Ninety-Eight
“I’ve been waiting for you,” Reddick said. For a man with his wrists chained to a heavy table, he seemed inordinately comfortable.
He ran his smile from face to face, from Jayme to DeMarco to Flores to Boyd to Captain Bowen to the county sheriff, and finally allowed it to settle on DeMarco. And said, “I have some good news for you, sport.”
DeMarco told him, “Troopers Flores and Boyd are in charge. Talk to them.”
Reddick held his eyes on DeMarco. “Have a seat. I like your face.”
DeMarco considered pushing back, reminding Reddick where he was and that he was no longer giving the orders. But that was pride talking. Information was more valuable. So he pulled out the chair and sat opposite Reddick. The others stood in an uneven line behind him.
“Where’s your lawyer?” DeMarco asked.
“I’m a hands-on kind of guy. Besides, he knows what I’m going to say. He’s writing it up for the plea bargain.”
“Writing up what?”
“My confession.”
Those two words hit DeMarco and the rest of the team like a wave of hot air. Trying to hide her movements behind DeMarco, Flores fumbled in her pocket, pulled out the cell phone, tapped her thumb to the voice memo icon, then tapped the record button.
“Hey, chica,” Reddick said. “Set it down here in front of me. I wouldn’t want you to miss anything. But I retain the rights to the recording.” He looked up at the sheriff, a tall, sinewy man with an Abe Lincoln chin. “I want that in the agreement,” Reddick said.
The sheriff did not nod or speak. Kept his face hard, his expression mute.
Flores laid the phone in front of DeMarco. He slid it closer to Reddick.
Forty minutes earlier, DeMarco and Jayme had been cleaning up their breakfast dishes when he received a call from Captain Bowen. “Reddick wants to talk to you,” Bowen had said.
“Say again?”
“According to the sheriff, Reddick said he has a news flash and he wants it to go through you.”
“Through me? Why me?”
“Sheriff thinks Reddick believes he’ll get more publicity that way. Because of your history. He wants The Rock to play him in the Netflix series.”
“Is this a joke?” DeMarco had asked. He was in no mood for jokes. Had been planning to call the FBI as soon as Jayme went upstairs for her shower. The crumpled ball of paper was still in his pocket, the khakis on the bedroom floor, and his stomach had been sour ever since he had so heedlessly handled the paper. And now another psychopath had singled him out for some cat-and-mouse playtime?
“Tell him I’m not interested,” he told Bowen.
“Yes, you are interested,” Bowen said. “Boyd and Flores will meet you there. Fifteen minutes.”
DeMarco had looked across the table at Jayme in her shortie pajamas. “We’re not even dressed yet.”
“Twenty minutes, no more. The sheriff and I will be joining you.”
And now Reddick had his audience. His shaved head had been polished for the occasion, his smile bright. DeMarco suspected that the man had probably requested cameras too, a news crew, but the sheriff would have shot that down. This better be good, DeMarco thought.
He asked, “So what are you confessing to, Luthor?”
“Let’s start with Cheryl. I slammed her head into the wall and then I choked her to death. You already know that, right? Or will soon enough. As to why? She had become useless to me. It’s as simple as that.”
“So you know we found her.”
“Found and identified, yessirree. I also know that you won’t find any trace of me on or near the body, but, juries being what they are, I’m going down for it.”
DeMarco nodded. Considered his words. “And what about the fake Cheryl? She had a hand in it too. What’s her name and where is she?”
“Unh uh. That’s one thing you don’t get.”
“Hey, you’re talking to the wrong guy here. I have nothing to do with your negotiations.”
Again Reddick looked up at the county sheriff.
“Go ahead,” the sheriff told him.
“You will all back off and leave her alone,” Reddick said. “Call off the dogs. She walks.”
DeMarco remained motionless, his eyes locked on Reddick’s.
Flores said, “You hoping for connubial visits, or what?”
