by Nick Petrie
Used the man’s own power and momentum.
Threw him clear over Peter’s back, over the wire fence, and into the corral.
Which seemed to be the event the feral hogs had been waiting for.
* * *
• • •
They bore the big man down under their combined weight, ten animals, many generations undomesticated, with a ferocious, ever-hungry cunning behind their porky little eyes. It was a family group. Two big males with sharp, upcurved tusks, four slightly smaller females with equally sharp teeth, and four juveniles that the adults would defend with their lives.
The first boar’s initial pass tore up the length of Judah Lee’s right leg, slipping under the skin like a seam ripper through a badly sewn garment. The second boar came along his left side, opening Judah from the ribs to the armpit.
The mud turned red under the truck headlights.
Judah Lee fought to his feet, his tattooed face a rigid blue mask.
A sow slammed into him from behind, knocking him forward into a fence post, which leaned outward with the impact. He got his hand on the wire and his good leg under him and levered himself back up. The fence bent under his weight.
Albert limped forward, scooped up the black revolver, and shot his brother twice in the chest. Judah Lee dropped into the mud.
After that, things got very ugly inside the fence.
Albert stood and watched, muscles standing out in his jaw, pistol hanging down, until Peter stepped up and took it from his hand.
Peter searched the man’s face. “Why on earth did you two start this thing?”
Albert just dropped his eyes to the ground.
65
The next day, Peter stood in front of the vacant house with Detective Gantry and Officer McCarter.
The detective had a hand on his holstered pistol.
The uniformed officer twirled a set of handcuffs on one finger.
“This investigation is going to be a giant shit-storm,” Gantry said. “That running fight took place across three states and on federal highways. Nine people dead, three more in critical condition, more than forty injured. The FBI is involved. They’re not pulling any punches.”
Peter nodded, remembering the pipe bombs and the machinegun fire. Not what had hit the Mercedes, but what had missed. Innocent bystanders hurt or killed.
He hadn’t lit those fuses or pulled the trigger of that big 240 Bravo, but he couldn’t help but feel the weight of those lives. When he closed his eyes, he could see the brief burst of flame and feel the blast wave as a bomb went off. He wondered now, as he had many times before, if there had been another way to get the job done. A cleaner way. He’d never know.
Collateral damage, my ass.
Gantry and McCarter watched him closely.
Peter took a deep breath, then let it out. Kept his eyes wide open.
“I wish it’d happened differently, too,” he said. “I have to live with my part of it. You guys do what you have to do.”
Gantry and McCarter exchanged glances. McCarter twirled his handcuffs. Gantry gave a small nod.
McCarter said, “We did locate the armored Mercedes SUV that appears to have been involved in the incident. It was set on fire, so there’s no physical evidence. The vehicle is registered to a shell company out of Delaware. Local sources, however, link the Mercedes to a man named Robert Kingston, also known as King Robbie, a high-level figure in Memphis crime circles. We’re looking for him now.”
Peter blinked.
Gantry took up the story. “We also have the red truck that was modified into an improvised assault vehicle, as well as what we believe to be the, ah, remains of Judah Lee Burkitts, who has a history of race-related violence and connections to the white-power movement. That truck was last registered to a man named Carruthers, who was Judah Lee’s mentor in prison.”
“What about the brother,” asked Peter. “Albert Burkitts?”
Gantry shook his head. “I can’t say anything about the brother, that’s all confidential. For example, his apparent remorse. Or that he’s agreed to go to Parchman Farm as a confidential informant on a purely voluntary basis. He’ll do life either way. But I can’t say anything about that.”
“We do have reports of another man’s involvement.” McCarter twirled the handcuffs a bit more vigorously.
“Thing is, there’s a problem,” said Gantry. “My superiors ordered me to focus my attention on the jewelry store robbery. I never got the other man’s vehicle plate, or saw his driver’s license. Technically, I have no idea who the fuck he is.” He shrugged. “I don’t think I can even give a physical description.”
McCarter flipped his cuffs into the air, then caught them and folded them into their leather holster on his belt. “And I never met the man, so I can’t say.”
Gantry opened the driver’s door to his unmarked cruiser. “To be honest, some of us are feeling lucky it wasn’t a whole lot worse.”
* * *
• • •
Inside the empty, Nadine and Wanda and June laid out Coyo’s body on planks and sawhorses. The slender form was much smaller in death than it had been in life.
They washed the body, then laid it out on a linen sheet and dressed it as if for church, in a crisp white shirt and a new black suit they’d bought in the boys’ department at Dillard’s. The tie and pocket square were rich purple silk.
In the backyard, side by side, shirtless and sweating under the hot sun, Eli and Lewis dug the grave.
Two shovels. Six feet down, with square, straight sides.
