Deadliest of Sins (18 page)

“Any of you guys pull up here?” Galloway pointed to the oil drip.

They all shook their head. He looked over at Pike. “Get on your radio,” he told him. “Call the forensic people, then call the chief. This just went from a missing person to an abduction.”

“On whose call?” asked Pike.

“Mine,” replied Galloway. “Some kind of vehicle was parked close to her car, long enough to spill a fair amount of oil. Anybody who was just curious about an idling car wouldn't have stayed that long. Anybody who wanted to make off with her money and credit cards would have left fast.” Again he looked at the shiny spot glistening in the sun. “Whoever left that oil spill knows what happened to Mary Crow.”

Twenty-Six

Chase sat on his
bed, holding the big Army Colt, listening to the raspy gurgles of Gudger's snoring. For hours he'd gone over Cousin Petey's instructions on shooting the gun—aim down the barrel, squeeze the trigger instead of pulling it, and most important, try to avoid shooting yourself in the foot. In retrospect, he marveled at Cousin Petey's own ability with the weapon—the day she'd showed him how to shoot it, she was eighty-two, a dried little apple of a woman who wore a cotton housedress and old-fashioned tennis shoes. She'd held the gun as if were no heavier than a can of bug spray and demolished the empty Coke can she was using as a target. Tonight, resting in his lap, the gun seemed to weigh fifty pounds, at least. An impossible thing to point and fire at anything. Still, Cousin Petey had given it to him as the “man of his family.” Probably she thought he'd protect Sam and his mother from foxes or rats. Never would she have dreamed that he was going to aim it at a man.

“But I am,” he whispered. He stood up, practiced the motions again. Holding the barrel of the gun in his left hand, he had to use all the strength in his right to cock the hammer. With that in position, he braced himself against the bed and aimed at the door, his arms straight, like he'd seen cops do on TV shows. If he locked his elbows, he could hold the thing steady for fifteen seconds. Beyond that, his arms began to shake as the gun grew too heavy for him to hold.

“Maybe I won't have to shoot,” he whispered, aiming at the spot his Peyton Manning poster used to occupy. “Maybe when I point it at Gudger he'll get so scared that he'll do what I want.”

He knew most people would react that way, but most people didn't include Gudger. If anything, pointing a gun at him would be like swatting at a hornet with a broom—it would just make him madder. Nonetheless, Chase had to take his chances. The gun was the only thing standing between him and that gorilla in the black car. Uncocking the hammer, he hid the gun under his bed. “Whatever happens will be better than being boy meat,” he said. “Even if I wind up dead.”

He lay back on the bed. He tried to pass the time reading some of his Sherlock Holmes book, but he couldn't concentrate on the words and Gudger's snoring soon lulled him into a kind of waking dream. As the night outside his window lightened into day, the dead and the living all gathered around his bed—Sam, his father, Cousin Petey, even Mary Crow. They were all telling him things, warning him about what to do. Mary Crow was about to show him how to shoot her Glock, when suddenly, everyone disappeared. He opened his eyes, lifted his head. Something had changed. For an instant he couldn't figure out what, then he realized—Gudger's snoring had stopped.

He hurried over to the door, put his ear to the crack. Someone hacked up phlegm, then the toilet flushed in the bathroom. He went cold inside—Gudger was up!

Chase ran back to the bed and grabbed the Colt. With shaking hands, he held the old revolver by the barrel as he pulled back on the hammer. By the time the thing clicked into place, he was sweating. “All you have to do now is point it,” he whispered, trying to calm down, knowing that with one squeeze, he could blow Gudger to Kingdom Come.

Pointing the gun at the floor, he walked back to his door. He took a single deep breath, then he put his plan in motion. “Gudger!” he cried, banging hard on the door. “Gudger are you out there?”

“What?” Gudger mumbled from the hall, still sounding groggy with sleep.

“You gotta let me out of here!” Chase tried to sound desperate. “I need to go to the bathroom!”

“Piss in your pants, you little faggot!” said Gudger. “I've got to make some coffee.”

“It's not piss,” Chase cried. “It's the other. You know, diarrhea.”

For a moment, he heard nothing. Then Gudger started cursing—something about goddamn kids. Footsteps thumped down the hall, a key started rattling in the deadbolt. Chase backed away from the door, holding the gun tight, his heart beating like some wild thing in his chest.

