Where Evil Lurks Page 3

  “Give me your phone number. If I can sort everything out and come to a decision, I’ll call you. If it’s ‘Yes,’ I’ll need a contract.”

  “No contract. This instead,” she said, reaching into her handbag again. She placed two packets of bills on the table next to the credit card. “They’re each $5,000. That’s a substantial advance on wages. I’ll keep to my side of the bargain because at worst, I lose a trifling sum of money. You’ll keep to your side because your word is, as they say, your bond.” Her steely blue eyes met and held mine. “Do I judge you right, Dagny?”

  “Please keep the money and the credit card for now.” I told her. “I’ll call you when I’ve made a decision.”

  She put the money and the card back in her bag expressionlessly, never taking her eyes off mine. We each sensed the interview was over, and stood up. I escorted her outside, where we shook hands but said no more.

  Ashley stepped off the veranda into the early October sunshine. She hitched her bag back over her shoulder and walked to the curb with a firm stride. Sunbeams danced in her golden hair as it swung gently from side to side in counterpoint to her swaying hips.

  The Lotus had attracted some local attention. The immaculate, liquid-blue fiberglass body radiated with a soft light of its own. Several of my neighbors were admiring it. They kept their hands in their pockets the way you do in a fancy china shop. A teenager had gone so far as to crawl half under the car for a view of the engine. When he saw Ashley approach—he must have had an eyeful of her legs—he hastened to extricate himself, knocking his head with a loud crack on the undercarriage. His buddies tittered like a flock of sparrows.

  Ashley didn’t mind any of it. She put on her best southern charm and accent—not an “r” to be heard—as she wished them a good morning. She smoothed down her leather skirt and glided sinuously into the driver’s seat. With an inscrutable smile, she drove slowly away, depriving the guys of an acceleration display.

  She was cool. Too cool, I thought, or maybe too rich, or too something. But a client is a client, and a challenge is a challenge. It would test my mettle to find any one of those men, let alone all three.

  I went back inside and received nose touches from Hank and Midas as thanks for returning so promptly. We all three returned to the living room, where the greyhounds nestled back in their huge pillows and I sprawled on the sofa to think.

  I was too fidgety to relax, for I was agitated by Ashley’s sordid account, and annoyed by the relentless surge and ebb of the mower’s clangor. Soon, I was pacing up and down, much to the consternation of the dogs. They raised their heads to follow my movements.

  The mowing stopped at last. I sat down at the old Bösendorfer and began to play a Schubert sonata I was learning. Classical piano playing is a hobby of mine, though not one at which I excel. It does, however, oblige a girl to keep her nails well clipped. More important, it diverts the conscious mind into other channels, leaving room for the subconscious to work. The sonata sings and dances through a variety of keys and moods. My mind underwent similar modulations regarding Ashley’s offer. The sonata ends in the optimistic key of A Major. I decided to take the case.

  CHAPTER 4

  I picked up the portable phone by the piano and dialed Barry Hernandez, pressing the buttons with my left thumb while my right hand doodled over the notes to the James Bond theme. He said he’d be happy to take over for me, and that he was fixing to get married and needed the extra bucks. I drove to his office with all the necessary paperwork. Inside of two hours I’d explained each case to him. I made a few phone calls from his office to tell clients of the switch. Everyone was agreeable.

  I left Barry’s office without calling Ashley. I didn’t want a record of her number to show up on his phone bill. I had my cell phone but I didn’t use it, either, because of security concerns. It had recently been discovered that the governor’s own cell phone conversations had been plucked out of the air and played to members of the opposing party. I had little reason to think my calls were any more secure.

  I called Ashley when I got home, but all I got was her machine. I left a terse “call me” message and returned to the Schubert. I slow-practiced several tricky passages, and when I tired of that, I moved to my desk and logged on to read e-mail. I was halfway through a reply to my brother John in California when the phone rang.

  It was Ashley. I told her of my decision to take her case. She sounded pleased and we arranged for her to return to my place the next day. She’d bring notes from the hypnosis sessions so I could see if they contained any leads that might get me started.

