Buzz Kill: The Sandeen Mysteries, Book Three

PROLOGUE

Wednesday

Phillip Holland heard the intruders when they were in the hall outside his room. The apartment building was old—built in 1894, according to the stonework over the entrance—and the floors squeaked in a thousand places. As he rolled off his bed, he glanced at the display on his clock radio. It read 3:43 A.M. He’d moved out of the dorm because other students—and sometimes, those who weren’t students—were always in the halls, stomping around, talking in loud voices, and bumping into things at all hours of the day and night. The apartment building was supposed to be quiet, with only six tenants, and five of them were elderly. He had a feeling that anyone who making noise at that ungodly hour was someone who didn’t belong there.

Slipping his feet into his boots—he was already dressed because he’d slept that way—he moved quietly to the only window in his bedroom, slid it up noiselessly, and crawled out onto the fire escape. Swinging down from it, he dropped to the hard surface of the alley. Just as he landed, he heard the sound of his bedroom door splintering.

They were after him and he needed to disappear.

Sprinting across the parking lot, he jumped in his car and started the engine. He backed out without spinning his tires, drove out onto the street quickly, and covered almost two blocks before turning on his headlights and buckling his seat belt and shoulder harness.

He kept his speed reasonable—no more than 40 in a 30 zone because he didn’t want to complicate things with a traffic stop. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and autodialed a number he’d only used once before. After three rings, the party on the other end asked, What?

Kyle. It’s Phil Holland. I know I missed the pick-up and I’m sorry. But now there are a couple of guys after me. They broke into my room. I barely got away. As he spoke, Holland checked his rear-view mirrors. There was no sign of pursuit—at least, not yet.

Sounds like you got a problem, Buzzy boy, Kyle said. What are you going to do about it? The voice was electronically disguised, and with the road noise inside the car, some of the words were difficult to understand.

Dammit, somebody’s someone’s messing with me. I never had a chance at making the pick-up. I was given the wrong trip sheet. You’ve got to get them off my back. I don’t want to get the shit beat out of me.

Then show them the trip sheet. They’ll see that it’s wrong. Maybe they’ll give you a break.

I can’t. Holland’s voice had slipped upward an octave. I was so pissed-off that I wadded it up and threw it away.

Ohh, bad choice. Nothing I can do, Buzzy boy. They think you screwed up. Right now, they’re probably a mile or so behind you. But it’s not going to stay that way. Kyle chuckled to emphasize the point.

And if they catch me? And if they won’t listen to the truth? Holland asked, checking again for headlights in his rear-view mirrors. This time, he was sure he saw them—well back, but they were gaining on him.

I’ve heard these guys are big and strong, Kyle said. You aren’t. It could get seriously painful. They’re going to stomp you into a puddle unless you can convince them someone screwed you over.

So what am I supposed to do?

Just what I said. Try to talk your way out of it. If you can, no problem. If you can’t, you’re gonna get stomped.

"But what if they won’t listen? What if they just want to start beating up on me?" Holland asked. The lights were getting closer and he was almost out of town. Once on the highway, he could push the Mazda up to a hundred—he’d done it before—and hope nothing got in his way.

I’m done with the game! Holland shouted into the phone. I quit!

Wrong. You can’t quit until I tell you. And right now, I’m not going to let you quit. You’re in it up to your eyeballs.

Damn you! Holland raged. At the edge of town, he blew past a stop sign, moved toward the middle of the empty two-lane road, and slammed the accelerator to the floor. The little Mazda accelerated briskly, and soon he was well past 90, on his way to a hundred—or more if he could get it.

You’re toast, Holland. You might as well stop the car and take what’s coming to you, Kyle said. You screwed up, buddy boy, and nobody cares. Kyle’s voice had an edge of amusement, as though he was enjoying Holland’s predicament.

Then they’ll have to catch me. The road curved to the right, and as Holland steered the Mazda through the turn, he felt the rear wheels slide a bit. He knew he’d almost lost control, but he didn’t let up on the accelerator. The lights behind had lost a bit of ground. Now, the guys chasing him were more than a quarter-mile back, and Holland thought that he might be able to get away from them.

Or, he could be wrong. He glanced at the gas gauge. The needle was bouncing on the E. Why hadn’t he filled up the tank that afternoon, when he had time and money, and wasn’t being chased?

"Maybe you didn’t get the wrong trip sheet. Maybe you’re just a lying bastard, Kyle said, still on the phone. How do you explain everybody being wrong except you?"

I’m telling you, it was the wrong trip sheet! Holland almost screamed.

How did you get it? Kyle asked.

I got it in the middle of a class. The student assistant walked in and handed it to me.

Really? What student assistant?

I don’t know her name. I didn’t ask.

What class? Kyle asked.

It was in the night section of General Psych.

Who teaches it?

Dr. Aptekar.

What did the trip sheet tell you? Kyle’s voice had become smooth as butter.

That I should leave the campus at exactly 10:00 P.M. and arrive at the southeast corner of the abandoned aluminum wheel factory at exactly 10:20. And that if I missed the time hack by as much as fifteen seconds either way, I would be severely punished.

