* * *
The convoy left shortly. It was getting dark by then—and Lee fell asleep not long thereafter. As Omo glanced Lee’s way, he saw that her mask was slightly askew, thereby revealing the curve of her cheek. Her face was as beautiful as his was ugly. And like most men, he wanted her.
But Omo knew his desire was something more than a sexual attraction. There was a magnetism about her. An attraction rooted in her moral clarity, her wry sense of humor, and her unblinking bravery. He had watched the bank-gunfight video multiple times. And each time Omo did so, he paused the video in order to stare at the final scene. The one in which Lee was cradling Conti in her arms and crying.
Had she been in love with him? There was no way to be sure. Omo knew one thing, however. Had he been a norm, he would have done anything to win Lee’s love and respect. But that could never be. All he could do was to protect her from evil—and that would be no small job where they were going. The engine hummed, a pale moon rose, and a pair of red eyes led him home.
* * *
Lee awoke with a start as the truck lurched through a deep pothole. And when Omo glanced her way, his mask had a greenish hue thanks to the light from the dashboard. “Sorry about that,” he said. “But the streets in the Maryvale Village area don’t get much maintenance.”
“Maryvale?” I thought we were going to Phoenix.”
“Maryvale is west of Phoenix,” Omo explained. “It was a run-down area before the plague, and it’s even worse now.”
Lee looked out the window. At least half the streetlights were out, and canyons of darkness lay between the widely separated homes, most of which were surrounded by high walls. Some appeared to be quite sturdy, but most of the protective barriers were made out of junked cars, rusting refrigerators, and piles of rubble. Anything that would keep intruders out or slow them down. “Okay,” Lee said. “We’re in Maryvale. But why?”
“Because you have to stay somewhere,” Omo said simply. “And there aren’t any hotels that cater to norms. So you’re going to stay with my family. You’ll be safer that way.”
Lee felt mixed emotions about that. She was glad that Omo cared—but concerned as well. “Did you talk to your family about this?”
“Yes,” Omo answered. “My father passed away a few years ago, but Mama is very excited. There are four houses in our compuesto, and one of them is a small casita. Mama began cleaning it yesterday.”
The four-by-four turned a corner, lurched through a drainage ditch, and came to a stop in front of a metal gate. It was set into a wall made out of concrete blocks. Lee figured that the amount of work that had gone into the wall was a good measure of how important it was.
Omo spoke into his phone, and the metal gate swung open. That was when Lee saw two men, both of whom were armed with assault weapons. “About twenty-five members of my family live here,” Omo explained. “At least two of them are on guard at all times.”
Omo drove into what might have been a front yard many years before but had long since been converted into a parking lot. Lee saw a dusty sedan, a bulldozer on a flatbed truck, and an unidentified vehicle that was sitting on blocks.
Lee opened the door and stepped out into the spill of light that fell from above. That was when a woman with thick black hair and a limp came out to greet her. It appeared that one of her legs was shorter than the other as evidenced by the built-up shoe on her left foot. “Welcome!” the woman said. “Please call me Momma. Everybody does. Come . . . Meet the family. Then Ras will take you to the casita.”
Lee was led up a path and into a large, ranch-style house. The interior was decorated southwest style and felt very homey. Lee was introduced to more than a dozen people, including Omo’s brother Jorge, an uncle named Gary, and a cousin named Tina. All of them were polite but curious. And that was understandable since most had never been face-to-face with a norm before.
The question-and-answer session might have gone on for an hour or more if Omo hadn’t intervened. “Okay, everybody . . . Cassandra will be here for a while, so there will be plenty of chances to get acquainted. But we’ve had a long day, and she’s tired. So say good-bye.”
There was a chorus of good-byes, and Lee was grateful for the chance to escape. But before she left, Lee went over to thank Mrs. Omo for her hospitality. The older woman smiled. “You are very welcome, my dear. Ras speaks very highly of you. He says you’re one of the good ones.”
