Sawbones: A Novella

by Stuart MacBride

  Sawbones

  by

  Stuart MacBride

  Dedication

  For Tammy, Bill and the

  Original Issue Kid.

  With many thanks to Rick, Mike and Pat.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  From the Author

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3 - Laura’s Ex-Boyfriend

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8 - Laura Jones – Not quite dead yet

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Discover Stuart MacBride’s Other Titles

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  From the Author

  A couple of years ago I stayed with some friends in Iowa, eating too much barbecue and learning how to shoot the kind of guns you only get to see in movies. Ever since then I’ve wanted to write something dark and twisted set in the USA, and Sawbones is my first stab at it.

  Barrington Stoke said they’d never had a serial killer book before (as it’s not easy to make one work without turning the thing into a doorstop-sized lump of paper) but would I have a go? Woo-hoo! Damn right I would. This book was the result.

  Most of my crime novels are set in my home town of Aberdeen. The cops are the good guys and everything has to be done by the rules. So Sawbones was a great excuse to throw all those rules out of the window and just have fun.

  If every book was as much fun to write as this one was, I’d be a much less grumpy sod than I am.

  Hope you enjoy it,

  Stuart

  Chapter 1

  Soon as I see the police cruiser in the rear-view mirror I know we’re fucked. Friday morning, fifteen miles out from Bloomington, Illinois and pouring with rain. Bouncing back up off the grey tarmac in the early dawn light. The cruiser holds back – must be running a check on our out-of-town number plate. I knew it was a bad idea to steal something with an ‘I New York’ bumper sticker . . .

  Henry’s sitting beside me in the passenger seat. He hears me swearing and turns to stare out the back window. The cruiser’s lights swirl red and white through the rain. The cop wants us to pull over. “God-damn it, Mark,” Henry says to me. “What did I tell you?”

  “Hey, don’t look at me, I been driving like an old lady all the way from New Jersey. No speeding, no nothing.”

  “Son-of-a-bitch.”

  For Henry, that’s pretty mild.

  He runs a hand through his long, grey hair and scowls at Jack in the back seat.

  “Listen up,” he says. “You don’t do shit unless I tell you. Understand?”

  Jack isn’t listening. He’s checking his Glock nine mm, making sure it’s loaded and ready to blow some poor bastard’s head off.

  Henry glowers at him. “I said, do – you – understand?”

  Jack shrugs, then winces. He looks like shit with his nose all broken and two black eyes, but he’s a fucking super-model compared to Brian, the guy he’s sitting next to.

  Henry reaches a hand back between the seats as I pull over onto the hard shoulder.

  “Give me the gun.”

  Jack doesn’t look at him. “Fuck you.” He doesn’t sound nowhere near as cocky as he did when we started this thousand-mile-long road trip. But he’s still trying to be the hard man. He peels back a chunk of torn seat cover and slips the gun in under the dirty-yellow padding. “Happy now?”

  Henry looks at him. “You and me going to have another problem?”

  I kill the engine – now the only sound is Jack’s wheezy breathing and the rain drumming on the roof. I look in the mirror again and see the State Trooper climb out into the storm. He’s on his own – no partner sitting in the car. Maybe we can talk our way out of this after all?

  He clumps his way through the rain till he’s standing at my window, water dripping from the round brim of his big brown hat.

  “Mornin’, officer,” I say, keeping it light and friendly, “horrible weather, eh?” I give him my best smile.

  “Long way from New Jersey,” he says in his shitkicker drawl. The guy looks like death warmed up. Bags under his eyes, blue-grey stubble on his chin. Maybe on the way home after a long shift – that’s why he’s alone.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He sticks out his hand. “Licence and registration.”

  I tell him it’s in the glove box, then lean across nice and slow to open it and pull out the bits of paper. Maybe we’re going to get away with it? Maybe he’s not going to ask too many questions. Maybe . . . He’s leaning on the car door, peering in at everyone and I get that fucked feeling again.

