Wilde felt the weight.
It was solid.
2
Waverly Paige woke up Monday morning slightly numbed from too much wine and too many wee hours last night. She popped two aspirin, got the coffee pot going and studied her face in the mirror while the shower warmed up.
It was a train wreck.
Her apartment was too.
It was a hole in the wall in the low rent district on the north edge of the city where the buses hardly went. Her particular unit was a fourth-floor walkup with one window that looked directly into the wall of another apartment building thirty feet away. Outside her window was the only good thing about the place, namely a fire escape that was twenty degrees cooler than her couch.
That’s where she drank the wine last night.
That’s where she woke up this morning, on an air mattress next to the only living thing she ever owned, a potted geranium.
She got herself into as good as shape as she could and headed for the bus stop.
She was a reporter with The Metro Beat, which in turn was the third dog in a pack of three, slightly behind the Rocky Mountain News and a long way behind The Denver Post. It had an excuse for being last, namely that it was only two years old. Unfortunately there was only enough local food to keep two dogs alive. One of the three would have to die, probably within the next year.
Waverly didn’t worry about it too much.
She had a few good things going for her.
She was young, only twenty-one.
She was healthy and well proportioned, not too tall, not too short, not too heavy, not too thin. Her thighs and ass were tight and strong. She could run the hundred-yard dash in eleven seconds, faster than most boys.
Her face would never be on the cover of a magazine but it was pretty enough for daily life in Denver.
She got to the morning status conference ten minutes late, which was a big no-no. Fifteen faces looked at her then almost as one turned to see what Shelby Tilt-the owner-would do. The man scrunched his 50-year-old face into a wad and blew cigar smoke.
“Okay guys, that’s it,” he said. Then to Waverly, “Step into my office for a minute.”
She recognized the tone.
This wouldn’t be pretty.
3
Dayton River lived on a 22-acre railroad spur at the west edge of Denver that he bought from BNSF two years ago. The property had no buildings. It consisted solely of dilapidated excess track that had been unused and unneeded for some time given the movement of industry to the north. Three decommissioned boxcars sat on a track. Three others sat on a parallel track, thirty-feet distant. A canvas canopy, something in the nature of a circus tent, was strung across the middle boxcars.
The interiors of the boxcars had been converted to living quarters, to the point of even torching out holes to install windows.
One was a bedroom.
One was a bathroom.
One was a kitchen.
One was a living room.
One was storage.
One had nothing inside and was kept locked.
Down the track, active BNSF switching took place. Hundred-foot sections of track had been removed to prevent unintended travel into River’s property. Stoppers had also been placed at the end of the active tracks.
The setup fit River’s six-three, Tarzan-like frame nicely.
The clanging of switching operations woke him at dawn Monday morning. He took a long heaven-sent piss, splashed water on his face, drank two larges glasses of water then headed outside shirtless for a run.
He normally went five miles.
The distance didn’t change that often.
What did change was the speed, depending on how he felt.
Today he was strong.
His hair swung back and forth. It was pitch-black, thick and hung halfway down his back.
He headed down the track and got into a steady rhythm, letting his legs stretch and his lungs burn. The pace was good, five-minute-miles or better.
Every so often he stopped for a warrior routine.
Three sets of 100 pushups.
Five sets of 20 pull-ups.
One set of 300 sit-ups.
When he got back he spotted an envelope on the ground under the boxcar. The edges had tape. It must have been taped on his door at one point and fallen off. He opened it. Inside was a piece of paper with typewriting. It came from the same machine as always, with the
Alexa Blank
937 Clarkson, Denver, CO
21, strawberry hair, medium height
Waitress at the Down Towner
Standard commission
Take her by Monday night. Store her someplace safe and wait for further instructions. Do not kill her until and unless you are told. Timing is crucial.
He didn’t know when it initially got delivered but did know one thing-the deadline was tonight. He burned the paper, showered, hopped on the Indian and headed for the Down Towner. It was time to have a look at his target, Alexa Blank.
He’d take her tonight after dark.
Before then, he needed to find a place to stash her.
4
