The Groomer, page 21
Only Emilio’s cries echoed through the shop. Andrew sat on top of him, stunned. He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth.
He said, “That was quite the speech. I’ve heard it all before. ‘You’re the victim, we’re the bad guys, yadda yadda yadda.’ The problem is: I don’t remember asking you for your opinion.”
“Come on, man…”
“Since Grace isn’t here, I’m going to assume she’s with your buddy. Damian Hall, right? That’s what you said?”
“Yeah, but–”
“Where can I find him?”
“Just forget about–”
Andrew pinched the nub on his face that used to be his nose. Emilio screamed and writhed on the creeper. Blood rolled down his cheeks and onto his ears.
“An address, Emilio. Now,” Andrew said.
“Okay! Okay! Oh, fuck!” Emilio yelled. Andrew released his nose. Panting to catch his breath, Emilio said, “223… Sunset… Drive.”
“Good boy. Now, don’t move.”
“I–I can’t… breathe. Help… me.”
Andrew searched the address on his cell phone. The house was located in the Rolando Hills neighborhood. That’s where Booth found the bloody clothes, he thought. He remembered combing through the wooded area with a group of volunteers and cops. He wondered if he had missed any signs.
He said, “Emilio, I’m not going to kill you.”
“You–You’re not? Oh my God, tha–thank you!”
“No, I’m not going to kill you. You deserve much worse. You deserve a life in prison. You deserve to get fucked until your rectum is hanging out of your body. And the doctors will stuff it back in only for it to get fucked out of you every night. You deserve to choke on dick until you fall unconscious every night—until your stomach is so full of cum that they have to pump it out of you. You deserve to be… footless.”
Andrew planted vivid images of extreme violence in Emilio’s mind—the seeds of eternal terror. But only the last word reverberated through his head.
“Footless?” he repeated.
***
Jeremy checked the clock on his cell phone. He had already finished his meal. He had twenty minutes to kill before Andrew’s time was up.
“What’s going on in there?” he whispered as he watched the auto shop from afar. “What the hell did I do?”
Sitting on Emilio’s stomach, Andrew turned around. He scooted forward and sat on Emilio’s thighs to stop him from kicking. Emilio shrieked until his vocal cords stung. He grabbed the vehicle’s front bumper and pulled with all of his might. He rolled a few inches under the car, the vehicle wobbled and the auto lift screeched, but then his bloody hands slipped off the bumper.
“No! No! No!” he cried. “Help! Help me! Jeremy, oh my God! Mr. Hall! Help!”
Andrew rolled Emilio’s pants legs up. He scowled as he examined his bare ankles. He really isn’t wearing an ankle monitor, he thought. His rage was fueled by the police’s failure to monitor the city’s criminals, especially those known to recidivate. He grabbed Emilio’s shin with a firm grip, then he sawed into his right ankle with the hacksaw.
‘Ahhh! Ow! Ahhh!’
Emilio couldn’t say a word. He could only scream—blurts of pained noise. He grabbed at the front bumper again, but his fingers slipped off. The vehicle wobbled again and the auto lift groaned. He sat up and reached for one of the tires. His fingers caressed the grooved rubber, then he fell back against the creeper.
He slammed his fists against the floor as the blade tore through his bone. The pain pulsed through his leg, synchronized with his heartbeat. He heard his bone cracking and skin shredding. His foot shook violently, boot and sock drenched in blood. His foot continued to shake even after he lost voluntary control of it.
The blade snapped inside of Emilio’s ankle, trapped in the splinters of bone, severed veins, and mutilated flesh. His foot was barely attached to his leg by his Achilles tendon. His white heel cord was visible through all the blood and flesh. His foot swung until it was twisted 180-degrees, the front of his boot touching the floor.
Andrew jumped up to his feet and shouted, “Goddammit! Look at what you–”
Spasming and jerking in pain, Emilio rolled a few more inches under the suspended vehicle. He rolled off the creeper and hit the floor. The creeper struck the lift securing pad, causing the securing lifting arm to move. The car fell from the auto lift—front bumper first. Laying on his back, Emilio saw it in what felt like slow motion. One-point-twenty-five tons of steel fell towards him.
