn’t sound appealing and still true even if ol’ Skinless was locked in a cage and rolled up like a dough ball.

As before, the lights clicked on one by one as Angie entered Room 6. She took a quick peek at Stockton, who was still lying in the same position. A thought about making sure the child molester was still among the living flitted through her head, but she dismissed it before serious consideration.

Eyes traveled Room 6, wide and eager. “This place is totally cool,” Angie said aloud.

Mixed with the droning overheads, her tone echoed weird and disconcerting. Her voice crackled with mock sounds of thunder and drawing in a deep breath, she exhaled with her best 1931 black-and-white Dr. Frankenstein impression: “It’s alive; it’s alive; it’s alive!”

She raised her arms, grinning at the ceiling. A loud, forged laugh erupted from deep within her cavity until it morphed into true laughter.

“Oh, man!” Angie chuckled. “I really
love
this place!”

She spun slowly, taking it all in until her attention was caught by the stainless steel table at the back corner of the room. There were many devices in all shapes and sizes, shiny and intimidating. She picked up one of the smaller metal pieces, obviously some kind of surgical instrument, sharp and curved at the tip. After closer examination, Angie replaced it with a high-pitched clank of metal on metal.

The table with the empty beakers wasn’t as appealing, so she passed by with barely a glance. The cabinets around the stove and sink weren’t exciting either, just more empty containers.

She squatted in front of the cabinet drawers and opened one. Inside was packed with files of old research notes and diagrams. Exhaling noisily, she opened and closed every drawer. All contained the same type of reports and hand drawn illustrations.

Angie didn’t consider herself a buff of anything other than firearms and the instinct of perfect aim. She’d done well academically, making mostly A’s and B’s. Not too bad for partying more than studying.

Grabbing a file from the bottom drawer, she sat on the flat medical bed. The old frame complained with whiney squeaks under Angie’s weight. She bounced a few times and smiled thinking of Mark.

Sooty dust fell on her lap from opening the file. After swiping some to the floor and unintentionally grinding more than that into her jeans, Angie began reading. At first, it wasn’t easy to understand, but the more she read, the more she understood. Without realizing it, she’d spent thirty minutes with her face stuck in papers. What she’d found was the most disturbing, disgusting, most unethical research she’d ever imagined. And yet, it held the most amazing discoveries.

Angie shoved the papers back into the drawer and closed it with a slam, wondering if Tiffany knew what her Grandpa Hugh had been doing down here. She couldn’t read it all now, no time. Angie decided she’d come back soon. The information stored in this room, Room 6, was fascinating and irresistible.

“What’s that saying again? Something like, ‘real life is more weird than fiction.’ No. It’s,” Angie snapped her fingers, brain reeling, “from Mark Twain or some other dead dude. ‘Truth is Stranger than Fiction…’ Definitely, some strange shit happened down here. I bet Mark would love to see this stuff.”

A voice startled Angie into a yelping jump.

“What’re you doing down here?” Tiffany’s tone stern, “Who are you talking to?”

“Tiffany! You scared me.” Angie let out a nervous laugh, her skin loosening into place. “Seriously girl, you can’t just sneak up on me like that.”

Tiffany slid her glasses up. “I didn’t sneak anywhere. Just wondering where you’d gone.”

Angie swiped dust bunny residue from her hands. “I was checking on Target One. He’s still locked in your dungeon and still swaddled in plastic wrap.”

“Good. Laura will be here shortly.” Tiffany waved a hand, an indication it was time to get out of the dungeon. “Ready for that drink?”

They traveled upstairs and through the house to the kitchen.

Angie felt better with a fresh Bahama Mama in her hand. “So, what were you up to while I was visiting Stockton?”

“Nothing really. I moved his car to the garage.”

“Find anything?”

Tiffany paused then shook her head. “Nothing useful.”

~

With a whine of hinges, Tiffany opened the front door. Wet autumn-hued leaves blew across the foyer, carried inside by a seasonal gust. And, along with it, the sweet smell of rain—soon to be snow.

