Mullen appeared in the doorway. “I need to speak with Durant.”
Saved by the sociopath. I guess beggars can't be choosers. The team cleared out and left me with Mullen, who closed the door behind him. He sat in front of my desk, roosting in a military slump. He looked relaxed but could leap into action at the slightest sign of trouble. His closely shaved head wore a shadow of salt and pepper hair the same length as the whiskers on his jaw.
His face remained wrinkle-free, as if he neither frowned nor smiled enough to make any impact on his skin.
I sat across from him.
“What's up?” I said, like we were pals. He was shorter but felt like a huge, hulking thing. His eyes made him physically and mentally imposing. Why did I let him get to me, and how could I make the deer-in-the-headlights sensation go away?
“The dead faggot you found in the dumpster the other day.” He waited for me to confirm I knew what he was talking about.
“What about him?”
“Tox screen will show sodium pentobarbital. You know what that is.”
Mullen never asked questions; all his inquiries were demands.
I shook my head.
“It was used to put down dogs before people admitted a bullet works just as well. Also called T-61. The drug is a neuro-muscular blocker which causes paralysis and puts them to sleep. Since mutt-metabolism rapidly eliminates chemicals, T-61 gets laced with flunitrazepan, rat poison, and silver. The resulting cocktail is deadly enough to kill humans within seconds.”
“How do you know which drug was pumped into our vic?”
“The wrists bear marks from silver-coated iron chains,” he said. “You'll find traces of silver burned into the vic's skin.”
He was awfully intimate with the details of the scene.
“Why would someone chain up a mutt and load it full of pentobarbital before shooting it with silver? Why not simply shoot it?”
“I'll deny having said any of this.”
“Right. Confidentiality is my motto.”
If only he knew.
He stared at me across the desk like he was pulling out the pieces of my brain and shuffling through them. Maybe my response sounded too flippant, because his gaze reminded me that he didn't joke around.
He snagged one of the pastries and dusted off the powdered sugar. It puffed in the air and sprinkled over the floor.
“Sometimes elite hunters grow tired of the usual game. Meanwhile, world-class collectors desire rare items. Somewhere along those converging lines, hunters discovered that mutts are challenging to kill and their pelts are valuable on the black market.”
“Pelts? You mean they skin the mutts?” I frowned. “Mutt fur breaks down when they die. They disintegrate into their human skin.”
“Unless the animal is alive when the pelt is taken and the fur is immediately treated with myrrh.”
I swallowed. I had a horrible feeling about why he might know this. Uck.
Mullen bit into the pastry with a great chomp, but at least the bastard chewed with his mouth closed. A sociopath with good mannerisms, how refreshing.
To make certain I understood what he was saying, I repeated it.
“Someone figured out how to skin a mutt alive and sell the pelts.” That was plain icky. “So they take his fur, kill him, and dump him.”
“Funny thing about mutts,” Mullen said. “They recuperate extremely well. Their skin and pelt regrow. When the T-61 roofie cocktail wears off, the mutt sheds from the fear, pain, and the sight of his body without skin. Bingo: new mint-condition mutt fur. With another round of drugs, the pelt can be removed again. And again. Hunters can harvest the flesh numerous times before the mutt succumbs to some sort of shock. Patches of skin and fur get all mixed up. Eventually, the pelt becomes a non-salable product.”
“Non-salable product,” I repeated. I imagined the type of person who would skin another. If I ever got my hands on such a person in a dark alley... shit. Mullen was such a person. My eyeballs practically steamed, and I clenched my swelling fists.
“The problem with this lucrative market is that some people are more interested in profit than sport. Nowadays, poachers don’t test their skills against the beast in the wild. They tranquilize, confine, and reap. Dull, pansy shit. A shame, really. Not like the old days when two men in a truck were all that stood against the monsters. No drugs, no backup, no fancy shears—”
“Why are you telling me this? We aren't a human crimes division. My jurisdiction doesn't involve shooting people who kill mutts. Mostly, killing mutts is my job.”
