Elias (14 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

"Desert Inn," Fred said, answering the hotel phone.

"You the manager?" Elias asked.

"I'm the owner. Name's Fred; what can I do for you?"

"My name is Elias, Elias Neal. You have a young woman in your hotel, came in on a Harley Sportster."

"Mind telling me what this is about?" Fred asked.

"She's very sick. Do you know what PTSD is?"

"I was in 'Nam, son, you don't need to lecture me about post-trauma."

"Good, because she has it in spades, and she's melting down in your hotel right now. I need you to keep an eye on her, and make sure she doesn't try to leave. It's worth twenty-grand to you if you can make that happen."

"What's your number?" Fred asked.

"Why?"

"Because she wouldn't be the first woman trying to get away from a sicko that has shown up in my hotel, son. I'm going to go see her. If what you say pans true, well then, we'll take it from there," Fred told him plainly.

Elias gave him his number, and Fred hung up on him without further comment.

Fred was ex-airborne, and plenty of good men in his history had fallen to the terrors of post-war. Most of them ate bullets for a dinner in some lonely place and were gone now. He wasn't sure how a woman might be afflicted like that, but they were on the lines now, so it was possible.

He picked up his keys, locked up his office, and casually strolled down the length of his building until he came to number seven, with the bike parked outside. He knocked. Nothing happened, so he knocked again, and called out.

No answer came.

Putting his key into the lock he opened the door a little, and called inside. He could hear someone in there, a voice, but she wasn't answering him. He opened the door further and stepped inside warily. If she was shell-shocked, there was no telling what she might do, and he didn't want to get shot. Not at this stage of the game. Shit hurt like hell.

He found her in the bathroom, and his heart broke looking at her. Cleaned up, she was probably pretty, and would look a little like his granddaughter.

He didn't try to touch her, or comfort her. She was gone. Completely gone. Her eyes looked through him, not even knowing he was there. Her body shook like she was freezing to death.

Taking his cell phone out, and the paper with Elias' number on it, he made the call.

"Hello?" Elias said.

"I found her. She's alive, and breathing, but gone," Fred told him.

"I have her doctor ready to call you," Elias to him.

"Hope he's a psych, and a good one," Fred said.

"She is. Both."

"Then take down my cell number. Can't call the rooms directly, and I don't think I should leave her like this," Fred said, and gave him his number.

"I also have a man a few hours out. I'm saddling to ride there right now with four others."

"Why all the men?" Fred asked.

"The man that did this to her is looking for her, and he means to finish what he started. He wants her dead," Elias to him.

"How do I know you aren't this man?" Fred asked.

Elias paused, and then said, "You don't. What do you suggest?"

"Why don't you have her doctor call me, and I'll do what she suggests, if it sounds reasonable," Fred told him.

"What about my man? Will you let him guard her? She's in some serious danger."

"He can guard, but he can't take her—how's that?"

"That's fine. That will be just fine. His name is Dave, and he rides a Heritage. Red. He's about three hours from you."

"Alright. Dave it is then—and son, I really think this girl needs to be in a hospital soon after this Dave fella gets here. Local Sheriff is a good man, and honest as they come. I play poker with him."

Elias took in a deep breath. "The man after her is a cop, a detective. Houston."

"What's she to you?"

"I love her," Elias told him.

"Then why aren't you here with her?"

"She got scared, didn't want me hurt, and took off. She called me from the room. You can check your logs. She asked me to come get her, and sir, I appreciate your caution, but I intend to do exactly that."

"Well, come on then. Houston is a long way off, and it will give me time to think this through. You have my cell. Call as you like to check up on things. I'm guessing, though, you'll be meeting her at the hospital, not here. Just wouldn't be right to keep her here like this," Fred told him.

"I'll keep in touch then. Doc will be driving out as well, so she can help with treatment and with getting her back home," Elias told him.

"Alright. Have her doctor call me, and we'll take it from there. My gut tells me you are on the up and up, but, like I said, I was in 'Nam and I didn't get through that just relying on my gut. Got to use brains as well."

"Agreed," Elias told him. "I'm on my way."

