Symphony of Blood, A Hank Mondale Supernatural Case Page 22
“You need to calm down. You aren’t helping matters any.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever, daddy.”
“Knock it off.”
She pulled out a small glass vial; the glass was tinted and it had a black top. She unscrewed the top, and I could see the white powder.
“What are you doing?” I wanted to reach over and smack it out of her hands, but I restrained myself.
“Bud out. I’m a big girl.”
She poured a bit of the powder onto her hand between her thumb and forefinger. Mackenzie inhaled hard and loudly. Her eyes fluttered and then she sniffed and snorted, then played with her lips and rubbed her nose. She set up another blast and did it again in the other nostril.
“Do you really need to do that?”
“I’ll share. Do you want some?”
I felt tingles run through my body. Part of me really did want a blast of that poison, but I knew I’d regret it, in more ways than one.
“No, thanks. Just do what you gotta do and put that shit away. What if we get pulled over?”
“Yeah, right. If we get pulled over the coke will be the least of our worries.”
I looked down and noticed the speedometer was over seventy, almost to seventy-five miles per hour. I let off the gas and braked.
“Take it easy,” she said as she almost dropped her stash. “What’s your problem?”
“You. That shit distracted me. The last thing we need right now is to get pulled over for speeding.” The car evened out at a steady sixty again, and I coasted.
She pulled a cigarette out of her bag and lit it. “How about one of these?”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Well you need to fuckin’ mellow out, man. You are acting like such a tight ass.” She began looking through her bag again. “You need a shot. That’s what you need. I know you drink.”
“I could use a shot. Damn, we left the bottle of Jim Beam at your friend’s place.”
“I have a bottle of Goose in here somewhere.” She continued looking through the bag and then finally came out with an airplane bottle of vodka. “Here. Drink. Please.”
I took the bottle from her and eyeballed it.
“It’s vodka. Just drink it.”
“I hate vodka.” I popped the top, took a deep breath, then swigged out of the bottle. I shook with spasms while forcing the booze down.
“Good. Maybe now you’ll shut up until we get to Montauk.”
We got off the exit for the Cross Island Parkway and came around the bend. Traffic was bumper to bumper. It was looking to be a long trip.
The traffic eased for a bit and we made our way out east on the Long Island Expressway. We hit periods of calm, followed by heavy stop-and-go delays. The traffic patterns were as choppy as her moods. She went from fiddling with the radio, constantly changing stations, to dozing off and then back to fidgeting. At times she yapped incessantly about mindless drivel: soap operas, rock bands I’d never heard about or cared about, her makeup…whatever. She just needed to hear herself talk; she didn’t seem to care much if I was paying attention. More times than not, I wasn’t.
When she took the vial out of her pocketbook again, I said, “You should stop doing that shit.”
“And you should stop trying to be my daddy.” She poured some powder out onto her hand just as we hit a deep pothole; it spilled. “Shit! You did that on purpose.”
“I did not.” Then I turned to her and said firmly, “But if I had, I wouldn’t deny it.”
“Fine.” She took a book of matches out of her pocketbook, folded it in half, then used it to dig some powder out of the vial. She sniffed it up successfully, then quickly screwed the top back on the vial. “Ha! See. No mess.”
“I’m sure you’re real proud.”
She took a cigarette out and lit it. “Why are you such a pain?”
“I don’t care if you snort yourself to oblivion, okay. That’s your father’s problem, not mine. But right now, we need to keep our wits about us and figure out a way out of this mess.”
“You keep your wits about you, and don’t worry about my wits.”
“I’m worried.”
The Expressway let us off on Old Montauk Highway, a thin, four-lane road and we took it all the way to the end. The lighthouse of Montauk Point came into view and we turned off the very last turn of the road, down a quiet side street. On our right was a tree-lined, grassy area, and to our left was a sharp drop and below it the Atlantic Ocean.
The pavement ended abruptly, and I slowed down, almost stopping the car but not quite. We were just slightly rolling as she said, “Keep going, straight ahead.”
I gassed the car and we continued down a dirt path. It was past lunchtime, and my stomach was starting to growl.
“How much further?” I asked.
“Not far. Just keep going.”
The path ran for at least a mile, and it tilted slightly to the right. The ocean stayed to our left but we came around almost full circle and were actually heading west again when the house came in sight.
“That’s it.” She said, although I had already figured it out. It was the only house there; it was the only thing in sight for that matter.
There was a wood, farm-style fence that was closed. The car came to a stop, and I put it in park. I looked over at Mackenzie and she didn’t say a word.
“I guess I should open it.”
“Yeah. It’s not locked. Just push it open.”
I stepped out of the Corolla and walked to the gate. When I pushed the fence, there was a surprising amount of resistance for such a light fence.
“It’s old,” she called out. “You have to really give it a push.”
It creaked loudly as I pushed a little harder, then the rusty hinges gave way and it swung open and smacked the other side and held in place.
I walked back to the car.
“Your father can’t afford to give those hinges a little grease?”
