Sudden Guilt (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order) Read online

  sudden guilt

  R.J. JAGGER

  Chapter One

  Day One—May 5

  Monday Morning

  ______________

  THIRD-YEAR LAW STUDENT PAIGE DEVEREX was at a scratched wooden desk in the belly of the college, knee deep in editing Professor Miller’s insanely dull Law Review article, when her cell phone rang. She circled a sentence, wrote “repetitive” in red ink, and looked at the incoming number. Her phone didn’t recognize it. She drained what was left in her coffee cup, almost tossed the phone back in her purse but answered instead.

  A man’s voice came through, one she didn’t recognize, muffled as if filtered through a scrambler.

  Very weird.

  “I have a very simple proposition for you,” the man said. “A woman is in the process of dying as we speak. I’m going to give you the opportunity to save her—correction, possibly save her. I’m giving this opportunity to you and you alone. No one else in the universe gets this phone call. You’re the chosen one. So the question I have for you is very simple. Do you want to try to save her? If you do, then she has a chance. If you don’t, then she doesn’t. It’s that simple. It’s that black and white. You’re her god. How’s it feel?”

  Paige brought her 24-year-old body to a standing position and pushed long blond hair out of her face.

  The chair squeaked.

  “Who is this?”

  The man laughed. “No time for chitchat,” he said. “Just tell me if you’re going to do this or not.”

  She picked up a pencil and snapped it in two, pissed that someone had just stolen two minutes of her life and she let him.

  “Look,” she said, “I don’t know which one of my soon-to-be-ex friends put you up to this, but go back and tell them it wasn’t funny and I wasn’t dumb enough to fall for it.”

  TEN SECONDS AFTER SHE HUNG UP HE CALLED BACK. “Don’t ever do that again,” he said. “You think this is a joke? This is as far from a joke as you could ever get.”

  Even through the scrambler he sounded serious.

  “If you’re going to do this then you need to tell me right here, right now. If you’re not then that’s fine too. But if you don’t, then the woman dies, make no mistake about that. Nice guy that I am, I’ll even call you after the fact and tell you who she was.”

  “Tell me now,” she said. “Let me verify that someone’s missing. If it turns out to be true then count me in.”

  The man chuckled.

  “You’re going to be a lot of fun, you really are. But right now your time’s up. Give me your answer. But before you do, remember one last time, you’re her only hope. She has no one else. Only you.”

  Paige bit her lower lip and paced.

  She couldn’t say yes.

  But she couldn’t say no, just in case this was actually real.

  She needed time.

  “What happens if I say okay?” she asked.

  “Good girl,” the man said. “I’m going to take that as a yes. Be at the public parking lot at the corner of Broadway and 20th tonight at eight o’clock. Have your cell phone with you. Find a place to park and then sit in your car until I call.”

  “Broadway and 20th —”

  “Right. Eight o’clock sharp. And here’s the most important part—don’t tell anyone a single thing, don’t bring anyone, don’t do anything stupid, and above all, don’t call the police. If you do, I’ll know. I can always tell. Then all bets are off. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope so. I really do.”

  “What if I don’t show up?”

  The line went dead.

  THAT EVENING SHE DROVE INTO DENVER a half hour early, still not sure whether she would pull into the parking lot or drive past.

  All afternoon she kept her mouth shut and didn’t say a word to anyone.

  Instead she went to classes and hung out in the Law Review as if everything was normal. Now, in hindsight, she realized how incredibly stupid that had been.

  The guy could be luring her to her own death. At a minimum she should have typed out an explanation and set it on her desk in case she never returned.

  Too late now.

  She circled around the side streets while a nasty rain fell out of an ominous sky. The storm grew even louder as she surprised herself by pulling the junk-heap-of-a-car into the parking lot and killing the engine.

  Lightning crackled and twitched overhead.

  He was watching her.

  She could feel his eyes.

  But he wouldn’t be able to see the Taurus .357Mag revolver sitting in the passenger seat under a towel, fully loaded with the safety off—just in case. She slid her hand under the cloth and fingered the cold steel of the weapon.

  It felt as she remembered it.

  She wasn’t sure if it made her feel secure or more nervous.

  She’d shot it plenty after she got it for her fifteenth birthday; all the way through high school in fact, but hardly at all after she started college.

  Better to have it than not.

  Still, she wouldn’t be totally helpless without it.

  She was stronger than she looked. At five-feet-four and in baggy clothes she didn’t appear threatening, especially because of her easy white smile and pleasant tanned face. But underneath it all she had a sprinter’s thighs, good lungs and a hard stomach.

  And she knew how to wrestle.

  Growing up, on Saturday nights when her parents went out to the movies, her older brother would have his wrestling team buddies over. Out in the backyard they let her hang out with them and then, after they drank enough beer, they’d show her moves on the grass, mostly to get an excuse to pin her down and tickle her to death.

  She knew that.

  But still, she learned.

  Suddenly her cell phone rang.

  “THERE’S A HUMMER PARKED about six cars down from yours,” the man said. “In front of that Hummer there’s a yellow post. Sitting on top of that post is a key. Go get that key and then come back to your car.”

