Revolution No.9

by Neil Mcmahon

  He put one arm lightly around her shoulders. “I want you all to know that she’s a hero,” he announced to everyone standing around. “Saved that little boy’s life, and mine, too. Went through hell to do it.”

  The words didn’t seem to unlock any warmth in her. She stayed passive, neither responding nor resisting, not even looking at him. Monks let her go. The gesture had been clumsy, but he wanted her to know that he was on her side-that in his mind the good that she had done far outweighed the bad. He hoped she would absorb that in time.

  The other woman watched anxiously, but she seemed relieved at Monks’s goodwill. She was older, mid-forties, and had the same black hair and olive skin as Marguerite. He guessed that this was her mother, or maybe an aunt.

  Agar said, “Lia, before our men start spreading out, you got any ideas which way those folks might have gone?”

  He was looking at Marguerite as he spoke, and Monks was puzzled for a few seconds. Then he remembered that it was Freeboot who had given her the name Marguerite. Apparently, her real one was Lia.

  “There’s a hidden road,” she said, still with almost trancelike somberness.

  “Where?”

  “It starts over by the security station. The men connected it to logging roads.” She pointed at the big Cat in the smoldering barn. “They’d work at night, then scatter brush around to cover up.”

  “Where’s it lead, do you know?” Agar asked.

  “Where the highway starts, near Elk Creek.”

  “Christ, all the way down there?”

  “They had ATVs. They’d radio ahead for people to meet them with cars.”

  There was much pushing back of smokey-bear hats and shuffling of booted feet among the deputies. The maquis had probably gotten out of the forest yesterday afternoon before the fire had even been discovered.

  Looking aggravated, Agar asked, “Lia, why didn’t you tell us this yesterday?”

  “I was too freaked, okay?” She lashed out the words, suddenly animated, wet-eyed with anger-or panic. “You got any fucking idea what this is like?” She walked away quickly, hugging herself. The other woman hurried after her.

  Monks said nothing. But her real reason had come clear to him-the same reason why she hadn’t called immediately for help. She had wanted to give Freeboot plenty of time to escape.

  Agar sighed and hiked up his gun belt. “Let’s get somebody to check it out,” he said. “And hold off the search. If she’s right, there’s no point in sending those boys out.”

  The older woman had caught up with Lia and was talking to her quietly but sternly. Monks walked over to them.

  “You’ve got to quit trying to shield Freeboot, Lia,” Monks said. “This has gone way past that.”

  Her flat affect had returned, but there was a hint of resentment when she spoke-maybe at his use of her real name.

  “He let us go,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?”

  Astonishment, then anger flared in Monks-that after all this, she was still clinging to the image of Freeboot as superhuman.

  “He let us go because I had an assault rifle leveled at him,” Monks said.

  Her eyes went uncertain, but then quickly cool, even pitying, as if he couldn’t possibly understand the deeper truth. She turned and walked away again. This time, the older woman stayed with Monks. She looked almost lost in a big raglan turtleneck sweater. Like Lia, she was attractive without being pretty. Her eyes were large, a little sloed, and very dark. Her face was drawn and anxious.

  “I’m her mom,” she said. “I was afraid you’d hate her.”

  Monks shook his head. He was all out of hate.

  “She helped,” he said. “My own son refused to.”

  “It’s that man Freeboot,” she said with sudden heat. “He turned them into zombies.”

  “Maybe. But they let him.”

  She sagged a little, and nodded. “I did try to talk to her. Probably not very well. She sure didn’t want to hear it.”

  “Don’t I know,” Monks said.

  There seemed to be a strange mutual comfort in that. They stood without speaking again for a moment longer, until Agar called to him.

  “Dr. Monks, you ready to show us what happened to you?”

  Monks joined the deputies and started telling his story, while a technician with a camcorder followed. For the next half-hour, they moved around the fire’s fringes, while he described everything he could remember.

  He had just finished recounting being assaulted and getting his hair hacked off when the moment came that he had been dreading.

