Devour, p.21
Devour, page 21
“Where’s your head, Babe?” Jasmine asked.
“Just…processing. Worried about Kathryn. Wondering what to do about Scott. Hoping the new restaurant will be successful—”
“Completely understandable. And it will all work out, you know that. Perhaps after the angst blows over, you’ll consider giving him a second chance. And Kathryn? I’m sure she’s fine. Just jet-lagged,” she smiled.
They sat in silence for several minutes.
“And yes, I’ll be here with you. To the end,” she took his hand. “If you’ll have me.”
He leaned over and gave her a long kiss.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “And I’m sure you’re right. On all counts. You are wonderful. And we’re both so lucky.”
She stood, taking him by the hand. “Probably a good idea for us to get to bed. Been a long day and we’ve got an even longer one tomorrow.”
She turned off the gas fire pit, and he wrapped a blanket around her shoulders.
“Good idea,” he whispered, kissing her.
Heading down the stairway, she said, “Michael, do you want to get your hand checked and grab a later flight?”
It was not until they were inside and Jasmine was rinsing and putting away the glasses when Michael replied, “Ordinarily I could be persuaded, but since we’ve got so much to do, and in just one day, I’d like to get on it. The sooner we get there, the sooner we get back here,” he winked.
With a coy grin, she snuggled up to him. “I like the way you think, Mr. Rogan.”
“I thought you might.”
50
Death Wish
Dalton was exhausted. Running on adrenaline, he tried to bury his fatigue and focus on what he had yet to accomplish. Checking his watch, he ran through a short list of complications, trying to visualize the next 24 to 48 hours. He was good at the 30,000 foot view and not getting bogged down by a minutiae of details all the while keeping a clear head about him. If the jigsaw puzzle was to be completed in the time required, he must leave nothing to chance. Lifting the sunshade, Dalton blinked quickly when the morning light bombarded his eyes. It looked to be a beautiful morning but with a dark underbelly he rather enjoyed. His appetite was voracious—for both food and subterfuge. Looking at the cooler by his feet, he flashed to just hours ago.
Yes, it takes great expense to get exactly what I want, he thought. And high stakes. And planning. And zero empathy, he grinned at his hideous memories. Turning back to the window, Dalton mused: Play the odds. Enjoy the ride. Keep the demons at bay.
Suddenly, the attendant’s message broke his concentration: “In preparation for landing…”
Now passing through San Francisco International Airport, Dalton would soon learn just how serious his adversary was about helping him. He was relying upon the weak character of a man who held the key he hoped would open another door of dark pleasures. Lost in thought, he looked up to find two familiar faces.
What the fuck, his inner voice screamed.
Michael and Jasmine were walking in his direction. Instinctively, he dropped his head, looking for the nearest restroom. It was fifty feet away. If their eyes met, it would mean disaster. Closing in on the couple, he saw the restroom would be out of reach in time, and at the last second, ducked into a newsstand, quickly hiding behind a large kiosk.
As they passed, someone tapped his shoulder.
Startled, he spun around. “What?”
A store employee was equally startled. “May I help you?”
“No!” He barked, leaving the person in his wake.
Approaching baggage and transportation, he was still fuming and trying to calm his monkey mind.
Crossing the parking lot, he beat himself up for knowing that Michael and Jasmine were headed to Los Angeles, yet allowing it to slip his mind. He only had 24 hours to accomplish his next steps, so he took out his phone and searched a number. With his baggage loaded, Dalton began the drive home—dialing a number as he practiced an accent.
Scott was still dead asleep when the ringing began. It was thin and sounded as though buried under water.
Rinnnnng.
Yet, there he was, swinging in a hammock, strung between two enormous palm trees—crystal clear blue-green water splashing directly beneath him.
Rinnnnng.
A beautiful blonde lie naked next to him, sipping an umbrella drink. Her tanned body glistened in the sun.
Rinnnnng.
The ringing sounded far in the distance. He looked around but saw nothing.
