The Laura Cardinal Novels (38 page)

What do I bet it’s you, asshole?

Laura was able to hobble from the car to the warehouse door, every muscle screaming. Her toes clenched, her teeth aching, her nerve endings shrieking like the high strings on a violin. Every shuffling step was an agony. She wanted to lie down. She wanted to curl into a ball. But Mickey had taken off the handcuffs so she needed to test her limits in case she had a chance to get her weapon back. Otherwise, she knew the end of her pain would also be the end of her life.

Once inside, her freedom ended.

“Carry her, Mick,” Galaz said, his voice impatient. “Otherwise it’ll take all day.”

Mickey slung her over his shoulder.

The warehouse was empty except for broken glass. In the huge, cavernous space, their footsteps crunched on glass and concrete, echoing in the rafters high above. The last light of the day poked through the jagged holes in the many windowpanes. The intact windows had been painted over dark green, giving the place a murky, aqueous cast.

They didn’t have far to go. Half of one side of the warehouse was a suite of offices—cheap wallboard painted mint green, doors removed. Their destination was the corner office, closest to the back door.

“Who’s there?”

The voice belonged to a girl. It sounded creaky, as if she wasn’t used to speaking. Just inside the door, Harmon set Laura down.

She was facing into the room, but her mind balked. She stared at her feet, at the floor, a kind of disconnect. She didn’t want to see what had been done to Summer. Her job was finding the bad guy. Her job was to pick up the pieces. Her job was to comfort the families. There was nothing she had ever done that had prepared her for this.

She couldn’t do anything for Summer. She was helpless.

Galaz said, “What’s the matter, Laura? You’ve been looking for her all day—aren’t you the least bit curious?” At the same moment, Mickey Harmon poked her in the back.

She couldn’t see this. It would do her in. She couldn’t help Summer, she couldn’t help herself. For the first time in her life, Laura wanted to give up.
Give it up, let it go
. Like slipping into a warm bath. A certain comfort when you knew it was hopeless, and you were just waiting for death.

One more push from Harmon and she was in the room.

She smelled the stale air, fear riding on it. Fear and sweat and tears. And the coppery smell of old blood.

She squeezed her eyes shut, the way she did sometimes when the alarm went off and she insisted on sleeping a little longer, knowing that once she opened her eyes it was all over, she’d have to get up.

“Please …” the girl said, her voice drifting off. So pathetic that Laura felt a warm surge of emotion, tears climbing up into her throat.

When she heard Summer’s voice, her resolve came back.

She willed her eyes open.

When Buddy was a kid, he was obsessed with American Indians. He read books about them, watched movies, pestered his parents to take him to Indian ceremonies—especially the Apaches, who were the toughest people on earth. During the Indian wars, an Apache could cover seventy miles a day on foot. The Apaches trained their infants not to make noise because they might alert the enemy. They lived on stealth because otherwise they would be eradicated. Now his days of stalking the low-rent neighborhood in south Phoenix where he grew up came back to him.

He was quiet. Like air, threading through the cracks of the world.

Silently he tracked Lundy through the dark parking lot of the Chiricahua Paint Company. Adhering to his training: Always find cover. Cover was something a bullet couldn’t go through, like the engine block of a car. That was something that had been hammered into his head over and over. Find cover. If you can’t find cover, find concealment. And if you can’t find concealment, look for an escape route.

Lundy was a lightweight: A guy who picked on little girls. Watching him creep along the warehouse wall, flinching at every noise—it could have made Buddy complacent, but it didn’t. The minute you let your guard down, that was when fate got you. He’d seen it many times in his twenty-three years in law enforcement. Just a little bit of inattention, and you were dead.

So he did not underestimate this man. Hated him, yes, but even the hate he had to push down deep inside. He had to clear the fear for his daughter out of his mind if he wanted to help her.

Not much cover around here, so he went for concealment.

The little man had his back to the warehouse wall, inching around like he was on a ledge twenty floors up. Clear he didn’t know what he was doing.

Time to take him out.

Buddy was behind him in an instant, one arm around his neck and his other hand over his mouth. He was tempted to administer a choke hold, tempted to take the choke hold too far.

