Lying in vengeance, p.13
Lying in Vengeance, page 13
Gregg pointed to the suits. “The cops still want to interview you. They’ll want Frankie’s contact information.”
“I’m sure he has nothing to hide.”
“Good. Then I’ll need you here to help me rebuild and restock. We’ll have to lay some sales staff off for a bit.”
“Yuck. And during our busiest time of year.”
The detective waved to Gregg, who turned to Peter. “That’s our cue. Let’s go tell them everything we know.”
Peter shuddered. Telling cops what he knew about crimes remained among his least favorite pastimes.
But at least this time, nobody had died.
Chapter Twenty
Kyle shaded his eyes against the bright sun, hanging in the cloudless sky just above the trees on the western horizon. Even his Ray-Bans couldn’t protect his eyes against the intense glare, and he needed to be able to detect the couple the moment they arrived—without, of course, being spotted himself.
Or at least, not identified. The shades could only hide so much. The dark dye in his hair, the idiotic seventies mustache, the dangly clip-on nose ring, and the fake paunch would hide him to a much greater extent. Especially, he hoped, the paunch around the gut.
But the true disguise lay not in his physical appearance, but in his behavior. Like, for example, holding these stupid rent-a-dogs on retractable leashes. Two disgustingly cute, puffy little mutts, designer dogs of some sort. Dee-John Freezays, or some such nonsense. He’d forgotten their names, too, but they responded to treats, which he dispensed with near reckless abandon any time he spoke or they came near. Whatever. Disgusting creatures. They could eat until they puked and then some, for all he cared. They weren’t his dogs. God forbid.
He shuddered at the thought of having dogs around on a permanent basis. Smelly, hairy creatures, and so damned needy. Worse, they reminded him of his equally needy, idiotic brother, who cried for days when their foster parents put down their stinky old mutt after she’d attacked the postal worker. Kyle neither understood, nor much cared for, his brother Earl. He had no doubt that his brother felt the same way. How two people could share so many common experiences, and so much DNA, and look so much alike, yet turn out so different—
His phone vibrated in his pocket. He clicked on his wireless ear bud to answer.
“They’re here,” the voice said. His man. “They’re parking.”
“Good. Get ready.”
“I was born ready.”
Kyle clicked on the ear bud again to hang up, gritting his teeth. God, how he hated clichés.
He scanned the parking lot. The small loop of pavement held less than a dozen cars, despite the popularity of the trail head, one of the many feeding the beautiful expanse of the 5,000-acre Forest Park in northwest Portland. The lot was full, but a slow parade of hikers approached in clumps of twos and threes from Northwest Upshur Street, many carrying backpacks, water bottles, and walking sticks. He chuckled at the sight. The gentle slopes of the park’s trails wouldn’t challenge even the most casual gym rat, but these Portland wimps dressed and equipped themselves like they were about to climb Mount Fuji.
The woman he sought, of course, would do no such thing. Fit as a drum from her daily five-mile runs and obsessed with appearances, she would never burden herself with such crap. Not when she could show off her amazing body with tight shorts, a tank top, and a stylish set of tennis shoes.
As if summoned, she appeared, dressed exactly as predicted, with her nerdy-looking boyfriend in tow. He, of course, dressed like the other idiots all around them, and already huffed and puffed like he’d just run five miles instead of walking a block or two from his car. He looked ordinary, a slice of white bread compared to the croissants and panini that typified Christine’s finer tastes. He reminded Kyle of the goofy kid on that old black-and-white TV series he used to watch as a kid. Lumpy. Perfect named for this oaf.
They walked a foot or two apart, her maybe a half-stride ahead, chatting about something―probably the weather or something equally mundane. Whatever drones like him found interesting.
He called the dogs and tugged on the leash, rewarding them with yet another crappy little treat when they bounded near. He rubbed their backs like the cute gal at the pet shop had showed him, and the dogs responded with their stupid, excited yips, so he stuffed their mouths with treats again. To the casual observer, he appeared to love his adorable little pups.