He stood there, waiting. Gudger was apparently having trouble with the lock. Chase heard him curse again—finally, just as his arms started to shake, the deadbolt slid back with a
snap
. The door opened. Gudger stumbled into the room, holding his scalded hand close to his chest, wearing jockey shorts and a T-shirt that rode up over his beer gut. He looked at Chase through squinted eyes, his mouth curved down in anger.

“You shit your britches in here and you'll be the one cleaning it …” The words died in his throat as he saw the Colt pointed at his chest. His eyes grew wide as his face turned the color of pie dough.

“What the fuck are you doing with that?” he whispered. “I told your mother to get rid of it.”

Chase held the gun in a death grip, trying to keep his arms from trembling. “For once she didn't do what you told her,” he said slowly, his voice taking on an unaccustomed deepness.

“So I see,” said Gudger. “So what are you going to do with it, Olive Oyl? Shoot me?”

“Not before I find out what you did with my sister.”

“Man, are we back to that again?” Gudger shook his head, disgusted. “Son, what will it take to convince you? I didn't do anything with your sister. She ran off with her boyfriend.”

“Then why did you go crazy after Mary Crow came here? Why did you tell that man I was sweet boy meat? Why did you lock me in this room and then beat up my mom?” His voice cracked, soared back into soprano range. He willed away hot tears.

Gudger leaned against the doorjamb and chuckled, as if everything had been a joke. “Hey, I was just fooling around. Trying to see how tough you were, you know? My old man played the same kind of tricks on me. One time he told me he'd shot my dog when he really had the pup tied up in the barn. He got a good laugh out of that. That thing about you being boy meat wasn't true. I was just teasing you.”

“It didn't sound like teasing to me.” Chase raised the gun higher, pointing it at Gudger's heart. “Now tell me where Samantha is!”

“You need to calm down, son. You could go to jail for what you're doing now.” Gudger backed up a step and held out his scalded hand, as if to ward off a bullet. “I've heard some rumors about your sister, but I'm not telling you anything with a gun pointed at me.”

“You know a lot more than just rumors about my sister.” Chase took a step forward. “And you're gonna tell me right now.”

Gudger inched backward into the dark hall. As he did, the meanness returned to his eyes, and his lips drew back in a sneer. “Oh, yeah? You gotta catch me first, Olive Oyl.”

Gudger turned and ran down the hall toward the living room, his bottom jiggling in his sagging jockey shorts. Chase ran after him, the gun feeling like a lead weight in his hands. Gudger banged into an end table and almost knocked over a lamp, but he made it to the front door faster than Chase thought possible.

“Stop, Gudger!” he cried, hurrying after him. “Turn around and talk to me!”

Gudger ignored him. Already he'd gotten the chain unhooked; five more seconds and he'd have the door open. With the big revolver shaking in his hand, Chase lifted the gun and took aim.

“I'm telling you to stop!” he screamed at Gudger. “Turn around!”

Gudger turned, long enough to lift his middle finger. “Fuck you, you little faggot!”

With a silent prayer to his dead father, to Cousin Petey, to all the people who'd ever held out the hope that he might be a person of worth someday, he squeezed the trigger. For a split second, nothing happened. Then came a roar so loud he thought the roof was caving in. The gun flipped back, hit him in the face. As one front tooth skittered across the floor, Chase fell on his back, blood spurting from his nose. Though his ears rang as if he were inside a bell, he could hear a scream of agony. He lifted his head to see Gudger lying across the front door, his right kneecap gleaming white as a new baseball against a field of red.

Chase looked around for the gun. Somehow it had fallen underneath the coffee table. Shaking the ringing from his head, he crawled over and grabbed it. The long barrel was still warm to his fingers. Flush with triumph, he got to his feet and walked over to Gudger, who lay writhing on the floor.

“I can't feel my leg!” he shrieked, spit flying from his mouth as he tried to scramble away from Chase. “I can't feel my goddamned leg!”

Now a strange new person spoke through Chase's voice, used Chase's arms to again point the revolver. “You tell me where Sam is, or you're not going to feel anything much longer.”

Gudger rolled over on his back. The front of his jockey shorts were stained bright yellow. Sweat dotted his forehead and he gasped like someone who'd just sprinted up a mountain. “Get an ambulance. Then I'll tell you.”

Chase shook his head. “You tell me first. Then I'll get an am-
bulance.”

“Okay, okay.” Gudger gasped, grimacing in pain. “There's an old motel near Hubbard Mountain. Last time I heard, she was there. Now call me an ambulance!”

Chase shrugged. “I don't know where the phone is.”

Gudger looked at him. He opened his mouth, as if he wanted to speak, then his jaw went slack as his head hit the floor.

