P. Parrish - South Of Hell

“You’re fucking him, aren’t you?” Brandt asked.

“No! I didn’t want you to go back to jail!”

She covered her face, expecting another punch, but none came. The engine roared to life, and the Gremlin jolted into gear, spinning gravel until the tires hit asphalt.

She wiped her face and looked up. Nothing ahead but a tunnel of white-washed trees and the splatter of rain on the windshield.

“You’re too stupid to live,” Brandt said.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry. But I love you. You know I love you. I was trying to save you from yourself!”

“What did he say?”

“What?”

“What did the cop say to you?”

“He wanted me to come to his place and make some statement against you, but I told him no,” she said. “I wouldn’t do that. I would never say nothing bad against you.”

“His place?” Brandt asked. “You mean his house? He told you to come to his house?”

“Yeah, but I told-”

“Shut up,” he said. “Where does he live?”

Oh, my God. He would go there if she told him. And that detective would open the door thinking it was her, and Owen would kill him. What was she supposed to say now? How could she be so stupid?

Brandt tried to backhand her, but she pressed back against the door. The car skidded and hit gravel before Brandt managed to right it.

“Where the fuck does he live?” Brandt shouted.

“I don’t know!” she cried. “He didn’t get that far, because I told him-”

Brandt smashed her head against the side window. It stunned her with an explosion of white sparks behind her eyes.

“Answer me!” he said.

You’re doing the right thing. I’m proud of you, Margi.

“I can’t,” she whimpered.

For a few seconds, it was quiet, except for the hard pounding of rain on the roof of the car. She kept her eyes closed, gripped by a rush of fear so strong it left her paralyzed. She clutched the door handle and started to cry.

Brandt pressed down on the gas pedal, the force of the sudden acceleration pushing her back into the seat. She made herself look. The car was tearing down the road, the rain rushing toward them like a shower of silver pins.

“Where does he live?”

Don’t tell him. He won’t kill you. He loves you. He won’t kill you…

She blinked and snuck a look at the dashboard. The little red needle on the speedometer jiggled at sixty. Something was thumping under her feet, like a loose piece of rubber.

“Where the fuck does he live?”

“I don’t know!”

Brandt leaned over suddenly and pushed open the passenger door. A fierce wet wind swept in, whipping up the food wrappers and newspapers like a tornado. She grabbed at the door to close it, but he knocked her hands away and started to push at her shoulder. The car skidded but kept going.

“Oh, my God!” she screamed. “Stop it!”

“Get out!” he shouted.

“Please don’t do this!”

The Gremlin fishtailed, throwing her against the dash and back again toward the open door. He shoved and slapped at her, forcing her farther across the seat and into the full spray of rain. The muddy splash of water filled her mouth and ripped at her face. The road — it was so close she could see rocks and weeds.

“Where does he live?” Brandt shouted.

“State Street! Next to the sports museum!” she screamed. “Blue apartment! Building two, apartment two, upstairs!”

The car went into a sudden skid, and she lost her grip. She saw nothing but the rush of gravel as it sprayed up toward her.

Shockey looked at his watch. It was three-fifteen. Margi should be here by now. Damn it, where was she? Did she have an accident? Or had she gone back to the farm?

He stepped to the balcony and looked over the apartment complex’s parking lot. It wasn’t very big, and he could see both entrances. Through the rain, he could see the trickle of traffic along South State Street, too. No green Gremlin.

Damn it.

He went back inside and dropped to the sofa. The phone was sitting on the coffee table, silent. He checked his watch again. Only three minutes had passed. He should’ve gone to her instead of making her come all this way.

Where are you, Margi?

He pushed to his feet and wandered to the kitchen. The bottle of Beefeater was sitting on the counter. He stared at it for a long time.

He hadn’t thought about it until after he’d hung up the phone, but what he had done was stupid. Giving his address to a woman who could have been playing him, pulling his strings as easily as Brandt was pulling hers. The pit in his stomach was telling him that this whole thing could be a setup, that Brandt was on his way here now to kill him.

It wasn’t her fault, really. She was just weak, that was all. And he had let down every defensive shield he had because he himself was desperate.

He turned and walked back to the balcony.

Still no Gremlin.

He’d give her thirty more minutes, and if she didn’t show, he’d have to go out there to that farm and at least make sure the bastard hadn’t killed her.

But he couldn’t go alone, because he knew if he did and found her dead, Brandt would end up dead, too. And he would spend the rest of his life in jail.

He went back to the phone and dialed the Ann Arbor Hilton. It rang eleven times, then went back to the front desk. He asked them to try the room again. This time, someone picked up.

“Peeper? It’s me.”

“It’s three-thirty a.m.,” Louis said. “What’s going on?”

“I got a call from Margi,” Shockey said. “She’s ready to file charges against Brandt and said he threatened to kill me and you and take Amy.”

“Jesus.”

“I told her to come here,” Shockey said. “It’s been two hours, and she hasn’t showed yet. I’m going to give her another half-hour, then head to the farm.”

“Are you nuts?”

“What the hell else can I do?” Shockey asked. “It’s like Jean all over again. Don’t you see that? Her in trouble out there and me sitting on my ass doing fucking nothing!”

“Jake, calm down.”

“She’s dead, Kincaid. She’s dead because of me.”

“Shut up and calm down.”

Shockey closed his eyes and pulled in a fiery breath. From the open door of the balcony, he heard the putter of a car engine.

“I think she’s here,” Shockey said.

“I’m coming over anyway,” Louis said. “Stay there, and keep her there with you.”

Shockey moved to the sliding glass door, but he couldn’t see the parking lot below without putting the phone down and stepping outside.

“Promise me, Jake,” Louis said. “Stay there until I get there.”

“Okay, okay,” Shockey said.

He hung up and went out onto the balcony. The Gremlin was parked under a street lamp. He didn’t see Margi, and he called down to her, but no one answered. He went back inside.

He thought again about the possibility that Margi might bring Brandt with her. His revolver was on the coffee table, and he grabbed it before he went to the door. The chain was latched, and he opened the door two inches so he could see anyone coming up the stairs.

The door burst open, slamming into Shockey’s forehead. He stumbled backward and groped for something to grab on to, but there was nothing to break his fall.

He hit the coffee table with a splintering of wood and glass. Brandt was suddenly over him. A muddy shoe came down hard on Shockey’s wrist, pinning his gun hand to the floor.

Shockey started swinging at Brandt’s body with his left hand, pummeling him with punches that hit only hard muscle. He could feel Brandt’s hands close around his revolver. He tried to grip it tighter and get it turned toward Brandt, but Brandt was too close, too heavy, dripping water that was making everything slippery.