WALKABOUT 2 - The Back of Beyond (Part 8)

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43

I bolted for the door. Archer swung his cane, connecting with the bone of my right shin. Pain shot through me and I yelped. I swear, it hurt worse than when I’d been shot a few weeks prior. Still clinging to the towel, I hopped on my good leg toward the bed and sat down on one corner. “You son of a bitch!” I uttered through clenched teeth.

Archer laughed. “I’m gonna have a little fun before we take you to Flynn,” he said, moving toward me. He raised his cane to strike again.

“Archer!” Peter said firmly. “It’ll have to wait.”

The cane still raised above him, Archer turned to Peter. “I’ve had enough of you telling me what—”

I hit Archer in the balls with a cupped backhand, and he doubled over in agony. Quick as I could, I rolled to my side and hobbled toward the door. Peter, who had a moment ago been only concerned with controlling Archer, was still seated, and slow to react. All he could do was point the gun and shout “Stop!” I didn’t. I kept going, gambling he was smart enough not to use the gun in a hotel. I reached the door, opened it. I heard a “phhttt!” as a bullet smacked against the door frame, maybe an inch from my head. I scrambled out into the hallway, hopping on one leg, supporting myself against the wall with one hand, holding the towel around me with the other.

Peter was the first out of the room, grim determination in his dark eyes. He raised the gun. I kept going, but I wasn’t moving fast enough. His finger began to squeeze the trigger.

Archer burst into the hallway. Enraged by the sight of me, he shoved Peter aside, causing the bullet to hit the ceiling above my head, showering me with plaster. The elevator doors opened, and an elderly couple stepped out. Peter lowered the gun, concealing it behind his back before they could spot it. Archer, never one for discretion, continued charging. I slipped behind the old folks into the elevator, and pressed CLOSE, then 1.

There was a commotion in the hallway. “Out of my way, bitch!” Archer said. As the elevator doors closed, through the narrow opening I saw the woman falling. And then, just as the doors were about to shut completely, the tip of Archer’s cane poked through, and the sensors on the door caused it to open again. I reached out, grabbed the cane and shoved it back a bit, then pulled it into the elevator. Archer came tumbling toward me, falling partially in, partially outside the elevator. I let go of the towel. With all my strength, I delivered a hammer fist blow to his forehead, stunning him. Peter was nowhere to be seen, so I assumed he had taken the stairs next to the elevator and would be waiting on 2 or in the lobby.

I left Archer laying there, blocking the elevator doors from closing. I retrieved the towel, draping it over my shoulders and took his cane. The elderly woman lay on the floor in the hallway, her husband kneeling beside her. “I’m sorry,” was all I could think to say as I slipped past them and limped with the aid of Archer’s cane toward the exit—and the other stairway—at the far end of the hall.

And then it happened. For the first time in months. My vision began clouding as I descended the stairway. My right eye only this time. The outer periphery at first, then more and more until there was only a small semi-opaque window of vision in the center.

I came out the stairwell, closed my right eye and peeked around a corner, looking for Peter. No sign of him. I rushed through the lobby for the exit. “Good evening, Mr. Mulligan,” the front desk clerk called out, concern in her tone of voice. “Everything alright?” Apparently naked people hobbling through the lobby with canes was not a common thing.

“Fine,” I said, without breaking stride.

Seconds later, I was outside, on the sidewalk, holding the towel around my waist again, using the cane to aid me as I worked my way to the corner. Still no sign of Peter.

Left, or right?

My restricted vision was disorienting, so I closed my right eye again, hoping I could see well enough to find someplace to hide for a few hours. Hopefully soon, before Archer and Peter found me, or a cop came along. My vision would return sooner or later. It always did.

44

Messerton, Illinois

While Deputy Darryl Washington was getting a statement from the oil well maintenance man, Alan Kincaid, under strict orders to stay out of the way, kept his distance from the recently-discovered shallow grave. He looked around the area, thinking it had been a good place to choose. Were it not for the maintenance man’s curiosity, the gravesite would never have been located.

