by Joe McKinney
Without letting up on the gas I spun the wheel hard one half turn with my left hand while with my right I dropped the gear selector into Drive. No brakes, all gas.
The car spun one hundred and eighty degrees, rocking violently over to the passenger side as it landed facing back the way we'd come. The back tires fishtailed, but held the road under constant acceleration, and then we were speeding down the road.
I looked over at Chunk. He was breathing hard. He turned and looked over his shoulder at a group of at least fifty men chasing after us on foot, some of them still launching rocks.
“Don't slow down,” he said.
I didn't.
A moment later Chunk slid down into the seat and let out a long breath. “That was some good driving, Lily.”
“Thanks,” I said, but I was still holding the wheel so tightly my knuckles had turned bone white.
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* * *
Chapter 6
“Okay,” I said to Chunk. “How about this? A hang glider. It's quiet, and it can travel a long distance. You could get over the wall and well beyond it without drawing any attention from the ground troops.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But you'd still have to deal with the helicopters. They've got heat sensing equipment on those things. They'd pick you off in the air before you ever got anywhere near the wall.”
I thought about that for a second. I imagined getting shot out of the sky by a U.S. Army attack helicopter.
“Yeah, I guess you're right.”
“Besides, where are you gonna find a hang glider?”
“True,” I said. “Okay, how about this? We dig a tunnel under the wall...”
Lieutenant Tom Treanor had short blond hair that was going gray at the temples, but he still looked young for a lieutenant. He was 36, and at 5 ft 8 in was not a tall man, but he was built solidly. There was a picture on the wall behind his desk of him as a younger man, wearing a Marine officer's uniform, and I got the feeling not much had changed since those days. Not much except the uniform. He still had the same hard look in his eyes.
And he didn't waste time on small talk, either. He hadn't even finished shaking our hands before he started firing off questions. We filled him in on where we were at, the dead girl, the doctors on the WHO staff, the fight in the doctor's lounge.
“And you're buying that shit?” Treanor said. “You really think Ken Wade has gone off and done something as stupid as kill the person he was assigned to protect?”
Chunk handled it with Treanor. “We're following down the leads as we get them, Lieutenant. We're not saying nothing against Wade. All we want to do is talk to him about it.”
“Yeah, well, he hasn't come back yet.”
“Don't you think that's a pretty good indicator something's wrong?” I said. “We already know Dr. Bradley's dead. If Wade didn't kill her, then it's probably pretty likely that something's happened to him too. Wouldn't you agree with that?”
He just stared at me. Even before H2N2 started dropping people like flies, the Department was small enough you got to know just about everybody after being on the job a few years. I first met Treanor back when he was a junior Homicide detective. I'd gotten a call for a man barricaded in his room with his father's vintage World War I rifle. When I got there, the front door was open and the father was crying against his son's locked door, slapping it over and over again with the flat of his palm, begging his boy to open it.
“I heard a shot,” the man said to me, his cheeks shining with tears.
“Stand back,” I said, and hit the door with my shoulder. When it didn't give I hit it again, and that time it flew open.
There, sitting on the floor, his back against the side of the bed, the antique rifle across his thighs, was the man's twenty-two year old son, his lifelong battle with psychosis and suicidal tendencies ending in defeat.
The father wasn't all that sane himself, and he flew into a screaming, hair-pulling fit that rattled me badly enough that all my training went right out the window. Rather than pull the man out of the room and secure the scene, like I should have done, I reached down, took the rifle from under the dead man's hand, and walked out to the front porch with it, where I proceeded to work the action back and forth until I'd jacked all the rounds out of the magazine and spread them all over the chinaberry shrubs growing along the front of the house.
When Treanor got there and saw what I had done to his crime scene, he went into a rage that rattled me worse than the father's had. He grabbed me by the shoulder and pushed me out the front door and down into the front yard. Neighbors had come down to the street to see what all the police cars were there for, and they all watched in slack-jawed disbelief as Treanor screamed at me, telling me what a fucking idiot I was.
I was mortified, but we both formed opinions of each other that day that stuck with us over the years.
Chunk asked, “Is it normal for the guys not to check in after their shift?”
Treanor gave Chunk a patronizing stare. “It's the way things are done around here,” he said. “These research teams start out early in the day and come back at unpredictable hours. My guys are with them the whole time. Sometimes they're back early. Sometimes late. When they come in late, they don't check in. I trust them.”
“You said you couldn't raise him on the radio?”
“That's right.”
“And that didn't raise any red flags with you?” Chunk asked.
“It's the way things are. These radios they give us aren't worth shit. Sometimes they work. Sometimes they don't. And we don't have any spare batteries, either. The chargers in our cars are all busted, too. About the only place my guys can charge them up is in the office, and so, when their radios run out juice, well, you know.”
“Yes sir,” Chunk said. “I know.” We had the same problem in Homicide. Everybody had the same problem.
Treanor rocked back in his chair and regarded the two of us like we were amateurs. “Look,” he said, “I got to tell you. You guys are barking up the wrong tree here. Ken Wade didn't kill that girl.”