Just like that, the powerful stranger who'd inhabited Chase's body vanished. Once again it was just eleven-year-old Charles Oliver Buchanan who was standing over his stepfather's body, an Army Colt pointed at his heart.

“Oh no,” he whispered. He knew if he didn't call an ambulance, Gudger would probably bleed to death or die of shock. If Gudger died, then Chase would spend the rest of his life in prison. He'd shot an unarmed man who was trying to get away. He'd read enough detective novels to know how bad that was.

He put the gun on the coffee table and ran through the house, desperate to find something to call an ambulance with. The phone jack in the den was empty, and the wall phone in the kitchen had long since been disconnected. He did a cursory search of all the bedrooms, then ran out to the garage. He looked through Gudger's tool bench and on the seat of his car, but again, he found nothing. Frantic, he returned to the house. There had to be a phone somewhere in here! He'd heard Gudger telling someone he was sweet boy meat just last night.

He ran down the hall and returned to Gudger's bedroom, rifling through his dresser. He found socks, T-shirts, even Gudger's Taser, but no phone. He ran over to the bedside table, pulled open that drawer. Gudger kept only a Bible and a tube of Mentholatum to see him through the nights. Chase collapsed on the bed, fighting back tears. “Where is your stupid phone, you idiot? Why do you have to hide it all the time?”

Frustrated, he hit Gudger's pillow with his fist. His knuckles grazed against something hard. He looked under the pillow.
There
was Gudger's cell phone! He grabbed it and punched in 911. The phone rang three times, then a girl with a thick mountain accent answered.

“911,” she said. “What is your emergency?”

Chase gulped. “Someone's been shot. You need to send an ambulance to 514 Kedron Road, right now!”

Twenty-Seven

Galloway helped Pike cordon
off a perimeter around Mary's car, then he told the tall uniform to stay put until the search team arrived.

“Where are you going?” asked Pike, surprised. “You're the de-
tective.”

“Gastonia. Mary Crow was staying at the Holiday Inn there. I'll check in with you later.”

Pike watched as a car heading east slowed to gape at Mary's car, then sped on to its destination. “These morning commuters will shit if we block off the road.”

“Let them through, but don't let anybody go in those woods.”

Pike frowned but walked over to his cruiser. He kept the blue lights flashing and assumed a posture of command, glaring at the oncoming traffic, his arms folded across his chest.

Galloway hurried back to his Mustang. He headed east, toward Gastonia, the sun a distant orange ball rising on the horizon. The two-lane stretched through farmland and stands of scrub pine. No cross streets intersected it—only the long driveways of farm houses, set acres back from the highway. Highway 74 was, he'd learned, a quick and dirty way for locals with cars to avoid the interstate and get to Charlotte via the back roads. For the transient Hispanics who had no cars, it was a way to walk from farm to farm, crop to crop. Sweet potatoes and corn in the summer; Christmas trees in November. Galloway sped by a family of five as he drove—a man and a woman, three children trailing behind them like small brown ducks.

“
La carretera del dolor
,” he muttered. Maybe Mary was on to something—maybe the road was more than just a flat strip of pavement that Latinos walked to get to the hard, bone-wearying jobs America offered. Maybe it was a dumping ground for Campbell County's unwanted, where some people vanished and others turned up looking like Bryan Taylor.

“At least it's not that,” he told himself, remembering the way Mary Crow had smiled at him last night. “At least not yet.” He sped on, crossing the county line, coming to the town of Gastonia. The Holiday Inn was new, near I-85. He parked by the entrance and asked for the manager.

“I'm Victor Galloway, Campbell County Police,” he explained, flashing his badge at a blond woman who'd apparently gotten up so early she'd pinned her name tag on upside down. “We have a problem with one of your guests. I need to check Mary Crow's room.”

“Do you know the number?”

“No.”

The woman's fingers flew over the computer keyboard. “212” she said, a moment later. “Let me get my master key and I'll take you up there.”

She led him quickly through the lobby mostly, he thought, to get him and his gold badge out of view of the other guests who were trooping down for the free breakfast buffet. He followed her to the elevator, where they rode up to the second floor. Mary's room was at the end of the hall. The manager opened the door, turned on the light, then stepped aside. Galloway walked in. The room had apparently not been disturbed since housekeeping had cleaned it the day before. The bed was made, there was unopened soap in the bathroom, and the hand towels had been neatly folded into little fan shapes. A zipped-up make-up bag lay beside the sink, while an open suitcase lay on the dresser beside the flat-screen TV. Galloway walked over and looked through Mary's still packed clothes—underwear, two white blouses, a pair of jeans. He felt a lump under the jeans and lifted them to find a Glock 9 lying in an oiled shoulder holster, a box of ammo beside it.

