"Waste of time, huh?" He grinned at Chan, hoping she'd drop the po-face for at least a second. "Just like I told you. Doped out of his skull. If we ever did catch this guy and brought that shithead up to give evidence, the case'd get thrown out."
"Leave that problem for the prosecutors. Right now, we need bodies."
"And you think the testimony of another three dope-head teenagers will help?"
"Goodwell, are you ever not a complete salty pain in the ass?"
"Here's an idea," Goodwell said. "I'll catch a taxi back at the station. You grab a formal statement off the guy that saw Dylan getting into the car while I pull files on every child molester inside state limits. Then we start making serious housecalls. Matching cars to kiddy-fiddlers."
"You're really gonna take the molestation angle?" Chan gnawed absently at her thumbnail. The nail-polish flowers were chipped to hell, Goodwell noticed. "Okay, okay. Maybe you should grab coffee while you're at it. Or a nap. Or, I don't know. A fucking clue."
"Thanks, Chan. You're a real peach."
Chan drove away with her face screwed up tight and a curse on her lips, leaving Goodwell in the rain. He jogged across the street to a payphone and fumbled a coin into the slot, waiting with the receiver against his ear until Chan was out of sight. Then he hung up and retreated into the shadow of a weeping elm, shivering as a stray drop of rain splashed off the leaves and trickled down his spine.
He didn't have to wait long.
Fifteen minutes after Chan had peeled off, Lucas stepped into the drizzle. He was wearing a red leather jacket, collar turned up around his ears, hair plastered back with fresh Brylcreem. Waste of time - it wouldn't last long in the rain.
The kid set off down the street with his hands in his pockets, hunched like he was trying to hide his face. Goodwell kept fifty paces back, just enough to keep the boy in sight. They passed long rows of silent, shut-eyed houses, the rain tickling the nape of Goodwell's neck. A left turn down a narrow alley, then a hard right down Taurel Boulevard. Goodwell nearly lost the kid when he jogged across the street against the red light, but he quickly found Lucas again lounging outside a milk bar with a Coke in hand. He was checking his watch, like he was waiting for someone. A friend from beneath the bridge?
Goodwell would have to move fast. If two of the teens got together and compared notes...
He quick-stepped across the road and came up behind the kid, sliding effortlessly into a chair beside him. Lucas made a strangled sound. "I told you everything, man!"
"Calm down. You're making a scene. Just came by to share some special wisdom with you. You want another coke? Maybe a float? Slice of pie?" Lucas didn't reply. "Look, I'm not here to bust your balls. Let me give you some advice and I'll get out of your way."
"Please," Lucas said. "I don't want trouble, I told you what I saw, so please-"
Goodwell grabbed Lucas by the shoulders, squeezing hard enough that the kid flinched. "Listen, kid. I'm a reasonable guy. I know what teenagers like to do. I was one once, believe it or not. I smoked a little, I got my big brother to buy me some beers. No big deal, right?"
Lucas nodded. His eyes were wide and terrified.
"But my partner, Chan? She's got a real hardon for busting guys just you. Yeah, I know what she said about letting the drinking and the dope slide. It's an act. She'll bleed you for all the info you have and then drop an underage possession on you. You want to go to a nice college? You want to keep your record clean?"
Lucas bobbed his head back and forth rhythmically, like he was deep in prayer. It was as good a plan as any, Goodwell thought. At the very least, it'd keep the kid from going insane.
"I want that too," Goodwell said. "Last thing I'd like is you missing out on a future because of a nasty little mark on your file. That sort of thing is permanent, you know. Haunts you for a lifetime. So, here's what we're going to do. Listening?" He got right up close to Lucas's ear. "Are you listening, kid?"
"I don't want trouble," Lucas whispered. He sounded close to tears. "My Mom can't know. Please, my Mom-"
"Listen!" Goodwell's lips brushed Lucas's earlobe. "From now on, you say you weren't there that day. You say you never met those kids. You never smoked any dope, and you definitely never saw any man."
Lucas's lower lip quivered. "They'll know I'm lying."
