Stalking Death (40 page)

"I think I ought to lie down somewhere, Todd. I'm not feeling quite right." Banking on my belief that Chambers wasn't a very brave man and most likely a squeamish one, I ran my bloody hand over my face, smearing it until I had to look like I was painted for war. He tried to shake me off and slide away. I clung to his arm.

"Jesus, will you leave me alone," he yelped, jerking his arm out of my grasp. "You're getting blood all over me."

"Sorry." I manufactured a smile as least as loopy as Alasdair's. "I wasn't thinking. Can you excuse me, please. I've got to get to the infirmary." I took a few tentative steps toward the door.

"Forget that. You're not going anywhere. Now sit down and shut up." Woodson grabbed my shoulder and steered me back to my seat on the truck. As soon as he released me, I slid off the seat onto the floor, putting two bloody hands down to brace myself. "Oh, Sweet Jesus, you're going to get blood everywhere. Todd. In the Security Office there's a box of tee-shirts I got for the guys. Go grab a couple, will ya."

"Alasdair." I heard a bunch of keys being tossed. My keys, probably. "Go move that Jeep, will you, so we can get the other car out."

"Sure thing, Boss."

They had to be pretty pathetic, both of them, to let bottom-dwelling scum like Alasdair push them around and smart-mouth them like this. It made Woodson and Chambers, corrupt and soulless as they were, seem a little less frightening. But I had to remember—they had both colluded to help with, or at least cover up—the death of whoever had been pulled out of that fire. Probably the boy I'd read about in the paper who'd gone missing. It was his car they were conspiring to hide.

Like everything else about this ugly business—Shondra's pain and Jen Reilly's, Jamison's situation—the fact that some parents were worried sick about their missing son didn't matter to this crew.

"Todd, when you're done with that, could you look in that storage cupboard there in the back, find me a roll of duct tape?"

Oh no. No way. I was not submitting to another duct taping without a fight. The list of physical invasions I am keen to avoid is long. Broken noses held the number one spot, until they were edged out by getting shot, but getting wrapped with duct tape gives me serious creeps. I could do such a riff on the uses of duct tape, from a personal grooming perspective—replacing the chemical peel and the bikini wax, for example—that I could audition to be a stand-up comic. But all I wanted was to be a stand-up gal. Stand up to these assholes and go home.

I heard the roar of the Jeep's engine, the squeal of tires, and a thud as Alasdair ran into something with my rental car. The little jerk. How could he be so successfully evil if he was so incompetent? Because no matter what he did, he got bailed out? Because the things he attempted didn't need skill, they only needed lust and self-centeredness and a total lack of values?

But he had been sufficiently devious to mess with Shondra for a long time without getting caught. And if he'd only left town like he was supposed to, he was close to getting away with murder. Maybe his mental condition was deteriorating or his drug use accelerating? Maybe somewhere deep in the boy's tattered soul, corruption was taking its toll.

"Oh, shit," Woodson said. "What's that dumb bastard done now?"

"He's not dumb," Chambers said, dropping a couple tee-shirts on the floor beside me. "He's just indifferent. Why should he care whether he gets it right? You know..." There was a thoughtful pause. "Even if we do get rid of the car, and Shondra, and he leaves like he's supposed to, I don't see how we can trust him to keep his mouth shut and not, in some moment of drugged out honesty or bar braggadocio, claim credit for the things he's done here."

"Yeah," Woodson said. "If you only had the money from Grandpa MacGregor, we could solve several problems at once, couldn't we?"

"That's just it, Woody." Chambers sounded suddenly lighter and more cheerful. "I
do
have the money. He wired it to the bank this morning."

They bustled about, getting ready for our trip to the country, while I wrestled with one of the tee-shirts, trying to tear it into strips with my wounded hand. Eventually I managed to fashion a reasonable bandage around my head. They were packing a big green duffle bag with shovels, flashlights and rope. I winced as I saw that Woodson was wearing a gun, but my insides really shriveled when he selected a nice, shiny axe—what a boy scout would call a hatchet—and stuffed that into the bag.

Trust me. I'm no axe murderer.

Alasdair came back from jockeying the cars.

"You run into something?" Woodson said.

"Fuck, man. Some asshole parked this big black Lincoln right behind me. I didn't even see it." He shot a nasty grin at Chambers.

"Goddammit, Alasdair," Chambers exploded. "Can't you do anything right?"

Alasdair gave a 'who cares?' shrug. "What you gonna do, Toddy? Sue me? Fuckin' hard to do when I'm dead."

Woodson grabbed the tape from Chambers and looked at me. "Stand up and turn around," he said. "We've got to get moving."

I was in no hurry. Wherever we were going was worse for me than here. I perched on the running board and thought about all my efforts to try and make Chambers 'get it.' To open his eyes to the issues concerning the safety and well-being of his students. The reputation of his school. The job that had to be done. No wonder he'd blown me off. He didn't care about anything but himself and his "legacy." Whether he knew it or not, his "legacy" was going to crash and burn, even if I didn't survive this. Eventually, Bushnell would come looking for me and I was leaving a trail a blindman could follow.

"Goddamit, I said stand up and turn around." Woodson grabbed my arm, hauled me roughly to me feet, spun me around and slammed me up against the side of the truck. Macho asshole cop stuff. I half-expected him to finish the job by ordering me to put my hands on the roof and spread my legs. Instead, he barked, "Put your hands behind your back."

I didn't. Instead, banking on his unwillingness to shoot me here, I just turned and stared at him. "Why do you want me to do that?"

He wanted to say, "Because I said so." The words trembled on his lips. What he said was, "So you won't try and get away."

I held up my mangled fingers. "If you're going to tie my hands, could you do it in front? Otherwise, I'm going to be leaning on these." He could see what I meant. I bit my lip and waited.

