Deadeye

by William C. Dietz

  The terrorist saw movement out of the corner of his eye, let go of the hostage, and tried to grab the machine pistol holstered on his thigh. But he was too slow. Lee collided with him and got a hold of his fist. Her job was to hold his thumb down and keep it there. Nothing else mattered. She was about to yell “Shoot him!” when one of the big revolvers went off. It was loud in the enclosed space, and the top half of the Aztec’s head flew off. Warm blood fell like rain.

  The terrorist fell, and Lee went with him, still clutching his hand. The floor came up hard but Lee refused to let go as Omo yelled at people. “Call bomb disposal! Tell them we have live explosives at this location . . . And get out of here.”

  * * *

  Unfortunately, all the bomb-disposal experts were out in the field working to defuse rockets that had failed to explode. And that, Omo realized, was part of a very sophisticated plan. The first step was to launch rockets, some of which weren’t armed, and wait for the police to respond. Then the ground attack could begin.

  All he could do was tell Lee to hang on as he left to check on the floor above. Like the second floor, the third had been attacked, and thanks to the number of deputies who had been drawn away, was only lightly defended. And those who were present lay scattered about. Two were wounded, but the rest were dead.

  It appeared as though at least one of the terrorists had been able to penetrate the bull pen, where he or she had blown themselves up. There was a black spot on the floor, the surrounding partitions were down, and blood splatter was all around.

  As he made his way back toward the sheriff’s office, he could see that Arpo’s secretary was slumped facedown on his desk and the wall behind him was riddled with bullet holes. So it was with a sense of trepidation that Omo entered Arpo’s office. And the sense of concern deepened when he saw splotches of red on the sheriff’s back. It looked as though he’d been hit by bullets that passed through the wall.

  The scooter produced a whining sound as the sheriff turned around. He was talking on a cell phone. “Call me when you know how many people we lost,” he said to the person on the other end of the call before thumbing the device off.

  “That’s right,” Arpo said as his eyes made contact with Omo’s. “I’m still alive. That’s the good thing about being fat . . . There’s nothing like a layer of lard to slow bullets down.”

  “I’ll call for some EMTs.”

  “Don’t bother,” Arpo said. “They’re busy. Has the building been secured?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Detective Lee?”

  “She killed one of the bombers and managed to disarm another one.”

  Arpo nodded. “Not bad for a norm. Tell her I said, ‘Thanks.’”

  “I will.”

  Arpo raised his eyebrows. “So? What are you waiting for? A fucking commendation? Get back to work.” Omo sighed. It seemed that some things would never change. He left the room.

  * * *

  Lee had been clutching the dead man’s hand for more than an hour before a bomb-disposal expert finally arrived. Then it was another ten minutes before she could let go. “Thank you,” Lee said as she got up off the floor. The Tec had emptied his bowels seconds after his death, and she was sick of the foul odor.

  “I’m the one who should thank you,” the deputy said soberly. “My wife works in this office.”

  Omo was waiting, and together they made their way down the stairs, past the triage center that had been set up in the lobby, and out onto the street. Cruisers continued to pour in from neighboring counties as they crossed the parking lot. And a good thing, too, since it sounded as if 10 percent of Arpo’s officers had been wounded or killed. Other cities had been hit as well including Tucson, Yuma, Las Cruces, Carlsbad, Laredo, and McAllen.

  Those attacks had not gone unanswered. According to news reports, the army and air force were launching retaliatory strikes into the Aztec Empire, and a formal declaration of war would be made soon. “So what happens now?” Lee inquired as she entered the truck. “Am I about to lose you?”

  Omo shook his head. “Nope. Not yet anyway.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Lee replied.

  “What?” Omo demanded. “You want me as a partner?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “I’m hungry,” Lee said, in a transparent attempt to change the subject. It was midafternoon by then, and they hadn’t had lunch.

  “I’ll take you to dinner,” Omo offered. “Assuming that Lonigan’s wasn’t struck by a missile.”

