Dawn

by Aleatha Romig

  I took a deep breath. “Okay.”

  “Lorna,” Patrick said, “some of these photographs are of the bunker that the Sparrows found near your shoes, and others are decoys.”

  My gaze met his. “Decoys?”

  “Think of it as a lineup. The perpetrator may or may not be in the lineup, but if he or she was the only person, what choices would you have?”

  “Okay,” I said, wishing Reid was with me. “Let me see.”

  Patrick opened a folder and placed five pictures before me. Each one was 8 x 10, black and white. I took in each one. There were two that elicited a physical response. My skin cooled and the small hairs stood to attention. One was of a cell, or what appeared to be a cell. I didn’t see bars or a cage, yet seeing it reminded me of a cell. There was a bunk bed, toilet, and sink. The other picture that made me bristle was of a similar concrete-block room. This one looked like an interrogation room.

  I wasn’t even certain what was in the other three photos. My eyes were glued to the two.

  “Those,” I said, pointing to each of them.

  Reid

  As the deafening screech ended and its echoes faded, Mason reached for the door handle, pushing the door within with me a step behind as we both entered the room. Taking the baby away did little to alleviate the stench of human waste. It didn’t take long to locate the source. The word bastards was scrawled across the wall, written in three-foot letters, using shit as the medium of choice.

  In that millisecond, I knew all I needed to know about Zella Keller.

  None of it was good.

  Any sympathy I might have had for this woman regarding her relationship with her father evaporated. I’d already determined she was an awful mother and a mean, vindictive child, and she was at least partially responsible for my shooting; the new information upon the wall did nothing to elevate my overall opinion.

  Zella barely moved as we entered. As she lay upon the floor in a semi-fetal position, I scanned what I could see. Her bleached hair, darker at the roots, was greasy and matted. The long t-shirt and torn soft pants she’d been wearing yesterday were still her attire. Her feet were now bare, the soles filthy. Slowly, she lifted her head and stared in our direction. Perspiration covered her face, her pupils were nonexistent despite the dimness of the room, and her hands trembled. “Did you get me smack?”

  I would have expected her first question to be about her son. I’d be wrong.

  Slowly, Zella stood, making it to her knees before she was fully erect. Around her ankle was a shackle, the kind seen in movies, attached to a thick chain. With each of her movements, the solid links clanked against the floor. Zella grunted as she tugged on the slack. Crossing her arms over her chest, she leaned against the shit-painted wall.

  “I-I need it,” she muttered. Her cold gray eyes looked from Mason to me. “I can blow you, both of you if you want.”

  Crossing my arms over my chest, my lips formed a straight line as my stomach reeled. Without doing a full inventory of my entire life, I was most certain that I’d never received a less appealing offer.

  “Zella,” Mason said, pulling up a metal chair from the far wall and placing it just outside the circumference of the chain’s reach. He spun the chair around and straddling the back, he sat. “I need answers.”

  Her head shook violently from side to side.

  He reached into the chest pocket of his shirt and pulled out a small ziplock bag filled with off-white powder, catching her immediate attention. The chain pulled taut as she lurched forward. Mason and the smack in his hand were just outside her reach.

  Her gaze stayed fixed on the bag until he put it back in the pocket of his shirt. “I-I’ll tell you anything.” It was as she looked up that a bit of recognition seemed to register. Tilting her head, she looked from Mason to me and back. “You. I know you.”

  “I didn’t get a chance to introduce—” Mason began.

  She interrupted. “The two of you killed Daddy.” Her gaze darted between us before she asked Mason, “The darky your bodyguard?”

  Mason craned his neck toward me, his grin showing until he turned back to her. “No, Zella. Mr. Murray is my associate.”

  She kept her attention on Mason. “You killed my dad. I saw what you did. Darrell should have killed both of you.” When we didn’t speak, her volume rose. “Why’d you do it?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “I don’t know. He was a good man.” The chain clanked as she paced back and forth, pulling on her hair as she shook. “You lied to him. You said he won money. He never lied.”

  Her display continued for a few minutes, recalling the happenings of the day before, sprinkled with accolades for a man who didn’t deserve them. Through it all, she worked herself into a frenzy, kicking the chain and pulling at her hair. Finally, Mason stood. “Zella, I’m Mason Pierce. Do you remember me?”

  Her eyes opened wide. “You’re dead. I read about it. Your mom said you died.” Her body quaked. “Am I dead?” She looked at me. “I saw you shot.” She began to scream. “I’m dead.”