Sometimes they talked, and sometimes they didn’t.
When Peter joined the group, the six of them lifted the linen sheet and arranged the finely attired form into the simple pine box that Dupree and Romeo had made. Nadine folded the sheet into a shroud. Peter hammered down the lid. Then the group raised the box to their shoulders, carried it outside, and lowered it gently into the ground.
“He was my best friend.” Eli stood at the edge of the hole. Skinny, but not a kid, not really. He’d never been allowed to be a kid. “Rest in peace, I guess.”
Taking turns with the shovels, they filled in the grave.
Afterward, everybody went back to The Peabody hotel to wash and change their clothes.
Then they drove to the Lucky Lounge.
* * *
• • •
Eli stood out back with a cold Coke, waiting for the seats to fill. Dressed in new clothes, he listened to the music of the breeze in the tall grass as Wanda talked with Nadine and Dupree and Romeo about the idea of a tour.
“I was thinking a few small clubs at first.” Wanda swirled the Dr Pepper in her glass. She wore her camera bag slung over her shoulder. “Just to see how it goes. I can borrow a van for a few weeks, and Lewis says he knows somebody who can put it together.” She looked at Nadine, the worry plain on her face. “You’ll come, too, right? If I promise to take more pictures of the living?”
Nadine wore her waitress uniform and her thin black gloves. She brushed her gaze across Eli in a way that was anything but casual. “I suppose,” she said. “If I’m invited.”
Eli felt the tingle of electric fingers down his spine.
* * *
• • •
Peter and Lewis and June stood drinking bottles of Ghost River Gold, watching Wanda.
“Thirty-nine thousand dollars.” Lewis shook his head. “That’s all Albert needed to keep his family farm. This whole thing was about thirty-nine thousand dollars.”
“It was about a lot more than that,” Peter said. “Did Wanda get her images sent?”
June nodded. “The gallery owner is pretty enthusiastic. Did she ever tell you what happened to her?”
“No,” Peter said. “Looks like she’s been talking with Nadine, though.”
“That young girl?” June looke
d skeptical.
Lewis said, “She’s older than she looks.”
Peter thought again about how it had felt when she’d traced her finger across the lines on his palm. Like someone had shaken the cobwebs from his soul.
“What about the gold?” June said quietly.
“Wanda wanted to throw it in the river,” said Lewis. “I told her it might be better to put that blood money to use. Give to a community foundation, something.”
June turned to Peter. “Have you gotten any closer to figuring out what the fuck you’re going to be when you grow up?”
Lewis examined the level of beer in his bottle, then strolled away toward the club.
Peter scratched his chin. “You were the one who sent me to help Wanda, remember? Because I was making you crazy?”
She gave him a sour look. “Now is not the time to woo me with your fucking logic.”
“Tell you what,” Peter said. “Let me drive you home and we’ll talk about it. Take the long way, do a little camping. See if you can stand me for a week.”
She looked off into the grass. “What if I can’t?”
His stomach twitched and trembled. He thought about the flames blooming when he closed his eyes.
“Then I’ll go away for a while. Come back when you’re ready. If you’ll have me.”
“Until some other poor fuck gets in trouble. Then you’ll be gone again.” She sighed. “I guess you’re not going to just start living some kind of normal life.”
Peter had known that fact since first contact with the enemy. He was irrevocably changed. The things he’d done, and ordered done, and been ordered to do.
He would never truly fit the modern world again. If he ever had.
“Normal is overrated.” He bumped her hip with his. “I never thought you were looking for normal, anyway.”
“Seriously,” she said, pushing him away. “You can’t help yourself. You actually like getting yourself into trouble. You search it out.”
He gave her one of Lewis’s elaborate shrugs. “Keeps life zesty,” he said. “You know I like to be useful. Besides, trouble is how we met. It’s romantic, don’t you think?”
She rolled her eyes. “You are a real fucking piece of work, you know that?”
“But in a good way,” he said. “Right?”
Her mouth twitched, just a little, in what might have been a smile. “We’ll see about that.”
* * *
• • •
Eli heard the back door of the Lucky open. He turned to see Saint James leaning out.
“Place is packed to standing. Y’all about ready to get started?”
Eli drained his Coke and caught Nadine’s eye.
“Ready when you are.”
Author’s Note
A few years back, I tried to write a book about Detroit. For various reasons, that book never took off, and I found myself writing about cannabis in Colorado instead. I loved writing Light It Up, and I’m very proud of it, but the reasons I wanted to write about Detroit—race, class, and inequality—never went away. Tear It Down is, I hope, a better version of what that book might have been.
On the subject of armored cars: please don’t try this at home. The Mercedes took a greater beating than any such car would endure, but I hope it made the story more exciting. And please please please don’t armor your own hooptie with an eye to shooting up (or blowing up) the town. It never ends well for the guy with the grudge.
