Turtle Island (12 page)

Love Lia xxx

Leroy felt lost, an empty pit opened in his stomach, which he
felt his heart would surely drop in to. A feeling of desolation and
rage swept over him simultaneously and he could do nothing but sit
on the bed and cry.

The police arrived within ten minutes of Narla’s phone call. A
detective, fattish, going bald, got out of the car with surprising
agility for his size. Narla watched through the lounge window
sitting wrapped in a blanket. She was holding a cup of sweet tea. A
sense of relief at seeing approaching safety made Narla sob
quietly. Narla dreaded Charles returning during the time spent
waiting for the police, breezing in with his usual cheery
disposition and his ‘Hi, Honey I’m home’ falseness.

Norman Frusco stood at the door and rang the bell. Before the
chime had finished, Harley had the door open and welcomed the
detective in. His first impressions of 14162 Harpenders Grove was
that the owners were far from poor. On the way down, Norman had the
station run over any details that they may have had on the owners.
Apart from two unpaid parking violations the Fleisher’s were model
citizens.

‘Come in, detective.’ Narla’s voice was trembling as much as
her hands. There was a hot sickness in her stomach. The image of
Harley curled up on the bed wouldn’t leave Narla’s mind. She
wondered about the damage both mentally and physically to her
daughter and was amazed at how she could manage to keep the abuse a
secret. To Narla it seemed too much of a burden for a girl to have
to carry, it was too much for anyone to carry.

‘It’s Captain Frusco, but you can call me Norman.’ Norman
smiled trying to put Narla at ease. He wasn’t fully aware of all
the facts but knew enough for a little gentle diplomacy. A
policewoman entered behind Frusco, they followed Narla in to the
lounge. Frusco admired the decoration of the house. The simple
colour scheme, the tastefully arranged but expensive furniture. The
paintings on the wall, not by famous artist’s but originals.
Aesthetically pleasing, gentle on the eye without being
pretentious.

‘I’ve brought along Policewoman Reynolds, if there is anything
you feel uneasy about telling me, you might find it
easier.’

Narla was nodding, already ahead of Frusco. Guilt adding to
the plethora of mixed emotions swimming around in her head. Frusco
and Reynolds sat opposite Narla occupying different ends of the
three-seat settee. Norman Frusco placed a voice-activated tape
recorder on the glass table that separated them. ‘Whenever you’re
ready Miss O’Connell. Whenever you feel fit enough to tell
us.’

Narla cleared her throat, coughed and swallowed
nervously.

‘Daddy?’ Ray shook his father’s arm gently, trying to rock his
father from a deep slumber. ‘Daddy, Uncle Leroy’s on the phone...He
sounds strange...Daddy.’ Ray shook his father once more. The words
began to filter through to Rick Montoya’s sub-conscious; his son’s
voice was miles away, like a sonar, getting nearer and nearer until
it breached the boundary between dreams and reality.

‘Daddy, Uncle Leroy’s on the phone he sounds weird, I think
he’s crying.’

Rick woke up. The bed was empty, Rick’s mind instantly started
to assemble information; he looked at his son, standing in front of
him in his Spiderman pyjamas.

‘Okay, Ray. Tell Uncle Leroy I’ll be there in a
moment.’

Ray trotted off outside the bedroom and down the stairs. Rick
could hear his son telling his partner that ‘Daddy would be right
down.’

Rick sat up in bed and rubbed his face. Today was barbeque
day. Jo-Lynn would already be at the supermarket buying provisions.
He stretched his legs and inhaled a lungful of Turtle Island’s
finest air. The air conditioning unit hummed, breathing out cool
air, making the environment a little more liveable. Rick stood and
briefly glanced outside the window. Clear blue skies and the sun
already hammering out a fierce heat, ‘today’s gonna be another hot
one’ Rick said to no one but himself as he pulled on a pair of
shorts and headed out for the phone.

‘Yeah, what’s wrong, you an Lia not comin to our little wing
ding?’ The smile on Rick’s face shrank as Leroy told him that Lia
had left him ‘for good this time’

‘I’ll be right over...you stay cool.’ Rick put the phone down
and called his son who was happily ensconced in front of the T.V.
watching cartoons. ‘Ray, call Korjca and see if she’ll look after
you until mom comes home, I gotta go to your Uncle Leroy’s. I’m
leaving a note for Mommy attached to the fridge.’