Did you do what the trip sheet said? Did you meet someone? Did someone hand you a package?

No. There was nothing there, except a lot of garbage and a dead rat. I did the best I could, and now they’re after me.

"What did you expect to find at the wheel plant?"

Just like you said. Someone in another car who would hand me a package with another set of instructions. Holland glanced at his instrument panel. Along with being low on gas, his engine was overheating. His Mazda wasn’t meant to be driven that fast, that long.

What do you think went wrong?

I have no idea. Maybe someone else missed an assignment, and I’m taking the blame. Maybe that person should be punished.

This is definitely going to be a huge learning experience for you, Kyle said.

What am I supposed to learn?

That things don’t always work out the way you think they will.

Holland saw steam coming from under his hood. Any minute now and the Mazda’s engine was going to blow.

So are you going to outrun the guys that are chasing you?

I don’t know. I thought I had a chance but now my engine’s overheating, and I’m running out of gas.

Sounds like you have some real problems there, Buzzy boy. I hope you can solve them without getting hurt too bad. Then the connection went dead.

"Did you just hang up? You sonofabitch!" Holland yelled into the phone. He glanced down at his cell phone, punched redial, and looked up just in time to see a deer bound onto the road, no more than seventy-five feet ahead. He jammed the brake pedal, twisted the steering wheel, jumped a ditch, slammed over a low berm, and landed in the middle of a strip-mining pit that was filled with forty feet of black, icy water. As he’d crested the berm, G-forces had slammed his forehead against the steering wheel, cracked his skull, and fatally damaged his brain. When the Mazda hit the water, it buckled into a ‘v’, blowing out the side windows, crushing Holland into the driver’s seat, and then sank like a rock. No airbags deployed because someone has stolen them, and Holland hadn’t gotten around to getting them replaced.

There were two men about Holland’s age in the car that had been chasing him. The driver of that car slammed on the brakes, slid to a smoky, screeching stop, barely managing to avoid the deer, and then ran to the edge of the pit. He got there just in time to see the taillights of the Mazda sinking into the depths, and then winking out as the ruptured battery failed.

The other man was a bit slower getting out of the car, and arrived at the scene three seconds later. What the hell just happened?

He lost control at a hundred miles an hour and went into the pit. That’s what the hell happened, the first one said.

What are we going to do? the other one asked.

Can you swim?

No.

Neither can I, the first one said. I guess Holland’s on his own.

What if he doesn’t come up?

Then it means he’s dead.

Isn’t there anything we can do? the other one asked.

Yeah, the first one said. Go back to town and keep our mouths shut. This never happened.

But don’t we have to tell Kyle?

The first one shook his head. Kyle always knows what he needs to know.

CHAPTER 1

Sunday

Edgar Holland was about my size, 6’ 3"and 240 pounds, with the same prominent jaw, brown eyes, brown hair, and big ears. If it weren’t for the difference in our ages, which looked to be about twenty years in my favor, people might have thought we were brothers.

My son disappeared, he said in a scratchy baritone. You think maybe you could find him?

We faced each other at a table in the far back corner of my espresso shop. It was the middle of a quiet Sunday afternoon. The morning rush was now only a fond memory of money coming in and caffeinated beverages going out, and we were far enough removed from the few remaining customers that we could talk in normal tones.

Pulling out my notepad, I asked, What’s your son’s name?

Phillip Holland. He tried to smile. But everybody called him ‘Buzz.’

I looked up. Buzz?

He was a nut for space when he was growing up. And then there were those movies with Buzz Lightyear in them. The nickname just stuck.

I nodded in understanding. When was he born?

October, 17, 1991.

And when was he last seen?

Two years ago, this past March.

I made some more notes. Where was this?

Pittsburg State University. It’s down in the southeast part of the—

I know where it is. Actually, I’d been a student there, more than twenty years earlier. And where was your family living at the time?

He shook his head. There’s no family. Just me. His mom and I only had the one child and we divorced when he was four.

Where’s his mom now? I needed an answer to that question. The last thing I wanted to do was get caught up in a family feud.

He shrugged. I have no idea. She took off for Peru… or Bolivia… or one of them South American countries. She wanted to dig for relics. And since then, she’s never written, or called, or made any attempt to get in contact with us.

That seems odd. I was writing like mad.

Not really. She and I didn’t get along. Bottom line, we never loved each other. But we thought that having a baby would make things better. Stupid, huh? It only made things worse. She didn’t like her own son—maybe because he was really active—and by the time she left she said she felt nothing for either of us. She felt Buzz and I were tying her down, keeping her from living any kind of life. She cleaned out our savings account, got a quickie divorce in Nevada, and headed south.

And you haven’t heard from her since.

He shook his head. Not a word.

Did you ever wonder if she’d run into serious trouble in South America? Maybe needed your help?

She told me she was a big girl. And we weren’t married anymore. I figured she wanted her privacy and her freedom and I was more than willing to let her have it.

So you don’t know if she’s dead or alive.