No Going Back (5 page)

‘It belongs to my bro,’ he said, with a tip of his head to the stockier man. The other was just zipping up as he walked over. I grinned at him.

‘Man, I’d shake your hand,’ I said, nodding down at his fly, ‘but not yet, eh?’

‘What do you drive, buddy?’ The tall one asked, as he plucked an insect from his moustache and flicked it away.

‘Nothing as beautiful as a first gen.’ I jerked a thumb across the lot to where my GMC was parked. While I did so, I checked that their lady friend was still inside the building. Yes, she was a skank, but that didn’t mean I’d changed my opinion of the way women should be treated. I didn’t want her around if things turned awkward – a real possibility if I’d misread these men. Moving around the Camaro, I peered inside, not interested in it, but in what extras I might see. ‘I think we’re guys of a like mind. We have the same kind of
tastes
?’

The men shared a glance, then studied me keenly. They were probably deciding if they’d heard right and were trying to make me as a cop. My English accent would throw them off that line faster than anything.

‘You buying?’ the first man asked.

‘Depends on what you’re selling.’

‘Just grass, man.’

I shook my head. ‘I’m not talking drugs.’

A quizzical look shot between them.

‘I’ve a little problem to deal with, but I don’t have the tools for the job.’ I was being purposefully vague, hoping that they would offer the conclusion. If they were just low-end potheads, they were no good to me and I’d walk away.

‘What kind of problem?’ The stocky one had jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. No way was he carrying, and the manner in which he’d just compromised himself meant he was no immediate danger. Not a good sign, considering.

‘Personal problem.’ I just stood looking at them.

The taller man sucked his teeth, before jerking his head for me to follow him. To his friend he said, ‘Pop the trunk.’

The boot was full of junk, a toolbox, a blanket, and a spare tyre. The tall man dug around inside the toolbox, lifting out wrenches and hammers and placing them on the rolled blanket. From under the tools he pulled a bundle of rags, and even though there was a musty odour in general, I recognised the more familiar scent of gun oil. Taking a look over his shoulder, he checked that no one was spying on us. His action was the mark of an amateur, but it didn’t matter now. He unfurled the edges of the cloth and disclosed what lay within. It wasn’t a semi-auto handgun, the likes of which I usually carried, but a six-shot revolver, and a box of ammo stained dark with lubricant. It was a workhorse weapon, a Smith and Wesson, chambered for both .38 Special and .357 cartridges, and as good a gun as I could hope for. I leaned past the man and lifted the gun out of the rags, worked the cylinder, checked the piece over. ‘Is it clean?’

‘It hasn’t been used in a stick-up, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at?’

‘The serial number’s been filed off.’

‘Didn’t say it never would be.’ The guy gave me a shit-eating grin, playing the tough guy. He wasn’t the real deal. I considered taking the gun and the ammunition off him. I’d be doing a service, probably to him. During one of his highs he might shoot himself in the foot. But I was no thief. I peeled three hundred dollars off Jameson Walker’s roll. ‘That’s all I’m willing to pay. But that includes the shells.’

‘Three hundred? Damn, I’d throw the bitch in as well for that price.’

Recalling their girlfriend’s pie-dish face, her spindly legs and tottering gait, I declined politely. But that was the deal done. I wasn’t going to shake on it; they were drug-dealing arseholes, not the type I’d normally give the time of day. I took the gun, wrapped it in the cloth, stuffed the box of ammunition into my jacket pocket and then headed for the GMC.

Now that I’d prepared myself, the hunt was on. It was time to go find Jay and Nicole. Maybe I wouldn’t need the gun. But that was unlikely.

6

Some time later I came to the gas station mentioned in the news articles Jameson Walker had provided. Coming upon it in the dark, it looked different from the images on the printed sheets. It was no less stark, and if anything even more terrible in real life. The shack that had served as the teller’s booth-cum-convenience store had collapsed down on itself. Fire crews had sifted through the wreckage while recovering the corpse of the teller and much of the building now lay in mangled heaps about the original foundations. The fuel pumps had been taken by the explosion that ripped through the site, as had an awning erected to offer shade to customers as they filled up their gas tanks. The vehicles belonging to the teller and the family who were also murdered had been lifted and taken away for further forensic study. If it wasn’t for the signage at the side of the highway, you’d be hard put to guess Peachy’s gas station had ever been there.

