A time for reckoning, p.31
A Time for Reckoning, page 31
“He’s the key,” I mutter.
“Could be. What are you and Dirk up to this morning?”
I explain, skipping over the keystone of our plan, which was ragging on her to break Reuben. We say our goodbyes with a vague commitment to touch base toward noon.
My phone chirps as a matronly waitress delivers a final coffee refill and my check for $7.50. “Pay up front on your way out, honey,” she says.
I nod and accept the call from the Converse County Sheriff’s office.
“Mr. Valenti?” This time, I recognize the voice.
“Good morning, Deputy Cross.”
“I just had an interesting chat with a civilian colleague who went on a coffee-and-doughnut run a few minutes ago,” she says. “Marla saw Sheriff Donahue going in the back door of the old jail when she was on her way back to the office. This is the second time she’s seen him there in the last couple of days. The place is closed, Mr. Valenti. Making the occasional stop to check on things makes some sense. But going twice within a couple of days? Why?”
As the potential significance of what I’m hearing registers, I pull out my wallet and drop a twenty on top of my breakfast bill as I scramble to my feet.
“Grazyna?” I ask Cross as I catch the eye of my waitress, point at the money, and race out the door.
“Maybe,” she replies as I hop into the car and twist the key in the ignition.
“Did you call the FBI?”
“Left a message,” she replies.
“Dirk?” I ask while backing into the street without looking. The squeal of brakes and a blaring horn remind me to shoulder check. A quick peek in the mirror reveals a pickup a micrometer or two from my rear bumper. A burly, bearded man is leaning out the driver’s-side window screaming and gesturing at the “stupid bastard!” behind the wheel of my vehicle. I offer up a little wave, the type you’d use to thank someone for letting you into merging traffic, then stab the gas pedal to the floor.
“Everything okay?” Cross asks anxiously after the commotion dies down.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Just an impatient driver behind me. He’s gone now.”
“Good,” she says. “And no, I haven’t called Dirk yet. He’s next on my list.”
“Be right there,” I say as I accelerate down the street and race the few blocks to the cop shop. I consider calling Dirk as I tear into the parking lot beside the sheriff’s office, then discard the thought. I might as well wait until I have some idea what—if anything—is going on. Besides, he should already be on his way here from Casper. I hurry inside and find Deputy Cross sitting at the desk in the lobby. Her eyes are a touch on the wild side. Has she learned something awful in the past minute or two?
“What is it?” I blurt as I stride across the lobby.
“I’m worried about what’s happening to that poor girl if she’s in the old jail.”
“Let’s go have a look.”
She shakes her head in frustration. “I can’t. I’m alone here until one of the patrol vehicles gets back.”
“Are they on the way?”
“No. The last one took off out of here twenty minutes ago in response to a domestic disturbance—some asshole beating on his wife or girlfriend. Everyone else is out at a pileup on the I-25 offramp into town. Traffic’s backed up for a mile or two.”
With Dirk probably stuck somewhere in the middle of it. I’m having all manner of disturbing thoughts about what might be going on in that jail if Grazyna is being held there. If whoever is responsible knows the FBI is in town, I doubt she’ll be there for much longer. Someone needs to get over to the old jail right away.
“Is Dirk on the way?” she asks.
When I nod, she disappears through a door deeper into the station. I dial Dirk, who confirms that he’s stuck in the mess on I-25.
When Cross reemerges a minute later, she has a key ring in her hand. “This old master key should work. Three full sets of keys to the old jail have gone missing. Nobody signed them out.”
“How far to the old jail?” I ask as I take the key from her.
She points east. “Just three blocks down the street.”
I turn to go.
“Wait! Where’s Dirk?”
“Stuck in the traffic backup on I-25.”
“You can’t go by yourself!” she exclaims as she tries to snatch the key back.
“I’ll be careful,” I reply, jamming the key into my pocket before patting the Glock on my hip. “And I’m armed if it comes to that. Call Agent Fontenot and let her know what’s happening,” I call over my shoulder as I turn on my heel and sprint to the door.
