Nothing Sacred (FBI Agent Dan Hammer Series Book 1) (26 page)

41

Movement.

Finally.

And ventilation.

She was lying in her own piss. The smell was obnoxious. The heat inside the trunk was unbearable.

She tried holding it in. She knew what would happen. But the pain became overwhelming. Too much. Sometimes, she thought her bladder was the size of a peanut. Or smaller. Mommy always told her it wasn’t healthy to hold in her urine. So, she let it out, slowly at first, just a dribble, every so often. Then, the trickle began running down her leg, tickling her. She could feel the warmth flowing right between her thighs. She became so angry she finally just let it rip. She even raised her knee, separating her thighs. Boy, did she let loose. The force was so strong and steady she thought for sure somebody would see water leaking from the back of the car. But, they didn’t. Nobody saw anything. She couldn’t even hear voices. She tried listening, pressing her ear tight against the rear back light. As close to the red and orange plastic as she could. Nothing. Nobody.

Now at least there was air circulating. And thankfully, she could now scratch her legs where the pee had dried.

Little pinpricks of light bounced all around her as the car moved from shaded areas through open sunlight. Rubber tires hugged the asphalt underneath her. She experienced bumps without the comfort of shocks. Potholes. Cracks in the pavement. She could almost predict them. Prepare herself.

She was reading the road. What else could she do? When the car turned left, she turned left, Right, right. When the car accelerated, she moved with it. When it slowed down, her heart began beating. Faster.

Are we there yet?

Was she ready?

The engine talked to her. Communicated. At some galactic level, she understood the metallic language of the car. So she wouldn’t have to be alone. In the short time they’d been together, she and the car, they had become pretty good traveling companions. In a wacky, retarded sort of way, they both related. They were both hiding out, hidden under the flashy exterior of a hood and a trunk. Both of them were on a journey. Cool metaphor! Miss Langley, her English teacher would be so proud of her. The car had opened up to her. They had bonded with one another. And all for the price of a little company. Like sisters. Almost. Then again, she wouldn’t know. She never had a sister.

Sudden acceleration.

“Ouch! Fucker! My hair.”
Shhhh…

That one hurt. She didn’t have time to prepare.

The driver was in a hurry, whoever the fucking pervert was. Better slow down. Better not go too fast. Wouldn’t want you to be pulled over by the highway patrol and spoil all your fun.

Besides, if that were to happen, it might fuck up Jenn’s plans.

Her little secret.

She could see now. She could scream, too, if she wanted. She didn’t dare. Instead, she would wait. She would stay perfectly still and hold onto her lovely piece of metal. She now held the tire jack firmly in both of her hands. She called it Jack, for lack of a better name. Jack would be present. They would bide their time together and wait for the son of a bitch who did this. Relish the thought of the trunk finally opening. The expression on that fucker’s face would be priceless. She wished that she had her IPhone so she could take a picture. Too bad the creep confiscated it. Instead of finding a helpless little girl tied up with duct tape, lying in piss, she would haul off and introduce the fucker to Jack. Her new best friend. Face to face.

Then, she would kill the motherfucker.

Trust me.

I will fucking kill him.

12:16 PM

42

410 East Bay Street. High Battery.

Jake
systematically circled each palm tree, desperate for a quick whiff, afraid he might miss something. They reached the stark, treeless promenade surrounding Charleston Harbor far too quickly.

Sorry, Jake.

They climbed up the few cracked steps. Fishermen with sunburned faces stood like mannequins along the perimeter wall. Dented metal buckets sat beside them, filled to the brim with saltwater, fresh shrimp and live bait.