Crime scene tape fluttered on the desert breeze, like bunting after a celebration but as a more sinister reminder to the world. Here people had died: senseless slaughter. Standing there among the damp ashes, I could picture the wraiths of the murder victims standing beyond the ring of yellow tape, staring back at me with sunken eyes. They were probably wondering why I was there. This wasn’t my battle; sadly I couldn’t help them. I could not exact retribution from their killers.

Or could I?

Perhaps I was mistaken and what had occurred here did have something to do with the missing women. I had an odd feeling that tickled the back of my brain, something I’d come to recognise over the years. Cops call it a
hunch
. The army I belonged to called it rapid intuitive experience or RIE. Then again, maybe it was simply wishful thinking. I was once cautioned that I couldn’t save everyone. That was infinitely apparent; a good number of people I cared for had been killed despite my best efforts. But, if the people who’d died here had done so under the guns of those responsible for taking Jay and Nicole, at least I could try to avenge them.

I heard the car coming along the road, then its tyres juddering on the rumble strip as it took the ramp to the gas station. When a Navajo County police cruiser pulled up alongside my GMC, I can’t say I was particularly surprised.

I just stood there, looking at the devastation, and waited for the officer to approach me. He was a young man, thick about the shoulders and neck, his dress shirt straining around his overdeveloped biceps. He’d doffed his Smokey Bear hat while in the car but, as he approached me warily, he jammed it over his crew-cut as a sign of officialdom. Then he laid his hand on the butt of his sidearm.

‘Excuse me, sir?’ His teeth were very white, offset by his permanent tan, and vivid against the night. ‘Can I ask what business you have out here?’

The cop had most likely been briefed to spin by the gas station regularly. It wasn’t uncommon for looters to go to a scene of destruction, or ghoulish souvenir hunters either. Family members of those murdered sometimes had to see where their loved ones had died, as a form of closure. And then, sometimes, the perpetrators of a crime also liked to return and view the aftermath of their work. By the way he studied me from head to toe he was determining which bracket I fitted into.

‘I’m just taking a look, Officer,’ I said.

He waved at the fluttering crime scene tape. ‘You see that, sir? It means
keep out
. You shouldn’t have come back here.’

‘It was broken when I arrived.’

‘That doesn’t make any difference, sir. It still says “Do Not Cross’’, and it’s an offence to do so.’

I paid his last comment no mind. Instead, I slowly reached for my jacket pocket, letting him see exactly where I was reaching. His fingers hovered over his service pistol, but I was posing no threat. I pulled out a folding wallet and opened it for him. ‘I’m a private investigator. I’m looking for two women who might or might not have been through here.’

The cop accepted my wallet, and studied it. It couldn’t have been easy in the darkness, but there was enough of a glow from his cruiser’s headlights to see the heading on the licence inside. ‘You’re a long way from home,’ he concluded. He didn’t clarify if he meant Florida, or if he was referring to my English accent. I didn’t take him up on it.

‘I was employed by the father of one of the women. He was sure that his daughter and her friend would have passed this way around the time the gas station was robbed.’

The cop moved closer to me, and he appeared to be checking my belt line. ‘Are you carrying?’

‘No.’

‘You mind if I check?’

‘Go ahead,’ I said, holding my arms out. ‘I’ve a folding knife in my back pocket, but that’s all you’ll find.’

I was glad that I’d left the revolver purchased from the potheads in my GMC. I hadn’t tried the weapon out yet, and wouldn’t trust it to work proficiently until I’d stripped, cleaned and test-fired it.

‘You’re licensed to carry, aren’t you, sir?’

‘Only in Florida, Officer.’

