Speed Metal Blues: A Dan Reno Novel (33 page)

The purple Continental was facing us, parked for a quick exit. Cody skidded to a stop, blocking it in. When we got out, I heard a muted thumping coming from the Continental’s trunk.

I grabbed a crowbar, while Cody secured the kid’s hands behind him with a plastic tie, then strung a rope through the tie. Cody wrapped the rope around his hand, creating a leash—if the kid tried to run, Cody could yank the punk’s shoulders out of their sockets.

The thumping again, louder. I jammed the crowbar under the lock, but the old Detroit steel held fast. I shoved it in deeper and gave it a sharp jerk. The latch popped and the lid rose up on its springs. Juan Perez lay in the trunk, his hands tied and his mouth duct-taped, his eyes wide and bulging.

I slit the ropes binding his wrists and tore the tape from his mouth. He scrambled out of the trunk like a feral cat.

“They’ve got my sister,” he said, and before I could speak, he took off like a mad squirrel down a path heading into the forest.

“Shit,” I whispered.

“Keep your mouth shut and lead us to them,” Cody told the kid. “Move it.”

We set out at a jog. In the woods it was almost full dark, spires of pine and fir surrounding us, the air cool with nightfall. The footing was uneven, rocks protruding from the trail every few steps. A tiny glow of moonlight penetrated the trees, not much to go by. We maintained our pace, stumbling at times.

“There’s a clearing right up there,” the kid said after a long minute. “That’s where they are.”

We crept forward, smelling smoke. Flickering shadows became visible. I could feel the textured grips of the Beretta digging into my palm. Then, as I peered from around a huge pine, a scene emerged unlike any I’d witnessed.

Three granite slabs towered over a clearing perhaps fifty feet square. Torches and candles burned on rock ledges. A large, red pentagram had been painted on the cleanly swept dirt. Presiding over it, resting on an upended kettle, was the bloody head of a goat, its eyes glazed in death. Beyond that, propped up against a stone face, was a black cross made with lengths of two by six. Tied to the cross as if for crucifixion was a naked Teresa Perez. Her head was tipped forward, her lustrous hair covering her face.

Unconscious, I thought. But then she raised her chin and saw me. A range of emotions flashed through her eyes—fear, rage, hope, shame, despair. My consideration of her mental state was brief, however, because Jason Loohan casually stepped from the shadows behind the cross. He stroked Teresa’s breast then dropped to a knee, bringing his face to the triangle of black hair between her legs.

“Freeze!” I shouted, leaping forward, my sites trained on Loohan’s back. I would have shot him, but if my bullet passed through his body, it might have hit Teresa. A frozen moment, then like a lizard, Loohan darted behind the cross and disappeared into an opening in the rocks.

Dropping the rope tied to the kid, Cody rushed into the clearing. To his left I caught a quick glimpse of a startled Luther Conway, then he was gone in a flicker of light.

“Loohan,” I said, pointing. I ran forward and slid into the narrow crevice into which Loohan had vanished.

Cody pulled a knife and began cutting the ropes binding Teresa. “I’ll come around the other way,” he said.

I shimmied deeper into the crack, my boots wedged beneath me, the rough granite catching the straps of my bulletproof vest. It was a tight fit, but soon I hopped out on the other side, my feet crunching into thick brush. I looked out at a rock-strewn patch of forest lit by the moon. There were dozens of places Loohan could be hiding.

Staying low, I moved along the rocks, looking for a trail. Freshly broken sticks marked a deer track leading away. I paused and strained my ears. I heard the crackle of brush, but it could have been Cody. I crouched, inching forward.

It was a bad situation. Loohan could be watching me from any number of spots, waiting for my head to pop into the moonlight, and I’d be dead before I heard the shot. The only advantage I had was Cody. But I had no idea where he was.

I kept moving and reached a low rock ledge. I lay on my chest and pushed my head over it, looking to the right and left. The ledge was the top of a face that dropped down farther than I could see. I saw anchors cemented into the rock. Probably a popular climbing wall. There were plenty of handholds, but I doubted Loohan was on the face. I didn’t see anywhere he could hide.

Then, from unexpectedly close, a voice.

“Help! Help me, please!”

It was Luther Conway.

