19 Souls Read online

  Not an unusual request. But she needed to know the reality. “I’m happy to do that. But know that this could take some time. I don’t have much to go on here. Some of the process is a waiting game.”

  “I’m not so good with patience or being in the dark.” She turned to leave.

  “Mind if I ask how you got my name?” Most of his business came from referrals. Jim liked to know if he needed to thank someone, or pay them.

  She headed to the door. “Your yellow pages dot com ad.” She said it over her shoulder, not bothering to slow the swing of her hips in that creamy mustard yellow skirt.

  Maybe yellow wasn’t so bad after all.

  3

  Sophie peeled off the clothes she’d taken from the dead woman’s closet. They were tight and not at all comfortable. She’d never been a slave to fashion. Even for work, comfortable slacks, a loose jacket, and flat shoes were her usual uniform. She sat on the side of the bed and rubbed her feet. The mattress felt good under her weight. Much better than the hotel she’d occupied for the last few weeks. She pulled her jeans back on and padded barefoot into the living room. She paused at the end of the short hallway.

  Danny’s sister’s body still lay where Sophie had dropped it. The thing had to be moved. If someone came to the front door, they might catch a glimpse of her ugly feet sticking out from behind the couch. The layout of the little ranch was a simple T with the guest bath far enough away from the bedroom to prevent Sophie from living with the impending smell.

  She rummaged through the hall linen closet and found a tattered plastic tablecloth with strips of the plastic peeling away from the fabric liner. Red checked. Rather quaint for the task. She rolled the body onto the plastic, wrapping it like a burrito. Then, using the top corners, she dragged it down the hall and into the muted pink tiled bath. Obviously seventies, but the lighting and nickel fixtures helped to modern it up a little.

  She heaved the wrapped body into a sitting position against the side of the tub. After a deep breath, she squatted over it. Needed to have the power of her legs to lift. The woman was small, but dead weight was dead weight and Sophie didn’t want to wrench her back. She grunted with the upward force. Teeth clenched as she hefted with all her might and the body flopped ungracefully into the tub.

  She looked in the cabinet under the basin and found several cleaning products. Clog remover. She read the label aloud. “Sodium hydroxide and lye. Perfect.”

  The tablecloth had slipped under the body and exposed a good bit of flesh. Carefully, she reached around the thing’s legs and pushed the stopper down. She emptied the bottle over its length and ran enough water to cover it.

  The foaming clog remover created an unusual mix of blue swirling with the scarlet red seeping from hair and clothes. The trashcan was overflowing with rumpled tissue, so she dropped the empty bottle in the tub.

  Sophie washed her hands under hot water at the vanity. “Don’t look in the mirror.” The instruction was given to the thing in the tub, but Sophie wasn’t about to glance into the looking glass either. Mirrors brought opinions and commentary from the past, from a time before she’d messed up her life. When there was hope, maybe even a time or two she felt joy.

  With this messy job it was likely to have something nasty to say. That bitch in her head loved to pick apart Sophie’s inadequacies. Doubtless, it looked down on this performance, would preach at her for being impatient and leaving a body lying around the house. But Sophie had no desire to get it into the car and drive out to the desert. For now anyway. Maybe tomorrow.

  She had promised the voice to learn something each time she killed. To look past the way it made her feel and find ways to make the task easier, faster, or cleaner. After all, she had to be perfect when the investigator found Dan or he would still find her unworthy. Spurn her again.

  Memories of his mocking words the last time she found him made her chest tighten, her blood pulse. Trying to find Dan had caused her much anxiety, but it was worth it. He was hers. Anyone who tried to stop them this time … She tried to swallow past the bile in the back of her throat. Reminded herself she needed to take her meds. She needed to be in control.

  She dried her hands and ducked out of the bathroom without looking in the mirror. She’d already covered the other three in the house.

  She grabbed a big blanket from the linen closet on her way back to the living room. Folding it over twice, she spread it over the blood the body had left on the floor. Only a small bit peeked out near the counter.

  You should clean that.

