Dark Ride

  Dark Ride

  P.G. Kassel

  Storyteller Works

  Copyright © 2017 by P.G. Kassel

  All rights reserved. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Print Version ISBN 13: 978-0-9967919-2-2

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017913898

  Storyteller Works

  Los Angeles, CA

  Cover Design by Damonza

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Other Books by P.G. Kassel

  About the Author

  Reviews

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to my readers who made the time and effort to help me make this book the best it could be.

  Jeanine Carbonaro

  Debbie Eyre

  Shannon Havard

  Judy Johnson

  Amanda Jordan-Martin

  Arthur Lacey

  Brenda Moser

  Bob Palermini

  Lois Welsh

  To the memory of Rod Serling, the

  master of this style of story telling.

  Chapter One

  Larkin

  Officer Jack Larkin observed the witness, a junior at Reynolds High School and a part time clerk at a strip mall convenience store.

  "He can't see me, right? The clerk shuffled nervously as he peered through the one-way mirror into the interrogation room.

  "He can't see you," the Sergeant assured him. "Is that the man who robbed you this morning?"

  The clerk shuffled some more, gingerly brushing his fingertips over the nasty bruise that covered most of the right side of his face.

  “That bothering you?” the sergeant asked. “We can get you some aspirin.”

  “Nah… nah, it’s okay.”

  “At what point did that happen?” the Sergeant asked.

  “The guy… the robber grabbed me, grabbed the back of my neck and slammed my head down on the counter,” the clerk answered.

  “I understand that, son. I remember you telling me. But when? I mean at what point during the robbery?”

  “Sorry. Just after I opened the cash drawer. You know, to give him change for the gum. He reached across the counter.”

  "How long do I have to hang around here?" Marty Wedlow asked loudly from the interrogation room, his voice crackling through the intercom speaker.

  Larkin's partner, Oscar Romero, stepped into view on the other side of the glass.

  "It shouldn’t be much longer, Mr. Wedlow," Romero said. "We appreciate you coming in."

  "You guys just don’t get that I’ve got stuff to do," Wedlow said.

  "You just have to tell us the truth, son," the Sergeant encouraged the clerk. "There's no right or wrong answer here."

  "It's kinda hard to tell," the clerk said. "He was wearing a hoodie, ya know?" I mean he's about the same size of the guy. You know, kinda thin."

  "What about his face, maybe his hair color?" the Sergeant pushed.

  "Well... like I told ya... he had the hoodie pulled up. I'm sorry, man," the clerk said.

  "So, you didn't see his face?" the Sergeant tried again.

  The clerk shook his head. "I'm sorry. I was... I was kinda scared."

  The Sergeant took a deep breath. “Okay… no problem. We appreciate you coming in.” He turned to the young officer waiting next to the door. "Show him out please.”

  The officer opened the door and ushered the clerk into the hallway.

  "Son of a bitch!" Larkin cursed as the door closed.

  "Wedlow didn't have the cash on him when you picked him up and the clerk can't make a positive ID. We can't hold him," the Sergeant said.

  “You think it was just a big coincidence we came across him just three blocks from that store?” Larkin snapped.

  “Hey, I’m on your side,” the Sergeant responded.

  "Yeah… yeah, I’m sorry. It’s just that the slippery little ferret's managed to do it again."

  "You think maybe Wedlow had somebody working with him? Somebody he could've handed off the cash to?"

  "The clerk didn't see anybody else," Larkin answered. "He was sure as hell alone when we picked him up. I thought we had a good shot at the clerk nailing him."

  "Can’t blame the clerk. He got himself a big enough scare to wet his pants," the Sergeant said.

  The door opened and Romero stepped back into the room. He pointed through the glass at Wedlow. "So, where are we?"

  "Cutting him loose," Larkin said, unable to hide his anger.

  "What is it with this punk and you?" Romero asked Larkin.

  You haven't been here that long," the Sergeant answered. "Marty Wedlow's been kicking around our fair city for some five years now. Larkin's brought him in a dozen times on a variety of charges, but he always walks away."

  "He's either a mastermind criminal or the luckiest bastard that ever took a breath," Larkin answered. "And believe me, I know he's no mastermind."

  "Hey, Officer Larkin," Wedlow called, grinning up at the observation glass. "I'm kinda thirsty. How about a beer?"

  "It's a pain in the ass to see a guy like this get away with it all the time, but why are you so bent out of shape?" Romero asked. "This one was just a convenience store, and what did the clerk say was stolen, a hundred and twenty nine bucks? It's small potatoes."

  "This time," Larkin answered.

  The Sergeant picked up the manila folder from the counter beneath the observation glass. Flipping it open he began to read. "Marty Wedlow, thirty three years old. Suspicion three counts burglary, suspicion two counts robbery. This one makes it three counts robbery… unofficially, of course."

