Jon Talton - Powers of Arrest

She took deep breaths, her complexion ghostlike. “So he pushes and pulls me to his truck. It’s a brand new black Dodge Ram. He opens the driver’s door and shoves me in ahead of him. I’m really hurting and scared shitless, and then he tells me that he’s changed his mind. That he’s going to kill me. He starts talking crazy. I remember he said the word ‘deathscape.’ That I was going to model for him. I don’t understand…”

Her voice trailed off into exhaustion. Cheryl Beth put a hand on her arm and Jill didn’t push it away. Her face looked as if tears were coming out of her capillaries.

Will said, “But he didn’t kill you.”

“No.”

“And you’re not pregnant, are you, Jill?”

“No, sir. I lied to you about that. I can’t have babies. I had cysts on my ovaries.”

“What about the ten thousand dollars from Kenneth Buchanan? Was that a lie, too?”

“No.” The word was said neither adamantly nor softly; one dead syllable. “He promised to pay me ten thousand a month cash for a year if I didn’t go to the police. He was real nice at first, but then he started that lawyer shit and said if I claimed rape nobody would believe me, that he’d make me out as a whore in court and take everything I owned. At that moment, I was so glad to be alive and so scattered in my head. I really needed money, too. They sent my job to China and I was getting by waiting tables. I went along with it. He’s a rich, powerful man and I’m nobody in Lower Price Hill. I know how this city works.”

Waves of horror and rage washed over Cheryl Beth. She had heard many dreadful stories, but she was usually going Mach Five in the hospital, doing something to make it better. Here she could do nothing.

Jill continued “He found out where I lived, said he had a private detective watching me. And every month he’d drive over and give me an envelope of cash and ask how I was doing. What I was doing was saving every cent so I could get away from this! Honestly, I didn’t even know his real name until you said it to me the first time, detective.”

“How did you know his son’s real name?” Will asked.

“He called it out when he ran over and pulled me out of that pickup truck. He saved my life.”

Will took a long pause, idly turning the shaft of his cane. “Why would he do that?”

The girl bit her lip. “He said Mike was mentally ill and off his meds that day. They had a terrible fight at home and Mike said he was going to find someone to kill. So Mister Buchanan followed him. Not close enough I guess. Thank God he found me when he did.”

“And you never thought about going to the police?”

“I thought about it, but you heard what I said. I wouldn’t have stood a chance with those fancy lawyers downtown. Mister Buchanan said Mike was his only son, and he promised to get him treatment, get him in a hospital so he wouldn’t hurt anyone ever again. He told me his wife was very sick, and if she knew this had happened, it might kill her. Anyway, Mister Buchanan was real good with words, real good. But there was always something behind them that didn’t take a college degree to understand.”

“And what was that?” Will asked.

“That if I didn’t do things his way, he’d tell Mike where I lived and he’d come finish me off.”

Jill jumped when she had heard the knock. Then she walked hesitantly to the door.

Will assumed it was Dodds, but something inside tightened. “Wait!”

But it was too late. She flew back into the room so violently it was as if an explosion had happened. It was the sound Will had heard many times when a door was kicked down. A man came right behind her. He kicked her in the stomach and turned toward Will and Cheryl Beth.

He was tall, bald, and had a face that almost looked like a mask. But it was no mask: it was a younger man with an older face, one sculpted and creased by God-knew-what. Except for the dark eyebrows, he looked like Mister Clean. His clothes were Indian Hill preppy: expensive chinos and a light-blue shirt with a Polo logo.

Mister Clean was carrying a sawed-off shotgun and pointing it their way.

“Ah-ah-ah,” he said.

But it was too late. Will had his Smith & Wesson out and leveled at the man’s chest.

“Get the fuck in there, little whore.” He grabbed Jill by the hair and shoved her to the sofa, all the while keeping the shotgun pointed in Will’s direction.

“You weren’t easy to follow, Detective Borders, using your siren and all, but I did it, all the way from the marina. I sat outside waiting for you, and when I realized you didn’t have any of your cop buddies nearby, I decided to come on in. And what do I find: my little red-haired sex slave.”

Jill was crying and shivering, bent over with pain, her face hidden by her hair.

“And this must be the famous Cherry Beth I’ve heard so much about.” He stepped closer. For the first time, Will noticed the black backpack he was wearing. “This is going to be even better than I fantasized, and I fantasize a lot.”

Will kept the gun steady. It wasn’t the first time he had been on the wrong end of a shotgun. Thanks to years of training and experience, his insides were calm. Suddenly the dread of the next MRI, the possibility of another spinal-cord tumor, didn’t matter. The notion that he would join his father on the wall of police officers killed in the line of duty was over in a second. He had civilians to protect. Not only that, he had Cheryl Beth.

“Put down the gun, Mike. You’re under arrest.”

The man laughed, high-pitched and raw. “No, Detective Borders, you are going to hand me your gun, stock-first, please. That, or I’m going to blow off redhead’s head.”

“You might want to reflect on that, genius,” Will said. “You shoot her, I shoot you, multiple times, end of story.” He studied the man’s weapon: It appeared to be an Ithaca Auto & Burglar Gun, 20 gauge, with no stock and no more than a foot in length. It was rare but still lethal.

“You like my gun? It’s a collector’s item, very expensive. I stole it from my dad’s cabinet. An armed society is a polite society, right? Now…hand…over…your…fucking…gun!”

Will said quietly, “That’s not going to happen.”

Mike’s rubbery face held the exact same expression as the day when Will had first encountered him in Music Hall, on the way to meet the mother. Will realized that he had been talking to the wren in the miniskirt that day about her friend in pain and he had mentioned Cheryl Beth’s name. That’s where Mike must have misheard it.

“One way or the other.” Mike smiled. It was an ugly sight. “I have some things with me to make this fun. Had to bring duct tape. I was all out of handcuffs. But I’m going to make you watch, Detective Borders, make you watch your friend get raped, watch red get raped. As many times as I want. ‘Impotent’? You’ll find out. Then, I’m going to kill you as slowly and painfully as I can figure out. When all that’s done, I’m going to burn down this hole and disappear. Part of the art is knowing when to stop.”

Will would have shot him as he talked, but the shotgun was no more than two feet away. He wouldn’t survive the blast. He had to play for time, hope that Dodds would be there soon.

“Tell me why?” He felt his right quads getting tighter.

“Why?” Mike shrugged. “Killing each other is the only thing humans do really well. But to kill with style, that’s an art. To watch and listen as they beg and bargain and then scream. It makes me feel like God.”

“Every psycho says shit like that,” Will said, watching the man’s gun hand. He was half an hour past his Baclofen dose. All he needed was for one leg to start jumping. “Why Kristen Gruber? Why the nursing students? Why Jill?”