Kick (The Jenkins Cycle Book 1) (9 page)

Somewhere during the investigation, one of the detectives decided a girl had been confined in the next room, having discovered the handcuffs and traces of blood. I said I’d tell them more about that within three days, which I judged to be long enough for the final kick to shove me out and off to the Great Wherever.

They pushed and prodded. They tried good cop. They tried bad cop. When that didn’t work, they tried bored cop, then chubby cop, but ultimately it took ok-whadaya-want-cop to break me. My demands were simple: solitary confinement for three days to “relax my nerves,” after which I’d provide a full confession on the whereabouts of the woman… and her kid.

Even I felt guilty about that last bit, but I had to make sure they didn’t throw me into general population. On arrival, I couldn’t help notice that minorities outnumbered whites about ten to nothing among the recently arrested. Mike’s arms were tattooed left and right with Nazi symbolism and other crap, and I didn’t want to spend the next three days getting beaten up.

Given I’d already been so forthright in my confession, they agreed to my demands. I spent the next two days in my cell uneventfully, relaxing on my foam mattress and absorbing each kick as it arrived. Except for the sounds of the other prisoners it felt almost as if I were back in the Great Wherever. When I tired of reading the paper or magazines (both available even to hardened criminals like me) I closed my eyes and paged through scenes from a family vacation in Myrtle Beach when I was fourteen, one sunbaked minute at a time.

On the third day, I located a tattoo-free section of skin on my left arm. There, using a bendy foam pen made especially for prisoners, I wrote, “Mike… these are the words of God Almighty… do not dispute the confession… give up hate and racism and salvation shall be yours …”

Getting all the ellipses to show up properly hurt, but I thought it added an ominous tone. I wondered how he’d react. Would he grow fearful and change his ways? Or would he assume the cops had drugged him and maliciously scrawled the words on his arm? Of course, all this assumed my rides were unaware the whole time. Otherwise, boy would I look stupid.

On a piece of paper, I told the cops I had “let the girl and her kid go,” that I didn’t know anything about them.

I knew Mike would have a hard time dealing with the ragged end of my adventure, but angry shouting in a small room with a frustrated detective and a confused attorney still had to be better than a bullet in the head.

Later that third morning, somewhere between a mouthful of partially frozen scrambled eggs and a swish of watery orange juice, my tour of Memphis ended.

Chapter 11

Four boys chase Dan through the first neighborhood he remembers growing up in. He’d called one of them a “stupid jerk” from the length of the open field between his neighborhood and theirs. He hadn’t realized there were four of them—the other three had been doing something low to the ground, hidden below the tall grass. But they all popped up after his shout. Then they took after him, yelling things like “get him!” and “we’re gonna kick your ass!”

Dan had only yelled at the kid in the first place because he was afraid to ask if he wanted to hang out. Now, because of an innocent mistake, he is a hunted man.

The boys seem to have a rough idea where he lives because they split up and patrol the area surrounding his family’s end-unit townhouse, effectively blockading him from important information and supplies. Nobody knocks on his door, so they clearly can’t see his eyeball peeking through the curtains of his parents’ bedroom. His hideout is secure—for now.

Dan cracks the window open to hear them.

“You stay here in case he comes back!” one yells, leaving behind a bony kid with glasses.

Glasses! Dan can’t believe it. Even though the boy’s from the neighborhood where the tough kids live, even he isn’t scared of anyone who wears glasses. Fearlessly, Dan slips out the back gate and confronts him. Glasses be damned—this is war. Dan lets fly a punch to the kid’s face. He’s never punched anyone before. Facial skin feels softer than he expects. The kid falls back, shocked by the blow and crying for help. Another boy runs up, a Chinese kid (all Asians back then were Chinese). The kid holds his hands up, ready to fight, but he looks afraid. It makes no sense. Dan can understand the glasses kid being afraid, but a Chinese kid? Everyone knew they were dangerous fighters.

“Die assholes!” Dan screams and gives a few feet of chase—and that’s all it takes to send them running, transmitting their panic to the remaining two boys and routing them back to the tough kids’ neighborhood.

