by J. M. Hayes
The Miller kids’ father was a partner in Ed’s repair business. Kevin Peirce and Frank Ball were high-school age, like Isaac and Cole. Juniors or sophomores, the sheriff thought. None of them were part of the wild bunch—the local jocks, or the wilder would-be cowboys. Instead, they were serious students, nerds…. Computer nerds, maybe? And what was it the Millers called their repair business? Oh yeah, WE CAN FIX IT.
And the light went on in that little bubble above the sheriff’s head. He had it. Fix it—Fig Zit. But what did a computer game have to do with a local repair service? Something, evidently. Two bombings, and a planned third, seemed to be tied to it.
“You need addresses?”
The sheriff didn’t.
“I’m gonna cut off access to all of them but Mrs. Kraus.”
“Hang on,” English said. “I don’t think you should do that. We’re loading Mrs. Kraus on a different computer and we’ve got access to Mad Dog’s account. If you leave us the opportunity, someone might contact us on the game again. Maybe give away something that will let me catch him quicker.”
“You’re on,” the tech told him. “But let me know how this comes out. And if you need to cut someone off, call me back.”
The sheriff agreed, then rushed the conversation to a conclusion when his cell started ringing. It was his missing daughter. He went straight past the usual pleasantries. “Are you all right?”
“I can take care of myself,” she said. The sheriff translated that to mean she’d been involved in stuff he’d rather not know about but had emerged relatively unscathed. She proceeded to confirm just that. Even going way beyond what his vivid imagination had considered. Her car trip with a professional assassin was especially what a worried father wanted to hear, even if Hailey had been along for the ride. But what the killer told her, that might be useful.
“Promise me you’ll call the Tucson Police Department right now,” he told her.
“What’s that?” she replied. “You’re breaking up on me.”
“Now,” he commanded. “Call Sergeant Parker. She won’t lock you out of the investigation.” He gave her the number.
“Walker? You want me to call someone named Walker?”
“Sergeant Parker, TPD. And cut out this lone-wolf stuff, even when you’ve got a lone wolf for backup.”
“I’m only catching a few words, Dad. I think my batteries must be going.”
“Yeah, sure. Promise me you’ll call Parker,” he said.
“I love you, Dad.” And that was it. Her line went dead.
He’d call Parker, then, and tell her roughly where Heather was, since roughly was all he knew. And, as soon as that was done, he had to get out of here. There were six kids he needed to interview. But he would go back over to the courthouse first. If Billy and Cole Macklin were involved, their father had to know about it. That was where he’d left the man less than half an hour ago.
He was pressing the buttons on Doc’s second line with Parker’s cell number when the entrance to the clinic opened on a huge figure that occupied nearly as much space as the door. The person stood, stooped, head ducked and kind of tucked between his shoulders. Just a kid, though, no matter how large. It took the sheriff a moment to recognize him because the kids he didn’t come into contact with in the line of duty were nearly always more mature than the way he remembered them.
“Sheriff English,” the monstrous child said in a halting voice. “I’ve got a confession to make.”
This had to be the Ball kid, even though the sheriff was sure Frank Ball had been at least a foot shorter the last time they crossed paths.
“Yes?”
“Well…you see….”
“The sheriff’s too busy for nonsense,” Mrs. Kraus interrupted. “Spit it out, son.”
The big kid snuffled a little. And then he said it. “I’m Fig Zit.”
***
Heather was wondering how to get back to the university area. A cab, maybe, if Tucson’s cabs ran at this time of night. She had her cell phone, but not a local directory. While she was wondering where she might find a booth with a phone book, a pair of headlights turned onto her street at the stop light behind her and headed her way. She could try hitchhiking. In the dead hours of the morning, in a city she didn’t know—that would really thrill her dad.