  “Lonigan’s?”

  “My favorite steak house.”

  “A steak sounds good. But we’ll have to use the phone trick again.”

  Lonigan’s was mostly empty due to the missile attack and the relatively early hour. So they were able to get two tables back in a corner well away from everyone else. Conversing by phone was awkward, but necessary, and even with that, Lee knew she was taking a chance.

  The ceilings were low, the walls were a dark red color, and the tables were covered with white linen. And somewhere between drinks and their desserts the conversation turned to things other than work. That was when Lee learned about Omo’s interest in painting. And by the time they walked out into the cool night air, something was different. “So,” Omo said. “Would you like to see them?”

  “See what?”

  “My paintings.”

  As always, Omo’s features were hidden by a mask. “Your paintings?” she inquired. “Or your bed?”

  Omo looked away. “My paintings.”

  “I’m sorry, Ras. That was stupid.”

  “No,” he said. “I know how men look at you. It must happen all the time.”

  “That’s a crock,” Lee said. “Let’s go. I want to see your paintings.”

  It was a short drive to a slightly seedy area and the flat-roofed adobe two-story that Omo lived in. The front of the building consisted of two garage-style doors. One of them rumbled up out of the way as Omo thumbed a remote. “This was a small garage back before the plague,” he explained. “I like it because I can park inside, and there’s plenty of room on the second floor.”

  The lights came on as the truck pulled in, and Lee was impressed by how clean and tidy the apartment was. One entire wall was taken up by a shelving, a workbench with nothing on it, and a waist-high metal tool chest.

  Omo led the way up a flight of gray wooden stairs to the floor above. What Lee saw as the lights came on was very different from what she had expected. Except for three vertical posts, the room was open. And, thanks to the high ceilings, the space felt even larger than it was.

  A simple kitchen was positioned against the right-hand wall and was open to the adjacent sitting area. And, way in the back, she could see a large wardrobe and a bed. But with those exceptions, the rest of the room was dedicated to painting. A huge easel was positioned under a skylight. It occupied a paint-splattered tarp, which, had it been framed, would have been reminiscent of a Jackson Pollock painting.

  But there was nothing expressionist about the landscapes that hung on the north wall. As Lee moved closer, she saw beautiful desert scenes, the sun rising over the Superstition Mountains, and a vista of what she imagined to be the Colorado River. “This is beautiful,” she said. “It reminds me of Albert Bierstadt’s work. I see some of the same reach and luminosity.”

  “You’re familiar with Bierstadt?” Omo inquired eagerly. “That one isn’t half as good as his worst painting, but a guy can try.”

  “I know very little about art,” Lee confessed. “I took an art appreciation class in college. That’s it. But I do remember Bierstadt. He was a member of the Hudson River School—and something of a romantic.”

  She turned to look at Omo. “This is entirely unexpected coming from a gun-toting cowboy.”

  Omo shrugged. “I have to eat . .
. And I believe in what I do. People, regular people, need to be protected.”

  “Which reminds me,” Lee said. “How’s your family doing? Are they okay?”

  “None of the rockets came close,” Omo replied. “And Momma says, ‘Hi.’”

  Lee looked at her watch. It was half past ten. “It’s late. I should get back to the casita.”

  “You can sleep here if you like,” Omo offered. “You take the bed, and I’ll take the couch. We’ll get up early and swing by the casita then.”

  Lee thought about how tired she was and the half-hour drive to the family compound. “That sounds good. But don’t snore. I’ll shoot you if you do.”

  Twenty minutes later, Lee was between fresh sheets listening to Omo snore. Even though the couch was on the far side of the room, she could still hear it. The landscapes had been a surprise. But the art that affected her the most was the row of masks that hung on the west wall. There were seven in all . . . And she had seen some before, including the sardonic smile, what she thought of as the neutral look, and the “what the hell” expression. But it was the first time that Lee had seen the angry face, the laughing mouth, or the Omo with tears streaming down his cheeks. And that was the one that followed Lee into her dreams.

