No Second Chances, page 27
He looked at Ramón, felt a rush of intense anger, then cooled it by looking at Lisa.
“What’s my name?” he asked her.
It didn’t come immediately. She frowned and blinked her broken brown eyes, then uttered, softly, “Luke.”
“Luke. Yeah. And who am I to you?”
“You are the cradle.”
Tears pricked the backs of his eyes and he might have held them back, except she sang, distantly, but with a soulfulness that hadn’t been touched: “Some dreams are found where the lows don’t go, this is the cradle that rocks my soul.” This brought back all the feelings—every last one—and his tears fell brightly, as heavy as coins on his face.
“It’s going to be okay,” he sniffled. “I promise you.”
Kitty returned with a first-aid kit, painkillers, and a cold compress wrapped in a thin towel. “This will help with the bleeding,” she said to Ramón. She placed the compress on top of his head, then gestured for the redhead to hold it in place. “Give him these,” Kitty said, and shook three Advil into her palm. “I don’t want my hand anywhere near his mouth.”
“You take any of those?” Luke asked as Kitty tended to him.
“Two,” she replied. “I’m fine. A little bruised up, is all.”
“You saved my life out there,” he said.
“I’m getting used to it.”
Luke dry-swallowed two Advil while Kitty cleaned and dressed his arm.
“It’ll do for now,” she said, “but you’ll probably need a tetanus booster. Those dogs were filthy.”
He nodded gratefully, looked at Lisa, then switched his focus to Ramón. “My friend is kinder than I am. But then, you didn’t kidnap her loved one and ruin her fucking life.”
Ramón exhaled tiredly. The redhead held the cold pack to his head and whispered, “Baby, oh, baby,” into his ear. In the background, yet a thousand miles away, the TV switched from Friends to Frasier. Both Latinas watched it. One of them—zero-eyed—hadn’t looked at Luke once. A crust of saliva circled her mouth.
“Let’s keep it going,” Luke said. He kicked the bottom of the green sofa between Ramón’s legs, making him jump. “What happened after Lisa took the prototype?”
Lisa looked down at her bare feet, twisting her hands together. Ramón cleared his throat and winced.
“Baby, oh, baby—”
“Shut the fuck up, Christine,” Ramón barked, and she did—her mouth snapping closed, as if pulled by a string.
He sighed, either with relief or pain, and resumed talking.
He kept his eye on her. That’s what he said. Lisa went to the ladies’ room and came out after seven or eight minutes. She caught Ramón’s eye, nodded, then started talking to one of her music-industry friends.
“She looked fine. Fresh-faced. She was smiling.” Ramón’s gaze drifted as he remembered, taking himself back to a night Luke had relived a thousand times. “I watched her from across the room, looking for any negative side effects. She moved from person to person, fully engaged. I couldn’t tell if that was the coke or the prototype, but I felt cautiously optimistic.”
“I guess that didn’t last long,” Luke said.
“It didn’t.” Ramón shook his head and sighed again. “Things turned bad soon after.”
Lisa had glided across the dance floor, stopping occasionally to interact with associates and fans—an air-kiss here, a selfie there—before shuffling up alongside Ramón.
“How are you feeling?” he asked her.
“Good . . . yeah, good.”
“Any nausea? Head pain?”
“No, I . . . no pain, but my left eye is ticking.” She blinked a few times, her painted lashes flashing up and down. “Does it look like it’s ticking?”
“No,” Ramón replied. “You look good. Any positive effects, aside from what you would normally feel with the sugar? Clearheadedness? A heightened focus?”
“No, I . . . maybe, I don’t know. I’m having a good time.” She smiled at him. “Listen, I’m going to go find my husband. We had a fight earlier and I want to make it up to him.”
Lisa swished away from Ramón, skirting the bar to find Luke on the other side. She sprawled into his arms, whispered in his ear. They laughed, kissed, then downed a shot of tequila each. Ramón watched, paying close attention to Lisa’s movements. She jerked once—an abrupt twitch of the shoulders. She also pressed the heel of her hand into her left eye, perhaps to suppress the mysterious ticking sensation.
