by Larry Hoy
“The man you need to talk with is Sergeant Green. He has the credentials.”
“How many Shooters do you have in Memphis?” Luther asked.
“That’s on a need-to-know basis. Focus, Mister Sweetwater, and notify me once you have taken possession of the items.”
“Please tell me this is going to be fun.”
Sweetwater jumped sideways into the closed driver-side door and twisted to face the grotesque figure sitting in the truck’s passenger seat. The dark gray skin of what might once have been a woman was stretched tight over angles of skin torn in places to show the white bones beneath. Damage to her face left it flat, like she’d died under the blows of a baseball bat. Tangled red hair fell past shrunken shoulders, while an expensive cocktail dress hung loose on her frame. Eyes still filled her sockets, but no light filled them.
He tried to speak but nothing came out.
“Being dead is so fucking boring.”
“Go away; you can’t be real,” he said, fumbling for the door latch, like a trapped animal clawing at a cage.
“I was real,” she said. “Until you and my husband decided to kill me.”
“Huh?”
“C’mon, Luther, I know you’re not stupid, Eamon told me all about you.”
“Eamon?”
“Me!” said Mister Cooper, who materialized in the seat between them. His face and body had deteriorated badly since the last time Sweetwater had seen him. “That was my first name, Eamon Cooper. I filled Grace Allen in on your bio and back story. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“You look like a meat loaf.”
Cooper shook his finger. “Be original, Luther, you stole that line from a movie.”
“Son of a bitch!”
Sweetwater worked the door handle until it opened.
He slid from the truck and paused for a moment to let his heartrate subside. Grace Allen Tarbeau waved from inside the truck, then she and Cooper disappeared. Sweetwater walked to the uniformed officer, not nearly as upset as he wanted the British Bitch to think he was with his assignment, but damned freaked out by the hallucinations. Still, with any luck, he could still make lunch with his friends. He could really use some sane company right about then.
“Sergeant Green?”
“You Sweetwater?”
“Yeah.”
The policeman threw him a wallet and turned to go. It fell short and landed on the walking path. Inside was a familiar LifeEnders badge. Opposite the badge was a man’s LifeEnders ID and a deceptively plain, government-issued card with another photo, his License to Kill. Sweetwater bent to pick it up and, still crouching, read the name, William Bonney, like the legendary Billy the Kid. During his time in sniper school he’d heard the name. He looked up just in time to see the officer climb into his cruiser. He called out and ran toward the cop.
“Hey, wait up.”
The window of the cruiser lowered with a hum and stopped, leaving only a three-inch gap. “What now?” the man asked in a voice that said he was already late ending his shift.
Sweetwater looked back toward the park. “Is that it? You already finished the investigation?”
“What investigation? You see those red stains on the sidewalk. That’s where they died. Live by the sword, die by the fucking sword. Frankly, the only reason I’d give a shit who killed that lowlife is to shake their hand.”
“Was he alone?”
“You mean whoever did us all a favor and shot your asshole butt-buddy? How should I know?”
Sweetwater felt the anger flush his neck but kept his voice calm. Not wanting to kill people wasn’t the same as thinking about doing it.
“I meant, was the victim by himself?”
“There was a girl, she took a bullet, too. Now get the fuck away from my car.” The hum returned as the window slid back up. The cop extended his middle finger and drove away.
Sweetwater walked back to the fountain. Just as the officer said, there were two dark red blotches on the sidewalk.
The stain nearer the fountain was more or less circular and about three feet across. Somebody had bled out completely there, without moving, probably dead before they fell. Along one side was a smeared blood trail that might have been left from small wheels, as if someone had pushed a shopping cart into the sticky puddle and then reversed it back out. But why would there have been a shopping cart? He wasn’t used to inspecting crimes scenes, so the question rolled around for half a second until his brain snapped out the answer: a medical gurney, of course. They’d contaminated the scene without giving a shit.
The other blood pattern was long and narrow, more of a smear than a pool, and not nearly as bright as the other stain. Someone had crawled as they were bleeding out. Visualizing the scene, he found the spot where the first victim was standing when they were shot.
Sweetwater put himself in line with the center of the two blood stains and slowly walked away from them. His eyes scanned the ground and spotted a gleam. He bent down on one knee and brushed aside the grass to expose a brass shell casing.
“Son of a bitch,” he whispered. “They really don’t give a fuck who killed them. They didn’t even fucking try.”
He knew cops hated Shooters, but seeing how little they cared about Bonney’s murder made him realize they really hated Shooters, as in “not caring if somebody killed them” hatred. And what about the girl, whoever she’d been? Couldn’t they at least do an investigation for her sake?
Sweetwater stood up and patted his pockets to identify the different lumps: keys, pistol, pocketknife, wallet, creds…wait a minute, that wasn’t where he kept his credentials, those were Bonney’s. It felt weird having two Licenses to Kill on his person when he wasn’t sure he even wanted one.
