Scott Mariani - The Doomsday Prophecy

‘Tell me about Skid,’ he said.

‘We met at law school.’

‘So you’re a lawyer too?’

She shook her head. ‘Couldn’t get past the bar exam. I get nervous. So I’m a paralegal. I worked with Skid for a while, but now I work uptown for a firm.’

‘Why did he send you to meet me?’

‘Because he can’t go anywhere. You’ll see for yourself, soon enough.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘Cleaver’s people. They got to him. Almost killed him. Would have, too, if I hadn’t turned up and called the cops.’

‘Who is this Cleaver?’

‘Skid’ll tell you all about him.’

‘Where does Zoë Bradbury come into this?’

‘Skid and I were serious for almost two years,’ she said. ‘Zoë Bradbury broke us up.’

‘I know she was here a couple of times,’ he said. ‘Staying with a Miss Vale.’

Molly nodded and took another drag on her cigar. ‘It happened the last time she was here, six months ago. Skid was in a bar – he’s always in a bar, somewhere – and he meets this pretty English girl, and I guess he couldn’t resist. And I guess she couldn’t resist him either. Skid never had a cent to his name, but he’s a charmer, that’s for sure.’ She smiled grimly. ‘The one time I met her was in his office. He told me that she and he had a business deal going. What he didn’t tell me was they were screwing the whole time she was here. I only found out weeks later what all those late nights at work were about.’ She wound down the window a crack and flicked ash out. ‘Skid never denied it. That’s when I left him. Told him I’d never see him again. It was over. But then he kept calling and pestering me, saying he couldn’t live without me. He was leaving me phone messages, crying and threatening to shoot himself.’

‘With that big pistol there?’

‘Wouldn’t be much left, I guess.’

‘No, there wouldn’t.’

‘Anyway, I turned up at his office late one night to have it out with him face to face. As I went up the stairs I could hear all this screaming and yelling. There were three guys there with him. Beating the crap out of him. I called the cops, and there happened to be a patrol close by. They went in, but the three guys must have heard them coming. They got out the back way. Left Skid in pretty bad shape.’

‘When was this?’

‘Just over two weeks ago,’ she said. ‘Now Skid’s petrified that Cleaver will get to him again. Won’t even go to the hospital, though Lord knows he needs to.’

‘You’re looking after him.’

‘Guard dog, like you said. And nursemaid, all rolled into one.’

‘So was there a business deal between Zoë and Skid, or was that just a cover?’

‘There was a deal,’ she said gravely. ‘And that’s the reason Skid’s in trouble.’

‘What was it?’

‘Skid’ll tell you that too. We’ll be there soon.’ She pulled off the highway and within a few more minutes they hit roads that were dark and narrow and twisty. Molly drove fast, her face tight with concentration. A dirt track came up on the left and she took it. The car lurched past a dilapidated motel sign. The dirt track was all churned up into mud by the rain. At the end of it, they swung into a rough earth yard. The headlights picked out clumps of overgrown grass, discarded garbage sacks, broken furniture, flattened beer cans. The motel buildings were low slung and badly in need of repair. A fly-specked neon light threw a yellowish glow over the raised porches and parking spaces out front. Molly pulled up next to a pickup truck and killed the engine.

They stepped out. The rain had stopped and the air was heavy and humid. Two Dobermans in a mesh cage barked furiously and hurled themselves against the wire, standing upright on sinewy hind legs.

‘Welcome to Skid’s new home,’ Molly said.

Only a couple of windows were lit up. The muffled sound of a TV was coming from somewhere inside. The dogs were still barking. A man’s drunken voice in the distance yelled at them to shut up.

Molly led Ben to room number ten. The old door was warped and peeling. She beat on it, three loud knocks. ‘It’s Molly,’ she called. She dug in her bag and took out the door key, unlocked it and they went in.

The room was dark and smelled of must and antiseptic. Molly yanked the drapes shut and flipped on a sidelight.

Skid McClusky had been sleeping, and his head jerked up. He blinked in the light.

He was about thirty, like Molly. He might have been good-looking, but it was hard to tell under all the yellow bruises and half-healed cuts on his face. His dark hair was greasy and plastered over his brow. He was wearing a denim shirt with dark sweat patches, sitting in an upright armchair with most of the stuffing hanging out of it, his feet straight out in front of him and resting on a stool. Both legs were plastered from the knee down. There was a Mossberg pump shotgun resting across his lap, and he fingered it nervously.

He looked up. His eyes were ringed with pain and fear. They darted around the room and settled on Ben.

‘He’s OK, Skid,’ Molly said. ‘He isn’t one of Cleaver’s.’

‘Pull yourself up a seat,’ Skid said to Ben. ‘And tell me what you want.’

‘I’m going out to get some beers,’ Molly said. ‘I’ll leave you boys alone to talk.’ She left.

Ben and the lawyer sat in silence for a minute. ‘I’ll get right to the point,’ Ben said. ‘Zoë Bradbury is missing. She disappeared from her place in Greece twelve days ago. It’s my job to find her, and I think you can help me.’

‘I figured they’d get to her,’ Skid moaned. ‘They made me talk.’

‘The men who did this?’ Ben motioned to the plastered legs.

Skid nodded. ‘I’m a real mess, man,’ he said desperately. ‘Look at me. I’m just fucked.’

‘Maybe I can help you too,’ Ben said.

‘Just how exactly do you figure on that?’

‘I don’t know yet. But I’m pretty sure the people who did this to you are the same people I’m after.’

Skid rubbed his hands down his face. He was quiet for a minute. ‘OK, what do you want from me?’

‘I want to know everything,’ Ben said. ‘About the deal you and Zoë had between you. And about Cleaver. I keep hearing the name. Who is he?’

Skid let out a long breath. ‘Pass me that, would you?’ He pointed to a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the table out of his reach. Ben grabbed it and handed it to him. Skid took a deep swallow, wiped his sleeve across his mouth.

‘I’ll start from the start,’ he said. ‘Do you know who Augusta Vale is?’

Ben nodded.

‘Then you know that Zoë was over here staying with her at her home in Savannah. That’s how we met. In a bar.’

‘I heard that bit already,’ Ben said.

Skid shifted uncomfortably in his chair, winced from the pain in his legs. ‘She and Miss Vale were real close. At least, Miss Vale thought so. Zoë was more interested in her money. She was always dropping hints to her about this thing or that thing she wanted to do, hoping Miss Vale would pull out her chequebook. It’s not every day you have a friend with a two-billion-dollar estate, who calls you the child they always wanted but never had. And one thing about Zoë, she loves money.’

‘I don’t know her that well,’ Ben said. ‘I haven’t seen her since she was a child.’

Skid took another swig of bourbon. ‘And she thought she was in with a chance to get a piece of the action. Until Clayton Cleaver came on the scene.’ The way Skid said the name, he seemed to think Ben would recognise it. ‘You never heard of Clayton Cleaver?’

Ben shrugged. ‘Should I have?’

‘Bestselling author. Televangelist. Wannabe State Governor. And now, best friend of Miss Augusta Vale who thinks the sun shines out of his ass. Miss Vale is a good Christian lady, extremely devout, patron of a whole bunch of charities. But she’s being fooled. That fucker has her convinced he’s a saint. When Zoë came to stay with her six months ago, Augusta told her all about her latest plan, to give Cleaver money for his foundation. I’m talking a lot of money. A fuck of a lot.’