“You're probably right, sir,” Chunk said. “All we want to do is talk with him.”
“I'd tell you where to find him if I knew where he was,” Treanor said.
“I know that, sir,” Chunk said. “But I think it's pretty obvious we've got something to worry about here. You don't have any idea where he and Dr. Bradley were doing their research?”
Treanor shrugged. “Somewhere in the GZ, last I heard.”
“Do you think any of the other guys would know?”
“I doubt it. We cover all the research teams in the city, and Wade was the only one working out at Arsenal.”
“He didn't mention anything over the past week or so?”
“Have you been listening to me, Reggie?”
“Yes sir,” Chunk said.
“Why don't you go ask those people over in the WHO? They should know where she was working.”
“We did, sir.”
“And they said they didn't know?”
“They said in the GZ, but they didn't know where exactly.”
He swiveled in his chair a little and looked out the window of his second story office. From his desk, he had a view of the front of the Bandera Food Distribution Center, where long lines of ragged looking people had already started to gather for the next morning's delivery. It was a pathetic sight, but Treanor's face remained as impassive as a Latin American dictator's.
Chunk said, “Thank you for your time, sir.”
Treanor regarded us icily. “There's one more thing. About that fight. I'm pretty sure you're not getting the full story.”
Chunk and I waited for more.
“That girl. Dr. Bradley? She's the one who called here this morning, wanting to get Ken Wade for her escort.”
“She did?” Chunk said, and he looked at me. “We didn't know that.”
“Yeah. If you ask me, I think that Dr. Bradley saw the kind of man she likes in
Ken Wade. Probably tired of hanging around with that Brit faggot. What's his name, Myers? I bet she wanted a man she could really wrap her legs around, if you know what I mean.”
He gave me a quick glance. “No offense, Lily.”
I smiled. You bastard. “None taken,” I said.
“You think there was really something going on between them?” Chunk said.
“I'd bet two week's pay on it,” Treanor said.
Chunk adjusted himself in his seat, like he had hemorrhoids or something. Treanor had that kind of effect on people. “Well, you know sir, if there was something going on between them, that's not gonna look real good.”
I couldn't see the part of Treanor's face that was covered by his surgical mask, but I could tell the smile had run off it.
“Ken Wade did not kill that girl, Reggie. I'm telling you that now. For the last time.”
There was an or else tone to it that I didn't like, as if it was an order. But Chunk didn't whither under Treanor's pressure. He held his ground.
“Sir,” he said, “you were a detective once yourself.”
“That's right,” Treanor said, and he gave me a look I thought best not to return in kind.
“Okay. Then you know we got to play this lead. We got a dead girl with a known relationship with Wade, Wade's missing, and he's got a known pattern of violent behavior. Put that together, and it starts to look like a damn good suspect profile.”
“The dead girl and her relationship with Wade are circumstantial,” Treanor countered, rather weakly. “As for the violent behavior, I don't hire pussies on this shift.” He looked to me. “No offense, Lily.”
Asshole. “None taken, sir.”
“Look,” Treanor said, “the whole reason this unit is necessary is because those research teams go out to some pretty fucked up places. I'm talking fighting in the streets, robbers, you name it. They need protection. That's why they call guys like Ken Wade. Guys they know can take care of business.”
I couldn't resist. “Of course, that doesn't explain why Dr. Bradley ended up dead. Doesn't seem Wade was taking care of business there.” I waited a beat. “No offense, sir.”
Treanor was not amused. He gave me a hard look and said, “He'll explain himself to me tomorrow morning. After that, I'll order him to contact you. Now, if you don't mind?”
He pointed to the door.
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* * *
Chapter 7
We went back to the Scar.
There were endless reports to write. There was the initial offense report on Emma Bradley's murder, the chain of custody reports for the body, and a whole slew of forms that would follow Emma Bradley's body to the autopsy. Then we had to transcribe the witness statements we'd taken with our audio recorders. After that, we had to create a file on the Department's Case Management system, where we summarized all the initial leads we'd worked. Finally, we had to write a report explaining the damage to the car we'd been driving.
“Where do you want to pick up tomorrow?” Chunk asked me, after the last of the paperwork was done and we were walking out to the parking lot. It was almost nine o'clock, and night had settled over the Texas Hill Country. A hot breeze rustled the crowns of the nearby oaks and cedars, and the freeway that ran next to the Scar was silent, a dark ribbon stretching off into the hills.
“First thing we need to do is talk to Ken Wade. We'll call the office. Maybe go by his house if he doesn't show. If we can't find him...” I shrugged. I didn't need to say the rest.
“Yeah,” Chunk agreed. “I don't want to think about where that would lead us.”
We reached my car, a five year old Chevy Malibu with a ding in the driver's side door. The hinges creaked when I opened it. A short ways off, at the edge of the parking lot, a cactus wren shook its head and hopped along the top wire of a barbed wire fence. They don't usually come out at night.
“I don't care what Treanor says, Chunk. I got a bad feeling about Wade.”