Kincaid reached into his shirt pocket, retrieved a pack of cigarettes. As he lit up, he reminded himself once again that he would quit the ugly habit soon. He inhaled deeply, savoring the moment. As he slowly exhaled, he spotted something a few yards away. He looked over his shoulder, in the direction of Deputy Washington, wondering for just a moment if he should get approval before checking it out. ‘Oh, hell’, he thought, ‘It’s just trash.’ Still, this was a crime scene, and he really ought to check it out.

An Indiana license plate, with a five-point star resembling a badge, containing the words “Sheriff” and “Indiana” in its center. And a faded rose. Kincaid checked to make sure that Washington wasn’t looking his way, then bent to pick up the plate and the flower. Casually, he went back to the cruiser and placed the items from the crime scene in the backpack he used to store personal belongings while on ride-alongs. Kincaid didn’t know what happened here, or how. Nor when, nor why. But, he did know who.

45

I half-ran, half-limped along fast as I could, using one hand to keep the towel around my waste, the other to hold the cane. I moved pretty well for an old fat man with a bad leg, if I say so myself. I was alone, being chased in a strange city half a world away from home. My first thought was to get to a phone, call the police. My second thought was if I did that, it wouldn’t take them long to learn who I really was. Tyler Hamilton, United States citizen. In Australia, using the passport of a dead man. All these thoughts raced through my mind as I ducked into an alley and slipped behind a dumpster for cover.

Thankfully, my vision was returning to normal. It’s that way sometimes. Usually it takes longer. I could see a tall, lean man with a gun in his hand—that would be Peter—stop and hesitate at the end of the alley. As he stood there, three young people, made up as zombies, shuffled past him. None of them seemed to notice him placing the gun in the waistband behind his back. I could feel my heart pounding its way out of my chest, fearing that once they were gone he would come down the alley and find me.

My salvation came with the arrival of another group of zombies, this time four in number, followed by yet another group of half a dozen or so. Peter moved on. I stayed behind the dumpster another couple of minutes, then decided to take a chance. Staying in the shadows, I snuck down the alleyway, limping and leaning against a cinder block wall for support, nearly turning the ankle of my good leg on one of the many bricks that littered the alleyway. I took a quick look around the corner. Nothing but zombies. What is it with all these zombies? I looked the other direction. There Peter was, still looking, turning back in my direction. I hustled back, leaned the cane against the wall, and opened the dumpster lid. There was the usual. Bags of trash, styrofoam boxes of discarded food.

I heard voices. “Where you goin’, Tommy?” one of them said.

“Can’t wait no longer, mates,” Tommy called back. He was coming toward me, in the alleyway. “Gotta do some business ‘fore I piss m’self!” I slowly lowered the dumpster lid, and moved around so as to hide between the dumpster and the wall.

Tommy stopped, facing the opposite wall of the alley, and unzipped. He spread his legs wide, leaning forward, placing one hand against the wall for support, and began to urinate. From the end of the alleyway entrance, one of his friends shouted, “We’re goin’ on ahead, Tommy Boy. You can catch up with us.”

“You bastards leavin’ me?” Tommy shouted back. “What the fu—”

I was on top of him before he knew I was there. It was the only way. I could not have taken him in a fair fight. He was half again my size and a good thirty-five, maybe forty years younger. Like I said, I move pretty well for an old fat man, and as he was just getting started with the process of relieving himself, I took advantage of his vulnerability. Pushing off with my good leg, I jumped on his back, slipped my left arm around the front of his neck, bringing the hand around him into the fold of my right arm. I cupped my right hand on the back of his head and placed my head against it. With the blood supply to his brain shut off, he was sleeping in a matter of seconds.

I quickly removed his clothing and put it on. Unfortunately for me, the pants were wet with urine, but that was the price I had to pay for the privilege of not being naked. With the difference in our size, I had to hold the pants up as I returned to the dumpster.

