Catch & Neutralize (27 page)

Chapter 48

The manor appeared dark and empty. Angie parked on the side of the garage, trying to keep her vehicle out of sight. She shivered against the chill, shoes crunching in the snow. Wind whipped around trees, pushing white clusters from leaves.

At the door, she found a note. It flapped, taped to the lion head door knocker as though he were speaking. She snickered at Tiffany’s dry humor.

Angie plucked the note and read:

Hello, Angie. I figured you wouldn’t go for the California trick, but it was worth a shot. Anyway, you must be freezing your Florida-native ass off. Come inside and change into something warm before the blizzard hits. I left some things on the bed for you. Tiffany.

She growled, crumpling the note. Her hair danced in the blustery weather, icy gusts making her cheeks sting. Angie rubbed her arms.

She’d been right about staying in New Mexico. Only two things could be going on inside: Tiffany waiting with a gun or she was gone and again, one step ahead.

Wind screamed over the mountains, kicking at the trees. Angie decided to take her chances. Gun pulled, she turned the doorknob.

Warmth invited her inside, wrapping around her like a fuzzy pelt. The fire sizzled and snapped, glowing embers fluttering up the chimney. No sign of Tiffany or Tristan so far.

Upstairs, Angie entered what used to be Tiffany’s bedroom. Another fire gave the room a feeling of comfort and peace. As promised, clothes waited on the bed: a turtle neck sweater with matching undershirt, fleece lined jeans, heavy socks, boots, ski jacket and hat.

A note placed next to the clothing:

Glad you took my offer, Angie. I left a plate of breakfast, coffee, and juice in the kitchen. A person like you needs nourishment when trying to keep up with a person like me. Tiffany.

Angie removed her clothes, including the fake Tiffany key necklace, and replaced them with the ones on the bed. Just to be a smartass, she arranged her old clothes on the bed and placed the necklace on the men’s shirt she’d been wearing. Tristan’s shirt.

Her eyes caught flickering from the necklace. She picked it up, inspecting it, rolling it over her fingers. Why hadn’t she noticed this in the first place? Too hopeful, too wanting of the damn thing, that’s why.

Angie’s fingernail glided into the metal seam of the necklace, prying it apart. A tiny tracking chip flashed its red eye. That explained why Tiffany was ahead. It explained everything. Rather than destroying the chip, which would give Tiffany a great timeline, Angie replaced it inside the necklace and shoved the necklace in her pocket.

In the kitchen, the table had been set for one with everything the note said. In addition, a bottle of rum sat next to a single shot glass, already filled. Angie picked up the shot, took a whiff, and placed it back on the table. Her hand trembled.

Although she craved a drink, she wouldn’t. Couldn’t, in fact, consume anything in Bell Manor. The food and drink may have been contaminated with toxins or drugs, anything to keep Angie from following or thinking clearly.

She thought of Tiffany’s rash, spreading out of control, making her look like a lizard covered in pustules instead of scales.

Another note next to the bottle:

Angie, please eat up. I know what you’re thinking. I didn’t put anything in the grub or booze. Honest. Maybe we can share breakfast again soon. Enjoy! Tiffany.

No thanks,
Angie thought,
not this time. Not ever.

More writing on the back of the note:

A special place for us

We hide in the open

Becoming friends, laughing

Find me here

I’ll be waiting unseen

“Great.” Angie tossed the paper up. “A damn poem? A riddle? Up yours, Tiffany.”

The note swayed to the floor. Angie spun around to leave. Then, turned back and dumped the rum down the drain. She snatched up the note, grabbed the ski jacket, and dashed outside to her car.

Two hours used up, ten left.

~

Snow fluttered down in heavy clusters. Times like these Angie wished she’d chosen a mountain truck with fat tires and four-wheel drive. Snowy days were never best for driving a convertible, even with the top tightly secured. Her windshield wipers whisked against the glass, clicking and scraping.

Angie contemplated the last note Tiffany left, the curious challenge: someplace special where we hid in the open and laughed. She pulled out a piece of mint gum. It helped her think, especially when the smacking and popping started.

