Authors: Simon Leigh
Out of Promises (31 page)
Valerie and Bill walked from the car to the house. Valerie held her pose in a defensive manor while Bill looked on, concerned for her. The only car there belonged to Bill and the neighbours were out, not that they could see much anyway through the tall conifers encasing the modest grounds. The place reminded Valerie of Irene Hex’s garden, neat and tidy with well cut grass, only this one was covered in snow. In front of the main door was a wooden wheelchair ramp, freshly salted to melt away the ice.
‘I thought you said she died?’
Bill stopped. ‘She did, why?’
‘Who salted the ramp? God damn it, if you’re lying to me again, I’m going.’
‘One of the neighbours must have done it. She was quite friendly with them. They come every day to pick up the mail and sort it out to help the family.’ He unlocked the door and walked inside.
She didn’t like it. ‘I want to have a look around.’
‘Why? Come on for God’s sake.’
‘Where’s the bathroom?’
‘Upstairs, second door on the right.’
Walking passed him, she headed up the creaky steps, passing a stair lift and on towards the bathroom.
The décor was how she imagined: dated, with a disabled seat on the toilet and another in the bath. The medicine cabinet held pills and mouthwash. Everything was in order and she was starting to feel at peace now Bill had finally told her some truth.
Two minutes later, after washing her face, she was out of the bathroom and feeling better about herself, though the plan to leave when she felt the cops had died down was still in her mind.
Heading back down the stairs, she was stopped by the faint sound of voices, one of them belonging to a lady, another to Bill, and another to a different man.
Jesus Christ.
That small amount of belief in him soon vanished and was taken over by the hatred and betrayal that would accompany him so frequently in her mind.
In the hallway, she moved farther into the house, farther towards the door the voices were behind while keeping the front exit in her sights,
Then, almost like a switch had been flicked, the voices stopped and the house fell silent.
Fuck this.
She headed for the front door when faint sobbing sounds from below caught her ears. She knew she should leave, but part of her wondered if they belonged to Michael. She couldn’t ignore something like that alone.
Moving to the basement door would take her deeper into the house and farther away from an escape route.
Did she have a choice? She had to find if it was Michael. Freddie’s killer was still out there, and now, as she knew, so was Preston.
Placing her ear to the door, she listened, recognizing the sound of Matherson’s voice right away.
Shit.
She had two choices, leave the house or go down there and get some answers from him. Jackson was dead and she knew Matherson was responsible. If she left now she’d be dishonouring his death and she couldn’t do that, it was her duty as a friend and colleague. So, with one last look behind her, she grabbed the door handle and pulled.
The door freely scraped open and she soon wished she’d left it alone. Standing there, like a replay of the church, was the man she feared the most, the man who had stayed in her mind almost every minute since it happened, Cyrus. All the feelings she felt those two days ago rushed back to her: dread, fear, and the nightmare sense of impending doom. She jolted back and ran for the front door as Bill came out of the living room. She was trapped.
Cyrus smiled. ‘Hello again, Valerie.’
A slap across Cook’s face woke him to the sight of what looked like the inside of a warehouse, out of sight where no one could hear him scream. Hanging by his wrists in his underwear a foot from the ground, he was dazed and confused. A cold sweat and shivers covered his body from head to toe. People stood watching him, a group of four – two men and two ladies. One of the men, he figured, was a doctor. Beyond them, he noticed a battery with stripped wires hanging from it, fearing the worst.
In front of him, a tall man with long dark hair was standing with his arms folded like he was pondering some sick torture. He asked, ‘What is your name?’
‘Cook,’ he slurred.
‘Who do you work for?’
He didn’t answer.
The man unfolded his arms and moved closer. ‘Who do you work for?’
‘Julius Matherson.’
‘When I ask you a question, you will speak. If it’s not a question, keep quiet. Understand?’
He nodded.
‘Do you know who I am, Cook?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘I don’t remember you either. You must have joined after I left. My name is Rodriguez.’
‘I’ve heard of you.’
Rodriguez backslapped him across the face. ‘Did I say you could talk?’
The blow stung like a bitch.