Lee knew what that meant. “Good ones,” as in good norms, of which there were very few. Or that was the way Momma and her family saw it. And the way most mutants saw it for that matter. Lee smiled but knew Mrs. Omo couldn’t see it. So she took Momma’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Your son is a good one, too . . . Thanks. And good night.”
* * *
Momma felt a profound sense of sadness as her son held the door open for Lee. Momma could tell that Ras was smitten and understood why. The chica normal was very beautiful, and if even half of what she’d been told was true, very brave as well.
But Lee would hurt Ras as surely as the sun would rise in the morning. Not because she wanted to—but because she couldn’t help herself. But could she stop it? No, not in a thousand years. Ras was like a moth drawn to a flame. She sighed. It was time for bed.
* * *
They went to the truck, where they retrieved Lee’s bags. If Omo was surprised by how heavy the case full of food was he gave no sign of it. A path led between two houses to a tiny building that sat all by itself. The front door was unlocked and opened onto a space that was part kitchen and part living room. After dropping the bags by the door, Omo gave Lee a quick tour. There was a room just large enough for a bed and dresser and a spotless bath beyond that.
“It’s lovely,” Lee said. “Please tell your mother how much I appreciate being allowed to stay here. Which house do you live in?”
“I don’t live here,” Omo replied. “I have a place closer to work. By the way, we’re supposed to meet with Sheriff Arpo at eight thirty in the morning.”
Lee took the mask off and wondered how Omo could wear one all day. The answer was obvious. To leave his face exposed would be painful in other ways. “Why does everyone have to start work so early?” she inquired plaintively.
Omo laughed. “To torture you. Be ready at seven thirty. I’ll bang on the door.” Then he was gone.
Lee spent the next half hour unpacking. After checking the door to make sure it was locked, Lee removed her clothes and stepped into the shower. The Smith & Wesson went with her. It was made of stainless steel, which made it the perfect weapon for such a situation. There was a small window in the shower, so she placed the pistol on the sill.
The water was only lukewarm, but the air was warm, so Lee didn’t mind. She emerged from the shower ten minutes later, made use of the pink towel Momma had left for her, and padded into the bedroom. The ceramic tiles felt cool under her bare feet.
After donning a tee shirt and panties, Lee checked her phone. She was delighted to discover that she had a signal. Not from a local tower but by one of Pacifica’s communications satellites. There was an e-mail from McGinty. “Please confirm when you arrive.”
Lee sent a brief reply, checked the door one last time, and drank some water from the pitcher in the fridge. And that was safe because B. nosilla was an airborne disease. In fact, had it not been for the need to wear a mask while in the presence of mutants, Lee could have eaten their food. That’s what she’d been told anyway.
Then, with the Smith & Wesson for company, Lee went to bed. The sheets were crisp and a single blanket was sufficient to keep her warm. As Lee lay there, she heard the pop, pop, pop of gunfire from somewhere not too far away. That was followed by a resonant boom about thirty seconds later. The explosion was off in the distance—but served to remind Lee of the surrounding dangers. What was it? A bomb? There was no telling. Silence returned, and sleep pulled her down.
Lee
awoke to the bang, bang, bang of a gunfight. No, someone was pounding on the door. Conti! No, Conti was dead. Lee grabbed her phone, saw that it was 7:31, and swore. According to the indicator, no alarm had been set. She rolled out of bed and made her way to the front door. “Who is it?”
The response was muffled. “Omo.” A glance through the peephole verified the claim.
“I’ll unlock the door. Give me twenty seconds and come on in.”
Lee turned the bolt and made a quick retreat to the bedroom. After hurrying through the usual routine Lee put on a tee shirt, jeans, and a cropped bolero jacket. It was made of cotton and barely long enough to hide her weapons. Then it was time to pull on a pair of low-cut cowboy boots and grab her purse. “I like the outfit,” Omo said. “It’s very western. All you need is a hat. I know you like breakfast burritos—so I brought you one.” He pointed to the kitchen counter.
Lee said, “Thanks. I’ll eat it on the way. Sorry I’m late.”
“We aren’t late,” Omo countered. “The appointment is for nine thirty.”