“It's the principle of the thing, Durant. This kind of operation usually involves a pseudo-military group of good hunters. Usually. Dumping remains in the trash is plain amateur. Most poachers know how to properly dispose of their prey. Maybe someone got a taste for it and decided to hunt on their own, but they’re doing it the lazy way. Downright slothful, if you ask me.”
“Let me get this right. You aren't upset that bodies are popping up across Phoenix. You're offended because a few sloppy sportsmen are encroaching on the nobility of your hunt?”
“If the public becomes aware of this, we’ll see an unsavory increase of mutt-sympathizers.”
“Not my concern.”
“Don't act like you're not already looking into this, Durant. Yoshino is all atwitter, jumping to task for you like a star-struck lover.”
I hoped the jealousy in his voice was a product of my imagination.
“Why do I care if mutts die?” I said. “By definition, these poachers make my job easier.”
“Amateurs are even less qualified to distinguish normals from mutts.” He licked sugar from his fingers.
“These poachers sometimes skin humans?”
“It happens. It's also the reason you'll stop these assholes. Serve and protect, right, Durant.” He snorted. “When you find these guys, I expect you to have a thorough conversation about their discretion.”
“Oh. Sure. Discretion.”
His smile coated my spine with oily discomfort. Then he left. Sarakas returned and sat on my desk.
“Everything okay?”
I nodded, but Mullen had played on my nerves like a tap-dancing devil. Someone brutalized mutts and occasionally humans, but I was only supposed to shoot the canine monsters? My fingers tingled. My sensibilities were going to embarrass me.
“I need coffee.”
After filling my stomach with the soothing heat of a dark roast, I combed through the morgue reports Yoshino had gathered. Four homicides this month matched the pattern, plus eleven last month.
While there was no way to determine if the victims were L-positive or not, I had to assume most were mutts. Otherwise, how would they survive the quantity of drugs?
I researched the victims, trying to connect dots. Some cross-referenced with a potential, meaning they came in contact with the disease, but not all of the victims had a file. The bureau should have processed and tagged everyone considered a potential for contamination. A large number of unmarked, unknown mutts could only mean one thing: an outbreak.
Chapter 11
My paycheck didn't show.
Nothing. Not a red cent. The account balance stared at me like an unrepentant sinner. I was officially broke. First some of my money was stolen, now it performed a complete disappearing act. Snarling, I picked up the phone, dialed the financial office, and left an angry message.
I paced for a mad moment, then hopped on the treadmill and ran through some mileage. It didn't ease my anger or the urge for a drink. I wanted shots of golden tequila all in a row.
As if I could afford a bottle of tequila.
After the treadmill, I showered, ate beef jerky, and decided it was past time to sell one of my blacklisted, pirated books.
My love for illegal literature began in grade school when Mark Twain took an epic beating from every politically sensitive entity in the country. My favorite author was perceived as such a hateful bigot that tolerance-junkies dragged his books from libr
aries and stores.
We did a lot of fascist things in the misused name of freedom.
Books burned. Overnight, I became a felon. Even as a twelve year-old, harboring illegal literature could brand me a terrorist. Internet traffickers silenced their cries of injustice to avoid years in federal prison. Literature either disappeared or was edited down to raw stumps. I waited four years to finish Huckleberry Finn. It cost me five hundred dollars and an over-the-sweater grope.
The government roundups didn't end with literature. Once fanatics had their claws in freedom, they sanitized everything from music to advertisements. They took out all the important things and flooded the market with waves of meaningless noise. Overwhelming quantities of shit killed the remaining gems.
All in the name of patriotism and family values.
A broker, Lurch, knew my tastes inside and out. When the market offered a giblet I might enjoy, he pounced on it, gave me first bid, and kept our business discrete. He didn't believe in computers, bless his heart.
We found each other by happenstance. My habit of dwelling in the lesser-visited sections of public libraries drew his attention, and he left a handwritten card: I have what you're looking for, if you're brave enough. Alice, the rabbit hole awaits.