I opened it to look inside, holding the lid open with one hand as I reached inside the dumpster with the other. I found an open packet of ketchup from a fast food joint. I smeared what was left of it around the corners of my mouth. A powdered doughnut caught my eye. As I reached for it, I felt the pants dropping down to my ankles. Ignoring that, I grabbed the doughnut and I rubbed it all over my face.

And right about then, Tommy woke up.

I felt myself being pulled down by the pants. My jaw hit the edge of the dumpster as I plummeted downward to a bone-jarring impact with the pavement. Tommy was all over me, flailing away in unbridled rage. I covered up as best I could to fend off the blows, which only pissed him off even more. He grabbed my arms, and with brute strength spread them out to my sides. Sliding forward, he pinned my biceps to the ground with his knees, and the punishment continued. Eight, ten, a dozen blows rained down on my head.

With the pants down around my ankles, I couldn’t use my feet to gain any leverage and dislodge my attacker. A powerful right hand impacted my forehead, and I lost consciousness.

46

Messerton, Illinois

Alan Kincaid nodded to the woman behind the desk, “Morning, Janice.”

“Hey Alan,” she said. “How’s Carol?”

“Doin’ just fine. Hey, I need to see Lonnie for just a minute. He in?”

“He is,” Janice said, “but he’s got a meeting with the mayor in ten minutes.”

Kincaid didn’t bother waiting for her permission. He proceeded to move past the desk, and into the hallway that led to the chief’s office, saying, “I’ll only be a minute.”

The door was partially open. Kincaid knocked as he entered, then closed the door behind him. “I have something for you.”

“I’m kind of busy today, Alan. If it’s something about the mounted patrol unit, you can talk with Captain Nettles.”

Nettles was the officer who directly oversaw the reserve units, the liaison between the reserves and the chief, and a jerk. Another one who, like Darryl Washington, thought the reserves, and in particular, the Mounties, as they mockingly referred to the mounted patrol, were not worthy of wearing the badge. He seldom, if ever, returned calls from reserve officers. Kincaid could not remember the man ever attending one of their meetings.

“No, this is just between me and you. And you need to see it now.” Kincaid dropped his backpack on the chief’s desk. “I found these at the unmarked grave yesterday evening.”

Chief Rodgers raised an eyebrow, skeptical of the importance of anything a reserve officer might be bringing to his attention.

Kincaid opened the backpack, removed its contents and placed them on the sheriff’s desktop. “I found them a couple hundred feet from the grave site.”

“Now, that’s interesting,” Rodgers said, examining the license plate. “The plate’s current, and the rose can’t be that old.” He thought for a moment. “Probably nothing. Still, they should have been booked as evidence. What the hell are they doing here? Did you tell Darryl Washington about them? He ignore you?”

“No,” Kincaid shook his head. “Washington’s a prick. I decided it would be better if you were to be the one to solve this. What with the election coming up.”

“Well, of course we’ll check it out,” Rodgers said. “But—”

“The rose was purchased from our store,” Kincaid said. “It’s drying out, but you can see there are five strands of bear grass, an assortment of wax flowers and baby’s breath, all cut to the same length and held together by a purple rubber band.”

“What’s so unusual about that?”

“We sell a lot of flowers in our shop, Chief,” Kincaid said. “But every now and then we have unique arrangements we prepare for regular customers. We sell one arrangement like this, every year. One. About this time every year, to the same person. A fellow named Michael Welch. He phones in the order, then comes in to pick it up.” Kincaid paused, then pointed to the other item on the desk. “As for the license plate, I figure you can trace that.”

47

I awoke sometime later, disoriented, vaguely aware I was beneath a crushing weight. A foul stench filled my nostrils. As my head cleared, I realized Tommy had collapsed on top of me. I felt a pool of vomit oozing from his mouth and running down my face. This was almost as bad as the time I was partying with my FO Artie Smith and another crew on an Anchorage weekend layover. 

It took all my strength and the better part of a minute to extricate myself from him. I pulled the pants up to my waist and cinched the belt on its last hole, then checked him for a pulse and listened to make certain he was breathing.