A few minutes later a woman who claimed to be Dr. Mary Maynard called his phone and asked if he knew how to take vitals.

"Yep, sure do. She's at fifty beats a minute, eyes unresponsive, and her skin is clammy. She's pulling at her hair, and talking about the smell, and that's all she's doing. I don't even think she knows I'm in the bathroom with her."

"Alright," Doc said. "Is there a hospital nearby? Some place that knows something besides horses?"

"Not close, but I can get her there, to the one in Yuma," Fred said. "Should I wait for this Dave fella to show up first?"

"Definitely. She's in serious danger, and so are you right now."

"How serious?" he asked.

"You sound like a medic," she said.

"Airborne, cross-trained," he said.

"Then you'll understand when I tell you:
very
serious trouble."

"Ah, alright. I'll get my gun then. What color is this Dave fella's bike, again?"

"Red; it's a Heritage Harley. Do you know what that is?"

"Yes ma'am I do," Fred assured her. "Is he licensed to carry? Is he legal?"

"Yes he is," Doc told him. "I'll be trying to get a hold of him, and give him your number."

"That's a good idea. Why don't you give me his as well?"

"Why?" she asked.

"So I can call him when he's in front of me and see if he picks up before I shoot him."

Doc gave her Dave's phone number. "I like your kind of caution Fred," she told him. "I'll be seeing you soon."

It was less than two hours later when a large Harley pulled into the lot right up to Chelsea's Sporty. The man that got off Fred would describe as
professional, and serious.
Fred leveled his gun on the man, and dialed the number Doc gave him from his cell phone.

Dave noticed the gun just as his phone rang loudly in his jacket pocket.

"You must be Fred," Dave said.

"You are more than likely known as Dave," Fred answered.

"She inside?"

"Yep, but we're on the move. I'll call an ambulance."

"I'll keep an eye out, then. Make your call. Let's take care of that girl. She's got a lot of people back home missing her," Dave told him.

"A lot, huh?" Fred asked.

"Over fifty that know her, some eighty more that don't, but still care about her," Dave said, then added, "The kind of care that your little gun isn't going to keep back for very long. So let's put that away, alright?"

Fred looked at his .45 and shrugged, then put it in his holster. Then he called the emergency line and asked for an ambulance.

CHAPTER THIRTY

"The five of them just left, and they're in a hurry," Juan told Tomas on the phone.

"Are you following?" Tomas asked.

"I'm about to, but they are moving too fast not to notice me for very long. I think they are heading for the 10 west."

Tomas then heard a smacking sound on the line.

"Hello?" Tomas asked.

"Hello," a gravelly voice said. "We're coming for you, asshole." This was then followed by what could only be gun shots, two of them. Followed by the line going dead.

"Weekend warriors, my ass," Tomas said grimly.

Obviously that was the end of Juan. They caught him. But Tomas believed the information was good, and he was going to act on it as if it was.

Tomas thumbed through his phone as he was running for his car. He would gamble on Juan's 10 west as well. He called El Paso. After talking for a while, he arranged the resources for an ambush of the White Wolves, stressing that he needed at least one alive—two would be better—so that one could watch the other tortured and killed.

There was only one destination they could possibly be heading for, and that was whereever Chelsea had hidden herself. Five men was nothing. They should have brought a lot more than that. Obviously they had no idea who they were fucking with.

Since she had her Shelby back, Tomas figured she was driving that, and if that was the case, she could be near or in California by now. He doubted she would stop once she started. No distance was far enough, and she was a mouse, so she would feel that fear.

His instincts, and what he knew about Chelsea, told him that Los Angeles wouldn't be the place. Too many stories about the dangers of L.A. in this part of the country. L.A. had a mythos surrounding it, like New York. She wouldn't head for San Francisco either, he decided, but had nothing more than a gut feeling about that. No, San Diego would be where she would run for a new life. She wouldn't be there long, however. Her fears would chase her out of there. She would feel trapped against the ocean.

Tomas drove fast, putting his emergency lights on so he could cut through the Houston traffic. His speeds were dangerous the entire way to I-10 West. Once on the freeway, he came up to 120 mph, lights flashing, and running on the shoulder at times when cars couldn't get out of his way fast enough.