Corny! Who could resist?
His charming messages always bore calligraphy resembling the script of the Constitution, complete with the funky alphabet. We arranged dead-drops of elusive reading materials for packets of cash. A very simple, exacting relationship. For all I knew, Lurch didn't realize who I was, and I was grateful. I'd never tried to find him. Our arrangement was perfect.
I needed money and decided to sell my copy of Paine, so I made a trip down to my favorite library. Honestly, it was a crap library with more roaches than readers. Half the catalog was in Spanish and only one librarian tended the stock, so most of it was out of order.
The smell of dirty old books drifted around me.
I found a volume about the evolution of the tax code. No fingerprints marked its dust save mine. I flipped it open. Dry insect husks fluttered from the pages. I saw the card with Lurch's script. A warm feeling of joy and reassurance spread through me.
The message killed my glowing enthusiasm.
We should meet.
I didn't like that at all.
What was this? Test? Trap? Trouble? Definitely the latter.
Meet? Absolutely not.
The message was bossy. Urgent. Something was wrong. Chills seized me.
I pulled a lighter and burned the note a crisp. Wiped the book on my shirt to smudge fingerprints. I couldn't contact Lurch anymore. End of story. As of now, he was dead to me.
I couldn't visit the library again either.
And that was merely the start of a bad day.
I went to the post office and my box was loaded, downright stuffed, with crap in telltale black plastic. The postal worker saw me, clicked disapprovingly, and dug under the counter for the items which hadn't fit in the mailbox. She tsk-tsked so loudly people turned to look. Red, choking on embarrassment, I grabbed the bundle and left. I sat in the truck and sorted the mail. Yep, all porn. And sex toys. More porn.
I screeched and almost tossed it out the window, but the last thing I needed was a ticket for littering on federal property. I cranked the music up and tore out of the parking lot so fast that the slick magazines slid all over the cab.
At home, I kicked and shoved the porn into the corner of my garage. I was too mad to deal with it. As I gave it a final kick with my boot, I saw a rather plain, innocent looking package.
Wrapped in brown paper, an ordinary package sat amid the sordid mail. Cautiously, I dug it from the pile and unwrapped it. A black book: the symbol of restricted materials. Lurch sent me a message. At least, I assumed he was the culprit. I opened the book and saw an address written in the same lilting, pseudo-constitutional script. He wanted to meet.
I huffed. Was I ready for this?
No.
Then again, why not? There was nothing illegal about meeting someone in a public place. Incriminating, yes: illegal, no.
Either I worked with Lurch or I risked finding a new buyer I could trust enough to begin a business arrangement. Besides, Lurch knew my tastes. He knew which books I'd want, which ones I'd reject, and if I'd be willing to resell. When I sold, he always found me a profit. A mind-reader?
I smacked myself in the forehead. Lurch probably stole my money to force a meet. If I was broke, I'd have to sell something, and then he could negotiate an introduction.
The little pissant!
I was gonna kill him something awful.
Meeting a contact of the black market variety was disconcerting to say the least. Treason sentences began at ten years and occasionally resulted in execution. Should I risk so much for one manuscript?
Then again, I gambled with my life every day.
Ultimately, it was my duty to circulate dissident literature. Keep it rolling from hand to hand, mind to mind, fueling the meager resistance. Making back a portion of what I'd spent would be a bonus. I lectured myself against meeting Lurch, but it didn't stick. This was surely a trap, but I was stubbornly reckless.
Knowing something is stupid and doing it anyway must be a purely human convention.
I knew better than to take such a bold risk, but human nature demanded I do it anyway. Fruitless, hopeless. History would always repeat because humans were passionate things full of selfishness and hatred.
Myself included.
Lurch, that bastard!
Anger overrode any remaining caution. I could meet him and put my life back on track. I expected interest on the money he stole, too.
I walked into a bar: the beginning of a bad joke or an evil bender.
It smelled like pickles and beer.
I love pickles.
