by Sean Lynch
Slocum caught her by the hair, and with another savage chop of his pistol put her down. He strolled casually over to where Zeke was on his hands and knees vomiting convulsively from the punch to his gut. He grabbed Zeke by the hair, replacing the semi-automatic into his coat, and hurled the puking meth-cooker onto the sofa the two females had vacated. He stood over Fornier, his face impassive.
“Where?” he asked calmly.
Zeke Fornier’s head rolled back and forth, and vomit-spittle ran down his chin onto his Harley-Davidson T-shirt. He looked up at Slocum. “You’d better say your prayers, asshole, because you are one dead motherfucker. Do you know who you’re fucking with? My friends will be down on you like stink on shit. You’d better get the fuck out of here while the getting is good.”
Slocum ignored the tirade. “Where?” he repeated.
“Where’s what, motherfucker?” shouted Zeke. “You want something from me, you can fucking kiss my ass. You ain’t getting shit.”
“I want your stash, and I want your guns. I won’t ask again.”
“Fuck yourself!”
Slocum stepped from Fornier and returned to the inert body of Rhonda. He picked her up by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length with no apparent strain. He put her neck in the crook of his left elbow and placed his right forearm under her chin, gripping his left wrist in his right fist. Then he twisted; a quick and powerful jerk of his shoulders and waist. Rhonda’s neck snapped like a dry bundle of twigs.
The instant Rhonda’s neck broke, Fornier twitched involuntarily and emitted a shriek. Cuszack rocked back and forth on the floor, whimpering, and repeated, “Oh dear God, oh my God, oh Jesus, oh God, oh my God…”
Slocum strolled casually back to where Zeke sat on the sofa. Zeke had urinated in his jeans and was sobbing. Slocum grabbed his unkempt hair and lifted his face to within an inch of his own.
“Where’s the shit?”
Fornier’s eyes had a disconnected look and his lids blinked spastically. “All I got on hand,” he stuttered, trying to get the words out too fast, “is a couple of pounds. I swear. It’s all I got. You’re welcome to it. It’s in a coffee can under the water heater in the basement.”
“Buddy,” barked Slocum. “Come here.”
Still babbling incoherent prayer, Cuszack complied.
“Go down to the basement and find it.”
“Anything you say, Vern.” Cuszack staggered towards the basement.
“If you’re lying to me Zeke, I’ll make you eat the shit out of Wolf’s dead ass. Do you understand me?”
“I promise, man,” Fornier whined, “I’m telling you the truth.”
“What about guns? Where are they?”
“I don’t know about guns. Wolf takes care of that shit. If he’s got anything, it’d be in his room. I swear, man, I don’t know nothing about it.” Fornier refused to look into the smoldering coals of Slocum’s eyes.
“Here it is, Vern.” Cuszack returned from the basement. He seemed to be in a trance. He was carrying a large coffee can.
Inside the coffee can, which was lined with plastic, was approximately five pounds of the same brown-paste methamphetamine on the table. In that quantity it gave off a strong odor, similar to human sweat.
Slocum replaced the lid on the coffee can after inhaling another pinch of crank. He turned his attention back to Zeke.
“You’re a good cook.”
Slocum drew the .45 smoothly from his pocket and shot Fornier in the forehead, execution style. Fornier’s body slid to the floor with a thud, his eyes open.
Cuszack sunk to his knees and resumed sobbing. Slocum ignored him, and walked over to where Missy lay unconscious. She was face down, her legs askew, and her scanty bathrobe no longer covered her. A trickle of blood ran across her cheek from behind her ear where she’d been pistol-whipped. He effortlessly picked up the limp girl and disappeared with her into one of the bedrooms.
Cuszack wrapped his arms tightly around himself and rocked back and forth on his knees, mumbling under his breath.
CHAPTER 17
The Oldsmobile fishtailed along the icy road, skating from one lane to the other.
“Done a lot of driving in the snow, have you?”
“Hell, kid, I haven’t done any.” Farrell pulled the big sedan over to the side of the highway. He opened the door and got out.
“Take the wheel, Deputy,” he said over the howling wind, “unless you want to end up in the ditch.”