  “No one’s coming here. It’s not a problem.”

  Her stomach grumbled from lack of breakfast, but there was no way she was eating the tree-hugging fare in that diner. It reminded her of regurgitated baby shit. Come to think of it, Bean really didn’t look the type to eat it either. And he did not match the impression she’d had of him. Instead of a skinny nerd with thick glasses, Bean was at least six-two, and if she had to guess, he was every bit of two forty, two forty-five. It would take a big dose to put him down. She’d keep that in mind.

  One of the reasons she hated people was their unpredictability. She liked things to have a certain amount of the expected to them. Made decision making easier for her. A PI punching people yesterday and eating vegan mush for breakfast today. Who’d have thought it?

  Sophie grabbed some cheese slices out of the bags she’d set on the counter. She’d made a quick stop for cigs and snack food. After all, the body in the bathroom wouldn’t have had much food on hand, now would she? Cynthia Hodge had thought she was going to an accounting seminar in L.A.—all expenses paid.

  “Brilliant.” Sophie marveled at her mind at times. She’d set up the trip. Going as far as to buy an airline ticket and express it to this address so the body would be packed and all ready to leave. And more important, take plenty of time off work. No one would miss her for days. “Brilliant,” Sophie said again for a verbal back pat.

  She lit a cig and took a long drag. In her opinion, nicotine was more help than her Prozac. Sophie had done her part now. The final leg of her long-term plan was in motion. All she needed was for Bean to find where Dan was living in a hurry, before the body would be expected back at the office. He had a week at most. Sophie would monitor its emails and calls in the meantime to keep the body’s friends from becoming worried. But the charade would only be sustainable for so long.

  She stuck one of the supposedly lean frozen meals in the microwave. It took her a moment to figure out the unfamiliar controls. When the turntable started spinning, she stood over the couch and picked up the remote control neatly waiting on the armrest. The noon news was on. A perky weather girl detailed what any moron could figure out with just the graphics. “Fucking hot all week.” She muted the sound.

  Two other bags sat at her feet. Not from the grocery but an earlier excursion to the hardware store and the pharmacy. Easing onto the couch, she carefully opened her little black suitcase on the coffee table. Her fingers traced the foam compartments. A long time went into the planning and arranging in there. Her knife drew her attention as she sat on the cream-colored cushions of the sofa. Good thing she’d not gotten blood on it. The leather chair looked far less comfortable.

  The gleaming batwing switch with an English staghorn handle had been a present to herself after Number One. The switchblade she’d used on that bitch had been cheap. The handle had cracked, almost snapped, and it slipped in her hand. Sophie rubbed a small scar at the base of her thumb. Fortunately she’d managed not to leave any DNA around. Or if she had, she didn’t think the police had found it.

  “Pays to be prepared.” So she’d invested in some proper tools and this beauty. It was heavy, thirteen inches with the blade extended, and finely sharpened. It had never let her down. Never bit back. The blade felt like magic under her light caress. The pleasing light hazelnut­–colored staghorn was textured just enough to help keep a firm grip
.

  Next to it was a foam cutout big enough to hold several pairs of gloves. She double gloved most the time after that first incident. New knife, yes, but she couldn’t be too careful. It wouldn’t do to have someone search for her DNA now. Now that the plan was in action, now that she was so close to Dan.

  A cell phone rang. Sophie jumped, even squeaked. She needed to calm her nerves. Take her meds.

  The ringer went off again. The body’s phone. Sophie let it go to voicemail. She didn’t want to talk to any of the body’s friends or coworkers. But she would text them back if she felt like they needed placating. She’d check it later. Work then play.

  Her attention swung back to her case. Below the knife were auto injector pens set into the foam so she could get to them easily if need be. Seven. All had been preloaded with a strong animal tranquilizer—ketamine. Easier to obtain than the human equivalent and just as effective. She’d used one on the body in the bathroom.