Yuck.
He tugged the leashes again, leading the dogs toward the sidewalk at an angle that he hoped would give the impression of heading to the parking lot. From the corner of his eye he tracked their progress into the forested section of the trail. They did not look toward him, nor, even, seem to look around the park. No awareness at all of their surroundings, potential threats, escape routes. Oblivious.
That didn’t square with Kyle’s knowledge of Christine. If nothing else, she was a hyper-alert person. Which meant one of two things: either she really loved this Lumpy guy―the odds of which he put at roughly zero―or she was up to something.
He unlocked the black rental SUV, put the dogs inside, sat on the open tailgate, and made a phone call. “Get into position.”
“I already am.”
He hung up.
Show time.
“YOU REALLY THINK HE’LL follow us here?” Peter huffed and quickened his pace on the narrow path to keep up with Christine, who always seemed a step ahead of him. In so many ways.
“I’m certain of it.” She slowed her pace a bit, allowing Peter to close the gap behind her.
“Have you spotted him yet? I don’t see anyone matching―”
“Did you see the big guy with the two little dogs?”
Peter nodded, then remembered she couldn’t see him. “Yeah. That’s him? I thought he had blond hair.”
“You’ve heard of hair dye? The ugly mustache was a dead giveaway.” She chuckled and shook her head.
“I didn’t take him to be a dog person.”
“He’s not. They’re not his. Did you see how awkward he was with them?”
“I confess, no, I didn’t pay much attention to him.” The path widened and he caught up to walk next to her. “What’s his next move?”
“Typical bully, he won’t want to confront me if you’re with me. He’ll look for a chance to find me alone.” She stopped at an overlook with a view of the stream below and the path behind them.
“So, we stay together, right?” He checked their surroundings again. A young couple with toddlers ambled up the hill at a two-year-old’s walking pace. A shaggy-haired, heavy-set guy with a walking stick passed them, smiling at the toddler, and strode past Peter and Christine without a glance. No sign of a tall dark-haired guy with a moustache or dogs.
She glanced sideways at him. “You’re forgetting our objective. How would you observe him in action if we stay together? No, we need to separate before he separates us.”
His head jerked back involuntarily, and he blinked, twice. “Doesn’t that leave you exposed? What if he tries something?”
She turned toward the stream again, her eyes focused on something far in the distance. “He won’t. Even though this place seems isolated, there are too many people around for him to take any chances.” As she spoke, the young family passed behind them on the path. “And I don’t want you to go far. Stay within sight of me, and keep your smart phone ready. Be sure to get a picture of his face.”
He searched the forest in front of them. This plan of hers seemed too risky, but he had no better ideas. “Are you sure about this?”
She shook her head. “I’m not sure of anything. But he’s not going to show his face unless I leave myself vulnerable―in appearance if not in fact.” She touched his arm and faced him again. “Stay close, okay?”
He nodded. “I will.”
“And, Peter?” She held his arm in a tight grip. “Watch him carefully. Study him. How he approaches me, his body language, the distance he keeps, the sudden moves. He tries hard to be unpredictable, but he’s not, really. Just...different.”
Peter studied her dark eyes for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. Be careful.” He kissed her forehead, stepped back, and watched for a few seconds more before heading up the trail without her.
THE SHAGGY-HAIRED, heavy-set man lowered his binoculars and speed-dialed his phone. “She’s alone.”
“Good. Where’s Lumpy?”
“Who?” Frigging Kyle, always coming up with derogatory nicknames for people. He wondered what Kyle called him behind his back.
Laughter. “The guy. The meathead boyfriend.”
“He went on ahead without her. She’s overlooking the stream, about a hundred yards past the bridge.” He peered through his binoculars again until he spotted Peter walking on the trail. “He’s probably fifty yards from her and still walking.”
Rustling noises came over the line. Probably Kyle fussing with his stupid earbud again. “Okay. Find a way to lure him further away. I’m coming in.”
“Got it.” The shaggy-haired man hung up and put away his phone. He had an idea.
