“You swear on your life that you’ve never met this Tag Baylor before?”
“I swear. He’s psychic or clairvoyant or something. Has to be.”
“Well that sucks for both of us if he is, because then he knows what I’m going to do to you. What did he and Amber want? To take you away?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s why your suitcase has been moved. You packed your shit and had a change of heart at the last minute. Is that right?”
She nodded.
“Good. You just earned a taste of my Bloody Buddy. Go ahead.” Mae took two greedy gulps before he stole the glass away from her. “All better?”
It wasn’t but she said that it was—that’s the answer he was wanting. “I’m sorry, Trent. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“The important thing is you came to your senses. If you’d have left I would have found you. You know what would’ve happened then?”
She shook her head.
“The good news would be that Tag and Amber would be dead. Fucking dead. A pile of meat parts that their own mothers couldn’t identify at the morgue. I guess you could say the good news would be that you’d be dead as well. The bad news is how it would go down. Sit tight.” He left the kitchen. Mae dashed to the fridge to refill her glass with milk, chugged a half-glass and returned to the table, placed it in exactly the same spot as before.
Tag returned to the kitchen with both hands behind his back. The first place his eyes drifted to was the empty filmy glass of milk, then her lips, then her bitch-ass lying eyes. He stood before her. She nervously looked up at him, one hand in her lap, the other on the table, trembling like that fucking Michael J. Fox and the last pope combined.
“If you ever speak to them again—and I mean Amber, too; at work if she says something to you, you ignore that bitch—if you ever speak a word or email a word to either one of them again, you’re going to get a present. The three of you will get the same gift. If you tell anyone else a word about this, you’ll get both presents. That’s right, a two-fer. Pick a hand. Let’s see what gift daddy has for his Mae and pals.”
She looked at his arms hiding away at the elbow. “Do I have to?”
“Did I say you didn’t? Pick one!”
She flinched and said left hand. He was disappointed by her choice. From behind his back came a hatchet. “Hatchet it is. But don’t forget that Santa still might bring you a two-fer. Breathe a word and Christmas will come early. Got me?” She nodded.
Trent raised the hatchet overhead and chopped down—veins in his arms bulging like so many plump nightcrawlers—the oak table split where the axe cleaved, glasses and plates jumped. He let go: the handle stood erect.
“That little beauty will be the fastest way you ever lost weight. But if you tell a soul about this, the hatchet won’t be what kills you. I guaran-damn-tee it. You know what will? I’ve been dying to show you this for years, but until now the time wasn’t right. Drastic measures call for drastic actions.”
From behind his back came his right hand. A silvery gleam arced along twelve inches of steel blade. It was a kitchen knife, though not from Mae’s kitchen. A butcher knife, belled at the end like a cutlass.
Her heart skipped a beat, color drained from her face. Her lidless eyes were hypnotized by the blade. Trent expected this reaction. She had to have at least flirted with the idea after her parents had their throats cut. He turned the knife to throw the reflected gleam back at her. If ever there was a Kodak moment, he thought, this was it. “Something tells me you know the story behind this.”
She said nothing. Eyes as round as hell is hot were keenly on the knife. He waved the knife side to side—her eyes followed it. “Do you? You know what this is, right?”
“You did,” she mouthed. “You did,” she breathed. “You killed them. You’re… you’re the…”
“I’m not the SacTown Slayer and you know it. Or do you?” It was an intriguing thought. “He did do me a huge favor, though, killing in your neighborhood.”
“Why, Trent?” It was the highest register he ever heard from Mae, perhaps anyone. There weren’t any tears, there’s a fucking shocker. She couldn’t go five minutes without crying and now that she had a reason to, now that she knew he killed her shit-lousy parents, her eyes were dry. “Why did you kill them? How could you do that to—”
“Shut your whore mouth. I did us a favor and you know it. Do as I say and you’ll be fine. Disobey me, go running your mouth to Fag or Amber or anyone, and this pretty piece of silvery steel will give you a family reunion. You and that bitch mom of yours can have a good cry together in hell. Got me?”
“Do it.”
He must have misheard. “Excuse me?”
