Souther had gotten a brief look at the boy's mother back at the apartment, but it had been dark, and he could see that she was much more beautiful a and desirable a than he remembered.

"I can see where you get your good looks, kid," he said. "How old's the photo?"

"I don't know," Aaron said stubbornly. "I want it back."

Souther turned away and studied the photo. Ashley's large eyes looked straight into the lens, her lithe body was turned slightly toward the camera as she leaned into her man, her slender arms around his neck, a breast pressed lightly against his powerful bicep, a bare foot raised a few inches off the gra.s.s, her shorts and halter top seemingly airbrushed on. Souther felt a stirring in his loins as he took it all in.

"We'd better get moving," Needles said.

Souther took a moment to archive the delicious image ... then he tossed the photo to Needles. Needles stared at Ashley for a long moment. Beeks took a look for himself over Needles's shoulder.

"Her name's Ashley Quinn," Souther said, using the name from the electric bill. "You know what to do ..."

"We'll find her," Needles said.

"On your way out, drop by the apartment and clean up the mess on the stairs," Souther said.

"Will do," Needles said. He pocketed the photo then climbed into the white van and fired up the engine. Beeks opened the large roll-up door, then jumped in with him.

Souther called to Needles. "Don't lose that picture ... I want it back."

Needles smiled to himself, thinking, Like that would ever happen.

Then the two thugs headed out into the city.

Chapter 17.

Cold Concrete Souther rolled the big door closed, then walked over and cut Aaron's restraints. He picked up the lamp and led Aaron to the cannery's main floor break room: a s.p.a.ce the size of large bedroom with a kitchenette; a legless, maroon-velvet sofa; and a large, heavy wooden table.

There was a small door in the back of the room that Aaron and w.i.l.l.y had always been too afraid to open. Souther didn't have that problem, of course. Without hesitation he turned the k.n.o.b and opened the door wide.

A clammy vapor wafted up into Aaron's face, smelling of mold and urine. It was icy cold and damp against his skin, contradicting the Biblical fire-and-brimstone he had expected to encounter in h.e.l.l.

"Go on down," Souther said, gesturing with the lantern.

Aaron could only imagine the myriad of horrors waiting for him down those stairs. He stepped cautiously through the low door and started down the steep steps. Souther followed closely, his lantern casting a hazy gloom over the forbidding s.p.a.ce as they descended into thickening darkness.

At last Aaron's shoes found the packed earth of a dirt floor, and he paused to look around. The room was basically a rough concrete cube, about ten by ten feet, and mostly empty.

Souther set the lantern on a box and pointed to a corner. "There's a coffee can over there if you need to pee," he said. "When you're ready to talk, bang on the door and someone will hear you." Then he turned and climbed back up the stairs.

Aaron sat down heavily on a blue plastic milk crate. There was a fresh bottle of water sitting in the dirt next to him. He looked at it for a moment. They say you can last three weeks without food, he thought, but only three days without water. Then he twisted it open and drank deeply.

Souther paused near the top of the stairs. "I'll find your mother with or without your help, kid," he said. Then he ducked through the door and locked it behind him.

Aaron screwed the cap back onto the bottle and set it in on the box with the lantern. Then he leaned back against the cold concrete wall and fell asleep.

Chapter 18.

The Boiler House Needles and Beeks were in the white van heading back to the cannery. They had succeeded in cleaning up the apartment and had Tom's body stashed in the back of the van.

Beeks rode shotgun. "I'm hungry," he announced.

"You're kidding me," Needles said. "Fifteen minutes ago I watched you down five beef n' cheese burritos, two sides of beans, and a boatload of chips."

Beeks thought about that for a moment. "I only had one thing of beans," he said, "and them burritos was plain a no f.u.c.kin' cheese."

"How would you know? The whole meal only lasted thirty seconds."

"Yeah ... well, I know one thing, motherf.u.c.ker, you're wrong about what I ate, and I'm f.u.c.kin' hungry."

"That's two things, dumba.s.s. And I'm never wrong."

"The h.e.l.l you ain't."

Needles paused, then said thoughtfully, "Yeah, well, I thought I was wrong once ... but it turned out I was right. So, I guess I was wrong about that."

"f.u.c.k you."

"Well, I'm not stopping again."

"I'm starving, and you could give a s.h.i.t," Beeks said.

"Doesn't your wife ever feed you?"

"No."

"So why'd you marry her?"

"Does your wife feed you?"

"She would if I had one."

"Kiss my a.s.s."

Johnny Souther hated to be cold, an obsession he picked up after many chilly years in Northern prisons, and his men were instructed to keep the cannery furnace firing full blast. The heat came from radiators supplied by steam from a natural-gas-fired boiler, as the city had neglected to shut off the gas when condemning the building. The current boiler, housed in a brick-and-mortar boiler house attached to the rear of the cannery in the area of the shipping yard, was installed as part of the 1907 reconstruction following the accident that destroyed it in 1905.

Needles and Beeks entered the boiler house struggling with the dead-weight of their load. Beeks had the shoulders and Needles the feet.

"I got the heavy f.u.c.kin' half," Beeks grunted.

"Like h.e.l.l you did," Needles said, gritting his teeth.

The huge welded-steel replacement boiler (converted from coal to gas in 1965), was 17 feet long and six feet in diameter and nearly filled the s.p.a.ce. Years of greasy soot clung to every surface and caulked every crevice. Shafts of firelight flashed through the boiler-oven's vent slots, generating brilliant patterns on the blackened brick walls.

