Four to Go (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) (16 page)

“I agree, Mike. Although we’ve still got to have the rooms all checked and make sure he doesn’t have a third or fourth way to access the interior of the house. That’ll take at least twenty-four hours, or more, depending on what we find. We still don’t know if those cameras were remoted outside the mansion or if there’s a recorder inside.”

“We’ll get him, but as you said, until we’re sure he can’t get into the mansion, one of us is going to have to stick to Tom and Katie like glue,” Mike remarked. “Why don’t I stay with them tonight, and we’ll switch off and you can take tomorrow night?”

“Thanks, Mike, I appreciate it. Maybe I can get my brain squared around in time for breakfast tomorrow. Care to join me?”

“You bet. Mrs. Mallory has made fresh cinnamon rolls for breakfast tomorrow. I’ll even brew your favorite coffee.” Mike smiled warmly at John.

“I’ll look forward to it. Good night, all,” he said as he nodded and left the room.

“He’ll be fine, Mike,” said Tom.

“I know. I know. He’s already done a hell of a job in pulling himself together. It’s just that after all this time—I never dreamed he felt that way.”

“Face it, Mike, it’s been that kind of a day. We’ve all been on a string of emotional roller coaster rides which started at breakfast and took us up and down over and over again for the rest of the day and into the evening.” Kate rubbed her face with both hands. “At least we’re ending the day on a positive note. I’m done for the night. I’m almost falling asleep just sitting here.”

“You’re right, Kate. It’s time for us to turn in for the night …together. No more separate bedrooms,” said Tom with a yawn. “Never did like roller coasters,” he mumbled as he turned his wheelchair toward the door. “Come on, Mike. You’re with us tonight.”

The bar was on the edge, sliding inelegantly toward the seedier side of the business. Located on the outer perimeter of upscale lounges and sports bars, The Bird of Paradise had failed miserably to attract the high-end clientele it had aimed for. The only “birds” currently in the bar were those “soiled doves” who sold their services to the highest bidder, and they were watching the sloppy drunk at the bar with wary caution. Each of them had been with him at one time or another in the past few weeks and had the bruises and scars from his fists to prove it. The only reason the bartender didn’t throw him out was the size of his bar bill. That kind of money was scarce in this neighborhood. Barney had warned him to clean up his act and keep his hands off of the girls or he’d call the cops.

If he had only wanted sex, it would have been no problem. They didn’t call him “the dickless dude” for nothing.

Once the pattern of his drinking had become common knowledge, the girls had formulated a plan of escape. At the first obscenity leaving his lips, the girls who had no customer on the line would exit, one at a time, until only one was left. The bartender would then distract him so that she, too, could escape. By the time he reached the out-of-control stage, the women would be gone. Some of the women would find another bar or just call it a night, and a few would go around to the back of the bar to the storage room and wait until “dickless” left.

* * * *

But tonight Marylou was still talking to an older man in the far booth. She’d had high hopes that he’d come through as a paying customer. So far though, all he wanted to do was talk about another woman, which actually wasn’t all that unusual. He was starting to creep her out though, calling her Rosie, even though she’d told him several times that her name was Marylou.

He had also scolded her for cutting her hair and for wearing makeup, for God’s sake. For the last three years she’d worn her black hair cut in a short mop of curls. Her large hazel eyes were her best feature, and she used eyeliner and shadow to accent them. Tonight she was wearing green contacts, but she also had blue and brown contacts just for a change. Maybe she’d give it up for tonight and take the loss.

“Mister, I gotta go to the ladies’ room. I’ll be right back.”

“All right, Rosie, but hurry up. I’m getting tired.”

She made it into the restroom and stared at her reflection wearily. Her eyes were bloodshot and her makeup beginning to streak. She had just turned twenty-one last month and looked every bit of thirty-one, at least. And the customers seemed to be getting weirder and scarier. The fun and excitement was gone.

