As we leave town, I slow in case Prosser’s cell is lying in pieces at the roadside. Nearing the bridge over Hangman’s Creek, I can guess why the trace on Prosser’s cell ended here.
The creek may only be a few feet wide at this time of year, but I can hear its roar as I park my car on the bridge.
The chief plays his flashlight down and picks out the frothing waters of Hangman’s Creek. I grip the railing a little tighter and try not to think of the water below me tumbling and fighting to gain passage through the rocky gulch.
I turn to face the chief. His silhouette shows against the first rays of morning sun. ‘How much do you want to bet Prosser’s phone is down there somewhere?’
He scowls at me. ‘You don’t know that for sure. Could be he just decided to skip town after fighting with his wife. Tossed his phone over the bridge on his way to a new life.’
‘So he worked all day, went for a couple of beers then just up and left town. Didn’t go home for a change of clothes or to say goodbye to his kids.’ I scowl back at him. ‘Do you believe that’s what happened?’
‘I’d like to, but no.’
We spend a few minutes scouting about the area without finding anything except scrub and rocks.
‘Take me back to the station, Boulder. I’ve search parties to organise.’
I keep my thoughts to myself as I drive him back. I’ve nothing useful to say and I know he’s got some thinking to do. If he kneads his temples any harder his knuckles are going to meet in the middle.
As we approach the station, I ask what he wants me to do next.
‘Obviously my priority is finding these missing people. I need you to help me speak to their families, while I send my detectives out to speak to anyone who may have seen Prosser last night.’
48
I let myself into my apartment and decide not to bother Alfonse until I’ve had a shower. The need to wash the night’s discoveries off me is more compelling than checking a simple fact with him.
After scrubbing myself for five minutes, I drop the water temperature as low as it will go. The cold water does far more to energise me than yet another cup of coffee will. My body and brain feel sharper and more able to tackle whatever else the day throws at me.
Once dressed, I call Alfonse. For once, luck is on my side. Now I have this piece of information it shouldn’t be too hard to verify or discount an idea which has been bugging me.
The last two hours had been spent trying to extract details of favourite haunts, drinking buddies and so on from Prosser’s wife and his brother. While there was always the possibility he’d loaned his cell to someone or had it stolen, I don’t think that is the case and neither did his wife.
She had been so vehement about him never lending his cell to anyone, including her, it made me wonder if there was a specific reason he never let her use it. Being a cynic, my first thought was the reason may have blonde hair, long legs and a less confrontational nature than his wife.
A quiet word with Prosser’s brother when she nipped to the restroom had nixed this idea. With constant glances at the door, he’d told me how Prosser had been caught straying in the past and how close he’d come to losing his family over it. He described his brother’s experience as a hard-learned lesson.
I drink the last of the orange juice in my fridge and lift my keys from the counter. When I leave my apartment building I find a car blocking my Mustang into its usual space.
It’s a black Lincoln, which makes the FBI my first guess. My second thought is that unless Mr Steroids works for the FBI, my first guess is wrong.
Three of his fellow drug abusers clamber out of the car. They flex their muscles and throw mean stares around as if they want to intimidate someone or something.
I look behind me and see nobody else to intimidate, their target must be me as the garden doesn’t look scared.
It’s a shame they’ve travelled so far to waste their scowls. I’m guessing they aren’t here for a gurning competition.
Mr Steroids points at me. ‘That’s him. That’s the jerk who put me in plaster.’
I take a better look at the three lugheads as they lumber towards me. The one on the left is the same height as me but twice as wide, giving him the appearance of an orangutan. The one in the centre is the tallest, has a bald head and a goatee, while the final one is wearing a vest top which shows off full sleeve tattoos. The ones on his right arm appear stretched where the steroids have added bulk to an already tattooed arm.
It’s obvious why they’re here, so I start calculating the best way to deal with them. Three against one isn’t a fair fight, but I’ve faced worse odds.
They have muscle on their side but I have unpredictability and intelligence. It’s only Goatee who shows any spark in his eyes. The others have the dull bovine look of a cow being led into a slaughterhouse wondering why it can smell blood.
I’ll need to be quick about this. Superior strength and numbers will always beat a cunning fighter in a long-drawn-out battle.
Orangutan swings his arms wide, completing the look as he pumps himself up for confrontation. ‘You hurt our buddy. We’re here to make you pay.’
I reach into my pocket and pull out a dime which I flip at him. ‘That’s all you’re getting from me.’
It’s a petty insult but he charges at me with a great bellow. The move so predictable I have a smile on my face as I duck his flailing arms and deliver a thumping blow to his solar plexus. He falls, gasping for breath.
One down, two to go.
The other two are cagier now they’ve seen I can handle myself. They advance as a pair, shoulders a scant inch apart.
Goatee feints a right as Tattoos throws a left. My right arm flies up instinctively and makes enough of a connection to turn the punch into a glancing blow rather than a direct hit.
With my attention on Tattoos, Goatee grabs hold of my left wrist and delivers a savage tug.
It feels as if my shoulder has been torn from its socket but I don’t have time to dwell on the pain.
I dance two steps to my right so Tattoos is in Goatee’s way and then stride towards him feinting a left and delivering a roundhouse right. He ducks back causing me to miss, but there’s a thud as the back of his head collides with Goatee’s chin.
My foot connects with his groin before he has a chance to recover from the clash with Goatee. As he clutches his groin, I send a second roundhouse which connects with his chin.
‘Just you and me now.’ I accompany my words with a devil-may-care grin.
I see a hint of doubt in Goatee’s eyes, but still he presses forward.
He feints a couple of times then springs at me. A jab connects with my chin but I’m moving back so it doesn’t do too much damage. The right to my ribs does though.
Taking advantage of the blow’s impact he wraps his hands around my throat and slams me against the wall of the apartment block, pinning me against the rough bricks.
As his grip begins to tighten and his thumbs dig into my larynx, I kick out at his legs. My kicks land but with my back against the wall I can’t get enough of a swing to hurt or unbalance him.
With that tactic out, I have no option but to raise the stakes to another level.
I throw my hands out until my knuckles touch brick. Jerking them together in a pincer movement, I slam the heel of each hand into Goatee’s elbows.
The way he’s got me held, with his arms extended and his elbows locked, makes him vulnerable to this kind of retaliation. There’s a dual snap as both joints shatter.
He yelps and staggers back with his arms hanging and a dumb look on his face as if he doesn’t know what to do.
I solve his problem with a nose-destroying headbutt followed by an uppercut, which drops him in a heap.
Crossing to the Lincoln, I fix Mr Steroids with a more intimidating stare than his buddies could ever manage. ‘This ends here. This ends now. If you come after me again, I’ll finish you and anyone you care to bring with you. Do you get what I’m saying?’