  NINE

  IT WAS HOT in the desert. At least a hundred degrees. So as Manny Hermoza climbed the hill, he began to sweat. He glanced up from time to time to see the shape of a man on a cross silhouetted against the azure sky. But even though the man’s name was Jesus, as in Jesus Alvarez, there was nothing holy about the hijo de puta (son of a whore). “Good morning,” Hermoza said cheerfully as he reached the top. “Wow! Look at that view! Although I suppose you have by now.”

  Alvarez had been stripped naked prior to being crucified. His black hair was coated with windblown dust, his bloodshot eyes were barely visible in black caves, and his lips were cracked. Hermoza had heard that many depictions of Christ’s crucifixion were inaccurate. But he regarded himself as a traditionalist, so three nails had been used to secure Alvarez. One through each wrist and one to pin both legs at the same time. All the wounds were crusted with dried blood. Did such details matter? They did to Hermoza. He believed in the old saying that “If a job is worth doing—it’s worth doing right.”

  Hermoza removed a small bottle of water from his back pocket and made a show of unscrewing the cap. Then, with Alvarez looking on, he took a long pull. The belch was fake but effective nevertheless. Alvarez ran a dry tongue over his broken lips and winced when Hermoza poured the rest of the water over his head. “Ah,” the gang leader said, as rivulets of water ran down his face. “That feels good.”

  Then, after wiping the rest of the water away with a shirtsleeve, Hermoza looked up at Alvarez. “Enough screwing around, Jesus. You know why I’m here. The Blancos are about to bring some girls in from New Mexico. I know that. What I don’t have is the when and the where.

  “Such information is valuable,” Hermoza continued. “I know that. So, as I told you yesterday, I’m willing to pay for it. I offered you one thousand nubucks. That’s a lot of dinero for anyone other than a cara mierda (shit face) like you. But, in light of your present circumstances, the price has gone down. Now I’m willing to pay you with one of these.”

  El Cabra made an elaborate show out of removing the enormous Smith & Wesson revolver from its shoulder holster, flipping the cylinder open, and loading a single .50 caliber bullet into one of five empty chambers. “It’s all yours,” Hermoza said as he pulled the hammer back. “All you have to do is tell me when the Blancos are going to arrive and where they’ll be.”

  Alvarez opened his mouth as if to speak, but Hermoza raised a hand. “Don’t lie to me. If you do, I will snatch your wife and give her to my men. And you know what will happen then.”

  There was a pause, as if Alvarez was thinking about what could happen to his wife, followed by a dry croak. “I’ll tell.”

  “All right, give.”

  Alvarez swallowed in a futile attempt to moisten his mouth. “They’re going to stop at the old Wilcox ranch north of Portal.”

  “When?”

  “Thursday.”

  It was Tuesday. That meant the D-Dawgs would have to move quickly. “All right, Jesus . . . You’d better be right. If you’re wrong, or if you lied to me, I’ll be first in line to fuck your wife Friday night.”

  Hermoza pointed the pistol and Alvarez closed his eyes. The report was loud enough to echo off the surrounding hills. The huge bullet hit Alvarez in the chest, passed through his body, and blew a chunk out of the wooden upright. Blood splattered the desert sand.

  Hermoza flipped the cylinder open, ejected the empty casing, and placed a speed loader over the empty chambers. Once loaded, the weapon went back into a shoulder holster. Hermoza looked up at the dead man, crossed himself, and turned away.

  Going downhill was easier than climbing up had been even in white loafers. Hermoza could see the white SUV at the foot of the hill. The engine was running, and the interior would be nice and cool. That would feel good. And stealing a shipment of women from the Blancos? That would feel even better.

  * * *

  Lee and Omo were up and out of his house by 6:00 A.M. That would give them time to swing by the casita and make it to headquarters by 8:00 A.M. Traffic was heavy as usual, but they made good time and pulled into the family compound at 6:33.

