Deadeye

by William C. Dietz

  Lee felt an unexpected desire to cry but held the tears back. “Deputy Omo is here, too . . . And Amanda Screed.”

  McGinty nodded. “Her father will be thrilled. Perhaps you would like to make the call.”

  “No,” Lee said harshly. “I think a surprise would be best.”

  McGinty’s eyebrows rose incrementally. “I get the feeling there’s a lot to catch up on.” He turned to the sergeant. “Open the cell. She’s one of ours.”

  SIXTEEN

  TWO DAYS HAD passed since Lee and her companions had crossed the border. During that time, they had been flown to LA, where they were debriefed by the chief of detectives, the chief of police, and the mayor. All of whom were eager to call a press conference and pat themselves on the back.

  But they couldn’t. Not so long as Amanda maintained that her father was responsible for the kidnapping—and not so long as two police officers were there to back her up. So the best the authorities could do was to get on the right side of the situation by bringing charges against Screed and allowing the poop to hit the fan. Members of the Church of Human Purity would be furious. But could the church survive in the wake of Screed’s arrest? Only time would tell.

  So finally, after what seemed like an endless sequence of meetings, Lee was allowed to go home for the third night in a row. She took a shower, put on a robe, and made some tea. Then she went into the living room to sit on the couch. Everything was fine, or should have been, but she felt guilty. She could have invited Omo to stay with her. Come to think of it, why hadn’t she? And if not him, then who? He was funny, brave, and in love with her. And you sure as hell aren’t getting any younger, Lee thought to herself.

  But deep down Lee knew what the answer was and didn’t like it. Omo was a mutant, and that meant both of them would have to wear masks all of the time. And if either one of them made a mistake, she would be at risk of contracting B. nosilla. It was a daunting prospect. So fear was part of it.

  But the truth lay even deeper. Try as she might, she couldn’t forget the horror that was Omo’s face. She should ignore it, wanted to ignore it, but couldn’t. Lee felt a sudden and overwhelming sense of grief. Sorrow for him and for herself. Because in the final analysis, Lee wasn’t the person she’d hoped to be. She was something less, and the realization hurt.

  Or did the truth lie elsewhere? What if she loved Omo, truly loved him, would that make the necessary difference? The problem was that she didn’t know. Which was why she curled up on the couch and cried. Pictures of her father looked on, but as always, they were silent.

  * * *

  The police sealed off the block on which the Screed mansion was located at 0500 hours. Shortly thereafter, uniformed officers went door to door and told neighbors to remain in their homes. Once that process was complete, two squad cars pulled up in front of the house. Uniformed officers got out, ordered the guards to stand aside, and opened the gate. That allowed three unmarked vehicles to enter the grounds and pull up in front of the house.

  While other officers hurried off to secure various exits, and a helicopter hovered overhead, McGinty, Lee, Omo, and Amanda approached the front door. They were in plain clothes, and Amanda’s face was hidden by a veil. As Lee rang the bell, she could hear a muted beeping sound. Was that an alarm? Triggered by one of the gate guards? Yes, that seemed likely. And there was a porch camera. That meant the Screeds could see the people standing outside.

  The beeping noise stopped, and a male voice came through the speaker mounted over their heads. Lee thought she recognized it as belonging to Bishop Screed. “Chief McGinty? Is that you?”

  “Yes, it is,” McGinty replied. “Please open the door.”

  At least a full minute passed before the door opened to reveal Bishop Screed. He was dressed in burgundy robe, gray pajamas, and expensive-looking slippers. But his ginger-colored hair was tousled, and he was clearly angry. The shotgun was held over the crook of his left arm—like a hunter in the field. His eyes flicked from Omo to Amanda and back. “Mutants? You have the nerve to bring mutants to my house? Damn you, McGinty . . . The mayor will hear about this!”

  “We have a search warrant,” McGinty said. “Please surrender the shotgun. You can give it to Deputy Omo.”

  Like a father confiscating something dangerous from a child, Omo stepped forward to take the shotgun. “That’s better,” McGinty said. “Why don’t we step into the parlor? Then I can explain.”

