by Cameron Cain
“You could take a look at it.”
I look at my hand. She’s not wrong; it is disgusting. The lips of the wound are raw and ugly, and the cut goes so deep I can see layers of meat all the way to the metacarpals. “Yeah, there it is. What?”
“The case,” she says. “You could take a look at the case.”
“How old are the victims?”
“Seventeen to twenty-five.”
“Nope. I do sixteen and under. Missing, not dead. You know that.”
Lacy also knows not to ask me why. She knows because she asked me once, and I told her that was off-limits. Dane’s heard the story, but not from me. He found out because he’s Bureau. He made some calls and got hold of a former sheriff in Virginia with a long memory. When I learned what he’d learned, I tried to transfer to a field office on the opposite coast. Dane got me to stay by swearing on his crucifix that he’d never, ever mention it to me or anyone else as long as he lived, amen.
I’m sure Lacy’s imagining my reasons as a lot more colorful or a lot more petty than they actually are, but I don’t care. I did warn her: no matter how long we knew each other, no matter how close or how deep our friendship became, my why would remain off-limits. I said it with no malice and no room for compromise, and I meant it.
So I tolerate the autopsy bay’s icy quiet as she finishes sewing up my hand.
She’s thawed slightly by the time she gives me the report. I can tell because she brings a cup of coffee with it, and a tray of cookies we split as we each dive into our paperwork. She’s right — there’s nothing else here to get excited about. Hattie had fatty liver disease, insulin resistance and a benign growth on her thyroid, but none of that is especially surprising, given her age and medical history.
I take out the photo of her head pre-cranial-saw and scrutinize those eyebrows, or lack thereof, again. The lifeguard described them without a lick of prompting from me, and I have no reason to suspect he’d lie. Now here’s Hattie on the slab and the eyebrows are gone.
There’s a click, followed by Lacy’s office TV chattering the news. “It stays on,” she says. “The police are interviewing a suspect in my other case, and I want to see if he confessed.”
“The cops wouldn’t announce it now. They’d wait ’til morning to maximize viewers.”
“Stays on anyway. You can use the bay if it bothers you.”
“Can I take the cookies with me?” I say.
“What do you think?”
I laugh, flipping through police reports on my phone until I find the one for the discovery of Hattie’s body. Her eyebrows aren’t mentioned, but why would they be? I scroll through the photos. She was photographed from every angle but the one I need. I find that somewhat convenient.
The problem is, the eyebrows aren’t really a problem. If Lacy and I are both wrong and Hattie was thrown directly into the ocean, she would have spent the whole night doing rolls and somersaults as the water threw her around. Also, the idea that between the time the lifeguard found the body and the time it arrived here in the morgue, somebody bothered to scrub off her eyebrows simply to make it look like Hattie did in fact spend the night in a saltwater bath — it’s a lot of trouble to go to. It’s a level of trouble you’d go to only if you anticipated someone very discerning and very well-trained looking at this with a motivated eye.
I scan the roster of police who were there at the dumpsite that day. No names I recognize. I’m probably letting paranoia get the better of me here. Jones could have pulled a lot of this off himself. He strikes me as a lone wolf, but even lone wolves call in favors when the prey’s too big. He gets shot by Gus, hobbles to his getaway van and drives off to find a mob doc who can dig out the slug. Meanwhile, he phones some back-up to check and see if Gus biffed the disposal, which — shocker — Gus did. So he tells his guy to sneak onto the coroner’s van, wipe off Hattie’s eyebrows, hack the DOT for good measure and, once Jones is on his feet again, he rolls up his sleeves and starts erasing anybody who’s had the rotten luck to see his face.
But I hate that, too. The term “lone wolf” doesn’t really do Jones justice. He’s more like those leopards that go unphotographed for decades and are thought extinct until some ultra-ambitious zoologist-slash-hermit sticks a tent in a range of remote mountains and craps in a hole for six months until he blends into the scenery. Then, bam, he gets a lucky shot.
Jones isn’t calling for back-up. Jones has no back-up. So who’s playing cosmetician?
I fling the file down, my hands grubbing into the cookies like the claws of a greedy raccoon.