"Trust me, son. Better for a judge to throw out your testimony than lose your life... your entire life, believe me... just for having a little fun with your friends. We'll find Dylan and the rest, don't worry. You've been very helpful. All you have to do now is look out for yourself. "
"They'll arrest me-"
"I promise, they won't. If Detective Chan calls you for that sketch, you say no. Politely. If she asks about the guy you saw, you say..."
The teenager's voice was a bare scrape. "I wasn't there."
"Good lad." Goodwell patted him on the shoulder. His hands were shaking so he thrust them into his pockets. "You'll go far. You wouldn't have a cigarette on you, would you? Ha, no, just joking. You take care. And stay out of the rain."
Lucas had gone white. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly. His pupils were tiny points. "You're the guy," he croaked. "I know you. You were there. You're the guy-"
The entire world fell out beneath Goodwell's feet. The skin across his forehead prickled and tightened as he forced himself to smile. "Think you're mistaken there, Lucas."
"I remember you. You had Dylan, and-"
Goodwell shoved his chair back fast. There were already eyes on him, other customers looking up from their coffees and cakes to stare at the sudden commotion. He had to move, move fast, before the whole situation imploded.
He gave Lucas one last punch in the shoulder, light enough that it wouldn't leave a bruise but hard enough so the kid would flinch. "Remember what I said. Stay quiet, keep your head down, and don't say a word." Goodwell flashed a grin, showing his teeth. "Whoever hurt your friends, I don't think he'd be the type to forgive if you put the heat on him. Never know where you might end up if you flap your mouth."
His stomach was a tight fist of pain as he walked away. He wanted to throw up, but held it in until the shivers stopped and his breathing relaxed. Kept his shoulders back, his suit jacket blowing out behind him as a gust of wind came up the street.
He caught a glimpse of himself reflected in the milkbar window. Damned if he didn't look kind of dangerous.
It wasn't altogether a bad feeling.
It was afternoon by the time he got back to the Rustwood PD. Chan wasn't waiting for him, thank God. He could take a minute to towel his hair dry and breathe before digging into those old files. Last time he'd requested info on stalkers and child molesters in Rustwood he'd received a wad of papers so thick you could drop it on your foot and break your toes. There'd be someone in there with connections to teenagers, someone with a history of assault or threats. Someone the world wouldn't cry over if they went down for the murder of three teens.
He'd barely sat at his desk before a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. "Goodwell. Could've sworn I assigned you a partner. Little lady, big old pistol on her hip, hair done up all pretty. Seen her around?"
"You're a pig, Commissioner."
"And you're shirking work. Got bodies for me yet? Ah, I'm kidding." Snow slapped Goodwell on the back so hard Goodwell's teeth clicked on his tongue. "Get me an update by Monday."
Goodwell cracked a simpering smile. "Might have something for you by tonight. Shit, give me a couple hours-"
"It'll have to wait. Got a date in, oh, thirty seconds."
Goodwell looked Snow up and down, taking in his chalk-white suit, his mustard-yellow tie, his strawberry buzzcut slicked down with gel. He'd even changed his shirt and trimmed his sideburns. "What, with a woman?"
"Hilarious, Goodwell."
"I'm impressed, boss. You didn't seem the type."
"I didn't ask your opinion." Snow leaned over Goodwell's desk, passing a wary eye over his paperwork. It must've been up to scratch, because he grunte
d and backed off. "Play nice with Chan. One complaint from her and I'll have your ass. Find the kids."
Goodwell watched Snow stomp down the hall, then went to the window to peer down at the commissioner as he splashed across the parking lot towards his Merc. There was a woman waiting there, dark hair plastered down around her face by the rain, dressed in neat black from toe to tip. Her eyes were concealed behind wide, bug-eye sunglasses.
Weird woman, to be standing in the rain without an umbrella. Then again, she'd have to be strange to take a shine to Snow. There was something about her that made his palms itch. The way she took Snow's arm and led him to his own car like a nervous puppy. The way she looked up at the second story window and seemed to meet Goodwell's eyes.
Her smile was altogether too sharp.