She and Tiffany laughed a bunch during that short stint of time together. Tiffany’s clue wasn’t much of a clue at all. But, hiding in the open? Where did that happen? Not at Macaroons, not at Krafty Kate’s. What about that old, dilapidated house where they’d taken selfies in Mardi Gras masks? That was kind of like hiding in the open, but without anyone around to hide from.

With the old house being the only viable answer, Angie took the exit leading down the other side of the mountain towards Edgewood. Her fingers drummed the steering wheel as she drove. Time was not on her side with her destination about forty-five minutes away, probably longer with the snow.

The Spyder, considering it was a sports car, did fairly well navigating snow drifts. Lucky for her, the roads weren’t piled high yet. Only a few slips, a few slides. No major delays.

The key pendant with hidden tracking device now travelled on a moving van headed to Illinois. She’d met the nice couple while pumping gas. They looked around her age, a Rob and Vikki Taylor, moving because his new job required it. The wife, Vikki, held a large rabbit over her neck like a living scarf. “He goes by the name Mr. Fuzzybunz, one word that ends with z.” After dumping the tracker, Angie petted the bunny and wished them well before driving away.

She arrived at the decaying house an hour later. No other vehicles parked beside it, no smoke pluming from the house. A good thing, considering the house itself would make great kindling.

She looked through the passenger side window and gritted her teeth. White flakes cascaded from the sky, Father Winter’s party confetti.

If she’d guessed the wrong place, another hour lost to driving. Plus another hour back, maybe more. Out of the car, she shoved her hands in her pockets. Right hand clutched her gun. Even in these conditions, the pistol felt balmy against her palm. It gave her comfort, an adult security blanket.

Locked gates blocked easy entry. Angie thought about calling out for Tiffany, but didn’t. She probably wouldn’t hear over the wind anyway.

The weather transformed into a full-blown snow storm. Storms were always worse on this side of the mountain. A plastic shopping bag caught by one of the barbs flapped and struggled against the gusts. Gray skies gave the sense of late evening rather than early morning. Sunshine had taken an unscheduled holiday.

Angie pulled the hood of her jacket up, protecting her ears. The cold penetrated her nostrils, making it hard to breathe. She unfolded the turtleneck and yanked it up over her mouth and nose.

She scaled the ice-cold barbed wire fence. Rust residue clung to her hands and clothes, anything it touched. Spiky metal scraped the jacket and jeans protecting her skin. The outfit Tiffany left was perfect for inclement weather and shady outdoor activities. For this, Angie felt grateful. She managed no cuts, scratches, or bruises.

She thudded to the ground, sinking calf deep into a wind collected snow pile. Still no sign of Tiffany or Tristan. This was no place for him to shine with that wounded arm.

Inside, the building creaked and groaned under the wind pressure. Glassless windows and loose wooden slats did nothing to hold back the chill. Angie raced through the circular first floor searching for signs of recent occupancy. Her footprints erased with each step, the blasts of air leaving no clues.

The old house had been gutted long ago. No appliances or furniture other than an old mattress filled with holes and stains. Yellowed stuffing protruded from odd angles. A faded aluminum can flitted across the floor and smacked against the stairwell before tumbling down and being rerouted by the wind.

Angie attempted the stairwell, warped boards groaning and flexing. Her foot crashed through the top step, once again making her grateful for Tiffany’s wardrobe contribution. The boots, although now damaged, had saved her from a nasty nail gash.

Most of the ceiling showed pits with sections missing. Snow heaps covered the floor in areas missing roof cover. Wind cried past the only window, rattling loose boards.

A tacked note clapped against the wall next to what looked like a dried blood smear.

Nope. Wrong again, Angie.

Last Hint

(use your brain this time):

A sea of fire sure for your demise

Pools of love, drowned in your cries

She ripped the note from the tack, sending the sharp button-shape across the room. It flipped, bounced, and skidded through a floor crack.

“Damn you, Tiffany!” Angie screamed, “You knew I’d come here, fucking
knew
it!”

The only place of seas and fires and pools belonged to Bell Manor. Angie had just come from there. She wasn’t happy about backtracking, wasn’t happy about missing it the first time. Why hadn’t she checked the entire house? She’d let Tiffany lead her around like a puppy on a leash.