He grinned at her and said, “I like my women the same way I like my bananas—firm and slightly green.”
“You’re a real shitwad, aren’t you?” she asked.
Reddick held his grin a few moments longer, then turned to DeMarco again. “So do we have a deal or not? Either she walks or we’re done talking. And you go back to looking for the monster who killed my friend Choo Choo and his lovely girls. Oh, how I miss them all.”
Seven more ticks of the clock. DeMarco leaned forward and started to rise. Then felt Captain Bowen’s hand on his shoulder.
The sheriff said, “Let’s just move forward here, Luthor. You know the DA is going to give you what you want. As long as you give us what we want.”
“I want my good man here to say it.”
“He has no authority in this matter.”
“He has my authority, Sheriff.”
Bowen said, “Go ahead and tell him, Sergeant.”
Instead, DeMarco leaned back in the chair. “What’s this game you think you’re playing?”
Reddick grinned. “Let’s call it the game of life. My life.”
“Your life is a short dead-end street, my friend.”
“There’s more than one road to immortality,” Luthor told him. “In fact, I can think of seven, just off the top of my head.”
DeMarco turned to Captain Bowen. “This is a farce and a waste of time.”
“Humor him,” Bowen said.
DeMarco felt his hackles bristle. “In case you’ve forgotten, Captain, Jayme and I are volunteers here. Not employees.”
The sheriff said, “The county would greatly appreciate your cooperation, sir.”
He was being used, this much DeMarco knew. Reddick hoped to tie his star to DeMarco’s alleged celebrity. The sheriff and Captain Bowen hoped to hasten and ensure what DeMarco saw as an inevitability—Reddick’s conviction. It galled him that they would allow a homicidal maniac to call the shots. But it wasn’t the first time such had happened, and it would not be the last. Plea agreements were built on giving the guilty a final titillating victory.
Reddick kept grinning. To DeMarco he said, “I don’t sign the statement until you say, ‘Yes, Luthor. We have a deal.’”
“A deal with me is worthless,” DeMarco told him. “So why should I mind giving you something of no value? Yes, Luthor, we have a deal. Why did you kill Choo Choo, Suzi, and Lady D?”
“Because I caught them breaking into my cache. My inventory. They were brain-dead, every one of them. I couldn’t work with people who would rather fry their brains than make a profit. I should have left them to freeze to death in that filthy storage container.”
DeMarco asked, “Who all helped you do it?”
“To what it are you referring?”
“Torching the females. Crucifying Choo Choo with rebar.”
“Oh, that it. Well, who do you think helped me? Sonny and Sully, of course. But they were under what you might call duress. It takes a firm hand to get anything useful out of a couple of junkies.”
“Not the fake Cheryl?”
“You have a short memory, don’t you? They make drugs for that, you know. Better living through chemicals. I can hook you up if you’re interested.”
When DeMarco offered no reply, Reddick added, “The woman you call the fake Cheryl is a nonentity. As far as all of you are concerned, she no longer exists.”
And then came the epiphany. DeMarco said, “Here’s what I think. I thi
nk you realize that we already have you on defrauding the government, and that we’ll nail you for Cheryl’s death, no matter if the evidence is circumstantial or otherwise. And that sooner or later we’ll get through the maze you set up online and see for a fact that you were engaged in interstate racketeering by shipping drugs through the mail. You know that you’re never going to see the light of day again. So why not go inside with a rep as a homicidal maniac, and buy the fake Cheryl’s loyalty at the same time.”
“I don’t have to buy anybody’s anything. I take what I want.”
“Then why protect the fake Cheryl? You know she would give you up in a second flat.”
“You’re the genius here; you tell me why.”
“Because you want her to watch after your mother, the only person for whom you have ever felt anything remotely like love. You’re a momma’s boy.”
Reddick’s eyes narrowed, but his grin remained.
DeMarco straightened his back. “Since you’re in a talkative mood, Luthor, I have another question for you. Why go to the trouble of destroying the car and the females, yet leave Choo Choo standing there for all to see?”
