Finders Keepers (29 page)

Raybould handed him a wad of cash. “Here you go, Arch, like I promised.” Archie stuffed the cash into his pocket. “That’s more than you make in a month. Now the yard’s closed for the day, am I right?”

“I got no problem wit’ dat, Mistah Rey-bould,” Archie said. He shot a quick glance at the two vehicles parked down the hill, then went back to looking at his rubbers.

“You chain up that dog like I told you?”

“Yessir.”

Raybould nodded. “Your parole officer tells me you’ve been a good boy. No urges?”

“No, Mistah Rey-bould. I don’ even tink about dat stuff no more.”

“Okay, Arch. Disappear.”

* * *

Kate sat hunched over the wheel behind Raybould’s sedan, wishing Steve would turn to look at her. Raybould was up the hill, at least a hundred yards away, and if they were ever going to get a chance to make a run for it, this might be it. But Steve was sitting at a strange angle, half turned to the passenger door, his left shoulder reefed way around. He’d been sitting that way the whole trip and it was only now, seeing this chance to escape, that Kate realized why. The son of a bitch had handcuffed him to the door.

Fucker
, she thought.
You fucker.

Raybould was talking to some runty guy up there, handing him something. Now the guy was walking away, climbing into a stripped-down flatbed, bumping toward them down the hill. He drove past without making eye contact, so short he had to crane his neck to see over the dash. He turned right and continued up the dirt road.

Raybould flipped over a board on the chain link gate, the word CLOSED painted on it in runny red letters, then started down the hill. Kate tensed as he approached her window, bending to tap on the glass. She rolled down the window a few inches and looked up at him, the chill wind riffling his hair.

“Steve and I’ve got some things to do,” he said, looking up at the drab cluster of buildings. “You’re going to wait here ’til I wave you up, so pay attention. Shouldn’t be long.” Then he walked away, boots crunching on the packed snow.

He got back in his car and drove up the hill, parking in front of a flat-roofed building at the rear of the complex, almost out of Kate’s sight. She put the car in drive and rolled ahead a few yards, improving her view.

And waited. Nothing else she could do.

* * *

Raybould leaned over him with the handcuff key and said, “Your momma show you any moves?”

Steve said, “A few.”

Raybould said, “Thinking about trying any of ’em on me?” and wedged his right forearm against Steve’s neck, pressing his face to the cold glass. Up this close, Steve could smell cigarettes on him, and more faintly, cologne. “Because if you are, I gotta tell you, I love that shit. Fisticuffs. Shootin’ the boots. Who knows, maybe we can fool around a bit while we’re waiting for your honey.” He pocketed the cuffs, taking his gun out again before relaxing the pressure on Steve’s neck. “Your honey with all the money. Go ahead,” he said now. “Get out.”

Steve did as he was told, staggering slightly on stiff legs. The wind was nasty, whooping and whirling between the buildings, whipping up twisters of dry snow. Oddly, Steve remembered the day his father had told his mother to take her brat and get out, his mother tugging him down the front steps by the wrist with his coat unzipped. It had been a day like this, the same bitter weather.

Raybould slid out behind him through the passenger door, the gun jabbed into his ribs. “Remember what I told you,” he said. “Best behavior. Now move.”

Steve wanted to turn on him then, try dropping him with a spinning punch to that cold-fish face, but he held back, his mother’s sensible voice in his head: “No point trying to tag him when he’s ready for it. Wait for your moment, then don’t hesitate.”

They came to a steel door. “Open it,” Raybould said. Steve did and Raybould shoved him into a dim room with a high counter, an ancient cash register and four walls of floor-to-ceiling shelves jammed with used engine parts, the whole place caked in grime. There was a calendar tacked to the wall over the register, open to August of the previous year, a stacked redhead stretched out on the hood of a ’63 Impala, fire-engine red. “I had a Chevy like that in my teens,” Raybould said. “Two-tone green and white.” He pointed the gun at a door behind the counter. “Through there.”

Steve went through the doorway into a cement-floored salvage bay strewn with radiators, gas tanks, stripped engines and scattered heaps of scrap metal. There were a couple of work benches littered with tools, a welding station with two big acetylene tanks leaning on a mobile cart and a couple of hoists. It was cold in here. Steve could see his breath. He tried not to shiver.

