The Feeder (6 page)

I sat in the chair and rested my elbows on the windowsill to steady the binoculars. I saw the silhouette of another person moving around the room, as if carrying on a conversation with Camille. From what I could see, things didn’t look heated and both parties appeared to be relaxed. Camille left the windowsill for a moment. I continued to watch, hoping for a glimpse of her companion’s face. So far I’d only seen him from the waist down, and he looked like an average sized dude. I wondered if he was in fact a cop or if she’d just been paranoid.

No,
I corrected myself, she had been taken away by the police, according to the desk clerk at the White Surf. There was a cop involved somehow. I’d have to tread carefully if I was going to get Cammie away from him and safely back across the Canadian border.

I saw movement near the window and steadied the binoculars once more. Camille’s head popped out the window and stared across the alley at my hotel. I examined her face for evidence of fresh bruises but she looked about the same as she had back at the White Surf. She looked down at the alley below, then raised her face and looked directly into my eyes through the binoculars.

Did she see me? Could she feel me?

Like most twins, Camille and I had an almost psychic bond. When we were younger we could always tell when one was feeling sad and we had a tendency to finish each other’s sentences. I kept the binoculars locked on her gaze and tried to project my thoughts to her.

I’m here, Cammie. Do you feel me? Feel me, please! I’m going to get you out of there!

If Camille knew I was there, she didn’t let on. She simply looked down once more and then pulled her head back into the room. The Venetian blind dropped closed behind her.

I retreated from my window post and sat on the edge of the disgusting hotel bed while I admired my final purchase: a hunting knife with a nine-inch blade. It was lighter and slimmer than the one I had at home. Mine was the military model, almost an exact duplicate of the one Rambo carried in
First Blood
.

I had several knives but the one I had gotten for Christmas from my father was my favorite. I had carried it with me on more hunting trips than I could count. The blade had sliced through countless deer, moose, elk and bear carcasses. My dad was as proud as a father could be at how skilled I became with it. My knife was an extension of my hand, when I wasn’t holding a firearm.

I slid my new acquisition in and out of the sheath a few times, appreciating its weight and how comfortable it felt to hold.

I no longer felt empty-handed.

I watched Camille’s room for the rest of the night until the lights went out, then crawled into the loathsome hotel bed to catch a few hours of sleep.

When I woke, Cammie’s blinds were still closed so I had no way of knowing whether she was still in the room or whether she was alone. I needed to know what the asshole looked like so I could catch him leaving the hotel and then get Cammie the hell out of there. I still wasn’t quite sure how I was going to accomplish that, other than to keep trying to catch them with the blinds up.

I found a decent looking café across the street from the Dufferin, where I could watch the front doors of the hotel while I ate breakfast.

I scanned the daily edition of the
LA Times
while I ate. I often read when I had a problem to solve. Focusing on something inane like a newspaper article relaxed my mind and allowed me to think.

LA was a brutal city. Some guy shot someone else in a road-rage incident. This gang was killing that gang. A boatload of heroin was seized off the coast. A serial killer called The Feeder was slaughtering prostitutes.

That was interesting.

I stopped to read the brief blurb about Hollywood’s latest hooker-killer. The guy sounded like one sick fuck. Apparently he was a slasher type who liked to mutilate his victims but the article declined to mention why they called him The Feeder.

It reinforced how urgent it was to get Camille back to Canada where she would be safe. In the perilous world of prostitution, it was only a matter of time before she ran into someone like this Feeder person. If we were at home I would at least have the firepower to protect her.

Canada was no crime-free paradise – we had plenty of sickos too. This one, a pig farmer by the name of Pickton was currently rotting behind bars for the murders of twenty-six prostitutes. He claimed to have targeted drug users because they were easy to kill. He offered them a shot of heroin and then injected them with window cleaner instead. He disposed of the bodies by running them through a wood chipper and feeding the pulp to his pigs. True story. His farm, only a few miles from where I lived, resembled a massive archaeological dig for several years during the forensic investigation. Some of the victims were identified from evidence as minute as bone fragments and traces of DNA found in soil. Pickton may have been locked up, but there were plenty more like him who weren’t.

The sex trade was not safe for anyone. Especially not
my
sister.

~ Chapter 7 ~

Marbles

Evening saw me seated by my window once again with my binoculars and another item I’d bought from the same pawnshop. It was a Wrist Rocket slingshot; the kind with the aluminum brace that used the forearm for leverage. I had a couple of them at home and recalled the many hours of enjoyment I’d had as a child, target practicing with my slingshot in the yard, at the beach and at my father’s cabin.

The slingshot could be a deadly weapon if used correctly and I knew how to use it. I still felt naked without my firearms but at least I now had a means of firing something from a distance. Sitting at my feet was a bag of marbles I’d purchased from a novelty store a few blocks away.

I’d broken a few windows by slingshot in my time but breaking glass wasn’t my intention in this case. Putting a marble through the window of Camille’s room would only put her companion on the alert. What I wanted was for him to stick his ugly head out of the window so I could get a look at him. Then I’d know him if I saw him on the street.

I turned off all the lights in my room, then aimed at the fire escape and let fly with a marble.

Ting!

A direct hit.

I waited.

Nothing.

I fired again.

Ping!

The marble rattled down the fire escape.

This time the blind went up. Camille looked out. I watched her through the binoculars as she scanned the alley below. Then she looked in my general direction and flipped her middle finger at the unseen assailant before ducking back into the room. I wondered if she was able to see the glint of the binocular lens and pinpoint my location. I also wondered if she was alone.

I had to know. I had no intention of spending another day in this festering wound of a city if I could help it.

I fired another marble right beside the window, making a satisfying
crack
as it ricocheted off the wall of the building.

