Bobby reached out and grabbed Lolita's wrist before she could react. She tried to break free, but his grip was too strong. He pulled her from Sam.
“It’s okay, Tatjana. God is with us. He protects us,” Sam said.
“Psalm 46. A beautiful sentiment. But the only protection you have right now is me, Sam. I can help both of us make all of this go away. We have to sacrifice her. Sorry. No real loss. There will be others. Believe me.” Simms reached up and stroked Lolita’s cheek again. She felt a chill as he put his hands on her shoulders and forced her to kneel in front of him. She knew what was next. He reached down and unzipped his pants and pushed her head down. She tried to resist, but he was strong.
“How about Romans 12:19, Bobby? You know that one.” Sam sounded angry, almost shouting as he said it.
The boom startled Lolita. It bounced off the walls and windows as though the sound was coming from everywhere at once. Bobby’s hand fell into his lap beside her face. She turned to Sam and saw a gun in his hand, smoke rising from the small barrel. She saw a drawer open beneath the coffee machine and remembered Saturday night when they had taken Bobby’s gun from the wharf. Sam pulled her to her feet. Bobby was slumped in the chair again, his eyes blinking rapidly, his lips moving, but no Bible verses coming now. Blood spread slowly across his chest. Sam moved closer, pushed the gun into the bloody lips.
“For the wages of sin is death.” He pulled the trigger again.
The back of Bobby’s head exploded. Lolita watched smoke rise from the opening. The clean white wall turned red behind him. She placed a hand on Samuel’s shoulder.
“You know, I think I hated him more than the men who came to the ranch. Thelma, too, her especially. I’m glad he killed her,” he said. “She could have stopped it. I told her when I was a kid. She told me God wanted it that way, that I had to keep doing it for Him. Told me I had to keep God’s secret with her. I believed it, for a long time. I believed it.”
Lolita kissed him softly. She noticed another glint of sun through the front window. Another car.
Carla turned off the car radio. The music was a pleasant distraction but definitely against the rules when she was on duty. She didn’t turn off the car’s police radio. She just turned it down on routine runs like this. If only her by-the-book father knew she bent the rules all the time. She watched the green bar move slowly across the screen, listened to the swooshing sound as the text left her phone. Not too much, just the basic information about the burned up gun and shells. She did add, “thanks for the tip,” and used the smiley face, after all. What the hell. She opened the door and stepped out into a pool of sunlight. She had barely cleared the front of the car when her phone chirped. She smiled as she looked at the screen.
“Hello, Cam.” She leaned back on the front of the car, happy that he could not see her silly grin at the sound of his voice on the line. He asked her if she could recover prints from the gun, could she match ballistics to the shells from the parking garage.
“I can’t be sure. Prints are a long shot unless we find something inside the clip. I’d bet on ballistics. The gun is burned pretty bad, but it didn’t melt. It’s at the lab now. Any chance you can tell me how you knew where the car was?” she asked as she watched the front door of the house open. She had to hold a hand up in front of her face to block the sunlight to see who it was. She waved, and held up her index finger as she recognized Samuel.
“Listen, Cam, I’d love to chat, but I’m out here doing real police work.” She held the finger up for Samuel again as she listened.
“No, not in Herring Cove. I’m at Sandy Gardner’s house. I have to pick up some carpet fibers and a DNA swab.”
The phone fell as the feeling left her right arm. She turned at the sound of a crack behind her and saw the spider webbing around the hole in her windshield. She knew it was a bullet hole. She’d photographed hundreds just like it. She fell, bouncing her head off the hood of the car as her left leg quit on her just as her right arm had. She lay on her back, grabbed at the gun on her right hip with her left hand. She fumbled with the safety catch on the leather holster and had to force the right hand into place by rocking her shoulder on the pavement to drag the useless arm back to her side. The gun finally came free. The headlight above her burst into a shower of glass and plastic. Thank God it didn’t get in her eyes.