“Progress?” Lacy says, changing the channel.
“Yes. This is what I do when I’m making progress. I throw things and dive for high-fructose corn syrup.”
The TV fills with weirdly fonted, over-huge ShockNews!
“Lacy, why?” I say.
“It’s trash, but Tina Taylor scoops mainstream news a freakish amount of the time.”
“Tonight on ShockNews,” says a male anchor at a desk that’s shaped like a horizontal exclamation point. He’s in his forties but has plastic surgeried himself into a whole new life form. At the dot of the exclamation point, which is apparently for the reporters about to present their hard-hitting segments, sits Tina Taylor, still in her banana-yellow skirt suit. She’s applied more makeup. Impossibly. “Our resident reporter Tina Taylor has an update on the Polly Turner disappearance. Tina?”
“Thank you, Vic. As you all know, I’ve been following this story closely since it first came to light. Polly Turner” — the school photo I have in my pocket appears beside Tina’s tiny head — “was a source for hope and inspiration in her corner of Skid Row.”
“She didn’t live on Skid Row,” I say.
“Shh,” says Lacy.
“I spoke with her neighbors today,” Tina says. “Her classmates, her friends. And I learned the profound effect she had on those who knew and loved her.”
I wash down the last of the cookies with the last of my coffee. “Know what would be nice? If more people like Tina disappeared. We could abduct them off the street, no beatings, no jails. Just put them with the other narcissists and see how they like it.”
“There’s not an island big enough,” Lacy says.
“Australia.”
“You can’t take Australia. Koalas are in Australia. They’re too cute to stick with a bunch of her.”
“No,” I say. “No, no, no.”
“Okay, whatever. Take Australia.”
“Shh!”
“What’s your name, honey?” Tina’s saying, bending down.
“Hector,” he says, chewing on his fingers, shy for the camera.
“Did you live by Polly, Hector?”
“Mmm-hmm. I live right there.”
“How do you feel about Polly being gone?”
He shrugs. “The bad guys parked by the church.”
“Where?” Tina’s eyes are huge.
But not as huge as mine. “No. No, no, no, no, no.”
“By the church.” Hector points.
“Did you see them?” Tina asks.
Hector giggles.
And I’m hearing Lacy behind me, Lacy shouting, “Beth! What’s —” before I’m on the stairs, taking them three at a time, exploding out of the hospital and into a mild California night, getting on my bike and taking a deranged mix of freeways, subway tunnels, side streets and alleys that cut my travel time to Polly’s neighborhood in half.
I hope it’s enough. God, why did I tell some kid on a bus bench where Gus parked? Jones is a neat freak, and Hector is now a mess to clean up. This makes Jones my mess to clean up, because if I were him and I saw that segment, I wouldn’t waste a second. Hector sounds like a witness. Witnesses must be eliminated. I could try and soothe myself by asking what the odds are that Jones was watching ShockNews, but a hitman in town on a contract has to stay up to speed. Especially when the job goes south, as this one has, unequivocally.
Now is when it’s nice to be out of t
he federal command chain. There would be calls to make, forms to fill out, a case to present that Hector needs protection from a top-tier professional killer because of my bonehead mistake.
Skip the calls and the forms. I’ll just go ahead and kill the killer.
I skid to park at Polly’s school, pop the kickstand and tear out the keys, already running. Hector’s house is dark and quiet, nothing seeming amiss.
Except for the leg I see disappearing over the fence.
I dial Dane and drop the phone. I get to the fence and hike myself over. I see the back windows are all open, Hector’s parents saving money on a/c. A shadow is slipping inside as I run across the lawn, no breath to yell at him, no time to strategize. I hurdle the sill and land in a living room strewn with toys.
Jones turns. My mind has reserved a corner to try and make notes on his appearance, but Doris wasn’t kidding. He’s white, five-eleven, medium build. His skin is waxy — you mostly see that on convicts who haven’t been in the sun for twenty years — and everything else about him seems to slide by the senses. He could be in his thirties, forties or fifties. His eyes look green, then blue, then gray, then green again as I get closer.
The closer I get, the more attention I pay to the gun he’s holding.