Kearns complied. Farrell replaced him in the passenger’s seat and closed the door. He turned up the car’s heater a notch.
“You Iowans ought to do something about these winters.” He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
“It’s still fall. Where to? You said something about lunch.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Neither am I. I haven’t had much of an appetite for the past couple of days.”
“Nix on lunch, then. OK, the next stop is the veterans’ hospital in Des Moines. The lady at the airport who rented me the car said it wasn’t far from here.”
“It isn’t,” said Kearns, easing the car into gear and back onto the road. “It’s just down the Interstate about thirty miles.”
“Then let’s get going. We’ve got a lot to do today.”
Kearns headed for the freeway onramp.
“Sergeant Evers said to be back by 1 o’clock. If we drive to Des Moines there’s no way we’ll be back in time, especially with this much snow on the roads.”
Farrell grinned, showing nicotine-stained teeth. “Just get us to the veterans’ hospital Deputy Kearns. Let me do the worrying.”
“My name is Kevin, as long as we’re going to be chummy,” he said, loosening his tie. “It’s going to be hard to let you do the worrying if I don’t trust you.” He glanced at Farrell. “No disrespect intended, but I didn’t even know who you were twenty minutes ago. I’m in enough trouble already; I don’t need any more. Not showing up at the sheriff’s department on time is more trouble.”
“You’re in a lot of trouble, alright. I’ve worked with the FBI before. And your sheriff ain’t your friend, either. Between the two of them, they’re going to hang you out to dry. You don’t have a prayer.”
Kearns skidded the Oldsmobile to a stop. He turned in the seat to face the older man.
“What the hell does that mean? And who’re you to tell me what’s going to happen, Mister California hotshit lawyer? I didn’t ask for your help, and I’m not sure I need it. I think we’d better go back to the station.”
Farrell listened to the outburst indifferently. Fury radiated from the young cop, and he thought for an instant Kearns might hit him. He smoked in silence and waited for the deputy to cool down. After a moment Kearns calmed, and he turned to the windshield, making a pretense of looking at the falling snow. There were tears forming at the corners of his eyes.
“I’m not trying to make things harder on you. I’ve got an idea of what you’re going through–”
“No, you don’t.” The flash of rage had passed. His voice was calm.
“You might be surprised. But blaming yourself isn’t going to help.”
“Tell that to Tiffany Meade’s parents. Or to that FBI asshole, Scanlon. Or to the redneck citizens of that hick-town.” He rubbed his eyes, wiping away the tears. “I thought you were supposed to be some kind of legal expert. That you were going to help me. That’s what Detective Parish and Sergeant Evers said. They said you were my lawyer and I should trust you.”
“Don’t you?”
“I don’t know who to trust. I only graduated the police academy six months ago. This is all new to me. And now it’s all down the toilet.”
He rubbed his temples. Farrell could see where his hairline had been shaved back to sew the gash on his head.
“Listen,” Farrell said. “Things might not be as bad as they seem. Come with me this afternoon. Give me a few hours of your time; it’s all I’m asking. What have you got to lose?”
Kearns smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Apparently not much.”
“Then why not trust me?”
“What have I got to lose, right?” Kearns shrugged and put the Olds back on the road. Fortunately the storm left traffic on the interstate at a minimum. He concentrated on his driving. Farrell stared out the window and smoked. Neither spoke.
After a while Kearns broke the silence.
“I’m sorry about the outburst back there. I’m not a high-strung kid.”
“You’ve been through a helluva lot in the past few days, if what the newspapers print is even close to true. Besides, if I had to work for that shitbird sheriff of yours I’d have snapped long ago. Forget it.”
The car plowed over the snowy highway. Kearns asked, “You’ve been a lawyer long?”
“You might say I’ve been practicing law most of my life. How about you? What did you do before you became a deputy?”
“I was a soldier.”
“How’s your family taking your involvement in this mess?”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t have any.”
Farrell didn’t know how to answer that, so he didn’t.
Kearns merged the Oldsmobile onto westbound Interstate 80. Once on 80, the roads improved.
