| |
RYERSON THORNTON PARKED his Lexus at the corner of Burleson and Legacy, about three blocks away from where he planned to meet Jerry Monroe. He took every precaution in setting up the meeting with the little weasel and he wanted to be sure no one would later connect him with Jerry when their business was done.
He stepped out of the car, flipped up the collar of his mauve-colored cashmere overcoat, and looked around. The street was empty at this hour of the evening. The stores along the boulevard closed at six o’ clock and the street seemed to have closed with them. The only establishments that were still open were the pubs, adult bookstores, and a couple of coffee houses, where most of the unsavory types were liable to be found.
He crossed the street and stepped up onto the curb. After crossing Burleson, he headed west on Legacy for two blocks. At Audelia, he headed south one block, passing his destination without even a glance over his shoulder. When he was a block south of Harold’s Corner Grill & Bar, Ryerson stood at the corner, shoulder resting against the pole of a sodium vapor streetlamp, as if he were casually waiting for an acquaintance.
After allowing himself enough time to be sure he would have been dismissed as a harmless old man waiting to pick up some tail, he looked north, back toward Harold’s. No one stood in front of the joint, so he felt bold enough to focus his attention on each of the cars parked out on the street. He couldn’t help but wonder if Jerry were stupid enough to park his car in plain sight when he was meeting for a clandestine rendezvous. When he was satisfied that none of the cars were Jerry’s and that no one sat in a driver’s seat of a parked car watching his every move, he once again focused his attention on Harold’s.
A moment later, a young couple stepped out of Harold’s with arms around each other. They were laughing and groping each other, showing not one ounce of shame or sense of privacy. When they looked toward Ryerson, he got down on one knee, untied the lace on his left shoe, and began the task of retying it in a shameful attempt to look inconspicuous.
The man was tall and lean, with black hair slicked back, and a large diamond chip in his left ear. The girl had red hair and was a little on the plump side, but she had a beautiful face and her smile was brilliant enough to lighten the heaviest heart. It was undoubtedly her smile that charmed the men, rather than her body.
As they drew nearer, the man leaned in close to her and whispered something in her ear. When she laughed Ryerson’s, breath caught in his throat. His heartbeat hard in his chest and his mouth felt like cotton. “Melanie?” he queried. He stood quickly and began to walk toward her. The untied lace flapped as he started to trot.
The couple stopped several feet away from Harold’s doorway and embraced, kissing each other, unaware of his quick approach.
“Melanie,” Ryerson said again as he reached out and touched the red head’s shoulder. The girl made a sound like a frightened puppy and as she turned to face him, Ryerson realized he had made a grave mistake. Although this girl was near the same age as Melanie, and she had the same color hair and body structure, she also had brown eyes. Her nose was too small and her chin too wide.
“Hey, asshole,” the dark-haired man said. He let go of his girlfriend and stepped in front of her with his legs spread wide and fists clenched at his side. “What the fuck’s your problem?”
“I-I’m sorry. I thought—”
“You thought what, old man? That you could cop a feel on my girl?”
“No, no. I just thought she was someone else. I’m very sorry.”
“Yeah, you’re going to be even sorrier,” dark hair said. He reached out and grabbed the front of Ryerson’s coat with his left hand and cocked his right fist ready to strike. His hand looked huge, like the head of a cobra. The knuckles looked like granite, all hard angles, and veins.
“No, baby,” the red head said and put her hand over her boyfriend’s. She looked into Ryerson’s eyes and she saw the deep sadness in them. “He’s just looking for Melanie, that’s all.”
The dark-haired man looked at his girlfriend. He was obviously tuned into her moods and he knew something had passed between her and the old man, some connection between them that made him uncomfortable.
“Yeah,” he said and let go of Ryerson’s coat. “There ain’t no Melanie here, so beat it.”
Ryerson, quite shaken, said, “My mistake, I’m very sorry.”
“It’s okay,” the girl said. She touched his arm and gave it a little squeeze. “I hope you find Melanie.”