“Do it. Do it right now.”
“Don’t tempt me. And I fucking swear, Mae, if you think you can outsmart me and tell the police that I killed your parents, that you’ll be safe because I’ll be in jail, you better pull your head out of your worthless ass because it ain’t fucking so. There’s a little thing called evidence and there is none. Even if you got me arrested, you don’t think I’ll get bail posted? And there isn’t a place on earth you could hide where I couldn’t find you. And when I do?” He brandished the knife, nodded at the hatchet cleaved in the kitchen table. “It will be the most painful death conceivable, drawn out in as many hours as possible before your body can no longer handle it and finally gives up.” He yanked the hatchet out of the table and walked away from the kitchen saying, “Consider me not beating the fuck out you for drinking milk while I was upstairs an early anniversary gift. Now get upstairs. We’re having sex tonight.”
“I hate you.” Her words were calm and distant.
Trent stopped at the base of the stairs. “What the fuck did you just say?”
“Nothing.” Less calm, less distant.
He dropped the knife and hatchet and turned with clenched fists. “I guess you’ll be getting fucked in both senses of the word tonight.”
Chapter 39
Reed opened his eyes. “You have the energy, Tag. I can sense things.”
“Oh yeah? Cool, what do you see?”
Still clutching the ATM card he closed his eyes. “I see… I see you and… Amber. Driving together? Yes, she’s driving and you’re in the passenger seat. You’re driving on a freeway in a blue car… looks like Oroville.”
“That’s amazing,” Amber said with sincere awe.
“You’re driving in a nice neighborhood. Big houses. Now you’re parked, at the end of a cul-de-sac.” He opened his eyes and looked down at the ATM card, muttered “Tag Baylor.”
“That’s really something, man,” Tag said impressively.
“I’m hearing a name… Mae? Mae Kent?”
“Clark.”
Amber giggled. “Clark Kent.” Tag smiled at her.
Reed humored, returned the card to its owner. “Clark Kent. Superman. That is funny. You know why?” His mirthful expression blinked away. “Because you’d both need to be superfuckingman to survive what I’m going to do to you. You’re fucked. Get near Mae again and I’ll hack off your limbs and slit your fucking throats. I know where you both live—stay the fuck away and maybe you’ll live. Maybe you’ll live. Got it? Say a word of this to anyone and I’ll feed you a piece of each other before I kill you.”
He produced a door key from his pocket and slammed it against the bar, departed the Saucy Minx unceremoniously. Tag looked down at his apartment key, then up at Amber. She looked how he felt.
* * *
They agreed that going to his apartment that night was out of the question. What or who might be inside was kindling for nightmares. But Trent also knew where Amber lived, somehow, and they didn’t doubt that. He was an insanely intelligent guy. An excellent actor, too. Tag would’ve bet the farm that he was a Sacramento Homicide detective, not someone who Homicide detectives hunt.
They agreed to go to her place—they weren’t about to move into a hotel—and headed there after closing shop at th
e Saucy Minx. They were apprehensive entering her apartment (terrified is a better word) but did so without event. Amber locked the dead-bolt, checked her windows: locked. They took a seat on the couch and mindlessly held hands. Tag remembered saying he might kick Trent’s ass. It seemed like years ago. He had grown wiser since then.
“We should call the police,” she said for the tenth time since their encounter with Trent.
“Okay. Call the police. Then call for an ambulance. Might as well call the coroner’s office, too, give them a heads up. Whether or not he keeps his promise with you and I, you know damn well that Mae will pay for it. In blood. And I really don’t think he’s bluffing, do you? When I look at that psycho, I don’t see a shred of bluff in him. He’ll kill or die trying.”
“I know,” she conceded. “I just… I can’t—”
Tag saw her tears and put his arms around her, brought her in. “It’s going to be all right, Amber. We’ll think of something.” He stroked her back. “We’ll think of something.”
They slept in their clothes. Tag kept the largest knife Amber owned beside him. There was no touching one another, no laughter, hardly a word said. If either had a plan in the making, neither were aware of it.