  “Over here!” a man yelled. It was one of the firefighters, in the part of the smoking field where the small cabins had stood. He had set his rake aside and was bent over something, brushing it off with his glove.

  When he stepped back, Monks got a glimpse of greasy, charred bones, lying like wreckage in the ashes.

  Agar glanced quickly at Monks, no doubt with the same thought.

  This could be Glenn.

  “You better stay here, sir,” Agar said.

  Monks watched from the sidelines while the firefighters and deputies conferred. He felt disembodied, as if something deep within him had grabbed hold of his already raw emotions and shoved them into a locked compartment, not daring to leave them near the surface.

  Then Agar came hesitantly toward him. He had put on firefighter’s protective boots and carried another pair.

  “Doctor, I hate like hell to ask you this,” he said. “But we’d appreciate it if-you know, if there’s anything you could identify.”

  “I don’t know anything about forensics,” Monks objected. Then he sat abruptly on the ground and pulled on the boots.

  The ashes were hot around his sore feet and calves. When he got close to the corpse, the smell of roasted meat blended with the woodsmoke and flame retardant. It was lying prone with arms outstretched, turned slightly onto the left side, as if sleeping. There was no evidence of contortion from pain, or of an attempt to escape. Whoever it was might already have been dead when the fire reached here.

  Monks hoped so.

  It appeared to be of medium height, maybe a little more. That eliminated Hammerhead, but left most of the others that Monks had seen. There were no obvious injuries or identifying marks. Jewelry would have been destroyed, and dental fillings melted. Only remnants of charred flesh clung to the bones. Skin and hair were gone entirely.

  He glanced at the firefighter who had found the corpse and said, “Give me your glove. I’ll be careful.”

  Monks crouched and very gently swept the film of ashes off the skeleton’s pelvis. Its heart-shaped cavity was wide, and rounded on the insides of the ilial bones between the sacrum and the pubic symphysis.

  He closed his eyes, knowing that he could be tricking himself. He counted to ten, then looked again. His impression was the same.

  “I think it’s a woman,” Monks said. “That’s all I can tell you, and I’m not at all sure about it. You’d better get an expert.”

  He handed the glove back to the deputy and waded out of the ashes-somber with guilt because his pity for the victim was overcome by the ugly wash of relief that it was not his son.

  “Doctor, are those human remains?” someone shouted. It was a newswoman, shoving a microphone past the restraining tape, while a man beside her focused a camcorder on Monks.

  He thrust his hand out at them, palm flat, and walked on past.

  PART Two

  NEW MURDERS INCREASE PANIC

  Wendy Reicher

  Tribune staff reporter

  Published March 10, 2004

  Chicago-The latest in a series of more than a dozen multiple murders tentatively linked to the “Calamity Jane” killings was discovered early this morning near Lake Forest.

  Walter R. Krieger and his wife, Nancy, were found shot dead in their home in the exclusive gated community of Avalon Greens. Krieger was an executive who sat on several major corporate boards and an influential industry lobbyist. His s
tatus in the business world, along with the killers’ penetration of heavy security and the lack of any apparent motive, fit the pattern of previous crimes.

  Police confirmed that items were taken from the home but refused to say what. In the past, stolen items have been dumped out in inner cities and homeless camps, among them expensive jewelry and the rare golf clubs that gave the murders their name. This has given the killers a growing Robin Hood image in some areas. Baseball caps and T-shirts with the “Calamity Jane” logo have even appeared, sparking outrage and demands for swift police action from citizens’ groups.

  “We’re aggressively pursuing a number of promising leads,” FBI spokesman William Joslin told a press conference earlier today. “It’s only a matter of time before these people are brought to justice.”

  But a Chicago police official, speaking on condition of anonymity, said, “It’s almost like they’re thumbing their nose at us-trying to prove there’s nothing anybody can do to stop them.”

  With no suspects in custody, widespread concern is on the rise.