  After parking the truck, Omo went to say hello to his mother while Lee made the short journey to the casita. She had slept surprisingly well given the strange bed and the events of the previous day. So after taking a quick shower and putting on some clean clothes Lee would be ready to go. That’s what she was thinking as she approached the front door. It was ajar, and the wood around the lock was splintered. Just like the door to her apartment back in LA.

  Lee drew the Glock, toed the door open, and announced herself. “Maricopa County Sheriff’s Department! Come out with your hands on top of your head.”

  Not hearing a response, Lee went in ready for anything. It took less than a minute to confirm that the intruder or intruders were gone. But the word BONEBREAKER had been written on the bathroom mirror using her own lipstick.

  “What happened to the door?” Omo wanted to know as he entered the room. And then he looked past her to the mirror. “Bonebreaker? What does that mean?”

  Lee sighed. “I’ll tell you on the way to work. In the meantime, I suggest that you warn your family. Somebody came over the wall. Probably a single individual—but I can’t say that for sure. I’ll pay for the door.”

  “Screw the door,” Omo replied. “I want to know why you were holding out on me.”

  “Because it didn’t have anything to do with the Screed case.”

  “Does this have something to do with the tracker that was placed on my truck?”

  Lee shrugged. “Yes, maybe, hell—I don’t know.”

  Omo nodded. “Okay. I’ll ask Uncle Gary to get the door repaired—and we’ll put more people on the wall. But here’s something to consider . . . You weren’t home last night. What if you had been? I’ll meet you at the truck.” And with that he left.

  Lee thought about what Omo had said as she showered. Assuming the word BONEBREAKER had been left there by the serial murderer himself, and that seemed to make sense, had he or she been there to kill her? Or was the break-in part of a continuing effort to intimidate her? If so, it was working.

  Omo was waiting when she arrived at the truck. “Uncle Gary is very sorry and hopes that you will accept his apology,” Omo said. “He plans to add a man to the night watch. It’s difficult, however, since most members of the family work during the day.”

  “I’m the one who should apologize,” Lee responded. “By agreeing to stay in the casita, I put your family in danger. Please tell Momma and Uncle Gary that I will move to a hotel.”

  “No way,” Omo said firmly. “That would h
urt their feelings. Come on, let’s get going. We can talk about this on the way.”

  Once they were on the freeway and headed east, Lee told Omo about the Bonebreaker murders, her father’s death, and her determination to find the perp or perps. The full briefing included information about the break-in at her apartment and the fact that the name “Bonebreaker” had been written on his truck as well.

  Omo heard her out, but then he spoke his mind. “So why keep everything to yourself, Cassandra? Why wall everyone out?”

  Lee took a moment to think about that. “There are a number of reasons,” she said finally. “First, I’m not supposed to work on the Bonebreaker murders. Second, once you share personal things, people have a hold on you.”

  Omo glanced at her. “And that includes me.”

  “Of course it does,” Lee answered honestly. “Or did. You were a stranger . . . Why would I spill my guts to a stranger?”

  “Plus I’m a mutant.”

  “That’s bullshit, Ras. My last partner was a norm. I didn’t tell him either.”

  Omo was silent for a moment. “Okay, but no more secrets. Right?”

  “Maybe,” Lee said. “And maybe not. Who’s the girl in the photo? The one with the big boobs? I saw the picture sitting on your desk at home.”

  Omo said, “None of your business,” and both of them laughed.

  The cleanup was still under way at the headquarters building, but considerable progress had been made. The burned-out bus had been towed away, and additional concrete barriers were being lowered into place with a crane. It took a full fifteen minutes to pass through security, and once inside the building, the bomb damage and bullet holes were still visible.

  The bodies had been removed, however, and repairs had begun. “We’re going up to the fourth floor,” Omo announced. “That’s where the gang squad hangs out. They need to know what we’re up to—and we need their help.”