Definitely time to get out of the business, before she ended up in the hospital, or was drugged out of her mind and roped into Salazar’s stable of girls, or worse. And Salazar had been eyeing her lately. He had been making it obvious that her time as an independent was running out. Suddenly, the neighborhood was becoming very dangerous, if not deadly. Tonight was no exception. “Dickless” had been glaring at her as she walked by.

“Well, Marylou,” she said to her reflection in the mirror. “There’s no time like the present, is there?” She popped her contacts out, grabbed a paper towel, took the small tube of makeup remover from her purse, and began scrubbing her face. After discarding the third paper towel and patting her face dry with another one, Marylou looked into the mirror with a start of surprise.

It was no longer her working face looking back at her with tired eyes, naked without the necessary heavy makeup. It was definitely the old Marylou, looking much younger and looking hopeful. Anticipation, determination, and hope stared back at her from the face in the mirror. She could make a new life work. She
would
make a new life work.

Frantically, she searched her purse until she found the card with the phone number on it. Consuela, the woman who ran the area safe house just down the street, had told her she could call day or night and someone would either come and get her or make arrangements for her to be admitted to the safe house.

Marylou grabbed her cell phone and dialed the number immediately. She couldn’t understand where the sudden uneasiness and fear had come from. She’d been walking and working these streets at all hours for several years, but now, with the hope of a new future and the new possibilities in front of her, she was afraid. Afraid something would take away her chance to change her life, to get out of the downward spiral she could see sucking her deeper and deeper into nothingness.

The arrangements took barely sixty seconds to make by phone. Consuela advised her that she would be at the bar within ten minutes. When Marylou told her about “dickless” and how he’d used his fists on her and others, Consuela said that she’d bring Reuben with her and for Marylou to lock the door and wait in the ladies’ room. Quickly, Marylou shot the flimsy bolt on the door.

While she waited, she began cleaning out her purse. She hummed a light melody as she threw away the dark, heavy cosmetics she’d been using and resolved to buy lighter, more natural-looking makeup as soon as she could.

The sudden rattling as the doorknob was turned, followed by a fist pounding on the door, startled her, and she let out a small, frightened gasp. Her heart began thudding with fear.

“I know you’re in there. Get out here!” The words were slurred, but she didn’t have any trouble understanding them or who was now ramming his shoulder against the door. “Dickless” was on a rampage.

“Go away,” she cried. “I quit. I’m no longer working. Just leave me alone.” Her hands shaking, she quickly scooped everything back into her purse and secured it. She only needed enough time for Consuela and Reuben to arrive. But Marylou doubted that the flimsy lock would hold. She could see the nails holding the bolt mechanism to the doorjamb pulling farther away from the wood with each impact of his shoulder.

“You’ll pay, bitch,” he screamed each time his shoulder hit the door. “You’ll pay! Nobody quits on Scott Thomasson. Nobody!”

With that, the bolt finally gave way and the door slammed back against the wall, and Scott’s drunken momentum carried him past her and into the door of one of the stalls.

Filled with panic, Marylou quickly whipped out of the door and ran into the main bar area looking for the bartender, Consuela, or anyone who could help hide her. As she looked behind the bar, she saw Barney stretched out, unconscious. One of the customers was behind the bar at Barney’s side, trying to revive him. Yet another customer was on his cell phone, and Marylou could hear him giving directions to the bar. Terrified, she started to run toward the door, even though she knew it was the worst thing she could do. If he caught her outside, away from witnesses, well, it wouldn’t be pretty.

At that point a hand painfully grabbed her shoulder and violently spun her around to the sight of a fist coming directly at her face.

“Fucking whore,” she heard him roar. She managed to lean back and turn her head, and the blow glanced off of her jaw, sending bright, colorful shooting stars exploding behind her closed eyes.

“Nooo! Rosie!” That enraged scream was the last thing she heard before the shooting stars faded into black and she passed out.

Mike was taking his first sip of the strong coffee he’d just brewed when his cell phone rang. The last two days and nights had been busy and chaotic. He and John had had several long discussions regarding their past, and everything seemed to be going along smoothly. Almost back to normal.

