The Swamp Killers

by Sarah M. Chen

  For some reason, she does.

  “Callie!” Vic hisses.

  “He’ll find us anyway, Vic,” Callie says. She’s never been more certain of anything.

  Vic scowls, removes his mask.

  Sheldon stares at their faces.

  “You two fear,” he says. “I see it spilling out of you.”

  “You’re not the first person we’ve robbed,” Vic tells him.

  “Oh, I can see that,” Sheldon assures him. “I can see you’ve never been on the right side of anything. Especially her. She has that sense to her, that desolation.”

  Now he looks directly at Callie, ignores Vic.

  “You know that desolation?” Sheldon asks her. “That thing just beyond the edge? I bet you glance down there sometimes, wonder what would happen if you pushed yourself off.”

  “What are you talking about?” Vic asks.

  Callie just stares at Sheldon.

  “You feel it?” he asks.

  She can’t help herself.

  “Sometimes, yeah.”

  “Doesn’t take much for you, does it?” Sheldon asks.

  “How do you know me?”

  “I know killers. And I can see it in you. Unrestrained.” He glances at Vic. “Not like him.”

  “Yeah, I’ve had about enough of this shit,” Vic says, his tone like a torch flared to life. “Where’s your fucking money?”

  Sheldon ignores him. “You want a job?” he asks Callie. “Work for me, find the little shit who robbed us? And my boss’s daughter?”

  “She doesn’t want a job,” Vic says. “She wants your money. Where is it?”

  Quicker than his size would suggest, Sheldon sits up.

  Vic’s gun materializes in his hand.

  “You don’t know us that well,” Vic says. “I’m not sure what kind of second-rate bullshit psychoanalysis you think is going to work on my sister, but I’ll save you some time. I don’t want to kill you. But I have zero problems putting a bullet or two in you.”

  “I’ve had a bullet or two in me,” Sheldon replies. “And I’m not done talking to her.” He turns his attention back to Callie. “You want it?”

  “You heard what my brother said.”

  “I didn’t hear what you said.”

  “I’m not looking for work.”

  Sheldon studies her. “See, this only ends two ways. You join me, and you walk out of here. You don’t, and neither of you leave.” He pauses. “Your brother’s already done.”

  Vic’s gun cocks.

  Callie squeezes the knife.

  “How the hell do you think you…” Vic starts.

  Sheldon pushes off the couch and leaps between her and Vic, his hands on their wrists. He squeezes so tightly that Callie cries out and drops her weapon. She hears Vic do the same.

  He twists their wrists and flings his arms back, tossing the siblings onto the couch.

  Callie cringes, her wrist tucked in her gut. She looks at Vic, his face a grimace, his arm still twisted in Sheldon’s hand.

  “How’d you do that?” Callie asks. “Are you some kind of fat ninja?”

  Sheldon grins at Callie. The gun and knife are both on the floor. The distance between them and Callie might as well be miles.

  “Shit.” Callie rubs her wrist. The pain is still there but fading. She glances at Vic. Judging by his groans, he doesn’t seem to be handling it nearly as well.

  “I can break yours with a little more force,” Sheldon tells Vic. “Easy.”

  “Awesome,” Vic says through clenched teeth, feet digging into the cushion.

  “How’d you find out about me?” Sheldon asks Callie.

  Callie doesn’t know what to say.

  Sheldon smiles a tight smile, twists Vic’s arm.

  Vic cries out. The back of his head presses into the couch.

  “Miranda,” Callie says.

  Clouds cross Sheldon, and he swings his arm back, smashes his fist into Vic’s face. He drops Vic’s arm, turns toward Callie.

  “You said Miranda? Miranda Rodriguez?”

  Callie doesn’t want to agree but doesn’t know what else to do. Vic is out cold, flat on the floor.

  She nods.

  “Been a while since I heard that name,” Sheldon says. “What’d she tell you about me?”

  “She told me you were dangerous. And she told me you had money.”

  “You need to tell her to stop talking about me, about what I am,” Sheldon says. “You need to tell her to never talk about me again.”

