by Candice Fox
‘I’m not a serial killer,’ Kradle said.
‘Okay,’ Homer said slowly.
‘I told you that to try to sound scary. I’m really a . . . I killed my wife and my kid.’
Homer said nothing. He was watching, his hands on his knees, eyes wide.
‘She found out that I . . .’ Kradle sucked in air. ‘I was doing some work for the, uh . . . the mob. I had a stack of cash. A lot of cash. I’d walled it up in the garage at my home in Mesquite. She found out, and I killed her and the kid.’
‘Why did you—’
‘It’s a long story.’ Kradle held a hand up. ‘But the cash is still there. That’s where I’m going. If you let me live, I’ll give you half. You’re going to need money. Think about it. Mexico. Freedom. Real freedom. How are you going to do that? You need money. You need me.’
Homer was still as a stone, calculating, those big, deadly hands and long, thick fingers gripping his knees. Kradle couldn’t look at them. Couldn’t make eye contact while he tried to splutter a convincing stream of bullshit to his executioner as the guillotine blade inched down. Kradle couldn’t tell if the story he’d grasped out of thin air, inspired by nothing more than having watched Martin Scorsese’s Goodfellas on TV in his cell the night before, was doing the job. When Homer burst into tears, his confusion only deepened.
Kradle sat, rubbing his throat, watching the bigger man sob.
‘I am so, so sorry,’ Homer managed.
‘It’s okay.’
‘No, it’s not,’ Homer said. ‘I have this thing. I just . . . It comes over me. You could have died. I’m so sorry. There’s no way I can tell you how sorry I am, buddy. Oh, man. I fucked up. Oh, man.’
‘Homer, it’s fine. Let’s forget about it.’
‘I’ve been doing it since I was a kid, hurting people like that.’ Homer sighed. ‘I knew it was wrong but I couldn’t help it. I didn’t know what I was doing. I blacked out. It’s not my fault, really.’
‘I know,’ Kradle said carefully. ‘It’s not your fault.’
Homer dragged him into a hug. Kradle sat, rigid, his face crushed against the other man’s warm chest, his stomach roiling and twisting, making audible gurgles of protest. Because he was under no illusion that Homer had been in anything other than full control throughout the strangulation. The big killer had been tasting every minute of Kradle’s suffering, lapping it up. Kradle had seen it in his eyes, the way he set the pleasure aside deliberately at the mention of something possibly more gratifying: cash.
Kradle had known plenty of men like Homer in the can. Predatory pleasure-seekers. Homer was always on the lookout for something to be gained, and, luckily for Kradle, the thought of money had trumped the momentary physical pleasure of killing a stranger in a cave in the desert. Kradle got lucky. Homer was one of those very rare, very dangerous monsters who could forgo present physical satisfaction for future, less bodily satisfaction. Wait now, benefit later. Banking on Homer being a more sophisticated kind of psychopath than the average killer was the only thing that had saved John Kradle’s life.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Homer moaned. ‘Friends don’t do that to each other!’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Kradle managed. ‘Buddy.’
They parted. Homer wiped his nose on his sleeve and dragged himself to his feet, grabbing the pillowcase that held all of Kradle’s supplies and slinging it over his shoulder. ‘Guess we better go.’
‘Yeah.’ Kradle let Homer pull him up. ‘It’s not far to the airfield.’
They left the cave. Kradle saw a sliver of Homer’s face in the moonlight, and noted there wasn’t a single tear on his face.
CHAPTER 8
Lionel McCrabbin took the booth in the corner of the diner, his back to the wall by the bathrooms, because he’d read in novels about guys doing that so they could see any trouble approaching. He could hear the hand dryers in the rest rooms, smell floor cleaner, and probably piss, if he tried. But a guy had to protect his family. His wife and daughter huddled into the bench across from him. He flagged down the waitress.
It was six hours since he’d watched the breakout on the computer monitor in his little office on Fremont Street. Night was crowding in. Outside the diner’s grimy windows, in a lot jammed with cars sporting MAGA bumper stickers and dents from drunken sideswipes, his shiny Jaguar bulged with suitcases.
