Death By The Riverside Part 10

I figured I'd better take advantage of the confusion.

"You f.u.c.ked up, Milo," I said, making clear I was in no way, shape, or form a bimbo. "Barbara had nothing to do with it. You want the book back? I'll make a deal with you. You get the notebook, no ha.s.sle, if she goes free. We get in the car and drive to the city. You drop Barbara off somewhere far enough from a phone to suit yourself. Then I'll lead you to that book."

Milo stopped pacing for a moment, instead jangling coins nervously in his pocket. "I can beat it out of you," he finally replied.

"No, you can't," I shot back.

"Yes, I can." Right, Milo, anything you can do I can do better.

"Not in time to do you any good," I answered, which was true and he knew it. Even if there were n.o.body to report me missing, someone had certainly reported Barbara a long time ago. They didn't know that I had alerted the police and that Ranson and crew might even now be tearing Jambalaya Import and Export apart. But they were paranoid enough to worry. Mobsters have too many enemies, not just the police but rival gangs.

"You're bluffing," Milo said.

"Uh, Milo?" The driver came in. He was carrying a top-of-the-line cellular phone. He handed it to Milo.

I watched Milo listen, his attentiveness to the caller confirming which of them was in charge. Milo was finally allowed to give a quick rundown of what was happening here. Then he was listening again.

After a moment he fixed me with a hard glare.

"So your name's Knight, huh?" he demanded.

I shrugged. It wasn't really a question.

"A P.I., huh?" Again, not really a question. "b.i.t.c.h," he added, a comment, I gathered, on my having so easily mislead him. "The driver has got to go back to town. He'll take Barb with him. After we get the book back, he'll let her go," Milo informed me, obviously on his boss's orders.

"What guarantee do I have that you'll let her go?"

* 71 *

"None," he answered. "You'll just have to trust me."

That not being possible, I tried to think of something else. What would appeal to a rabid rat? Turner moaned loudly.

"Shut him up," Milo said. One of the goons slapped Turner. It did little to quiet him.

"Take it or leave it," Milo said to me. He took his gun out of his coat and aimed it at Barbara. "But don't waste my time."

"All right, I agree." I had no choice.

Turner groaned noisily.

Milo nodded and with no change in his manner, he moved his hand slightly and pulled the trigger. The report from the gun was very loud in the still dawn. Turner grabbed his chest and pitched forward.

"Sorry, Turner," Milo said calmly. "You can't get your jaw broken and be on parole. Too many messy questions at the hospital and from your parole officer. Let this be a lesson to you, boys," he pontificated.

"Don't let any broad break your face."

There was the sickening, wet wheezing sound of air and blood mixing. Turner was gasping through his broken jaw. Barbara turned her face from the scene; she looked very pale and frail. I put my arms around her and held her. She started to gag. The air in the room seemed to change, the smell of a dying man overcoming the wet, dirty odor of decay.

Milo motioned to the driver, who led Barbara away from me and out to the yard. I heard her vomit outside.

"Make sure she's finished before you let her in the car," Milo instructed. "Cleaning bills ain't cheap these days."

"It won't take long," I said. "She hasn't had anything to eat since lunch yesterday."

"Now, Miss Private Eye Knight, who do you work for?" Milo asked.

"It's an hour drive to New Orleans. Surely you don't expect me to tell you anything before then," I replied.

Milo repeated my answer into the phone.

"Let me work her over for the next hour. I might knock it down to forty-five minutes," he told his boss.

"I made a deal," I said, loud enough for the unseen caller to hear.

"In an hour, I'll talk."

* 72 *

Milo was listening again. He mumbled a few sputtered explanations.

Evidently Mr. Big found some fault in his handling of the situation.

Milo finally said, "Okay, I'll be there. And don't worry, I'll take care of it." He turned off the phone. "Take her downstairs and tie her up." He added, "I'll be back," to me.

Goon boy led me back to my favorite rat-infested bas.e.m.e.nt and tied me to the stake, then I heard the slamming of the doors and the room was dark again. A car drove away in the distance.