I crab-walked along the top of the ledge to where it angled away. Peering over, I saw Conway clinging to the side of the face, about twenty feet below, his silver hair shining against the gray stone.

“I’m stuck! I have nowhere to go!”

“Who is it?” Cody said, stepping from the trees behind me.

“Conway. You still got that rope?” I said.

“Fuck him,” Cody whispered, looking over the cliff. I could see the Satanist’s white fingers trembling where he gripped the rock. “Let’s go find Loohan.”

“Just give me the rope. And cover me.”

He pulled the ball of clothesline from his pocket. “This is nuts,” he hissed. “Loohan could double back and find Teresa.”

I tossed the line down to Conway. It stopped just beyond his fingers.

“Grab the rope,” I said.

“I can’t—I can’t, I’ll lose my grip!”

“Then you’re on your own, asshole!” Cody yelled.

“Take a deep breath, Luther. You can do this,” I said.

Conway raised his head, staring up at us, his face stark and colorless in the moonlight. He took two breaths, his cheeks puffing out like a balloon. Then he shot his left hand up and snatched the end of the rope. I stiffened my back, expecting to feel his weight. But his hand must have been slick with sweat, because it slid off the thin line, then his feet scuffled and he clawed like mad to find purchase.

“No,” he cried, and in an instant he was air born, falling back, arms and legs outstretched, his eyes round with terror, his howling white face illuminated by the moon. His final scream continued, fading away until we heard him crash into the trees hundreds of feet below.

“Fuckin’ A,” Cody said.

I stared down into the void for a couple of seconds, blinking.

“Come on,” Cody said. “Let’s get back to the clearing.”

We followed a path, moving quick and silent. If I saw the slightest movement, I was ready to blast away. But all was still at the clearing, the torches flickering garishly against the black cross where Teresa had been tied.

“Teresa!” Cody yelled.

“I’m here.” She was crouched behind a rock on the edge of the clearing. She stood partially so we could see her. I looked around for something to cover her nakedness, but neither of us had our coats. As spectacular as the sight was, I averted my eyes. And so did Cody.

It was silent for a second, then another voice rang out, from the direction of the rocks behind the cross.

“I got him, I got him!”

I ran over and began forcing myself through the narrow fissure again, rubbing skin off my palms. Cody followed behind me, but I didn’t know if he’d fit through. When I dropped into the scrub on the other side, he was still grunting and swearing.

Not five feet from where I stood, Juan Perez lay in the brush holding Jason Loohan in a chokehold. Juan’s arm was buried deep, his left hand grasping the right wrist in classic form. Loohan looked out cold.

“Just like you taught me, Dan,” Juan said. Twigs and leaves were wound in his hair, and his face was scratched and bleeding.

I trained my automatic between Loohan’s eyes. “Juan, you better let him go. You could kill him,” I said.

Juan released his grip and scrambled to his feet, deadfall cracking under his shoes.

“Almost there,” I heard Cody grunt. I looked over and saw him shoving himself from the crack. In that fraction of a second, I sensed rather than saw Loohan move, and I didn’t have time to realize I’d blown it before his hand came up, holding an ugly little .25 cal. pistol. His first shot slammed against my vest, knocking me back into the rock. I got off a wild shot as I staggered, but it missed and Loohan was pointing his gun at my head.

I had an instant to regret every wrong decision I’d ever made, then I heard a deep blast from behind. Loohan’s body jolted, his stomach tore open, his entrails falling out on his shirt. Cody stepped past me, the shotgun smoking in his hands, and brought his heel down on Loohan’s gun hand.

“Any last words, shit bag?” Cody said.

“Call an ambulance. You can’t kill me.” The calm, even tone of Loohan’s voice was startling.

“I think you’ve misinterpreted your situation.”

“You can’t kill me,” Loohan said again.

“Wrong,” Cody replied. The shotgun roared, and Loohan’s face dissolved into a bloody maw of bone and gristle.

My eyes rose from Loohan’s corpse to Cody Gibbons. He flipped the twelve-gauge to his shoulder and frowned at some blood that had splattered on his pants. Juan stood with his mouth open, staring down at Loohan’s dead body. He stared with such intensity that I wondered if he expected Loohan to continue insisting he couldn’t be killed.