The teams had not been able to find any other hidden access to the house, but they had located the recording device in one of the storage rooms and had found several other listening devices. But at last, the house seemed to be clean and secure. Even the locks had been changed in case the intruder had made a set of keys. Mike and John had decided to send home at least one of the teams after breakfast and maybe another team after lunch.

“Get your ass out of bed and turn your computer on,” snarled Ben.

“What?”

“I’ve already had three phone calls, and it’s not even 6:30 a.m. yet. But apparently the guy you’re looking for is on YouTube, Twitter, and every other online news source and bulletin board on the Internet. It seems like every damn construction worker I talked to who worked on your addition is calling me this morning. Damn, there’s another call coming in. I’ll talk to you as soon as I can get there.”

While he put his cell phone on speaker and keyed in John’s speed dial, Mike opened the kitchen computer desk and started pulling up YouTube.

“What’s up, Mike?”

“I think we’ve got him!”

“Mike? Where are you?” John’s demanded impatiently.

“In the kitchen on the computer. Get here as soon as you can. Ben’s already on his way. He should be here in a few minutes. Just got a call from him saying that he’s been getting calls this morning from the construction workers he had talked to that our perp is on YouTube. Almost got it. Yep, this must be it. And there he is, big as life. Oh, my God, and that son of a bitch Scott Thomasson is involved in this, too. Everyone in that bar last night must have taken pictures with their cell phones.”

“Show me,” said John as he quickly walked into the kitchen, slipping his cell phone into the pocket of his unbuttoned shirt.

Mike hit a key, and the screen filled with the frightened face of what looked to be a very young woman and then the fist that clipped her chin, followed by Scott Thomasson’s hate-filled face as he pulled his fist back for another blow. Before the second blow could land, his fist was grabbed and violently wrenched behind his back. Although they couldn’t see the brutal twist his wrist received, they could see Scott’s face contorted in sudden, surprised agony, his mouth opened in a silent scream before his eyes rolled up into his head and he obviously passed out.

Filling the screen then was the enraged face of the man they’d been looking for. The one they never thought they’d find so easily. Mike paused the play and hit the print button. Seconds later his image emerged from the printer. His hair was white now instead of the salt-and-pepper it had been when the therapy room had been constructed, but otherwise it was the same face.

They resumed play and watched their man kneel beside the woman on the floor and gently stroke her face. There was an odd, puzzled look on his face as he stared intently at her. Seconds later he was pushed aside as a thin, scrawny woman and a giant bear of a man rushed into the bar, followed almost immediately by the paramedics and police. In the ensuing commotion, they could see their man edge toward the door. They watched him step back and grasp the doorframe near his head as a stretcher was rushed into the bar, nearly colliding with him. He looked back once, shook his head as if to clear it, and then disappeared into the night.

As they drank their coffee, they watched three other versions, each from a different perspective, but still the same basic action. One version they played several times, grinning at each other. This shot was from the side and had a perfect view as Scott’s arm was jerked behind his back. The deliberate and vicious twist of his wrist was so graphic they could almost see and hear the bones being crushed, twisted, and broken.

“Damn, I could almost like that guy for taking out Thomasson’s wrist with as much pain as possible. I don’t think Scott’s going to be using that fist on any more women. In fact, I’d lay odds that he’ll never use that hand with any semblance of normalcy ever again,” said John with satisfaction.

“I’m sure not going to take any odds on that one, John. But look at this photo. Look at his eyes and the expression on his face. He’s really scary. Spooky as hell. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more vivid example of madness. I’d better get this photo and the online websites faxed to Trent and Ian.” His fingers raced over the keyboard. “They can access databases that might be able to put a name to this face. And I’m making an extra copy for Ben. He should be here at any minute.”

“Who should be here at any minute?” asked Tom as he and Kate entered the kitchen. He guided his wheelchair over to the computer desk and peered at the computer screen.

“We’ve got him! Mike and I both remember seeing him and talking to him during construction. Look at this picture and see if you recognize him from the car crash. Ben’s on his way. He’s the one who called us with the information.” John handed the photograph to Tom and stepped back, watching his reaction.