“Ha. That was limp dick’s doing. He was supposed to take the shovel out of the car before striking the match.” Reddick shrugged. “Hey, you get what you pay for.”
“You are referring to Sonny Jakiella?” Bowen asked.
“My Sonny boy. With all the brains of a sock puppet.”
DeMarco wanted to punch his face. Wanted to knock him down and stomp his head flat. He said, “I hear you think your story will be made into a movie.”
“A movie, no. I’m thinking twelve episodes minimum. Either Netflix or HBO.”
Unfortunately, it wasn’t impossible. The more gruesome the crime and the more twisted the perpetrators, the more likely to be turned into entertainment. DeMarco cringed on the inside but kept his expression unchanged. “You know you can’t profit from anything like that. Not a single dollar will come your way.”
“I can watch it, though. Over and over and over again. It’s a different kind of profit but just as satisfying.”
“Sick,” DeMarco told him, “yet so like you, Luthor.”
“I’m going to insist on creative control. I’ll get that little redheaded weenie from The Italian Job to play you. What’s his name—Seth somebody?”
“You think you’ll have time for Netflix in prison? What with all the gangs wanting to beat the crap out of you?”
Reddick laughed. “I’m not afraid of prison. Word gets around about how I handled Choo Choo, I’ll be a rock star. A month from now I’ll own the place. There’s nobody in there but a bunch of two-bit hillbilly crackheads.”
“What makes you think you’ll go to the Mercer facility? Sheriff,” DeMarco said, but kept his eyes fixed on Reddick, “we should look into getting our friend here a room at Polunsky, down in Texas. Lots of dangerous gangs in there, Luthor. From what I hear, shanks and razors are issued with the jumpsuits.”
Reddick flinched. Looked up at the sheriff. “That goes in the agreement. I stay in Mercer. Or else I withdraw everything I said. I was coerced.”
Again the sheriff stood stone-faced.
Reddick glowered at DeMarco. “You think I’m afraid of gangbangers? You know my history. I scared the U.S. Army, bro. You think I can’t handle a bunch of mindless, tatted-up minions?”
DeMarco smiled. “Well, wherever you’re sent, you will have a good long time to get yourself elected president of the student body before they ship you out to death row.”
“Oh, I’ll be seeing you again long before that.”
“On the outside? How do you plan to pull that off?”
“You’ll see. If you live long enough.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“Word is, soldier, you’re a wanted man.”
“And where did you hear that?”
“The spirits talk to me.”
“Is that right?”
“Oh yeah. They whisper in the wind.”
“Well, enjoy your hallucinations, Luthor. We’re done here. I think I’ll go have a nice long walk in the fresh air and get this stink out of my nose.” He stood, turned, winked at Jayme, walked away, and choked down the bile rising in his throat.
Ninety-Nine
He had to tell her about the note on the windshield. She would come out of the jail feeling victorious, another bad guy nabbed and stowed away, no injuries to the team, and he did not relish having to rain on that parade, but she had to be forewarned, just in case. He waited beside his car, leaned against the front fender, facing the jail. The hood had cooled already. Gunshots popped somewhere behind him, down on the firing range between the jail and the state correctional institute. The third blue sky day in a row. The chem trail guys must be on vacation, he thought.
A chill in the air. The trees were looking barer and browner than they had the day before, more leaves on the ground. And not yet November. An early winter on the way? Most falls he would be alert to the movement of the birds, know when they started massing for the long flight south, but this year he had forgotten to look for them. Too many distractions. Too many people.
All he wanted was to be alone somewhere with Jayme and Hero. He did not want to be responsible for all the others. Wished he and Jayme could pack up the RV and leave today. But he had never been a runner.