“You left the bar shortly after that,” Ramón said. “This was somewhere around two in the morning.”
“One fifty-two,” Luke said, recalling the time stamp on the grainy surveillance photo that Detective Kraemer had shown him.
“I followed you outside,” Ramón said. “I wondered if you were leaving for the night, but you crossed the parking lot and went into the woods.”
Luke’s throat clicked dryly. He looked at Lisa, grasping at foggy memories: the sweet, woody fragrance of the trees, the smell of Dolce & Gabbana perfume. A kiss? He thought so, yes. Long, warm, and soft, and the words she’d spoken—just above a whisper: I don’t think it’s working. She hadn’t been talking about them, their marriage. No, it was the drug she had charging through her brain, the one for which she had just become test subject number one.
“You didn’t go far into the woods,” Ramón said. “I could see you from where I stood at the edge of the parking lot, next to my van. I saw you stumbling around a little, ducking beneath the branches. I watched you kiss.”
Luke nodded.
“Then Lisa made a gurgling sound and started to convulse. You hugged her close, as if she were cold, and clapped her on the back. She had her head against your chest, rolling it from side to side. That was when her nose started to bleed. Not just a trickle. It poured.”
“All over my shirt.”
“She pushed you away and stumbled deeper into the woods. You followed, saying her name over and over. I lost sight of you and had to follow the sound of your voice.” Ramón hissed and twisted his neck. “Jesus, Christine, that’s enough. My head is freezing.”
Christine lifted the cold compress and said, “Baby.”
“Que ladilla eres,” he said to her, and then, to Luke: “She was a crack whore. Found her in the gutter in Vegas. Brought her here. Saved her life.”
“And what a life,” Luke said, stepping away from a cockroach as it skittered across the linoleum in front of him. “Now keep talking.”
Ramón did: “Lisa didn’t get far. You caught up to her, took her by the arms. She was still convulsing. I was maybe fifteen feet away. It was too dark for me to see everything, but I did see her collapse. She jerked away from you, then slumped to her knees and fell backward.”
“So dark,” Lisa chimed in. She looked at Luke, her mouth angled downward. “And cold, baby. Cold.”
Luke remembered none of this, an absence of mind that offered no reprieve. On the contrary, he felt hollowed out, emasculated—a spectator at his wife’s undoing. Lisa mumbled something else, still looking at him through the dull stones of her eyes. He wondered if there was a way back for her.
The .38 Special was still in his right hand and it still felt good. The temptation to aim, fire, and put his last bullet through Ramón’s skull was great indeed.
“Go on,” he said instead.
“There’s not much left to say.” Ramón rolled his shoulders, flashing his teeth with the discomfort. “You crouched over Lisa, trying to get her to wake up, then you took out your cell phone—to call for an ambulance, I suppose, although you never made it that far.”
“You hit me from behind,” Luke said, touching the back of his head. “Knocked me out.”
“I found a heavy branch,” Ramón said. “You went down. I put your phone into your pocket and dragged you to the nearest tree. You were so still. I thought you might be dead.”
Not quite, Luke thought. Just a few critical memories erased.
“I picked Lisa up and carried her to my van.” Ramón looked at her while he spoke. She returned the gaze, smiling vacantly. “I had to wait for some people to leave the parking lot, then I put her in the back and drove away.”
Luke gritted his teeth. He had the answers he wanted—to the most important questions, at least. But he felt no relief, no peace.
“You dirty son of a bitch,” he said.
“I did what I had to. I knew that, if Lisa went to hospital, or if she died, the prototype would be discovered in her bloodstream, and the police would start asking questions.” Ramón lowered his eyes. “Maybe they’d track me down, maybe not, but I couldn’t take that chance.”
“So you were willing to let Lisa die,” Kitty said, “to save your own ass?”
“My hope was to bring her back here,” Ramón said. “Flush the prototype out of her system, nurse her back to health, then let her go.”
Kitty: “And why didn’t you do that?”