She shouts a final plaintiff “Mr. Valenti!” as I crash through the door and accelerate eastbound down the sidewalk toward the old jail, running flat out.
The old jail is a handsome structure, with gobs more character than the modern box I just left. I shake the irrelevant thought from my mind as I peel around the back corner, scanning for a door. There are several. I slow and study them. The most promising door has a window and sits at the top of a two-step flight of stairs. A quick check through the cloudy glass confirms that there’s no one in sight. The key fits and turns easily. I take a deep breath, twist the handle down, and step into a shadowy corridor, reaching back to stop the door from slamming shut. I’m about to turn away when I realize that my hand is resting on a crash bar. Once the door closes, nobody else is coming in this way, including Dirk, the FBI, Deputy Cross, or anyone else who might come to my aid. I look around for something I can wedge the door open with but see nothing. Then I look down at the key in my hand. Duh. I open the door, fit the key back into the outside lock, and quietly pull the door closed behind me.
The place is spooky. Sporadic shafts of light filter through open doorways and dirty windows set high in the cobweb-infested walls. I don’t see a living soul and pause to allow my eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight outside to the shadows within. Then I inch deeper inside. My nerves tingle. The only sound is the annoying squeak of my rubber soles on the worn tile floor. I walk on my toes to lessen the noise.
I pause midstep when I think I hear a voice deeper within the building. A female voice. I pick up the pace but the sound fades.
Where did that come from? A staircase leads away on the right and the hallway I’m in comes to a T a few feet beyond that. I stop and listen intently. Up? Down? Left? Right?
I hear it again, a little female gasp of pain. Grazyna? I hope yes, I hope no. I want to find her. I don’t want her to be in pain. There’s no time to be overly cautious. I lean into the opening of the staircase and strain my ears. Nothing. I hurry into the T that marks the beginning of two new hallways heading in opposite directions. I don’t hear a thing. Maybe the voice came from outside.
If I were trying to hide someone, wouldn’t it make sense to get them as far from the street as possible? It makes sense to me, so I backtrack and run up the stairs. I haven’t heard another sound by the time I reach the top step, where I stop and look around an open room devoid of furniture or any other sign of recent occupancy. A couple of offices open out of the far wall. I take a few steps farther into the room to get a better look. Nothing. My eyes lock on a couple of doors marked Women and Men on the opposite wall. A washroom makes sense as a place to squirrel someone away, doesn’t it? No windows, far from the street, and isolated.
I take a deep breath, draw my Glock out of its hip holster, and hustle to the door marked Men. I put an ear to the door and listen, then ease it open an inch or two. The stench of sewer gas rushes out to meet me, and I almost gasp as it assaults my nose. I pause again, take a deep breath that I hold, and slip inside.
A trio of urinals lines one wall. A stall and sink hang on the other. Nobody here, aside from a spider hanging in a web that stretches clear across the stall. I turn and pull the door open to leave, which emits a screech I’m sure Deputy Cross hears back at the new station. I freeze and listen. Not a sound, which doesn’t mean I haven’t alerted someone to my presence.
I let the door close behind me, pausing to stop it from swinging shut with a bang. Then I step across to the door marked Women. No point being subtle. Anyone in here already heard the squeal of the men’s-room door. I do the cop-show thing in which the hunter grips his gun in one hand and throws open the door into the scary room. Then I leap through the opening with my Glock pointed at… a toilet stall with no door. A wall sink hangs beside the stall. That’s it. The washroom isn’t much larger than a home powder room. I guess there weren’t a lot of female cops when this place was built.
I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and sag against the doorframe for a moment before I collect myself and exit the washroom. Surely, all the racket I just made playing cops and robbers has alerted any bad guys in the building to my presence. If so, every step I take exposes me to ambush. I start to creep back to the stairs before I recall the woman’s voice I thought I heard earlier. I take the steps down two at a time with my gun in hand. I poke my head into the hallway T and look left and right. Where do I go next? I walk halfway down the hall on my left until I encounter a door marked Janitor. It’s cracked open an inch or so. I give it a little push and it swings open. A faucet above a floor drain leaks a single drop every few seconds. A jug of cleaner sits on a shelf right above it. A wheeled bucket holds a string mop. The room smells wet, as if that makes any sense. Probably mold, or maybe it’s just from the leaky tap. The cockroaches scurrying across the floor don’t care where the water comes from; they’re just happy to find it. A barren shelving unit covers the opposite wall. I back out, leaving the door open. The hall ends in an alcove with a door that leads into an empty mechanical room.