  What the hell’s he going to think? There’s me behind the wheel. Henry’s in the passenger seat – fifty-eight, V-neck sweater on over a shirt and tie, like a retired door-to-door salesman. In the back we got Jack, with his leather jacket and fucked-up face. And sitting next to him, there’s Brian, the eighteen-year-old, pale, shivering blob that used to be Laura’s boyfriend, both hands clutching his groin. Thank Christ he’s wearing black trousers so no one can see the blood.

  The Trooper stares at him. “What happened to your friend?”

  “Brian here got himself a dose of something off this girl in Ohio,” I say, trying on my smile again and lying through my teeth. “I told him you gotta use a condom, but you know what kids are like these days.” My face hurts from all the smiling – let’s face it, there’s been damn all to smile about these last couple of days, I’m out of practice – but the Trooper seems to be buying it.

  “You got a tail light out,” he says, then steps back, hooking his finger at me. I open my door and step out into the pouring rain.

  It soaks right through my shirt, plastering my hair to my head as I follow him round to the trunk. He points at the offending light.

  “Sorry, officer,” I say, hoping that this will be it. That he’ll get back in his patrol cruiser and fuck off to wherever the hell it is he’s going. “I’ll take care of it first chance I get.”

  “Uh-huh.” He writes me a ticket, making me stand there in the rain while he copies down the car’s registration and my licence details. And then he stops. Frowns. And checks the documents again. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck – he knows they’re forged. Fuck! I told Henry we should have used someone more reliable.

  The Trooper says, “Open the trunk.”

  “Look, officer, maybe we can – ”

  He places a hand on the gun at his hip. “Open the trunk.”

  “Sure thing. Not a problem.” Fuck, fuck, FUCK. I slip the key into the lock and twist. The trunk pops open and Mr State Trooper steps up to take a look. Then swears.

  I can’t blame him, it’s not every day you stop someone for a busted tail light and find a dead FBI agent in their trunk. The Trooper’s almost got his gun out when Henry smashes him over the back of the head with an empty bourbon bottle.

  We stand over the fallen man, watching the blood wash away in the rain.

  “He dead?” I ask.

  “Will be when I’ve finished with him ...” Henry pulls out the Trooper’s handcuffs, drags the guy’s arms round behind his back and snaps the cuffs on. Then we haul him into the trunk alongside Special Agent Mills. It’s a tight squeeze – bleeding cop and dead agent – but we make it work.

  . . .

  . . .

  And believe it or not: this time we’re supposed to be the good guys.

  Chapt
er 2

  Ten in the morning and it’s still raining like a bastard. We’re parked outside a small 7-Eleven clone on the outskirts of Bloomington, waiting for Jack to get back with breakfast, while Henry puts in a call to our boss, Mr Jones. “Yeah,” he’s saying, the cellphone jammed against his ear, “morgue’s still shut . . . Uh-huh . . . Uh-huh . . . We’re going round to see him soon as it opens . . . Yeah . . .”

  One of them big minivans pulls up on the other side of the parking lot. Mom, Pop, and two kids. Pop hops out into the rain while Mom stays put to keep an eye on the brats. The guy hurries between the puddles towards the store, stopping when Jack pushes out through the front door. Arms full.

  Pop nods a hello, but Jack just gives him one of those shitty looks he’s been working on since yesterday lunchtime, when Henry rearranged his face for him. Pop backs up a couple of steps, then waits for Jack to limp past, before going inside. He looks back over his shoulder at this thug in the leather jacket.

  Way to keep a low profile, Jack.

  “What?” says Henry, sticking his finger in his other ear. “Oh, right, the kid.” He peers over his shoulder at the pale, shivering thing that used to be on the local high school football team. “He’s doing OK . . . Uh-huh . . . Will do. You tell Tammy we’re thinking about her . . . right.” And then he hangs up.

  “You didn’t tell him about the cop,” I say, and Henry shrugs those massive shoulders of his.

  “He don’t need more stuff to worry about.”

  Which is true.