Chapter Twenty-One
Peter rounded the corner of the trail’s gentle switchback and snuck a peek toward Christine. Tree branches thick with leaves temporarily blocked his view of where he’d left her, but he assumed she’d remained there. At least, that’s how he understood the plan. He’d have to continue to climb another forty or fifty yards to regain a clear view of her. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and opened the camera app. He wanted to be ready, just in case.
“Help!” A man’s voice yelled out from the wooded slope above him. “Someone help me! I’m stuck!”
He searched the woods uphill of the trail. Thirty or so yards uphill and fifty feet to his left, someone―a man, by the sound of his voice―thrashed in the thicket of trees, ferns, and shrubs crowding the landscape.
“Where are you?” Peter shouted. “Are you hurt?”
“My ankle’s twisted. I–I can’t walk. I’m stuck. Help!”
Peter glanced around, saw no one else around. Even the young family had disappeared from view ahead. More than likely, no one else could hear the man. “I’ll come up,” Peter said. “Try not to move.” He stepped off the trail into a narrow gap in the underbrush and poked his way in the direction of the man’s voice. He should call Christine. He paused and opened his Contact list on his phone.
“Hurry!” the man shouted. “This hurts like hell. I think I might have broken it. I might...pass...out...” His breathing grew loud and ragged.
“Hold on!” Peter put the phone away and hastened his pace, no longer bothering to try to protect the fragile, native plants that filled the forest floor. If caught off trail, he could be penalized with steep fines, but an injured man in distress, he reasoned, ought to exempt him. “I’m coming!” Peter yelled again. “I’m getting clo―”
Pain seared the back of his skull. His knees buckled, and he sank to the spongy forest floor. Tall, thick ferns filled his view. The green fronds swayed, going in and out of focus.
Then, everything went black.
CHRISTINE PERKED UP when shouts echoed through the trees uphill to her right. Two men shouted, their voices muffled by the soft, irregular shapes and background noise of the wooded trail. One of the voices sounded familiar. She listened a bit more.
It sounded like Peter. Dammit!
She had no choice but to surrender her strategic vantage point overlooking the stream and head up the trail toward the shouting men. No sense shouting back, with the terrible outdoor acoustics deadening all sound. She hustled to the sharp turn of the switchback and stopped, facing up the trail.
Empty. And the shouting had stopped. When?
She took careful steps forward, listening, making as little noise as possible, assessing, observing. Peter shouldn’t have gone any further ahead than this. Just far enough to give the appearance that they’d gone their own separate ways, but close enough to observe, and to race down to rejoin her in case of emergency. She looked for broken branches, gaps in the underbrush, trampled ground cover, any sign that he’d left the trail. She peered closer at what appeared to be a footprint in the moss to her right.
A strong hand clamped onto her shoulder from behind. “Peter?” She said before turning. “I was just―”
“Oh, so that’s his name? I was just getting used to calling him Lumpy.”
She completed her turn, and nearly fainted. Blocking her view stood the smirking, unwelcome sight of the man she most feared and reviled in the world.
“Kyle?” Even though she’d spotted him earlier, seeing him up close, she almost couldn’t believe it. He’d chopped off the long blond locks that once flowed to his shoulders, and now sported a short, military-style haircut, with stiff brown hair clipped close to his scalp. The ridiculous moustache, a dark caterpillar, covered his upper lip. His nose appeared twice the size of normal. His eyebrows, usually invisible, now nearly connected over his nose, darkened by mascara or dye.
But the sardonic, lazy, smart-ass grin remained, exposing two gold caps glistening in the sunlight. His trademark Ray-Bans hid his eyes, and his musky scent filled the air. He grinned at her and held her left forearm in his muscular grip. “Long time no see, beautiful,” he said. “Aren’t you going to kiss me hello?”
“What have you done with Peter?” She wiggled to free her arm, but he redoubled his grip. She winced in pain.