‘How long do we have to stay here?’ Deseree was watching the doors of the motel across the road, where groups of men in ball caps lingered, smoking and talking rapidly on burner phones. ‘This is so insane. We should have just stayed home.’
‘I’ve got thirteen former clients from Pronghorn,’ Lionel said, tapping the sheet of paper on the table before him with a sweaty finger. ‘Four of them are from maximum security. I’m talking about very, very bad guys, Des. Rapists. Murderers. I want the both of you to look at these photos. Look at the names. These are the guys we have to watch out for. If you see any of these men—’
‘If you had only listened to me when you graduated law school, you wouldn’t have rapists and murderers on your client list.’ Hannah took the paper and flicked it lazily, let her eyes wander over the faces there. ‘I wanted you to go into finance. How many embezzlers and inside traders do you see breaking out of prison and going to seek revenge on their former lawyers?’
‘That’s not helpful,’ Lionel snapped. The waitress came, and he struggled over the huge laminated menu, pointed to something. His collar was cutting into his throat. He unbuttoned it with difficulty.
‘Daddy, this isn’t right. Look at the place.’ Deseree was still focused on the motel, eyes narrowed. ‘We’re going to get stabbed in our beds by drug dealers before any of your old clients have a chance to show up.’
‘I’ll call the Monte Carlo.’ Hannah took out her cell phone. ‘Stanley will take care of us.’
‘Stanley the concierge is not taking care of you,’ Lionel said. ‘I’m taking care of you. We have to stay somewhere they wouldn’t expect to find us.’ Lionel pushed down the hand holding her phone, trapping the device on the table. ‘I’m serious, girls. Okay? You know I always tell you not to worry. Well, now I’m saying it’s time to worry. Worry hard. See this guy here? Ray Bakerfield?’ Lionel tapped the paper. ‘I took a dive on that case, and he knew it. This guy went to prison so I could buy you that Cartier watch for our anniversary. If he finds me he’s going to stick a hot poker up my ass, just like he did to his wife.’
‘Daddy!’
‘Jesus, Lionel!’
‘I’m not kidding.’ Lionel felt that his eyes were wide, bulging with terror, but he couldn’t do anything about it. ‘We’re in trouble here. But if we keep our heads down, play this smart, we’ll be—’
He was going to say ‘fine’. But Lionel McCrabbin had known his whole career never to say ‘fine’, or even to plan to say it, because the second that cursed word came into his brain, the universe snuffled it out like a pig hunting around tree stumps for truffles; the slobbering, hungry, rabid, foaming universe then conspired to make life anything but. Just as his mouth went to form the word, the back door of the diner slammed open – the door just to the right of the men’s room, down the short hall beside their booth – and the room was flooded with guys in prison denims. Lionel’s heart sank. He watched some asshole in the booth by the front doors rise and hustle his family out in the seconds before the escapees took charge of the space.
‘Nobody move! Nobody fucking move!’
One of the guys who passed Lionel and his family was carrying a huge silver revolver that still had a price tag hanging off it. He and Deseree and Hannah put their hands on the tabletop, as if they’d been robbed before, which of course they hadn’t. Lionel swept the paper with the photographs onto the seat beside him with his thumb, then shifted over so that he was sitting on top of it.
‘Wallets, phones, jewellery! Put ’em in the bags! Now, bitch! Now now now!’
‘Oh, god.’ Hannah was frantically trying to work her Cartier w
atch off her wrist and into her bra before any of the guys came back. ‘Are they yours? Are any of these guys yours?’
Lionel felt his heartbeat throbbing in his ears. He looked at the men commanding the diner, crowding terrified patrons into their booths while a young, skinny guy held out a pillowcase for goods. A toddler in the next booth was red faced and screaming. The robber by the counter was having trouble with the till, berating the waitress, slamming his gun on the top of the machine. It was all too much movement, too much noise. Lionel clutched at his throat and swiped at his sweat-matted hair.
‘Uh, I-I-I don’t know,’ he stammered. He looked again. ‘No. No. None of them are mine. They’re too young. They’re all too young. Just keep your heads down, girls. Keep your mouths shut. Do what they say.’