Another hour down the shit canal.

Angie gritted her teeth and punched the wall, hand busting through rotten wood, leaving her with a fist of splinters and a broken fingernail.

“Damn it!” She spat, shaking the tenderness from her hand. “Could’ve used a pair of work gloves too, Tiff.”

She pulled out most of the splinters, the larger ones. The rest would have to wait.

Back in her car, Angie cranked the heater. Her nose wind burnt to a crispy shade of discomfort. Cursing Tiffany, Angie pressed the gas pedal. The engine revved, but nothing else. She was going nowhere. Stuck in snow, tires spinning.

“Seriously?” Angie grumbled before hitting the steering wheel. “You metal crap box!” Then hit it again for good measure. She laid her head on the steering wheel, rubbing its sides and imagined the car turning her in for auto abuse. The Spyder was her baby.

In the trunk, she kept all the things she’d need for these tricky situations. This wasn’t her first go round getting stuck in crappy weather. Florida gave problems with mud and beach sand. New Mexico’s problem: snow.

Armed with shovel, rope, a large bag of Rubix’s kitty litter, and gloves stuffed with warmer packets, Angie figured she’d be set back another thirty minutes or so. She’d forgotten about the gloves in the trunk. Good thing she had them now. Who knows how long it would’ve taken otherwise?

The informational process of getting a car out of snow came from training at The Institute. Three days of perfecting the method, followed by a one-on-one test with a beefy instructor hired for the single purpose of teaching women how to get cars unstuck. Angie passed with an A+. An A for completing the mission correctly and in a timely fashion. The plus came from the tight, low-cut sweater she’d worn. Angie was sure of it, had chosen that particular sweater for this very reason.

Sucker. Use it or lose it. Right?

The process: Dig out snow from in front of and behind each tire to get unstuck, tie a rope to each tire and thread it by crisscrossing through the rims for traction. Lastly, pour kitty litter in front of each tire for extra grip. Whala!

Angie maneuvered the convertible the only way possible to get it through snow. Not only by using stealth and precision, but more importantly, by driving at a slow and steady pace.

Expected travel time: two hours.

Chapter 49

Make that three. It took three hours to get back to Bell Manor in the blizzard. Snow came from everywhere, visibility sucked harder than a brand-new vacuum cleaner. Angie vowed to purchase a better winter vehicle with the money she got from completing this mission.
If
she completed this mission. Not that she’d ever think about trading in the Spyder. New Mexico living obviously required two vehicles.

She took a quick peek in the rearview and was mortified. Eyes bloodshot, nose and cheeks splotchy red, lips chapped and flakey. It seemed excessive snow had the same effects as excessive sun. Who knew?

Angie used Neutrogena sunblock from the glove compartment and cherry flavored lip-gloss from her bag. Not that it was anywhere near sunny. She hoped these products would give her some protection. Feeling as prepared as possible, Angie toughed the elements. Snow bombarded her face like icy bullets.

Wind gusts up to 80 MPH had been predicted on the news. Angie struggled with being knocked back, knocked down, getting up, repeat. Although the information spewed by the weatherman seemed dubious this morning, she now believed every word.

Crawling was the only way. Inch by arctic inch, Angie struggled to get the twenty feet from her car to the door. Her only references being Floridian, she likened the blizzard to a glacial hurricane with irate snow. Father Winter’s mood had gone from happy confetti to pissed off party pooper.

At the door. Finally. A vicious wind gust grabbed the door from Angie’s grip, throwing the heavy piece of wood against the house and rattling the frame. The wind screeched and wailed. Her ears felt ready to implode, as though a screwdriver was being ground into her eardrums. And her nose, the bitter air burned the insides like a white-hot brushfire.

Once inside, it took both hands and all her muscles to get the door closed. She leaned against it, panting and digging in pockets to retrieve her pistol. Pockets were empty. She frantically patted herself down, panic rising. No gun, no gun, not a single freaking gun anywhere!

“Oh, shit,” Angie whispered. She exhaled noisily and thumped her head against the door. “Damn it,” she whined, shoulders slumping. “Damn it all to hell.”