  Ashley was prompt on Saturday morning. The Lotus attracted a larger audience than on the previous day. So did Ashley. The expensive Italian blouse and leather skirt had given way to an ordinary T-shirt and a worn pair of jeans that fit snugly in the right places. A pair of boots and a matching leather bag, both of Italian design I guessed, turned the jeans and T-shirt into high fashion. Her earlobes were naked this time and she lacked even the lightest touch of eyeliner. If I dressed like that, with my short hair, I’d get taken for a gay woman.

  I made the hounds back away from the door and had Ashley take her former seat while I fetched the coffee and a clean ashtray. She’d already taken out the gold cigarette case and had withdrawn a yellow-papered cigarette when I returned with two steaming cups. She lit up with a snap of the lighter and took a deep drag.

  “Now then, how shall we proceed?” asked Ashley, smoke pouring from both nostrils as she spoke.

  “Tell me everything you can about these men. I’ll interrupt with questions when I need to. Also, I’d like to record the conversation, unless you object.”

  “I’d prefer that you didn’t,” she said. “If you wouldn’t mind, just take notes. We can go as slowly as necessary. I have my own notes which you may consult afterwards. I don’t like being recorded.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “Tell me what happened. Don’t leave anything out, no matter how unimportant you may think it is. Let me decide that. Okay?”

  “Okay. There were three men. All of them had intercourse with me at least twice. I can give you some overall physical features. In fact, I think of them in my mind that way.”

  She took a sip of the hot coffee and a pull off the cigarette. She pressed her lips together before continuing.

  “The first I call ‘Strong.’ He was a fair-sized man, but not fat. I caught glimpses of his skin. He had a medium complexion and a rich suntan. He also had dark blond hair, with a slightly reddish or brownish tint. But all I saw was body hair. I suppose the hair on his head might be a different color, probably blonder. He was a few inches taller than I am, so I’d estimate around six feet, 210 lbs. Strong had some other quirks. Should I tell you about them, or describe the others physically?”

  “Anyway you like.”

  “All right, I’ll tell you about the one I call ‘Fatboy.’ He wasn’t as big-boned or as large as Strong but he weighed the same. He was a terrible slob. He drooled on me. I could feel his fat jiggle when he was, you know…He was the hairiest one, too. Hairy shoulders. Hairy back. A blubbery, slavering ape. He was lighter in complexion than Strong—almost white skin under the light brown hair. I don’t think he had any tan. Oh, and he was missing a toe. Second toe, but I’m unsure of which foot. One time he did me standing up and I could see straight down to his bare feet.”

  “What about height?”

  “Mmm, I’d say an inch or two less than Strong. Maybe high fives.”

  “And the missing toe. You’re sure of that?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “Was it recently missing? I mean, was it red or freshly scarred?”

  “No, I think it was an old injury. I didn’t see a scar, and the first and third toes were misaligned to fill the gap. If you can find someone you think is him, the foot is a giveaway.”

  I made her pause as I typed everything she said on my laptop. Midas was having a nightmare, or maybe a pleasurable dream—how could one know?—and he
was making little yipping noises and his lanky legs were twitching epileptically.

  “And what about the third one?” I asked.

  “‘Little’ is my name for him, though ‘Cruel’ might work, except they were all cruel. He was the driver. It was the two big guys that grabbed me in the road. Little was a small, dark, wiry man. He smoked. The others didn’t, or hadn’t recently. He was a couple of inches shorter than I am, so around five seven or eight. He was left-handed, by the way. He used the cattle prod with his left hand.”

  “Were there any other distinguishing marks on any of them? Any scars, tattoos, facial hair such as a moustache? No other missing body parts?”

  “No. All I noticed in that vein was the toe on Fatboy. I tried not to touch any of them except when they forced me to, so I didn’t have any opportunity to feel a scar, and I only saw other things by chance.”

  “Can you remember anything about the van?

  “It was dark blue. I must have noticed the hood ornament. I actually drew it under hypnosis. Then it was easy to figure out it was a Dodge. Unlikely it would still be on the road. It didn’t smell new when I was in it.”