“We’ll be at the veterans’ hospital in about fifteen minutes,” he said, “and it’s nearly 1 o’clock now. Scanlon is going to be pissed. He hates my guts.”
“I’m not surprised. I got a look at his face. Why did you crown him?”
“I lost my cool. He said the little girl got murdered because of my negligence.”
“I’d have punched him, too.” Farrell appraised the younger cop. He could tell the FBI agent’s accusation struck a nerve. One look at the deputy’s tortured eyes and it was as plain as the plaster cast on Scanlon’s face.
“Kevin, you’re damned lucky to be alive. You nearly got yourself killed trying to stop that madman. Believe me, I know. You did all you could.”
“A lot of folks don’t see it that way. As far as they’re concerned I stood there with my thumb up my ass and let that guy waltz away with the kid. They don’t understand why the kid’s dead and I’m still alive.”
They exited the freeway onto Merle Hay road. With the exception of a Des Moines PD cruiser and the occasional snowplow, the streets were deserted. Soon the Olds was eastbound on Douglas and pulling into the parking lot at the veterans’ hospital.
Kearns turned off the ignition. He was surprised to see the Californian attorney withdraw a flask from the pocket of his trench coat and tip it to his mouth.
“Takes the sting out of this arctic weather.”
The smoky odor of bourbon filled the car. Farrell offered the flask to Kearns, who declined with a wave of his hand and an incredulous look on his face.
Replacing the flask into his pocket, Farrell said, “Deputy, we’re going to go in there and talk to some people. No matter what I say or do, I want you to play along. Follow my lead and keep your mouth shut. Do you understand?”
“Are we going to rob the place?”
“I’m your lawyer and I know what’s best. You’ll have your answers soon. In the meantime, you’ve got to trust me. When we come out of the hospital you can ask me anything you want. But while we’re inside, keep your lip zipped. Got it?”
Kearns started to speak, but thought better of it. He didn’t know why, but something in the Californian’s demeanor gave him confidence. And for the first time since the incident in the schoolyard somebody was showing confidence in him. “Alright. But I want some answers when we come out.”
CHAPTER 18
Buddy Cuszack sat groggily up, his body racked in shivers. He could tell it was well past morning, and when his eyes finally focused enough to read the hands of his wristwatch he noticed it was indeed after noon. The room was frighteningly cold, and he stood up to find a blanket.
The first thing he saw was Zeke Fornier on the floor, his legs contorted in a position no living person could tolerate. There was a hole in his forehead, with no trace of blood coming from it. Under the back of his bearded head however, was a congealed mass of blood and tissue. The .45 slug had taken most of Fornier’s brain with it when it exited.
Cuszack stepped gingerly over Zeke’s body and switched on a portable space heater in the corner of the room. He reached for the bottle of Jack Daniels on the table and took a large swallow of the amber fluid.
Across the room was the mound of flesh that was once Wolf. Wolf was semi-seated on the couch, his eyes and mouth gaping. He too had a hole in his head, but this one wasn’t neat. Cuszack was spared the view of the back of his head. Near Wolf’s right hand was a revolver.
Cuszack took another hit from the bottle. On the floor adjacent to Wolf was Rhonda. Like Zeke, she was contorted into a posture no one alive could comfortably assume. Her skin had turned a mottled blue, and she had small pools of scabbed-over blood in each ear. The angle of her head relative to her shoulders was extreme.
Cuszack hazily remembered the night before. Slocum was a death-dealing juggernaut, like that RoboCop character he’d seen at the movies last summer. Buddy’s head was foggy and his hands trembled. He remembered falling asleep on the floor of Fornier’s living room in an exhausted panic.
Taking another gulp of bourbon he went to the window. He didn’t know where Slocum was. Had he left during the night? He hoped so. He parted the curtains and looked out.
Though not snowing as fiercely as the night before, it was still snowing. At least two feet of the white powder covered the ground. Cuszack could see Slocum outside, shoveling snow from under the truck. He must have known the snowfall would be heavy. If they’d parked the truck nearer the house, it would be buried in drifts.