He said quietly in Dale Lundy’s ear, “Make a sound and I will kill you. Do you understand?”

A quick nod, his eyes bugging out.

He dragged Lundy backwards, off his feet—the guy was as light as a feather. Dragged him under a tamarisk tree. The salt cedar’s boughs trailed almost to the ground, affording him all the privacy he needed.

He had Lundy cuffed and on his stomach, one knee pressed into his back. Thinking about how much he’d like to pound his head into the pavement, crack it like an egg.

“Where is she?” he demanded.

“I don’t know—“

“Don’t fuck with me. Where is she?” Pressing his knee harder.

“She’s in there.”

“Why?”

“It wasn’t my fault. I tried to save her, but he got her anyway, I tried, I tried …" Blubbering. New blue Keds skating in the dirt.

Buddy fighting panic now—who got her? “Is she hurt?”

“I don’t know—I don’t think so. She looked okay when he took her in there.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Two, three hours ago? I can’t remember—it could be longer than that.”

“Who is
he
?”

“Dark Moondancer.”

He shook Lundy until he rattled. “Are you playing games with me? Because if you are—“

“No no no! Dark Moondancer. That’s his
name
. It’s the truth, I swear to God, it’s his nick. He took her away from me, all I ever wanted was for her and me to—”

“Shut up!" He heard the savagery in his own voice. Out of control. Gritted his teeth, tamped down his revulsion. His voice quiet. “If you don’t shut the fuck up about that I’ll kill you.” He took a deep breath. “Tell me about Dark Moondancer.”

“I don’t know him really, except from the Internet. He … he and I have had transactions over the years. He knew I was in town and he wanted to … to meet Summer.”

Buddy gave him a hard slap to the head. “Go on.”

“He’s evil. He likes torture. That’s why I refused to let him meet Summer. I wanted to protect her.”

“What are you saying? He’s torturing my daughter in there?”

Lundy gasped. “Your daughter?”

“Answer the question.”

“Oh God. Ohmygod, I’m dead. Oh God, please don’t hurt me!”

His voice hopeless.

Buddy felt something crack in his heart.

Laura stared, taking in everything at once, but unable to completely assimilate it. Breaking it down object by object, things she could name. A gas can on the floor. A trouble light. Extension cords. A video camera. A work table. Tools arrayed neatly on the table’s pristine surface—pliers, a vise, an electric drill, a staple gun. The tool cabinet was like the one her father owned, candy-apple red. The kind you got at Sears.

Shackles bolted to the walls. Meat hooks dangling from the ceiling. A machine that looked custom-made, padded, something you’d see in a gym, but with shackles, chains, and pulleys at each end. A modern-day rack? Photos tacked to the wall, eight-by-tens of the hell he had committed on young women and girls—she counted three different women, photographed from all angles. Tied up, eyes bulging with fear. Before and After shots.

Digital photos of Jessica Parris after death.

A place for Let’s Go People! to unwind.

Laura took it in, trying to stay clinical. She almost lost it as she stared at the mattress on the floor, though, soaked through with old bloodstains. So many reds, browns and blacks they formed a hard, shiny slick.

Mickey prodded her deeper into the room.

“You two girls know each other?” asked Galaz.

When Laura finally looked at Summer, she felt both relief and revulsion.

The girl was bolted to one wall, huddled down as far as she could get, but her arms were held high above her head. Wearing a little girl’s dress.

Unhurt, physically. But how did you face something like this without losing a grip on your soul?

Twelve years old

She looked at Galaz, the supercilious smile on his face. Seeing living, breathing women as something to torture for his pleasure, because he was so empty he couldn’t get a high any other way.

If there’s a way for me to kill you
, she thought,
I will
.

Buddy secured Lundy to the tree with the cuffs after tearing strips of the man’s shirt for a gag. Arms behind him, cuffs looped around a sturdy bough. Lundy on his knees.

That would hurt before too long. His back would be in agony. Good.

Buddy started for the back of the warehouse.

The cars were there, Laura Cardinal’s and Galaz’s. He made a circuit of the building, which was uniformly dark except for the one area near the corner, where a dim light leaked out through the holes in the painted-over windows.

