Gone

The two of them shut up.

CHAPTER 43

We marched them into the barn. Brad kept looking at Nora. She didn’t look back.

Milo said, “Hold on to her, Alex,” as he propelled Brad up the center path.

Choosing the ’59 Caddy, he stashed Brad in the front passenger seat.

“Looky here, an after-market seat belt.” The sash was drawn over Brad’s abdomen. The skin on the back of his neck had gone as white as his hair. He looked like a piece of marble statuary.

Nora focused straight ahead. Her wrists felt soft, as if bones had begun to melt. She smelled of French perfume and cannabis.

Milo made sure Brad was secured, then closed the Caddy’s door. As metal hit metal, I felt a shock of tension course from Nora’s shoulder to her hip. She said nothing but her breathing quickened.

Then she lifted her right foot and tried to drive a spike heel into my instep.

As I danced away she began twisting and spitting. I probably hurt her maintaining control, because she cried out. Or maybe that was acting.

Milo strode over and took her. “Check the workbench and see if you can find suitable bindings for Ms. Funnel here.”

Nora Dowd said, “Brad raped me, it was nonconsensual.”

“That’s redundant,” said Milo.

“Huh?”

“Nonconsensual rape.”

Confusion in the dope-ruddy eyes.

Milo said, “That’s some art project hanging from the door.”

Nora began sobbing tearlessly. “Dylan! I loved him so much, Brad got jealous and did that horrible thing! I tried to stop it, you’ve got to believe me!”

“How’d you try to stop it?”

“By reasoning with him.”

“Intellectual debate?” said Milo. “The merits of organic kapok versus polyurethane foam?”

Nora wailed. “Oh, my God! This is terrible!”

Still dry-eyed. An onion would’ve helped.

She sniffed. Looked up at Milo.

He said, “Your show’s closing due to bad reviews.”

***

In a workbench drawer, I found a roll of duct tape and two spools of heavy, white rope. Milo said, “Do it.”

He had Nora’s arms bent behind her back and she’d switched from crying to cursing. She swore louder as I bound her wrists, tried to head-butt Milo ’s arm. By the time he managed to drag her across the barn from the Caddy and get her in the passenger seat of a white ’55 Thunderbird, she’d gone mute.

He said, “Fun, fun, fun, when Milo takes it away,” and belted her in, too.

The two of us stood there. Panting. His face was sweaty and I felt moisture trickle down the side of my head. My ribs hurt. The back of my neck felt as if I’d encountered a blunt guillotine.

Milo used his phone.

The sirens began as distant moans, enlarged to nuclear trombone slides.

I was working hard at not thinking and the noise was sweet music.

***

Eight sheriff’s squad cars, strobe-fest of blinking lights.

Milo had his badge out right away.

A slit-eyed, sunburned sergeant in body-conscious tans got out of the lead car.

“LAPD,” said Milo.

“Keep your hands where I can see ’em.”

Multiple weapons trained on us. We complied. The sergeant swaggered toward us with that mixture of fear and aggression cops display when they’re faced with uncertainty. His mustache was orange and bristly, big enough to nest hummingbirds. M. Pedersohn on his tag. Tight neck muscles. A squint at the small print on Milo ’s shield didn’t warm the atmosphere.

Freckled hands slapped on tan hips. “Okay…you came up here for what?”

“Job-related,” said Milo. “Lemme show you- ”

“The dispatcher said something about a body,” said Pedersohn.

“That’s partially accurate,” said Milo.

“What?”

Milo motioned round the south side of the barn. Pedersohn stood in place, showing his men he couldn’t be bossed around. Milo disappeared from view. Pedersohn went after him.

***

A peek inside the hatch turned the sergeant’s sunburn to chalk.

“Jesus…” He grabbed his mustache, rubbed his teeth with the side of his index finger. “Is that…”

“It ain’t plastic,” said Milo.

“Jesus…oh, man…how long’s it been there?”

“One question of many rearing their nasty little heads, Sarge. Have you called your lab guys?”

“Um…not yet…” Another look down. “Our downtown guys are obviously going to need to deal with this.”

“Then you should call them, too.”

Pedersohn yanked his radio off his belt. Stopped. Squinted. “Where are the suspects?”

“Pretending to be taking a road trip.”

“What?” said Pedersohn.

Milo walked away from him again.

Pedersohn looked at me.

I said, “Multiple murder makes him cranky.”

***

A deputy coroner named Al Morden who lived in the Palisades was called to the scene. He descended the stairs, looked at the head, refused to go farther until the shelter was declared safe.

Lots of who-me? looks from the deputies. Sergeant Mitchell Pedersohn said, “Our downtown guys should be here soon.”

Milo said, “My offer vis-a-vis the lunch box stands, Alex.”

Pedersohn said, “What?”

Milo climbed down in the hole.

***

He was back moments later. “Look, Ma, no booby traps.”

“What’s down there?” Pedersohn demanded.