Lee laughed. “You bastard!”
“Don’t let Momma hear you swear,” he cautioned. “You’ll ruin the good impression you made last night.”
The burrito wasn’t as good as the ones Lee normally ate in the morning, but she said it was, and Omo was clearly proud of himself. The sun hadn’t been up for very long, but the desert heat had already started to build as they went out to the truck. Lee noticed that the M for mutant sign had disappeared as she got in, and Omo drove out through the open gate. Gary waved, and Lee waved in return.
It was a bumpy trip from the family compound to the highway. The area looked even more desolate in the naked light of day than it had the night before. Now Lee was coming to realize that the Omo family was relatively well-off. Most houses, hovels really, stood protected by nothing more than their abject poverty. It’s difficult to steal what people don’t have. That plus a legion of grubby children, skinny dogs, and foraging chickens made for a sad picture.
Occasionally, the truck passed craters. They weren’t that large—but they were distinctive. So she asked about them. “What’s with the craters?”
“The Aztecs fire rockets at us,” Omo answered. “Most do no harm. But they get lucky every now and then.”
Lee knew there was tension between the Republic of Texas and the Aztec Empire but hadn’t heard about the attacks. “Rockets? What the hell for?”
“This area, like parts of New Mexico and Texas belonged to Mexico at one time,” Omo explained. “After the plague hit, and northern Mexico became the Aztec Empire, the folks down there decided to take their land back regardless of the wars, treaties, and land purchases made in the past. That’s one of the reasons our government has to cooperate with Pacifica to some extent. A lot of our troops are tied up trying to keep the Tecs from coming north.”
Lee remembered the explosion she’d heard the night before. Was that an incoming rocket? Quite possibly.
Highway 10 took them into the city. A lot of people were poor but there was plenty of traffic. Omo turned onto Interstate 17 and followed that south to West Jefferson. From there it was a straight shot to the sheriff’s office. It was huddled in a rather nondescript cluster of midrise buildings circa 2035.
After flashing his badge, Omo was allowed to enter the adjacent parking lot. As he led Lee into the building, she could feel the stares. That was to be expected since they were the only ones who were wearing masks. But it still felt weird.
Then they were forced to stop at a security checkpoint. Both police officers were asked to show their IDs before being allowed to proceed to the next stop, where they were ordered to place their weapons in bins, empty their pockets, and pass through scanners before being allowed to enter the building. Once inside, their belongings were returned.
They took an elevator up to the third floor, where it was necessary to cross a large room in order to reach the corner office. The so-called bull pen was about half-full, and all eyes tracked the pair as they made the long march. Lee thought she knew why. People are people. And the word was out: “Omo’s back . . . And he brought a norm with him.” That alone was enough to generate curiosity.
The secretary in front of the sheriff’s office looked up as the officers arrived. A spiral horn was growing out of the center of his forehead, and his ears had an elfin appearance.
“Ah, Deputy Omo . . . Welcome back. And this would be Detective Lee. The sheriff is on a call at the moment. Please have a seat.”
So they sat on some guest chairs, and as Lee looked out into the bull pen, she realized that the atmosphere wasn’t that different from the sixth floor at LAPD headquarters. Cops were cops even if these cops were different in some ways. Her thoughts were interrupted as the secretary spoke. “The sheriff will see you now.”
Omo went first, and Lee was happy to follow. Arpo was seated on, and partially overflowing, a motorized scooter. It produced a whirring noise as he turned away from the outside window to face his guests. Arpo’s face was so full that the surrounding flesh nearly eclipsed the piggy eyes that stared out of deep recesses to either side of his upturned nose.
Lee estimated that the sheriff weighed about four hundred pounds. Because he ate too much? Or because he’d been born with a metabolic disorder? She suspected the latter. Arpo was dressed in a tentlike white shirt, an oversized bolo tie, and black pants. “Well,” he said, “look at what the cat dragged in. Deputy Omo and his new sidekick.”