She rolled over onto her stomach and looked for the shooter. It was Samuel Gardner. She pointed the gun with her left and cursed herself for never once pulling the trigger with her off hand at the range. The instructor told her to try it a few times, but she thought it was silly. Gun qualifications were a waste of time anyway, she was an Ident officer. She arrived after a crime, not during it.
A spray of rock chips blinded her for a second as a bullet hit the driveway. She fought to centre the gun on Samuel, her arm moving on its own. There was a girl in a flowery sundress behind him. Why the hell didn’t she get out of the way? Finally, the gun settled, and she squeezed the trigger. At least she remembered that much. The gun jumped in front of her, and when it settled back, Samuel was gone. She saw him down on the driveway. He wasn’t moving, and the girl was down by his side. The pain began to spread from her right forearm up past her shoulder into her neck and down into her chest. Wow, that hurt like hell. A new hotter pain began to crawl up her left leg. She saw the phone beside her and looked out over the gun once more. Samuel wasn’t moving. She dropped the gun on the driveway and grabbed the phone.
“Cam, I’m hit. Call it in. Samuel Gardner just shot me.” She couldn’t believe the words even as they came out. “No, no. He’s down; I got him. I don’t know if he’s alive. God, Cam, there was a girl behind him. I don’t know if I hit her, too. I can’t get up. Get me some help.”
She looked up and saw the girl in the dress. She was covered in blood, but she was standing. Thank God. Then she saw the gun in the girl’s hand and looked at hers, on the ground beside her. She couldn’t grab it, not fast enough. The girl screamed and pointed the gun.
“Please don’t shoot me.”
Moments earlier
“It’s a police officer. She was here before,” Samuel said.
“Oh, my God. Bobby’s body. Sam, we’re going to jail forever.” Lolita stared past him through the window.
“You stay here, and I’ll take care of it.” He stepped outside.
The fresh smell of cedar bark poured in from the open doorway. She looked back at Bobby’s body in the kitchen. A cop. Could she move Bobby? She jumped at the crack of the gun. She stepped out. Samuel stood on the stone driveway beneath the steps. He fired twice more, and she watched the cop fall into a pool of sunlight in front of her car. Maybe God really was looking after him. She didn’t believe in God, not the way Sam did. Maybe if she believed, none of those terrible things would have happened to her, but her grandmother prayed and terrible things happened to her. Maybe Samuel knew how to do it right, or maybe he really was just crazy. She jumped at the boom as a flash of fire came from the cop. Samuel dropped. His knees just bent and down he went. One second standing, the next not. He didn’t fly backwards like he should have. Maybe God was keeping him from getting hurt, even though he was letting the cop shoot him. Strange God that one.
Lolita knelt beside him. There was a hole in his chest, and blood was bubbling out. He was grabbing at it, trying to make it stop. She felt real tears now, not just a trickle. She couldn’t see clearly, and her nose was running. She gasped and gulped for air just as Sam did. She pressed herself into his chest. Maybe if she hugged him, it would stop. She reached under his back and held him tight, placing her cheek to his. She felt the tremors and convulsions stop. She held him tight. She could tell he wasn’t breathing. She lifted her face and let her hair fall across his. Her tears dropped onto him, rolling down his cheeks to the driveway. She kissed his open eyes. The gun was still in his hand. She took it and stood.
She tried to smooth her new
dress. It was ruined. There was so much blood that she couldn’t see the flowers. She turned to the bitch cop. She was still on the ground, on her phone. Bragging about it. Fucking cops, all they did was take. Didn’t matter what you had, they’d take it. Making it so Lolita could never be happy, never be Tatjana even if she wanted to. There could only be Lolita. Tatjana died with Samuel. She walked over and stood above the killer bitch. She screamed at her. She hated her, she wanted to eat her and spit her out. The bitch had everything. She probably had pretty dresses and a husband and a kitchen and everything.
Lolita pointed the gun. The cop was bleeding and begging, had her own tears now. Lolita spit on her. She shot her and walked back to Sam.