Jake found adventure in those pails, inquisitively investigating each one as they moseyed along the pier. Long fishing poles hung out over the ledge of the harbor wall. Salty, thick fingers became one with the line; intertwined, intuiting, tension building, as the fishermen held onto their private divining rods and waited for that all-important tug, that nascent nibble. Underneath them, scurrying along the jagged rocks like wiry sea monkeys, young boys learned the ropes, searching for hidden crayfish and shrimp. The smell of brine and fish permeated the area, combined with the dull sweet scent of the paper mill factory. Together, it created an odd olfactory sensation. The delicate mixture dusted the Charleston Battery like a clear, fine invisible mist.

Janice took a deep breath. She filled her lungs with the rich and fragrant smell. Across from her, positioned like an anchor in the choppy green blue water was Fort Sumter. It stood as a giant reminder of the Civil War and paid silent homage to the Union troops once stationed there. She made a mental note…

Invite Lisette here for a day trip. She might like visiting Fort Sumter. Pack a picnic basket. Romantic.

Jake spotted another dog. A gorgeous Doberman entered the park. Jake began pulling at his leash. He was a very social dog and wanted to meet and play with everybody!

Janice checked the addresses prominently displayed on the statuesque homes. She counted down the numbers as they continued walking. There it was. 410.  It stood tall and erect in all its refined Southern charm and confident glory. A beautifully preserved heirloom of historic architecture. One of the things Janice loved about the South. Particularly Charleston. City Council Officials had maintained the integrity of the buildings and played an important role in restoring the houses to their original luster. Members actually voted on the landmark structures, handing out yearly awards for the best renovations.

Presented with the certificate was quite an honor, and lucky homeowners displayed it proudly and prominently out in front of their properties.

“C’mon, let’s go.” Janice pulled at his leash. Jake could be very stubborn, like his master. He held firm. Janice yanked harder. She had a sneaky suspicion he was taking a liking to the Doberman. She turned to reprimand him. “Jake, let’s go.” He relinquished. Finally. This time.

They leaped off the promenade wall and were about to cross the street when Hammer’s unmarked car rounded the corner. It slowly approached the Stattler home and parked out front. He had a visitor in the car with him. An older gentleman with bushy white hair.

Dammit.

She missed her chance.

She sat on the wooden park bench situated directly across from the house and waited. Behind her, seagulls floated in the languid breeze, every so often circling, leveling off and then dive-bombing into the ocean for lunch. Janice put on her sunglasses. She observed, from the corner of her eye, as Hammer and his partner exited the car and walked up the few steps to the front door. A petite, refined woman rushed out to greet them before they had a chance to make it to the porch. She appeared panicky and upset and began pointing in the general vicinity of the park. All heads turned in that direction, including hers. Jake sat at her feet, temporarily exhausted, uninterested for the time being. Love had gotten the better of him. Like everybody, she guessed, from time to time.

She took her pad and began taking notes. She realized she’d received the tip first. Again. She was the premiere reporter on the scene.

Evans.

That big, lovable oaf of a sweetheart.

She repositioned her sunglasses and took some mood notes. She described the area. The ambiance. The money. Prestige. This was definitely high incomeville! Lots of cash floating around this section of town. She used her cell phone and took a few photos of the area and the setting. Tone. A few glossy photographs of the community. Show it off. Although the location wasn’t necessarily visual, it could work as a “scene-setter.” That’s what they called it. There was something though. A feeling. Not seen, but felt. Palpable. The horror of absence. Abduction. It could happen, even to those living in the most affluent, protected of neighborhoods. Maybe she should add a few token lines about the killer.
The Mutilator
. What modus operandi does he seem to be doing? Following?

She glanced across the street. The lady was still using her hands, gesturing and articulating. She ushered Hammer and his friend into their home. Damn. More questions. More answers. More wasted time. She checked her watch. 12:40 PM. Maybe she should call Louis. Let him know where she was, what she’d been doing. She scanned the street. Nothing.

She stood up, tucked her pad back into her jacket and approached the street. She fished for some change in her jeans. Jake hesitated at first, enjoying his outside nap, but eventually he loped along beside her. They waited on the curb as several cars passed by. Jake heeled at her feet like the well-trained dog he was. Only when she gave the “Go” word, did he move.