But goon boy was not the expert in marlinespikemans.h.i.+p that Turner was. By maneuvering my arms up the column a bit I was able to bring my hands closer together and get some slack in the rope. It took me some time and a b.l.o.o.d.y wrist, but I managed to work myself free.

By groping in the dark, I found my purse and the small pocket flashlight that I always carry. Let there be light. The next thing I pulled out was my gun. Then I started looking around the bas.e.m.e.nt.

It was basically a hole in the ground in which junk had been deposited. There was a pile of boxes covered by dust and spiderwebs stacked against one wall. Against another wall was an a.s.sortment of furniture that made the stuff upstairs look like the finest D.H.Holmes had to offer. I was afraid that any second now my flashlight beam would discover the shackles used on slaves. I didn't like the idea of tortured ghosts in here with me. But only a blackened brick wall appeared in my light.

The bas.e.m.e.nt was odd shaped. The wall on the other side of the door went back at a ninety-degree angle into another section of the bas.e.m.e.nt, like a square added to the rectangle.

I explored back in that direction, hoping that that wasn't where the killer rats were hiding. More junk and broken furniture appeared in my circle of light. There was a large pile of lumber and some old broken doors in what I guessed to be an outside corner. Something scurried away from my light. Probably just a little mouse, I told myself.

Dark, dank bas.e.m.e.nts always make sounds seem much louder than they really are.

Just to prove to myself that I wasn't scared of any field mouse, I decided to look behind the doors. I lost my footing for a moment stepping over the lumber in my work pumps. That didn't do much for my rating on the Butch-o-Meter. I pulled the last door away from the wall, * 73 *

first s.h.i.+ning my light on the floor, just in case any cute, little, adorable rodent should be in the vicinity. A number of insects, but nothing mammalian. As I looked up, my flashlight illuminated something very interesting. Two rusty hinges attached to a metal door, maybe two feet by three. It was a very dusty black, evidently a coal chute. And it looked wide enough for me to fit in. Eureka! I remembered seeing a pile of old clothes somewhere. If I was going to be climbing up coal chutes, it might be a prudent idea to change out of my, so far, only slightly tarnished blue dress. I stumbled back over the lumber to the other side of the bas.e.m.e.nt, where I found what I was looking for. I took off my dress, slip, and panty hose, and folded them into my purse, which I hid in one of the bottom boxes. If I couldn't get out of the coal dump, maybe I could hide there and make them think that I had gotten away.

Before putting on my new clothes, I went over to a corner and peed.

Get the bodily functions out of the way now, instead of having to go while I'm fighting the bad guys. Then I tried on my new ensemble. A pair of holey jeans a size too big and a moth eaten T-s.h.i.+rt, also too big.

I scavenged a length of rope for a belt and rolled up the pants cuffs. I decided against shoes. My slick pumps wouldn't be much use any place I might be going in the next few hours. Besides, their navy blue color clashed with the faded blue of my jeans.

I wanted to get into the coal chute without dislodging the old doors too much. I didn't need a flas.h.i.+ng light signaling where I'd gone. First, I had to get the chute door open. It probably hadn't been moved for decades. The first inch was easy, the hinges were that loose. It screeched protest the rest of the way, and covered everything, including myself, with coal dust. I could only get it to open a little above horizontal, so that the door pointed up at about forty-five degrees from the wall, which solved my old door problem. I could lean them against the coal chute door and still have room to crawl into it. As long as goon boy and friends didn't search the bas.e.m.e.nt with floodlights, they would probably never notice.

The only thing now was to squeeze myself in and hope that I didn't run into any nasty crawling things. I wished I had a bandanna to cover my face with. I was still coughing from the dust kicked up by opening the coal chute door.

I put my gun in my rope belt, then covered it with a wad of T-s.h.i.+rt * 74 *

to keep dust out of it. I tentatively put my head inside and flashed the light up the shaft. What I saw was more dirt and spiderwebs than I ever thought existed in the state of Louisiana. All in that shaft that I had to climb up.

I heard a car door slam. d.a.m.n, Milo had bad timing. I switched off my flashlight and put it in my pocket, then slid my shoulders into the shaft. I braced my elbows against the sides and pulled my torso in.