“Okay, kid,” Raybould said, “get those clothes off. I need you naked.”

Steve turned to look at him. “Are you serious?”

“What do you think?”

* * *

The waiting was driving Kate crazy, every instinct telling her to flee, go to the police, let them handle it. She was risking both their lives by just sitting here. She should be doing something…

But what would he do when he came out and found her missing? Wait around for the police to arrive? Of course not. He’d move. And he’d kill Steve. She didn’t doubt that for an instant. He’d kill Steve, just to show her he was for real, then he’d go after her father—

It dawned on Kate then how Raybould had found them. He’d already gotten to her dad…and her news spot had shown him the way.

Something inside her sank like a rock into cold mud. She slammed the Cherokee into reverse, got halfway through a three-point turn and saw Raybould standing at the top of the hill, waving her up. She sat for several seconds, watching him, Raybould looking down at her with that smirk on his face. Daring her to run.
Do it, Kate. I’ll kill your boyfriend, it’s nothing to me. We’ve got a whole year to get this done.

He motioned with his head.
Come on.

Kate drove up the hill, pulled up beside him with the doors locked and opened her window a crack, still ready to run if she had to. She said, “Did you hurt my father?”

Raybould said, “Of course not,” acting insulted. “What kind of guy do you take me for?” He opened his jacket a little, showing her the gun. “Now get out of the truck, Kate. We’re on a tight schedule here.”

Kate waited, staring at him, searching his eyes for the lie. Then she switched off the ignition and got out. Raybould led her through the office to the salvage bay.

She cried out when she saw Steve, duct-taped to a wooden chair, naked in this cold barn, the chair chained to a block and tackle rigged to an overhead I-beam. The tape across his mouth closed off part of his nostrils, forcing him to throw his head back and suck hard against it to get any air. He looked terrified.

Kate darted toward him. Raybould said, “That’s close enough,” but Kate ignored him, dropping to her knees by the chair, trying to peel the tape off Steve’s mouth.

Then Raybould had her by the arm.

“There’s one thing I absolutely demand,” he said, turning her to face him, hurting her arm, “and that is obedience.” He shook her once, as one might a rebellious child, then released her, pointing to a chair ten feet away, set facing Steve so she could watch. “Sit over there. Don’t move until I tell you.”

Kate walked over to the chair and sat down.

Raybould turned to Steve and started pulling on one of the chains, the heavy links clacking through the pulleys as he took up the slack. The chair rose slowly, tilting forward as it left the floor, Steve’s body jerking at the sudden weightlessness. When it was up about three feet Raybould locked it into place.

Kate watched him roll the acetylene tanks over and get the torch going, adjusting the flame to a thin, unwavering blue. She watched him give Steve’s chair a push, getting it swinging in a lazy arc. Watched him gaze lid-eyed at the flame, a whimsical half-smile on his face, head cocked, totally relaxed.

“This is one of my favorite places,” he said, looking around the salvage bay now, taking it all in. “It’s like a flea market in here for anybody with a little imagination and an appreciation for the uses of pain. Pain is bar none the best motivator known to man. Apply the correct amount of pain for the correct amount of time and I don’t care who he is, there is nothing a man won’t say or do to escape it.”

Raybould gave Steve’s chair another shove. “I want you to relax, Kate,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you. If you’re smart, you’ll walk away from this without so much as a stubbed toe.” He turned to Steve. “But I am going to hurt him.”

Steve swung toward him and Raybould raised the torch. Steve’s bare shins passed through the flame, then back through it again. Steve screamed against the gag in his mouth.

Kate jumped to her feet. “
Stop
it. Please, I’ll do whatever you want. You don’t have to hurt him.”

“I know that, Kate,” Raybould said, smiling. “But I want to.”

Steve drifted again through the hissing flame, his muffled screams making Kate’s skin crawl. “Stop it.” she shouted.
“Stop it.”

Raybould tucked the still-lit torch into its cylindrical holster and walked over to Kate. He took a wrinkled envelope out of his pocket and handed it to her. “All the information you’ll need is in there,” he told her. “Once you’ve got the check, go straight to the address on the envelope. It’s a bank. A very big bank. Ask for the manager, Elwood Smith. He’s expecting you. All you’ve got to do then is endorse the check. He does the rest.” He gave her the ticket. “Tell him to put the cash in a bag. A million dollars. Don’t bother counting it, I trust him. Are we clear so far?”