Ray continued watching the cartoon; his hand stretched out and
grabbed the receiver of the phone in the living room. He pressed
one of the automatic dial numbers stored in its memory without even
looking. By the time Rick showered and dressed Korjca was ready to
take charge of Ray. Rick kissed his son, pinned the note to the
fridge and was heading over Independence Bridge within twenty-five
minutes of the call. Lia leaving Leroy was not a huge surprise to
Rick, she had confided to Jo-Lynn on numerous occasions how unhappy
she was with Leroy working all the hours that God sent. Jo-Lynn
sympathised and made sure that she told Rick, certain that the
message would get back to Leroy, which it did. But the job was
worse than a mistress; it broke marriages and relationships
indiscriminately without infidelity.

‘I’m watching you,’

Jo-Lynn Montoya moved her trolley around the aisles, picking
up various groceries.

His heart thumped, the excitement was almost too much to
endure. The feeling of light-headedness virtually consumed him. He
could take her at any time...any time at all. As he approached her,
each step became a tiny orgasm, closer and closer. The feeling
exquisite. He so much wanted to feel her warm blood over his
body.

‘All good things’ became his new mantra. He’d make them pay;
He’d make them all pay.

The door to Leroy’s home was open; Rick didn’t wait for an
invitation. He found Leroy sitting watching some home movies on the
video.

‘She’s gone…it’s like she’s dead, it’s like I’m dead.’ Leroy
turned to face his partner and was not ashamed to show the grief
etched on to his tear stained face.

‘What are we gonna do with you?’ Rick sat down next to Leroy
and hugged him, while his partner sobbed uncontrollably.

‘Jeans and a tee shirt, or shorts and a vest? I don’t know why
I’m asking you, you’re not much help.’ Georgina threw the clothes
at her reflected image in the mirror. She had been awake for two
hours, placed calls at the station and hospital plus one back at
the bureau to see if they had come up with anything fresh. All the
calls drew a blank; it seemed that she would be able to take her
half-day’s leave after all. A half-day off during any investigation
was a luxury, one after only a couple of days was almost unheard
of, it was a sign of what little progress had been made despite the
evidence. A fact that depressed Georgina, but she would take her
time knowing the next free day might be a long way away.

‘Shorts and a vest plus plenty of sun block.’ She finally made
up her mind, dressed and put on a pair of Nike Air’s on her feet.
She looked sporty and fit; neither attribute was a lie.

Georgina decided to take another tour of the Island, this time
by car before going to Detective Montoya’s. She threw some cold
sodas into a rucksack along with her camera, donned a white
baseball cap and headed for her rented Lincoln. She pulled the soft
hood of the convertible back and decided to drive semi alfresco
rather than breathe the manufactured cool air of the car’s air
conditioning. Sunglasses on, she hit the highway toward Turtle
Island.

Dr Martinez bounded up the steps two at a time rather than use
the elevator. He spoke into his cordless phone and listened in
breathless excitement.

‘Good...and what are his vitals...excellent.’

The news that Stephen England was out of his coma was the
first bit of good news that day. Some days were totally devoid of
good news. On those days Martinez seemed to spend his entire shift
handing out bereavement counselling numbers and crisis support
cards.

He thought he heard a noise, a creak on the landing.
Thirteen-year-old Dolan Cooke quickly pressed his mouse and the
screen in front of him changed from a lurid pornographic photo of a
young girl barely his age giving head, to something far more
innocuous. God, he hoped it wasn’t his mother again. He shifted in
his seat, pulled his tee shirt over his groin and listened…nothing.
He hadn’t heard the car return, it was just guilt-ridden paranoia.
His heart throbbed; his cock throbbed. He clicked back on to the
porno site, hoping to download an mpeg, something he could really
get his teeth into and saw the small inviting advertising banner
constantly flashing. A red skull and crossbones. Underneath the
banner an eighteen-inch prosthetic penis was being gorged by three
young women, another site was offering the best in animal sex; an
equally naked woman appeared to be engaged in coitus with a horse.
So much to choose from. Dolan’s hand hovered between the adverts,
undecided. He clicked on the red skull and crossbones,
‘DeathCam.net’. The page opened with a flashing Skull interspersed
with a picture of Max Dalton’s crushed and bloodied face. Curiosity
drew him deeper into the web site.

‘This is so cool.’

Another creak on the landing, this time Dolan, already too
absorbed by the images of violence in front of him did not turn,
his eight year old sister watched over his shoulder as image after
image after image loaded, each worse than the last. He turned his
head.