Alasdair had that eager, ugly, hungry look again, like he was hoping I would have to beg, and Chambers looked bored with the whole proceeding. If he hadn't been the brains necessary to stage-manage all this, I could almost have felt sorry for Woodson. It's hard to be the only smart kid in the group. Any group. Even a group of killers.

"All right. In front." Woodson sighed. "But no funny stuff."

As if there were anything funny about this. With my hands in front, I had a shot at undoing a seatbelt, opening a car door or window, or grabbing the steering wheel. Possibly even getting the pepper spray out of my pocket. It was infinitely better than the cramped, shoulder-wrenching position I'd be in with them behind me and I wouldn't be rubbing the remaining skin off my knuckles. "Thank you," I murmured.

"Hold out your hands." He wrapped them in enough duct tape to fasten an elephant to the ceiling, then grabbed my elbow and started steering me toward the door. "Todd, you drive the gray car with Alasdair. I'll follow you in the Jeep." He held out a hand to Alasdair. "The keys?"

Alasdair danced away. "I want to drive the Jeep."

"But you don't want to get caught, remember?" Woodson reminded him. "And if you drive either car, your driving will be erratic enough to attract attention. On second thought, maybe you'd better come with me, just in case Todd gets stopped. Now give me the goddamned keys." Alasdair gave him the keys.

"Gets stopped?" Chambers said. "Why?"

"You've seen the front end. You've got a headlight out, a crumpled fender, a missing bumper. That's why we're taking back roads and driving below the limit."

"Well, I don't know, Woody, maybe you should drive the gray car and I'll take the Jeep."

"Jesus Fucking Christ, Todd, what are you thinking? You want to drive an unfamiliar car on unfamiliar roads with the consultant broad all covered with blood AND Alasdair because what? You think it's safer? Trust me. It is a lot easier to explain a crumpled front end than to explain Ms. Kozak."

"Couldn't we just put her in the trunk? I can handle Alasdair."

He could handle Alasdair. It was that kind of thinking that had caused this whole mess. He couldn't handle his own dick in a dark room. At that moment, I was so sorry I'd never taken Chambers into the back room and knocked him around. It might not have improved the current situation, but it would have made me feel better. Woodson seemed to like Chamber's idea. Man had probably never spent any time in a car's trunk. It isn't pleasant. Chambers was such a bleeping inconsistent asshole he was bound to be one of those brake-riding stop and go drivers who'd knock me around like crazy.

"Good idea. You drive the gray car. We'll put Kozak in the trunk, and I'll lead the way with Alasdair." He held out a hand. "Take the keys, Todd."

"But I meant..."

"I know what you fuckin' meant, Todd. I'm saying what we're gonna do, okay? And can we just goddamned do it before someone comes sniffing around or poor old Donnie there wakes up? Can we please or do you need to have some goddamned meeting first? We've got our asses in a sling here."

I'd gotten cold while I was hiding, and I was colder now that the adrenaline shock of getting injured was fading. Sometimes, if I get mad enough, anger can generate some heat, but not this time. I assumed I'd have plenty of time enroute to think about a plan, but in the end I'd have to play it by ear. And I only had one good one. Right now I was using it to listen for the arrival of the cavalry, but without a lot of hope. It was Andre, after all, who had the high opinion of Lt. Bushnell.

Woodson took my arm in a grip that conveyed all of his anger and frustration, and pulled me toward the door. "If you'll just step this way, Ms. Kozak, your chariot awaits."

Chapter 31

It was not a sweet chariot, though it did swing low. It was an icy, miserable, bumpy chariot that smelled of stale beer and cigarettes, of cold pizza and automotive products. A truly stomach churning combination, so that when I wasn't silently cursing—Woodson's spate of profanity seemed to be contagious—or considering my options once the trunk was opened, I was working hard on trying not to be sick. It would have been even more unpleasant to be rolling around with that.

I was supposed to be thinking about survival. But there wasn't much I could do until we arrived and I saw the lay of the land. I contented myself with gnawing on the duct tape. Slow going since I frequently needed to use my hands to brace myself, but I made some progress. When we finally rolled to a stop, I gathered myself to react quickly but the trunk didn't open. Instead, I heard Chambers asking querulously, "This is stupid. Why are we stopping here? Someone might notice the cars."

"Because Alasdair needed to use the facilities."

Woodson had a way of sounding almost bored with the whole business, as though he wasn't really a part of it. Was that how he thought of it—some business for St. Matthews he had to take care of, or was being blackmailed into taking care of? Just one more thing that needed to be done to cover his own ass? From what had been said, the only thing he needed to worry about personally was Shondra's tape. Except that he'd hidden the car, and knew about the dead boy. No. Whatever tone he affected, he, like Chambers, was in this up to his bony ass.

"What's wrong with the side of the road?" Chambers demanded. Still the petty and peevish bureaucrat. Did he still not get it? He was an accessory to one murder and planning another.

Didn't that call for some level of gravity?

What was wrong with me? I was wrapped in duct tape in the trunk of a car and I was still thinking like the guy was my client and I was worried about his public presentation. I wasn't so naïve as to think that all murderers were serious people who went about their task in a serious way. Most murders, and murderers, are pretty stupid.

"I don't think he's answering the call of nature, Todd. He's answering the call of chemicals."

"Answering the call of... oh... yeah. I got it." Chambers sighed. "That boy is monstrous." He was just figuring this out? I wanted to pound on the trunk and taunt him, but there would have been little satisfaction in it. Maybe a good Christian rejoices when the blind finally have their eyes opened, but the spirit of charity had left me a while back. I was just curious what Chambers would say about dealing with their monstrous charge.