Deadeye

by William C. Dietz

  McGinty started to protest, but Corso raised a hand. “I know . . . That’s grade-A bullshit. But that’s what he told the mayor, and she’s buying it. So I want you to put some new people on the case, send them over to kiss Screed’s ass, and do whatever they can to find any traffickers who may be lurking here in LA.”

  Lee thought she’d seen every expression McGinty had to offer. Especially those that conveyed irritation, annoyance, and anger. But she was wrong. McGinty’s face turned beet red and it looked as if his head was going to explode. Corso laughed. “Don’t blow a gasket, Ross . . . There’s more. You may find this hard to believe—but I still consider myself to be a cop. And I want to find all of the missing women. So I’m directing you to send Lee into the red zone along with Deputy Omo. I called Sheriff Arpo earlier this morning. And, while I’m not sure he’s real happy about the prospect of having a norm on his staff, he agreed.”

  The statement was followed by a moment of silence as McGinty took it in. Then, bit by bit, a smile appeared on his face. “Yes, sir! Thank you, sir.”

  Corso smiled. “Be sure to warn him about Lee here . . . Personally, I feel sorry for the poor bastard.”

  * * *

  It was a sunny day, warm air was buffeting her face, and Lee felt good. Thanks to the unexpected orders from Chief Corso, she and Omo were headed east. That meant she could put McGinty and the LAPD’s rules behind her for the moment. Plus there was the very real possibility that they would find Amanda.

  There was the red zone to think about, of course, but she had plenty of masks and nostril filters with her. So everything would be fine. That’s what Lee told herself even if she didn’t entirely believe it. The red zone was up ahead somewhere.

  * * *

  As they passed through Beaumont, Omo glanced at Lee and back again. The side window was open. The slipstream ruffled her hair and produced a gentle rumbling sound. What’s she thinking? he wondered. There was no way to tell. Because in spite of the way Lee ran her mouth, she kept most of herself hidden.

  And you’re no different, Omo told himself. She’s going to find out. So tell her.

  But Omo didn’t want to tell her. Because if he told her, then she’d view him differently. Or would she? Maybe her opinion was low already. And what difference does it make? Omo asked himself. She’s a norm, for God’s sake . . . And you’re a freak. It’s impossible to lose a chance you never had.

  * * *

  It was almost 1:00 P.M. when they entered the outskirts of Indigo. It had been a railroad town once, but that was long ago. Now it was a farming community with a reputation for producing excellent grapes, citrus, and dates. “There’s a roadside stand up ahead,” Omo said. “How ’bout some lunch?”

  “I’m hungry,” Lee answered. “And a break would be nice.”

  Omo pulled off the highway and onto a frontage road where a row of cars was parked in front of an open-air market. They were out of the truck and walking toward an arched entryway, when Lee saw the sign: NO MUTANTS ALLOWED. Omo came to a stop. “You go ahead,” he said. “I’ll wait here.”

  “You’re a police officer. They can’t keep you out.”

  “There’s no point to forcing the issue,” Omo replied. “I’d like a cold drink, a hunk of cheese, and some fruit. I’ll give you some money.”

  Lee waved the offer away. “There’s no need. I have this.”

  Lee entered the market, purchased the items Omo had requested, and returned to the truck. “There’s a rest area up ahead,” he told her. “Let’s eat there.”

  The rest area was only half-full, which meant Omo could park in a patch of shade. Some picnic tables were located nearby, so they took the food over to one of them. “How are we going to do this?” Lee inquired.

  Omo pointed at a table twenty feet away. “You sit there—and I’ll sit here. Phone me. There’s something we need to talk about.”

  Lee looked at him. “Is this about a divorce? If so, I want your truck.”

  Omo laughed. “No . . . It’s just that there’s some stuff you don’t know. Call me.”

  So Lee went over to the table and laid out her lunch. She dialed the phone, looked at Omo, and saw that his back was turned to her. He answered right away. “Hi there.”