He offered a slight smile – the son of a bitch had been testing me. He neglected to continue his search and nodded me over to his cruiser. ‘You understand I’m going to have to run a check on you, sir? If you’d just walk over this way so we can get a bit of light, it’ll make things much easier for the two of us.’

Maybe if he got the full details, then he’d try to be a hero and take me in. That would’ve been unfortunate, because I’d no desire to spend a few days behind bars until things could be cleared up. Luckily I had friends in high places and much of the activity I’d been involved in on US soil had been sealed. The cop used the radio in his cruiser, and when he got back out he was frowning, snapping my wallet against his thigh. ‘Your details check out.’

‘I’m a good guy,’ I said, offering him a smile.

‘That’s debatable.’ He started to hand back my wallet, but as I went to take it he held on. ‘I think it’s best you get on your way, sir. Don’t be coming back here, OK?’

‘I have no reason to. I’ve seen what I wanted to see.’

‘I’ve had to move on a few lookie-loos,’ he said, and finally let go of my wallet, which I placed in my jacket pocket. ‘I don’t expect to tell
anyone
twice.’

I pulled out the photos of Jay and Nicole. ‘Have you moved these two on?’

He gave the photos a cursory inspection, shook his head. ‘I think I’d have remembered if I’d seen them. Good-looking girls. You said they’re missing, but there’s been nothing logged about them back at the station.’

‘This girl here.’ I tapped the picture of Jay. ‘Her father reported her missing but was given the brush-off by someone on the other end of the phone.’

The cop made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat, and thumbed back the brim of his hat. ‘Typical,’ he said. ‘Like everywhere else, we’re short-staffed. Most of our resources have been thrown into finding the perpetrators of this crime. Whoever he spoke to will have had orders to prioritise incoming calls. If those ladies hadn’t been gone more than forty-eight hours, then I doubt their details were even noted.’

‘It’s almost three days now,’ I said. ‘How’s about I have her father call again?’

‘I’d advise it, sir. In the meantime, I’ll keep my eyes open while I’m on patrol.’

‘Appreciate it, Officer.’ I gave him the number of my cellphone, as well as a description of the vehicle they were travelling in. ‘If you see anything, could you give me a call?’

‘Sure.’ He paused. ‘But it makes no difference, sir, you’d best get yourself outta here.’

I took a look at his badge. ‘Consider it done, Officer Lewin. But first . . . you mind if I ask you another question or two?’

‘Who’s the cop here?’

‘Who’s the investigator?’ I countered.

He grunted out a laugh, but started walking towards my car. ‘Ask away, I don’t guarantee to answer.’

‘I’m not after state secrets. Do you get many missing persons reports here?’

‘No more than anywhere else, I guess. Sometimes tourists get lost out in the desert, but we usually find them within a couple hours.’

‘I called at a truck stop a few miles back. There seemed to be quite a few missing person posters.’

‘If you’d read the details you’d have seen most of them were from outta state. People driving through slap the posters up on an off-chance, that’s all.’

‘So, you don’t have a problem with people going missing?’

Lewin eyeballed me. There was a muscle jumping on the side of his jaw. ‘If you’re suggesting we have someone abducting people, then the answer’s no. We have no more problems here than anywhere else, just like I said. There’s only . . .’

‘Only?’

‘. . . only one outstanding issue that I’m aware of. Helena Blackstock. She’s still on our books. It’s been four months since she disappeared.’

‘She’s from around here?’

‘Up nearer to Indian Wells.’ Lewin stopped, realising he’d just overstepped the mark. A woman missing four months had no bearing on the disappearance I was investigating, and was therefore none of my business. We’d reached my GMC and he gave it a cursory once-over. Then he held out his hand, directing me inside. ‘I think we’ll leave things at that, sir.’

‘Hunter,’ I reminded him. ‘That’s my name. For when you call me.’

‘If I call you. I can’t guarantee I’ll come across the women.’ With that he walked away, snatching off his hat and dashing sweat from the inner rim.