Deadeye

by William C. Dietz

  Lee removed her hand from the Glock. Bo-Jack’s skin was covered with slightly iridescent scales, and he was dressed western style. The outfit included a flat-brimmed black hat with a domed crown, a tee shirt that said POLICE across the front, jeans, and a pair of dusty cowboy boots. Bo-Jack didn’t appear to be wearing a pistol. But he was carrying a knife in a cross-draw sheath. A five-pointed star was attached to a slider on his western-style belt. Lee nodded. “My name is Detective Lee . . . I work for the Los Angeles Police Department.”

  Bo-Jack produced a boyish grin. “You’re a long way from home, Detective Lee. Why?”

  Lee gave him the short version. Amanda Screed had been kidnapped, and the trail led to Rictor. So, in an effort to get a lead on where she might be, Lee was looking into the trafficker’s death. “I see,” Bo-Jack said. “How can I help?”

  “Tell me what happened here and why.”

  Bo-Jack shrugged. “I can tell you what might have taken place here . . . But there’s no way to be sure.”

  “Okay, tell me what might have taken place.”

  “You read Haster’s reports? And saw the photos?”

  Lee nodded.

  “Okay then . . . Based on evidence collected immediately after the crime, it looks like Rictor came out here to meet someone. Maybe he was in the trailer poking around when the other person arrived.”

  “What makes you think it was only one person?” Lee asked.

  Bo-Jack smiled tolerantly. “Tracks. When I arrived, there were two sets of vehicle tracks—plus a pattern of footprints consistent with the presence of two people.”

  Bo-Jack was no fool. That was apparent from both his reasoning and the way he spoke. Lee nodded. “Okay . . . Thanks.”

  “No problem. So maybe Rictor hears the other vehicle arrive and steps out of the trailer. Then the two of them had words. Or, maybe they didn’t have words. It’s possible that the killer planned to kill Rictor from the git-go. All he had to do was raise his bow, pull the string back, and let fly. Either way, the arrow hit Rictor in the chest. Meeting adjourned.”

  Lee frowned. “Okay, let’s say that’s how it went down. Why were they here?”

  Bo-Jack shrugged. “The most likely reason is a business meeting. Rictor was a gangbanger—but some people say he did deals on the side.”

  Lee nodded. “That lines up with what we know.”

  “So let’s say he came out here to do a deal,” Bo-Jack said, “but it was a trap.”

  By that time, Lee had the distinct impression that Bo-Jack was leading her somewhere. “Okay, I’ll bite . . . Who would set such a trap? And why?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” Bo-Jack answered carefully, “but revenge is a distinct possibility. Rumor has it that Rictor snatched a girl off the reservation. A sweet young thing named Mary. Not to sell as a surrogate, since she was a mutant, but for the D-Dawgs to enjoy during a big party. Some say the D-Dawgs raped her so brutally that she suffered internal injuries. Then they dumped her next to Highway 87. That’s where one of our tribal members found her. Mary told him about Rictor, about what had been done to her, and he rushed her to a hospital. She didn’t make it.”

  Lee stared at him. “Did you arrest Rictor?”

  “No,” Bo-Jack said bitterly. “He had an airtight alibi. Six members of the D-Dawg gang swore that he was in Tucson that night. As for what the tribal member had to say, well, that was hearsay.”

  Lee looked from Bo-Jack to his truck and back. “Would you mind if I take a look inside your vehicle?”

  Bo-Jack produced the same little-boy smile she’d seen before. “No, ma’am . . . Help yourself.”

  Lee could feel the sun biting into the back of her neck as she made the short journey to the truck. It was unlocked, and when she pulled the door open, she could see the rifle rack. It was hanging on the wire-mesh partition that separated the front from the back. The top slot was occupied by a scope-mounted military assault rifle. But below that, hanging on a second pair of hooks, was a compound bow. And dangling next to it was a tube half-filled with arrows.