  "Still sounds like mostly small potatoes," Romero remarked.

  "He talks smooth enough but it all covers up a mean streak," Larkin advised.

  "Yeah? Romero said.

  "He's got multiple suspicion of assault counts in his packet," the Sergeant continued reading. "Slipped the noose on all of them."

  "But how?" Romero asked.

  "He's got a knack," the Sergeant sighed, glancing at the file. "One of them was on an elderly couple returning home from dinner one night. The assailant slipped into their garage after they pulled in, roughed up the old folks and stole their BMW. The car was found the next day twenty miles away."

  "Wedlow was seen in the neighborhood an hour before the attack and I picked him up within a few blocks of the stolen car," Larkin explained. "But there was no physical evidence in the vehicle and the couple said the assailant wore a mask."

  "So, he's really a tough guy when a victim has no way to defend themselves," Romero remarked.

  "Or when they're too young or weak," Larkin added. "He's been connected to a nasty rape, a couple of burglaries, some rough snatch and grabs; he dabbles in just
about anything that doesn't take a lot of thought or planning."

  "Hey, Larkin, where's that beer?" Wedlow called out again.

  "Looking at him you'd never guess he had it in him," Romero said.

  "He's got it in him," Larkin said.

  "Maybe turning him loose is a blessing in disguise," the Sergeant said. "Once he's out on the street again it’s just a matter of time. He’s bound to slip up somewhere. Keep a close eye on him. Maybe the next time you bring him in it'll be for something that we can put him away for so long he won't have that arrogant grin on his face by the time he gets out."

  "Yeah, well, we've wasted enough time on him today," Larkin groused.

  "Yeah, get him out of here," the Sergeant said.

  * * *

  Sure hate to see you guys waste all this time," Wedlow remarked as Larkin and Romero escorted him down the hallway.

  “You never get tired of flappin’ that mouth, do you?” Larkin responded.

  “Just seems like every time you drag me in here you never have any evidence. That seems like a waste of time to me. Must be just bad luck, huh?” Wedlow gibed.

  “You agreed to come in with us, remember? And luck, well, it’s a funny thing. Eventually the odds always turn," Larkin said.

  "You talk like I've been doing something wrong," Wedlow said lightly as they reached the booking counter.

  Larkin suddenly grabbed Wedlow's arm and shoved him up against the plexiglass.

  "Jack," Romero cautioned.

  "You know what you've been doing, you piece of scum. And God sure as hell knows it," Larkin hissed.

  "God?" Wedlow repeated. "You religious, Larkin?"

  "God, the universe, fate, whatever the greater power might be," Larkin answered. "But if it is God then there's heaven, and if there's heaven, then there's gotta be hell. And if there's hell... well, then you've got a shitload of trouble coming your way."

  "Let me go, man," Wedlow said, his voice uneven.

  Larkin let him go and turned to see the officer managing the front counter watching him with some concern.

  "Just a little misunderstanding," Larkin shrugged.

  "I didn’t see a thing,” the officer muttered, quickly turning his attention to a pile of reports in front of him.

  Larkin heard the entrance doors open and turned to see two young cops he knew escorting a tall, slender man into the building. His hands were cuffed behind him. One of the cops carried an old fashioned, well worn leather satchel that had to belong to their prisoner.

  The man’s features were rather hawkish with a thin nose and pointed chin. He had a pallid complexion and strands of long, wiry hair fell across his high forehead. An old dark coat, a good century out of style, reached down below his knees.

  Larkin judged the guy to be in his mid thirties, but there was something about him. He seemed much older.

  “What’s going on with that coat?” Wedlow chuckled. “It must be at least eighty degrees outside.”

  “Shut up, Marty,” Larkin ordered.

  "What've you got here?" Larkin asked as the cops brought the cuffed man to a stop beside the desk.

  "He was putting on quite a show on a corner a couple of blocks from the beach," one of the cops answered. "Tarot cards, telling fortunes, predicting the future, that kind of stuff, and all of it without a street performance permit."

  “Come on, Larkin,” Wedlow pushed. “Let me get out of here and then you can talk with your buddies all you like.”

  "That his gear?" Romero asked, ignoring Wedlow and pointing at the satchel.

  "Yeah," the cop answered. "All the tools of the trade."

  "What'd you bring him in for?" Larkin asked.

  "A couple of local business owners complained. He's not carrying any ID, and he won't tell us his name," the second cop answered.

  "Yeah, why won't you tell them your name?" Larkin asked the man.

  The hawkish man turned his head slowly to look at Larkin and smiled a strange smile.

  "It's not yet time," he answered, his voice old.

  "What the hell does that mean?" Romero laughed.