  24

  Monks cut the last of the pressure-treated two-by-ten deck joists with a Skilsaw and laid it on a stack with the others, then paused to rest, wiping a film of sweat from his forehead. He glanced out to the hazy Pacific horizon for signs of incoming weather, as he had gotten in the habit of doing. It was early March. Spring came more slowly to the North Coast than to other parts of California, and storms were still frequent. But this was a clear day, and the afternoon sun was warm on his shoulders.

  He had found out why Lia-he still thought of her as Marguerite-had recognized tools like bolt cutters and pipe wrenches. Her mother, Sara Ferraro, was a professional builder, with her own all-female construction company. She lived in the hills above a little town called Elk, about fifteen miles south of Mendocino and a two-hour drive from his own home in Marin County. He had spent quite a bit of time here over the past couple of months, and had volunteered to rebuild the deck behind her house, one of those things that she had been meaning to get to for years but never had the time. His carpentry skills were decent, but nowhere near Sara’s level, and he was feeling under the gun, performance-wise.

  His watch read 4:43 P.M. Sara often worked late, but this was Friday, so she’d be home soon. He figured he had just enough time left to set the joists in place. Then he would have the completed substructure to show off to her.

  Standing in the middle of the deck’s twelve-by-sixteen-foot rectangle, he fit the two-by-tens, one by one, into the metal hangers he had nailed at twenty-four-inch intervals along the rim joists. He was careful to keep the lumber crowns pointing up-that was important, he had learned from her, for load-bearing members.

  When he finished, it looked pretty good, and he was feeling pleased with himself.

  Then he noticed that some of the joists were as much as a quarter-inch higher than the rim joists where they met.

  “What the fuck,” he said. When he got his tape measure and checked, he found out that the two-by-tens varied from about nine inches in depth to almost nine and a half inches. The bigger ones were sticking up too high. He dropped the tape back into his tool belt, feeling disgusted, ripped off. What the hell kind of world was this when you couldn’t trust lumber dimensions?

  He could hardly leave the joists as they were-that would create humps in the decking. He supposed he would have to pull them out again and notch them underneath-a major, and time-consuming, pain in the ass.

  But not today. He got a cold bottle of crisp Kronenbourg beer from the kitchen, then went back out and sat on the lumber pile. The beer was cold and rich, and that dry pilsner taste was just right for the end of a sweaty day of physical work.

  In the weeks after the fire at Freeboot’s camp, Monks had dealt extensively with law-enforcement authorities, and had lobbied hard to get Marguerite a deal without jail time. The courts took into account her brainwashing and her help in escaping, and agreed that there was nothing to be gained by punishing her. She had been sent to live with relatives in Phoenix. Privately, Monks thought her cooperation seemed more dutiful than wholehearted, but as long as she kept her job and stayed out of trouble, the law would consider her on probation.

  Monks had driven her and the Sara to the San Francisco airport to send her off. When the boarding gate closed, Sara, tough and fiery through the entire ordeal, had collapsed against him and said, “Now take me home and fuck me, will you?”

  That first coupling had been more combative than gentle, and it had lasted some time. He had his own tensions to work out. He had battled with guilt about taking a lover while his son was still missing, and with the fear that both he and Sara were in brittle states-using each other for the wrong reasons, which could come around to harm them. It might have been better to cut clean. But it was also really good, and as those things will, it kept happening.

  Mandrake was in a long-term care ward for juvenile diabetics, and much improved; tests had found him free of HIV or other serious complications. Monks had been to see him once-an official visit to consult with medical and social services authorities. Mandrake’s reaction to Monks was one of wariness and withdrawal. Psychologists had decided that it would be best if Monks faded from his memory, along with all the trauma that he represented. Monks agreed, but it hurt.

  There had been no news about Freeboot, or any of the others-including Glenn.