Sleep was hard earned and not fully reached. They’d wake up with dark swollen eyes. Tomorrow would be a hell of a day.
Chapter 40
Amber opened the blinds to heavenly brightness. She peeked outside for any ominous signs that Trent had been there. Something dead that was recently alive, perhaps. A dog? Mailman? There was nothing.
Tag took the first shower. Amber ate a few bites of cereal before giving up. Tag came out of the bathroom with wet hair and the same clothes he wore at the bar last night, and to bed. He needed to go to his apartment and unload the bed, which had been in the borrowed truck for two days now. She offered to help carry it. He’d give Kade a try on his cell first.
Kade was still missing in action and he didn’t have Bonnie’s phone number. If he hadn’t had the run-in with Trent last night, he’d only be beginning to worry about Kade. Now he entertained the darkest thoughts imaginable. Murder. Red Trouble. Kade wasn’t the type to avoid Tag. He never went a single day without returning a call, let alone two.
After two calls and a text message, he admitted to Amber that he was worried about Kade, that he had presentiments of Trent doing something to him. Trent had, after all, possessed Tag’s apartment key. It was nonsensical that he’d do something to Kade, especially when he could’ve taken his aggression out on Tag and Amber. Amber said that a psychopath’s domain wasn’t in the sensical, that’s why they’re psychopaths.
Amber would follow Dallas’s truck to Tag’s apartment and help carry the bed, then head off to work in Oroville. Would Mae be working today? Not a fucking chance. She was likely fired by now, anyway. Amber couldn’t afford to lose her job so she wouldn’t be calling in sick a second day in a row.
* * *
Tag unlocked the door with the key that Trent had slammed down on the bar. Until then he hadn’t considered that it might be a key to his old door-lock. Kade had said he put the new key under the mat. That the key unlocked the door meant Trent had taken the key from under the mat between Kade’s voicemail and Tag’s arrival home a few hours later. He held his breath as he opened the door. At first glance the place looked fine. Amber stayed on his heels as he searched the apartment.
“I guess it’s fine,” Tag said. “Let’s bring the bed up so you can get to work.”
Five minutes later Amber was speeding off to work in her little blue Honda. Tag was indecisive as to what he should do. He searched Kade’s room for phone numbers. His parents, his floozy from the other night, anything. And found nothing. He checked his aspiringwriter-dot-com account on a whim. There was one message from two days ago. MaeClarkisme wrote: Who told you his name is Trent?
He decided to do a load of laundry, wash those back-up sheets and blankets for the new bed in the communal laundromat. He incessantly looked over his shoulder, wondered how long this nightmare might last.
Back in his apartment, while browsing through files on Kade’s laptop, looking for any contact numbers he might try calling, he got a phone call from Amber. A five alarm call that set the wheels in motion.
Chapter 41
Amber parked the Honda in her usual spot, to the side and rear of Diamond Smiles. According to the car’s digital clock she made it in the nick of time, three minutes to spare. She gathered her purse and bottled water, opened her door as the passenger door flung open, scaring the hell out of her. Amber gasped at Mae’s ghastly sight.
“You have to help me,” Mae cried desperately. She was harried. Face pink, eyes swollen, mascara and eye-liner running. She had either been painting clumsily with crimson red or was bleeding profusely. Her left sleeve was soaked through, but didn’t appear to be fresh. A slanted bloody line crossed her tee-shirt between her breasts, and that did look fresh—strangely the shirt itself wasn’t cut. Her left bare forearm was caked with blood, dried blood, a long thick gash was scabbing over. A gray cat was tucked at her right side.
“Mae? What happened?” She saw Trent’s white Dodge Ram on the other side of Jerry’s Mitsubishi.
Mae got inside the Honda and closed the door, released Pancho on the floorboard between her feet. “Help me, he’s going to kill us,” she said in a frenzy.
Amber looked at her, really looked at her: her sight was a punch to the gut, she wept at once. “What happened?” The eye-liner and mascara that ran wasn’t makeup at all. She had taken blows. Her right eye was blackened and swollen shut, left cheek-bone bruised deeply, perhaps fractured. Her right ear was purple and resembled a cauliflower.