  “Okay.”

  “You tell her that, I let you walk out of here.” He pauses. “I still like you.”

  “What about my brother?”

  “I don’t like him.”

  “I get that.”

  Sheldon picks up the knife. Turns toward Vic.

  “Are you okay?” Miranda asks, and mutes the television. “Where’s your brother?”

  Callie stands in the doorway of the motel room for a few moments. Then she limps into the room, slower than usual. Like she’s walking through water.

  “Robbing Sheldon Duplass didn’t work out like we thought it would.”

  Miranda starts, sits up on the bed. “Is Vic all right? Are you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What happened?”

  “I made a deal. And now I have to go back.”

  Confusion on Miranda’s face. “What do you mean?”

  “I have to go back,” Callie says again.

  “Back to the cabin? Back to Everton?” Miranda stands. “Callie, where’s Vic?”

  Callie stares dully at the television. Miranda has been watching sports, some basketball game at the far end of the fourth quarter.

  “I never knew you liked basketball.”

  “What?”

  “I never knew you liked basketball.”

  “Yes you did.”

  Neither women has approached the other. Callie still stands near the door, Miranda next to the bed.

  “I missed you,” Callie says, abruptly, honestly.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I missed you.”

  That confusion deepening. “What happened to you?” Miranda asks.

  Her voice is in a tone Callie’s never heard before.

  “He said I have to go back,” Callie tells her.

  Vic wakes to a world of blurred pain and clenched teeth. He reaches to his right arm, touches the distended elbow.

  Sees the night sky.

  “She’s gone,” someone says, a familiar voice he can’t place.

  Looks over. The voice belongs to Sheldon Duplass. Sitting in the driver’s seat of a truck. Vic’s on the bench next to him.

  “She loves you too much,” Sheldon says. “Not sure why, to be honest. But she’s not going to love you like that anymore. Not if you ever see her again.”

  “What are you talking about?” Vic asks. The raspiness in his voice surprises him, the surprise like a wrinkle in the pain blanketing him.

  Sheldon pushes open his car door, steps out. Walks around the car, pulls open Vic’s door, grabs his hurt arm and pulls him.

  Drags him toward the Garden View Motel. Vic’s shoes scrape dirt as he tries to keep up.

  “She did me a favor to save your life. But those women, those Daughters, they’ll be looking for her now. So I hope she’s running far.”

  Sheldon opens the door with one hand, tosses Vic into the room with the other.

  Vic sees Miranda lying on the bed. Callie’s knife deep in her chest.

  A car door closes behind him.

  Vic takes a shaky step forward as the truck engine outside roars.

  And he realizes what Callie did for him.

  He glances outside. Sheldon is driving off, the truck’s red taillights gleaming like demon’s eyes.

  Back to TOC

  Part Two

  Jacksonville

  Sett
le Up

  Alan Orloff

  Special Agent Ellroy Settle wedged his too-large ass into a too-small plastic chair near the bar area of JAX Lanes & Lounge. In front of him, on lanes three and four, a birthday party was unspooling, ten kids shrieking with every roll of the ball. One of Settle’s most trusted confidential informants, JaWayne “JoJo” Jones, sat across from him at a wobbly round table with a chipped top that fit the rest of the bowling alley décor perfectly.

  Ordinarily, Settle wouldn’t have picked a public spot for a meet, but JoJo insisted, claiming he couldn’t stand anyplace without AC. At ten a.m., in the dark corner of the bowling alley next to the closed lounge, Settle figured they were safe enough from being seen.

  “How’s your family doing?” Settle asked his CI.

  JoJo put a hand behind an ear. “What?”

  Settle’s words were being drowned out by the cacophony of falling pins, creaky ball-return machinery, and screaming eleven-year-olds wired on birthday cake. He tried again, raising his voice to be heard above the din. “How’s the family? How’s your little girl?”

  “Doing all right, all right. Tessa’s gettin’ so big. Growin’ up, for sure.” JoJo pushed a paper bag across the table to Settle. “Got you chocolate glazed from Debbi’s Donuts.”