Then I put one foot on the edge of the opening and pushed the rest of me up. The metal felt cold and sharp against my bare feet. I braced my elbows again, then my feet and lifted myself up a couple of inches. All that was supporting me was the pressure of my arms and legs against the sides of the shaft. I couldn't look up, even if there was something to see, because of all the dirt and dust. I heaved myself up another couple of inches so that my feet were above the top of the opening.

I paused for a moment to listen. I didn't want to be struggling noisily in here when they were in the bas.e.m.e.nt.

Then I heard it. Off in the distance. A shot. Milo, I told myself, it had to be Milo. The powers that be got tired of his bungling and brought him back here to be shot. I thrust myself up again, then again, before I remembered that I needed to be quiet when they came into the bas.e.m.e.nt. I stopped, hanging suspended in the dark, dusty air.

The trap door was opened, then footsteps on the stairs. The bottom door opened. I heard some very gratifying cursing. Then the footsteps ran up the stairs and there was more yelling. I chanced hauling myself up the shaft another foot or so. Then more voices and more feet down the stairs. They were yelling and throwing the broken furniture around.

They were making enough noise to allow me to continue inching my way up. If they tore up every inch of the bas.e.m.e.nt, they would find this shaft. I didn't want them to find me in it. Something started crawling on my neck. I didn't dare shake it off. I couldn't risk making too much noise, or worse, losing my hold and sliding back down. I just had to hope that it wasn't a black widow. I gained another few inches with whatever it was still on my neck. Finally it crawled away, perhaps off me, more likely onto my s.h.i.+rt or my hair. Then my elbow landed on a nail. I almost jerked it back, but my foot started to slip. I pushed my elbow into the nail, ignoring the pain. There was more cras.h.i.+ng and cursing in the bas.e.m.e.nt. I moved myself up a few inches more and got * 75 *

my elbow off the nail. I vaguely wondered if there was any possible way that I was current on all my immunizations, like teta.n.u.s. Ignoring my bleeding elbow, I slid up a little farther.

My head ran into something. Since I didn't have a free hand, I wiggled a little closer and turned my head so I could feel whatever it was with my cheek. Wood. Cheek to cheek with a board.

I inched myself farther up, so that during the next big crash in the bas.e.m.e.nt, I could thrust against the wooden covering. I hoped it was very rotten.

Hanging suspended, trying not to cough, I listened to the search in the bas.e.m.e.nt. Finally, I was rewarded with a m.u.f.fled "Look out" and the sound of a bed frame and springs falling over. I hurled myself up at the cover.

Bless Mother Nature, with her rust and rot. The wood itself held, but the rusted hasp easily pulled out of the rotted wood. I flung one arm over the edge, and, adding a number of sc.r.a.pes and bruises, pulled myself out and into the dawn.

I quickly looked around, ignoring my throbbing knees and elbows.

I didn't want to be staring down anyone's gun barrel.

Fortunately, plants grow very well around here. With no one to cut them back, vine-covered azalea and oleander plants had surrounded the chute opening. No one was around. I carefully closed the door, so that no light would show if anyone looked in, then I took my gun out of my rope belt and clicked the safety off.

The safest thing to do would be to head for the road and snag a pa.s.sing car. But that shot I had heard nagged at me. I had to make sure it was Milo who had been disposed of.

I found what had once been a break in the bushes and edged myself through it. It was still early morning, made grayer by the clouds obscuring the dawn. My feet were getting cold and wet from the dew.

I started to head for the front of the house, but I heard voices there and decided that the other direction would do just as well. The voices were coming my way, so I ducked around a corner. I saw a set of outside stairs that led up to a porch on the second floor. Treading as lightly as possible, I climbed them. The two top steps were broken, and I had to take a long step to gain the porch. Hopefully the voices weren't headed this way. The porch didn't seem very trustworthy; the far end was listing badly and a number of boards had a crumbly rotten feeling under my * 76 *

feet. The listing end also had something that looked like a thick piece of black wire, if thick black wire could move by itself.