The room was beginning to warm up. Cuszack went over to the coffee table and found a cigarette. He also found more of Zeke’s product in a paper bindle. Despite the trembling, he was able to get some of it to his nostril. He inhaled sharply, wiped his nose, and let the rush take him.
He was lighting the cigarette when he heard the back door open and slam shut. Slocum entered.
“You’re awake.”
“Yeah, I finally got up,” said Cuszack, uneasily. “I miss anything?”
Slocum said nothing in reply. He sat on the couch next to Wolf’s huge body and lit a Pall Mall. He smoked in silence.
Cuszack felt strange. He knew he should be terrified of the big man, who only last night threatened to kill him if he didn’t assist in gaining entrance to Zeke’s home. Yet he felt oddly calm. He handed the bottle of Jack Daniel’s to Slocum.
Slocum accepted the bottle and took a long drink. Wiping his unshaven jaw with a snowy forearm, he looked down at Zeke’s body.
“He was lying,” he said.
“Huh?”
“He was lying. He wasn’t ever going to make you one of his gang. And he had a lot more than a couple of pounds in that coffee can.” He kicked at Zeke’s lifeless body. “I found his guns, too,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Well what do you know about that?” answered Cuszack, as if discussing the weather. He had to suppress an urge to giggle. He didn’t know why, but he felt strangely giddy. Maybe it was shock. Maybe it was the crank, or the alcohol. Maybe it was all three. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he should be running madly away from this daytime nightmare. But he wasn’t. In fact, at the moment, the whole thing seemed pretty amusing. He took another swig from the bottle and grinned.
“Be leaving soon,” Slocum said, “before the snow gets any worse. Give me a hand loading the truck.”
“Anything you say. But lemme take my morning piss first.”
Still wrapped in his blanket, Cuszack ambled down the hall towards the bathroom. His half-smoked cigarette drooped from his lips, and he carried the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. One of the bedroom doors was half-opened, and when he passed by he glanced inside. He wished he hadn’t.
Hanging upside down by her ankles was Missy, Zeke’s fifteen year-old con
sort. Her ankles had been lashed with telephone cord to a ceiling fan in the center of the room. She was naked, and her eyes were open and staring. She swung in a slow circle. Her throat had been cut from ear to ear, and her face was obscured in the flow of dried blood from the wound. It was obvious the girl’s throat had been cut after she’d been strung up. A large puddle of congealed blood lay below her on the floor.
The room was in disarray. On the bed were bloodstained sheets. Cuszack knew it was there Slocum raped and tortured the girl before her death.
Cuszack stared in horror. The cigarette dropped from his gaping mouth, and the bourbon bottle fell to the floor at his feet. He felt warm urine streaming down his thighs, and wasn’t aware the whimpering, animal-like sounds he heard were coming from him.
He shuffled back to the kitchen, where he could hear Slocum rummaging. He suddenly remembered falling asleep to the sounds of Missy’s screams.
Slocum didn’t appear to see Cuszack walk up behind him. He was busy loading canned goods from Fornier’s pantry into a large suitcase. Lying next to the suitcase on the kitchen table was a sawed-off shotgun and an AR-15 rifle. Several handguns were on the table, and boxes of ammunition. There was the five-pound coffee can of methamphetamine, and several stacks of currency wrapped in rubber bands. He couldn’t discern the denominations, but noted there were a lot of them. The whining sounds he emitted caused Slocum to whirl and face him.
Cuszack fell to his knees sobbing, his face in his hands. Slocum grunted in disgust and turned back to stuff everything but the AR-15 into the suitcase. Slinging the rifle over his shoulder he hefted the heavy suitcase and left through the rear door, leaving it open. Blasts of icy air slammed into Cuszack, who couldn’t control his sobs enough to stand up. He vomited.
Slocum walked to the truck and tossed the rifle and suitcase inside. He then went to the machine shed, where Fornier’s methamphetamine lab was. He’d spent the morning foraging, and found Zeke’s lab almost immediately. Inside the shed he found an industrial stove, several tanks of ether and propane, Freon canisters, acetone, red phosphorus, industrial-sized boxes of coffee filters, and a five-gallon can of gasoline.