I limped back to the end of the alley and waited. Peter was coming back.

He was looking across to the other side of the street. Just then, two small groups of zombies came by. I slipped in between them, so that either group could think I was with the other and began shuffling along, dragging my feet. To my hunter, I was just another zombie, and he paid me no mind as we passed on the sidewalk. He was looking for a naked man. Okay, I know how that sounds. He was looking for me, thinking that I was unclothed. That sounds better.

Peter waved to Archer, who stood on the other side of the street, smoking. Archer wobbled toward him best he could without his cane, cutting through traffic and knocking down one of the dumbass zombies on the sidewalk. Reaching Peter, he said, “What’ve you got?”

“I think he’s down here, in the alley,” Peter said. “Let’s fetch him and take him to Flynn.”

Archer nodded.

Peter grabbed him by the arm as he began to go. “We need to bring him in alive, mate. Flynn’s orders.”

Archer pulled away from Peter, dropped his cigarette to the ground, and muttered “Screw Flynn,” as they proceeded down the alley.

“Get up,” Peter commanded. When the man made no effort to move, Peter kicked him sharply in the ribs. The man on the ground raised his head, taking in his surroundings, attempting to orient himself. Seeing the two men standing over him, he reacted by kicking back, striking Peter just above the ankle of his left leg.

Archer grabbed a nearby brick, and struck the man on the head.

“You bloody fool!” Peter reprimanded his partner. “Why’d you go and do that?”

“He kicked you, Peter! And, we don’t want him getting’ to his feet and takin’ off again.”

“Now we’re gonna have to carry him—” Peter hesitated, leaned forward, squinting for a better look in the darkness.

“Please,” the man on the ground said, “don’t hurt me no more!” He was clutching his head with bloody fingers, wincing in pain.

The voice was unfamiliar, with an Australian accent. Closer inspection revealed he was much larger than the man they were after. “Look at him, Archer,” Peter said. “Look at his face. Look at the size of him. That ain’t Mulligan.”

“You sure?”

“If it’s Mulligan, where’d he get the underwear?”

Archer studied the man on the ground. “Well, damned if you ain’t right!” he said, then delivered two more blows into the man’s head. Peter turned away at the sight.

“Now let’s get him in the dumpster,” Archer said, “before anyone comes along and sees him.”

“He’s too big,” Peter said. “Let’s drag him over to the wall, behind the dumpster. Make it look like he’s sleepin’ off a hangover.”

Moments later, with the dead man repositioned, Archer pointed to the cane, leaning against the wall and said, “Look what I found.”

48

Page, Indiana

A bright flash of lightning, accompanied by a simultaneous thunderclap startled Sheriff Mike Bridges as he was bringing a steaming cup of coffee to his lips, causing him to spill its contents onto the shirt of his uniform. “Son of a . . .” The sheriff sat the cup on his desk, stepped into the private restroom attached to his office, grabbed a couple of paper towels and dabbed at the coffee on his shirt. One good thing about being a sheriff in Indiana, he thought, the dark brown shirts hide coffee stains.

Only a few weeks ago, there had been heavy rains and flooding in Central Indiana. Now Page County, was under a severe thunderstorm warning and a tornado watch. Late in the year for a system such as this, but then again, in Central Indiana, you can get anything at any time. Or maybe Al Gore had been right all along, and this was a result of global warming. Who the hell knew?

The intercom beeped. Bridges answered. “What’s up, Janice?” he said in a raspy voice.

“You’ve got a call on line two,” the receptionist said. “Chief Rodgers from Hudson County, Illinois.”

“Okay, I’ll take it,” he said, then pressed the lit button. “Hello, Chief Rodgers. “What can I do for you today?”

“Sounds like you’ve got what I had a week or so ago,” Rodgers said. “My throat felt like I’d swallowed carpet tacks. Darn near lost my voice.”