Rinnnnng.
An electric crackle pinched the back of his neck and he awoke suddenly, sitting up in bed.
Rinnnnng.
The bright light and dank smell of his small, dirty apartment slapped him in the face like a wet rag.
Rinnnnng.
Grabbing his cell phone from a cinder block nightstand, Scott croaked out a feeble, “Hello”—his dry throat burnt by inhaling too much product last night.
“Scott Rogan?”
“Yeah?”
“This is John…” Dalton hesitated, looking at the cooler on the floorboard. “John Yeti. Not sure if you recall, but we spoke the other day. Or someone from your business spoke with me. Anyhow, I’m with H & H Delivery in Oakland. You work for a Jasmine Barthold, yes?”
Trying to place the voice, Scott was too crispy to make sense of much at the moment. Swinging his legs out of bed and onto the cold floor, he managed, “Michael Rogan, actually. But yeah, she’s the restaurant manager. Why?”
Dalton grinned at himself in the rearview mirror.
“Well, Mr. Rogan—actually, can I call you Scott?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m in need of your help,” he said, injecting just a touch of Texas drawl to further layer his performance.
“I’ve got a delivery to make today—an important one—and I have word from our order center that Jasmine said she’d be out of town most of the day. I was told to call you, ask if you’d help us make that delivery—you having a key and all. Can you do that for me? I’d be much obliged.”
“Uh, actually, no. It’s my day off,” he coughed. “Place is closed anyhow,” he said, shuffling to the kitchenette sink for a glass of water—or a cold beer.
“Yeah, I understand that, Scott. But here’s the thing. Delivery’s perishable. My time’s valuable. And well, frankly, my job’s on the line. Now, there may have been a little mixup, but thing is, I’ve got to deliver this today. So, here’s my proposition. And I’ll shoot straight here. I’ve got a hundred dollars cash, if you’ll help this fella out.”
“I don’t know. I’m the new kid here, and I’m not in much shape to—”
“I hear ya, Scott. It’s your day off, you’re sleeping in—prolly spent last night tying one on, but thing is I really need your help,” he took a deep breath. “What if I were to double that? I mean, at this point I’ll lose most of what I’ll make on this run, but hell, I’ve got an even bigger delivery across the bay, and without boring your balls off, your delivery’s at the back of the truck which means I’d have to unload all—”
“Okay, okay, got it. I mean, two hundred bucks is more than I make in a day, so yeah, I’ll help you out.” Squinting at the screen, he said, “What time you need me there? I mean, it’s—”
“Actually, I’m on my way right now. Be there in about 20 minutes. Have to get ‘er done before noon. Can you make that happen?”
“Yeah, I can get there. It’ll take every bit of 20, though. That is, if traffic doesn’t fuck me, guess I’ll—”
“Thanks a bunch, Scott. Office is calling. Gotta run. See you in 20.”
The line went dead as did Scott’s hopes of sleeping in—or screwing the blonde in his dream.
The wide grin across Dalton’s face was proof positive he was in the right line of work.
I was always good at working a con, he mumbled.
There was no way he could get to the office, so he set into motion another layer of the story. He rang work and Baxter picked up on the first ring. “Warden Dalton’s office. This is Baxter. How may I be of service?”
Dalton let out a big fake sneeze, followed by a hearty cough. “Uh, Baxter, Dalton here…” Cough. “As you likely imagined by now, I’ll not be in today.”
Baxter was taken aback as his boss had only missed one day as long as he had worked there. “Sorry to hear, Sir. You sound terrible. I was wondering what was going on when I hadn’t heard from you.”
Dalton rolled his eyes at the melodrama. “Yeah, well, I had hoped…” Cough. “To have called earlier, but it just wasn’t in the cards. Been up and down most of the night. I’ll spare you the details…” Cough. “But let’s just say not good.”
“Well, you rest and let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”
“That’s kind, Baxter…” Cough. “I’m certain this will blow over. Just gonna lay low the rest of the day.”