He was sure that he wasn't more than thirty minutes behind the White Wolves, guessing that they would push the speed limit, but not break it by much. They didn't want to be pulled over. That would just slow them down even more.

After twenty minutes on the freeway, he turned the lights and siren off, but kept his speed at a constant 120. The terrain was mostly flat, and the road nearly straight between here and San Antonio. He was hoping that he would come up behind them outside of Sealy—on the outside, before Schulenburg.

Tomas wanted to be at least within five or six miles of them. Able to speed up and see them, check their course, and then drop back out of the line of sight so he could plan the ambush right.

Thankfully he had a full tank, since he imagined that the Wolves would have kept their bikes ready to ride. Of course, he would easily outrank them with his gas mileage, which was good. He would pull over for gas at the places he felt they would be forced to stop with their smaller tanks.

According to the DMV Elias Neal owned a V-Rod, which put his range at about 130 miles. He wouldn't want to risk running dry, though, so he would probably pull over every 100 or so for gas. Unlike many of the other Harleys, such as the Heritage, the V-rod had only a 3.2 gallon tank under its seat instead of the five gallon. The V-rod was basically a short-distance city bike with a dragster feel, and a very powerful engine. That power was useless out here on the highway, however, if he didn't have range.

It was outside of Schulenburg before he came up on a group of riders that fit the bill. Four men on Harleys being followed by one man on a trike.

One of the addresses on the stay-away order he was served with was
Duffy's Bike Shop
, and Tomas remembered a blue and chrome trike outside that shop when he staked it out looking for Chelsea. This group had to be them. How many trikes could be heading West at ninety miles an hour following four other bikes? No, this was definitely them.

Tomas slowed down and let them get out of sight, and then brought his car back up to ninety to keep pace with them. He looked at his trip meter and did some quick math, estimating the next gas stop Elias' V-rod would force them to take. Then he mentally mapped out his road between here and El Paso.

After mulling it over, he decided that the ambush would be better after El Paso, rather than before. Fewer travelers would be on the road, and they should be coming out of El Paso after midnight. He doubted they would stop to sleep. No, they probably did a few lines of cocaine before they left, and would keep the lines coming at their gas stops to remain awake and alert.

After El Paso, then, at roughly one in the morning. A road block in front—two pickup trucks could do that. And then box them in—so another two pickups behind them. Box them in, take the hostages, kill the other three, and then back to El Paso and down into Juarez where he could spend some quality time without being interrupted.

Walking through this visual, playing it out several times in his head, he decided on ten men with strong fire power. Ten good men, who wouldn't go crazy and turn his informants into splatters of blood across the highway.

After he had Chelsea's hiding place, he would gun it as hard as he could to get there before she freaked out and left for someplace else. She had to have called Elias, Tomas reasoned, so she would probably wait for her bodyguard to come to her. She was undoubtedly screwing him. Why else would he be running so fast to get to her?

Elias' goal, since he wasn't running alone, was obviously to bring her back to Houston. Tomas played with the idea of just waiting for them to return, but nixed it. It would be better to take care of her as far from Houston as possible, and there were plenty of witnesses now to the fact that she took off on her own. In California, he could end her and make her a Jane Doe. No one would even know Chelsea Shore was dead, and no one would be looking for her in California. A Jane Doe death was what that worthless cunt deserved anyway. She was fun to fuck, but Tomas never forgave betrayal.

Tomas continued to let these thoughts and others piece together in his mind, backed by many years on the force. He knew how cops thought, but he was cautious about falling into the trap that this was going to be easy. He believed the Internal Affairs man and his captain. If they ever got word that Chelsea Shore was murdered, he would be their prime suspect and they would be sniffing every bush and tree in his yard. Nobody, doing the things he was doing, wanted that kind of scrutiny in their lives.

At least Stewart was taken care of. Stewart was the only weak link in his chain of contacts and resources. Stewart was the only one with enough to lose that he might try turning over on him if it got too hot. That wasn't a worry any more. Stewart was now helping the grass grow greener in South Texas. Bye-buddy-bye, and may God have mercy on you.