by John Locke
Callie consults her list. “One hundred forty-three.”
Kathleen frowns. “You know I have to pick Addie up in a few minutes.”
“Fine. We’ll pick her up together.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Then get someone else to pick her up.”
Kathleen sighs. “If I answer all your questions, and promise never to contact Donovan, will you leave me alone and never bother me again?”
“If and if? Yes.”
“I’ll call and have one of the moms pick Addie up from band practice. But let’s move this along as quickly as possible.”
Kathleen makes the call, then says, “What’s the second question on your list?”
Callie says, “Spit or swallow?”
Kathleen winces. “For the love of God, Callie.”
“I’m waiting.”
“Spit. What’s question three?”
“What’s his preference, mouth or hand? And why? And how long does it usually take? Oh, and I guess you’ll need to get the dildo again, because I’ll require demonstrations.”
Kathleen shakes her head as if trying to wake up from a bad dream. “Just out of curiosity, what’s the last question?”
“It’s a long one.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Did you give him anal? If so, how many times? If so, did he ask for it, or just do it? If he asked, how did he phrase the question? Did you comply? If not, how did you turn him down? And if you did, why? And if you did, how did he react?”
Kathleen closes her eyes, shakes her head. “You can’t be serious.”
“You know I am.”
The question and answer portion of the discovery phase lasts nearly two hours. When it finally comes to an end, Callie says, “So basically, if you’re to be believed, you did every single thing that could be done sexually.”
“Not everything. If I remember correctly, question 38 involved threesomes, couple-swapping, and participating in orgies. I never did any of that.”
Callie consults her notes. “According to you, he never asked. So your non-participation’s a technicality, isn’t it.”
She stands, walks toward the front door.
Kathleen says, “My opinion? This relationship isn’t going to work out.”
Callie says, “My opinion? You’re a slut!”
13.
Ryan Decker.
“THERE’S ONE WAY in and one way out,” Decker says. “This road goes 70 yards and turns into Goodman Circle, an exclusive neighborhood with eight magnificent homes. And yes, it’s an actual circle.”
Decker and his three lieutenants are standing near the entrance to Goodman Circle, in Brookfield, Kentucky. They’re dressed in work uniforms with matching helmets.
“I thought it’d be more secluded,” Martin says.
“It’s actually quite secluded, considering it’s less than a quarter-mile from the interstate that divides Brookfield from Louisville’s East End.”
“How big are the lots?”
“Five acres each. And the circle’s surrounded by woods and a golf course. If we park the semi here, we can isolate the entire neighborhood.”
“We’ll need two semis for the motorcycles, equipment, and manpower.”
“Noted.”
One of the other men, Corrigan, says, “What are these houses worth?”
“Two to six million.”
“They’ll have alarms.”
“That’s a good thing.”
“Why?”
“Two reasons. First, it’ll force us to strike with speed and precision. Second, we’ll generate maximum publicity.”
“Why?”
“When you frighten the rich, you terrify the poor and middle class.”
Burroughs says, “It’s a perfect target. But a big step for us.”
“For you, yes. But I blew up half of Leeds Road in Willow Lake, Arkansas, last night. That was a logistical nightmare. This mission’s a snap compared to that one.”
An elderly resident slows to a stop and asks, “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Decker says. “We’re just finishing up.”
She points at his helmet. “What does BWC stand for?”
“Brookfield Water Company.”
“There’s not a problem with our water, is there?”
“No ma’am. This area has the highest-quality, best-tasting water in the entire country, thanks to dedicated field men like these,” he says, indicating his lieutenants.
“Well, keep up the good work, then,” she says.
“Will do. Have a nice day.”
When she drives off Martin says, “Nice lady. Think she’ll survive?”
“We’ll know soon enough.”
14.
Milo Fister, Faith Stallone, Maybe Taylor.
MILO’S PHONE RINGS. “It’s her. Let’s go.”
Faith says, “I can’t believe we’re meeting a contract killer in your parking lot in the middle of the morning.”
“Her first choice was a secluded rest stop in the middle of the night. Which do you think is safer?”
“Neither.”
Milo’s office is on the eighth floor of what locals call The Flashcube Building, which is the centerpiece of a large suburban Louisville office complex. He and Faith climb in their respective cars and drive to the farthest corner of the parking lot, where they park, leaving an empty space between their cars, as directed.
Milo gets out of his car and approaches Faith’s Mercedes.
She lowers the window.
He says, “What if she asks us to get in her car?”
“We’ll say no. What’s she going to do, shoot us in the parking lot? In broad daylight? What’re we, fifty yards from Shelbyville Road? Nonstop traffic? She’d never chance it.”
“Okay. Let’s make a pact. We don’t get in her car under any circumstances.”
“I thought I just made that clear, Milo.”
“You did. I’m just thinking out loud. I do that whenever I’m about to meet a stone killer face to face.”
“You think she’s already killed Byron Zass?”
“No. She said she’d give us proof.”
“His dead body in the trunk would be proof.”
“She’d have to prove he’s dead. Not passed out, or drugged.”