His eyes, pupils dilated, said: I don’t want to die.
The front bumper hit Emilio’s head. And the top half of Emilio’s head exploded. It cracked like an egg falling on the kitchen floor. It burst like a watermelon being thrown off a building for a science experiment. It popped like a cyst in a dermatologist’s office. Like a broken water hydrant, blood shot out of Emilio’s head. Bits of crushed brain rode the wave of blood like trash in the ocean. Shards of his shattered skull swam in the blood, too. His eyes were crushed under the bumper.
His limbs continued shaking for about fifteen seconds. A crackling sound came out of his gaping mouth.
Andrew turned pale. He had committed acts of unspeakable violence, he had watched videos of torture to prepare for his investigation, but he wasn’t prepared to watch someone’s head explode. It was like something from a movie, but this was real. Emilio’s head wasn’t a prop full of fake blood. He could smell the death. He could taste it at the back of his mouth.
Pennies.
So many pennies.
He grabbed his bag and exited the garage, fighting the urge to vomit. He sped away in his van and headed towards Rolando Hills.
At Burger King, Jeremy said, “Finally.”
The clerk hurried back to the shop. He called out to Emilio as he rushed through the store, but there was no response. He only heard a liquid dripping. He entered the garage and found the bloodbath. Watching someone die or finding a dead body in person was different from watching someone die on the internet. It was terrifying—paralyzing. It was worse for him because it was personal. He knew Emilio. He worked with him every week. The human mind couldn’t protect him from that. It couldn’t tell him: it’s just a movie, it’s just a picture, it’s nothing.
He took a step forward, arms away from his body as if he were about to hug someone. Then he fainted and landed face-first near the entrance of the garage.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Hall Residence
Andrew was parked in front of an iron gate. He leaned out his window and pressed the ‘Call’ button on the intercom.
“Hello?” he said. “Anyone home?”
No one answered. The sun was beginning to set, rays of golden sunshine penetrating the leafy branches at each side of the road. A Tesla Model 3 cruised down the road behind Andrew’s van, heading to one of the other fancy homes in the neighborhood.
Through the intercom, a woman said, “Good evening. May I help you?”
Andrew said, “Hello, ma’am. My name is…” He hesitated for a second. He lied, “My name is Matthew Chambers. I work for a Mr. Fred Fields from Fred’s Insurance. Maybe you’ve seen our commercials.”
“Um… maybe so.”
“Great. I’m glad the marketing team finally got something right. Now, I’m here to talk to you about your homeowners insurance. Are you insured, ma’am?”
“Yes, I believe so,” the woman responded.
“Believe so?” Andrew repeated, laughing warmly.
He knew the woman was watching him from a camera on the intercom. He put a big, toothy smile on his face. The woman giggled, too. She bought it—hook, line, and sinker.
Andrew said, “Listen, ma’am, with the recent fires and earthquakes, the heavy rain and mudslides, it’s very important that you’re insured. And, even if you are insured now, it’s important for you to have the best coverage at the best price. I’d like a couple minutes of your time to talk to you about some of our insurance plans.”
“Oh, I’m not sure about–”
“It won’t take more than ten minutes. And, I can tell by just listening to that sweet voice of yours, it would absolutely make my day to have this chat with you. And, on top of all that sweet-talk, you can save yourself thousands of dollars a year. That’s a nice vacation, isn’t it? Save that up for a couple of years and you got yourself another house. How about it?”
Andrew stared at the lens on the intercom. His eyelids began to twitch as he fought to maintain his smile. He sat still, but his heart raced in his chest, as if he had just run a marathon. Plan B was far more daring: ram the gate, crash through the front door, and kill everyone before the police arrived.
The woman said, “You can park in front of the garage. My husband’s almost home, but I’m sure he won’t mind.”
“I’m sure he won’t mind after he realizes he’s married to a clever businesswoman like yourself. Thank you very much.”
“Hush, now,” the woman blushed.