Chapter 20
Monday, earlier
I ran a cloth along the length of the exhaust, felt the warm sun on my back. The bike was already clean, I was just rubbing out a few water spots Williams left behind. He was busy finding out which of his thugs left the Escalade to be destroyed. Gunner made it sucker-punch clear how important the job was before he left. I was weighing the threat from Montreal as I wiped down the bike. Yves wouldn’t kill me. We had history. But there would always be Stallion members who would, founder’s son or not. I committed the ultimate betrayal. I was a cop. There was no undoing that. I had the patch on my back again. Pulling it off was no longer an option. My only out was a body bag. That was fair. I knew it. I didn’t care. I wanted Greg’s killer. If it was a Russian hit, I’d want more than the hit team. I’d attack the Russians who had called the shot. That would put the Stallion at war in Montreal, Toronto, and Vancouver. I could never walk away if I started that.
My cellphone chirped. It was sitting on a cement curb behind the line of bikes. I grabbed it and sat behind my bike. It was a text from Carla. She’d found the Cadillac and the gun. I felt a rush of adrenaline. The Litter Box boys did burn that SUV. Someone in the Box knew who’d been behind the wheel when those shots were fired. The club could reach out and touch the shooter, Russian or not. I would do the touching. But if a Russian hit team had used Litter Box help, why didn’t the club know? It made no sense. Didn’t have to. Like we said in special ops, “Kill ’em all, let God sort out the bodies.” Kept most of us alive in the war. Might work now. I dialled Carla.
“Hey. Any prints on the gun? Can you match it to the shells at the scene?” I asked.
No prints, she was waiting on ballistics. She wanted to know how I’d known where the Escalade was.
“When people torch cars around Spryfield, the club knows, Carla. Think about it.”
She was cutting me off, claiming to be too busy being a real cop. Cute.
“Good for you. I’m just washing my bike. You still with the truck?”
I didn’t like the answer. She was back in Waverley. That scene was picked over. If she was doing follow-up there, she wasn’t doing anything to help find the shooter.
“When you get the report back, will you—” I heard a gunshot and her phone clatter. “Carla, what’s happening?” I knew the answer. She was under fire.
I stood and paced out past the row of bikes. More gunfire, three more shots and then one so close to the phone it distorted. She was returning fire. Even through the phone, the sound of a firefight stirred up the familiar mix of terror, anger, and disbelief. Her voice was strained and higher, but she was back on the line.
“Carla, slow down. Is he down? Is it over? Are you safe?”
“I’ll call it in” I said as I heard a woman’s scream. Had to be the girl she said was standing with Sam. The hysterical voice was close to Carla’s phone, too close. I heard another shot. I fought the urge to keep listening. I hit the kill switch and dialed 911.
“It’s Detective Constable Cam Neville. Officer down at the Gardner scene in Waverley. I don’t have the civic. It’s the same scene we worked Thursday. Sgt. Carla Cage is under fire there now, and she’s alone. I heard gunfire over the phone and then lost contact. She said it was Samuel Gardner, but I think there may be a second shooter, sounded like a woman. I am headed there now.”
I knew I was talking too fast, but I also knew the operator had instant digital playback. I turned to my bike and saw Gunner and Snake standing there.
“What the fuck was that ‘Constable Neville, officer down’ cop shit?” Snake asked. I ignored him and looked at Gunner.
“It’s Carla. We were on the phone, and she took fire. I gotta go.”
“Like fuck.” Snake stepped out to block me. I was about to drop him when Gunner stepped between us.
“It’s his ol’ lady, Snake. You met her.” He placed a hand on my chest as I pushed toward the bike.
“Fuck. We all go,” Snake said.