The thugs dropped the body in front of the furnace, creating plumes of ash. Beeks yanked on the lever and when he pulled the ma.s.sive cast-iron door open a blast of super-heated air knocked them both back a step.

"Son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h!" Beeks exclaimed, feeling his forehead. "I think I'm missing a d.a.m.n eyebrow."

"As if you had any to begin with," Needles said.

"Bite me," Beeks said.

They hefted the body again and shuffled up to the brink of the inferno.

"Let's get it right this time," Needles said, turning his face away from the heat of the flames. "I don't want a repeat of the last horror show."

Beeks nodded a he remembered it well. They had m.u.f.fed the toss and the corpse had landed half in and half out of the roaring furnace; and by the time they managed to stuff the rest of the body inside and shut the door, the sight and smell of it had nearly killed them both.

Needles called the count: "On three, ready? One ... two ... heave! "

Chapter 19.

Sun-dried Squid The thugs showed Ashley's picture to everyone they met: shop owners, pa.s.sers by, vagrants, motel clerks.

The trail led them to an all-night gas station located out on the old highway, west of town. Needles pulled off onto the muddy drive, then rolled the van's front tires up against a railroad tie and killed the engine.

Beeks thought they'd arrived in the Old West: the hitching rails; the wagon wheels; the ancient, gla.s.s-top fuel pump out front. Needles marveled that the property was wired for electricity.

They glanced at each other then stepped out of the van and started toward the office.

Out of nowhere, a tall, shirtless, ninety-year-old strip of beef jerky wrapped in denim coveralls, a straw cowboy hat, and ancient snakeskin boots appeared. His faded, pink-paisley neckerchief looked like a rope quoit tossed over a stake. Beeks took a half step back, convinced that they had traveled back in time.

The old man was visibly grateful for the company, speaking in an aristocratic, yet lively manner that belied his years.

"Greetings, friends," he said n.o.bly, his s's making short whistling sounds as they pa.s.sed through the gap where his front teeth used to be. "To what do I owe the honor of your visit?"

"Greetings to you, sir," Needles replied, then asked him if he'd mind answering some questions. The old man nodded and invited them inside.

The business office was little more than a shack; however, a couple of years back, in a sad effort that consumed the bulk of the old man's life savings, he had converted it into a miniature convenience store complete with wall-length cooler, credit-card reader, and surveillance camera.

The card reader actually functioned, but the camera was a cardboard fake, and most of the food in the cooler was stocked there when the unit was originally installed. Beeks grabbed a pre-packaged ham 'n cheddar sandwich from the cooler, but he changed his mind about eating it when he noticed some extra protein running around under the cellophane and a sell-by date from the Great Depression.

An open bottle of premium whiskey stood on the counter by the register near a baby-moon hubcap full of cigarette b.u.t.ts a one of which was still smoldering. The old man picked up the bottle and turned to his guests.

"Would you boys care to join me?" he asked.

"Sure, old man," Needles said. "We'll drink with you." His answer surprised Beeks, since they were "on duty," but he wasn't about to argue.

The old man poured, and the three men clinked gla.s.ses before downing the shots. Beeks smacked his sizable lips and burped, then shoved his gla.s.s forward for seconds.

Needles took out Ashley's photo and showed it to the old man. He studied it at arm's length for a while, and judging by his reaction, his eyesight and hormones were still functioning reasonably well.

"She was here, all right," he said at last. "I remember, 'cause I used to have a '65 just like hers a 'cept mine had a stick instead'a the Powerglide. I topped her off, and she bought grape juice, crackers, and a pint of gin."

Beeks doubted the wisdom of the non-alcoholic portion of that purchase.

The old man continued. "I figured she was some sort of outa-town movie star or somethin' a bein' so uncommonly pretty and drivin' around town in her negligee and all. But she was acting strange a kinda nervous I guess you'd say. And she had this look in her eye a like someone barely clinging to sanity."

Needles thought about that for a moment, then laid a $50 bill on the counter.

The old man's silver-thatched eyebrows twitched at the sight of it a it had been a long time since he'd seen anything larger than a $5. He pulled a wadded, white-lace-bordered handkerchief out of his pocket, put it to his lips, and coughed something disgusting into it. The thugs tried not to imagine what it was, but they couldn't help themselves.

"Which way did she go?" Needles asked, swallowing involuntarily.

"I'd say west," the old man replied confidently. He pointed in that direction like a roasted chicken stretching its wing. "I could hardly believe her little Chevy was still a runnin', with its front-end smashed in so. But it weren't leakin' and one of her headlights was lit ... so I let her be." He coughed more of the mystery substance into his handkerchief. "One d.a.m.n-crazy customer a that's what she was."

"Thanks, old man," Needles said, shoving the $50 forward. He shook the man's hand, taking care not to crack it. Like squeezing a sun-dried squid, he thought.

The old man nodded and tipped his hat. Then Needles and Beeks headed back outside and continued down the highway.

Chapter 20.

The Call Ashley watched as raindrops began to hit random targets on her windshield. They developed into a downpour and her wipers were of little effect as she strained to see the road through the chaotic blackness. She was headed west out the old highway with no idea where she was going. All she could think to do was to run, so running she was.