‘Yo, pig man.’ The skinny guy with the pillowcase was suddenly at their booth, panting behind a bandana that was tied around his nose and mouth. ‘Money. Now.’
Lionel tossed his wallet and watch into the bag. Deseree threw in everything she had: necklace, purse, phone, even her Bishop Gorman class ring. Hannah threw in her phone and purse and looked the young man in the bandana right in the eyes.
‘That’s all I have,’ Hannah said.
Lionel shook his head. He couldn’t help it. If she’d just listened to him, this time. If she’d just been quiet, like he said, maybe the man in the dusty, reeking prison denims wouldn’t have looked over her curiously, spied the clasp of the watch poking out from between her expensive, too-widely spaced breasts.
The guy reached for his wife’s breasts. Lionel, in turn, reached for him, because he had no choice – because a guy had to protect his family. He put a hand out for the man’s forearm, gripped it gently, uttered something pitiful, like ‘Please’ or ‘Don’t’, but it was something. He did something.
There were men on him immediately, ripping him from the booth, slamming him into the stainless steel countertop, kicking him in the chest. The paper with the photographs fluttered into the fray slowly, artfully, like Forrest Gump’s fucking feather, and someone snatched it up, and Lionel couldn’t see for the red-hot pain clouding his vision.
‘Yo, Bricks. Check this out, man.’
‘Oh, shit. Big Baby Ray is on here.’
‘You a cop, bro?’
Someone kicked Lionel in the balls. He couldn’t speak.
‘He’s a lawyer!’ Deseree was screaming. ‘Leave him alone! He’s just a lawyer!’
Lionel felt the atmosphere change. Even the toddler had stopped screaming. He begged the universe to give him something. The sound of a siren. Commotion, trouble, at the other end of the diner. But it was all on him. He was in a silent bubble of doom, and nothing was going to get him out of it now.
‘Dude . . . You Ray Bakerfield’s deadbeat lawyer?’ someone asked.
A spray of gunshots. Lionel curled into a ball, held his skull, braced every muscle in his body in anticipation. His teeth cracked and ground as he clenched his jaw. His eyes ached as he squeezed them shut. But when the firing stopped there was no pain. Only the thundering of footsteps.
Four of the robbers lay sprawled around him on the sticky linoleum floor of the deli. One of them had collapsed over the counter, legs death-twitching, making the tips of his rubber shoes squeak on the floor. Lionel watched as two guys, also in prison denims, marched into the diner from the parking lot, where they had opened fire through the big windows. The two new guys lowered their rifles, scooped up the guns and the bag of goodies from the bodies of their rivals, and walked out the back door into the street.
Celine held the picture of John Kradle aloft for the cameras. She flattened it against her chest, smoothed it out, held it up again, made sure everybody got a good look.
‘We have reason to believe that John Kradle plans violence out there. He may be headed for Mesquite, his home town. Any information leading to the capture of this man will be greatly appreciated by law enforcement. Thanks very much.’
She folded the paper and walked off the stage as the crowd erupted into questions. Celine expected Trinity Parker to follow her out into the hall, but she didn’t expect the lanky, sharp-faced streak of a woman to grab her by the shoulder and shove her into the wall.
‘What the hell is your problem?’ Trinity was so mad she was spitting on Celine’s face. ‘Are you mentally defective? You just completely hijacked the world’s biggest manhunt.’
‘I’m having a busy day, aren’t I?’
‘Here’s what you don’t understand.’ Trinity glanced down the hall. They were alone. She took a long breath, let it out slow. Then she sucker-punched Celine in the guts.
The smaller woman went down. Trinity crouched so that they were at eye level. ‘I’m in charge here. You desert people are simple. I get it. So I’m going to make it as plain for you as I can, okay? Listen carefully. I. Am. In. Charge. Here.’
‘You need me,’ Celine said. Her words were coming out in strained groans. ‘You’re not going to catch these guys without me.’
‘Right. So I need you to get that little hick brain of yours straight on how this works.’ Trinity tapped Celine’s head with her knuckle, hard. ‘I choose the priority inmates. We don’t redirect the public awareness away from the terrorists to chase after your small-fry targets. You want to catch Kradle, you do it on your own time.’