I’m running at too high a speed to stop, and he’s turning quickly but not quickly enough. I use that, reaching out like he’s offering me the glock to inspect. I pull of the slide-stop, field-stripping the barrel with my other hand. It’s not as hard as it sounds; you just take apart the gun like you’re going to clean it, except in this case, somebody’s spinning to point it at you.
Most opponents would stare in wonder at their weapon, which is now useless, but Jones doesn’t blink. He discards it and reaches for another gun in a side holster. I catch his hand, use his own fingers to flick the safety, and wheel him around so he’s toward the window. Together, we pull the trigger. The shots are quiet, like there’s a silencer screwed on the muzzle — which can’t be, because the gun’s holstered. I wonder who’s making Jones this specialized equipment, but I save my confusion and keep firing. Pieces of singed fabric explode from the back of his coat. He’s trying to use his knees, his elbows, but I’m too close. The gun fires again and again until I hear it click.
Three guns — Dane said Jones always has three guns. Close quarters is the way to keep this if I can, forbid him the opportunity to reach for his ankle. I use an old favorite and plant a foot above his knee, swinging around to scramble on his back, intent on going for the eyes. But Jones uses my momentum to fling me, and I slide across a kitchen counter, taking a vase of daisies and a ceramic pitcher in the shape of a chicken with me as I go. I crash to the floor, hear “Dios mio,” and jump off the tile like it’s lava, standing to see a woman directly across from me.
Jones sees her, too. And he’s reaching for his ankle.
I scream, “Run!” as I leap-frog the counter and hit Jones from the side. He gets off a shot, taking a wedge from the wall where Hector’s mother is standing — and, a second later, fleeing, shoving a man who’s just emerged from the same hallway in boxers and a bathrobe back the way he came. I hear children’s voices. I hear snowstorms of Spanish. I hear a window opening, and the voices getting softer.
I hear Jones making inarticulate sounds of pain as I rain blows on him. I’m trying to take stock of where his loudest squeals are, because I have a hunch I’m hitting his gunshot wound and it would be nice to hit it again — but, again, I have to prioritize the gun in his hand. I free the magazine catch, the spring springs out, the magazine drops, and I jack the trigger pin to cover the round that’s still in the chamber, all while Jones is trying to hike a knee into my kidney but missing and denting the top of my pelvis instead. Which sounds like it should be an improvement but, in the moment, is not. He frees his arm from beneath his own weight and twists, throwing me off.
I get up. He gets up. We’re five feet apart in the unlikely ring of a living room that looks like a hurricane-struck daycare, but I can’t help it, I smile at him. “You’re gonna have to use your hands tonight.”
A corner of his lips quirks ever-so slightly, but that’s all. His fists are loose, easy, and hold a small perimeter in front his body. I try to identify his stance, but it doesn’t slot with anything I’ve studied. Mine’s the same way — you don’t want to announce what style you’re using.
We’re circling, nudging stuffed animals out of our paths. This suits me fine. Hector’s mom has to be on the phone with the cops, and Dane’s en route if he didn’t take my silence for a pocket dial. I’ve got time on my side.
Might as well gab a little. “The kid didn’t see where you were parked. I told him the first day I got here. He was curious; I was showing off. Perfect storm. But he didn’t see you, and he still hasn’t. No good reason to off him, especially with how much mess you’re trying to sweep up, right?” I’m getting impatient. “Your hat is ten kinds of stupid, by the way.”
“So is your jacket,” he says. More like hisses. There’s something wrong with his voice. It’s all air. “By the way.”
I’m about to give a scathing retort — something to the effect of how I haven’t had to carry a purse or a briefcase or, most of the time, luggage since I had this made — when I feel an impact to my chest that I think must be a battering ram but is in fact Jones’s foot. He’s moving faster than I can see, lashing out in kicks and punches that are landing before I even think to block. My body is reporting pain in four new places, eight, a dozen. I suddenly recall something my instructor told me once, after I asked him to go all out while we were sparring and I wound up flat on my back in ten seconds.