  Lee popped a section of orange into her mouth. It was cold and juicy. “So, what’s up?”

  Omo took a sip of Coke. “We’re headed for Phoenix. And once we arrive, you’ll learn the truth. So I might as well tell you now.”

  “Wait!” Lee said. “Don’t tell me . . . Let me guess. You collect Roy Rogers stuff.”

  “No.”

  “You communicate with the dead.”

  “No, but that would come in handy sometimes.”

  “You’re a part-time ballet dancer.”

  “Nope. I like Salsa though.”

  “Okay, I give up. What is this dreadful secret?”

  “I shot my partner.”

  Lee turned to look at his back. “You what?”

  “I shot my partner,” Omo repeated. “A perp had an arm around his throat and was using him as a shield.”

  “So you shot the poor bastard?” Lee asked incredulously.

  “I shot through him,” Omo explained. “The bullet passed between his left arm and chest. It hit the perp and killed him instantly.”

  “Shit,” Lee said. “I love it! Did they give you a medal?”

  “Nope,” Omo answered soberly. “My boss gave me a negative performance rating—and I was sent to LA by way of a punishment.”

  “I don’t understand,” Lee said. “Your partner was okay.”

  “Yeah, but he shit his pants when the bullet creased his side.”

  Lee began to laugh. “I thought you were the departmental hotshot! The perfect guy to serve as an ambassador to the LAPD.”

  Omo shook his head. “No way. Sheriff Arpo doesn’t like Pacifica, or norms for that matter.”

  “Then who set the loan up?”

  “Maria Soto serves as president of the Maricopa Board of Supervisors, and she swings a big stick. So when McGinty contacted her, she asked Arpo to send a deputy to LA. He chose me in the hope that I would get lynched or something.”

  “And you’re telling me this because?”

  “I’m telling you because we aren’t likely to get a whole lot of support from the sheriff. Not unless it suits his purposes somehow.”

  “And Soto?”

  “She hates traffickers,” Omo replied. “So she’ll support what we’re doing. But she has zero authority over the sheriff’s department and the way Arpo runs it. So we can’t expect much help from her.”

  Lee took a sip from a can of lemonade. “So you’re known as the departmental screwup.”

  “Yes. I’m afraid so.”

  “Well, don’t worry about it, Cowboy,” Lee said. “We’ll find a way. And Ras . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “If a perp has me by the throat, shoot the bastard.”

  They were halfway back to the truck when Lee felt the now-familiar prickling sensation. She paused to take a long, slow look around. There were people, some of whom were near the market, and some of whom were seated at tables. Any one of them could have been eyeing her. “What’s up?” Omo wanted to know.

  “It’s a feeling, that’s all,” Lee replied. “Like we’re being watched.”

  “People stare at me all the time,” Omo said. “I’m a mutant.”

  “Yeah, that could explain it,” Lee agreed. But she didn’t think so. Omo was understandably self-conscious, but he looked normal because plenty of norms wore masks.

  Once they arrived at the truck, Lee insisted on performing a 360. Something she should have done before leaving LA. Omo joined in, and he was the one who found the black box. A simple magnet held it against the inside surface of his back bumper, and while there wasn’t any sort of
label on the device, Lee knew it was a tracker. What else could it be? So she walked over to a tractor-trailer rig and let the magnet attach itself to the truck’s frame.

  Would the trick work? Not if they were under surveillance. One thing was for sure, however . . . Someone was following them. The question was not only who, but why.

  It took about an hour and a half to reach the outskirts of Blythe. It was located on the border between Pacifica and the Republic of Texas. It had long served as a stopover for weary travelers and still did. But unlike the sun-baked tourist city of preplague days, Blythe was now called Fort Blythe, and served as a very important border-control point. There were only a dozen locations where people could legally enter or exit Pacifica, and Fort Blythe was one of them.

  A series of successively lower speed limits forced the truck to slow down—and Lee could see the many ways in which the military had put its stamp on the community. There were lots of signs directing incoming troops to various operational areas, bases, and firing ranges.