“She was unconscious for ten days. Stable, but unresponsive. And when, finally, she did wake up, she was not the same.” Ramón’s voice was slurred, his jaw somewhat looser. The painkillers were kicking in. “There were clear signs of brain damage: cognitive impairment, motor slowing, severe memory loss.”
“You couldn’t leave her outside a hospital and drive away?” Luke asked.
“At the risk of her talking? No.”
Again, the urge to aim the revolver and fire was monumental. Only Lisa, and these other mistreated women, kept him from doing it. They’d seen enough horror.
“These past two years, she has shown real improvement,” Ramón said. He looked at Lisa, curling his upper lip into an unappealing smile. “She gets better every day. Isn’t that right, mi cielo?”
“Every day,” Lisa said.
“She has a long way to go, though.” The ugly little smile faded, replaced by an ugly little frown. “She can remember the words to all her songs one moment, then forget how to use a fork the next.”
“And these other women,” Kitty said, gesturing around the room. “Are they your guinea pigs, too?”
Ramón shook his head and gestured at the Latina sleeping on the pile of laundry. “Only Angelica. I thought I had it right with her, and I controlled the dosage. But no, there were still detrimental side effects.”
“Jesus Christ,” Kitty hissed.
“The others are here because they want to be,” Ramón added.
“Bullshit,” Luke snapped. “They’re prisoners. They may not know it, but they are.”
“And those bolts on the door prove it,” Kitty said.
“They’re safe down here,” Ramón said. “Those bolts are for their own protection.”
Kitty put her hands on her hips, shaking her head angrily. She walked around the basement, stepping over trash, discarded clothes, and empty plates, looking with grief at each of the women, imprisoned in their own heads as much as in this room. The TV chattered in the background, the laugh track absurdly inappropriate.
“I’ve heard enough,” Kitty said, stopping at Luke’s side. “It’s time to call the police.”
“No,” Luke said, and flared his nostrils. “I’m pretty sure Vegas cops serve this whole area. They’ve probably got substations here and there, but how long will it take them to get to us? They might even dispatch a part-timer from Pale Bone, probably poker buddies with this motherfucker”—he kicked Ramón’s heels—“and with all the cop savvy of a goddamn watermelon.”
“So what do you want to do?” Kitty leaned in to him, speaking out of the side of her mouth. “We can’t just take Lisa and leave.”
“No, we can’t,” Luke agreed. “But I don’t want to be here for one second longer than I have to be. So we’re going to load everything up—the canary included—and hit the road. We’re, what . . . forty, fifty miles from Vegas? We’ll find the biggest, glitziest police department in town, and drop this shitshow at their door. Then I’m going to call Aster Aarons at the L.A. Times, and drop one hell of a story at her door.”
“I’m down with that,” Kitty said. “We can take Ramón’s van.”
“Exactly.” Luke clicked his tongue and smiled. “You can drive. I’ll sit in the back and entertain.”
“Chamo, hey, I told you everything. I did what you asked me to.” Ramón wriggled his shoulders, his face fraught with desperation. “You can take my girls, but please, no police. Just let me do my thing here.”
“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Luke said.
“Please. My father died six years ago. I have family in Venezuela who depend on the money I send them. It’s bad for them there.” More blood trickled from Ramón’s hairline. “They will die. They will be killed.”
“You took everything from me,” Luke stormed, flinching as the anger rocked his body. “You took everything from my wife. And these women . . . these poor women have been imprisoned down here, living in filth. What about them? What about their families?”
“I didn’t want any of this.” Ramón twisted and struggled, trying to work his hands free. Tears welled in his eyes. “It just . . . happened. I’m not a bad person.”
“You might be able to work a deal, keep your family safe,” Kitty said, “if you offer up Johan Fly.”
Ramón groaned and looked up at the ceiling, his narrow chin already quivering. If what he said about his family was true, Luke had no doubt he’d throw Johan to the dogs.