She didn’t put out a thumb or wave or do anything else to attract the vehicle’s attention, but it slowed and pulled over to the side of the street beside her. It didn’t look particularly threatening. It was an ancient, rusted-out VW Bus—evidently a survivor of those long ago days before Heather was born, if its fading paisley flowers and peace signs were any indication. A door squeaked open on the traffic side of the street—if there’d been any traffic—and Ms. Jardine came flying around the front of the vehicle. She wore sweats that surprised Heather because they bore Kansas Jayhawk logos. Her braids sparkled in the glow of the headlights. So did a pair of flashy basketball shoes that swallowed her feet and made her pick them up like a skin diver in fins as she stepped onto the curb.
Heather picked up her jaw and asked, “How did you find me?”
Ms. Jardine let go and stepped back and smiled as her Jayhawk’s beak and tail bobbled in a way that made it clear that, as usual, the woman wasn’t wearing a bra. “She came and got me.”
“Uh, she?”
The woman with the improbable hair, unfettered boobs, and oversized shoes clomped back to the Volkswagen. She took hold of the handle and hauled the sliding door open and Hailey bounded out.
“I started worrying about you, out here on your own. So I decided to disguise myself a little and sneak back to the garage and see if my old VW would start up. It did. I’ve been cruising all over the place ever since. And then I pulled up at that stop light and there she was. Hailey! Well, I never met her, of course, but your mom sent pictures and told me stories. So I knew she’d come to get me, though I figured it was your uncle she’d lead me to.”
Heather felt as confused as if she’d just arrived in Oz. Hailey had gone and found Ms. Jardine. That was impossible. Hailey didn’t know the woman, couldn’t have understood this was the one person in Tucson who would take Heather wherever she wanted to go. And yet the wolf had brought her back and now they had a ride. Talk about your Uncle Mad Dog moments. The man seemed to live a life of serendipitous coincidences—and dangerous encounters.
“Hailey came for you?”
“Well, I was trying to decide which way to turn at that intersection and then, there she was, sitting in the road, blocking my way. It took me a minute to figure out who she had to be, but when I said her name she ran up to my door. I opened it and she gave me some kisses, jumped in, and started whining and looking in this direction. Now, here we are.”
“I, uh….” Heather was in a realm beyond rational response.
“Come on, honey. I think Mad Dog needs you.”
Hailey was back in the bus, whining impatiently.
Heather shrugged her shoulders. What could you do? Ms. Jardine climbed behind the wheel and Heather slipped in beside her.
“Well,” Heather said, “I’m not sure where we’re going, but let’s get started.”
***
“Drop the gun, asshole!” the cop shouted at Mad Dog, who was about as sure of what to do next as Dorothy must have been on arriving in Oz. That cop sounded like he seriously wanted Mad Dog to give him an excuse to shoot. And Mad Dog sure wanted to put the gun down, but not anywhere near the guy who’d just had plans for it. Not even near the woman who was still kicking, punching, and scratching him, defending her would-be murderer. Mad Dog had a whole new appreciation for his brother’s lack of enthusiasm for domestic situations.
“I do mean now,” the cop shouted, but the girl had gotten one hand around the barrel and was yanking it so that it was pointed back at her, even though Mad Dog’s hand was on the cylinder part instead of the butt and he didn’t have a finger near the trigger. If he let go, she’d take it. And considering how she’d just tried to b
ite his nose, he wasn’t confident she wouldn’t shoot him. If the cop didn’t take care of that first.
Mad Dog started to explain that he was trying to put the gun down when the cop screamed for him to let go of the girl, too. Mad Dog dearly wanted to separate himself from the girl, but had a bad feeling the moment she wasn’t between him and the cop, the officer would try to put him down.
The whole thing was so ridiculous and such a catastrophe that Mad Dog found himself wondering what someone else might do in this situation, and then recalled the question so many evangelicals in his part of the world were inclined to ask.
What would Jesus do? It gave Mad Dog an inappropriate attack of the giggles.
Well, Jesus probably wouldn’t laugh at some unhinged, almost-murder victim, or the policeman who wanted to shoot him.