  Settle unwrapped the bag, peeked inside. Good news: his favorite kind. Bad news: There were two doughnuts in the bag. He took one, bit into it, and savored the sickly sweet chocolate icing. “Thanks. Very thoughtful of you.”

  JoJo tipped his head. “My pleasure.”

  “And how about you? Staying clean?” Settle truly cared about his contact, and ever since he’d worked with him on a case a few years back, he checked in periodically to see that JoJo was keeping on the straight and narrow. Unfortunately, Jojo’s trajectory wasn’t always rising. A kind and decent man, but when it came to willpower, JoJo was a few quarts low.

  “Yeah, I’m clean. Clean.” He licked his lips. “Mostly clean, anyhow. But my knees ache and my medicine don’t work too well, when I got enough to buy it, you know. It’s hard making ends meet. And I ain’t going to deprive Shirl and Tessa, no sir.”

  “Well, I’ll try to help you out.” Settle popped the rest of the doughnut into his mouth, then rolled down the top of the bag to reduce further temptation. When it came to food, he had his own willpower issues.

  “’Preciate that.” Jojo smiled and leaned forward on his elbows. He was all skin and bones, being called scrawny would be generous, and it seemed to Settle that it wouldn’t take much for one of those bones to poke through, like a sewing needle piercing a swatch of fabric. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for Timmy Milici.”

  JoJo nodded thoughtfully, and after a moment, a spark of recognition. “Your partner?”

  “Ex-partner.”

  “What’s he done?”

  “Let’s just say he’s gone to the dark side. And I need to find him.”

  JoJo let out a low whistle. “That’s some shit, right there. Your bosses sent you down to capture him, huh?”

  “Something like that.” Settle’s superiors didn’t have a clue what he was up to. A few months ago, Settle wrecked his back during a training exercise, and he’d been on disability since.

  His current mission was strictly off-the-books. Personal.

  “What are you going to do when you find him?”

  Settle had been asking himself that same question. Feed Milici’s ass into the grinding maws of justice, right? That was his sworn duty. What else could he do? The reptilian part of his brain had a different answer to that question. His partner was a traitor to the agency. To the country. And he’d thrown Settle under the bus a while back, killing any chance Settle had for further promotions. No, if Settle’s id had its way, he’d put Milici out of his—and everyone else’s—misery. Painfully.

  “I’m going to arrest him. What else?”

  JoJo raised an eyebrow and tilted his head at an angle, as if he knew what Settle was thinking. He didn’t utter a word, though.

  Settle plowed ahead. “So, have you heard about him coming to town?” In the background, the hollow sound of pins being knocked down echoed. The smell of pizza, lane grease, and rented shoes hung in the air.

  “Hmm. Yes, I do believe I heard about a guy matchin’ Milici’s description. Just recently, too. Yes, yes, ye—ess.” Something clicked behind JoJo’s twitchy façade. “Information is power, right? And power is money. So information equals money. And I got some information.” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together.

  Settle reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded Benjamin. He made a show of unfolding it and then carefully smoothing the bill out with his palm, finally withdrawing his hand, leaving a freshly ironed hundred on the table.

  JoJo’s eyes flickered, but he didn’t reach for the money. Settle was reminded of the trick where the dog balances the milk bone on his nose until given the command. “It’s all yours, I get some leads on where I can locate Milici.”

  JoJo licked his parched lips. “I could tell you some spots.”

  “Perfect.” Settle nodded at the money. “Take it.”

  Settle smiled as JoJo snatched the money off the table and crammed it into a pants pocket. “Thanks, man,” JoJo murmured, barely making eye contact.

  “So what you got for me?”

  JoJo glanced around, leaned in again. “Okay, this dude been showin’ up at some of the local clubs, flashing some cash, looking for action. Sounds like your partner.”

  “I told you, ex-partner. Know what name he’s using?”

  “People don’t care what he calls hisself, long as he’s buying rounds, you know?”

  “And you think it’s really Milici?”