  To the left and right, Lee could see a vast sprawl of identical prefabs all shimmering in the midday heat. And there were water towers, too . . . Not to mention vehicle parks and airstrips for a variety of planes and drones. The whole thing had an ominous feel.

  “How do you want to play it?” Omo inquired. “Would you like to spend the night here? And leave in the morning? Or tackle the border crossing now?”

  “How long will it take us to reach Phoenix?”

  “A little over two hours.”

  Lee thought about Amanda. Time was critical. “Let’s go for it. The sooner we arrive, the better.”

  “Right,” Omo said. “That makes sense.”

  A few minutes later, Lee saw a sign that read, BORDER CROSSING AHEAD. MUTANTS RIGHT LANE ONLY.

  Omo turned the wheel in that direction. An off-ramp delivered them into a single-file line of vehicles. There were at least fifty of them. Many sat with windows open and their engines off. “This could take awhile,” Omo predicted as he turned the truck off.

  They were inside the security lane at that point, and there were concrete barriers on both sides. That made it impossible to turn around and leave. Steel pylons were located every hundred feet or so, each of which supported a sensor package.

  That was to be expected. But when the hummingbird-style drone dropped down to hover in front of the windshield, Lee felt a stab of fear. The device hung there for a moment, scanned the interior, and darted away. Lee looked at Omo. He nodded. “You think that’s scary? Getting in is worse.”

  It took forty minutes to get through the line. A barrier dropped in front of the truck as it stopped between a pair of what looked like concrete pillboxes. Soldiers took up positions on both sides of the vehicle. They wore full-face respirators, body armor, and were armed with submachine guns. “Step out of the vehicle,” the man on Lee’s side said, “and place your hands on top of your head.”

  Lee did as she was told, then a third soldier appeared. He, or she, ran a wand up and down the detective’s body. It beeped intermittently as it sensed the pistols, backup ammo, a pair of cuffs, and a flick knife. “She’s armed,” the soldier said.

  “Of course I am,” Lee said. “I’m a police officer. If you will allow me to lower my hands, I will show you my ID and a Priority One government passport.”

  “Unload her,” the first soldier ordered, “and stay out of the line of fire.”

  Lee was forced to submit as the second soldier took her weapons and went through her pockets. “Look at my ID,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’m a member of the LAPD.”

  “Yeah?” the first soldier said skeptically. “If you’re a cop, who’s the freak?”

  “His name is Deputy Ras Omo, and he’s a member of the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Department on loan to the LAPD. Please treat him with the same respect due me.”

  That was too much for the private, who laughed as he brought the clip-on mike up to his lips. “Grimes here . . . Ask the sarge to come out. We have a couple of yo-yos here. One is a norm, and the other is a freak. They claim to be police officers.”

  What happened next was both predictable and annoying. A sergeant came out, examined Lee’s papers, and put in a call for an officer. Lee couldn’t see what was happening to Omo, but heard snatches of commentary like, “This takes the fucking cake. A freak with a badge.”

  But once a businesslike lieutenant arrived on the scene, things took a positive turn. After examining Lee’s credentials, she ordered the soldiers to return the detective’s belongings. The officer’s name was Snyder. She had overplucked eyebrows, a long nose, and thin lips. “Sorry, ma’am . . . We get all sorts of scam artists, many of whom have fake IDs.”

  “I understand,” Lee said. “And Deputy Omo?”

  “He’s free to leave as well,” Snyder replied.

  “Good. Please pass the word. I don’t want to take a bunch of crap going the other way.”

  Snyder shook her head sadly. “I don’t know where you’re headed, ma’am, or why, but there’s very little chance that you’ll come back. Have a nice evening.”

  Once they were back in the truck, the barrier was lifted, and Omo could put the four-by-four in gear. From there, it was a short drive over a bridge and into the red zone.