  When Sophie, disguised as a cabbie, had come to her door for the ride to the airport, there was a cab running in the drive. Sophie had stood there in dark jeans, a dark long-sleeved shirt, and a cap. She’d offered to get the luggage. The body, his sister, had been happy for the assistance, even turned her back to get her purse from the kitchen counter.

  That was the magic moment. That instant when Sophie knew all would be well. Easy peasy. She’d hit the body on the back of the neck with the injector and held the body in a headlock from behind until it started to falter. Then she’d used her staghorn knife. Thirteen inches of beautiful steel to cut a precise six inches. Most people say ear to ear when they talk about a slit throat. But the sweet spot was lower, about two inches on most average-sized adults. So she sliced from artery to artery. The body fainted from the drugs before a good fight or bleeding out. It then sagged to the floor at Sophie’s feet with nary a struggle. Quite sad really, for her life to go out in an instant when she had spent the week expecting a great trip and conference.

  Not Sophie’s concern. Cynthia Hodge was a tool. Just like the items in her case. A nice clean kill, that was. She’d retrieved a tiny syringe from the fresh box she’d bought with a forged ’script and filled it with the tranquilizer from the amber bottle nestled inside a bundle of gloves for protection. The ketamine. She plunged the needle in and sucked out the tranquilizer. She loaded it into the disassembled auto-injector. With a quick twist and a compression of a spring, she had the Epipen-type auto injector back together. Only this brand was smaller, slimmer. Admiring her ingenuity and skill, she returned it to its proper place in the kit.

  A square cutout in the corner of the case housed a roll of green plastic-covered garden wire, a small pair of wire cutters, a few bandages, a spare pair of contacts, and a trash bag. Her tools were ready. Calmness tingled through her body. She was ready.

  4

  Bean poured a shot of very good scotch he’d bought using the top Benjamin from the stack of Cynthia Hodge’s bills. He’d been drinking cheap rot-gut brands over the last few weeks. Annie was chomping happily on her indulgence as well. Tuna Feast the can had read. He thought the picture of the white longhaired cat on the can was the perfect negative of his little black Annie.

  He popped open a spanking new laptop. The new computer was part of the reason his funds were dangerously low this month. He’d been watching a thug for an insurance company and the mark had caught on, bum-rushed Jim’s car at four in the morning with a two-by-four, and swung away. His computer took the brunt of one of the blows. Jim used it to protect his face as the wooden weapon crashed through the windshield. Shock resistant … my ass.

  It had been cheaper to get his head fixed than replace the computer. Sadly, he’d needed both. Got a new laptop a week later, but he was stuck with the same old skull. He sipped the scotch in lieu of more pain meds. Only hurt occasionally now. Couldn’t discern the pain from his normal morning headaches anymore. On top of the cost of replacing the hardware, he’d lost the revenue from not getting the information for his client. They’d fired him. Asshats.

  The screen opened for the INtellix database. He typed in Dan’s full name and hit search. Little bubbles swirled in a circle as the software searched nationwide for criminal records on Daniel Kent Hodge. Several hits returned. Oregon, Texas, Florida, and Michigan all listed individuals by that name. He clicked the one listed for Texas. That click costs him eight bucks. Three more listings appeared on the screen. Possible relatives and associates. Cynthia, his mother, and another male in his sixties, deceased, with the last name Hodge. And another man named Halbert Winters.

  Arrest record was pretty short for a junkie.

  Forth Worth, 2006, Drunk and disorderly. Fined $200

  and time served.

  Austin, 2007, Drunk and disorderly. Resisting arrest.

  Fined $350. Time served.

  Neither of those would be pled down from a drug charge. Chances were he hadn’t started using while he still lived in Texas.

  Jim popped over to another database. Financial trail. Harder to trace, but it might even generate him a sweet social security number. That would be a help. Again, all of Dan Hodge’s records disappeared after 2009.

  Cold trail. Not looking good for evidence of life. Hopefully he wouldn’t find a death record. The stack of cash was burning a hole in his pocket. Finding the kid dead in two hours meant giving most of it back to the redhead.