Georgina O’Neil decided to take another look at the houses
that ran along the river. The victims were both held for a period
of days before their murders, maybe longer. Both of them had made
their exit via the river, one alive, one very much dead. Georgina
surmised that these houses would be as good a place as any to hold
the victims. The location was certainly quiet enough; you could
torture, kill or maim in the open, let alone locked away within the
confines of a house and nobody would hear you scream. She had
parked the car on the grass verge, which ran along the main highway
in Turtle Island then walked a mile or so, following the river
where she could. Stopping only to view through a pair of binoculars
at the numerous houses that were dotted along the banks. Any one of
them could hold the answer. She watched a boy, his father and
grandfather pitching balls and practicing batting, in a makeshift
baseball diamond outside one of the houses. Memories of her tomboy
childhood flooded back. Shooting baskets with her father whose
rudimentary knowledge of the game wasn’t too bad considering his
Irish origins. The sun beat through her cap causing beads of sweat
to form on her brow and run down her face. She wiped her face dry
using a small towel taken from the motel and took a long cool swig
of coke before continuing on her journey. Georgina carried on
walking for a further half mile and had counted five agents boards
‘for sale or let’ in the one and a half miles covered. Three were
on the river; two set a little way back, one bordering the forest.
She had barely completed an eighth of the rivers circumference
around the island. Viewing the empty properties would be heavy on
manpower and time, especially with such a small local force. She
sat briefly, to rest in the long grasses, enjoying the sun beating
over her, realising that a house search of the empty properties
could also prove to be a futile waste of time if the killer was a
local, happily ensconced in marital bliss. For all she knew, it
could have been the father playing ball with his son or even the
grandfather. She shook her head trying to clear the jumbled mess of
thoughts, hoping that one solid idea would stick that could lead
them to their man. Her growling stomach told her lunch was not far
away and she remembered the barbeque.

Georgina looked at her watch 12-53, ‘time to go’ she spoke to
the field, almost with the expectation of a reply.

She stood and walked back to her car. As she walked she
swished her hands through the long grasses playfully pushing them
to one side, suddenly beginning to relax for the first time in
weeks. She promised herself a holiday when this case was over. Two
weeks in this field with a supply of drink, good food, some choice
reading and maybe a friend, sounded just like heaven at the moment.
She stopped to take another gulp from her bottle; the soda was
starting to get warm. Taking her bearings, Georgina wondered to
herself whether the killer had been in the very field where she
stood, maybe in the very spot. The notion uneased her, leaving her
feeling vulnerable. Not easily spooked, she had the feeling that
eyes were boring in to the back of her head. She quickly swivelled
round. Her hand instinctively reached for her weapon a 9mm Smith
and Wesson. More of an up close and personal type of weapon but she
was an expert shot and felt confident with the gun’s relative
lightness. Only this time the weapon was back at the motel locked
away in the room safe. Her car was little more than six hundred
yards away but her legs suddenly felt paralysed and as rational as
she thought she was, Georgina could not help but feel vulnerable
and exposed. The feeling made her uneasy, it went against every
piece of training that she had learned. Instinctively she knew she
was being stalked, something primal was awakened in the field and
her intuition was telling her to get the hell out of the field.
Georgina started walking toward her car, she knew it lay just
beyond the field, parked on the verge. She dipped into the rucksack
and searched for the key while she walked. Her pace quickened then
suddenly she was jogging. The edge of the field was getting closer
and closer. All the time she was looking, scanning every tree,
watching for possible hiding places, every nook and cranny. The
long grass by its very nature was the perfect cover; Georgina knew
she could be running straight into danger, into the arms of who
knows what. Panic was now beginning to replace any level-headed
detachment she should be applying to the situation as a
professional. Her behaviour was completely irrational, but she kept
on running until she left the field and headed down the grassy bank
to the verge where her car was parked. She already had the key in
her tightened grasp and plunged it into its waiting socket and
twisted. The central locking popped reassuringly. She pulled the
door open and dived into the seat, gasping for air. Quickly,
Georgina looked over her shoulder and checked the back seats then
pressed the interior locks on the doors. She finally began to
relax, tilted her head back, resting against the head restraint and
briefly closed her eyes, trying to regain her composure and make
some sense of her unreasonable behaviour. She breathed deeply, her
hand automatically fumbled for the radio cassette. A little music
might help. Some lead singer from a heavy metal band was singing
bring your daughter to the slaughter. Her fingers pushed home her
cassette, and the gentle sound of Alison Krauss singing came
through the speakers. Georgina’s lips started to mime along with
the words on the overplayed tape. A feeling of normality was
returning. She opened her eyes, and there it was, on the dashboard
inside the car. A child’s tooth; a solitary, white, tiny milk
tooth. The tooth appeared to be old, it certainly didn’t look
fresh, there was no trace of blood or tissue and the root was dry.
Georgina opened her rucksack and pulled out a transparent evidence
bag. She picked the tooth up with the tweezers she had in her
make-up bag.