“And what medical background do we possess that would help us make that determination?”
“None. Which is why she’ll need to prove it, somehow.”
Faith says, “What made you choose Byron? You just met him once, at dinner.”
“That’s the first reason. I don’t know him. But the second is, he’s dating Lexi, right in front of her husband.”
“Ex-husband.”
“They’re separated, not divorced.”
“A technicality.”
“Maybe so. But it’s way too soon to bring him into the group. You saw how it affected Brody. I half expected him to slit his wrists in his car after dinner.”
“Killing Byron won’t make her go back to Brody.”
“Probably not. But it’ll make Brody feel better to know Lexi lost someone that was important to her.”
“You’re being awfully hard on Lexi. She may have stopped loving Brody, but at least she never cheated on him. That’s more than I can say for your wife and my husband.”
“Did you see the way Zass smirked at Brody when I said she was faithful? I guarantee you they were having an affair before she and Brody separated. By the way, we’re both supposed to be out of our cars, standing in front of your hood. And our hands have to be empty.”
“Whatever.”
Seconds after Milo and Faith get in position, a nondescript black sedan starts moving slowly toward them, and parks in the vacant space between their cars. A young woman gets out.
“That can’t be her,” Faith whispers. “She’s a child.”
Milo shrugs.
The girl says, “Call me Maybe.”
“Like the song?” Faith says
.
“I came up with that name months before the song came out,” Maybe says, indignantly.
“I don’t know,” Faith says. “That would be a big coincidence.”
“Faith?” Milo says, with a warning tone.
She ignores him. “If I were you,” Faith says, “I’d change it.”
“Maybe I’ll change it to Lexi,” she says.
Milo and Faith exchange a look.
Before Milo can say, “Why Lexi?” Maybe says, “Come closer, but don’t scream.”
They do, and Maybe pops open the trunk.
There’s no reason to scream.
Nothing to see but plastic tarpaulin, which is everywhere. There’s so much tarp it’s bulging out of the trunk. Maybe grabs a corner piece and lifts it high enough for them to see Lexi’s face.
Lexi’s face?
Lexi’s. And she’s clearly not alive.
Milo and Faith don’t need proof. What they need is an explanation.
After looking around to see if anyone’s watching, Milo says, “I told you Byron Zass. Not Lexi Lynch.”
Maybe motions them to the other side of the trunk, lifts up another section of tarp.
“You asked, I delivered. Say hi to Byron.”
Byron’s past communicating. And again, Milo and Faith don’t bother to ask for proof. The fact that Byron is dead would be obvious to even the most casual observer. Nevertheless, Maybe says, “In case it crossed your mind he might be asleep, drugged, or playing possum, I will now demonstrate he’s 100% dead.”
She fishes a butane lighter from the trunk, clicks the flame on, and says, “Milo, run your finger over the flame to verify it’s hot.”
“I-I don’t require proof, Ms. Taylor.”
“I insist.”
Milo puts his hand above the flame a second, then pulls it away. “It’s quite hot.”
“Faith? Your turn.”
She puts her hand over the flame and confirms it’s hot.
Maybe says, “This is an authentic butane lighter. Not methane, or propane, which top out around—I’m going to give you round numbers here—2,700 and 3,000 degrees, respectively. Butane will hit temperatures as high as 3,600 degrees. Not that it matters much, since human flesh starts to burn at 140 degrees.”
She puts the flame to Byron’s cheek and roasts it for fifteen seconds, creating a plume of smoke with a vile stench.
She says, “If he were playing possum, he’d have twitched by now, don’t you think?”
Milo and Faith are unable to respond, since opening their mouths would be enough to induce vomiting. While Faith’s gagging, her eyes are rimmed with tears. “I can’t believe you killed Lexi. She was our friend.”
Maybe says, “Burning flesh smells a bit like pork in a frying pan, but the outer skin has a rancid odor, don’t you think?”
“Please stop!” Faith says, through gritted teeth. Both she and Milo have turned away. They’re covering their noses with their right hands.
“You’re convinced he and Lexi are dead?” Maybe says.
“I can’t speak for Faith,” Milo says, “but I was convinced the moment I saw there were no bodies attached to the heads.”
“Well, I didn’t want there to be any doubt. Hold out your hands.”
They do, and Maybe drops two objects into each of their hands.
“What’s this?” Milo says.
“Souvenirs. Lexi’s nipples for you, Byron’s testicles for Faith.”
Faith retches, and allows her souvenirs to fall to the ground. Milo inspects Lexi’s nipples, then sniffs them. The look of disgust he receives from Faith is worse than the one she gave Byron’s testicals.
Maybe closes the trunk and says, “You’re going to need iron-clad alibis. It’s best if you’re both out of town on the same night. In different cities.”
Faith says, “Assuming we give you the go-ahead, when would it happen?”
“Whoa,” Maybe says. “Assuming you give me the go-ahead?” She laughs. “The go-ahead for killing your spouses is in the trunk of this rental car. There’s no turning back. You’re in now, both of you. You can change your mind about Jake and Lemon, but you’re going to pay me whether I kill them or not.”
