Randy White - Night Vision

Even so, this surprised Squires, because Frankie was the most racist person he’d ever met. But here it was, staring him right in the face. And the two of them had been at it for a while, sharing some fun together, judging from the confidential looks Victorino and Frankie were now exchanging. Both of them drunk and probably cocaine crazy.

Squires had seen the woman like this many times. And the V-man was no different, he guessed-probably worse. Drunk as they were, neither one of them gave a damn about what they did or the consequences. They wanted the cash. But the V-man probably wanted Tula more or he wouldn’t have wasted his time-a girl Tula’s age was worth a lot more than sixty thousand to a business shark like him.

And they would kill him, Squires realized. They had to. Use the shotgun, but, more likely, Victorino’s box cutter. He’d do it slowly to impress Frankie, a woman probably twisted enough to video the whole thing.

That made Squires feel sort of queasy. Then he felt worse when he realized that, no, Victorino and his gangbangers would be the ones to video his murder. Get it all on their iPhones and add another snuff film to their collection.

This was all shocking information for Squires to process. He didn’t expect loyalty from Frankie, but he didn’t expect her to help a Mexican dude murder him, either. He and the redhead had spent more than four years together, most of it either screwing or screaming at each other, but they’d had some good times, too. Could Frankie let go of all that so fast?

Squires got his answer when Frankie called to Victorino, “Don’t shoot him now, dumbass! Get them in the cookshack, I’ve got the camera all set. Hurry up, it’s almost midnight!”

Cameras in the steroid shack-this was another surprise to Squires. Why not the trailer, where they had already built a porno set complete with lights and a computer?

The V-man was wagging an index finger at Tula as he pointed the shotgun at Squires, saying something in Spanish to the girl-probably ordering her into the steroid shack-before telling Frankie, “What’s the rush, now? Bring some duct tape. I’ll hold the gun on your boyfriend while you tape him.”

The woman replied, “The greaser genius giving orders again,” sounding sloppy drunk now. But still sober enough to remember that Victorino enjoyed killing women, because she added, “Duct tape. Check. I’d love to tape that worthless piece of shit.”

Squires watched the redhead walk toward the RV but then stop near the steps, where she reached down into a box. When he heard Tula scream, “Don’t you touch that!” he remembered the fledgling bird the girl had saved. Could the thing still be alive?

Yes, it was. The egret was squawking and flapping its bare wings as Frankie held the bird up in the light. The woman was grinning as she said to Victorino, “Do you Mexicans like to eat squab? I think we’ve got a bottle of champagne around her someplace.” Before the man could reply, though, the woman said, “Ouch! The little bastard just bit me!” and hurled

the bird hard against the aluminum siding of the RV.

Tula gave a little shriek and swung her head away, but Victorino thought it was pretty funny, the hard-assed redhead getting bit by a bird.

Staring at Squires, the V-man grinned as he said to Frankie, “See? We’re having ourselves some fun now. What’s the hurry? Come back with the duct tape, then we gonna have more fun making movies. Hell, this dumbass probably has the money on him, maybe stashed somewhere inside his truck. It won’t be hard to find.”

As Tula sobbed, Squires was thinking, The hell it won’t.

He’d built the hidden compartment himself, using a cutting torch and the help of a magic mechanic friend of his. Frankie didn’t know about the compartment, because while she sometimes drove his Ford Roush, she never messed with his hunting truck.

More pressing on Squires’s mind was the fact that Victorino and Frankie had planned this out together. Cameras and duct tape? Those were the principal props in the few snuff films that Squires had seen. They were sickening things to watch, although he’d never admitted that to Frankie, who always had a glassy, heated look on her face by the time one of those videos ended.

Thinking about it caused Squires’s heart to pound, a slow fury building in him. Victorino would use that shitty hardware-store knife on him. He felt certain of it. And then he and Frankie would have more fun together by raping the girl, probably filming that, too.

Then an even worse scenario flashed into Squires’s mind: They would video what they did to Tula first, just to piss him off. Make him watch the whole sick business before they got around to killing him.

Again the question came into Squires’s mind: Why the cookshack, a room that was all chemicals and propane tanks but no bed?

A moment later, Victorino’s gangbanger buddies were jumping out of the truck-a Dodge Ram-as it skidded to a stop, running toward Squires and Tula. The V-man took a few quick steps, his eyes still fixed on Squires, and scooped the girl up in his left arm.

Tula screamed for help, yelling, “He has me, make him let me go!”

Squires took a step but then stopped, frozen by the gun and what was happening.

Now the girl was hollering to her invisible friend, “Jehanne! I need your help, Jehanne!” as she slapped at Victorino with her hands. Then the skinny girl shot a heartbreaking look into Squires’s eyes, pleading, “Don’t let him hurt me. All I want is my mother!”

Without even thinking about it, Squires began limping toward the V-man. Slow at first, then faster, taking long strides despite his bad hamstring.

Squires knew that the shotgun was loaded with bird shot, which was what he and his buddies used to hunt dove and quail. Little tiny pellets half the size of match heads. Hell, he’d been hit by more than a few of those pellets when he and his drunken buddies shot at birds in a cross fire. They didn’t hurt much, and it took almost a direct hit to break the skin.

Not that it mattered, because inside Squires’s brain something had snapped. He felt an invincible cerebral combustion surging through him. It caused the steroid oils, and the D-bombs he’d swallowed, to engorge his monster face with blood.

Laziro Victorino screamed a warning as Squires moved toward him, dragging his right leg with every step. The gangbanger screamed again as he hurled the girl to the ground, pointed the shotgun and this time pulled the trigger.

Squires jolted, grunting at the stinging impact. But that didn’t matter, either. The giant stumbled, regained his balance and kept coming.

Arms outstretched, Harris Squires was hell-bent on getting his fingers around the V-man’s neck because now the little saint was calling for his help again, screaming, “Please, please, Harris! Don’t let these men take me away from you!”

The reason I turned east, toward what turned out to be Harris Squires’s hunting camp, was because after touring Immokalee, seeing a helicopter and a half dozen cops parked outside a church, I decided that my detective friend might be wrong when he told me that Squires and Tula had left Immokalee and were now on their way back to Red Citrus trailer park.

It was 11:20 p.m. when Leroy Melinski called my cell to give me what he believed was the good news. I had cruised Immokalee’s slow streets and then headed out of town, occasionally glancing at the satellite aerial that showed Squires’s four hundred acres of what was probably saw grass and cypress trees.

“The girl wasn’t kidnapped,” the detective explained when I answered. “She told a bunch of people-including a priest and one of her aunts-that Squires volunteered to drive her around and help her find her mother. So there you have it, Doc. Turns out your kidnapper is just being a Good Samaritan.”