  The back door clunks open and Jack climbs in. “Breakfast burritos,” he says, handing out the little micro-waved parcels. Then it’s black coffee for me. Fifth of Old Kentucky, for Henry. And a jumbo Blueberry Squishy for Brian. Jack holds out the bright blue drink and Laura’s boyfriend takes it. The kid’s hands are shaking, little brown flakes of dried blood falling from his pale skin as he clutches the huge cup of sugar, chemicals and ice. Jack tosses over a small yellow packet. “Advil. They didn’t have anything stronger.”

  Advil, good for a headache, but I get the feeling it’s not going to do much for Brian’s aches and pains. Poor bastard.

  Henry twists the top off his early morning bourbon and takes a swig. That should even him out for a little while. Make him less likely to take another pop at Jack.

  I take a bite of my burrito – not bad, but not great. “Mr Jones say anything about the FBI?”

  Henry sniffs his breakfast, peeling back the outer layer of the burrito to examine the mess of eggs, ground sausage, potato and cheese inside. “Turns out one of their agents is missing.”

  “No shit,” says Jack with his mouth full.

  Henry ignores him. “They’re doing an appeal on national TV for Laura tonight. Fox News and America’s Most Wanted.”

  I nod and take another bite. We always knew Mr Jones would end up on America’s Most Wanted, never thought it’d be as ‘father of victim’, though . . . “No clues?”

  “Nah, you know what these Feds are like, sooner chop off their own dick than tell you anything.” He looks back over his shoulder at Brian and his blood-soaked trousers. “No offence.” Then downs some more bourbon. “With Feds and cops you got to persuade them a little – like with a hammer.”

  Which is how come Special Agent Mills is now wrapped in plastic sheeting in the trunk of the car . . . with a lot of broken bones, his fingernails ripped out, and his face mashed to a bloody pulp.

  “You know,” I say, finishing off the burrito and starting in on the coffee – which tastes like crap by the way, “we should really get rid of Agent Mills before he starts to smell.”

  Henry takes a trial bite of his breakfast, chews a couple of times, pulls a disgusted face and spits it out the window into the rain. Then hurls the rest out after it. “How can you eat this shit? Jesus . . .” Another mouthful of bourbon. “Like someone scraped dog crap off the sidewalk and wrapped it in a fuckin’ used condom.” He looks over his shoulder at Jack. “What, they don’t have no fuckin’ donuts? They never heard of Krispy Kreme in fuckin’ Illinois?”

  “You’re welcome,” says Jack. “It was that or hot dogs that looked like they been on the grill since Nixon was president. What the fuck you want from me?”

  If I was a gambling man – which I am – I’d put money on Jack going back to New Jersey in a body cast. Or a body bag. You see, normal people know not to screw with guys like Henry, but Jack . . . I think he’s missing that little voice, you know? The one that says, ‘Don’t poke the fucking bear!’

  “Tell you what,” says Jack, “you want something else for breakfast? You go get it. I’m sick of this shit.”

  Henry carefully screws the top back on his bourbon. Half of it’s already gone. I’m hoping that’s enough to mellow him out, but I’m not taking any chances.

  “Look at the time,” I say, starting the car, “we gotta get going. That guy’ll be back soon.”

  Henry’s quiet for a moment, then he nods and the top comes off his bottle again. And Jack’s escaped another ass-kicking.

  Nearly eleven and we’ve been sitting in the parking lot opposite the McLean County Morgue for fifteen minutes. It’s a crappy-looking building on the corner of West Front and North Main Street, just off highway fifty-one, with a line-up of shitty Fords parked at the kerb. No sign of our guy.

  Henry lights up one of his fat old cigars and opens the car window, letting in the sound of the monsoon. I can hear Jack in the back, making pointed ‘cough, cough’ noises, like that’s going to make any difference.

  Henry drowns him out by turning on the radio – R&B crackles out of the car speakers and he curses. “God-damn fuckin’ jungle music, all drums and shit, these bastards never heard of a melody?” He spins the dial till he finds a station playing Sinatra. “Now that’s music!” He settles back in his seat, smoking and humming along.