  “You said before that you chose me,” she said. “How did you do that? I mean, why me?”

  “Just shut up and get the key,” the man said.

  “Do we know each other?” she asked.

  The line went dead.

  Not good.

  She opened the door, stepped into the storm and looked for the Hummer. There it was, right where he said. The rain beat down with a fury and had her drenched by the time she got to the key. She grabbed it and ran back to the car as fast as her legs would take her. Then she slammed the door, wiped the water out of her eyes and waited for him to call.

  He didn’t.

  Come on.

  I did what you said.

  Minute after minute passed.

  Her ponytail dripped water down her back and she didn’t care.

  Then he called.

  “Don’t ever screw with me again,” he said. “Do you understand?”

  She moved her hand over until it touched the gun.

  “Yes.”

  “I sure hope so,” he said. "Are you ready for your instructions?”

  “Yes.”

  “Listen carefully because I’m only going to say them once,” the man said. “The woman you’re going to go to is in a railroad car—a boxcar to be precise—in an abandoned industrial area on the north edge of the city. I’ll give you directions in a minute. The door to the car is shut but not locked. You’ll have to struggle a little but you’ll be able to get it open. The woman is chained inside. She has a steel collar around her neck. That collar is secured by a padlock. The key
that you have in your hand fits that padlock. If she’s still alive all you have to do is unlock her and then drop her off somewhere where she’ll be found, on the side of a street or something. Don’t ask her name or ever try to contact her afterwards. And above all don’t ever tell anyone about any of this. That’s all there is to it. Do you think you can do it?”

  She did.

  No problem.

  “There’s one small thing you should know about,” he said. “I put her in there three days ago. I told her I’d never come back which, by the way, is technically true. I left her with only two things, a bottle of water and a razorblade. She definitely used the water by now. Whether she used the razorblade, I have no idea. But she might have, so you need to be prepared for that. In fact, to tell you the truth, most of ’em don’t last three days.”

  A chill ran up Paige’s spine and into her brain.

  “Give me directions,” she said.

  You sick freak.

  Chapter Two

  Day One—May 5

  Monday Evening

  ______________

  PAIGE TOOK I-25 NORTH as the worn-out wiper blades of her older-than-dirt Ford Mustang did a pathetic job of keeping up with the storm. The high-speed setting broke more than five years ago. The bald tires threatened to hydroplane at any second. Other drivers wove around her and she knew they were giving her the finger.

  Right now she didn’t care.

  Darkness approached.

  Streetlights would kick on soon.

  The wetness of her clothes worked its way into her bones, so much so that she turned on the heater, which amazingly still worked. She cut east when she got to I-70, exited at Vasquez and then wove her way into an industrial area north of the city.

  She’d never been in this particular section of the world before.

  It was cold and hard and creepy.

  She drove deeper and deeper into a darkening terrain. The buildings became fewer. More and more of them were boarded up and surrounded by chain-link fences. The asphalt turned to gravel.

  One eye in the rearview mirror told her no one followed.

  Still, the guy might be waiting for her. Don’t forget that. This whole thing could be a setup, in which case she would go down as one of the dumbest people on the face of the earth. The Taurus .357Mag gave her some comfort but not near as much as she thought it would.

  She had no idea if she could actually point it at a human being.

  Finally, after what seemed like a long time, she saw the designated landmark—a water tower that carved an eerie silhouette against a swirling black sky.

  She pulled up to the gate of a chain-link fence and killed the engine, just like she’d been told.

  Lightning arced across the sky.

  That’s when she saw the boxcar—a solitary shape sitting in a field by itself, to the left of an abandoned building.

  She picked up the gun and held it in her hands.

  Then she studied the surroundings as the storm beat down on the roof.

  No one was around.

  She double-checked the weapon to be sure the safety was off, then kept it in her right hand and got out of the car. The storm immediately pounded her and fingered its way into her clothes.

  THE CHAIN-LINK FENCE RAN PARALLEL to the road. About fifty steps down she found an opening, right where the man said it would be. She bent down, twisted through and walked across a squishy field towards the boxcar.

  She kept a good lookout.

  It was still light enough that she’d be able to see anyone coming. But no one did and she concentrated more and more on the boxcar.

  The man could be hiding inside, hidden under a blanket or a pile of hay, or on the roof waiting to drop down.

  The thought made her tighten her finger on the trigger.

  Wait.

  That was weird.

  The man said the door would be closed.

  It was open, not all the way, but enough for someone to get in or out.

  She approached, one step at a time, walking slower now.

  Suddenly a woman’s voice came from inside, sobbing and desperate.

  “No! Please stop!”

  Paige climbed a rusty ladder at the side of the door, took a deep breath, and stepped into the black opening.

  THERE SHE FOUND A HEAVYSET MAN thrusting wildly between a woman’s legs. He still wore a shirt but had his pants all the way off. The fat of his body rippled each time he struck her with his pelvis. The stench of urine and body odor filled the air.

  The woman was totally naked.