As always, I’ve tried to be faithful to the reality of this book’s setting, but I’ve played a bit with geography and history as needed to suit the story. Remember, this is fiction, y’all.
Acknowledgments
It’s important to note that no book is created by its author alone. Many people helped usher this novel into the world in ways both large and small, and I am grateful to all who helped.
First and foremost, thanks are due to Margret and Duncan, who continue to put up with having an unbalanced writer wandering the premises, along with my parents, my brother and sister, and my extended family for their help and support over many years. I love you all more than I can ever adequately express.
Thanks again and always to the members of our armed forces, both veterans and active-duty, who have shared their lives and stories in person or online. As I’ve noted before, I’m not a veteran myself, and the Peter Ash books are much better for those conversations. If you have a comment or complaint or a story to tell, please find me on social media—see my website, NickPetrie.com, for links.
Thanks also to Danny Gardner for generously reading this book in draft form, preventing me from being an accidental asshole. His help made Tear It Down a better novel, and me a better writer. If you haven’t read Danny’s work, you’re missing out on a great storyteller with a unique voice. Any remaining asshole moments are mine alone.
Thanks to Lynsey Addario, a brilliant photographer, whose thoughtful and beautiful memoir, It’s What I Do: A Photographer’s Life of Love and War, provided some of the inspiration for Wanda’s character.
Thanks to Sudhir Venkatesh, whose book Gang Leader for a Day: A Rogue Sociologist Takes to the Streets provides an entertaining, insightful, and eye-opening view of the daily lives of low-echelon drug dealers. For anyone interested in this topic, it’s worth a read.
Thanks to all those who write so bravely and so well about their experiences of war and its aftermath—far too many to list here—who, along with my favorite novelists, continue to teach me how to write. Thanks to the musicians who have given me so much joy and inspiration over the years, and distracted my internal critic so I can put new words on the page while tapping my toes.
Thanks to my friend and neighbor, Dwayne Fulmer of the DEA, for his help with background information on drug transport and criminal databases. Any errors or cheats are mine, not his. Thanks to Dave Kornreich, D.O., orthopedic surgeon and literary consultant—I snuck up on him at a party and he responded with great generosity. Thanks to my dentist, Dr. Stephanie Murphy, D.D.S., for our conversation about radical tooth modification and its consequences. Thanks to Donna at Reed’s Jewelers at the Wolfchase Galleria for the lowdown. Although they have some superficial similarities, my fictional jewelry store is definitely not Reed’s Jewelers. (This is not meant to be an exhaustive list—many, many writers and experts have kindly answered my endless dumb questions. You know who you are.)
The dump truck crash was inspired by an article that appeared in The Journal of Light Construction many years ago.
Thanks again (and again!) to Jon and Ruth Jordan and the rest of the Crimespree cats for introducing me to the tribe, for their friendship and support, and for general hilarity with coffee and booze and good grub. Thanks to George Easter at Deadly Pleasures Mystery magazine and to Mystery Mike Bursaw for being excellent human beings. Thanks to everyone at International Thriller Writers, the Mystery Writers of America, the International Association of Crime Writers, and the Bouchercon crowd for welcoming me with open arms to the permanent floating house party of outstanding conversation.
Repeated and ongoing shouts of gratitude to my agent, Barbara Poelle; my editor, Sara Minnich; and the rest of the Putnam crew who put me out in the world and get me on the bookshelves, including but not limited to Ivan Held, Katie Grinch, Alexis Welby, Ashley McClay, Emily Ollis, Christine Ball, and everyone else on the incredible marketing team and sales force at Putnam—what a crew of smart, talented folks! Thanks also to Steve Meditz, Nancy Resnick, and Kylie Byrd for making this book both beautiful and readable.
I would be remiss if I neglected to mention the many independent booksellers who have put my books in readers’ hands. Independent booksellers are the heart and soul of the book business, working long hours because they believe in the power of the printed word. Independent bookstores are on the rise for a reason—they know books like nobody else, and their booksellers turn me on to new
authors with each visit. Book people are truly the best people.
These awesome indies are far too many to name individually, with the marked exception of Barbara Peters at The Poisoned Pen in Scottsdale and Daniel Goldin at Boswell Books in Milwaukee, who have been amazingly generous with their boundless energy and exhaustive knowledge. These two will forever define their own categories.
Last but not least, always and forever, thanks to all you readers out there. Without you, I’d just be another lunatic talking to himself.
About the Author
Nick Petrie is the author of three novels in the Peter Ash series. His debut The Drifter won both the ITW Thriller award and the Barry Award for Best First Novel, and was a finalist for the Edgar and the Hammett awards. A husband and father, he lives in Milwaukee.
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