In order to get a gun, Angie would have to make it upstairs and to the mini arsenal hiding inside Tiffany’s bedroom closet, or what used to be Tiffany’s bedroom closet assuming she hadn’t cleared it out already.

Angie headed to the kitchen. If she were to make it through the house without a pistol, at least she could arm herself with a knife. Unless Tiffany had cleared those out too.

Despite it being noon, the kitchen atmosphere was dark and dreary. No sunshine from either window. Snow beat at the glass windows as though trying to break through. The constant pummeling conjured thoughts of homicidal bullies raging for lunch money.

A single bulb on the track lighting system illuminated a full bottle of spiced rum. A mermaid shot glass sat next to it. No love notes, poems, or riddles.

Maybe just one sip,
Angie thought. She reached for the bottle and twisted the cap. It came off easily without the usual clicks of an unopened bottle. Angie inhaled the bronze colored liquid magic and let out a disappointed sigh.

“Nice try,” she muttered dumping the contents down the drain.

Nothing else decorated the countertops. She rummaged through several drawers. A carving knife, a meat fork and that infamous potato peeler were her best bets. She stuffed the peeler in a front pocket and clutched the carving fork in her left hand, the knife in her right. Her distorted reflection in the stainless steel appliances looked like an escaped carnival maniac. Angie flashed a toothy grin at the refrigerator door and stabbed at air with the fork, making the image look even more disturbing. She hid a chuckle behind her palm.

Only five hours left to prove herself to The Institute.

“Okay, Tiffany,” she called in a singsong voice. “Ready or not, here I come.”

Angie slunk through the hallway and upstairs, the carving knife and fork held tightly. Visions of Rubix stalking invisible prey played through her mind. She imagined herself as a cat, a cat on the hunt for a giant rat named Tiffany.

Rustling from inside the bedroom caused Angie to take a step back, knife shiny in the dim light. She heard the clanking of metal on metal. She stood by the door with ears straining and eyes wide, trying to sneak a peek inside without being detected.

The bedroom: a sight of complete disarray. Clothes from the closet littered the floor. Three large boxes bulged with more clothes, shoes, bags, and an assortment of other fashion accessories. A fourth box proved to be the origination of that clanking sound. Gun after gun tossed from inside the closet and into the box.

A Glock 34 glided through the air, landing in the box.
Clank
.

A Colt M4 Carbine flew like a miniature jet and thumped into the box.
Clank
.

A Beretta M9 sailed before crash landing atop the others.
Clank
.

Angie figured Tiffany was in the process of clearing out the hidden arsenal. She held the fork and knife by her hips in a jabbing stance, tip-toeing towards the box of guns.

Behind her, the sound of a gun being cocked. Angie turned to find Tristan sitting on the king-sized bed. His right arm bandaged and in a sling. Blood saturated the dressing, an obviously novice attempt. Good for now, but not good for long.

Tristan’s head wobbled, the hand holding the gun unsteady. He appeared weak and exhausted, face as pale as a powdered donut. A sprinkling of red ringed blisters adorned his shoulders.

“Lilly,” he said barely above a whisper.

Angie grabbed a pistol from the box and moved out of the way before another one hurled past. She believed it was fully loaded by the inserted magazine, but checked anyway.

Angie stepped closer with a smirk, gun pointed at his face. “Her name is Tiffany. She’s a fake. Much like you, Pilfer.”

“Lilly,” he tried again too far gone to raise his voice, let alone hold up a heavy weapon. It plunked to the bed still held by the near-bloodless criminal.

Angie took his gun and banged it once against his temple. “Lights out. Sweet dreams.”

She checked the weapon. It was polished, brand new, and expensive.

Nice. Think I’ll keep it
, she thought stuffing it inside her jacket.

Hair a snarl of tangles, gun in her right hand and carving fork in her left. If she looked psychotic, Angie didn’t give a shit. The more psychotic looking, the better. Might even spook Tiffany, The Institute’s shunned headshrinker.

Angie decided she didn’t need to be beautiful on the outside if she was strong on the inside. Being a gun toting soldier on the upside was way more thrilling than pretending to be a coffee secretary strutting around in tight dresses and high heels. And plastic surgery?