The gate rolled open. Andrew drove up the driveway. After about one-tenth of a mile, he discovered a large two-story mid-century modern home with a flat roof in the woods. Decorated with nude walls and orange bricks, it had tall floor-to-ceiling windows with beautiful views of the woodland, the creek, and the city down below.
The driveway dipped into a garage under a deck. A luxury SUV was parked in one of the parking spaces. The other space was reserved for the man of the house.
Andrew parked in front of the SUV. He gazed at the front porch with a set of cold, vengeful eyes and pursed lips. This is it, this is the end of the road, he thought, she has to be here. He was determined to find Grace. Yet, he was unable to move. He was afraid to turn the page, afraid to end his investigation. He didn’t know what he would do if Grace wasn’t in the house—or if he discovered a dead body instead of a living child.
“Damian Hall,” Andrew whispered. “Whoever you are, if you hurt her, if you touched her... God, please let her be okay.”
***
The front door swung open. Andrew was greeted by a woman in her mid-fifties. Teeth like pearls, skin like silk, short hair like chocolate, she did everything in her power to retain her youth. Her eyes, dim and tired, gave her age away, telling tales of a life of hardships and triumph, love and loss, pain and glory. She seemed welcoming, though.
Andrew said, “Hello, ma’am, um... I’m sorry, this is a little embarrassing or perhaps unprofessional, but I was expecting to talk to your husband, so I don’t have your name...”
“Oh, I understand. All of the bills are under his name. He’s a wonderful provider,” the woman said. “My name is Dawn Hall. And you said your name was...”
“Matthew Chambers.”
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Matthew.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Hall.”
“Oh, please call me Dawn. ‘Missus’ is too formal,” Dawn said. She looked at the duffel bag slung over Andrew’s shoulder. She pointed at it and asked, “And the bag?”
Andrew responded, “Paperwork. I’m a traveling salesman, so this bag is like my office.”
“I see. You should really think about getting a briefcase. It looks much more professional,” Dawn commented. She stepped aside and said, “Well, come in. You can take a seat in the living room. I’ll get you some tea.”
Andrew smiled and said, “Thank you very much.”
He walked into the foyer. He noticed a red button on the wall beside a light-switch. He was surprised by the minimalist interior. An archway to the left led to the kitchen. The opposite archway opened up to the living room. In front of him, an L-shaped glass staircase led to the second floor. He didn’t hear anyone upstairs.
He entered the living room while Dawn scurried into the kitchen. He was welcomed by a soft classical tune—Molto Allegro by Mozart. The music played from speakers installed in the ceiling. Two recliners and two sofas surrounded a glass coffee table at the center of the room. Behind one of the recliners, a fire burned in a fireplace, crackling and popping.
The walls were decorated with bookcases. Most of the books were works of nonfiction—memoirs, self-help, and philosophy books. A few novels stood in the shelves, too—mainstream stuff, books Oprah would recommend to bored housewives after getting a paycheck from a big publisher. Encyclopedias on criminology and criminal justice occupied the bottom shelf of one of the bookcases.
Behind one of the sofas, the sliding glass doors opened up to a beautiful deck with a pool and hot tub overlooking the woodland. There was some grilling equipment out there, too, as well as an outdoor dining set. The patio was clean and the pool was calm. They weren’t hosting any parties. It looked like they hadn’t had a visitor in months.
Andrew stood in front of the glass sliding doors and shouted, “Nice home you have here, Dawn! Do you have any housekeepers?”
Dawn entered the living room with a tray holding two teacups on matching saucers. She placed the tray on the coffee table, then she took a seat on a sofa.
“No housekeepers, just lil’ ol’ me,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s a big house. I imagine it would take some time to clean it. Plus, you may be eligible for discounts if you employ any live-in housekeepers.”
“Oh, we don’t need any housekeepers. I’m a housewife, Mr. Chambers. Cleaning, cooking… It’s what I do. Maybe my husband should start paying me.”
Dawn giggled and waved her hand in front of her face, as if to say: I’m so silly. Andrew gave her a sympathy laugh—ha-ha. He sat down on the sofa across from her.