The good thing about it was, between his giggles and her contortions, Mad Dog lost his balance and they fell against the legs of the guy who had planned to explosively fertilize the yard with her brain. The three of them collapsed into a confused heap on the porch steps. On either side of those steps was a thick mass of pyracantha bushes. Pyracantha has at least as many thorns as whatever they made Jesus’ crown out of, but Mad Dog didn’t worry about that as he went scrambling behind one of the bushes, aiming for the edge of the house. Neither member of the domestic violence team chose to follow him. He left the pistol in a crotch of branches among a bouquet of thorns and exited at the end of the porch, bleeding from a thousand punctures he hadn’t even felt. The problem was, a pair of large black shoes waited just beyond, spread in a shooter’s stance. They were topped by neatly pleated uniform pants and a familiar voice that said, “Assault with a deadly weapon, resisting arrest. Talk about a clean shoot.” He heard the double click of a hammer being drawn back and wished this wasn’t happening because he didn’t want to go out in a way that would embarrass his brother.
And, of course, that caused Mad Dog to start giggling again. After all, what Jesus would have done to get out of this would have to be some kind of miracle, right? A miracle was exactly what Mad Dog needed right now.
***
The sheriff grabbed the edge of the desk and pulled himself to his feet. Mrs. Kraus had gone quiet. Obviously, she’d overheard the boy’s claim to be Fig Zit.
“Come on in, Frank,” the sheriff said. “Let’s you and me borrow one of Doc’s back rooms. Sit down and talk about this.”
Frank slouched into Doc’s office. He had to be at least six-four and 250 pounds, but he moved like a small child toward an appointment out behind the tool shed. He managed to look up shyly at the sheriff by tucking his head so deeply into his chest he would otherwise be staring at his shoes.
The sheriff manhandled his walker down the hall. He tested the first door he came to and it opened on a standard examination room. An elevated table with disposable paper covering gray vinyl upholstery occupied its center. The table was surrounded by a few industrial chairs. A blood pressure cuff hung on one wall. The others were taken up by cabinets and a space where the requisite eye chart hung.
“Have a seat,” the sheriff said. Frank moved his bulk through the door and made the room feel suddenly cramped. The boy sat on the paper as reluctantly as if he already knew about prostate exams.
“So you’re Fig Zit?” It made sense that one of the people on that list had to be Fig Zit, but this kid, no matter how big he was, bore no resemblance to the character that ran around WOW, frying Madwulf and others.
“Yes, sir.” The boy’s voice broke and he cleared his throat and said it again with no more self-assurance but without a shift of octaves. “I guess I gotta take the responsibility for inventing him.”
The sheriff would have preferred to conduct this interview back at the jail. All those cold iron bars had a way of evening the odds when he knew too little about what was going on. They seemed to prompt the guilty into filling the blank spaces—when the sheriff didn’t know what to ask—with justifications that often turned into confessions. This room, while not warm and welcoming, was too neutral for that. Frank might be out of his element, but so was the sheriff. If there were blank spaces in need of filling, Frank could just start reading the eye chart.
“Tell me about the killer,” the sheriff said. Best to get straight to that bottom line because he still didn’t know what might have happened to his daughter or his brother in Tucson.
“Well,” Frank said, “I started off as a phantom sorcerer a couple of years ago. But I got frustrated with how slow you move up in levels and how much time it takes to get the good armor and stuff. So me and some guys, we worked out a way to hack into one of Worldcraft’s servers and….”
“Whoa. I don’t give a damn about the game. I mean the professional killer you turned loose on Heather and Mad Dog in Tucson tonight.”
Frank’s eyes got big and he shook his head. “You know about that, too?”
“Sure,” the sheriff said. “I’ve talked to Mad Dog and Heather both. Mad Dog got blamed for one murder and the same killer tried to hurt Heather.”
“Nu-uhh,” Frank said.
What did that mean? Had he changed his mind about admitting things?