No more for me. Why had it taken so long to figure this out?

Gripping the fork, she ran the back of her hand over her mouth. A red smudge of gloss spread across Angie’s cheek. Warpaint in a time of war, appropriate even if pricey and fruity.

“Oh, Tiffany, Angie’s here,” she called out musically. Then in a harsh tone: “Consider yourself caught. Prepare for some kickass neutralization.”

Tiffany burst from the closet, a gun in each hand. Worse than that, she’d shaved her head and wore nothing but undergarments the same shade as her skin. She stood small and boney yet determined, a nearly nude figure of a little boy wearing his mother’s unmentionables. Her glasses hung crooked, so out of place with her new bad-boy attitude. Large, puss-filled blisters covered her entire body and parts of her skin leaked cloudy fluids.

Angie pretended not to notice Tiffany’s transformation. She nodded a friendly chin bob.

Both women had changed, one on the inside and the other on the outside.

“Are we going to do this? Or are you coming with me voluntarily?” Angie aimed at Tiffany’s chest. Her voice deep, reflecting her newfound tough side.

She knew—call it woman’s intuition—Tiffany was going to put all she had into getting away even before the first shot was fired.

It rang out with deafening force. Shot after shot scattered the room, bullets speeding by without regard for anything. Holes marred furniture and walls. Tiffany seemed to be on a rampage, shooting without aim, bullets flying and fluids spraying from her skin.

A bullet whizzed past Angie’s shoulder and buried itself in the mattress next to Tristan. She hit the floor, eyes on the monster of Tiffany.

Each gunshot shook Tiffany’s ghoulish frame, the recoil unsympathetic. She blinked, emptying both magazines. Tiffany’s aim matched her taste in men: beyond horrible.

Angie stood, pointing her firearm at Tiffany’s boil encrusted chest.

“Well, that was something. Not sure what, but definitely something. Ya know, you’re not going to make a very good criminal until you learn how to shoot.” Angie rolled her eyes and sighed. “By the way, I love the new look.” She used her gun as a pointer, running it down Tiffany’s frame and back up.

Tiffany slumped to the floor, blisters popping as she landed. Unspent tears sparkled in her eyes. “I have no idea what I’m doing, or why I’m here. My fiancé,” her gaze shifted to the broken man on the bed, “told me he’s in love with you.” She laughed with exasperation. “I’m his second choice. How can a person say something like that, something so hurtful? Those may be his last words to me. He doesn’t look so good.” Tears fell, washing lines over her infected skin and leaving moist streaks down her cheeks. “I just wanted to be loved. Is that such an unreasonable request?”

Angie shook her head. “No, it’s not. You’re looking for the wrong type of man. These men, the ones you’ve been dating, they don’t know anything about love. You’re only twenty-eight. You’ve got plenty of time to find the right one. Stop trying so hard.”

Tiffany nodded, getting to her knees. “He’s turned me into something unrecognizable. I’m past healing, past a cure. I can feel the toxins thickening inside me. It’s getting harder and harder to move.” She leaned towards the box, hand reaching.

“Please don’t do that, Tiffany.”

As Tiffany swung a revolver in her direction, Angie fired. Gory matter splattered the floor and wall behind Tiffany. The stench of a thousand rotten corpses filled the room.

Angie covered her mouth and stared at the bloody, puss-filled mess she once considered a friend, the realization of her accomplishment beginning to register.

Carefully avoiding the misspent body fluids, Angie collected the
Party Girl Fund
jar from one of the clothes boxes. A fifty dollar bill fell from the top and floated like a feather until reaching its final destination, sticking to the secretions covering Tiffany’s chest.

“I win,” Angie said, her eyes moist with sadness.

“About time, love.” Tristan ran a blood-soaked hand down her back. “Who’s next?”

Turning, Angie jammed the carving fork into his neck. Blood spilled, streaming his length and soaking the floor. He gurgled something unidentifiable, hand grasping at the protruding knife

“You are, you piece of shit.”

Angie’s murmur drifted across the room, unchallenged and unanswered.