  “Hmm, any other details?”

  Ashley referred to her notes. “I saw an unusual belt buckle, one of those large brassy ones. It showed a man in a robe astride a winged horse, you know, like the Pegasus. I also saw a crucifix and chain on a pile of clothes that I’m pretty sure belonged to Fatboy. It was silver-colored, heavy and ostentatious. It must’ve been three inches long. And, let me see, I also have notes about glimpses of clothing that I saw. Do you think any of that is important?”

  “Probably not, unless there was something extraordinary. There weren’t any ladies’ clothes or the like, were there?” I asked.

  “No, nothing like that, but there was something quirky about Strong. He wasn’t able to, uh, perform unless he was looking at something—pictures, I think.”

  “What kind of pictures? Did you see one?”

  “No. I assume dirty pictures of some kind—you know, pornography. And there’s something else. I caught glimpses of cameras, video cameras, light fixtures, a lot of wiring, a tripod, all lying around in various parts of the van.”

  “Did they photograph you?”

  “No. I’d have known that.” She turned a page. “That’s all the visual memories. I separated them from the memories of what I heard. Are you caught up?”

  I tapped away for a few more seconds. “Yeah, go ahead.”

  “They didn’t talk much. I don’t think they intended to kill me at first. They made an effort not to reveal themselves. Let me just tell you what little I remember hearing. When Little finished with the cattle prod, Fatboy said, ‘You got bloody ice in those veins of yours.’ He sniggered, as if he’d made a funny joke. Little told him to shut up.”

  Ashley was reading ahead, a pained look on her face. I wondered if she could ever revisit the notes without inflaming her emotions. She stubbed out her cigarette and immediately lit another—yellow, like its predecessor.

  “There were mutterings having to do with whose turn it was to do what to me. At one point, Strong called one of them ‘Frenchy.’ I think he was referring to Little. He also called Fatboy ‘Jaydee’ or ‘Jaytee.’ Those were the only names they used, except for one last thing.”

  “What was that?” I asked.

  “It was after they poisoned me with cocaine. A final act of cruelty from Little. He put his face up to mine and said, ‘You’ve been fucked by every Tom, Dick, and Harry.’ The others laughed. Then I lost consciousness.”

  “God, what bastards! Any chance you could guess their ages?”

  “Young, I think—early twenties. It’s hard to tell.”

  “Anything about their voices? I mean, did any of them speak with an accent or have some speech peculiarity?”

  “Hmm, come to think of it, I’ll bet Fatboy is a good old southern fat boy, the way he said ‘veins’ with two syllables, and ‘ice’ more like ‘ahce.’ Strong might’ve been an easterner—New York, New Jersey, Brooklyn. I can’t tell them apart. And Little—I’d guess he’s not from the South, though many southerners manage to lose their accent. I did when I went to Chicago.”

  “Were you able to see anything else in the van besides the photographic equipment?”

  “I stumbled over a duffel bag one time, and I thought I saw a backpack.”

  “Can you guess the age of the vehicle? Did it seem new?”

  “The carpeting was in decent shape. God knows I spent some time with my face in it. I didn’t feel any badly worn places or glimpse terrible stains. It didn’t smell new, but it wasn’t falling apart either.”

  I waited a moment before asking, “Can you think of anything else?”

  She pursed her lips. “No. Nothing more in particular about any of them that’d help you track them down. Will you take the advance and the credit card now? Do we have a deal? Everything I said yesterday still goes.” She placed the two packages of one-hundred-dollar bills and the credit card on the table.

  “Okay, we have a deal.” We stood and shook hands. “I’ll do what I can,” I told her. “You’ll have to leave me phone numbers where I can call you, or where I can reach someone who knows where you are. I may have questions that need immediate answers. I may find a situation in which you, as my employer, will have to make a decision.”

  “I’ll do all that. I live in a wing of Hatfield Hall in Kinston. I have an office and a secretary there. If you can’t reach me on my mobile, my secretary will know how to find me. She’s also my cousin and lives in the house, so she’s there a lot during non-working hours. She’s not privy to this matter. If you call, just leave your name. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  We shook hands again at the door. She gently ruffled the ears of Hank and Midas, who had followed us, by way of saying goodbye.