“I haven’t done anything to your lumpy little lover boy.” Kyle tossed his head in the downhill direction. “Come, let’s stroll while we catch up on old times, and perhaps we’ll spot him. I bet he just took a little nature break.” He tugged her down the trail. Resisting, she stumbled into him, and he caught her full in his arms. He squeezed hard, knocking the wind out of her. “A hug? Now, that’s more like it. I missed you, too.”
“Let–me–go!” Christine managed to push free of his grip, gasping for air, bent at the waist. She took a few steps away from him, but he caught her, wrapping an arm around her waist. He pressed his body against hers and dry-humped her from behind.
“Nice of you to offer such a tempting target, but is this really the time and place?” He laughed. “You always did like it outdoors.”
“Get away from me!” She slapped at him, kicked his shins, and pried his fingers off of her. He released his hold and pushed her down into the weeds along the side of the trail. She scrambled to her feet, then realized she was heading downhill, just as Kyle had suggested.
He stepped toward her, still blocking the trail. “Keep going. We have a good half-mile walk to my car.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you!”
He stepped closer and pushed her again. She fell, landing hard on her butt and elbows. He grabbed her shorts by the waist and lifted her to her feet one-handed, spun her around so she faced downhill, and pushed her again. “Come on, get going, I’m tired of screwing around with you.”
She took a long, awkward step down the trail, keeping an eye on him. He followed, his eyes fixed on her. She took another step, then noticed movement behind him: the image of a thick, leafless tree branch, swaying in the wind.
Except that it swayed downward.
Fast.
And there was no wind.
Crack! The branch landed square on the top of Kyle’s head, snapping in two. The end of the branch skittered into the brush. Kyle collapsed in a heap on the trail. Behind him stood a husky, sandy-haired man, breathing heavily, the balance of the branch gripped in his large hands like a baseball bat.
Christine stared at him, then at the fallen body at her feet. Still breathing, but out cold. “Who the hell are you?” she asked the man holding the tree branch.
“Most people might start with ‘Thank you’,” the man said. “But since you asked, my name’s Frankie. I’m a friend of Peter’s.”
“I’ve heard of you,” Christine said. “You used to work for Peter, right?”
“I’ve known Peter since we were twelve. Yes, I used to work at Stark’s...Christine.”
She held out her hand. He shook it. She held on a moment. “Thank you. Where’s Peter?”
“Up the trail a bit, recovering from a conk on the head. Now, as for this guy...” He threw the stick to the ground and checked Kyle’s pulse. “He’ll be all right.”
“Pity.”
Frankie grinned. “Only if he doesn’t get up. This must be Kyle.”
“You know a lot.”
“Like I said. Friend of Peter’s. Come on.” He walked up the hillside without checking to see if she followed. She did, losing sight of him momentarily around the sharp turn in the underbrush.
“Hey, you’re not supposed to go off the trail,” she said, her voice faltering under Frankie’s withering glare.
“You want to help me here, or what?” Frankie approached a thick clump of ferns and hoisted Peter to his feet. Peter stumbled and rubbed the back of his head. “You all right?” Frankie said, still holding Peter up. Christine waited on the trail below where Frankie had left her.
“Other than a massive headache. What happened?” Peter stumbled down the hillside toward Christine with Frankie’s assistance. When they reached the trail, Christine allowed Peter to lay one arm across her shoulders, with Frankie supporting him on the other side.
“Some dude hit you and ran,” Frankie said. “I was too far away to do anything. I thought about going after him, but I thought I should check on you first. Then Kyle caught up with Christine, and―”
“Kyle found you?” Peter leaned harder on Christine. Damn, he was heavy.
“Yes, briefly. Frankie knocked him out. He should be right―”
They turned the corner to where Kyle’s body had been moments before. But the trail was empty.
Christine halted in her tracks, forcing the others to stop as well. “What the hell?”
“Told you he was all right,” Frankie said.
“Someone please explain what the hell is going on,” Peter said.
“Hear, hear,” Christine said. “Let’s rest a minute and talk, shall we?”