“He hasn’t been here in ages, asshole.”
I shook my head and snickered. “No need for that language, missy.”
“Don’t call me missy, buddy.”
“Okay. Okay. Truce.” I reached my arm towards her. She didn’t move, just staring at my hand like I had leprosy. “Come on,” I coaxed, waving my hand lightly. “We’re going to have to spend some time together. There’s no use bickering.”
Mackenzie’s left eye shut while her right eyeballed me. Then she let out a sigh, full of melodrama and said, “Fine.” She took my hand and shook it, daintily, barely touching me.
“Good,” I said, although things clearly weren’t all that good. I put the car in drive and slowly eased down the dirt path. Gravel crackled in the wheels underneath us and dust kicked in the open window.
The house was simple, by Blake standards anyway: a traditional, two-story white colonial with black shudders around each window; a two-car garage was connected on the west side of the house; the east side had a red brick chimney; to the north was a modest front lawn with overgrown grass that seemed healthy other than a handful of weeds; and to the south was the Atlantic Ocean. I could hear the waves crackle loudly against the dunes, although I couldn’t see it from this side of the house. The salt-water smell filled the air. I didn’t get to smell salt water much in the city; the odor was acrid, but I found it pleasing at the same time. I stopped the car in front of the garage, and we stepped out.
“Is there anything in the garage? We should probably get this car inside and out of sight.”
“Okay.”
She walked towards the front door. I didn’t follow, instead leaning against the car, waiting. There was a wall in front of the door: white painted cinder blocks that ran about three feet high. She stepped on the wall and reached up into a lamp that was posted on the side of the house. Her hand came out with a key ring in it, and she stepped down off the wall, then walked back towards me.
“Nice,” I said. “You rich people are so trusting. Where I come from, if you leave a key in
a place like that, you’ll come back to an empty house.”
“Very funny.”
“Who’s kidding?”
The keychain had two keys on it. She took one of the keys and stuck it in the side of the garage door, which activated the automatic door and it rose slowly and loudly—it too hadn’t been lubricated in some time.
“Very nice. Automatic garage door.”
“They don’t have those where you come from either, Hank?”
I shrugged as I stepped back in the car and started it up. “Nope. We don’t even have cable TV yet where I come from.”
“Well, how do you live?” she said in a silly, self-deprecating tone.
I chuckled back as I eased the Corolla into the garage. Once inside, I could see the garage was fairly empty. No car occupied the other side. There were a handful of tools, paint cans and some odds and ends; that was about it. She followed me in and hit the button to let the door back down. She flipped on a light just as the sunlight faded.
“Come on inside,” she said while walking through the door.
There was a hallway with hooks where jackets should go, but the hooks were empty. We passed a utility room with a washing machine and dryer and a shelf filled with cleaning products. Mackenzie walked up a three-step stairway and I followed her up and into the main house.
“This is nice,” I said, looking around a wide open living room. The ceiling was about fifteen feet high and the far wall was windowed, exposing a full view of the crashing waves that ran up the sandy beach. There was a door with a large glass pane. I walked over and opened it. The salt water hit my nose again, stronger than before, as the wind gusts blew it right up my nostrils. “I could really get used to this.”
“It’s okay,” she said in a flat tone that reminded me how she’d taken life for granted. This place was too good to take for granted, even under the circumstances.
“I’ll get the food from the car. How’s the kitchen?”
She walked into the next room. “Pretty gross. It hasn’t been cleaned in a long time.”
“Well get started then. I saw a bunch of stuff in the laundry room.”
She groaned, then looked around the corner at me. “You’re serious?”
“Let’s go princess. Get cracking.”
She flashed me her trademark screwface, which I ignored as I walked away. I stepped down to the garage, grabbed the grocery bags from the car, carried two in one hand and one in the other, nudged the car door closed with my knee, and walked back inside the house.
To my surprise, when I got back to the kitchen, she had a rag in one hand and a spray bottle in the other and was cleaning an unplugged refrigerator.
“Impressive.”
“Don’t mock me, Hank.”
“You’re right. My fault.” I looked over her shoulder and the fridge looked clean. It didn’t smell moldy which was good enough for me. I reached around back, found the plug and plugged it into an outlet. “That should take a little time to get going.” For the first time, I took a good look in the bags. Angie had taken good care of us. There were a few boxes of pasta and sauce, some cereal—mostly stuff that would keep. There was milk and some meat which we’d need to get in the fridge, but I figured it would keep okay for an hour or two while the motor got going.
Mackenzie grabbed the edge of a bag and peeked in, then nodded and said, “Good old Angie. She knows how to buy for friends going into hiding.”
“Guess she has that happen all the time.”
“Well, she’s been through the wringer once or twice.”
“I guess, with that boyfriend.”
“He’s okay.”
“Not as nice as her, that’s for sure.”
“No. He’s not,” she agreed. “Come on. I have something you really want.”
She walked back into the living room, then to another small, adjoining room. In it, there was a bar. She pulled at a wooden cabinet door and I heard the snap of magnets separating. The bar was stocked with about fifteen bottles of liquor.