“I guess phase two just got a kick-start,” Luke whispered to Kitty, then spread his arms wide and announced in a strident, actorly voice: “Okay, ladies. You’re out of here. We’re taking a road trip to freedom.”
They didn’t move. It was as if they didn’t hear. Kitty rolled her eyes and snapped into action. She turned off the TV and all but hoisted the two women off the sofa, then woke up Angelica, curled like a kitten on top of the laundry. Christine stood back, nervously twisting her ponytail. She looked sad and confused.
“Let’s go!” Kitty clapped her hands, rallying them along. “Come on, girls. It’s time to haul ass.”
Luke sprang into action, too. He stepped toward Lisa, cupped the back of her neck, and kissed her firmly on the lips. She shrank back at first, surprised, then relaxed—responded, her mouth, the same as it had always been, shaping itself to his, so full and warm and utterly, wonderfully familiar.
Luke pulled away slowly, his head turning a dizzy circle. He looked into Lisa’s eyes and saw something there, deep but distinct: a spark of her old self.
“Goddammit, I missed you,” he said.
Kitty found a backpack in a pile of junk beside the water heater. There were a couple dozen cockroaches living inside it. She shook them out, then loaded in the canary. Twenty-seven half-pound baggies. She knew Hollywood prices, and given the discount for buying in bulk . . .
“Jesus, Luke, there’s over three million dollars’ worth of product here.”
“Bring it all,” Luke said. “Let’s make headlines.”
They left the basement in a somewhat orderly line, Ramón first, still with his hands tied behind his back, then Luke and Lisa. They walked side by side, fingers touching. Luke had the revolver in his other hand. “Try anything smart,” he warned Ramón, “and I’ll put a bullet in your back.” The other four women followed, looking around apprehensively as they emerged first from the basement, then the house. They whispered in Spanish. Their eyes were large, but dull. Kitty brought up the rear, encouraging the women with gentle words. She had the backpack looped over one shoulder.
They crossed the yard toward Ramón’s Econoline, meandering between the junked-out cars and stacks of debris. The rottweiler observed their passage with a cacophony of rumbling barks. Two turkey vultures—unperturbed by the noise—snapped ravenously at the dead shepherd, only taking wing when Luke and company approached. This was the only disagreeable sight. It was dusk, and the desert sky was a magnificent swirl of purples and oranges. Luke sighed reverently and looked west, his eyes full of burning, hopeful color. He thought it was the most beautiful sunset he’d ever seen.
Then everything changed.
The snarling, booming rottweiler masked the sound of the speeding vehicle. Luke saw it before he heard it: an aggressive splash of headlights racing along Sierra Vista, then sliding onto Ramón’s property. It bounced and fishtailed, filling the yard with dust and light, before screeching to a stop not far from Luke’s Caliber.
There was a beat—a shadowy, unsettled moment—then everything became clear with Kitty’s chilling scream. She had recognized the car, the dented sage panels and squat, muscular stance.
The passenger door opened. Luke saw a swish of blond, braided hair, the flash of an ax.
Johan Fly came at them, a terrible Viking storm.
24
Rage
The last time Johan saw Kitty, she had been scrambling down the embankment behind Jink’s Warehouse. He’d watched her topple over a wooden fence and disappear from sight, but here she was now, locked in the headlights, as small as a rabbit. The rage that had consumed him all day pushed itself out of his throat and his eyes. He exited the Mustang, hoisting Krókr to his chest. His ancestors announced themselves in his blood.
There were other rabbits. The actor was there, his face smeared with blood and dirt. Ramón looked equally beaten. He stood with his shoulders slumped and his hands tied behind his back. Five raggedy-ass women lurked just behind them, almost transparent in the dusty evening air. Johan had no idea who they were, or what the hell was going on here, but none of that mattered now.
It was only as he got closer that he saw the snub-nosed revolver in the actor’s hand.
Luke raised the .38 Special, took aim, and pulled the trigger. He did it before the fear could take hold—a reflexive action, almost. It gave him no satisfaction, no sense of power. He would never have believed that shooting to kill could feel so unremarkable.