  Lee removed one of the shafts and turned it over in her fingers. If Bo-Jack murdered Rictor, which seemed quite likely, why use a bow? One possibility was that arrows weren’t like bullets. It would be difficult if not impossible to match one to a particular bow and get that to stand up in court. But she could conceive of a second reason as well. Once the cause of death was known to the public, it would send a message: Kill someone from the reservation and expect to be killed in return. Lee turned and carried the arrow back to where Bo-Jack was waiting. “I’m no expert,” she said, “but this arrow looks identical to the one that killed Rictor.”

  “It’s similar,” Bo-Jack admitted, “but there are lots of those around. Numar is a popular brand out here. Their stuff is made in Pacifica.”

  Lee could see the challenge in his icy blue eyes. She knew he was the one who had killed Rictor, he knew that she knew, and odds were that everyone on the rez knew too. And Lee didn’t blame him. That was something everyone except his mother could agree on: Rictor needed to die.

  “Thank you,” Lee said as she gave him the arrow. “One last question. A witness told us that Rictor sold Amanda to a man with two heads—which is to say a pair of conjoined twins collectively known as Tom-Tom. Do you know anyone like that?”

  The surprise on Bo-Jack’s face was plain to see. “You must be joking,” he said. “The Ebben twins would never do something like that.”

  Suddenly, it was Lee’s turn to be surprised. “So you know them?”

  “Of course. Everyone on the rez knows the twins. They were born and raised here. They work for the Nickels Corporation.”

  Lee frowned. “Maybe we’re talking about different people—although Tom-Tom is a very distinctive name.”

  “Could be,” Bo-Jack agreed. “Like I said, the twins I’m talking about were born here. Their father thought it would be funny to name both of them Thomas, so he did. They have different middle names, however. But you know how kids are . . . Whenever we referred to the twins as a unit, we called them Tom-Tom.”

  “So you’re the same age as the twins?”

  “I’m two years younger.”

  “But you like them.”

  Bo-Jack nodded. “They built a medical clinic for the rez. We have our own doctors now—and that’s a big deal.”

  “So where do the Ebben twins live?”

  “Down in Tucson,” Bo-Jack said. “That’s where the Nickels Corporation is headquartered.”

  “Thank you,” Lee said. “You’ve been very helpful. Take care, Officer Bo-Jack . . . Let me know if you visit LA. I’ll buy you a beer.”

  Bo-Jack brought the arrow up to the brim of his hat by way of a salute and watched her return to the truck. He was still there when Lee turned and drove down the road.

  It was late afternoon by then, and Lee was grateful for the fact that she had some daylight left to work with. The road back to the freeway was bad enough during the day. Darkness would make it that much worse.

  Once she was on 87, it was a simple matter to backtrack to Phoenix and Omo’s home. The garage door opened when Lee pressed the remote, and she saw that the rent-a-wreck was inside.

  She parked, closed the outer door, and made her way upstairs. Omo was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a beer and watching the news. Lee could see what looked like columns of black smoke in the distance and military vehicles in the foreground. The reporter was talking about casualties. “What happened?”

  “A battalion of Aztec armor crossed the border and laid waste to the town of Douglas,” he answered. “The government is sending troops down to push them back.”

  “I thought you had troops on the border,” Lee said as she sat down.

  “We do,” Omo replied. “But not enough. Or so it seems. How did the meeting go?”

  Lee to
ld him about Bo-Jack and her theory regarding the officer’s involvement in Rictor’s death. Omo uttered a low whistle. “Wow . . . So what are you going to do?”

  Lee raised her eyebrows. “About what? All I have is a theory.”

  Omo chuckled. “Okay, what about some sort of Tom-Tom connection? Any luck there?”

  “Maybe,” Lee answered cautiously. Omo listened intently as Lee told him what Bo-Jack had shared with her. Then, when she got to the part about the Nickels Corporation, Omo groaned and covered his mask with his hands. “Oh my God, you must be kidding me.”

  “Why?” Lee said. “What’s wrong?”

  Omo dropped his hands. “A man named George Nickels owns the Nickels Corporation. And through it he owns a casino that’s believed to be a front for a crime syndicate.”

  Lee frowned. “What kind of crime?”

  “Drugs, prostitution, protection rackets . . . You name it.”