“Thank you,” he said. He stood where he was for a moment, too frightened to move. He looked down at his undone shoelace and felt a kinship with it. His life, like the lace, had come undone, and there seemed to be nothing he could do to keep it securely tied together. Some days he felt laced up tight, thinking that he’d finally put Melanie behind him. But he somehow came undone again and the past continued to haunt him.
You stupid old fool! When are you going to realize that dead is dead?
For months now, he went through bouts of what his psychiatrist called searching behavior, when he would see his daughter in other people. It was hard for parents to come to terms with the death of a child, because every parent expects that they will not survive their children. When that did not happen, when nature reversed herself, the parent felt helpless, even guilty.
Melanie had always been a difficult child. She rebelled against him at every opportunity. They could never see eye-to-eye on any matter. In the last few years, he could not honestly think back to a time when they had done something other than argue or ignore each other. When she was home, meals were excruciating. Ryerson’s wife always acted as mediator, but her attempts to bring the two together always failed. For years Melanie had threatened to leave the family, to strike out on her own and make her own rules, live her own life. He knew her threats were empty, because she did not possess the faculties to survive on her own. He’d called her bluff many times, but she’d never made good on her threats.
Since the night, the horrible news had reached him, he often thought that the body that Ames’ man had found was not his Melanie, but some other poor soul. He wanted to believe that Melanie had finally decided to call his hand, to leave and make her own life like she sometimes threatened. He wanted to believe that she was somewhere in California, living with some friends and trying to hide from her father’s long reach.
But he knew the truth and cursed himself for not accepting it. The awful truth was too much for his heart to bear. He had always loved Melanie, but like all men in the Thornton line, his way of showing emotion was to be cold and detached. That’s what made them such successful businessmen. But he loved her deeply, more than anything in the world and she never knew that.
Suddenly, anger coursed through him, pumping through every vein in his body. Her precious life had been torn away by some sick bastard who’d cut her until there was little left of her. He’d gutted her like a catfish and left her insides spread out in her lap and watched as she tried to put them back in. This anger shot through him like a thunderclap and he lashed out with his fist, striking a parked car, and shattering the passenger side window. The shards bit into his flesh and drew blood.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” he said and sat down hard on the curb. He put his head into his hands, unaware of the blood that dripped down his right coat sleeve.
The man who killed his only daughter was out on the streets right now and had killed again, of that he was sure. The black bastard of a sheriff claimed the recent homicide was unrelated to Melanie’s murder, but he knew better. He had sources that he paid well for information, and they buzzed in his ear the very moment the call had gone out on the police band radio.
The bastard who cut his little girl was out there, had killed again, and still there was no justice.
At first, Ryerson had entertained fantasies where he paid a large sum to have the murderer brought to his doorstep once he was captured. He dreamed of secretly torturing the bastard in the basement of his home, showing him pictures and videos of Melanie while he pulled out the son-of-a-bitch’s fingernails one at a time. He had enough money to pay and he was sure with the right amount of money, anyone could be bought, even that self-righteous prick, Ames. But after several months, his fantasy faded as he realized that Ames was an incompetent civil servant who was only elected because it was politically correct these days for the town to have minorities in positions of authority.
Ryerson realized that he would have to find the killer himself and he vowed that he would have the killer brought to his knees, begging for his life. And in the process, he also promised himself he would take Ames down.
“I have plans for you, black boy,” Ryerson said.
He stood and brushed at the back of his coat before he realized he was bleeding. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around his cut and swollen knuckles and jammed his hand into his pocket. He turned and walked back toward Harold’s. He stopped in front and peered into one neon-splattered window, shielding his eyes against the light with his good hand. He was just in time to see Jerry slam back a shot.
Ryerson stepped back from the window and looked at his watch. It was 10:21 p.m. He still had a few minutes before he was supposed to meet Jerry. He walked toward the alley and turned into it. Behind Harold’s he stood and waited.