Compulsion

CHAPTER 33

As we descended Altair Terrace, Milo phoned in outlining a surveillance plan for later that night.

At Beachwood, Tasha said, “I’m feeling my appetite coming back. You can drop me at the Baskin-Robbins.”

Before Milo could answer, headlights whitewashed us.

Single vehicle climbing from the south.

Milo pushed Tasha into the brush.

The headlights reached the intersection. VW bus, a dim color hard to make out in the darkness. Grinding noise as its tires turned left onto Altair.

Tasha said, “They need transmission fluid.”

Milo stepped out, reached for the side of the bus just as it turned, tapped the passenger door.

One hand on his holstered gun, the other waving his badge.

The bus stopped short. Milo made a cranking motion.

The passenger window rolled down manually. The driver’s hand remained on the handle as she leaned toward him.

Young woman, thirty or so, with wide, surprised eyes and short brown hair. The rear of the bus was piled high with cardboard boxes.

“Do you live on this street, ma’am?”

“Uh-huh. Something’s wrong.”

“Nothing to be alarmed about. Do you know the occupants of the house at the end of the road?”

“Not really.”

“No?”

“I – they’re not there.”

“Not around much?”

Her eyes flicked to the rear of the bus. “Nope.”

Milo said, “Everything okay, ma’am?”

“You surprised me. I have to go, Officer. Have a child to look after.”

Biting her lip, she gunned the engine, ground the gears, lurched forward, nearly running over Milo ’s foot.

He fell back, barely held on to his balance.

We watched as the bus putt-putted up Altair.

Tasha said, “Maybe it’s me, but that’s one scared girl.”

We stayed in the shadows, watched as the bus parked between the pale house and its nearest neighbor.

I said, “When you asked if she lived here, she said ‘Something’s wrong.’ Statement, not a question.”

Milo got on the phone again, whispered orders.

The van sat there for several minutes before the woman got out and unlatched the rear doors.

Shaking her head; as if responding to an unseen questioner.

A second figure emerged from the bus. Taller, short hair, shirt and pants.

Male.

He pointed at the woman and the two of them pulled something out of the van.

Rectangular; a carton, maybe four feet long.

The man straight-armed the woman away, completed the extrication, lowered the box to the ground.

The bump was audible.

The woman let out a high-pitched noise. The man’s hand on her shoulder silenced her.

She reached for the box.

He slapped her hand away. Pointed again. She moved several feet away. Stood there. Hand to mouth.

The man began rocking the carton.

Let go of it.

The woman lunged forward, broke the fall, straightened the box.

The man placed his hands on his hips.

The sound of laughter filtered down Altair.

The woman tried to lift the carton, failed.

The man grasped one end and the two of them carried it toward the pale house.

Milo said, “Here goes aerobics,” and took off on big, rubber-soled feet.