Damn
, he thought.
If she'd taken that, she might be here right now, asking me why in the hell I'm going through her underwear.
He turned away from the suitcase, looked in the closet. A single linen jacket and a navy skirt were hanging on a hanger; beyond that, nothing. The room looked as if she'd just stepped out of it, would be back any minute. Barring a miracle, that wasn't going to happen.

He checked to see if she'd made any notes on the pad beside the phone, checked to see if any of those small sheets had fallen underneath the bed or behind the desk, but he saw nothing. He turned to the manager. “Could I talk to the housekeepers who cleaned her room yesterday?”

“Certainly.” The woman picked up the phone, murmured something into it. In a few minutes two wide-eyed Latinas pushed their cleaning cart to the door.

“
Buenas dias
,” he greeted them in Spanish. “
¿Visto a la dama en la habitación desde ayer?”

They both shook their heads. The younger one said, “
No, señor. Nunca hemos visto en absoluto
.”

He asked when they'd last made up the bed.

This time, the younger one held up two fingers. “
Hace dos mañ-
anas.
”

“
Gracias
.” He frowned. Neither housekeeper had seen Mary at all, but they'd made up her bed two mornings ago. He went back over to her suitcase, wondering if he'd gotten the right room, if she'd been here at all. He looked through her clothes for a cleaning ticket or a business card but found nothing. Closing the suitcase, he searched the side pockets for any identifying information. His finger curled around a piece of paper shoved into one. He pulled it out. It was an old plane ticket stub to Tulsa, Oklahoma. The passenger was one Mary Crow of Hartsville, North Carolina.

“Okay,” he whispered. “She went back to Asheville the night before last, and had her 74 Special at that bar. She spent the night there at her home, then came back here yesterday morning.” Her abandoned car was the only clue as to her whereabouts after she'd left him at Angelo's.

He gave the manager his card, telling her to call him immediately should Mary return.

The woman took his card hesitantly. “So should I assume this woman's coming back? Consider this room occupied?”

“Yes,” Galloway told her with a confidence he did not feel. “You can absolutely assume she's coming back.”

He drove back to her car. Pike was still there, watching as the forensic squad was pulling away.

“They find anything?” asked Galloway, hopeful.

Pike shook his head. “No bloodstains, no semen. They'll run the prints this afternoon.”

Disappointed, Galloway thought back to Mary's conversation last night—she said she'd gone to see a man whose sister had been found murdered on 74; a man extremely hostile to the notion that his sister might be a lesbian. Was there some kind of connection here? Had the man been so upset that he'd killed the messenger to save his sister from the taint of homosexuality? It was possible—Mary said the guy kept slapping his palm with a tire iron. But what was his name? Williams? Watson? She'd told him, but he'd been watching her eyes, looking at her mouth like the lovesick fool he feared he was becoming.

He turned back to Pike. “I need to use your box a minute.” He walked over to Pike's cruiser and logged on to his computer. He keyed in homicides, 2010–2013. The name popped up immediately—Wallace, Tiffani, white female, age 19. Next of kin, Eddie Wallace, 320 County Road 218. He got out of Pike's cruiser and headed toward his Mustang.

“I'm going to check out a guy named Wallace,” he told Pike. “Get the wrecker out here and get this car into the police lot.”

“Then we're done out here?” asked Pike, his tone hopeful.

“We are for now,” said Galloway.

He drove fast, against the traffic, heading toward the South Carolina line. 320 County Road 218 was an old white doublewide trailer, set on blocks. A wrought-iron sculpture of a donkey sat in the front yard, next to a faded plastic candy cane from several Christmases ago. Galloway pulled around to the back of the place, where a skinny, barefoot man wearing cut-off jeans and a dirty T-shirt stood peering under the hood of an ancient Dodge Charger that had, in a former life, had the number 11 painted on its side. He looked up from the car and frowned as Galloway's black Mustang nosed up the driveway.

“Bway-nos dee-os, Pedro.” The man flicked a cigarette out of his mouth as Galloway got out of the car. “Kay passa?”

“
Muy bien, pipucho
,” Galloway replied, the Spanish rolling off his tongue. He lifted a friendly hand towards the man as he moved toward him; then he drew close, grabbed the man by his hair, and slammed his face down into the head gasket of the car.