Celine’s face was burning with shame.
‘Go home,’ Trinity said. ‘Get a couple of hours’ rest. Come back with your head screwed on.’
Celine listened to the footfall of Trinity’s heels as she walked away.
CHAPTER 9
They waited at the edge of the airfield, crouched in the darkness. The heat of the day had dissipated as they left the mountains, diminishing to a bone-chilling cold, then warming again before long. They’d walked empty streets, crossed dusty fields, presenting a mild curiosity to horses standing at rotting, sunbaked fences. Kradle saw one person, who watched them through the windows of a little brick house, a hand clutched against a curtain. He was sure the news would be flooded with coverage of the breakout and, in their prison denims, he and Homer would be an unnerving sight as they moved by. No opportunities to steal new clothes presented themselves. Homer saw a string of washing hanging on a line, but closer inspection revealed only babies’ socks and ladies’ underwear.
When they reached their destination, John Kradle and Homer Carrington crouched, watching the single squat white stucco building that represented the headquarters of the Wagon Circle airfield north of Las Vegas. The parking lot was empty, tumbleweeds shivering against the rusty wire that marked its perimeter.
‘What are we going to do for a pilot?’
‘We don’t need a pilot. I can fly,’ Kradle said.
‘Whoa. Really?’
‘I did some odd jobs when I was a kid in Louisiana.’ Kradle rubbed his throat. It felt like it was full of sand and splinters of glass. ‘Crop dusting. I used to take my boss’s plane to visit a girl in Pierre Part. And the mob, too. I, uh – I would fly cash down to Mexico now and then for the bosses.’
‘So what are we waiting for, then? Why don’t we go in now while nobody’s there?’
‘Because we’ll need someone to open the safe,’ Kradle said. ‘The keys to all the aircraft in the hangar will be in a safe in the office. It’s not like stealing a car. Not after 9/11.’
‘Are you going to know how to fly these things?’ Homer pointed to the hangar. ‘You’ve been in the can.’
‘Nothing much changes in small aircraft. The basics remain the same.’
Homer sat back on his haunches. ‘John, you must be the coolest friend I’ve had in ten years.’
‘Is that how long you were in Pronghorn?’
‘No. I told you, I’ve only been there a week.’ Homer scratched his brow to hide his eyes. ‘I ran over a cop.’
‘I don’t think that’s true, Homer.’ Kradle was speaking without meaning to. The words tumbled out of him. Maybe he was concussed from the shortage of oxygen to h
is brain. He knew he was poking a bear, and yet couldn’t put the stick down.
‘Are you calling me a liar?’ Homer asked.
‘You said you’d been hurting people like that since you were a kid,’ Kradle said, for some reason. ‘You almost killed me back there. I get the feeling . . .’ He finally managed to shut off the words.
‘You get the feeling that I’m a killer,’ Homer finished for him. ‘A real killer.’
Kradle looked at him. Homer chewed his lips.
‘Jesus, don’t cry again,’ Kradle said.
‘I can’t help it. I feel bad. I’m not like you, John. When I’ve killed before, it wasn’t for business.’ Homer put a hand on his heart, rubbed his sweat-stiff shirt as if he was soothing a pain. ‘They were all accidents, those people. I didn’t know what I was doing, and then it was too late. I think it’s because I started young, you know?’ He sniffed. ‘I got into the habit. I got addicted. Then I couldn’t stop doing it.’
‘How young are we talking?’
‘Seven.’
Kradle picked grass, tried to keep his features neutral.
‘She was a girl who lived up the street,’ Homer said. ‘Carol? Carly? I think it was Carly. Doesn’t matter. She had this pretty blue scarf with white polka dots. I used that.’
‘We can stop talking about this now.’
‘This is what people don’t understand. Being an extreme empath, as I am,’ Homer continued, his hand on his chest, ‘every kill has hurt me worse than anybody else. It’s like, I have to be the one to feel everyone’s suffering. Not only my victim’s suffering but their parents’ and their friends’ and everybody around them. Because I did it. I’m at the centre. It was me and the victim, and now it’s just me left behind to take the brunt of what I did. So I’ve got to hurt for everybody. You know what I mean?’