I backtrack past the hallway T to a substantial set of double doors with glass inserts. The space beyond the grimy safety glass is shadowy, but I can see a few shafts of sunshine slanting in. As I ease closer and peer inside, I make out a set of bars. So, here are the cells. I pause to look up and down the empty hallway and hear a voice that seems to come from beyond the double doors leading into the cellblock. I crack open one of the doors.
“Now, that makes for a nice, compliant target, don’t you think?” Sheriff Donahue’s says with a chuckle. “We don’t want that getting in the way, do we, sugar?” he adds in time with a metallic clatter.
What’s going on in there? I ask myself as I push the door open farther and take a step inside. I find myself between a couple of vacant cells. Their doors hang open. A hairy spider the size of a small horse stares at me from a thick web stretching across the open doorway, as if to say, “Step into my web, Mr. Fly.” Several equally mammoth arachnids occupy adjacent cells. I feel as if I’ve stumbled into a horror movie.
Maybe I have.
“No,” a weary voice moans. Grazyna? Could be. It sounds more like a lost, terribly frightened little girl.
“No?” the sheriff says with a trace of humor. “Not really your choice to make, is it, Missy?”
The girl moans again.
I turn sideways and ease my way farther along the line of cells until I spy a pair of hands high up on the bars of a cell toward the end of the row. As I narrow my eyes for a better look, I realize that they’re small hands and the fingers are twisting around the metal as if hanging on for dear life.
“Get away from me, you pig!” the girl shrieks.
Grazyna!
I have my Glock in hand when I trip over something, sending it skittering along the floor ahead of me. A tin pail. What on earth is it doing here?
“Help me!” Grazyna cries out. A second cry of “Help!" cuts off abruptly.
I stifle the urge to run to her and instead inch a little farther along the hallway. Whatever is going on seems to have paused when I kicked the pail, but I hear quiet sobbing ahead. I keep moving in the near silence, one tiny step after another, as if drawn along a string toward an irresistible lure. I finally reach a point at which I can see into the cell.
Grazyna is shackled to the bars, hanging from her hands, which are fastened high above her. Her head hangs between her arms. Long, stringy dark hair is plastered across her face. My thrill at finding her is replaced by the horror of seeing her dangling from the bars of a jail cell with her dress ripped open and her bra torn away. A rag has been stuffed into her mouth. Her frantic eyes lock on mine.
She seems to be alone now, so I hurry forward without giving a moment’s thought to the whereabouts of Sheriff Donahue. I’m even stupid enough to have my gun thrust out ahead of me as I rush into Grazyna’s cage. I don’t see the hand coming that knocks the Glock loose, nor the fist that follows a fraction of a second later. The chop on my wrist threw me off balance just enough that I stumble away from the punch, which lands on my shoulder instead of my face. I still go down, catching the briefest glimpse of Grazyna’s horrified face as I fall.
I roll after I hit the floor and look up at an infuriated Sheriff Donahue looming over me. His pants zipper is down and his pants hang half open. A wave of revulsion surges up within me as my eyes fall on my Glock. Donahue sees it in the same moment. We lunge for it together, sending the cell door crashing shut and the Glock skittering across the floor. It bounces through an opening between the cell bars, coming to a stop a few feet outside the cell—beyond our reach.
So. Two men locked in a cage about to engage in mortal combat. Only one will walk out. The next thing in reality TV? I give my head a shake and refocus.