Dan learns an important lesson that day: how he presents himself to others is infinitely more useful than “being himself.” The Chinese kid could have whipped out some fake kung fu moves and Dan would have wet his pants. The kid with the glasses could have removed them before he went probing into enemy territory. And all of them should have seen past his fearsome battle cry and realized he was just one kid, alone against four.

***

I’d been walking along the mystery beach for about ten minutes, feeling good after my adventures as a Howlers Enforcer. I’d kept from killing my ride, and if Dave actually kept his word, protected who knew how many innocents from the Howlers’ sadistic anti-snitching policy. So it made perfect sense that the Great Whomever had rewarded me with a delightful trip to the beach.

I didn’t know where I was, but I didn’t mind. My stay in the Great Wherever hadn’t seemed particularly long, but you never could tell until you looked at a calendar or something. After noting my point of arrival, I went through the motions of patting myself down for information. Not only didn’t I have a calendar on me, I also didn’t have a cell phone or a watch. I had three different wallets and a set of keys tucked away, which was enough information to last me until I could get somewhere with more light.

The night was hot and humid, but with a fresh breeze coming off the saltwater, I felt quite comfortable. There was no moon in sight to ruin the spectacular wash of the cosmos above. I couldn’t even guess what ocean this was, but the water was clear and the sand brilliant white. I figured Hawaii, and if so then the Great Whomever had outdone himself. There were red lights out on the distant ocean blinking off and on. Fishing boats or freight carriers.

A road followed the beach, the far side crammed with houses jammed side-by-side, occupying every inch of available real estate. There were a few cars parked this side of the road up against a barrier of thick, steel cable, with evenly spaced entry points for the public to access the beach. Occasionally, I passed what I assumed were vacationers. Couples strolling, hand-in-hand, picking up pieces of shell or trying to outrun the sizzling tide as it chased them up the bank. Nobody said hello, but who could blame them, late as it was. The men stood a little taller when they noticed me, sometimes switching positions with their girlfriends or wives if it kept me farther away. They had everything to lose.

After about a half hour of this, I turned back, looking for the fallen tree that marked where I’d come into the world and hoped my ride lived somewhere close by.

I could see it in the distance now, the long shadow of it reaching for the ocean like an enormous rogue eyelash. New to the scene were red and blue flashes that lit up the houses and carried down to the water. Police, and lots of them. I stopped where I was and just watched.

There were figures stalking the beach with flashlights, searching everywhere. They were still too far away to see me, but I crouched down anyway. I had no doubt what was going on—my ride must have done something awful, and now they were looking for him. I patted myself down again and found what I missed on my first pass: a foldout knife. It was still too dark to see it clearly so I slogged up to the sparsely lit road for a better look. Despite feeling dangerously exposed, I stood under a street lamp near a cluster of trashcans and examined the knife. Cheap, with some sort of red flame design. The kind of knife displayed near the register at truck stops and places that sold live bait. I doubted any of those came pre-soaked with blood, though. Dark red blood smeared the wickedly curved blade, caking up at the hinge and interfering with its spring assisted lock mechanism.

An ambulance raced by, lights flashing but without the siren, heading toward all the commotion. I felt tempted to follow, to play the part of the curious bystander, but I figured anyone out that late would be questioned. I couldn’t even tell them my ride’s name, let alone give a credible reason for being there. Moments later, a car started my way from the direction of the scene. The police. I crouched down behind the trashcans, hoping the ambulance driver hadn’t mentioned my presence or that some do-gooder from one of the beach houses hadn’t called in a complaint about the strange man with the bloody knife standing all alone across the street.

I folded the knife and put it away.

The police car passed with its emergency lights off, not slowing in its passage. I was safe but I needed to move. When the road was clear as far as I could see in both directions, I shot to the other side and kept going, following a side street into the darkness. These side streets continued, evenly spaced, along the main road—Gulf St. S.—all the way down to where the police were. I was reluctant to go that way, so I continued until I reached a dead end fronted by yet more ocean. Actually, no—an expanse of water, quite wide, with the lights of more buildings way on the other side. I was either on an island or the pointy end of a cape with the ocean on one side and a small bay between me and the far shore.