Chapter 8
Fitch had been building explosives long enough to know all the best places to 'appropriate' raw materials. Problem was, those sources were running thin. The crates of gelignite abandoned by the Rustwood quarry were picked clean, both by himself and other light-fingered wanderers. He suspected the self-titled King of the Highways, personally. Every time he'd bumped into that nutcase at the Rosenfeld Mission he'd smelled the particular greasy chemical on the man's skin. No way to mistake someone who'd been playing with high-grade explosives, no sir.
Molotovs, on the other hand, were a simpler proposition. He'd explained it to Kimberly in detail the night before, as he drew up plans for their theft-spree. "Tool of the oppressed. Cheap and easy. A little petrol, a rag, and any freedom fighter can burn out a tank. We're gonna make ours a little meatier, but it's the same principal."
Kimberly smirked in reply. "Regular little Che Guevara, aren't you?"
"Of course. What'd you want to be when you grew up?"
There was a long silence. Kimberly stared into the distance, tongue jammed into her cheek, like she was probing a loose tooth. "A writer," she said, finally. "Didn't last past high school, though."
"Why not?"
"Didn't have the mind for it. I do better with other people's words than my own."
Fitch read the truth in her eyes. Rejection, most likely. The great American novel returned in a fat manila envelope, slashed with red pen. Aching eyes and broken hearts.
"You know what I wanted to be?" he said, breaking the silence.
"Shoot."
"Finnish."
"Excuse me?"
"Saw it on TV," Fitch said. "It was the Spanish that invented petrol bombs, but the Finns named them molotovs. Soviet Union invaded Finland in '39, you see. Dropped cluster bombs all across the place and killed more people than I could ever count. Now, Molotov was a Soviet Commissar, and his job was making it all seem like a misunderstanding. Told people the bombs were food parcels to feed the starving Finns. Finns weren't pleased with the bullshit, so they served up the Russian troops a little cocktail to go with dear old Molotov's breadbaskets. And thus..."
"So you wanted to be Finnish?"
"I wanted something to fight. Real hellraiser on the playground. Used to hit kids with juice boxes and shout boom!" Fitch finished his scrawled plans. Bottles from the Old Butler - they were always left in a trash can out back, waiting for collection. For styrofoam they could rip off a couple empty boxes from out the back of American Radio. As for benzene, he knew a place. If it worked they'd be set up for months. A humming little napalm factory.
He gave Kimberly a winning smile. "Funny how life gives you exactly what you want."
There were places a man could buy benzene in Rustwood, if he had the proper licenses and enough cash to choke a mule. It wasn't cheap, no sir, and the only two industrial retailers that stocked the product demanded you hand over all manner of safety certificates. Highly carcinogenic, they said. Had to treat it like a new-born baby, carry it in heavy gloves, use only in well ventilated areas, wear respirators, yadda yadda yadda.
Cancer didn't scare Fitch. Hell, he could chug a quart of benzene right now and Rustwood would still kill him long before the cancer. Kimberly, on the other hand... She had a future. Maybe in New York, if everything went right at the convent. Maybe in Rustwood if it didn't.
He had to keep her insulated.
So he'd come up with a plan. Not his best, but it'd serve. No point in wasting time faking credentials and pussy-footing around with the consumer-grade shit. Go right for the source: Ryan Roberts Industries.
It was close on midnight when they parked the Audi two hundred yards back from the gates of the Ryan Roberts complex, noise pointing out so they could peel away in a hurry. The rain had reduced to a low drizzle that barely tickled Fitch's stubbly cheeks. He looked to Kimberly, who was hunched over, hands deep in the pockets of her new riding pants. "Couldn't have brought an umbrella?"
"I'm conditioning you. Gotta become one with the rain and wind."
"This isn't Vietnam, bucko."
"Says you." Fitch knelt behind a briar bush and surveyed the Ryan Roberts plant: a colossal grey concrete slab on the west end of town that looked like a Nazi bunker air-dropped into the hills. No way had any architect with even a sliver of a soul scribbled down the lines for that monstrosity. Not without one of Rustwood's monsters guiding his hand.
That almost got Fitch laughing. The thought of Bo Tuscon slaving over a drafting board, drooling and vomiting blood as he marked the load-bearing beams...
Beside him, Kimberly said, "Something you want to share with the class?"
"Naw. Just getting my head in the game."