“Sounds good, Sir. Not to worry, I’ll take care of everything.”
Dalton shared that if any packages arrived for him to just leave them on his desk, or put them in the fridge. Other than that, he could expect him bright and early tomorrow morning. Ringing off, he checked his watch, feeling confident he would make it to the restaurant in time—if not a couple minutes early. Either way, he felt that his next move might be his best performance yet.
51
Deep Freeze
When Dalton arrived, Scott was already there standing at the back entrance having a smoke. Unfortunately, Dalton was still dressed as Dr. James Nash—an outfit he didn’t have time to change after arriving from Tokyo, but wasn’t sure it mattered.
Checking the time, it was five minutes before John Yeti was set to arrive. Parking across the street, he wanted to keep an eye on Scott. Besides, he needed another minute to walk through his plan.
Dalton had spent time with some of the most evil men on the planet. He often sat outside their cells, sharing a cup of coffee and a danish—a luxury in a hell-hole like Quentin—talking as though chatting ball scores across a backyard fence. He quickly learned how each and every man had one thing that flipped the switch in their minds. He knew most of those sick fucks did things that would make the average bear vomit their lunch—much like Dalton’s own transgressions.
As another blinding headache threatened to erase his vision like it had the past several months, Dalton froze in his tracks and waited for the storm to pass. In that moment, he wondered if it was the access to the multiple horrors making him the way he was, or as therapists suggested, the parental mistreatment he suffered for years.
Either way, the die had been cast. The monster had been crafted. And he was living out his own psychotic fantasy.
Parking on Mason Street where it crossed Nob Hill Place, Dalton sat in one of the spots facing the Intercontinental Hotel. However, he backed in just in case he needed to leave in a hurry. Crossing the street, he could see Scott pacing like a caged animal—looking from his phone to his smoke to the opening in the garage. Dalton was all too familiar with that pattern: doing the 48 shuffle as his co-workers called it—the 48 for short because the average jail cell was 6 feet by 8 feet.
Scott had that look.
Sebastian has that look.
And Michael, before long, would experience that look.
A cable car sounding its bell at the crossing of Mason and California distracted Scott enough to look in Dalton’s direction. The expression that came next was a blend of What are you doing here? and What the hell?
Approaching, Dalton said, “Hi, Scott, how you doing?”
Scott could not hide his confused expression. “Hey,” he looked around. “What are you doing here? Restaurant’s closed, you know.”
Nodding, he said, “I told Michael about some rare sushi I had shipped in from Tokyo. He asked if he could try it. He said he was—”
“He’s in LA,” he interrupted. “Won’t be back until late.”
Still smiling, “Yeah, he told me.” Dalton checked his watch. “But he said to swing by around noon and drop it with Hector whom I’m expecting any minute now.”
Dalton had learned more than just the lay of the land the day he visited Michael for the “wine tour.”
Scott looked around, “Yeah? I don’t see him.”
“He’ll be here. We just spoke,” Dalton said, looking like he had all the time in the world. He took out his phone. “Oh, there’s my confirmation text.”
“Well, I’m supposed to meet a delivery guy just any minute.”
Dalton pretended to read a text. “Was it, H & H…or something like that?” He asked without looking up.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Funny, I just saw the truck. Passed him on California. Looks like he may have gotten turned around. Heading toward Sacramento Street. Probably circling back.”
Scott watched as Dalton began walking toward the entrance. “Hey, mind if I head in? This thing is heavy, and I’d like to get it on ice,” he smiled. “Plus, maybe I can save Hector a trip.”
Dalton was enjoying the confusion plastered on Scott’s face, and given Scott looked like he had not slept in days, it wasn’t a surprise. Scott looked around once more, checked his watch, then headed in. “Why not?”