“Help me, Amber! He’s going to kill us!”
The gash from her wrist to elbow was so deep and broad that Amber was in disbelief that she was still alive. Surely it severed her radial artery. Amber floundered to retrieve the cellphone from her purse. Her vision was blurry, tears dripped off her jaw in rivulets.
“Don’t call the police,” Mae pleaded. “Please don’t.”
“I’m calling Tag.” Amber dialed his number while debating the best possible recourse in this crisis. “Hang in there, sweetie,” she said just before Tag answered. Amber cut him off before he could say hello, spoke in double-time with no breaks: “Mae is beaten and bloody, I think Trent is coming for us, we’re in the parking lot of my work, do I call an ambulance? What do I do?”
“How bad is she?”
“Lots of blood. I don’t know. Mae, how bad is it? Where are you cut besides your arm and chest?”
“Take me home. Please, Amber. Your home.”
“She says to take her to my place. I don’t know, it’s a lot of blood. What do you think?”
“If you think there’s even a remote chance of her not surviving, call nine-one-one. This isn’t the time to play cautious with Trent. Make the big decision. What do you say?”
“Please don’t call an ambulance,” Mae begged. “Your house.”
“Come over to my apartment,” Amber said to Tag. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes if I don’t get pulled over for speeding.” Amber started the car, threw it in reverse and backed out like a lunatic. “Bring supplies. Get gauze, tape, rubbing alcohol, butterfly bandages, whatever else you can think of. A gun if you have one.”
“I’ll see you there.”
* * *
The Honda screeched into Amber’s apartment parking space. Tag was there waiting. He opened Mae’s door and felt a wicked one-two punch of pity and fury. He helped her out of the car, guided her to the apartment. Amber carried the unhappy cat.
Amber locked the door behind them and closed the blinds. Pancho hid under the bed. A chair was placed in the well-lighted center kitchen, the supplies on the counter. Mae took the seat offered to her. She wasn’t in her right mind. She operated and functioned as if she were on cruise-control, or automatic pilot. She gazed vacantly at the stove before her, flinched when she was touched, mumb
led nonsense, called Tag Breuer on more than one occasion. Tag soaked a towel with rubbing alcohol. He helped Amber to remove Mae’s shirt. She wasn’t cooperating by raising her arms, so they decided to use a pair of shears to cut it off. This wasn’t how Tag had long fantasized about seeing her breasts for the first time. To be fair, they weren’t seeing her breasts, but instead a coat of sticky red blood covering them entirely. It reminded him of what he had written in Red Trouble, the brutalized chest of a young Maeve Minnow. This was a more macabre version, making the other seem like a Disney representation by comparison. A deep cut crossed her torso, the blood absolutely everywhere (the gash was clotting, thankfully; strangely it was open in various localities, clotted fully in others). A similar cut was the one on her forearm, only it was clotted fully. After brief deliberation, Tag and Amber got to work cleaning her chest first, using plenty of alcohol. A series of a dozen or two butterfly bandages would soon follow. Remarkably she didn’t flinch when the sterilizing compress was applied to her open wounds. She’d flinch when touched on the shoulder or cheek, but nothing when touching alcohol to an open wound? Pretty damned odd.
“He killed my mom and dad,” she said evenly. Neither responded to her. “He slit their throats; I saw the knife he used when doing it. They say the SacTown Slayer did it, but he didn’t. Trent did it.” Her vacant gaze didn’t leave the stove.
Tag dabbed her abused eye with alcohol-soaked gauze before prying it open to give it a cursory examination. He yelped when it pried open: her eyeball was red as if bleeding profusely from the inside; the blue iris alone remained unaffected. He feared she’d forever be blind in that eye. He told Amber to take a look. She openly wept at the sight of it. He let go of her lids: the eye shut instantly, leaked a steady stream of tears.
“We need to know where else you’re bleeding,” Amber said, and sobbed. “Can you take off your shirt so we can get a look at that cut? Where else did that mother fucking piece”—sob—“of fucking shit cut you?”
“There’s a body in the truck. Trent’s going to kill us.”