In the doorway stood an attractive woman, early twenties, with long dark chocolate waves and hazel eyes. She wore a pair of distressed skinny jeans, white crop top showing off a bellybutton ring, and gray trench coat. She looked beautiful, like a swimsuit model on her day off. Clanking moist sand from her high heeled boots, she flashed a beam worthy of pinup status.

“Laura, I’m so happy you made it! Come inside and meet my friend.”

The two embraced as a suited man lingered outside the entryway, his face hidden in shadows.

“Who’s your friend?” Tiffany playfully raised her brows at Laura. Calling to the stranger, “You’d better get in here before it starts raining again. Or snowing. News said maybe even hail.”

After he’d entered, Laura shut the door announcing: “This is my friend and neighbor, Kyle Caldwell. He’s an attorney.”

Angie’s breath froze in her throat, face color diminishing. She brought a hand to her chest. For a second, Kyle looked exactly like her husband Mark. Feeling dizzy, she sat on the bench next to the door.

Tiffany bent closer, voice rising with concern. “Are you all right, Angie? You don’t look so good.” Tiffany placed a hand on her forehead. “You’re sweating.”

Angie stared at Kyle Caldwell’s honey-brown skin tone and baby blue eyes, trying to focus. Tiffany’s hand felt like it was on fire. Angie pushed it away, giving a slight nod. “Yeah, I just thought he… I wasn’t expecting him is all.”

Looking from Angie to Kyle, she stated: “You’re
that
Kyle.” Her teeth presented through a laugh. “Welcome to Bell Manor, Kyle Caldwell. This is an unexpected surprise.” Her hand snaked forward in greeting. “I’m Laura’s cousin, Tiffany Bell.”

Angie knew Kyle’s handshake was firm yet gentle, palm warm and dry. She watched him offer it to Tiffany.

“It’s a pleasure, Tiffany. Laura’s told me all about you.”

“Well, I can’t wait to hear all about you, Kyle.” She released his hand and smiled in Angie’s direction. “You’ve already met Angie, so I’ve heard.”

Laura slinked in pressing her face against Kyle’s whispering something. Pulling back, she giggled. “Kyle’s all mine, Angie. He’s off limits now.” Laura grabbed his hand. “Isn’t that right, honey bear?”

“Yes, kitty button,” Kyle said. “I’m off limits.”

Angie nodded still surprised by Kyle’s strong resemblance to her husband, especially his eyes. She guessed she’d missed the similarity when first meeting him in Macaroons parking lot due to her intoxicated state. “Don’t you worry, Laura. I wouldn’t dream of it; I’m a married woman.” She stood offering her hand to Laura as a sign of peace.

“I’m not worried,” Laura replied without acknowledging Angie’s hand. Turning to Tiffany, she asked: “What’s on the menu for this lovely dinner party, cousin?”

“A surprise,” Tiffany teased. “I think you’re going to love it. Why don’t we go into the sitting room? Dinner will be here soon.”

Laura clapped, her full lips lifting. “I knew you’d order out, pretty girl. You’ve always hated cooking.” She rubbed her hands together, advertising a naughty grin. “But, you’ve always found the most delicious delivery restaurants. Can’t wait to see what you’ve found this time. Will you at least tell us what type of food?”

Tiffany held a finger over her lips and shook her head. “Not this time, Laura. It really is a surprise.” She winked, showing a slight smile. “Let’s get to the sitting room, chat and relax,” she said adding, “No smoking in the house, please.”

The group of four shuffled into the next room, Tiffany leading. “Take a seat wherever you’d like.” She walked to the fireplace and used a lighter shaped like a shotgun to set the kindling ablaze. Orange spikes climbed logs, sounds of crackling and the scent of burning oak filled the room.

“Feel free to use the coat rack,” Tiffany said pointing at the far corner. “The fire will have us toasty in no time.”