The blinds parted and a pair of eyes peered out between the slats. Through the binoculars, it was hard to tell if they were male or female but they didn’t seem like Camille’s eyes. These ones looked much darker. I took a chance and fired another marble at the fire escape. I needed to get a better look at this guy. I would have given anything for a spotting scope at that moment.

The eyes disappeared and the blinds snapped shut once again.

I waited. I decided to cease fire for a while and see if the asshole would get curious and reveal himself.

Some night-vision eyewear would have come in extremely handy. Again, I had all of the necessary equipment at home but it was of no use to me while I was thousands of miles away in another country.

Everything remained quiet and nobody looked out the window again that I could see. If they truly believed they were under attack, or if they were drugged up and paranoid they probably would have turned off the lights in the room as I had done. The lights stayed on and I detected no movement behind the blind.

I was contemplating taking another shot when a movement below caught my eye. A figure stole into the alley, keeping to the shadow of the Dufferin’s back wall. He was tall; at least six feet with an average build. I tried to get a better look at him through the binoculars but he stayed in the shadows. I couldn’t see his face clearly.

He looked down the alley for signs of an intruder but didn’t look up. He must have assumed the attack was coming from below. His hand slid into his jacket and pulled something out. I knew from the way he held it that it was a handgun. From the angle he drew it I guessed he had drawn it from a shoulder holster. A shoulder holster, like the one I had at home; just like the ones worn by police detectives.

I slid down behind the window sill to make sure he couldn’t get a shot at me, on the off chance he knew I was there. Police officers were trained for this shit and I knew better than to underestimate him.

I estimated how long it would take me to get downstairs, over to the Dufferin and remove Camille before he returned to the room. There wasn’t enough time. I would also have to cross the entrance to that alley to get to the other hotel. He would see me pass by or worse, I would come face to face with him. I couldn’t let him see my face, since it was identical to Camille’s. There was no way he wouldn’t notice the resemblance.

I looked down at the slingshot in my hand. It could be a deadly weapon when used correctly. A well-placed shot with symmetrical ammunition such as a ball bearing… or a marble… could kill.

The question was, how good was I with the thing?

I could accurately hit a target in the daylight or a fire escape, the side of a building or a window in the dark. Did I honestly think I could hit a shadowy figure in a darkened alley two floors below with a lethal shot?

The second question was, who said I
wanted
to kill anyone?

Shooting at an armed man who was probably a police officer wasn’t a smart idea. It might injure the man and was certain to piss him off. My location would be revealed. What would happen then? Either he would shoot me dead or I would wind up in handcuffs for assaulting an officer.

None of those things would help Camille.

The fucker had firepower and I didn’t. I knew that much now. I knew the approximate size of him but still hadn’t gotten a good look at his face.

I needed to figure out a way to make him leave that room long enough for me to get my sister out of there.

~ Chapter 8 ~

Red Room

I dozed off at some point and woke at about 5 am. I was stiff and sore from sleeping in the chair but felt less contaminated than if I’d spent another night on that repulsive bed.

The lights of Camille’s room were still on.

Fuck this shit.

Enough was enough.

It was time for action and I had a plan. I went to a pay phone across the street, called the Dufferin and asked to be put through to room 241. A man’s voice answered.

I spoke in a deep raspy growl, “I know your little secret, motherfucker.”

“Who is this?”

“You’ll shut up and listen if you know what’s good for you. I have something of yours I think you might be missing. If you want it back, come and get it. I’ll be waiting for you at the White Surf Motel, room 102. Bring a thousand bucks or I’m taking this little item to the LA Times.”

“You’re fucking dead.”

“White Surf. Room 102. Tick tock, asshole. Time’s a-wastin’. I can have your story on the front page by morning.”

I hung up the phone, congratulating myself for thinking of such a clever plan. I guessed if this guy was a corrupt cop, he had plenty of secrets. It was just a matter of which one he thought someone was threatening to expose. People who had something to hide usually panicked at the prospect of the press airing their dirty laundry. It was what made them ideal targets for blackmail.

I estimated the time it would take for him to travel all the way to Malibu, only to discover no extortionist waited for him.

He would be relieved and probably mad as hell when he returned, but by then Camille would be gone. I would have had plenty of time to rescue her. By the time he made it back from Malibu, we would be in a taxi bound for the airport or anywhere out of the city. It didn’t matter where we went just as long as I got her out of that room.

I wandered down the street, appearing to look into shop windows, using my peripheral vision to keep an eye on the front doors of the Dufferin. Any minute now, a tall, pissed-off looking man should storm out of the doors.

Any minute now.

Nobody came out of the Dufferin. My heart started to thump in panic as my mind began to invent every possible scenario. What if he was going to take Camille to Malibu with him to prevent her from escaping again? I began to panic even more when it occurred to me that he might not go at all. He might simply send one of his cop buddies to go and check it out.

I strolled slowly down the street, trying to appear calm but inside I was screaming.

Oh fuck oh fuck! What have I done? I may have just created an even bigger mess!

About fifteen or twenty minutes after I placed the call, both front doors of the hotel swung wide with a loud
BANG
and a tall man emerged.

Bingo
.

He dashed into traffic, narrowly avoiding a delivery van. I shrank into a doorway to stay out of sight as he neared my side of the street. He entered a nearby parking garage and a few minutes later I heard the screech of tires as he sped to the exit. The silver BMW that squealed out into traffic and sped away was not an unmarked police vehicle but I knew it was him.

It worked!

I couldn’t believe my luck.

“Bye-bye asshole,” I muttered under my breath.

As soon as the car was out of sight I sprinted across the street and into the Dufferin. I dashed up both flights of stairs. Fuck the elevator; I couldn’t have stood still long enough to wait for it. I ran down the hallway to room 241, key in hand.