  A steel collar wrapped around her neck, chained to something in the corner. Her arms were tied behind her back. Suddenly she spotted Paige and shouted, “Help me! Please help me!”

  The man started to get up on one elbow and turn, but before he could get all the way around Paige closed the gap and hit him as hard as she could with the gun on the side of his head.

  He muttered something, then made a strange sound and fell limp on top of the woman.

  “Get him off me!”

  Paige grabbed the man’s shirt and dragged him off.

  The woman immediately scrambled into the corner.

  “It’s okay,” Paige said.

  The woman finally calmed down enough to let Paige put the key into the padlock. It actually fit and the collar came off. Then Paige untied her hands.

  The man still hadn’t moved or made a sound.

  As soon as the woman was free she picked up Paige’s gun, stuck the barrel in the man’s face and pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Three

  Day Two—May 6

  Tuesday Morning

  ______________

  THE BODY GOT CALLED IN by an anonymous man who sounded like a drifter. At the scene, Nick Teffinger—the 34-year-old head of Denver’s homicide unit—raked his thick brown hair back with his fingers and hardly paid any attention to the dead man’s fat ass or the mangled mess of flesh that had once been a face. He was a lot more interested in the collar, the collar attached to the chain, the collar that no longer held anyone captive.

  It was a quarter-inch thick and an inch wide; black; hinged on one side where it could be opened, with a clasp on the other side to accept a padlock.

  Detective Sydney Heatherwood—the newest member of the team and the only female African American detective—held a Kleenex over her nose to fend off the urine and guts as she squatted down to take a look at the padlock.

  “This lock has the key in it,” she said.

  Teffinger already knew that and said, “Do you see any fingerprints on it?”

  She laughed.

  “Two or three.”

  “Can you tell whose they are?”

  “No. They’re not any of the ones I have memorized.”

  “Too bad,” he said. “I was hoping we had this all wrapped up so I could get back to doing what I do best.”

  “Which is?”

  “Drinking coffee. I thought you knew that by now.”

  OUTSIDE, THE CRIME UNIT STILL HADN’T SHOWN UP, so they walked across the field to Teffinger’s truck to wait. He pulled out a thermos of coffee, filled two disposable cups, handed one to Sydney and then took a long noisy slurp.

  Ah, good stuff.

  Still pretty hot.

  Last night’s storm had given way to a cloudless blue sky. Springtime bugs were everywhere and sparrows darted in zigzag patterns to gobble them up.

  “So what’s your theory?” Sydney asked.

  He shrugged. “I’d rather be a bird than a bug. That’s my theory.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’ll remember that if I ever get the power to change you,” she said. “Which I’ve been praying for, by the way.”

  He chuckled and then got serious. “The dead guy’s a drifter. He probably stumbled on the boxcar last night and ducked in to get out of the storm. Judging by the fact he had his pants off, I’m guessing a woman was there, in the collar, when he entered.”

  “Can you imagine?” Sydney sa
id. “Crawling into a boxcar out in the middle of nowhere and finding a woman chained up inside?”

  Teffinger grunted.

  “It would be like winning the drifter’s lottery,” he said. “Whoever put the woman there in the first place must have come back when the drifter was having his fun. He didn’t take kindly to some stranger humping his property and rearranged his face with a bullet. Then he took the woman somewhere else.”

  “Meaning she’s still alive,” Sydney nodded.

  “At least as of that time.” Teffinger scratched his head. “What I don’t understand is why he didn’t take all the stuff—the collar and chain and padlock. It’s evidence. Why didn’t he take it? I would have.”

  Sydney made a face.

  “I don’t know, but I do know that I’m not getting paid enough for all that stench.”

  Teffinger chuckled.

  “Toughen up,” he said. “I own cologne worse than that.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

  Chapter Four

  Day Two—May 6

  Tuesday Morning

  ______________

  AARON TRANE—TARZAN—OWNED a four-story building next to the BNSF switchyard on the west edge of the city. Back in its heyday it housed a furniture manufacturing company. Now it only housed him. He lived on the top floor in a 6,000 square foot space that he called the loft. The space was just that, space, meaning one large rectangular room with oak plank floors and fourteen foot ceilings. There was only one enclosed area, for the darkroom.

  Other than that there were no walls.

  Not a one.

  Not for the bedroom, or the bathroom, or even the area where the models changed. Of course, he kept a few partitions on rollers around for the faint of heart—one by the toilet and one where the models dressed.

  At six-three, 235 pounds, the space fit his frame just fine.

  Anything smaller would be a cage.

  The west windows looked down on the tops of boxcars and engines and track. The clanging and squeaking of the switching operations were his wind chimes.

  He pushed his naked body off the mattress at the usual time, about 11:00 a.m., got the coffee machine going and jumped in the shower, soaking the thick blond mane of hair that hung halfway down his back, a good twelve to eighteen inches past his shoulders. He lathered his face with soap and shaved under the spray. Then did the same with his balls and dick, getting rid of every hair, so Del Rae wouldn’t be fighting with distractions when she went down to visit.