They headed to their bikes as I mounted mine. I thought about what Gunner said. Was Carla really my old lady? Could she be? Was she even alive? I snapped open the compression releases on the side of the engine and punched the start button. The bike fired, and I jammed it into gear. The engine choked on the sudden spray of gas as I opened the throttle too quickly; it backfired and recovered. The power train grabbed with a violence that almost tossed me from the saddle. The bike swerved right, then left, as the rear tire spun, fighting for traction. The front wheel pulled up as the rear found what it needed. It wasn’t pretty, but the bike leapt into the street. In seconds, we were on the MacKay Bridge crossing the harbour. Lane splitting is illegal in Nova Scotia. I didn’t care. I shot up between the cars headed for Dartmouth, but that wasn’t fast enough, so I moved out around the Dartmouth-bound traffic and squeezed between two oncoming cars, then pushed it all the way to the guard rail on the far left, forcing oncomers into their passing lane. I needed the drivers to see me if I was going to get through. I shot toward the tolls at more than double the limit. I glanced at the blurred image in the vibrating mirror above my left hand and saw the two tiny headlights chasing me. Gunner and Snake weren’t far behind. I choked down the fear. It had nothing to do with the wild ride.
We hit the Waverley Road and rolled up behind a cruiser, its red-and-blue lights popping, its siren screaming. I swallowed the urge to pass. We’d get there faster with him clearing traffic ahead. The Waverley Road traces a series of lakes to Fall River. A biker’s dream roller coaster of hills and sweeping turns. Today it was a nightmare, as the cop kept jamming on his brakes in the turns and then accelerating again. I pulled the front brake and then twisted the throttle, matching his slow-and-go pace. Snake was inches to my right. Gunner’s front wheel split the small space between our rear wheels. One bad move, and we all drop. Outlaw riding is tight, but this was insane. I could see the cop yelling into his mic, all nerves, responding to an officer-down call and cursing the three bikes crowding him.
Sandy Gardner’s place sits in the middle of a straight run between two of the most severe curves in the road. The cop slid the cruiser to a stop across the driveway. We dropped into single file. I hit the brakes and stood on the pegs to look beyond his car for Carla. I was so busy looking for her that I didn’t see sand at the edge of the driveway. The rear tire found it and shot out to the right as the brake locked. I knew the feeling, there was no arguing with it. The bike was gone. I pulled my left leg out from under the frame as it dropped and began sliding along the stone. I stood with my foot on the high side. The bike slammed into the rear of the cruiser, and I rolled over the back of the car, landing on the ground beside it. I scrambled to my feet and headed into the driveway.
“You, stop now, goddamn it.”
I looked back. The officer was out of his car now, his gun levelled over the open door toward me. He backed tighter into the small space as he looked at Gunner and Snake. He looked to be maybe twenty-three. His hand shook, the gun barely in his control. A second cruiser was parked inside the driveway. Whoever put it there would be as jumpy and trigger-happy as the first cop. I raised my hands.
“Hang on, hang on, I’m a cop, Detective Constable Cam Neville,” I said to
the guy behind the car. “I called it in.” I turned to Snake and Gunner. “Don’t fucking move.” I saw Gunner grab Snake’s arm. Would the old man really pull on me here? A problem for later. I had no time to pave the way for them.
Constable Lori MacLean inched around the front of the other cruiser in a crouch, her gun pointed at me. I flashed on the smile I’d seen on her face when she’d stood beside Greg the last time we were here. No smile now, but no panic either. One of our unmarked cars sat just beyond her cruiser. I recognized Carla’s biker boot twisted at an awkward angle in front of the car. My knees buckled, and I let one drop to the stone driveway.
“It’s okay. Let him in,” MacLean shouted to the terrified cop behind me. “We have two down here. I can’t get close enough to check, but I think they are both dead. We need to secure the house before we can get close enough.” She turned away, her gun pointed at the house. She was frozen in place.
I ran to the boot. As I cleared the car, I saw Carla, face up in the driveway. Shards of what looked like broken glass glistened red in the pool of blood reaching out from her. I looked toward the house and saw Samuel Gardner on the ground, surrounded in his own nimbus of red.
“There may be another shooter, a girl. She may be inside. Let’s just hold tight until backup arrives.” I shouted the order as I moved to Carla. I gently pressed my fingers to her throat. Her eyes opened. I felt my heart roll over in my chest.
“Hang in there, Carla, help is on the way. Can you move?”
Disposable Souls Page 34