  “So why is Nickels out running around?”

  “Because he owns the local police chief, who, by the way, hates Sheriff Arpo.”

  Lee swore. “Bo-Jack didn’t mention any of that. And he would have to be aware of it, right?”

  “Right,” Omo agreed. “But it sounds like Officer Bo-Jack’s world is centered on the reservation, and Tom-Tom built a clinic there, so he’s looking the other way.”

  Both of them were silent for a moment. Omo spoke first. “So what are you going to do?”

  She looked at him. “Hell, Ras, you know what I’m going to do. I’m going to Tucson, I’m going to locate Tom-Tom, and I’m going to ask him where Amanda is.”

  “That’s a really bad idea. I don’t like Tucson.”

  “Nobody invited you.”

  “I have to go.”

  “Why?”

  Omo looked at her. He wanted to tell her the truth, he wanted to say, “Because I love you,” but knew that would be stupid. So he offered a joke instead. “You’re my partner—and you’d be helpless without me.”

  Lee laughed. It was music to his ears. “I’m tired,” she said. “Let’s get something to eat.”

  “Lonigan’s again?”

  “Absolutely.”

  They left shortly thereafter, but the Bonebreaker made no attempt to follow. Why bother? The puercos (pigs) would be back.

  TWELVE

  AMANDA SCREED’S PRISON consisted of a spacious living room, a comfortably furnished bedroom, and a bath with separate shower. That meant her quarters were similar to those she had at her parents’ house in Los Angeles—except that she couldn’t come and go as she pleased. But why? The apartment seemed too nice in a way . . . Not like the prison it was.

  She’d been there for weeks, watching TV, performing calisthenics, and waiting for a chance to escape. In the meantime, she had to “earn her keep,” as her jailer liked to put it. And that meant making an appearance at one of the weekly bacchanals that George Nickels hosted.

  Amanda had attended three of them by that time. And although she had never been assaulted, she had been ogled, groped, and forced to symbolically kiss Mr. Nickels’s feet while his guests clapped enthusiastically. Because watching a norm submit to Nickels not only served to reinforce his status but gave his guests a vicarious thrill.

  So it was with a terrible knot in her stomach that Amanda waited for the perfunctory knock on the door followed by one of her jailer’s forceful entrances. Eva Macintyre, or “Mac” as the rest of the staff called her, was a large woman who had been born with a snout rather than a nose. She was dressed in a severe blue uniform and carried a stun gun holstered on one generous hip. “So slut,” Mac said as she entered the room. “It’s party time. Put this on.”

  Amanda was sitting on the couch. She stood, and the bundle hit her chest. She opened it to find a two-piece swimsuit calculated to reveal most of her long, lean body. It was yellow with black polka dots. “Go ahead,” Mac insisted. “Put it on. You wouldn’t want to be late.”

  Based on previous experience, Amanda knew that if she went into the bedroom, Mac would follow. So she turned her back to the jailer, removed her top, and pushed the white shorts down off her hips. That gave Mac an opportunity to eyeball Amanda’s butt, which she clearly enjoyed doing.

  Fortunately, the skimpy top went on easily allowing Amanda to step into the bikini bottom and pull it up quickly. Then it was time to fasten the ties. A pair of red high heels completed the look. Mac nodded approvingly. “Good . . . You look like the whore that you are. Now stand still while I put your collar on.”

  The black leather collar with the chromed spikes was a regular part of the attire that Amanda was forced to wear. It, too, was intended to degrade and humiliate her. Once the collar was buckled into place, Mac added a length of chain, and they were ready to go.

  Amanda wanted to cry but refused to do so because Mac would enjoy it. So she held her head high as the jailer led her out into the corridor. Having been held there for weeks, Amanda knew that Nickels’s circular, one-story house sat atop a hill from which he could look out upon his empire. That included a twenty-story-tall hotel, the casino that was connected to it, and the surrounding mall.

  Amanda’s prison and three other so-called “suites” were buried in the hill that the entrepreneur’s home stood on. That seemed to suggest that Nickels thought of her as an asset. Something he could trade or sell when it pleased him to do so. Maybe that was why she was kept in comparative luxury.