  “Straight up.” JoJo glanced around again. “My boy says he’s a mean drunk. Packin’ too. ’Course, probably ain’t much trouble for a feebie like yourself.” He flashed a smile of nasty, decaying teeth.

  “This guy frequent any club more than the others?”

  “Naw. Spreads his cheer around.”

  “Okay, then. Give me the details.”

  JoJo rattled off some club names. When he was finished, he leaned back, air of satisfaction on his skeletal face. “Earned my pay today, huh?”

  “You sure did. Thanks. Stay clean, now.” Settle started to rise.

  “Hang on, hang on. Just a minute.”

  Settle readjusted himself in his chair, but the fit was snug. Fewer doughnuts, more exercise. “Yeah?”

  “Got some more information. Worth somethin’ too.”

  Settle reached into his pocket, removed another hundred. As before, he unfolded it and put it in the middle of the table. This time, he kept his hand on it. “I’m listening.”

  “Heard there was a contract out on him. Big hitter.”

  “Really? How solid is this information?”

  JoJo rapped his bony knuckles on the table. “Rock, baby. Rock.”

  “Who’s the killer?”

  JoJo did his glance-around bit again, and leaned in, closer than before. Settle could smell the man’s sour odor of desperation. “Calls himself Pistol.”

  “Pistol?”

  “Piss tall. That’s all I got. Except that he’s a mean mofo, all right.”

  Settle slid the bill across the table and it was gone in a flash; he barely saw the man’s hand move. When they’d first met, JoJo had been going through one of his many rough patches, a good guy, just down on his luck with no prospects, like a thousand other invisible souls living on the margins. Something about JoJo, though, tugged at Settle’s heart. Maybe because he reminded him so much of his brother Ray before he’d succumbed to the devil in the bottle. Settle hadn’t been able to save Ray, but maybe he could do something for JoJo.

  “You know, I can help you, if you let me,” Settle said.

  JoJo squinted at him. “Oh?”

  “Pull some strings. Get you into a program. Nothing to b
e ashamed about. Wouldn’t it be nice to be clean for your girls?”

  JoJo’s gaze shifted over Settle’s shoulder. But it didn’t bounce around, just stayed focused behind him. “’Preciate the offer.”

  “But?”

  The junkie shrugged, looked Settle in the eyes. “You a good man, Ell. For real. But, me, I’m just a junkie, you know. Just a junkie.”

  “Everybody deserves a chance, and most deserve a second chance. You do. Think it over, will you? Offer’s always good.” Settle reached into his pocket, fished out the rest of his cash. Gave it to JoJo. “Here. Your information is worth it.”

  His face brightened. “What if I can locate Milici? There some kind of extra ree-ward?”

  “You find him, there’ll be a hell of a lot more dough than this,” Settle said. “Believe me.”

  JoJo’s smile threatened to swallow his face, and Settle fought the urge to look away from the mess in the man’s mouth. “Thanks, Ell. You da man, and I mean that. One more thing, though.” JoJo was still checking out the place as if he was expecting a SWAT raid. “Leave my name out of it. Don’t want your friend Milici tracking me down, and I certainly don’t want Pistol stopping by to say hello. Or goodbye. Know what I mean?”

  Settle flashed his badge at the bouncer outside of Klancy’s and got waved through without a second look. This club was the fourth he’d been to, the last on JoJo’s list, and he wasn’t optimistic, having struck out at the others. It was always tough to get information from strangers, especially when you were with law enforcement and asking about things on the shady side. Even if he hadn’t flashed his badge, everyone knew the score. Some things people could hide, but being an agent wasn’t something Settle could. People just smelled it on him. Most of the time, Settle embraced it, even when it made his job more difficult.

  He waded through the crowded club, wishing one—or more—of the enormous speakers would blow out, just to save his ears. How people could enjoy the music when it was cranked up three notches past painful was beyond him. As usual, he began with the bartender. It took him a couple of minutes to get the guy’s attention from the other end of the bar.

  Finally, he came sauntering over. About thirty years old, smooth face, large diamond studs in both ears, rose tattoo just below the collarbone. “Sorry about the wait. What can I get you?”