Fitch squinted across the two hundred yard gap to where the chain-link fence rose up around the borders of the complex. Ryan Roberts distributed a whole cocktail-menu worth of chemicals throughout Rustwood, outfitting damn near every white goods manufacturer, tannery and fast food joint in town, and it was all synthesised at their industrial headquarters. Far as he knew from reading the papers, people didn't break into the place often. Security wasn't too tight. Locked gates, barbed wire, the sort you could clamber over with a blanket or a heavy jacket.
Lucky he'd found a new use for his worn out old coat. He'd transferred the chittering thing into the duster he'd found out the back of the theatre, and it seemed to be settling in, squirming around the boundaries of his pocket, flexing against the weave.
He petted it idly, wincing as it gnawed on the tip of his sixth finger. Poor thing was teething, but he endured. It kept him calm. In control. He'd need to be, to pull this off.
"Deep breath," he whispered to it. "Can't be freaking out now. Too important for that." A couple hundred yards would be a quick dash on dry soil, but the damn rain would leave them skidding and slipping like coked-up penguins. This called for the slow and steady approach.
He patted down his pockets, making sure he had all his equipment - screwdrivers, tin snips, pocket flashlight, and a strip of cloth to tie over his face just in case they had cameras set around the compound. Kimberly had the boltcutters, a huge steel set he'd bought from Dusty's Hardware in the north end. They'd get through any padlocks Ryan Roberts could afford.
All they had to worry about were the watchmen.
"Stick to the shadows," Fitch said, and crept onward into the night.
The fence was all bluster. They clipped a hole large enough to roll a barrel through, waited for any hint of a midnight guard, and darted across the open ground into the shadow of the factory.
Kimberly was wide eyed, panting, almost manic. "Oh God, we're gonna get arrested. Jesus Christ, oh Jesus, this is-"
"Deep breaths," Fitch whispered. Huge arcing lamps cast pools of light across the concrete. The Ryan Roberts complex was a maze of doors and he didn't have the first idea which to open. All he knew was what he'd heard from one of Rosenfeld's crew, a young man left homeless after a round of merciless layoffs. Three quarters of the plant was manufacturing - filtration, extraction, all manner of chemical processes Fitch couldn't even put a name to. The last quarter was distribution and storage.
Made sense to look for a warehouse, but he couldn't do that with Kim
berly having a panic attack. He shook her by the arm. "This isn't the time, lady!"
She turned, and he realised the sheen in her eyes wasn't terror. It was adrenaline. "We can't stay here. Need to keep moving. Go, let's go!"
It was almost scary how intense the woman had gone. From reluctant to turbo-charged in five minutes. She'd argued through the whole drive, saying they could find the money, buy the damn benzene legitimately, save a whole mess of trouble...
But here they were, and damned if she wasn't shooting steam out her nostrils. "There," Fitch said. A building on the far end of the complex with massive roller doors, facing the south road. "That's where they'll keep it."
They darted across the gap together, and this time Kimberly took the lead. She held the boltcutters against her chest like a talisman as she hit the wall of the warehouse, panting, strings of hair tangled against her cheeks. As Fitch caught up Kimberly pressed a finger to her lips and jerked a thumb around the corner.
A flashlight wavered in the distance. A night watchman on patrol, barely a shimmer of black against the rain. It was getting stronger now, sheeting across the asphalt, getting into Fitch's ears. A bad omen, he figured.
"Back," he whispered, and they pressed hard against the wall. The flashlight beam licked across the concrete, swaying between the fenceline and the warehouse, stabbing into the dark corners. The urge to peek around the corner and see exactly how far away the watchman was standing was unbearable, but Fitch thrust his left hand into his pocket and let the chittering thing chew until he calmed.
Footsteps grew closer. Kimberly grabbed Fitch's arm and shuffled him away from the corner, until they rounded the far side of the building. It felt to Fitch like playing a patient game of tag, circling the warehouse counter-clockwise, just far enough ahead of the night watchman that he couldn't make them out in the black, just close enough that the long-suffering midnight employee was always sure he'd heard something, just beyond the bright pool cast by his flashlight.
Rust: Two Page 7