That’s where they were.

Buddy leaned his back against the brick, which still retained heat from the day. He needed to call it in. The cell phone would have to do. But before that, he took the knife he always carried and stabbed the tires on the two vehicles.

He called 911, explained who he was, that he was a cop. Gave the exact location. The South Tucson police were on their way. He got through to DPS, to Jerry Grimes.

He’d give them five minutes.

Laura was aware of Galaz standing near her. He was smug, pleased with himself. But there was something else.

Something going on with him.

Working out a problem.

“Why don’t you check her shackles?” Galaz said to Harmon.

“They’re fine.”

“Humor me, Mick.”

Ponderously, Harmon walked over to Summer and bent down to check. He straightened, said, “I told you they were fi—“

The bullet took him in the chest, throwing him against the wall.

Galaz was holding Laura’s weapon, looking down at Harmon.

“Sorry, Mickey, there’s been a change of plans,” he said.

Mickey started crawling along the floor.

Galaz crossed over to Mickey, his latex-gloved hand swooping in to take the gun from Harmon’s shoulder holster. Harmon gasping, still crawling.

Galaz staring down at him. “You look like a snail, Mickey.”

He followed as Mickey Harmon crawled, his fancy shoes inches from his face. Laura saw the narrow planes of Galaz’s face—rapt attention.

She looked from him to the work table. Less than two feet away, but her muscles had gotten cold again from not moving, and when she tried to move in that direction, her body resisted like wood.

Had to do it.

Couldn’t.

She looked at Summer. The look on her face. Jesus.

Throat constricted, aching, clenching—she inched her way, one eye on Galaz, the pleasure he got from watching Mickey crawl.

“Almost to the door, Mickey,” Galaz said. “If you make it before dying, I’ll let you go." Pocketing her gun. Holding Mickey’s.

Laura was almost to the table.

Mickey, two feet from the doorway.

Galaz, in a world of his own. The look on his face orgasmic.

The knife was closest. She didn’t know if she could even wrap her crippled fingers around it. Even the idea was agony.

She heard a train horn.

Galaz still had his back to her, but he seemed to have lost interest in Mickey, who had fallen short of his mark and lay either dead or unconscious short of the doorway. Galaz oddly still. Thinking?

Laura’s fingertips touched the knife. She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, tried to grasp it. How she’d be able to do anything when she couldn’t even wrap her fingers around the knife, she didn’t know.

Suddenly, Galaz turned.

Laura started and the knife scuttled out of her fingers.

Galaz looked from the knife to Laura. “Can’t do it, can you, Detective Cardinal? It must be frustrating, not being about to tell your body what to do when you’ve done it all your life.”

Unconcerned, he crossed to the place Laura had been. Like a choreographer, he eyed the distance between that spot and where Mickey Harmon was shot. “This can work,” he said, and nodded. “You shoot at Mickey and Mickey shoots at you. The problem is—maybe you can help me figure this out—what about all my hairs, fibers, fingerprints? Semen? What would you do?”

Laura needed to get the knife. But she’d pushed it even farther away, and her hands were cramping up even worse.

Galaz spun around and scanned the room. Frowning. “Have to burn the place down. That’s the only solution, don’t you think?” Talking more quickly now. “He shoots you, but you shoot him; he’s wounded. He’s got to cover this up though. So he pours the gas and lights a match and then tries to get out. Does that sound plausible?”

Not expecting her to answer.

“Or he’s about to pour the gas and lights it just as you shoot him—I don’t think it really matters. The important thing is the Point of Origin. It’s got to be right … here.”

He strode over to where Mickey was when he was shot. Only a couple of feet from Summer. He had been checking her shackles just before Galaz shot him.

Outside in the night, she heard a train coming, horn blaring to warn people away from the tracks. Laura looked at Summer. Fear shiny in her eyes. Watching Galaz, understanding what he was saying, that the Point of Origin would be at her feet.

Galaz looked at Summer.

“Something I’ve always wanted to do—the Joan of Arc thing. Too bad I won’t be here to see it all." He winked at Summer and walked to the gas can, hefted it up. Held it near her, watching her face. Completely absorbed in her fear.