  “No, Zella.” Mason spoke calmly. “You’re alive at this moment and so am I.” Mason sat back in the chair, still straddling the back. “What can you tell me about Nancy?”

  “She’s a crackhead piece of shit who would do anything for a hit.”

  There was a saying about a pot and a kettle that was on the tip of my tongue.

  “When did you see her last?” Mason asked.

  Zella’s head again shook from side to side. “No. I can’t talk about that.”

  Mason looked at me and lifted his chin toward the duffel bag. Following his lead, I went to it and picked it up. Mason stood and took the bag, placing it on the seat of the chair.

  “What is that? What do you have? I don’t like kink, but I’ll do it. No whips. I don’t like whips. Is that what you have?” Zella’s questions continued as Mason removed items from the bag.

  The first item was a rope, thick and strong, made of a tough blend that was less likely to result in marks. Next was a ball gag. I continued to watch as various instruments were revealed, including but not limited to dental extraction pliers, wire cutters, knives, and scalpels. By the time he had everything laid upon a felt sheet, Zella’s questions had ended. Or at least, she’d stopped vocalizing them.

  Her complaints changed to whimpers as together we secured her to a different metal chair, her legs attached to the legs, her hands attached to the arms. The undersides of her arms were littered with needle marks. Her mouth opened wide to accommodate the ball as he secured the gag behind her head.

  “I told you that I need answers,” Mason said once she was in place. “First, I want to remind you of who I am.”

  I stood back and watched as a combination of Mason Pierce and Kader went to work. Initially, he sliced the front of her top, revealing her sagging tits and post pregnancy stomach. It wasn’t so much fat as stretched non-elastic skin on her too-thin frame. Next, he cut the pants. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I was relieved she was wearing underwear. Her thin legs were covered in small bruises and scabs, indicative of heroin use.

  With her skin now exposed, Mason picked up the scalpel. It sliced her skin with the ease of a butter knife going through warm butter. No incision was anything more than superficial as crimson dripped from various wounds over her arms, torso, and legs.

  As he worked, he reminded Zella about their childhood. The stories he told turned my stomach even more than Zella’s offer of sexual pleasures. Though Mason spoke without emotion, I couldn’t help but picture a young and helpless Mason and Lorna.

  My heart ached with the pain that he wasn’t vocalizing. As I watched, my mind was on Lorna, wanting to get back to her, wanting to hold her and do whatever I could to make up for the shit I’d never known she’d experienced.

  Finally, Mason removed the gag.

  Zella spit and coughed as she moved her jaw back and forth. “You son of a bitch.”

  “Technically, you’re ri
ght.” Mason brought the scalpel to her cheek. “If I didn’t want to hear your answers, I’d cut out your tongue.” He smiled in an alarming way. In that moment, I understood the comments Patrick and Sparrow had made about Kader and agreed wholeheartedly that we were fucking lucky that he was on our side. “Do you have any idea how much a human tongue bleeds?”

  Zella’s lips came together in a humorous show of defiance.

  “Primarily,” Mason began, walking around her chair, “the tongue receives its blood supply from a branch of the carotid artery.” He skimmed the blade over her neck. “You know, this one.” He moved the scalpel and placed his fingers on her neck. “Right now, I feel your pulse. It’s hammering like a drum. If I gave you the smack you want, it would slow.”

  The mention of the heroin changed her focus. “What do you want to know?”

  “When did you see Nancy?”

  “When she lived in Dad’s basement.”

  “She lived in the basement?” I asked.

  Her gray eyes came to me. “She was his pet.”

  I had never thought I’d feel anything but abhorrence for Nancy Pierce, but there was something in Zella’s tone that put a crack in that assumption. I made a mental note to have the basement searched.

  Mason ran the scalpel across Zella’s neck, not penetrating the skin. “You said was his pet. What happened?”

  “You know how it is with bitches? They run away.”

  “Is that what happened? Maples was housing and feeding her, probably supplying her with dope. Why would she leave?”

  “Maybe she was in heat.” She laughed at her own joke. “Maybe she got tired of his dick in her ass.”

  This time Mason pushed the scalpel deep into her thigh. Her scream filled the air.

  “Answer the fucking question.”

  Zella shook her head. “I can’t. I ain’t supposed to say.”

  “Then tell me what you know about her receiving money.”

  “The bitch spent it or lost it. Daddy said she had a sugar daddy paying her, but when that ran out and no one would pay for her smelly cunt anymore, she ended up on his doorstep.”

  “What was the sugar daddy paying her for?” I asked.

  Zella sneered my direction. “Not her loose cunt. She said the money would just show up twice a year until it didn’t.”