  Jim let another sip linger on his tongue. Annie jumped onto the table and settled beside the laptop to begin her grooming ritual. The cat was so predictable. Always started with her paws gently rubbing over her eyes like a tired baby, ended with her ass. Next step was to try to rub his face.

  He scratched her head. With an annoyed, chirping meow she turned away but didn’t deviate from her routine.

  Jim tried another search tool. The results closely mirrored the INtellix information. How does someone drop off the face of the earth and still manage to come see or call his mother? Maybe he’d snail mailed her. Bank accounts needed socials, credit cards needed socials. This kid had no marriages, no liens, no judgments, no back taxes, and no death record. Not on file anyway.

  He Googled. Found one picture of Dan standing next to Halbert Winters. He saved the pic and zoomed in on the banner in the photo’s background. Party on the Porch … Texas Circuit Finals Rodeo.

  He typed in Halbert Winters. Hal was a veteran of the Pro Rodeo Association. If he was, maybe Dan had been too. He looked up the history page on the association’s website. Sure enough.

  Annie finished with her ass and padded her way to him, purring, wanting attention. “No way, stinky butt. You’re not kissing me with that mouth.” He directed her away from his computer.

  He scanned the pages. D. Hodge and H. Winters traded the top spot in the saddle bronc events from 2006 to 2009. Both made pretty good money for the finals. Dan had had some cash back then.

  The association had an event this coming weekend in Fort Worth. “Maybe Hal is still around.”

  Annie meowed her agreement at him.

  In the meantime, Jim decided to pop in and see what Dan’s momma had to say about her baby boy. Maybe she would remember something. Jim was good with talking people into doling out facts. Sometimes facts they didn’t even know they knew. It was his talent. Besides, old ladies liked him.

  5

  “Get your skinny butt outta my room.” The command was almost a shriek. Serious enough to stop Jim in his tracks.

  He looked to the open door at his back. Nothing but empty hall. Who was she talking to? He was just shy of 230 pounds these days. No one would call him skinny.

  The woman faced away from him, silver hair shining in the late-afternoon sun. The glow was the only thing in the room that looked warm. Beige walls would have made it a bit warmer, but almost every inch below about the five and a half foot mark was haphazardly covered in newspaper articles.

  Momma Hodge’s retire
ment suite was little more than a hospital room. A beige couch that might seat two people was jammed into the space between the window and a cinderblock wall. No other seating but the rolling chair Mrs. Hodge currently occupied as she faced the open window. He doubted she could see out from her low angle, but a collection of scuffs on the floor indicated her attraction to the location.

  A hospital-gray bed frame with a knot of tangled white sheets was the only other furniture. A small stand held a lamp, a glass of water, and a mirror. Beside the bed at Jim’s feet was a two-foot-tall stack of newspapers. Jim glanced at the front page of the one on top. Older than a week.

  “I said … ” She spun the swivel chair and rolled it several feet until directly in front of Jim. She nudged her glasses closer to her eyes. “You’re not Stephen.” She chuckled. Shook her head, apparently amused. “But I suppose you knew that, didn’t ya?”

  “I believe so. Last I checked I was Jim Bean.” She was a feisty one to be talking to the staff like that.

  “Beam? Like the whiskey? Could sure use a snort of that at the moment. You bring me any?” Her face was painted with hopeful anticipation.

  Jim smiled. There it was. Several times a week he answered this question. Used to piss him off. Not so much anymore. He was the one who changed his name. He should have given it much more consideration at the time. He thought it was kind of cool when he did it. He’d been holding an expensive cup of joe from a fancy place down the block from the courthouse. A bean was roughly painted on the cardboard sleeve. Behind him a loud talker was jabbering away on the phone. He was in coveralls, like the mechanics wear. James was scrolled across a patch on his chest. James Bean. Good enough. He’d shortened it to Jim as he filled out the paperwork for the change. And Jim Bean was born.

  These days he used the question: “Jim Beam? Like the whiskey?” as a way to judge character. The more uptight or nervous a person was, the less likely they were to bluntly ask him.