I calculated the distance to where the police were. About eight blocks. With no other good choices, I began off-roading it through people’s back yards. To my left spread the bay. To my right, one and two story vacation houses slept soundly through my trespass. Once or twice, automatic lights turned on revealing lawn furniture, huge gas grills and beach towels hanging wet and staying that way in the nighttime damp. I saw some beautiful powerboats as well, and made a snap decision to go boating on this trip. And fishing. I loved fishing, and this seemed like a great place to do both.

Stepping onto the side street from beneath the hurricane posts of a large duplex condo, I looked to my right and saw about six police cars with their lights flashing. A crowd had gathered, watching from as close as the police allowed. Pretending I was there for the show, I walked up, affecting a stupid grin worthy of any tourist.

“Wow, what happened here?” I said to a plump, older gentleman in a bathrobe standing at the edge of the group.

“What? Oh. They said there was a stabbing. There’s never been a stabbing here before. It’s a damn shame, that’s what. Used to be a nice place. Used to be you could walk on the beach and not get stabbed.” He sounded grouchy and intractable.

A young woman overheard us.

“They took someone away in an ambulance,” she said. “They wouldn’t do that unless he was alive, would they? Someone said they took his shoes.”

“He?” I said.

“It looked like a man, but I’m not positive. Do you think the news will show up?” She sounded excited. Like her vacation had just gotten a little bit more fun.

I nearly yelped when a police officer stepped in from the left.

“I’m going to hand out some cards now,” he said. “Please pass them around and make sure everyone gets one. If any of you saw anything tonight or noticed anyone strange hanging around lately, don’t hesitate to call me.”

He began handing out little stacks to the people at the front.

A couple of people looked around, and the grouch in the bathrobe cast a casual glance my way.

“Where’re you staying at?” he said, his tone artificially light. Guile definitely wasn’t one of his strong suits.

“Oh… that way,” I said, motioning vaguely back the way I’d come.

“Yeah, which one?” he said, turning his head as if looking down the street, though without taking his eyes off me.

Casually, I put my hands in the pocket with the keys and began pressing the buttons, all the time fighting the urge to run away. Down at the end of the drive a car beeped and flashed, once.

“Right there,” I said, smiling back, trying not to breathe a visible sigh of relief. And then I reminded myself that it was perfectly fine to breathe
in general.

He seemed to relax.

“Ah, waterfront. Expensive?”

“Uh—a little. Because of the, uh, you know, water being right there.”

“I’d rather be closer to the beach,” he said, turning his back and forgetting I existed in one motion.

The excited lady handed me one of the cards. I made a show of looking it over before pocketing it, but nobody noticed. Then I turned around and headed toward the car that went with the key. The entire way, I kept expecting the cop to shout, “Hey, you there!” But it never happened.

From outside, the bungalow seemed small compared to some of the other units, but still nice. The car was a big, white Grand Marquis. I left the car and went to the house. The door was locked, but it unlocked with the first key I tried. I paused for a second, preparing myself for who knew what, then stepped over the threshold into a small, serviceable kitchen. I found the light switch and flicked it on.

“Oh,” I said.

It was a nice place, modeled after the Little Old Lady school of interior design. The lamps in the living room had flowery yellow lampshades with tassels. Lots of flowery embroidery on the couch and chairs, themselves festooned by a mountain of colorful cushions and small, satin pillows.

There’s something I find enjoyable in anything done well and treated with love, even if it’s not something I’d pick for myself. Someone had gone out of their way to give this modest house a loving look. It wasn’t enough to forgive the faint smell of decaying corpse sweetening the air, but I doubt that had been the decorator’s intent.

I stepped past the kitchen into the small dining area. A partially completed puzzle spread across a large, glass table. The borders were all connected, and two sections had been worked simultaneously, revealing the beginnings of a scene from an English countryside. Piles of same-colored pieces were grouped neatly around the sides. A better sign of professional puzzlers there never was.