Disregarding that, he took out the knife, flipped open the blade, and dropped it point down so the point sank into the earth just to the left of the bullet casing. He jogged back to his truck, grabbed a wadded up McDonald’s bag off the front passenger’s floorboard, carefully opened it, and dumped the crumpled cheeseburger wrappers in one of the park’s garbage cans. He snatched up an unused napkin and hustled back to his knife.
Careful to use the napkin, he picked up the brass, making sure to only touch the ends. Then he gently tucked the napkin around it so as not to smudge any fingerprints, and laid it into the McDonald’s bag. Finally, he got back in his truck and called Witherbot.
“Two-Bit, do you confirm that you have the credentials?” The British accent came out loud and strong and condescending…But there was something else there too, something he couldn’t quite finger. Sweetwater thought that if she wasn’t such an absolute bitch all of the time, she might even be hot.
“If you track them as well as you say you do, then you already know I have them.”
“Yes. Now please take them to the airport. Your contact will meet you outside the terminal. You are to pick her up and follow her instructions.”
“What are you talking about? What contact? You said this was a simple pickup job.”
“We have decided to send in a resource to investigate the incident. We have to prevent this from happening in the future.”
Something wasn’t right; he could feel it. She knew more than she was letting on. He wasn’t sure why he cared but decided to keep her talking and see what happened.
“The cops here aren’t going to do an investigation. They didn’t even process the scene. I really don’t think they did more than haul away the bodies.”
“Bodies? As in plural?”
“Yeah, you must already know the Shooter’s name was William Bonney—”
“Of course, we do.”
“But there was a second victim.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“Two blood patterns, that’s how, separated by about five feet. Plus, the cop waiting for me said he was with a girl. One of them bled out where they fell, the other dragged themselves toward the first one before the reaper got them. I’m guessing Bonney was the crawler.”
<
br /> “Why do you say that?”
He shrugged, even though she couldn’t see him. “Just a guess.”
“Do you have an ID for the second victim? What did the police say?”
“He essentially told me to fuck off.”
“Damn. Could the second body have been the killer?”
“How should I know? But I found a bullet casing.”
“Where?”
“A few feet from the blood stains. It was just lying in the grass. I didn’t think to check for a second one, but I’ll go back and check when we hang up.”
“Do that, please.” Luther heard clicking on a keyboard for a minute or so, and then some low whispering before she finally came back. “All right, Mr. Sweetwater, we need you at the airport in an hour. Until then, we ask that you investigate the scene some more before it rains, or someone else disturbs it. As you have discovered, due to the nature of our business, our relationships with the local police are sometimes strained. Be sure to secure the credentials and report to the airport in an hour. Do you understand?”
“Sure. So, does this kind of thing happen a lot?”
“Thank you, Two-Bit. We’ll be in touch.”
“Before you go—”
“Yes?”
“Is it in your job description that you have to be such a bitch?”
The line went silent, but it didn’t drop. Sweetwater thought he heard an intake of breath, then a click, and finally a dial tone. Somehow, someway, he knew he was probably going to pay for that.
Sweetwater figured that walking the murder scene again would at least kill some time until he had to leave for the airport, and laughed at the pun.
Bent over and careful where he placed his steps, he examined the nearby grass, checked the garbage cans, and even eyeballed the fountain. Other than a couple of panhandlers and some guy on a bench eating an early lunch, nothing presented itself. As he worked the site, nobody hassled him, nor did he see any police, detectives, or crime scene investigators. Nobody cared what he was doing, or even paid much attention. When he ran out of time, one thing was clear, LifeEnders wasn’t getting any help solving the murders.
Back in his truck, his phone played the guitar riff that signaled a call from LifeEnders as he turned on the engine. He pressed the button to accept the call without looking.
“Lemme guess, you couldn’t live without hearing my voice?”
“Are you attempting humor, Two-Bit?”
“You know I don’t like that name, right?”
“And I do not appreciate being called a bitch.”
“I should have known better than to answer. Look, I’m just leaving, because I’ve been examining the scene. I’ll be at the airport in about twenty minutes.”
“Acknowledged, Two-Bit—”
“I really don’t like that name.”
She ignored him. “However, the flight has been delayed. You will most likely beat it there.”
“Say it ain’t so. I’m heartbroken.”
“Ours is not a humorous business, Mr. Sweetwater.”
“No shit? You mean we’re not killing people because it’s fun?”
“Perhaps you’re not cut out for this line of work after all.”
“Or perhaps I’m just tired of taking shit from my handler for reasons I can’t understand. If you don’t like me, just say so.”
He figured that would really bring out the woman’s nastiness, but strangely it seemed to have the opposite effect.
“Thank you for your dedication to our cause.”
“We have a cause? I thought we did this for the money.”
“Yes, that’s true enough, and everyone must earn a living, but, yes, ours is a cause. Perhaps one day there will be time to discuss it with you.”
He listened for sarcasm but didn’t hear any. She actually meant it.
“Now you’ve got my interest. I’ll buy the first round.”
“Please don’t be late. Your contact will be on the flight from Dallas arriving at Concourse B.”
“I’ll be there,” he said, her civility throwing him off stride.
He dropped the truck into gear and wove his way toward the highway. Just like every other day in Memphis, it was packed.