He rubbed a massive palm across the back of his neck. He was as tired as I was.
I said, “Maybe after we check on Wade, we can try to find that van they were in.”
“You mean go into the GZ?”
“Yeah.”
“You're just full of great ideas, aren't you?”
“Chunk, don't you think it's the only way to follow up on the leads we've got. We might even get lucky and find that journal Myers was telling us about.”
“I gave up on luck a long time ago, Lily.”
I made it home, finally.
Billy, my husband, and I lived with our daughter Connie on two acres north of town, about a mile from the containment wall that circled San Antonio and insured we obeyed the quarantine.
It was good land, quiet, densely wooded with oaks and pecans. In the mornings we'd see white tail deer running across the lawn and fog rising up from Vespers Creek, which ran deep and slow along the eastern edge of our property. As I pulled into our driveway, I could just see the dark outline of the cypress trees along its banks.
Inside, the house was dark and quiet. Connie's toys were all over the living room floor, and Billy had left a sweaty shirt and dirty socks on the arm of the couch again.
“Billy? Connie?” I called out, picking up the shirt and socks and throwing them in the hamper.
“Billy?”
I went to the back door and looked out towards Billy's work shed, trying hard not to notice the coffins, most of which were only half-finished and unpainted. Billy had been a contractor before H2N2 hit San Antonio, but like everybody else, he'd been forced to adjust to the new circumstances. He started bringing in a pretty good chunk of change making coffins for those who could afford to bury their dead in private graveyards. It disturbed me when he first started doing it, and it still did as I looked out over the backyard, calling out their names.
The battery-powered light in Billy's shed was on. The batteries were a costly item down at the distribution center, but necessary to run his woodworking tools.
I opened the screen door and stepped out to the porch. I could hear Connie laughing and it hitched me up inside. It had become a rare sound by the end of that summer.
“Connie?” I yelled out. “Billy?”
The laughing stopped. A moment went by.
“Mommy!” Connie yelled from inside the wood shed, and then she was sprinting out of it, bounding over the coffins, her delighted shrieks of “Mommy! Mommy!” the most wonderful sound I'd ever heard.
She was running for me. Her soft brown hair billowed out behind her. It was getting long now that we'd finally relented and let her grow it out like her best friend Emily. Her complexion was light, her facial features delicate, a girly girl. I loved her eyes, wide open and intelligent. Seeing her run and laugh filled me with a profound sadness that things couldn't be this way all the time.
Only then did I realize that she wasn't wearing her surgical mask. My face went hard. I could feel it set. A switch turned on in my head and the next minute I was yelling, screaming at her to put her mask back on. “God damn it! Put it back on now!” I couldn't stop myself from yelling. It wasn't anger. It was a black cloud of frustration and fear and sadness building behind my eyes.
She stopped in the yard. She looked up at me from the foot of the steps that led up to the porch.
She didn't answer me.
Her face melted into sadness and her eyes clouded over with disappointment. Not anger, or defiance, or even dismissive nonchalance, but simple, gut-wrenching disappointment that tore my heart in two.
I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, my heart was beating fast, and I felt sick.
“Connie, please. Put on your mask.”
She sighed, hung her head. She mounted the stairs and walked past me without a word.
“Connie?” I said, my voice shaking. I watched her as she opened the screen door and went inside.
She let the door slam behind her.
“Honey?” I said, but she couldn't, would
n't, hear me.
When I turned back to the yard Billy was standing there. Billy, at 6 ft 3 in, was a big man. His shoulders were wide, though his powerful arms hung limply at his sides. His brown hair was short, but full and shiny, the same as Connie's. His face was round and sad.
He wasn't wearing his mask either.
“What was that all about?” he asked.
“She's not wearing her mask, Billy. And neither are you.”
“Yeah,” he said defensively. “So, what's the big deal? We're not in public. It's just us.”
My mouth fell open into an O. “How can you ask me that? How can you stand there and tell me it's no big deal when you know what I look at all damn day? How can you be that thick-headed, Billy?”
He started to argue, but evidently thought better of it. Instead he said nothing at all.
“Please, Billy. I count on you. I wish things weren't the way they are, but I need you to promise me you'll make her wear her mask when I'm not around. I need that reassurance. Please.”
He nodded. Our eyes met. I loved those eyes. My whole world was in those eyes.
“Okay,” he said.
I felt like my life was a ship running aground, like I was unconsciously destroying the relationships that I needed to sustain me.
“Thank you,” I told him, and went back inside.
Connie was wearing her favorite pair of pajamas—a purple silken shirt and pants with little birds all over them. Thanks to Connie, I knew the birds were starlings. Connie knew the name of every bird she saw.
From the hallway, I watched her climb into bed and pull the covers up to her chin. I couldn't believe how much she'd grown. My baby.
Her favorite book was a collection of Frog and Toad stories. It was on the table next to her bed. I went into her room and picked up the book.
“Would you like Mommy to read you a story?” I asked her, getting down on my knees next to her bed.
“No,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.
“Are you sure?”