He unlocked the door, stepped inside, and flipped on a bank of lights, then disarmed the security. Dalton watched him type in the security code and memorized it. When Scott looked over his shoulder, Dalton looked down to check his phone screen. He set the cooler on the counter, removed one item, and laid it on the counter. About the size of a fist, the package was wrapped in butcher paper and taped up. In the bottom of the cooler was another surprise.
Just as Dalton turned, he caught Scott staring at the cooler, a frown creasing his brow. In that instant, Dalton realized the one tiny mistake he had made—the Yeti name on the cooler.
In less than a second, Dalton reached up—grabbing a chef’s knife from a wall rack—and with a hammering motion, aimed for the center of Scott’s chest.
However, as the knife was heading down, Scott’s arm swept up, knocking the knife into the air, then clattering on the floor, as they both scrambled for it.
Scott may have learned to fight in jail, but Dalton knew the moves that stopped those who fought in jail. So, he was one step ahead.
As Scott secured the knife, aiming to catch Dalton in his back, Dalton spun, surprising him with a severe blow to the center of his chest, cracking a few ribs. Scott dropped the knife as he fought to catch his breath. Undoubtedly, a lung had been ruptured in the process.
Dalton picked up the knife, lifted Scott’s chin—as much to look him in the eye as anything—then shoved the eight-inch high carbon stainless steel blade deep into Scott’s heart. The convict dropped to his knees, shattering both kneecaps in the process. He wouldn't feel it because he was dead by the time his face slapped the cold concrete floor.
Dalton stopped long enough to catch his breath. Removing the knife, he laid it on the counter, grabbed Scott by both arms, and dragged him to the walk-in freezer. Propping him against a rack, Dalton returned to the bloody scene, removed Michael’s chef’s knife—which he had secured days prior—and unwrapped it from a plastic sleeve. Putting on a pair of disposable gloves, he took the chef’s knife, found the entry point, and placed it in the exact puncture wound, burying it as far as it would go.
Mopping up the blood where he dragged Scott into the freezer, Dalton retraced his steps—double checking to make sure he had erased all traces—then shoved the bloody towels into a trash bag, triple-tied the top, and placed the bag by the door.
He washed and hung the knife back on the rack, took the package he had taken earlier from his cooler, and returned to the freezer. Removing several steaks from a box, he placed his special package inside the box before tucking it behind a stack of food.
Satisfied everything was in place, he returned to the kitchen, placed the steaks from the freezer inside his cooler, and went to the security panel. He punched in the code, waited for it to arm, then headed out the door. Just as the doors closed behind him, his memory flashed to the night he walked Jasmine to her car. They were making out when his eye caught something above the doors: Cameras!
He turned around and looked up. There, on either side of the entry, were two large cameras with small red lights on their sides. His mind spun into hyperdrive as he tried to imagine where the computers would be that had no doubt recorded their struggle. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, then re-entered the building using the memorized code.
Making his way to the manager’s office, he reached for the doorknob—praying it was not locked, and turned.
It was locked.
Quickly searching the walls of the office, Dalton paused, his eyes landing on an employee list: Scott Rogan, dishwasher.
Returning to the freezer, he reached inside the dead man’s pocket and pulled out a cell phone. Putting it back, he checked the other pocket and found a keyring.
Looking through the five keys, he deciphered that one was clearly a car key, another looked like an old front door key, a tiny one looked like a bike lock, and the last two were oversized and practically identical.
Do Not Duplicate was engraved on one side. “Bingo,” he said aloud.
Checking his watch, Dalton knew his luck was running out just like his time. Returning to the office, he tried one. No such luck.
He tried the other. Click.
Once inside, he scanned the room. There was a wall of manuals, a couple of trophies dotted another shelf, and a computer sat on a desk. Touching the mouse activated the screen, but a password was required.
“No fucking way,” he shouted. He gave up on any ideas of a password and looked around one last time.
Across the room, a light under a desk suddenly caught his eye. It was an old PC tower tucked in the corner. Above it were two small monitors. He turned a knob on the faded panel, and one came to life. The images were grainy black and white, showing the back door entrance.