  Screed frowned, started to say something, and apparently thought better of it. He did an abrupt about-face prior to leading them into a room filled with overly ornate furniture. “Now,” Screed said, “what’s this silliness about a search warrant? Surely you can’t be serious.”

  “Oh, but they are serious,” Amanda said as she removed the veil. “Hi, Daddy,” she said. “Did you miss me?”

  Screed stared, and his face went pale. “Amanda? You’re alive? Thank God! Our prayers have been answered.”

  “Have they?” Amanda inquired sweetly. “I don’t think so. You gave me over to a man named George Nickels as collateral for a loan that you didn’t intend to repay. And you knew what that would mean. Eventually, Nickels would send you some of my fingers in an attempt to get his money back. And when that failed, he would kill me. But you didn’t care—and now you are going to pay.”

  “That’s a lie!” Screed roared. “I don’t know where you heard such nonsense—but none of it is true.”

  “Yes, it is true,” Lee said as she spoke for the first time. “Both Deputy Omo and I were present when George Nickels described the agreement with you. And his admission was consistent with the evidence gathered during the days that led up to the statement. That’s why you will be charged with kidnapping and a variety of other crimes, including drug trafficking. Place your hands on top of your head . . . You are under arrest.”

  That was when Cathy Screed spoke. Lee hadn’t noticed the woman’s arrival and turned to look at her. Mrs. Screed’s blond hair was in disarray, and she looked older without any makeup. Of more importance, however, was the anger in her eyes and the chrome-plated semiautomatic pistol clutched in both hands. It was pointed at her husband, and the barrel wavered slightly. “You rotten, lying bastard!”

  Bishop Screed held both hands palms out as if to stop any bullets that might come his way. “Don’t believe them, Cathy . . . None of it is true. I forced the mayor to put Detective Lee on the case. You know that.”

  “He was trying to cover up,” Amanda said coldly. “And he assumed that Cassandra would fail.”

  There was a series of loud reports as Cathy Screed pulled the trigger. She managed to fire three shots before Omo grabbed her arm. The fourth bullet went into the ceiling. Bishop Screed jerked as a bullet hit an arm, another smacked into his chest, and the third struck his left shoulder. Then his eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell over backwards. There was a loud thump as the body hit the floor. McGinty went to check on him.

  “Good shooting, Mom,” Amanda said coldly. “The bastard deserved to die.”

  Lee went over to where Cathy Screed stood and gently removed the gun from her palsied hand. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Screed, but it’s my duty to arrest you for the murder of your husband.”

  Uniformed cops surged into the room with weapons drawn. Cathy looked at them and back to Lee. Her eyes were empty. “I didn’t know.”

  Lee turned to a female officer. “Search her, read her rights, and take her downtown.”

  “Can I go with her?” Amanda inquired.

  “No,” McGinty said. “But you can get her some lawyers. Maybe, if they handle this correctly, your mother can get off with a light sentence.”

  McGinty turned to Lee. “Go downtown and file a full report. Then you’ll be on leave. I’d give the same set of orders to Deputy Omo if I could.”

  Lee and Omo left the house, drove a sedan back to the headquarters building, and flashed their new
badges to get in. “I’ve got to check in with Arpo,” Omo said, as they took an elevator up to the sixth floor.

  “That’ll be fun,” Lee replied.

  “Yeah,” Omo said. “It will.” Then, after a pause, “I’d like to take you to dinner.”

  Lee looked at him. “That would be nice, Ras. Kind of like the old days.”

  “There’s a place in Freak Town,” he said. “A restaurant with special booths. We can eat there.”

  “Okay,” Lee replied. “What time?”

  “I’ll pick you up at six.”

  Lee spent the next couple of hours filling out reports; and then she went home. There was plenty of housework to do, and she left the TV on while she did it. Word of the murder at the Screed mansion was out by then, and the press was having a field day. The mayor was giving serial interviews flanked by the chief of police and the chief of detectives, and everybody was waiting for Amanda to release a statement.

