ONE CUP (Part 31)

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129

Jackie

Nick’s car was completely destroyed. Debris from the car, trees, an old, unused shed that had been standing nearby, and a thousand other things littered the landscape. “Rylee!” I shouted. No answer. “Rylee!” There was no sign of her, nor the doll she had insisted upon bringing along for the trip.

I stood in the downpour, in a state of panic, frantically searching for Whitney’s child with wind whipping my hair and nearly knocking me over. She couldn’t have gone far, yet Rylee was nowhere to be found. A hot wave of fear seared through me as I considered the possibility of the funnel cloud having lifted her and carried her away. I fumbled through my pockets, searching for my cell phone to call 911. It wasn’t with me. I must have left it in the car.

The funnel clouds were now half a mile away, merrily hopscotching across the landscape, unaware and uncaring of the devastation in their wake. I hoped to God I was wrong. Reluctantly I began walking, following the path of the twister, calling out for Rylee, searching for any sign of her. Wanting desperately to find her. Hoping to God I wouldn’t.

130

As frightening as the thought of it was, it might be too late to save Whitney. And now, if anything happened to Rylee, I would never be able to live with myself. One or both of them could lose their lives. All because of my need for revenge, my need to see Kayla Prescott served a heaping portion of justice.

TJ York was a bad, bad man. You could see it in his eyes. You could see it in the hardened facial expression, the tattoos covering his arms, neck, and chest. And there was the knife on his belt. TJ was maybe five feet, eight if he stood on tiptoes, but he was built like a fireplug. Not an ounce of fat on him. A hundred ninety pounds of rock-solid muscle. His demeanor matched his appearance perfectly.

TJ had done time, he told me, but he’d gotten away with a lot more than he’d ever been convicted of. He bragged when we were alone of having killed four men, and never having been convicted of murder. He had no idea one of those men, Bobby Ogden, was my brother.

I was in San Diego at the time, and contact with my family was sporadic. Our parents disowned me years ago, but Bobby still accepted me. I was so proud of him. I just knew he was going to be rich and famous someday. I took it hard when I learned of his death. Short on cash and needing to fly home for my brother’s funeral, I broke my own rules and accepted a request for an outcall with a new client I hadn’t verified. Sure enough, it was a sting set up by SDPD Vice. I never made it back for the funeral, and my parents have not spoken to me since.

Finding TJ was a challenge. After Bobby was murdered, the cops came up with nothing useful. Ian McGregor and Mike Prescott each gave conflicting descriptions of my brother’s killer. Hurricane Katrina came along shortly after, and any chance of my brother’s murder being solved pretty much evaporated.

I vowed to never stop looking for Bobby’s killer. I started by moving to New Orleans, working in calls only, moving from one hotel to another every few days. Took a home-study course on private investigation, but didn’t bother getting a license. Got to know a couple of cops who would tip me off on impending vice stings and from time to time provide whatever information they could in exchange for my favors. A win-win as far as I was concerned. I learned they had one particular person of interest, a guy they “liked” for the murder of my brother, but unfortunately there was not enough evidence to bring him in. TJ York.

TJ was in prison for grand theft auto, due to be released within a few months. So I bided my time. I learned where he liked to go, who his friends were, that sort of thing. I became one of them well before he got out. Within a week of his release, TJ and I were hooked up.

As repulsive as it may sound, sleeping with my brother’s killer, I had by then learned to compartmentalize the various parts of my life. TJ was a job to me, nothing more. I set him up to trust and be comfortable alone with me. Then, during one of our role play sessions, I had him exactly where I wanted him, cuffed and chained, helpless to stop me from doing whatever I wanted.

I slowly walked to the table in the corner of the room. “I brought something special today, TJ,” I said.

“Bring it on,” he said, with a foolish grin.

I removed a satin cloth, revealing a yellow three foot long electric cattle prod. I draped the cloth over my shoulder, picked up the cattle prod, held it in my hands, and inspected it with curiosity. TJ’s eyes widened, his mouth opened. “What’re you planning to do with that?”