  I like Henry; we’ve been friends for years. But he can be a real asshole sometimes.

  Five minutes later a little guy in a white lab coat and Megadeth T-shirt sticks his head out the back door of the McLean County Coroner’s office. Big pointy nose, ginger hair, beady little eyes and a goatee beard thing – he looks like a real fucking weasel. He glances up and down the street. Then waves at us.

  “Right,” says Henry, winding his window back up, “Jack, you stay here with Brian.”

  “Aw, for fuck’s sake, how come I – ”

  “’Cause I say so. Besides, Brian likes the company, don’t you, Brian?”

  Laura’s ex-boyfriend just shivers. He doesn’t say much, not since his meeting with Mr Jones, anyway.

  “What if he pisses himself?”

  “Then the back seat’ll be all nice and warm for you, won’t it?” Henry steps out into the downpour. I follow him across the road and up to the morgue where the Weasel is looking nervous, holding the door open for us.

  “Hi,” he says, ushering us out of the rain and into the stink of floor polish, disinfectant, and whatever it is they use to preserve the dead bodies. The Weasel scurries down the corridor ahead of us, leading the way. “I can only give you fifteen minutes, OK? There’s a staff meeting and they’ll be back afterwards.”

  He shows us into the cutting room – all shiny stainless steel and sparkling tiles. There’s something on one of the autopsy tables, covered with a white plastic sheet.

  “This clears what I owe, right?” says the Weasel. “My little problem with the horses? No one’s going to come round and break my thumbs? Right?”

  “Yeah, sure, whatever.” Henry doesn’t really care. “Now show us the body parts.”

  The Weasel nods, grabs one side of the white sheet and pulls it away like he’s performing a magic trick.

  And we get to see what we drove all the way out from New Jersey for.

  It ain’t pretty.

  Chapter 3

  Laura’s Ex-Boyfriend

  New Jersey – Wednesday – Two Days Ago

  Brian’s what you’d call a pain in the ass. Eighteen, on th
e football team, brown floppy hair, dimpled chin, blue eyes . . . exactly the sort of guy a sixteen-year-old blonde girl would fall for. I’ve seen him at Mr Jones’s place a couple of times, picking Laura up in that flashy convertible his mom and dad bought him. No surprise he’s a cocky bastard.

  Only Brian doesn’t look quite so cocky now. He’s standing in Mr Jones’s living room, trying not to meet anyone’s eye. As if we give a shit that he’s been crying – we’ve got more important things to worry about. Like where the fuck is Laura.

  “We can only stay a couple of minutes,” says Sergeant Maloney, hat in his hands, all respectful like. “FBI’s holding a briefing and I gotta be there to make sure everyone’s got paper and fuckin’ pencils.” He stops, looks at Mr Jones’s wife. “Pardon my language, ma’am.”

  I don’t think she even notices.

  “I tell you,” says the Sergeant, “these FBI cocksuckers – pardon my language – are running about like it’s Silence of the God-Damned Lambs. Not one of them ever heard of proper solid police-work.”

  Henry’s standing over by the window, watching as the sweeping headlights of someone’s car makes the front yard glow. The FBI have searched the grounds and now they’re heading further out. Probably looking for something illegal they can pin on Mr Jones. Bastards. Like he doesn’t have enough to worry about with his daughter getting snatched by some sick weirdo.

  “I think,” says Henry, “Mr Jones would like a word with Laura’s boyfriend.”

  “Right,” the Sergeant backs up a pace, “Right, yeah. Of course.” He pushes Brian forward.

  The kid looks at the carpet, looks at the paintings on the wall, looks at the fireplace, everywhere but at Mr Jones.

  “Where the fuck were you?” asks Mr Jones. “Where the fuck were you when my little girl was getting taken?” He picks up a glass full of scotch and hurls it into the gas fire.

  Brian mumbles something.