I stood in the doorway like an idiot. This bar felt nothing like the Brethren’s Balm. Brutus’ was a place of reprieve, this was a shiny pitfall. Proximity to beer under stressful conditions was a trial. Hell, my life was a stressful condition. Time to do this. Man up, so to speak, and get the job done. How could I face homicidal mutts, yet one smuggler made my gut churn like a washing machine?
I needed a drink.
When in Rome? One won't hurt? Naw, that lie never helped. One hurt and two hurt worse, and afterward I committed to a wild ride of anger and embarrassment. Even so, it was hard to care about sobriety when I had so little motivation. One slip here, and I'd be tumbling head-first into a bender that might never end.
Booze was more threatening to my life than treasonous pirates.
A crowd gathered to take advantage of the drink specials. Pretty, glittery individuals sloshed drinks, laughed, and coupled on the dance floor. Too loud. Obnoxious dance music. No one stood out. The security guy at the door didn't look like he ever saw anything more than a sloppy bar skirmish. I inhaled slowly through my nose, pulled my thoughts together, and sat at the bar.
What she needs is a good stiff drink, the angel on my shoulder told the devil at my side.
“Seltzer water,” I told the barkeep.
I smelled rum on his sleeve, hops from the draft he poured, and the sticky residue of tequila on the counter. He gave me the soda, but I was afraid to drink it lest some alcohol vapors tempt me further.
How long should I wait for the pirate? Hell, I should not have come.
From my vantage point I saw the entrance to my left and the exit in the mirror. I surveyed the crowd. A blond with the fantastic hips and lithe dance moves drew more attention than anyone else. No one looked at me.
Maybe my contact hadn't arrived. I slipped the black address book from my pocket and set it next to my drink. That instant, I caught a subtle shift of movement so small it could only be suspicious.
A slouching black man sat in a dark corner booth. Plain t-shirt and jeans stretched over an impressive form. Head and face shaved, showing perfect golden-ratio symmetry. No man so beautiful drinks alone in this crowd. Not possible.
/>
He didn't seem to be waiting for anyone, but he looked, well, staged. “Relaxed,” his body declared. “At ease,” his hands proclaimed. His face called him a liar. A tenseness lurked beneath the surface, like the ticking of a bomb. Too much muscle and pseudo-calm to ignore.
At the very least, he must work contract security. At most, and more likely, this was a setup. Entrapment wasn't hard these days.
The man didn't look like a cop, but neither did he look like a reader nor a criminal. His hands held a full drink in a glass with zero condensation. He’d been sitting a while. He didn't glance at me despite my prolonged stare. In fact, I had the impression he was trying hard not to look at me.
Hell, the whole situation sucked. Screw this. I'll keep the book.
I laid down a bill for my soda and left.
Jesus, Durant, you've gone crazy. Paranoid.
I felt better once the door closed behind me. My stomach, denied beer and pickles, rolled hungrily. Had I eaten since breakfast? Nope. Nearby, an open late night deli glowed like a beacon through the night.
While admiring the display of cheesecake through the window, I saw a specter in the glass. Pale through and through, white as uncooked dough. Behind him, a tall black figure. The distinct impression that they were staring right at me sent chills grappling down my spine. Seizing my gun, I turned.
No one there.
Nothing but the dark night.
I examined the cheesecake case. Nothing there. Had I imagined it? No. When in doubt, I go with my gut. Two men were following me. I climbed into my truck drove the heck out of there, watching for a tail, seeing nothing.
I went straight to an AA meeting, which seemed like a good post-bar-temptation activity. I parked, sat in the truck, and tried to gauge how miserable I was on a scale of one to ten, one being pleasant and ten being a situation so ghastly that hell would be preferable. I didn’t have a clue how I felt. My brain hummed like a buzz before the drunken fall.
If Big Fed discovered my illegal activities, my life would go to hell. Should I pack up and run? They'd catch me in the city. I could drop my life, go north, and hike across the Canadian border.
Scratch Lines Page 10