“A cop was killed in Arizona tonight, and in a way that made it look like Mad Dog did it. Then, the same killer made an attempt on my daughter. Talk, Frank. I need to know who this guy is and how to find him.”
Frank just sat there, eyes wide, shaking his head.
“I have to know now,” the sheriff continued, “because your assassin might still be after either or both of them.”
“No way,” Frank said. “I mean…are you telling me that was like real?”
It was the sheriff’s turn for wide eyes. “You told me as Fig Zit, in that stupid game, you were going to hurt Heather just a few hours ago.”
“Not me,” Frank said. “Not tonight. I haven’t been on War of Worldcraft tonight. But Tucson, I knew about Tucson. That’s supposed to be just another game. You mean that’s real?”
“A man assaulted Heather a little while ago. Told her he was going to mutilate her, but she got away. It happened just like you told me and Mrs. Kraus it would in that internet game.”
“Oh, jeez,” Frank said. He jumped to his feet and nearly rammed his head against the ceiling. The sheriff tried to block the door and Frank brushed him aside as casually as the kid’s virtual monster destroyed everything it came across.
“Stop!” the sheriff shouted from the floor where he lay tangled up with his walker.
“Stop it. Yeah, got to stop it,” Frank said, disappearing down the hall.
There was a time when bringing down someone, even a guy as bulky as Frank Ball, wouldn’t have been a problem for the sheriff. Of course that was before a bullet fragment chipped a piece off his spine and caused havoc with the nerves that told his legs what to do. Right now, they told his legs to kick that damned walker across the room and go pounding after the runaway teen who might know how to save Heather’s and Mad Dog’s lives. His injured nerves were getting better, thanks to what seemed like an endless course of physical therapy. A sudden burst of adrenaline didn’t do any harm either. He shoved the walker aside, got to his feet, went through the door. Frank Ball lumbered past Mrs. Kraus while she frantically dug through her purse for her Glock.
He could do it. One quick sprint and he’d tackle the kid at the front door. He got as far as the front room before nerves, adrenaline, and will ran out. The sheriff plowed a furrow in the carpet with his nose.
Mrs. Kraus had found her Glock. “You want me to step outside and shoot him?”
An engine roared to life. Tires bit asphalt. It was too late. Fig Zit had gotten the best of them once again.
***
The professional didn’t believe in torture, except as a hobby. He’d often thought he might have provided the Bush administration with invaluable insights on the subject. Saved them lots of trouble and embarrassment. Except he didn’t work well with others. Not even other assassins.
The problem with torture as a means of acquiring information was that everyone could be broken. And once you broke them, they’d tell you anything you wanted to hear to make it stop. No, if you wanted honest answers, they had to be gained by a frank dialogue, a candid exchange of information that made it clear how those on both sides of the conversation stood to benefit. That’s why, when he duct-taped the government employee he’d spoken with earlier to the bed, he didn’t bother covering the man’s eyes. In fact, after drawing the shades, he’d turned on all the lights so the man could watch him sort through the selection of knives he’d borrowed from yet another Wal-Mart on his way across Tucson. And why he chose an exceptionally large cleaver to hold to his victim’s throat as he ripped off the gag and pulled the sock from the man’s mouth.
“Softly, softly catchee monkey.” The professional whispered the ancient proverb as he held one finger to his lips and pressed the cleaver just hard enough to provide its own thin crimson hint. “If you cry out, I’ll open your throat below your larynx. You’ll be able to breathe, but you won’t be able to make any noise. And you should understand, that would upset me because then I’ll have to read your lips when I want you to tell me something.”
The guy got it. He made no sound aside from his ragged gasping for breath.
The professional reached down and picked up something sharp and scoop-like. He held it over the man’s right eye. “Did you know, if I use this carefully and don’t sever the nerves, you’ll still be able to see out of your eyeballs after I remove them from their sockets?”
That was too much for total silence, but the professional didn’t punish the guy when he whimpered. Clearly, the man was beginning to understand what he had to gain from their conversation. Or merely keep.