Unlike most of the house’s common areas, the sitting room was not decorated in ocean themes. Instead, it was a time twist backwards. This room looked like the lobby backdrop for a 1960s movie mental asylum. The room felt haunted in dark shades of velvet, cream colored lace, and old oil paintings of portraits. Floor-to-ceiling windows were located on either side of the fireplace. Heavy drapery, slightly parted, showed darkness beyond. Swollen raindrops began splattering sideways against the glass. Its rhythmic plunks, along with dancing shadows thrown by the fire, added to the room’s ghostly ambiance.

Tiffany walked the area igniting candles. The others moved to plush sofas and high-backed chairs clustered around a large coffee table. Laura sat on a sofa nearest the fire with Kyle on her right. Angie chose a chair on the opposite side, appearing indifferent yet studying the new arrivals. Her eyes mostly locked onto Kyle.

Tiffany replaced the lighter on the stone mantel. She turned asking, “Who wants an alcoholic beverage? I’ve got either wine or rum and can make Bahama Mamas.

That took Angie’s focus off Kyle. “I do.” She stood raising her hand.

“Anyone else?”

“I’ll take one of your Bahama Mamas,” Laura chirped, her voice soft and sweet, “and one for my honey bear.”

Kyle smiled at Laura. “Yes, one for me. Thank you, Tiffany.”

Laura grinned placing a hand on his cheek, caressing.

“I don’t want to be the odd man out,” Tiffany said sliding her glasses up. “Bahama Mamas for everyone.” She faced Angie, whose gaze was again fixed on Kyle. “Would you mind helping me in the kitchen, Angie?”

“Sure. No problem.”

“When Angie and I get back, why don’t we get to know each other better?” Tiffany purred at Kyle, smooth as a six armed magician.

Kyle blinked twice, appeared confused. “Excellent, Tiffany. We’ll keep an ear out for your delivery.”

“Thanks. Back in a few,” Tiffany assured waving Angie to follow.

~

Light sensors snapped the kitchen into brightness. Angie grabbed Tiffany’s arm from behind, turning her without resistance.

“Don’t grab me like that.” Irritation riddled Tiffany’s voice, her forehead wrinkling. “Kyle is Target Three. There is no room in Laura’s life for somebody like that. He has nothing to offer her. He’s a shitty lawyer hovering above the Death Pit. Got it?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Angie replied, “but first, a drink.”

Tiffany’s face pinched up and released so fast, it almost never happened. “Of course. I’ll make an extra one for you. Suck it down and then say whatever it is you have to say.”

Tiffany concocted the first drink and Angie chugged quickly, easing her alcoholic induced twitch. Six more drinks were created in layers, a liquid assembly line of saluting cocktails. Tiffany picked one up and licked a rosy line of fluid slipping down the glass.

With a push to her glasses, Tiffany’s eyes narrowed. “So, what is it?”

“I never received instructions about a third Target. And, this is going to sound weird, but something’s not right about Kyle. I can’t say what exactly.” Angie gulped down half of her second helping. “He’s like my husband, but not.” She opened her eyes wide and blinked rapidly. “It’s the eyes. Kyle has the same eyes as Mark. I mean,
exactly
the
same. And both men are black… or brown… brownish. I don’t know the proper terminology, but you know what I mean.” Angie’s voice skyrocketed from normal to high by the end of her sentence.

Tiffany rolled her eyes. “I think I remember one of The Institute’s agents saying something about your political correctness being under par. You’re obviously not racist. Didn’t your husband ever address this? The proper way to speak of an African American is just that: African American. Maybe you could use the words, ‘dark skinned,’ but that might be pushing it.”

Angie drained the last half of her drink and held the glass out to Tiffany. “My husband doesn’t care about stuff like that, never has. It’s never been an issue.” She fidgeted with an ear. “Another, please?”

Handing it over, Tiffany said: “Slow down, girl. You’re hitting it hard on an empty stomach. Last thing I need is for you getting drunk and not being able to help my cousin eliminate Target Three.”