  The human remains found at the fire scene-the only ones-were, in fact, female. They belonged to Mandrake’s mother, aka Motherlode, whose real name was Alexandra Neville. All indications were that she was unconscious, perhaps already dead, when the fire got to her. Given her addiction, she might have passed out, or even overdosed, and been overlooked by the others until it was too late.

  But the possibility of murder existed, and Monks couldn’t help suspecting that Freeboot had killed her because of his insane conviction that she was responsible for Mandrake’s illness.

  If this were true, then killing Glenn to get revenge on Monks seemed an all too likely possibility. That fear ate at Monks like a sarcoma, keeping him awake for hours at a time in the middle of most nights. Rationally, he had over and over again justified leaving Glenn there. But when it came to something like this, rational thought didn’t cut it.

  When Sara’s beat-up Toyota pickup truck pulled into the driveway, Monks got up to greet her. She leaned out the window and eyed the deck approvingly.

  “Good boy,” she said. “You’re due for a reward.”

  “I screwed up.” He pointed to one of the uneven joints.

  “Oh. You should set the hangers low, then shim. There’s no ceiling underneath, so it doesn’t matter down there.”

  “Now you tell me.”

  “Hey, I can’t be giving away all my secrets too fast. You already know plenty of them.”

  She got out of the truck, dressed in blue-collar drag-boots whitened with drywall dust, faded jeans stained with construction adhesive and caulk, and a torn sweatshirt. Her dark hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail. It was a look that wouldn’t have worked for a lot of women, but on her it was sexy. The hard labor of her job kept her taut and lithe-she could touch her palms flat to the ground without bending her knees. In bed, she liked to clasp her ankles behind his neck.

  He saw that she had groceries, and went to help carry them inside.

  “Shrimp, scallops, and rock cod,” she said, handing him a plastic sack filled with cold paper-wrapped parcels. “We’re going to have seafood pasta. Frutti di mari. Okay?”

  “Wonderful,” Monks said.

  She frowned. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” he said, but then realized that his uneasiness must be showing. “Do I seem out of it?”

  “Like you’re carrying a granite block on your back, baby. More and more.”

  “Sorry. I’m fine. Really.”

  “Yeah?” she said, and smiled, maybe a little sadly. “I know it’s tough for you, Carroll. I can’t even imagine. At least I know where m
y kid is.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek and went inside.

  Monks gathered up the rest of the groceries and followed her. The kitchen was small and neat, smelling of herbs and garlic, its butcher-block counters scarred and the Creuset cookware much used. Like the deck, it was something she intended to redo if she ever got the time. He liked it as it was.

  “You pour us a drink and shell the shrimp, I’ll do the rest,” she said. She liked to get everything ready in advance, then kick back, and do the final cooking when they were good and hungry.

  “Done,” Monks said. He opened the bottle of Guigal Côtes du Rhône that she had brought-seafood or not, Sara was a red wine drinker, with a keen sense for good inexpensive varietals-then poured himself his old standby of Finlandia vodka on ice, touched with fresh lemon. This was the time of year that he had planned to be in Ireland, but that had been put on indefinite hold.

  He dumped the big tiger prawns into a bowl. Sara turned on the TV news, and Monks half-listened as he pried apart the carapaces. They were barely thawed, the shells’ icy edges stiff and sharp against his thumbs. While his hands moved automatically, his senses drank in the pleasantness around him-the lovely woman, the cozy place, the savory food and drink. He had enough money, enough of everything. What he needed was to feel more useful, he decided-not too useful, just a little.

  His mind started going over employment options. He still worked as an investigator for a malpractice insurance firm in San Francisco. His case load had been light lately, but only by his choice. He could let them know that he was willing to take on more. There were also many hospitals and clinics that would gladly hire him for temporary locum tenens work, including a couple around here. He could arrange a schedule that would satisfy him and still leave him plenty of free time. That would be the ticket.

  “…this country better be ready for a wake-up call, because it’s about to get one,” a man’s angry voice said on the television. In the background came the shouts and mutterings of a crowd.