Chapter 12
Downtown Memphis, TN
Sunlight shining through his eyelids woke Erebus, and a glance at his watch told him it was past 11 am. Stiff, hungry, thirsty, and cold as hell, it took him a few seconds to orient himself and remember why he was on a rooftop overlooking Memphis’ Court Square Park. The warmth of the morning sun had made him drowsy and, after the long night’s vigil watching the cop in the cruiser, he’d fallen asleep. Now he jumped up to see if he was still there. He was.
And, for once, his timing was perfect, because a man in a nondescript brown pickup truck parked in front of the cop car. A short, stocky guy in his twenties met the police officer by the fountain. After a brief exchange, the policeman tossed something to the newcomer and took off, but the guy followed the cop, and they raised their voices enough that Erebus heard a snippet of what they said: “the only reason I’d give a shit who killed that lowlife is to shake their hand.” The MPD car took off faster than seemed safe to Erebus.
The new man walked back to the park, inspecting not just where the shooting occurred, but the entire park and even the fountain. Once it looked like he picked something up from the ground, but Erebus couldn’t tell what it was. Then it struck him…the bullet casing, or whatever they called it. When the man at the gun store showed him how to shoot the pistol, Erebus distinctly remembered the empty bullet flying out of the gun and landing among thousands of others on the floor of the firing range. That must have happened again, and now the guy down there had it.
Could it somehow be used to find him? Forgetting his fatigue and hunger, Erebus climbed down the fire escape, earning an odd look from a homeless woman pushing a baby carriage full of aluminum cans through the alley, and then lumbered to his car down the block.
Two parking tickets were stuck under his windshield wiper, fining him for an expired meter, but after you’ve killed somebody, two 20-dollar fines didn’t mean much. Now he just had to make sure not to lose the guy in the pickup. His work was just getting started, and he couldn’t risk being stopped, not now. Herbert wouldn’t like it if they got caught before finishing what they’d started. He wouldn’t like that at all.
“Fuck!”
A repeated dub-dub-dub came from under the truck, and it lurched to the right when the front passenger-side tire blew out. Sweetwater grabbed the steering wheel with both hands, knuckles whitening as the truck vibrated and tried to roll. He clenched his teeth to keep them from hitting each other. Stuck in the middle lane, with oblivious idiots passing on both sides, he hit his turn signal and took his foot off the gas. A blue SUV on his tail honked, and the driver flipped him the finger.
“Come on, fuck wads!”
Angry faces cursed him as he tried to get over, but nobody let him in. One guy actually laughed and paced him, acting as a blocker to keep him from getting over.
“Are you serious, motherfucker?”
The guy rolled down his window and yelled something. The blue SUV roared past on his left, honking. Cars in his lane swerved to pass him on both sides, but they couldn’t get around on the right, either. He was boxed in.
The tire had begun to shred now, and soon enough he’d be riding the rim. If he stopped in the middle lane, it was only a matter of time before somebody either slammed him in the rear or ran over him as he darted to safety off the roadway. There was only one way out that he could see, even though he hated the idea. Risking it, he let go with one hand and dug out his car gun from the center console, an LCR Ruger .38 Special. Small enough to fit in the limited space available, the Houge grips cut down on recoil. It was a simple and reliable gun, and when he lowered the passenger-side window and pointed it at the jackass who was blocking him on the right, the man floored it and took off.
“Think twice next tim
e, fuckhead,” he yelled at the guy’s back bumper.
But still more cars switched to the right lane, and as the tire wore away, he began to lose control. Another car came up behind him, and when it couldn’t change lanes to get around, the driver pounded on his horn. Sweetwater felt like popping off a few rounds out the back window just to shut him up.
Finally, he saw a break in traffic and chanced jerking his truck to the right. That forced drivers to swerve into the breakdown lane to get around him, but at this point he didn’t care if they rolled over. Horns kept blasting as he crept down an off-ramp. He was finally able to pull into a graveled area leading into a merge lane and brought his truck to a merciful stop.
It took him half an hour to change the tire. As he worked, he was forced to keep one eye on the traffic as it flew past, since most drivers considered the shoulder an additional lane. He rolled the old tire along the edge of the pavement, trying to figure out what happened. The tires weren’t that old. They should have had a couple years before they needed replacing, and a blow out? He didn’t even know tires could still do that.
They were badly damaged, and it was hard to be certain…but was that a hole on the sidewall? With all of the dust and noise he couldn’t get a very good look, but it sure looked like a round hole. Could a rock have done that? It didn’t seem possible. Or maybe…maybe it was a bullet hole? Before he could do any further review, a police cruiser pulled up behind him, lights flashing. He tossed the tire into the bed of his truck.
The officer rolled down the passenger-side window a crack and motioned Luther to come on over.
“Looks like I missed all the fun,” the officer said over the roar of the traffic. “Need help?”
Sweetwater drew a sweaty arm across his face, which did no good since his shirt was drenched from the effort of changing the tire.
“Naw, I’m good, but thanks. Maybe next time.”
“Well, go ahead, and I’ll help you get back on to the road. When you’re ready, we’ll pull out together.”