  Lee’s phone began to ring around 3:00 P.M. And it continued to ring until she turned the ringer off. That was a sure sign that her role in bringing Amanda home had been mentioned, which, when combined with the still-recent bank shootout, would be enough to set the media on fire. A quick glance outside confirmed her suspicions. Three remote trucks were lined up in front of the apartment house.

  So she closed the blinds and went back to work. Then, having completed her chores, she put in a call to Omo. It was only fair to warn him. She was ready by the time Omo pulled up in an unmarked car with lights flashing.

  Lee left the apartment, locked the door, and made her way out through a storm of flashing lights to the car at the curb. “What was it like in the red zone?” a reporter shouted. “Is it true that you killed a bunch of cops in Tucson?” another demanded. Followed by, “I love the skirt! Where did you get it?”

  Then she was in the car, and they were pulling away. “I ran into the same thing,” Omo told her. “They’re calling me ‘the masked mutant,’ and styling me as your sidekick. As for you, you’re the killer cop who eats nails and shits fire.”

  Lee laughed in spite of the empty feeling at the pit of her stomach. She had to tell him, had to hurt him, and wanted to cry.

  Omo took an indirect route in an attempt to shake any members of the press who tried to follow them, but eventually pulled into the area called Freak Town and drove down the main street. There was lots of neon, and as Lee looked out through the passenger-side window, the area and the people who lived there no longer seemed strange. Not after weeks spent in the red zone.

  Omo pulled in behind a restaurant called the Back Booth and parked the car. Then he escorted her in through the rear door. The main room was divided up into boxlike enclosures, all equipped with interior blinds. Some were up, and some were open, allowing Lee to see glimpses of people sitting across from each other.

  A hostess in a burqa-style “baggie” appeared and showed them to a booth. Once inside, Lee saw that a partition of antibacterial mesh separated one side of the enclosure from the other. Omo’s blind was down. But once he raised it, she saw that he was wearing a different mask. A formfitting affair that hid his disease-ravaged skin but revealed his mouth. But could B. nosilla have entered the enclosure with her? Lee was wearing nose filters but still had to breathe. All she could do was hope for the best.

  The mesh did very little to block sound, so they were able to communicate freely and discuss what they planned to have. Orders were taken via an intercom system. When their drinks arrived, Omo hoisted a bottle of Arriba beer. “To us! We made it back alive.”

  Lee raised her gin and tonic. “Yes, to us.” The words sounded flat and empty. And she regretted the need to utter them.

  “So,” Omo began. “I spoke with Arpo.”

  “And?”

  “And he reamed my ass. It seems Chief Dokey wants to charge me with murder, among other things.”

  “Uh-oh,” Lee said sympathetically. “That’s bad.”

  “It would be,” Omo agreed, “except that somebody shot Dokey in the head. My guess is that Nickels hired someone to do it. It’s an object lesson for the rest of his employees.”

  “That makes sense,” Lee agreed. “And Nickels?”

  Omo shrugged. “The bastard is in good health as far as I know. Anyway, McGinty asked the mayor to call Maria Soto. You may remember that she’s president of the Maricopa Board of Supervisors. And she wants me back . . . More than that, she promised that Arpo will give me a promotion.”

  Lee grinned. “Arpo will be thrilled.”

  Omo laughed. “No, but he’ll go along to get along.”

  “Congratulations, Ras . . . You deserve it.”

  “Thanks. But there’s another possibility as well. Chief Corso offered me a job here . . . Leading a unit that will be focused on mutant-related crimes.”

  Lee could feel the walls closing in on her. “That’s terrific, Ras! You’re in demand. What’s it going to be?”

  Lee couldn’t see all of Omo’s face, but she could look into his eyes and saw the pain there. She could beg him to stay but hadn’t, and he understood what that meant. “I’m going home,” he said. “There’s my family to think of—and a new job to do.”

  “Yeah,” Lee said, as a lump formed in her throat. “Who knows? Maybe there will be an opportunity to shoot Arpo’s son again.”