“I sound like this all the time, Chief,” Bridges replied. Not long ago, he’d been struck by a shovel, permanently damaging his larynx. Circumstances dictated the creation of a cover story. “I was involved in an accident a while back.”

“Oh, sorry to hear that. Well, the reason I called, we’re working a crime scene over here near Messerton, and I was hoping you could help me clear something up.”

49

Sheriff Bridges would have to attend to administrative duties another time. Today, he was working as a road officer, answering calls as they came in, just like the deputies working under him. The Page County, Indiana Sheriff Department was swamped with calls following the numerous tornados that ravaged the county. All off-duty emergency services personnel as well as sheriff’s deputies and reserves were called in to help cover the workload.

Halfway back to his office from a domestic disturbance at a mobile home on Rocky Creek Road, Sheriff Bridges thoughts returned to the conversation with Chief Rodgers from Illinois.

The license plate they’d found was from his old cruiser. And had been found at the same location where he’d been struck in the throat with a shovel by Ty Hamilton when he’d forced Hamilton at gunpoint to dig his own grave.

Sheriff Bridges told Chief Rodgers the plate was stolen from his own cruiser some time ago, adding, “No idea how it ended up in your neck of the woods.” Hopefully that would be enough to placate the chief.

Nothing had gone according to plan that night in Illinois. Hamilton got away—to God only knew where—and now they’d found a shallow grave. And he knew, or had a damned good idea, how his license plate had been found there.

His thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of his personal cell phone. Sheriff Bridges recognized the ring tone dedicated solely to his sister.

“What’s up April?”

“Mike, I need help!” There was no mistaking the urgency in her voice.

“What’s wrong?” His sister was never one to over-react. Bridges inhaled deeply, waiting for catastrophic news.

“Shelby’s missing!”

In his line of work, he dealt with distraught parents on a regular basis. “Hell, Sis, she’s a teenager. She’s—”

“She didn’t come home from work last night,” April interrupted. “I called all her friends. No one has seen her!”

“Work? Since when’s she had a job? Why hadn’t I heard about it?”

“Maybe because it didn’t concern you,” April said. “Sorry. Didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

“No problem. Where does she work?” It was important at this stage to use present tense.

“At the health food store. The one at the mall, not the one downtown.”

“I’ll get a BOL–Be On the Lookout—put out for her,” he said. “I need to know what time she got off work, who saw her last, and a list of her friends. Anyone you can think of.”

“She gets off at eight-thirty. Her boss, Candy Johnson, sent her home early, around five. She was not feeling well. Mike, she never made it home!”

“Okay, Honey,” the sheriff said in his most soothing voice. “We’ll find her.” He reminded her he needed names of people who Shelby knew. April rattled off about a dozen.

“How about that boy she’s been seeing?” he said. “You call him?”

“He said they were arguing night before last, and—”

That got the sheriff’s attention. “He say what they were arguing about?”

“No, just the usual teenage drama.”

 Where were they? What time was it?”

“Ryan’s a good kid, Mike. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt Shelby. He’s just as worried as I am.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” he said. He would have a talk with the kid anyway. “Any problems at home, between you and her?”

“Just the usual,” April said. “She doesn’t want to lift a finger to help out around the house, and we fight about it. Nothing worth running off.”

“I’ll put out a BOL for her,” he repeated himself. “We’ll find her, April.” He ended the call, hoping he was right, and they would find his niece. In time.

“Unit One,” the call came in over the radio in Bridges’ cruiser.

“This is One,” the sheriff answered in a raspy voice. “Go ahead.”

“There’s a detective with Indy PD wants to talk with you. Okay if I give him your cell number.”

The sheriff sighed heavily. “He say what it’s about?”

“Something about a missing person. White female. They’ve received a tip she may be in Page County.”

“Ah, crap,” Bridges said. “As if we don’t have enough going on right now. Yeah, okay. Give him my number.”

“Will do.”

Moments later the sheriff sat in his cruiser, listening and taking notes as the IPD detective filled him in on the details of a young woman who’d gone missing and was believed to be in Page County.