‘I need information. Matherson has a shipment coming in and I need to put a stop to it.’
Cook kept his mouth shut, the numbing feeling from his rope tied hands pulsing in his wrists.
‘Do you know anything about it?’
‘He doesn’t tell me things like that. He keeps a close circle of his most trusted men. I’m not trusted with such information.’
‘Yes. I know that, but I asked if you know something, not whether he told you. Did you hear anything before he was taken?’
‘How do you know he was taken?’
Rodriguez backslapped him again. ‘I’m asking the questions.’
That one hurt more than the previous one. ‘No,’ he cried. ‘I haven’t heard shit.’
‘I need a date and time. You’re going to tell me what you know. A lot of drugs and weapons are in that deal.’
‘Like a modern day vigilante, right?’
Rodriguez smiled. Cook braced for another hit, but it never came. He said, ‘Look, I’m trying to help. I want Matherson off these streets. The drugs and weapons too. I know it’s going down at the Truman Building.’
Cook said, ‘That’s too risky for any deal to happen. There’s no escape and it’s too public.’
‘Our intel is reliable. They have an apartment there only I don’t know what name it’s under.’
Cook remained quiet.
Rodriguez grew impatient.
A cell vibrated. ‘Keep an eye on him,’ he ordered and walked away to take the call.
Cook looked around, wondering if this is where it was all going to end, wondering if his life had been worth it. All the loyalty he’d given for it to just turn to shit in a matter of hours.
Rodriguez came back. ‘Looks like we have a date, time and location. It’s tonight so I’m in a hurry. If you have any other information that may be useful to me, now is the time to say.’
‘Are you going to kill me?’
‘Yes.’
A moment’s silence. Then he asked, ‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t want shit like you on the streets any longer. I used to be a smuggler, you know. It is partly my fault that the streets are how they are. Then came Northbrook and everything that went on there. I just thought enough is enough.’
‘I heard rumours about that.’
‘I don’t want to get into it.’ He took out a pistol, a Glock. ‘Do you know what it feels like, remembering you were part of one of the most atrocious and barbaric acts of violence this city has ever seen? Something like that never leaves you.’
Cook wriggled, his arms and shoulders aching. ‘Please don’t kill me. I can help you stop Matherson.’
Rodriguez pointed the Glock at him. ‘I doubt that. I offered you a chance for help and you ignored it.’
‘Stop! Please stop,’ he begged.
Rodriguez took no notice.
He wept. He didn’t want to die. If he was to go it would be with his friends and family, not in some empty warehouse.
Rodriguez pressed the trigger.
‘I’m a cop!’ Cook shouted.
Rodriguez stopped. ‘What?’
He let out a long breath of relief. ‘I’m a cop. I’ve been undercover with Matherson. My real name is David Leach.’
So there she was, lying flat out and barely conscious on a single bed in a locked room. They’d left her fully clothed, although she had been relieved of Bill’s gun. She stayed there for a moment while her headache faded, thankful to be in one piece. It was some blow they’d dealt and she didn’t want another.
The judge’s gavel she felt at the underground parking lot had struck down, sentencing her to her own prison cell.
She figured they must be saving her for something. She had to get out. She had to get away. Sitting up on the bed, she scanned the room. It was small and cramped and belonged to someone who didn’t care for health or hygiene. Musty air in need of ventilation loitered and the décor needed work with wallpaper coming away from the walls. At the side of the bed was a small chest of drawers with some perfume bottles nestled on top. At first, she assumed the room belonged to a lady. But she recognized the bottles; they had identical marks from years of use and refills. Lifting one for a closer look, she found a letter beneath it with her address on.
Holy shit.
Someone had been in her apartment, intruding on her very soul. She opened the envelope and read the numbers: five, five, five, six, five, three, and seven. In another draw she found her own gun with its clip missing and some of her underwear.
What the fuck?
Goosebumps raced over her body. She put the gun and letter in her pocket, not wanting to touch her underwear again, and looked around for an escape.
Throwing back the curtains revealed a window that didn’t open. There was no part of it that could. It was just a solid pane of glass.
Shit.