“Yes,” Kate said, “I’ll do it, just please, don’t hurt him anymore.”

“That’s entirely up to you. You’ve got until noon. That should give you plenty of time. Take your car. When you get back, I make a quick call. If you’ve done your job, we drive to the airport and that’s where our relationship ends.”

Kate said, “You’ll let us go?” She looked over Raybould’s shoulder to see Steve, spinning slowly as his arc diminished, craning his neck to look at her, trying to tell her something with his eyes.

“You have my word,” Raybould said. “Now—” He noticed Kate’s gaze and turned to look at Steve. “Something you’d like to say, Constable? Some advice for the young lady?” He walked over and tore the tape off Steve’s mouth, removing the gag. “Go ahead.”

It broke Kate’s heart to see him hanging there, fighting back tears, pain written on his face in deep furrows. “Run, Kate,” he said, his voice breaking. “Don’t come back here—”

Raybould stuffed the gag back into his mouth and gave the chair another shove, getting it swinging again. Then he looked over at Kate. “Bad advice,” he said. “Time to go, Kate.”

Kate took a last look at Steve, trying to tell him with her eyes not to worry, she’d get it done and they’d be free. She turned away from him then and started for the exit. Raybould’s voice froze her.

“And Kate.”

She didn’t answer, didn’t turn around.

“Kate, look at me.”

Kate turned to see him raise a grimy red gas can and give it a shake. Heard the gasoline sloshing around inside, cool and deadly.

“If I even smell a cop, I’ll set your boyfriend on fire.”

Kate held his gaze for a long moment, her heart so full of loathing and fear she thought it might burst. Then she walked out the door.

She hit the yard running, heading for the Cherokee, tears freezing on her face in the cutting wind. She opened the driver’s-side door, got her foot up on the running board and felt something hard jab her in the spine. She spun with a startled squeal, nerves stretched so thin now she almost wet herself. A complete stranger stood behind her, pockmarked face red from the cold, the hand not holding the gun tucked into the armpit of his overcoat.

He said, “Gimme the keys.”

“Who are you?”

Hicks put the gun to her throat, raising her chin with it, oiled metal shockingly cold in the winter air. “Gimme the fuckin’ keys.”

Kate handed him the keys.

“Now get in.”

Kate slid in behind the wheel, watching as the man limped around the hood. Before he reached the door Kate stuffed the ticket and the envelope into her bag and tossed the bag onto the back seat. She noticed the dime-size bloodstain on the man’s trousers as he got in beside her. He closed the door and sat facing her, handing her the keys.

“Drive,” he said. “You already know where we’re going.”

“But—”

“I hate repeating myself.”

Kate lost it. “I want to know who the
fuck
you are.”

Hicks put the gun in her face and cocked the trigger.

Heart pounding, Kate put her seatbelt on and started the car. Hicks lowered the gun, keeping it aimed at her side.

“Just drive,” he said.

Kate did as she was told, both hands clamped to the wheel.

––––––––

Raybould stood watching as the chair Steve was bound to slowed in its arc. He lit a cigarette off the torch flame and watched, his expression amused and mildly curious, a man pondering an unexpected gift, savoring its small mystery before peeling it open to see what was inside. Steve tried to keep his eyes on him but the chair kept twisting as it swung, first one way, winding up the chains, then the other, making him dizzy. It was worse when he couldn’t see the man; he could hear the torch, its reptilian hiss, but he couldn’t tell if Raybould was coming at him with it. His muscles shivered uncontrollably, bunching in spasm from the tension and the cold.

Now the chair stopped, Raybould turning it to face him. He was still holding the torch, the blue flame steady, almost eager. Steve looked into his eyes.

“I hated having to lie to her like that,” Raybould said. “You know I’m going to kill you. Both of you. What choice do I have? You’re a cop, you understand. It’s really just bad luck.” He cocked his head, giving Steve that quirky half smile. “You’re probably the smart ass who set up the sting with the lottery people. Am I right? Or was it that mother of yours. Yeah, I bet it was Liz. Slippery bitch. See? If you’d’ve left well enough alone, you wouldn’t be in this fix.” The smile disappeared. “Now look at you.”