“We understand,” Milo says. “When will it take place?”
“What works best for you guys?” Maybe says, as casually as if planning a dinner date.
They look at each other. “We’ll get back to you,” Faith says.
“No. You’ll decide right now, by the time I get back.”
“Where are you going?” Milo says.
She points to the hardware store on the other side of the parking lot and says, “I need to make a copy of your house keys.”
“I don’t think so,” Faith says.
“Think again.”
Milo says, “I thought you’d be able to pick the locks.”
“It’s a lot easier to use a key.”
“But if you’re staging a home invasion, wouldn’t you break the door down?”
“Afterward, Milo. You stage the crime scene after killing the marks.”
“Why?”
“Because you can’t know exactly what will happen before going in. When they’re dead, and everything’s set up exactly the way I want, I’ll walk out, lock the door, kick it in, run away. Doesn’t that sound easier?”
“Makes sense,” Milo says.
“If you’re going to kill them in Milo’s house you shouldn’t need my key,” Faith says.
“We don’t know whose house they’ll be in that night. They might go to a hotel, for that matter. You’re paying me to do a job. To do it right I need to be prepared.”
“I understand that. It’s just—”
“I can pick your lock, Faith. I’d just prefer not to. Do you really want to piss me off over a fucking house key?”
Faith frowns, produces her key ring, removes her house key, places it in Maybe’s palm. Milo does the same.
“I’ll be right back,” she says.
Ten minutes later she says, “What have you worked out?”
“How do we pay you?” Milo says.
“Glad you asked. She fetches two small canvass bags from her back seat, hands them over. “You’ll start assembling the cash immediately. Every few days you’ll cash checks for various amounts. No single check can be more than $9,900, but they have to total at least $20,000 a week, every week, till I’m paid in full. You’ll collect the money in these bags and place them in your attics every Sunday night. I may pick them up every week, or let them accumulate. I might not pick them up for a year. Don’t worry about that part. Just do your part.”
“How will you get in our attics?” Faith says.
“Don’t worry about that part. Just make sure you keep putting the cash in the bags every Sunday night before going to bed. And don’t make the mistake of trying to fuck me over.”
“Week after next,” Milo says. “I’m playing in a weekend golf tournament in South Carolina. I’ll be leaving Friday morning.”
“Friday the 13th? I like it. Start gathering your cash today.”
“What about me?” Faith says.
“Call your sister, the one who lives in Denver.”
Faith’s expression shows she’s not happy a killer knows where her sister lives.
Maybe says, “Tell her you’re coming to see her on the 13th. You’d like to stay a couple nights. “She’ll say yes, don’t you think?”
Faith nods.
“Send an email to follow up on the conversation. Buy a couple of presents for her kids today, and wrap them. The trip and presents will be on record. If you’re both out of town it’s highly likely Jake and Lemon will get together that night, don’t you think?”
“It’s a certainty,” Faith says.
“If they hook up, I’ll kill them together. If not, I’ll kill them individually. It’ll either be a home invasion or a murder-suicide.”
“What’s the motivation for that?”
“Someone will know abou
t the affair. It can’t be you guys, but trust me, someone will know. When the cops find out, the pieces will fall into place. You might be suspects, but your alibis are excellent. And they won’t find out about me unless you tell them. And that would be a mistake.” She pauses a minute, picks Byron’s nuts off the pavement, puts them in her jeans pocket. Then says, “Any questions?”
Faith and Milo look at each other.
No, they don’t have any questions.
15.
Donovan Creed, Joe Penny,
Jack & Jill.
JACK TALLOW LOOKS like shit. He’s juiced up with pain meds and antibiotics and writing stories about Jill’s husband that are impossible to believe.
Writing them on a yellow legal pad, since he can’t speak.
Bobby Dee had a doctor remove his vocal cords so he wouldn’t make too much noise while being tortured. But he didn’t have time to be tortured too badly in the basement because Bobby had his goons dump Jack in a pen full of wild hogs near the Blood River. From what I’ve pieced together, Jack’s escape involved killing two guys and stealing a truck. But the details are sketchy, and I’m not interested enough to question him further.
If Jack’s to be believed, Bobby has a number of prisoners chained up in the basement of his antebellum home in La Pierre, Louisiana. And now he’s insisting I spare the prisoners.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about the prisoners,” I say. “And if they look as bad as you, I expect they’ll welcome a swift death.”
Jack writes:
Some of them are kids! The prisoners are part of the state’s witness protection program. Bobby sells the snitches to the mob and rapes and tortures the family members.
“I can see why you didn’t get along,” I say. “He sounds like a shitty host.”
You have to save them. You can’t just blow them up.
I look at Joe Penny. “I want this done tonight. Any way to keep the prisoners alive while blowing up the rest of the house?”
“I haven’t seen the house, but if it’s as big as Jill says, the prisoners have three ways to die and only one way to live.”
“Elaborate.”
“They could die in the initial blast, be crushed by the rubble, or suffocate from the dust.”
“And their chance for living?”
“Pure luck.”