“Here,” she said, handing me a bottle of Jack Daniels. “I don’t think we have any Jim Beam.”
“This will do just fine.” I eyeballed the bottle somewhat dubiously.
“What? It’s what you like, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. It’s perfect.” I put it back down on the table. “I’ll have some later.”
“Really?”
“You heard me.”
“You aren’t going to be a total annoying square, are you?”
I shook my head. “You’re a big girl. Just remember what we’re up against.”
“I want to forget.”
“No. We can’t forget. We have to stay focused.”
“Symphony will find us here. We can’t stay here forever.”
“Who says I want to hide from Symphony?”
That screwface again…then she said, “Are you serious? What are you up to?”
“Listen, I don’t know what you and your father have done. And frankly, I don’t need to know. But what I do know is the only way to clear my name is catch that thing.”
“Catch it?”
“You heard me.”
“You think you can catch Symphony. No way. You’ll be dead.”
“We’re dead anyway. We have to try.” I reached into my beltline and pulled out my gun. Even though I knew it was loaded, I checked it, then clicked off the safety. “I’ll be ready for your friend.”
“With that? Come on. Come with me.”
She walked towards the utility room, then past the garage, into another small room. She opened a closet and in it was a gun rack with several rifles, and a shotgun. She grabbed the shotgun and handed it to me.
“At least give us a fighting chance. The shells are in the garage. I’ll go get them.”
* *
Nightfall came and I set up a lounge chair on the edge of the dunes. I sunk in, shotgun laid across the armrest and the bottle of Jack Daniels between my legs. I wasn’t going to get drunk, just a few sips here and there to keep the edge off. Mackenzie was inside, keeping to herself, which was fine by me.
The night seemed to fly by. I was too antsy to sleep, spending most of the dark, moonlit hours in that chair, listening to the waves crash into the sand. It didn’t get tiring, and the novelty didn’t wear off.
Hours quickly passed, and waves crashed, and I was content to watch, and wait.
* *
I slept the days, and she slept the nights. This went on for about a week. She ate pasta, and I ate egg sandwiches and occasionally fired up the stainless steel outdoor grill and cooked up the meat we had. We had enough supplies to last a few more days, a week at most. Sooner or later, we’d have to journey out. Unless the creature showed itself first.
Sipping Jack Daniels, but making sure to stay sharp, the evenings came and went. I’d circle the house, and under cover of darkness, I went as far as walking to the gate out front, but I didn’t cross it as if I was a puppy and it an electric fence. We needed to stay undetected, and that was the barrier I refused to cross. The old gate stayed shut, and shut tight.
I kept my phone off, not wanting to give our position away. There was a chance the police were trying to track us. Still, there also may have been important messages waiting for me. Finally, I broke down and turned it on. A little envelope instantly lit up on the screen, signifying there were messages waiting.
The first message was from Sandy. I hit the button and let it play.
Hank. It’s me. Your mother and I are worried sick about you. She’s called here several times. Call me. Please.
I deleted the message. Then played the next message.
Henry, it’s your mutha…
I immediately deleted that message without listening to the rest of it. I knew she was worried sick. I played the next message.
Henry, it’s your mutha again…
I deleted the message, then played the next one.
Hank, it’s Flip. Come by and see me. Okay, buddy. Bye.
Hank. It’s Vic. We need to talk. ASAP. Call me. It’s very important.
Victor had something important to tell me. Something he didn’t want to leave on the voicemail. I didn’t like it. I also didn’t want to return his call, but I knew if I could trust anyone in the world, it was Vic. So, I called his cellphone.
He answered quickly and recognized my number right away. “Hank! Are you okay?”
“For the moment.”
“Where are you? I’ve been worried, man.”
“I know. I know. You left a message. What’s up?”
“The Westchester cops executed a search warrant on Blake’s place.”
“And?”
“And…the hound dogs found a tooth, in the back end of the property, in the grass near an empty animal cage.”
“Whose tooth?”
“The missing gardener.”
I nodded to myself, but didn’t say a word.”
“They also found traces of blood inside the cage. Any guesses who it belongs to?”
“I’m gonna guess someone who’s missing.”
“Yeah. Bill Palmer. Blake’s business partner.”
“Yup. I can’t say I’m shocked.”
“Yeah, well you should be, Hank. Your employer is a murderer.”
“It sounds that way.”
“You know what else they found?”
“Tell me, please.”
“They found other traces of blood in the animal cage. Nicki Leifson’s blood.”
I shook my head back and forth. I wasn’t completely shocked, but I didn’t like what it meant one bit.
“They let the dogs loose, and they found her. All of her, buried in a shallow grave in the woods deep into the grounds.”
“I see. That’s not good.”
“No, it’s not good. They are both dirty on this, father and daughter.”
“Sounds like it.”
“You need to turn yourself in and tell what you know. Fuck this loyalty to your client bullshit. You’re in deep enough already. You need to get your ass down here and get a lawyer, pronto.”