  Given what they’d been through a few minutes earlier Lee was expecting another hassle. She was wrong. A sun-faded sign read, WELCOME TO THE REPUBLIC OF TEXAS, and a man in a tan uniform was sitting out front of the nondescript building on the right. He waved as the truck passed by. “That’s it?” Lee demanded. “The government doesn’t keep track of visitors?”

  “Why bother?” Omo said. “The chances are that you’re the only norm who crossed the border today. The only one who did so legally, anyway. Plenty of drug smugglers, human traffickers, and other assorted riffraff go back and forth out in the boonies. As for my people . . . There’s no need for a passport. We look like what we are.”

  Lee thought about that as they passed through the town of Ehrenberg. It, too, had been militarized, and both sides of the highway were lined with installations. She saw tanks parked in revetments, rows of prefab buildings, and lots of activity. So even though the mutants were pretty laid-back where the border crossing was concerned, they were ready for trouble if it came their way.

  Lee knew there were some politicians, people like Maria Soto, who favored a peaceful coexistence. But other mutants, and Sheriff Arpo might be one of them, had a deep and abiding hatred for Pacifica. Both because it belonged to norms and because they wanted what the long, narrow country had to offer. That included unfettered access to the sea, a high-tech industrial base, and oil.

  But past efforts to take what they wanted had failed, including the disastrous War of 2052, when the Republic of Texas sent its air force to bomb San Diego and were attacked in return, evidence of which could be seen as the police officers passed through the desert east of Ehrenberg. That was where the Republic of Texas’s Second Armored Division had been assembled waiting to push cross the Big River. But the division had been decimated by Pacifica’s air force, some of the planes flying down from locations as far away as Seattle.

  Now, many years later, the sand-drifted remains of the Second Armored Division’s vehicles still littered the desert. And the Republicans had to focus on the southern border, where the Aztecs were threatening to invade.

  Lee’s thoughts were interrupted as Omo took an off-ramp that led to what had once been a weigh-in station. She could see a line of vehicles up ahead, yet there was no apparent reason to stop. She glanced at Omo. “What’s up?”

  “It’s a convoy,” Omo replied. “We’ll pay a fee. Then, once they have twenty vehicles, mercenaries will escort us into Phoenix.”

  “And if we go it alone?”

  Omo shrugged. “There’s a pretty good chance that we’ll make it. But bandits prey on lone vehicles—so w
hy take the risk?”

  “That makes sense, I guess,” Lee said. “But why doesn’t the government crack down on the bandits?”

  “People out this way don’t like to pay taxes,” Omo answered. “And they don’t approve of government in general. ‘We trusted the government to protect us back in ’38, and look how that turned out.’ That’s what they say. So those who need extra protection pay for it.”

  “And those who can’t afford to do so?”

  “They’re SOL,” Omo said as he brought the truck to a halt behind a heavily laden truck. “I suggest that you wear a mask.”

  Lee knew he was correct. From that point forward, she would need to protect herself from B. nosilla. “How about you?” she asked. “Are you going to remove your mask?”

  Omo was silent for a moment. He stared straight ahead. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Omo’s voice was tight. “I want to protect you. And . . .”

  “And what?”

  “And I don’t want you to see.”

  There was a lump in Lee’s throat, but she managed to swallow it. “It’s that bad?”

  “Yes,” Omo said flatly. “It’s that bad.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You would,” Omo said bleakly. “You wouldn’t want to care, but you would.”

  The conversation was interrupted as a man wearing what looked like homemade body armor rapped on the driver’s side window. Omo rolled it down. The mercenary’s lower jaw was so misshapen that it was difficult for him to speak. “Cost one eagle. Pay now.”

  Omo gave the man a gold coin. Then there was nothing to do but wait for two additional vehicles to show up. Once they did, a pair of especiales came roaring out of the desert to take up positions at both ends of the convoy. They were armed with .50 caliber machine guns and protected by sheets of dented steel. “What’s to prevent the mercenaries from being bandits one day and escorts the next?” Lee inquired.

  Lee couldn’t see Omo’s expression but sensed that he might be smiling. “Nothing,” he answered wryly. “Nothing at all.”