You’re better than you think you are, Beth. It’s like you don’t hear me when I tell you that, but it’s true. You hear me when I say you should be here more often, you hear me when I say this or that move could be stronger. But when I say you have instincts like I’ve never seen — and I’ve seen a lot — I can actually watch you shut down and not listen. So listen: I know you’re mostly up against people you can easily take, because they look at you and see a skinny woman pushing thirty-five and they figure besting you is a done deal. But if you’re ever toe-to-toe with somebody really good who’s in it for keeps, somebody who you think has it all over you in terms of technique, remember this: technique is only the beginning. What sets you apart is your instincts.
Jones lands one more hit to my ribs. I focus, anticipating the jab he fires for my head and leaning back, then leaning in. Bringing my leg up as he overbalances, I combine his downward momentum with mine upward for a knee to his shoulder. I double down on this with an elbow from above, sandwiching the joint between the two. I hear a crunch, hear Jones wail. I picture him in handcuffs and decide it’s not good enough, reaching for my knife pocket. Between that and the front door opening, I’m just distracted enough.
“Beth!”
I feel an impact to my sternum that’s not a foot, not a battering ram. It’s a bullet, and I take a ride on the Flying Backwards Express, watching Jones slip out of the same window he entered, so fast and so clean that the cuff of his pants is still falling over his other ankle holster.
“— ambulance!” Dane’s yelling when I swim back to consciousness. “Right now, hurry up, right now!”
“Get -. Get-.”
“Stop. Stop, Beth, stop trying to talk.” He yells out the door, “Hurry up!”
“Get him,” I finally manage. “Get Jones.”
“Shut up.” He wipes his eyes so he can see better as he runs his hands all over me, trying to find the bullet wound. “Just shut up and let me help you for once.”
“I’m fine. Get him.”
“You’re not fine. You’re shot.”
I pat the jacket, so carefully, and manage five more words. “It’s Kevlar. Get him, Dane.”
Chapter 17
Maybe Dane doesn’t believe me. Maybe it wouldn’t matter if he did. Either way, he doesn’t move. He does mutter a bunch of instructions into his radi
o, but I know Jones has pulled a Houdini by the time the ambulance arrives and they verify that I’m not about to snuff it. They get shears out to cut through my jacket, but I stop them and wrestle it off instead. I order Dane to take it, guard it with his life, don’t go in any of the pockets. He listens to all this with a forbearance that’s unlike him. The paramedics slice through my shirt and trade “wow”s and “damn”s. Behind my St. Anthony medal, which now sports a slight dent, a tequila sunrise bruise is sprouting on my breastbone. One of the medics says, “We need to get that x-rayed.”
“No thanks.” I roll off the gurney. We’re still in the living room. I kick a teddy bear out of my way as I walk — slooooowly — toward the front door.
The medic is strongly advising me to blah blah blah, but I’m emerging into fresh air. I’m only wearing a cami on top, and the desert night feels wonderful. I find my phone on the lawn, and I see Dane talking to Hector’s parents with a mound of black leather under his arm. I go there. I don’t care that I’m interrupting. I wouldn’t care if he was blowing the Pope right now, I want my coat.
Hector’s mom watches me approach. Her hand finds her husband’s and squeezes. Dane’s asking her a question, but she addresses me as I arrive. “You were here yesterday. You broke that man’s window.”
Dane turns to me. “What man? What window?”
“Some d-bag in a Camaro,” I say, unzipping a spare t-shirt from a pocket and feeding my arms through it. The process tugs at my chest muscles in a way that is positively awful. I pull the jacket on next, feeling whole again.
Hector’s mom looks at the house. Her whole body is shaking. “Who was he?”
“Forget him,” I say. “We’re going to set up some police protection for you the next couple of days, but don’t worry, he’s a busy guy. Where’s Hector?”
Mom nods at a fire truck — apparently Dane called everybody — where Hector and his two older sisters are getting a tour of the engine. I limp over, and I don’t give a rat’s round ass that Hector’s all kid-eyed wonder by the firehose. I kneel down in front of him, and I speak in a tone of voice that leaves no room at all to doubt that I’m serious. “Hector? What did I say? What did I say you never tell a stranger?”