Cody stepped back and looked at me, his eyes flat and without expression, as if awaiting my judgment. The best I could do was a nod and an attempt at a smile. Cody had done as he saw fit, because that’s how he did things. Being that Loohan was probably planning the rape and murder of both Teresa and Juan as a final statement before coming after us, I would not question my partner’s actions. If it came to it, I’d support Cody’s contention of self-defense 100 percent. I had the flattened slug in my flak jacket to prove it.

Outside the law, living by his own rules, judge, jury, and executioner. At least Cody made no pretense of it. He had deemed the world would be better off without Jason Loohan, and so be it.

Juan, Cody, and I stood there, stars twinkling above in the black sky. For a moment I experienced a sense of joyful relief. An evil man who attempted to kill me and those close to me was dead. The threat removed, I could move on with my life. I could tend to my home and make a living and try again to have a steady relationship with a woman. I could try to lead a normal existence.

But I knew the death of an amoral person is always a hollow victory. I’d long ago conceded the population of lowlife sadists is inexhaustible. Their kind is replenished continually from an aberrant gene pool no science or law can remedy. In a world where violent criminality is woven into the fabric of every society, salvation is at best a temporary state.

“He would have died anyway from the gut shot,” Cody said, walking past me. “Besides, I was just tired of messing with the guy.” I smiled despite myself. I could always count on Cody to simplify things and bring my philosophical musings to an end. Good-bye, Loohan. Rot in hell. God love Cody Gibbons.

• • •

We never saw the kid from Luther Conrad’s garage again. I imagine he’d scampered off into the woods somewhere, but I didn’t care. I’d dealt with enough grief for the day.

Cody stripped off his pants and shirt so Teresa could cover herself. He carried her on his back to save her bare feet from the rough terrain while we walked down the trail. Cody, in his boxers, carrying Teresa piggyback. Quite a sight.

I fell back to where Juan walked behind us.

“You okay, partner?”

“I feel fine.”

“How’d you manage to get behind Loohan?”

“I saw him coming my way, but I hid behind a tree before he saw me. When he went by, I jumped on his back.”

“You’re one brave kid.”

“He said he would kill me. I’m happy Cody shot him.”

“I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“Sorry for what? Those men would have murdered us.”

“I’m glad that didn’t happen.”

“
Si.
So am I.”

I patted him on the shoulder and we continued without further conversation.

“Are we in California or Nevada?” Cody said when we got to my truck. He lowered Teresa into the cab.

I thought about it for a second. “I don’t know exactly. Right on the border.”

“Why don’t you call Grier, then? I don’t feel like dealing with any of those dildos from Nevada.”

“First things first,” I said, pulling a flashlight from my gearbox.

I pointed the light at Luther’s Continental and went through it, careful not to leave prints. On the floor of the rear seat was a bottle of ether and a couple of rags, no doubt used in the kidnapping of Juan and Teresa. Aside from that, the interior and trunk were empty. When I swung the light around on the way back to my truck, it flashed across something metallic in the trees. An off-road motorcycle, covered with pine branches.

A pair of leather saddlebags was attached to the rear fender. “Jason Loohan’s worldly possessions,” I said.

“Who cares?” Cody said.

“The guy was a bitch to hunt down. Maybe I can learn something about him.”

“Whatever floats your boat, Dirt.”

• • •

Marcus Grier wasn’t too happy to hear from me, being well past his quitting time, but he seemed pleased to learn Jason Loohan was no longer among the cast of troublesome characters running around Lake Tahoe. Not pleased enough to come out in person, though—instead a couple patrolmen and two detectives showed up, followed by the meat wagon.

They managed to haul Loohan’s body out, but picking Luther Conway out of the trees would have to wait until daylight. Grier must have put in a good word for us, because the cops let us go after a single round of questioning, apparently seeing no indication of criminal wrongdoing on our part. They seemed more fascinated by the demonic symbols in the clearing. “Pretty weird shit for a place like South Lake Tahoe,” one said.

We packed into my truck, Teresa sitting on Cody’s lap, and Juan crushed in the middle. I drove us to the Stateline Emergency Center, where Cody insisted a physician confirm the ether would have no residual effects. We left Juan and Teresa after arranging for Teresa’s agent to drive them home upon the doctor’s release. It was getting on to eleven when we finally headed toward my place.

“I’m ready for whiskey and I’m starving,” I said.