Donahue rolls toward me and launches an overhand right that thuds into my ribs. I drive the heel of my hand up into his jaw, a move I learned from my big brother when he used it on me not so long ago. Even I wince at the sound of the sheriff’s teeth crunching together. It doesn’t slow him much. A knee slams into my hip, only inches away from disaster. I push myself backward to get away from my adversary and scramble to my feet. He does likewise, yanking his pants zipper up and snapping his pants closed. We face each other across the cell like a pair of wrestlers stalking one another, each waiting for the other to make the next move. I remember my boxing lessons and alter my stance, bringing my fists up in a boxer’s pose.
He takes a shuffling step sideways to where his utility belt lies on the floor. His gun? No, if he had a gun it would have been in his hand when I hurried into the cell, but there is a nightstick tucked in the belt. I rush him before he gets to it. We tumble to the floor, fists flying.
A crash echoes down the hall as a door slams. Reinforcements? I reflect briefly on having the presence of mind to leave the key in the door. Good move, Valenti! So, my goal now is to keep Donahue at bay long enough for whoever is coming to my rescue to reach us. Unless the new arrival isn’t coming to help me. Donahue’s eyes meet mine for a split second before I push him away and stagger to my feet. He charges at me again. His momentum carries us backward to slam into the bars Grazyna is hanging on. She screams into her gag as the wall of steel shudders under the impact. The back of my head cracks into the bars, leaving me momentarily stunned. Donahue takes advantage by driving a fist into my gut, partially winding me. When he closes in, I drive my forehead into his nose. He staggers back while I double over, trying to force air into my lungs. If help is coming, it better be quick about it.
“Tony!” Grazyna gasps.
Donahue and I look at her in surprise. She’s worked the gag most of the way out of her mouth.
“I’ll get you out of here,” I tell her while Donahue scoots across the cell. When I refocus on him, he’s snatching brass knuckles off his utility belt. Yeah, I think. He’s that kind of cop.
“You’ll get her out of here, will you?” he scoffs as we once again warily eye each other.
Grazyna suddenly erupts with a blood-curdling scream. “No! Get away, you pig!”
My eyes cut away from Donahue long enough to see her staring through the bars with an expression of pure hatred. The object of her scorn is Reuben Hayes.
“Get in here and help me out,” Donahue orders Reuben, who is wordlessly gawking at the scene before him.
He’s the last person I imagined coming in the back door. My spirits plummet. I’m now outnumbered two-to-one. This isn’t going to end well for me—or for Grazyna.
Donahue’s lips curl into a sneer as the same thought occurs to him.
Reuben’s eyes track from the sheriff to Grazyna. His expression darkens. “She’s supposed to be mine!” he screams at Donahue.
The sheriff transfers his sneer from me to Reuben as he tosses him the key. “That’s enough, son. First we take care of this bastard, then we’ll work out how to share the pussy.”
As Reuben fits the key into the cell lock, I launch myself at Donahue, who doesn’t see me coming until it’s too late. I wrap a hand around his throat and drive my other fist into his gut before I slam his head into the cinderblock wall with a sickening crunch. His eyes are open in surprise as he stares back at me before sliding to the floor when I release my grip. Then I turn on Reuben. Too late. A fist slams into my eye, then the big oaf drives another punch into my chin, stunning me and sending me crashing to the floor in a daze. My vision is blurred as I lie on the floor, seeing no more than vague shapes and shadows around me as I steel myself for the next blow. It doesn’t come.
“Get away,” Grazyna screeches.
I can hear metal scraping on metal, which I realize within a second or two is the sound of Grazyna’s handcuffs scraping on the steel bars of her cage. The vision in one of my eyes clears enough for me to see Reuben pawing at Grazyna.
“Leave her alone!” I bellow.
“Don’t listen to him, boy,” Donahue says from where he’s crumpled against the wall. “Go ahead and fuck the bitch.”
Why isn’t the sheriff trying to get out of here with Reuben as quickly as possible? Surely, he realizes that if I’m here, others are coming. I turn my head to see the sheriff, but my vision in that eye is still blurred. I wonder if Reuben ruined my eye with his punch.
Grazyna is still thrashing around until a slap silences her. I can hear ragged breathing, but it isn’t her. It’s fat ass Reuben getting ready to take the sheriff up on his offer. I struggle to lever myself up off the floor to pound the filthy pig to a pulp.