If it was open, she’d be down the drive and near the road by now. One way or another, she had to get through that glass.
She noticed the stolen car still outside, only without any keys, she couldn’t take that. Her feet were the best chance she’d have to evade any chasers. A lower roof above the front door would give her an advantage if she decided the window was the best opportunity. And it was. She couldn’t exactly run through the house.
The first thing to do was block the door. Smashing the window would draw attention she didn’t need or want. Quickly grabbing the bed, she dragged it to the door. Being heavy, it made more noise than she liked.
Spinning around, she kicked the window. It was solidly built all right, not even a scratch. She had to try something better.
The perfume bottles.
They were heavy and made of thick glass.
Perfect.
Footsteps crept up the stairs, one after the other like a beating heart.
Thud, thud, thud.
Each one louder than the last, emulating her own heart pumping away like a never ending drum. She figured she had two minutes max to get out of there before they’d tear her apart.
One more time, she kicked the window without success when a key frantically turned in the lock followed by someone slamming their body into the door.
Bang.
Heaving a perfume bottle at the window, a crack appeared.
Bang.
With the next bottle, a hole appeared.
By now, Cyrus had the door open a little, pushing and pulling violently as he tried to dislodge the bed behind it, yelling in a high pitched desperate wail, ‘Valerie.’
His voice made her shudder as it tore at her innards. She kicked at the window again and again like a hammer until her foot ached. Then she changed to her other foot. The hole was almost big enough to fit through with just a couple of inches left to remove. Then the bed gave way and he scrambled to get over.
She picked up perfume bottles from the floor, hurling them at him, the solid glass bouncing from his head.
She ducked through the window.
Behind her, Cyrus was still fighting his way to her, dragging his body over his bed. ‘Valerie, please don’t go.’
She hit the lower roof under the window and slid along the ice to the end, falling and hitting the ground hard. It hurt, but she sucked it up and ran toward the road.
‘Valerie!’ he bellowed from the window.
Few cars on the go slow carefully evaded the icy patches in each direction. The neighbourhood was pleasant, but she was unfamiliar with it. She knew only one way out, which was the way they came.
She was cold. The afternoon air had gotten colder through the day. The skies were almost clear and the day was starting to draw in. On the horizon was a large white cloud, bringing with it another heavy snowfall. She had to get somewhere warm and safe before it fell. She ran.
It was more of a slow jog, like a child finding his or her feet for the first time. She lost some footing more times than she liked, not making it very far until a hand grabbed her arm from her right, jamming it up her back while another hand covered her mouth. She was yanked from the sidewalk and into a nook between two houses.
‘Don’t scream,’ said Bill.
She nodded.
Gently releasing his hand on her mouth and keeping her other arm where it was, he whispered in her ear, ‘I’m sorry for everything.’
‘Bill, let me go.’
‘Just hear me out.’
‘You’ve said all you need to. If you have any decency left in you, you’ll release me.’
The moment his hand let go of her arm, she spun around and planted a right hook into his face. ‘Irene warned me about you. All my senses warned me about you. But I just followed you because I was gullible enough to believe the shit you dribbled.’
He held his face. He knew it was over. The charade had come to an end. He took his gun from his pocket.
‘You’re going to shoot me now?’
‘Take this.’
She snatched it from him.
‘Where will you go?’ he asked.
‘Nowhere that concerns you,’ she said, hitting him with the gun this time. Her blood was boiling in the cold air on that Thursday afternoon. Shooting him would draw too much attention, though she felt like doing worse. Mutilating him in the slowest and most painful way possible was the top choice.
While he was down and dazed, she kicked him in his gut before leaving him on the ice.
She ran for almost two miles where she entered a quaint neighbourhood, taking forever over the slippery ground. She wanted to go on, but this was as far as she could manage before passing out. The cold was biting her throat with every breath as rusty razorblades slowly spread into her lungs. On a bench outside a twenty four seven store, she took a seat and was thankful for it.
What now?
Lucy was basically all she had left. She knew she’d be at her parents’ house, so that was where she headed: Bakersfield.
After buying a bottle of water from the store, she hailed a cab.