“Go.”

They stepped off the curb. It was in that moment she caught the first glimpse of the car. She pulled her sunglasses down over her eyes to get a better look. A dark purple color on the outside, red almost, with a black interior. A compact car. Nothing big. Maybe a Honda Civic or perhaps a Camry?

The vehicle turned right off of Water and onto East Bay Street. Sunlight reflected off its hood. It pulled up in front of the Stattler home, practically double-parking beside Hammer’s Plymouth. Janice scurried across the street and found cover. She hid behind one of the thick trunks of a palm tree. Jake sniffed at the grass. He was back in dog mode, investigating his own specific set of clues. The car did a rolling stop, slowly inching forward before accelerating back up to speed again. Janice rolled around the edge of the tree and out of sight, in time to get a glimpse of the driver and the license tags. Rental.

A female.

Dr. Garrison?

Wait a second. Something’s fishy in Charleston!

When she went to visit Dr. Garrison yesterday, they had driven to the hospital together and she wasn’t driving a rental car. Janice knew that for a fact. She specifically remembered asking the Doctor if she could offer her a lift, since she had been kind enough to allow her the use of her telephone. She flat out refused, saying she’d rather drive her own car. Then she did something really rude. She pulled out a Clorox wipe from a plastic container and sanitized the receiver of the telephone.
What?
So, Janice followed her. In a black BMW, a 320I to be more specific. The car was gorgeous. The Doctor was gorgeous. The entire visual looked like it drove itself right out of a page from a glossy
Vogue
magazine. Here was this exquisite, light skinned black woman driving a sleek, expensive, well-maintained car. She recalled driving behind her, fantasizing about buying one exactly like it for Lisette. For her birthday. She had a fiendish plan to make Lisette’s co-workers jealous as hell. Especially the male staff.

Back to business…

Why would Dr. Garrison be driving a rental car? And why did she slow down in front of the Stattler home?

Chills crawled up her spine like an electric shock, a frisson of panic.

This was more than a story. This could be
the
story.

Dr. Garrison?

What now?
What should she do? Run across the street and interrupt the Hammerhead while he was interviewing the Stattler’s? Tell him what she just saw? Hell no! Why should she advise him on her lucky run-in with synchronicity? There was a reason. And, it had her byline on it.

Better luck next time, Hammer.
Hammerhead.

All she needed was a piece of evidence, a tiny shred of proof. Some ironclad data linking the Doctor and the story together. That would make it more than just a hunch. More than just a female reporter’s paranoid, overdramatic intuition. Besides, would Hammer believe her anyway? She doubted it. Dr. Garrison was very smart and very clever. She was a physician, for God’s sake.

This storyline was fucking flawless. It practically wrote itself.

But why Dr. Garrison?

This piece required more than Janice’s expert writing skills. This feature needed specifics. Why should she take somebody else’s secondhand information and report on it when she could get the scoop herself. Firsthand. Cold, hard, investigative facts that only Janice Porter could dig up. On her own. Alone.

Janice Porter… prepare yourself, girlfriend. Snap!

This was an exclusive. Front page sort of thing. Sunday edition. Don’t even try to argue, Louis. Janice’s continuing reputation was on the line with this one. Hell, not even Evans could take credit. She could already see her picture in the byline. Come to think of it, she needed a new photo. Another mental note: photograph.

And maybe a new car. Like the one she fantasized about for Lisette.

What now?

Mrs. Stattler could wait. For that matter, so could Louis. She only hoped the girl could. Hold on, little one, for just a little while longer. Right now, Janice needed to find out where Dr. Garrison rented that damn car. Then, she needed to take another jaunt to Folly Beach.

Jake looked up at Janice with inquisitive eyes, totally confused.

“Go.” Janice commanded. Jake jumped.

“Don’t worry. This time you get to come along for the ride.”