  Both of them laughed, then the food arrived, and talk turned to their past adventures. The media trucks were gone by the time Omo dropped Lee off, and she knew it was good-bye. “Take care, Cowboy . . . I’ll be thinking of you.”

  “You too,” Omo answered. “Watch your six.” And with that, he was gone.

  Lee watched the taillights dwindle to dots and disappear. Then she made her way up to the apartment, unlocked the door, and went inside. It felt cold and lonely. So she turned on some music, made some tea, and sat on the couch. It was time to cry. But the tears never came.

  * * *

  Rather than remain in LA and spend all of her time hiding from the press, Lee decided to leave town. The first step was to test-ride her bike and check to make sure that it was tracker free. Then she packed clothes and other necessities into the Harley’s twin panniers, turned her phone off, and hit the road.

  There was no plan. Just a desire to get away. And Highway 101 seemed like the perfect choice. It led her north through Santa Monica, Santa Barbara, and Santa Maria. And there were smaller towns, too . . . Places like Pismo Beach, Los Osos, and Cambria. All of which were located next to the ocean, where she could take beach walks and get her feet wet.

  The days were easy. But no matter how good the view from a particular restaurant might be, dinners were lonely affairs, often shared with a book, while lovers chatted at neighboring tables. Then it was off to whatever hotel she was staying at, where she was careful to avoid watching TV lest the real world find her.

  But, eventually, the long string of sun-drenched days came to an end, and it was time to return. Rather than go back the way she had come, Lee chose to point the Road King east. Then, when the road intersected I-5, she turned south.

  Traffic was every bit as bad as she expected it to be. But thanks to the bike, she could weave in and out of traffic. A tactic she disapproved of when other people did it.

  It was getting late by the time Lee got home and found the note that had been shoved under the door. She felt a sense of foreboding as she opened it. “Cassandra, I tried your phone, but it went to voice mail, and your mailbox is full. Please contact me right away. Sean.”

  Jenkins never called her Cassandra, never slipped notes under her door, and never said “please.” So Lee dug her phone out of a pocket, turned it on, and made the call. Even though it was past quitting time—Jenkins answered right away. “This is Jenkins.”

  “This is Lee. I just got home. You wanted to speak with me?”

  “Yeah,” Jenkins replied. “I do. I was a
bout to leave. Can I buy you a drink?”

  “Sure . . . Where?”

  “I’ll meet you at the 911 in twenty minutes or so.”

  The 911 was owned and operated by an ex-cop and a popular spot for law-enforcement officers to hang out after work. “I’ll see you there,” Lee said.

  “Good,” Jenkins replied. Then the line went dead.

  Lee hurried to shower and put on some fresh clothes. It seemed natural to slip the pistol harness on and clip the new Smith & Wesson to her belt.

  Then she left, mounted the Harley, and rode it to the 911. The parking lot was full, but the attendant knew her and was willing to squeeze the bike in.

  Lee thanked him and went in through a side door. The bar was more than half-full, very noisy, and decorated with all manner of police memorabilia. That included an old squad car that sat at the very center of the huge room with lights flashing. And Lee knew that back on the west wall, in among hundreds of photos, was a picture of her father.

  The proprietor’s name was Ed Murphy. He had a bulbous nose, two chins, and a hearty manner. “Well, look who’s here! Good to see you, Cassandra . . . Chief Jenkins is in cell nine.”

  Lee thanked him and exchanged greetings with people she knew as she made her way back to the booth with the number 9 spray painted onto it. Like all the other “cells,” it was surrounded by wire mesh on three sides.

  Jenkins saw her coming and smiled. “How was the vacation? Good I hope.” There was something forced about the way he said it, and Lee felt a sudden emptiness in the pit of her stomach. “Don’t bullshit me, boss,” Lee said as she slid onto the bench across from him. “You could give a shit about my vacation.”

  Jenkins made a face. “Sorry . . . It’s hard, that’s all.”

  Lee frowned. “What’s hard? Did something happen to Omo?”