I looked at him, smiled devilishly. “I thought we could play a game,” I said. “A version of Truth or Consequences.”

I slowly removed the silk cloth, dangled it over him, letting it caress his chest, abs, and then, lower still. “You tell me the truth,” I said, and you will be rewarded.” I placed the cloth back over my shoulder, bringing the cattle prod up just beneath his nose, no more than an inch away, and activated the electrodes. “Lie to me,” I said as the blue arc danced between the electrodes, “and you will be punished.”

“I’m not doing this,” he said. “Uncuff me.”

“Hmm?” I pondered his demand. . . . “No, I don’t think so.”

“Don’t piss me off, bitch. Uncuff me now.”

I placed the electrodes on his balls, hit him with a jolt.

It didn’t take long. TJ York admitted his involvement in the murder of my brother. How he’d been paid to do it, and by whom. Things went wrong, and he killed the wrong man.

131

The torrential rain continued for a couple minutes after the twin tornados moved on. And then, as if a switch had been flipped, it stopped, and an eerie quiet enveloped what was left of Brown’s Towing Service. Gone was the machine shed which served as a marijuana growing house. Gone, too was the barn where dogfight fanatics had gathered for years, as well as the roof from the cinder block building where Leon had taken Whitney. Ironically, the only structure still intact was the rundown house trailer. Perhaps the first in history to survive such a storm.

132

Rylee awakened in the car alone and frightened just before the tornado arrived. She got out of the car and began walking down the long driveway, dragging her doll along with her, looking for her Auntie J, calling for her. Calling for her mother. Sobbing.

At the end of the driveway, as the rain became heavy and the thunder louder, she turned left. A car sped by, splashing her and causing her to fall into the loose gravel on the shoulder of the road. Her knee was bleeding, and she thought she was going to die. “Mommy!” she called out, “Mommy I need you.”

Rylee eventually came to another driveway, where she could see some cars and buildings. She knew she wasn’t supposed to talk to strangers, but would it be okay if she asked if Auntie J was there? Then it got really loud, like a thousand million growly bears, and the only place to hide was in the ditch, but it was almost full of water. She slipped and fell, and Sally let go of her hand.

133

Larry’s best dog, Pete, had no way of knowing there was a better alternative than the life he’d lived. Fighting and killing other dogs and other species of animals, seemed perfectly natural. The men fed him. The big one never beat him or mistreated him in any way, and Pete had no feelings toward him one way or another. The other man, the thin one, was a mortal enemy. He often beat the dog, working him into an angry frenzy before feeding him. It was the way of things.

When the weather moved through the junkyard, taking with it the buildings and destroying everything in its path, the fighting dog and the tire and chain to which he was attached taken along with it. Pete was thrown violently, slamming against a corner of what was left of the cinder block storage building. A section of the roof fell upon him, breaking ribs and puncturing a lung. He lay there, helpless and frightened, dying. “Nice puppy,” someone said.

Rylee knelt beside the fighting dog, reached out to him. Thinking she was going for his injured ribs, Pete yelped, then growled, warning her off. “It’s okay,” the little girl said. “I won’t hurt you.”

Something about her, the gentle way she stroked his head, rubbed behind his ear, brought forth feelings the dog had forgotten long ago. Feelings he experienced while nursing with his litter mates, their mother tenderly licking them. When the thin man took him, those feelings faded away, forgotten until now. Pete turned his head, licked the little girl’s hand.

“You can come home with me and be my dog,” the little girl told Pete. “I’ll take good care of you. I’ll feed you every day, and I’ll dress you up and we can play with my dolls together, and I’ll name you Snowflake.” Pete looked at her, as if to say it all sounded fine to him. But right now the pain was getting worse. “I might have to hide you under my bed, though. My mom said no the last time I asked her for a dog.”