  People were out in numbers and there were more eyes on Ashley and the Lotus than ever. I thought that if I was a woman worried about secrecy and discretion, I’d bag the Lotus and the flashy leather accessories and get myself a McJapanese car and shop at the Gap. At the same time, if I’d suffered like Ashley, I’d want those men to answer to the law regardless of the attention it drew. Ashley Bloodworth was a bundle of contradictions.

  I went back into the office and reviewed my notes. I organized the facts into related groups and looked for both consistencies and inconsistencies. My brother John, who trained me to be a P.I., recommended this technique.

  John had written a book—How to be a Private Eye by John Galt Jamison—which, of course, I had read. He advocates the use of computers, on the one hand, and in a seemingly opposite vein, also suggests pacing, walking, or jogging while pondering the facts of a case, as a way to come up with fresh ideas.

  When I’d finished typing, I opted to jog and think about everything Ashley had told me. I have a gym locker at nearby State College, by virtue of being a night student. I take conversational Turkish to stay fluent in a language that I learned growing up in Turkey, where my father was in the Service. As well, every other Saturday morning I take a mid-level martial arts class—also an attempt to retain skills once acquired, which tend to deteriorate if not practiced.

  I drove over to the college, changed into my running clothes, and walked and stretched my way to one of the grassy playing fields. I put my legs on autopilot and let my mind work on the riddle that Ashley had laid out for me. Three riddles, in fact. Find three men who committed an atrocious crime nearly a decade ago, and do it based on the few clues that a tormented, blindfolded victim of horrific violence was able to recall under hypnosis.

  I ran for a long time, mulling over the facts until each etched itself into my brain. I soaked long under the shower, too engaged in thought to be self-conscious about how others in the shower room looked away from me. The scars from my cancer surgery, while no longer red and angry, were distasteful-looking, or perhaps plain scary, to other women.

  I turned off the water and stood dripp
ing, naked, thinking, as I reached for my towel. As my thoughts gelled, the vehicle emerged as the best line of pursuit. I had to assume it was registered in North Carolina in the year of the crime. Then I needed the name of every owner of a dark-blue Dodge van manufactured in the mid to late 1980s. That would be a tremendous challenge, and it was sheer luck that I found a way to attack the problem that same night.

  CHAPTER 5

  That night it happened that my friend Cynthia was having a bash on her small farm in the country west of Chapel Hill. Cynthia works as a lab tech for a pathologist at Memorial Hospital. My boyfriend is a pathologist, so Cynthia and I had one thing in common: we knew all the pathologist jokes, which were so pathetic that it was somehow hilariously funny to retell them. (How many pathologists does it take to change a light bulb? None, they just stain anything they need to see.) Yuck!

  Cynthia’s shindigs are legendary. She had grown up locally and knew a passel of folks who liked to party. On this occasion, people started arriving around two in the afternoon just when the sun’s warmth was at its peak and the mixed smells of the country—horses, hay, manure and diesel fuel—were at their most aromatic.

  Everyone brought food and drink and soon the smell of barbecuing meat and the sound of tops popping added to the zesty atmosphere. Many brought along something to smoke, not all of it tobacco. Cynthia contributed a tractor and wagon for rides for the kids, the barn and its hayloft for amorous retreats, and music.

  The day began its descent into twilight, the light draining almost imperceptibly from the sky. It remained warm enough to wear shorts and go barefoot, and that was the attire, or lack of same, of most people. I grabbed a fresh beer and decided to walk about the old farm before darkness set in. Away on the far side, beyond a huge yellowing oak tree, was a pond where some kids in straw hats were fishing. The tree frogs had just begun their nightly trilling, slow-paced and dolorous now that summer was a fading memory.

  Scattered about the property are thickets of pine and poplar trees with the occasional dogwood. Wild shrubs and vines grow among the trees. These natural areas are enough to support a community of small critters, and that’s where the trouble began.