Arpo shifted his gaze over to Lee. “Deputy Omo has a tendency to shoot his partners if they get in the way. Something to keep in mind. Please have a seat . . . And welcome to Maricopa County.”
Four chairs were arrayed in front of the executive-style desk, and Lee chose one of them. “Okay,” Arpo said, “let’s get to it. Somebody snatched the Screed girl and, based on the information Deputy Chief McGinty sent me, it looks like she could be in this area. The problem is that Maricopa County is huge, never mind the rest of the Republic, which is enormous. So it’s going to take some mighty fine police work to find Miss Screed.”
The chair made a whining sound as Arpo leaned back toward the window. “And that’s a problem,” he continued, “because Omo here can’t find his ass with both hands.”
Lee watched the pink-colored eyes swivel her way again. “But, according to Assistant Chief McGinty, you are one cracker-jack detective. So, who knows? Maybe you can show us country boys how it’s done. That would be nice because I’m tired of taking shit from her highness Maria Soto.
“As for Omo here, I’m afraid you’re stuck with him. No offense, but it would be hard to find another deputy who’d be willing to work with a norm, so consider yourself to be deputized. Here,” Arpo added, as he slid a gold badge across the glass. “People around here aren’t likely to take an LAPD badge seriously. Now get out there and find Amanda Screed.”
* * *
Omo got up, and Lee followed him out of the office. Arpo watched them go. A norm and the departmental fuckup. What a team. But if sending them out on a fool’s errand would keep Soto off his back, then so much the better. It was no secret that she had hopes of engineering an alliance with the whack-a-doodles in Pacifica. “A counterbalance,” she called it, meaning a way to keep the Aztecs in their box. Arpo felt his stomach start to rumble and cursed it. Every day was a battle—and one that he always lost.
EIGHT
AFTER THEY LEFT Arpo’s office, the police officers had to make the long journey across the bull pen before escaping into an elevator. “Well,” Omo said. “That went well.”
“You must be joking,” Lee replied. “Is the sheriff always like that?”
“No,” Omo replied. “He’s usually worse.”
“That’s hard to believe,” Lee said, as they left the elevator. “I know you shot your partner, and I can understand why Arpo might object to that, but why continue to harp on it?”
They were outside by then—and headed for the truck. “My ex-partner is Arpo’s son,” Omo explained bleakly.
Lee looked at him to see if he were joking, but the mask got in the way. “Seriously?”
“Yes.”
Lee laughed. “And everyone knows that he filled his pants.”
“Yup.”
“My God, Ras . . . That’s amazing. We’d better solve this case. You need some positive PR.”
They got in the truck, and Omo drove it out toward the street. It bounced over a speed bump, and he waved at the parking attendant as they rolled past. “Where are we going?” Lee inquired.
“To have a visit with Vincent Rictor’s mother,” Omo replied. “I figure there are two possibilities. Rictor might have been shot for reasons completely unrelated to this case. On the other hand, there’s the possibility that somebody was in a hurry to shut him up.”
“You’re pretty smart for a cowboy,” Lee said. “Let’s do it.”
I-10 led them to the Superstition Freeway—and that took them east into the town of Apache Junction. Lee could see mountains in the distance, but other than that, things looked the same. It was clear that Omo knew his way around. After a series of turns, he pulled into the parking area that fronted a seedy strip mall. It was home to a number of businesses, including a pizza joint, a Laundromat, and a beauty parlor called Quik Cuts. “Rictor’s mom owns the place,” Omo explained. “It’ll be interesting to see what she says.”
The officers got out of the truck and made their way over to the shop. Omo pulled the door open and waited for Lee to enter. She felt a blast of cold air. AC was expensive, but it was a draw as well and could easily pay for itself. Especially in a beauty parlor. A long mirror ran the length of the left-hand wall, and there were four chairs, three of which were occupied.
One of the customers was wearing a chromed faceplate. Another had folds of loose skin hanging from her face, and the third was leaning forward, staring at the newcomers through thick goggles. “Can I help you?” a woman said as she stepped away from the lady with the loose skin.
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