“What the fuck?” the man cried. He squirmed, tried to get to his feet, but Galloway kicked the man's leg apart and shoved his knee firmly against his balls. His legs were pale, splotched with red-looking flea bites.

“This is what, dickhead.” Galloway switched to perfect English as pulled out his badge for the second time that morning. “I'm Detective Victor Galloway.” He dangled his badge in front of Wallace's face. “I used to play soccer in Argentina and my goal-kicking knee is aimed right at your nuts, so cut the Speedy Gonzalez crap.”

“Okay,” Wallace whimpered, breathing hard.

Galloway lifted the guy's head up and whopped his nose against the manifold, just for fun. “Are you Eddie Wallace?”

Wallace nodded as blood seeped from his nose.

“You speak Spanish. You know the word
ayer
?”

“No.” Wallace sobbed, trying to breathe.

“It means
yesterday
,
pipucho
.”

“So?”

Galloway tightened his grip on the man's hair. “Do you remember yesterday? Or are you too fucked up?”

Wallace nodded. “I remember,” he said, his voice coming out strangely muffled.

“You remember a good-looking woman coming over here, asking about your little sister?”

“Yeah.”

“You remember spitting tobacco juice at her? Threatening her with a lug wrench?”

“I didn't threaten her.” Wallace gulped. “She pissed me off. She thought my sister was a dyke.”

“Yeah, well that woman was a cop. She happened to go missing last night,” said Galloway, pressing his knee harder into Wallace's scrotum.

“I don't know anything about that!” cried Wallace.

“Sorry,
pipucho
. You gotta convince me better than that.”

“She came over, asking all these questions about Tiffani. Who she hung with, if she had a boyfriend. When I said I didn't know, she asked if I thought Tiffani was queer. She made me mad, saying those things about my sister. Plus she kept looking at me like I was a piece of shit. So I grabbed a tire iron. Big deal. I never hit her with it.”

“You're a real
caballero
. What happened next?”

“Nothing! She was driving a black '99 Miata. She got in it and left.”

“And what did you do?”

“I worked on this car till dark. Then I went to work.”

“Where do you work?”

“Walmart, in Gastonia.”

“Did you take Jackson Highway?”

“Yeah, I guess,” replied Wallace.

“You drive this heap?”

Wallace shook his head. “No. I drove that truck over there.”

Galloway looked across the weedy back yard, where a Dodge Ram was parked on a concrete slab, underneath an aluminum canopy. “You park it there all the time?”

“Every night,” said Wallace.

“Where are the keys?”

“In my back pocket.”

He loosened his grip on the man's hair but pulled out his service weapon. “Go back it up.”

Wallace stood up and wiped the blood from his nose. He stared at Galloway as if he were crazy. “Back it up where?”

“Off that concrete slab, asshole.” He took the safety off his weapon. “Go an inch in any other direction and I'll consider you avoiding arrest.”

Wallace gulped, then walked over to the truck, his bare feet making little slaps on the ground. Galloway watched as he started the car, then backed it just out of its concrete parking space. When he'd cleared the canopy, Galloway told him to turn the motor off.

“Toss the keys out the window,” he said, still holding his gun on Wallace. “And get out of the truck.”

Wallace did as he was told, still wiping blood from his nose.

“Okay. Go over and lie face down in the driveway. Make one move and you will have changed your last spark plug.”

Wallace glared at him, but he went over and lay face down in the drive. When Galloway saw that the stupid bastard was well away from anything he could use as a weapon, he walked over to the concrete slab where the truck had been parked. He bent down and studied the middle of the slab, where all the drips and oozings from an engine would splatter. Though Eddie Wallace's worth as a sensitive human being might be up for grabs, he was a damn good mechanic. Not a drop of oil stained the pavement where his truck had been parked—certainly not the big glob of stuff that gleamed from the pavement next to Mary's abandoned car. Whoever had been there last night hadn't been driving Eddie Wallace's truck.

“Okay.” Galloway rose to his feet. “You can get up.”

Wallace hauled himself up. His already-swelling nose looked like a turnip stuck in the middle of his face.

“Well?” he said. “What are the charges?”

“No charges,” said Galloway, heading for his car.

“No charges? You come up here and break my nose just to get me to move my truck?”

“You got it,
pipucho
. But let me give you a piece of advice. Next time a cop asks questions about your dead sister, don't spit tobacco juice at them, and don't go near a tire iron. And if you want to be extra nice, don't call any Latino cops Pedro. It just makes us grumpy as hell.”