As he reached for his teacup, Dawn said, “Careful. It’s very hot. Let’s wait a few minutes.” She leaned forward in her seat. Beaming, she said, “It’s green tea, straight from Japan. It’s very popular over there. You know, they say green tea is very good for your skin, your brain, and your heart. It can even lower your risks for cancer.”
Andrew smiled and nodded. The woman loved the sound of her voice. She was a housewife desperate for attention. She was naïve, too. In the woods, alone in a multimillion-dollar house, she was sheltered from the horrors of the real world. She lived in a bubble and viewed the world through rose-tinted glasses. Home invasions? Robberies? Murder? Rape?—that only happened in third-world countries.
Dawn continued, “I visit my primary care physician, Dr. Lee, every six months. She thinks the tea is helping.”
As she babbled on and on, Andrew opened his bag and took a gander at his tools. He was willing to hurt sex offenders, but he didn’t want to torture Dawn. As far as he knew, she was innocent. Collateral damage, he thought.
Dawn said, “My husband is healthy, he really is, but he works too darn much. That’s why I’ve been trying to get him into some holistic health programs. Dr. Lee isn’t a fan, but they’re really good for the body, the mind, and the spirit. My husband, that man, he’s always running around town, buying businesses here and there. He thinks he’s playing Monopoly. Do you know how many auto shops, laundromats, and car washes he’s bought in the last two years?”
Andrew’s eyes darted towards Dawn. The pieces were starting to fall into place.
He asked, “How many?”
“Guess, hun,” Dawn said with a big grin.
“How many?” Andrew repeated.
“Oh, you’re no fun. Well, to be honest, I can’t tell you an exact number, but it’s a lot. Two, maybe three of each? He’s gone at sunrise and back at sunset. It must take a lot of energy to manage so many businesses. He needs to slow down, don’t you think? Maybe hire a few managers or… I don’t know, I’m not a businesswoman, but there has to be something he can do. By the way, do you insure businesses like that? I’m sure my husband would…”
Andrew stopped listening. He only heard Emilio’s voice in his head: his real name is Damian Hall. Damian Hall. Damian Hall. He took the revolver out of his bag and aimed it at her. Dawn gasped.
The woman said, “Oh my goodness. What are you… I don’t have any–”
“I’m not here to rob you,” Andrew said. “If it’s not obvious enough already, I’m not here to sell you insurance, either. We’re here to talk about your husband. What time is he getting home?”
“I–I don’t know. I guess, um… six-thirty? Almost seven?”
Andrew checked his phone. The clock read: 6:13 PM.
He said, “I’m going to ask you a couple of questions. If you can answer them for me, you and your husband will survive this.”
“My goodness,” Dawn whimpered. Tears dripped down her cheeks as she closed her eyes. She leaned back against her seat and breathed through her mouth, puffing as if she were giving birth. She repeated, “My goodness.”
Andrew said, “As long as you cooperate, everything will be fine. I don’t want to hurt you, ma’am, but you have to understand what’s going on here.”
“And wha–what’s going on?” Dawn asked, eyes still closed. “Why are you–you doing this to me?”
“Your husband kidnapped my daughter.”
“N–No.”
“He hired a punk named Zachary Denton to kidnap my girl from her elementary school,” Andrew said, raising his voice. “And he worked with Emilio Padilla to transfer her to him. I know his system, Dawn. I know everything.”
“No, he–he didn’t. That’s impossible.”
“He did.”
“He didn’t!”
Andrew lunged at her. Dawn lowered her head, raised her hands, and quailed. She didn’t want to see it coming. Andrew pushed her arms away, then he poked the top of her head with the muzzle of the gun.
He said, “He did. You don’t have to protect him anymore.”
Without looking up at him, Dawn cried, “Oh my goodness, oh my goodness, oh my goodness.”
“Where’s my daughter? What did he do to her?”
“Oh my goodness…”
“Answer me!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
Andrew grabbed her neck and pushed her back against the backrest. He squeezed her throat and stifled her scream. He pressed the muzzle against her chin and placed his finger on the trigger.