There was a screen door leading back into the house, a direction I found appealing. I gingerly opened the screen door, hoping the rusty hinges wouldn't make too much noise. The door came off in my hands, the hinges making no noise at all as they were no longer attached. I gently leaned the door against the wall. Whatever door had been behind the screen door was gone.

I was in the upstairs hallway. To my left was the narrow staircase from the kitchen. It went up another flight. To my right was a room, showing the decay this house had fallen to. Unless, of course, those discarded tampons and condoms were antebellum.

Voices from down in the bas.e.m.e.nt drifted my way. It sounded as if they were coming up. I headed farther upstairs. The third floor was only two rooms, perhaps a sanctuary and watchtower for some previous owner. The stairs led directly into one room, which had a door to the other room. From one window I could view the river in all its misty gray-brown glory. From the window opposite I could see the drive disappearing into a curve and clump of pine trees. I couldn't see the front of the house or how many cars were there; that was cut off by the roof below me.

I entered the other room. There was a lot of broken gla.s.s on the floor, from uncounted storms and wanton boys, so I had to watch where I stepped with my bare feet. The two corresponding windows had the same views, the drive and the river. The third window overlooked an overgrown expanse of lawn bordered by the swamp that separated this property from One Hundred Oaks.

I caught sight of three men standing on the edge of the swamp.

They looked like they were tossing something heavy into the brackish marsh. There was a flash of red before it disappeared down into the weeds.

I wanted to scream or curse. To tell G.o.d or fate or whatever to bring that spot of crimson back out of the swamp. I didn't. I said nothing. Instead I planted my feet, ignoring the gla.s.s and put the barrel of my .45 through one of the broken panes of gla.s.s.

I had never aimed this gun at another person before. I once saw my dad shoot a water moccasin with it, but that was the only destruction I'd ever seen it do. It had been his gun. That was the real reason I carried * 77 *

it. He had taught me, at an early age, about guns, about how dangerous and serious they were. Never aim them at another person, he had told me.

I never had. Until now. I aimed at what I guessed to be Milo and pulled the trigger. Even the roar of the gun in the quiet morning didn't seem loud enough. Of course, I missed Milo, but I did wing goon boy.

He spun down, like some forceful hand had hit him on the shoulder. I fired again. They scattered, leaving goon boy to struggle after them, with his shoulder dripping blood.

I backed away from the window, not wanting them to see me.

They had their guns out and were firing, but not in my direction.

Apparently, they thought that the shots had been fired from a clump of bushes surrounding one of the old oak trees on the lawn.

Part of me wanted to keep firing at them, but I told myself that my best revenge would be to live long enough to testify against them.

There were probably more of them than I had bullets, particularly since I doubted they would stay still while I fired at them.

I went back into the other room and placed myself where I could see anyone coming up the stairs before they saw me. I heard a lot of shouting and a few more gunshots, then the sound of first one car, then another, starting.

I raced back to the window overlooking the drive and saw two cars, including the one supposedly driving Barbara to New Orleans, heading down the drive. As they pa.s.sed the oak tree where they thought the shots had come from, they released a hail of gunfire, including what sounded like a machine gun. Then the sound of the cars disappeared and the gray morning was again silent.

I ran down the stairs as fast as I could, keeping my gun ready just in case they had left goon boy or any of the bas.e.m.e.nt searchers behind.

When I got to the kitchen, I stepped into the storeroom, threw the trap door down, and bolted it, just in case anyone was still in the bas.e.m.e.nt.

But there was no sound of protest or consternation from below. Turner was still lying in the front room, his eyes gla.s.sy and silent, with a few flies buzzing and landing on the b.l.o.o.d.y patch on his chest. I ignored him and ran outside. There was no one to be seen. Evidently they had taken goon boy with them.

I fired two shots in the direction where the cars had disappeared, in anger and frustration. Then I started running toward the swamp where * 78 *

I had seen that flash of red. The oyster sh.e.l.l drive cut my feet as I ran across it, but I couldn't pay attention to the pain. I had to know what they had thrown into the swamp.

* 79 *

CHAPTER 11.