Then told himself Ha, what a lie. His entire childhood had been an attempt to escape his life, all those solitary days in the woods and along the railroad tracks, losing himself in the city parks, where he could never get deep enough. The army had been another escape. Ditto the state police. Laraine. The bottle. Maybe even Jayme. No, not her, she could never be reduced to that. Jayme was a blessing. Undeserved. He had to keep her safe.
She came striding out of the door with a wide smile on her face, that beautiful open face that always broke his heart. He smiled in return but also took a quick glance to her left and right. Maybe Khatri was stupid enough to attack them there. He would probably find the challenge and the irony of it invigorating. Sick, sick bastard. The world was full of them.
He opened the passenger door as she approached but she did not slide inside as quickly as he would have liked. She paused for a moment beside him, a hand on his arm. “Can you believe that?” she said. “Just to make sure his mother is looked after?”
Yes, it was easy for him to believe. How many times had he cursed himself for not being there when his mother took out the razor to slit her wrists? But he answered Jayme’s question with a smile, waited until she had lifted both legs inside, then softly closed the door.
Behind the wheel again, a little less nervous ensconced in the illusion of safety, he said, “Coming out of the convention center last night? I don’t think you saw it, but there was a note under the windshield wiper.”
“What kind of note?” she asked.
“I have it at home. I’ll show it to you. I need to get it to the FBI.”
“Oh God,” she said. “Was it from him again?”
He nodded.
“What is he doing? Following us everywhere we go?”
“Him or one of his loony disciples. If he even has any. He wants us to think he does, but I don’t know. I doubt it’s true.”
“What did it say?”
“Just that he hoped we enjoyed our evening, and that he would see us soon. See me soon, I mean.”
“Why is he doing this?”
DeMarco shrugged and shook his head. “From now on we need to carry our pieces. Everywhere. Even taking Hero out in the yard for a pee.”
“We can’t let him control us like that.”
“Sweetheart,” he said. “Promise me you will carry your piece.”
“You don’t think he’s bluffing? That he would really do something if he gets the chance?”
“He’s
had lots of chances already,” DeMarco said. “That’s what puzzles me. On the other hand, there was that little explosive device under the sidewalk. So I think we have to expect that he will do something.”
“Damn it, Ryan,” she said. “I hate the way I let him suck me in. I feel so foolish about that.”
“You lead with your heart. I wouldn’t want that to ever change.”
With her eyes on his, she took one long breath and then another through her nose. Then faced the jail. Three more breaths, this time exhaling through a slit between her lips.
He turned the key and started the engine but did not reach for the gearshift. He watched the jail door a few moments longer. “Where is everybody?” he asked. “Aren’t they coming back out?”
“Oh geez, I forgot. They’re going to talk to Sonny now. To see if he’ll flip and corroborate Reddick’s version. I was supposed to ask if you wanted to join them.”
He considered their options. Go home, stare at the walls, sit and wait for another good reason to leave the house? Go for a drive, listen to Van Morrison and Jackson Brown and Eva Cassidy, get hungry, have some lunch, then keep driving? Jump in the RV and run forever, eyes always on the rearview mirror? Or finish this job, deal with Loughner, deal with Laraine and the divorce, deal with life and every other three of spades Fate dealt him?
He shut off the engine, extracted the key. Reached for his cell phone. “I need to call the FBI first. I’ll catch up with you inside.”
She laid a hand on his thigh. “We’ll go in together, babe.”
One Hundred
Jakiella sat in a slump, not merely broken but dissolving, as if his bones had softened and begun to melt. Flores and Boyd sat facing him; Jayme and DeMarco joined the others standing or leaning against the wall. An odor emanated from Jakiella that DeMarco was surprised to recognize as his father’s odor, both sour and musty, almost sulfurous, like a newly opened bottle of cheap red wine but devoid of any floral or fruity scent.
“So what good are you doing by lying now?” Boyd was saying. “Reddick copped to everything we’ve known from the start. It was his plan, he orchestrated it, you and Sully helped carry it out. That’s how it’s going to go down in the books. What are you gaining now by not admitting to the truth?”
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