such crimes?” he asked rhetorically. “Bodies. Human bodies are incredibly hard to rid oneself of, Ray. People have buried them, dropped them into rivers, they’ve slathered them in concrete and even fed them into wood-chippers. But they are often unsuccessful in hiding them. Oh, for a few years, perhaps, but not forever. I’m a meticulous man and such loose details would be intolerable.”
“What about Brenda then?”
Ingles snorted. “ You killed Brenda, Ray. And every court and cop in the land knows it by now. Why, you’re brandishing the murder weapon even now! If you hadn’t shot out my set, I could have shown you your own unsmiling, murderer’s face on CNN.”
“How exactly would do you propose to free my son then?”
“I will anonymously e-mail his location to you later today. That will give me time for other… priorities.”
“How can I trust you?”
“You can’t. You can only trust logic, which as you know, I will follow implicitly. It is a trade, Vance. You will take the fall for the virus and Brenda. There’s nothing you can do about that now, anyway. In turn for this service, I will arrange to release your son unharmed.”
“Why would you keep your part of the bargain?”
“As I said, Vance: Bodies. I have no interest in becoming a murderer in the eyes of the state. There is no reason for me to kill your son. Therefore, I won’t do it.”
“So I’m supposed to just give myself up, is that it?”
“Exactly. If you had been caught and put up on charges earlier, your son would have been freed by now.”
Ray and Ingles eyed one another for some time. Finally, Ray shook his head. “If it was anyone else, I might do it,” he said, “but I simply don’t trust you.”
Ingles pursed his lips. He nodded. Moving slowly, he took a last sip from his cup before placing it back on its coaster. Then he removed his left shoe and sock, and placed his bare foot on the coffee table.
“Let’s get on with it, then,” Ingles said, tying his tie around his lower calf.
“You have no better offer?”
“No. As I said, I don’t have the information you request as yet. If you are hell-bent on adding to your list of crimes, I had best cooperate.”
“You think that I’m bluffing, don’t you?”
“I sincerely hope so, but in any case, I have no other options.”
Ray stepped forward and aimed the pistol at his bare foot. He noted that Ingles’ big toe was actually shorter than the next one in line. Some part of his mind wondered vaguely if that particular genetic trait was recessive or dominant.
He moved even closer and sat down on the loveseat opposite Ingles. He placed the muzzle of the pistol within inches of Ingles’ foot. He glanced up and noted that Ingles watched the muzzle too, with the fascination of a petshop rat watching an approaching snake.
Then there was a sound behind him. Before Ray could turn around, someone pushed something cold under his jawbone on the right side of his neck.
“Hold it right there, cowboy,” said a stinking cloud of breath. “I’ve got a hangover, so don’t go and make this my first Murder One.”
Ray froze. “I’ll shoot him,” he said flatly.
“Go ‘head,” chuckled Spurlock. “But you’ll have to take a number, cause old Santa-Frigger here is about to answer to me, too.”
Ray blinked and breathed quickly, his mind freezing over. What should he do?
“Blow a few toes off, if you’re in the mood!” urged Spurlock, ramming the pistol harder into Ray’s throat. “I won’t stop you. But don’t kill him, ‘cause he knows things that both of us want to learn.”
Ray glanced up at Ingles. He still seemed fascinated by the muzzle pressed against his flesh. Ray considered it. This was his chance to hurt this man who had caused him such grief. Quite possibly, he would never get another chance.
The pink bulbs of flesh rested against the muzzle. They seemed so soft against the black metal.
“I’ve already done it, Ray,” said Ingles quietly. “I’ve already sent the e-mail message. However, now that Mr. Spurlock has joined us, I doubt that it will matter.”
Spurlock jostled Ray as he moved to gain a better hold on him. The pistol under his neck slid down to his larynx. The 9mm went off in Ray’s hand. A wet, red spray hit Ingles’ pants.
“Ha!” shouted Spurlock. He grabbed Ray’s hair in a hard fist. “Now drop it, boy! You had your fun!”
Ray watched Ingles crumple into a ball on the couch. He dropped the gun.
Spurlock twisted his head around by his hair. Standing behind the couch, he leered down at him. “You got balls! I’ll say that for you, Vance!” he laughed. “You blew two of this fucker’s toes clean off!”
Then he brought his pistol down on Ray’s head. Methodically, he pistol-whipped him. Ray lost consciousness as the third blow faded into the fourth.
As he passed into oblivion, he realized that today was Justin’s birthday. How odd, he thought hazily, that he remembered only now.
… 27 Hours and Counting…
Justin celebrated his birthday alone. He did it by pretending the buried van was a submarine and the white pipe was his periscope. For a short time, the game kept his mind off of his predicament. All too soon, however, he found he was unable to ignore the dark, dank prison he was trapped in. He sighed and looked around his tiny world. He thought that he really should be doing something for himself, instead of waiting for others to do it for him; his mother always told him that. But what to do?
He thought about the trip they had taken to the primitive campsites around Donner Pass last summer. There had been no toilets there, either. His father had set up a small shovel with a roll of toilet paper slipped down over the handle. The idea was to go off into the trees and dig a hole when you had to go. Deciding that was a good idea, he set up one corner of the van with a pile of loose, sandy earth. That would serve him for a catbox, of sorts. The idea made him giggle in the darkness. His food he placed in an empty box at the opposite corner of the van, far from his sand pile. He didn’t eat all his food at once, either, although he was ravenously hungry. Instead, he ate only half of the remaining cheetos and drank six swallows of water.
It was hot up above, he could feel it in the fresh air that came down the pipe, but it stayed cool down in the darkness. He thought about it, and decided that all in all, he liked being down in the van more than being on the highway with Spurlock. At first, he had been scared of the dark, but then his eyes had adjusted to the gloom. Now the circle of light at the bottom of the pipe seemed like a glaring beacon from another world. At times, he felt he was suffocating. To relieve the feeling, he laid down under the bottom of the long pipe and breathed in the infrequent puffs of air from the surface. Occasionally, the earth that entombed him shifted, sending a cascade of pebbles and sand skittering down the skin of the van and sifting into his hair. He had already become accustomed to that, too.
The only thing that worried him now was his lack of food and water. Instinctively, his young mind knew he needed a supply of both. But how to get them?
He raised hunger-sunken eyes to the pipe in the ceiling. Everything he needed was out there, somewhere. Freedom, his mother and father, all the food and soda he wanted, it was all above him.
He picked up the coffee can, dumping its load of stale cigarette butts onto his cat box pile. He looked up the pipe again, listening for any sign of the van man. He heard nothing.
All he had to do, he knew, was dig.
Sarah arrived at Ingles’ place with her heart fluttering in her chest. She stopped in the driveway, climbed out of the car and headed for the back porch. Everyone always went in through the back door, as the house was situated so that the driveway and garage met there. She raised her knuckles to rap on the screen door, but hesitated. She walked inside instead. Calling Robert’s name, then Ray’s, she walked from room to room, terrified of what she might find. In the living room, on that couch with the duck pattern she had always hated, she found splattered blood.
She sucked in her breath and headed back out the way she had come. Agents Vasquez and Johansen met