  Marty Wedlow suddenly let out a shriek. "Get it off me, get if off," he cried.

  Larkin turned to see an average sized house spider crawling up Wedlow's arm to his shoulder. He leaned over and swatted it away. The spider fell to the floor and Wedlow hastily backed away from it.

  "Look at this, Romero, our tough guy scared of a little spider," Larkin laughed.

  The spider began moving towards Wedlow.

  “I hate the damn things,” Wedlow puled, backing away.

  "Don't worry, Marty. I'll save you," the hawkish man said, his tone mocking.

  The man stepped forward and brought his foot down on the spider.

  "You know this guy?" Larkin asked the hawkish man.

  "Marty? Oh, he’s very well known," he replied.

  There it was again, that hollow, mocking tone. Larkin felt an involuntary shudder run down his spine.

  "I've never laid eyes on this guy in my life," Marty said, glaring at the hawkish man. "And what the hell, you making fun of me. So what if I can't stand spiders? Everybody's got something they're afraid of."

  "And you have more than your share,” the hawkish man said.

  "Screw you," Marty snapped.

  The hawkish man just smiled again, that thin little smile.

  "Can I get out of here, now?" Wedlow asked Larkin.

  "The sooner the better," Larkin told him.

  Wedlow took a few steps towards the door but then spun back towards the hawkish man.

  "Careful," Larkin cautioned him.

  "You think you're so damn smart," Wedlow hissed at the hawkish man. "Predicting the future, my ass! Did you predict getting dragged in here today?"

  The hawkish man's lips curled up in that odd smile again.

  "Come on," Wedlow persisted. "How about you tell me my future? Right now."

  "I tend to agree with the officer, here," the hawkish man answered, nodding at Larkin. "Yes, you might say the fates have turned against you, Marty. Your luck is certainly changing... and your time is running out."

  Larkin couldn't hide his surprise. How did this guy know what he'd said to Wedlow back in the hallway? The guy wasn't even in the building at the time.

  Wedlow looked a little rattled.

  "All right," the first cop said. "Enough chitchat. Let's go."

  He and his partner escorted the hawkish man to the booking desk.

  Larkin took hold of Wedlow's arm. "Out you go, Wedlow."

  "Take it easy," Wedlow responded without resisting.

  Larkin marched him out the front door and onto the sidewalk.

  "I know I'll see you again soon," Larkin said.

  "Whatever you say," Wedlow shrugged.

  Larkin watched him amble off down the sidewalk and was about to go back inside when one of the senior detectives he was acquainted with called out to him. He took a couple of minutes to catch up with detective and then headed back inside.

  "What kept you?" Romero asked.

  "Just talking to a guy I know," Larkin answered.

  The two cops who had brought in the hawkish man were still at the desk completing their paperwork. He hurried over to them.

  "Hey, where'd you put your guy?" Larkin asked.

  "Interrogation Two," one of them responded. "Soon as we’re done here we’re gonna see if the Sergeant can get a name out of him."

  "I've got a couple of questions for him myself, if you guys don’t mind," Larkin said.

  “Knock yourself out.”

  Larkin headed down the hall with Romero behind him.

  He reached the room and opened the door.

  "Hey," he heard Romero blurt out behind him.

  The room was empty.

  Chapter Two

  Stevie

  Marty Wedlow walked along the city street with his usual overconfident swagger. He hated that he wasn't all that strong or all that tough, but he did a pretty good job of dis
guising that with his walk and his attitude. Most of the time it didn't even occur to him that he was masking anything, but today it all felt like smoke and mirrors. He didn't feel confident, he felt pissed.

  He was pissed that Larkin didn’t even offer to give him a ride back to where they picked him up, even after he went along willingly when they asked if he’d mind going to the station to answer some questions. Of course, cooperating with the cops was all smoke and mirrors, too.” And he was pissed he had to walk over two miles to get back to where he'd left his car.

  And then there was that freak he’d run up against in the police station. What'd that asshat know, anyway? He was about as real a fortune teller as a department store Santa Claus. The freak was just full of bullshit and that was all there was to it.

  He dealt with his upset by visualizing the fortune teller giving him crap and then decking him with a fast right hook. He sure couldn't predict that coming. That's what he wished he could've done but it was never like that for him. In high school he still remembered the getting pushed around, the bullying, the humiliation.

  Walking down the street, he trusted nothing, he trusted no one. People he passed could have it out for him or mark him as somebody to screw over. He'd never met a cop who didn't want to make his life miserable.

  The afternoon was hot and the sun beat down through his short, cropped hair. The ocean was less than two miles away but today there was no cooling breeze blowing inland. He swiped his arm across his forehead to stop the sweat from dripping into his eyes. He was only a few minutes from his car but his feet hurt. Everything was just a big pain in the ass today.