  The good news, if it could be regarded as such, was that she hadn’t been handed off to someone for use as a sex toy or surrogate. The bad news was that it could happen anytime.

  Mac led Amanda out into the hall and down a sterile corridor to an elevator lobby. There were two lifts. One for visitors and one for freight. Staff were supposed to use the freight elevator, and it took several minutes for it to arrive. As the doors parted, Amanda saw a stainless-steel cart and two kitchen workers. The food served at Nickels’s parties was prepared in the hotel’s kitchen, transported through an underground tunnel via “hot cart,” and brought up via the lift. The men leered at Amanda as she was led into the car. One of them produced a low whistle. “What I wouldn’t give for an hour with that.”

  “In your dreams,” Mac replied. “But feel free to squeeze her ass if you want to . . . She likes that. Don’t you cuddles?”

  Amanda didn’t want the men to touch her—but knew the comment was an attempt to provoke her. So she gritted her teeth and stared straight ahead as unseen hands kneaded her flesh.

  Fortunately, the trip was only thirty seconds long, and the men had to push their cart off as the doors parted company. Mac led Amanda out into a small lobby and from there onto the carpeted path that followed curved windows halfway around the house to the point where the prisoner could see a sweeping view of Tucson. It wasn’t entirely dark yet, so hundreds of glittering lights were visible. Most, if not all of them, would have to be extinguished now that the new blackout regulations had gone into effect.

  But there wasn’t much time in which to admire the view. A fancy bar took up part of a wall. The dance floor was located adjacent to that. And a man in a tux was seated at a grand piano singing retro love songs as about thirty people stood in small groups and chatted. One of them spotted Amanda and said, “Look!”

  Heads turned, and Amanda forced herself to meet their eyes as she passed through the crowd. It was obvious that the men wanted to have sex with her. And the women, many of whom had birth defects, wanted to be her.

  Maybe that would change someday. Maybe the definition of normal would evolve so that people no longer compared themselves to those who hadn’t been infected with B. nosilla. But that day was still a long way off. Until then, the reaction to norms would be the same. First came a sense of curiosity quickly followed by self-loathing and a feeling of resentment.

  Amanda did what she could to steel herself against the insults, but it was
difficult. “What a slut,” one woman said, as if Amanda had chosen to wear the two-piece. “I wonder what her face looks like?” a man said, and Amanda felt a jolt of fear. What if they removed her mask? It hadn’t happened thus far, but it could.

  Mac jerked on the chain, which caused Amanda to stumble. The crowd laughed. Then the mutants were left behind as Mac towed her to what Amanda thought of as the throne. The richly upholstered chair was positioned on a platform where everyone could see it. A tiger was sprawled next to it. It growled ominously as Amanda was ordered to take her place on the other side of the platform. Mac secured the chain to an eyebolt and withdrew.

  The stage was set at that point, and the entire crowd turned to look as their host arrived. It was impossible to know what Nickels looked like originally, but it was safe to say that he’d been born with numerous mutations, all of which had been addressed with radical surgery.

  He stood about six feet tall. And while most of his face appeared to be normal, the lower-left part of his jaw was made of metal. Nor did the modifications end there. Steel rods, pulleys, and a servo had been used to replace his right arm. And, judging from the fact that the right sleeve of his jacket was missing, Nickels wanted people to see his artificial limb. Amanda couldn’t help but admire that in spite of the hate she felt for the man.

  Such was Nickels’s importance to those in the room that they nearly tripped over each other in an effort to catch his eye, tell him how good he looked, or otherwise suck up to him. And Amanda had seen that sort of behavior before. It was, she realized, the same way that those who occupied the inner circle of her father’s church treated him.

  And the adulation was an important part of what made “the bishop” tick. He loved the sense of importance that his position afforded him and fed off it in much the same way that Nickels did. The businessman didn’t even glance at Amanda as he took the platform. Neither she nor the tiger were of any importance to him. They were little more than exotic curiosities intended to signal his wealth and importance.