  “Show up where?” I asked.

  “Figure it out. I don’t know, maybe under her pillow like the fucking tooth fairy.”

  I exhaled. “What was she being paid for?”

  “I’ll tell you if you give me the snow.” She narrowed her gaze. “How do I know it’s real?”

  Mason brought the baggie from his pocket, licked his finger and placed it in the bag. Bringing it out, he took his finger to her lips. Without direction, she opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue.

  He laughed, pulling his finger away. “It’s real and it’s good.”

  Zella’s breathing quickened. “The Mexican girl. I don’t know who paid for her, but that cunt sold her.” She looked up at Mason. “She never gave two shits about any of you.”

  It wasn’t much more than we already knew, but it was confirmation.

  “Where did Nancy go?” I asked.

  “Like I said, I can’t say.”

  “Why?” Mason said, walking in front of her. “What will happen? Will someone kill your daddy, take your kid, and then kill you?”

  Her cheeks paled with the realization that was all happening. “You’re going to kill me anyway, you piece of shit,” she spoke defiantly. “Why the fuck would I tell you anything?”

  “You’re right. You’re going to die. It can either happen with this smack in your system, or I will continue this little carving session, add a few of my favorites like cutting off a finger or toe and pulling a few of your rotten teeth. Then, I’ll give you just enough heroin to keep you awake as we leave and the rats finish the job.”

  Her eyes widened. “What about Gordy?”

  “That’s the first time you’ve asked about him,” I said. “Do you care?”

  “Yeah, I care. You killed his daddy. If you kill me, who’ll take care of him?”

  “Where is Nancy?” Mason asked as he made a long slit over her thigh.

  “Daddy sold her.”

  “To who?”

  “I don’t know their names.”

  Mason made another cut in the other thigh as the screech from the nearby facility returned.

  “Make it stop,” Zella screamed.

  “What did they look like?” Mason asked, speaking above the screech.

  Reid

  Turning off the hot spray of water, I inhaled, hoping the residual offending odors from the warehouse had disappeared down the drain, along with the copious amount of soap and shampoo that I’d used. My ribs ached, but not as much as even earlier in the day. Prior to the shower, I’d removed the bandages the doctor had placed. Reaching for a towel, I wrapped it around my waist, noticing above the enduring ringing in my ears from the loud screech at the warehouse that the nearby shower had also stopped.

  By the time Romero drove Mason and I back to the tower, the sun had set. Neither of us went to our apartments or wives. Instead, we went straight to 2 to rid ourselves of any reminders of the day and deed we’d just completed.

  As water droplets beaded upon my skin, I walked barefoot through the shower room and into the room with the large vanity. While this amenity was as luxurious as every other part of the tower, this expensive rendition of a locker room lacked the color and personality of the bathrooms in Lorna’s and my apartment.

  The tile varied in shades of tan. A white marble vanity contained four sinks with a long mirror that reached from one end to the other and a row of lights overhead. Three additional rooms were accessible from where I stood: besides the door leading to the central room of our command center and the hallway to the showers where I’d just been, there was another room divided into stalls and a second room for dressing.

  This may have been constructed with a locker-room feel, but other than the vanity, all the facilities were private. There was only one person I wanted with me in my shower, and it wasn’t any of the men I considered my family and brothers-in-arms.

  The purpose of this bathroom and dressing room was exactly why Mason and I were using it now. There was no need to show our wives the ugliness that our jobs sometimes required.

  I slowed as I neared the vanity, seeing Mason standing before the large mirror. With a towel around his waist, his long hair dripped down his shoulders and back, flowing over his colorful canvas of tattoos.

  His eyes met mine in the mirror and for a moment, I had the sensation of a child caught looking at something he wasn’t supposed to see. Never before had I seen so much of my brother-in-law’s artwork exposed.

  There were thousands of subjects we could discuss, including the last few hours of Zella Keller’s life and the information she’d shared, yet at that moment I was mesmerized by what I’d only been given small glimpses of over the last few years.

  Mason’s head shook. “Before Laurel, I would probably have to kill you right now.”

  “I know you’re capable,” I said with a grin, stepping up to the vanity. “What made you choose those designs?”

  He shrugged his wide shoulders. “I didn’t know.”

  Turning toward him, I pursued the subject. “Army medallion and Airborne Special Forces?”

  Mason’s hands gripped the edge of the vanity, the muscles under the colors strained. His green stare met mine in our reflection. “You just spent hours watching me torture a woman and you want to discuss my tats?” He looked at my reflection. “Damn. You’re still feeling that bruise, aren’t you?”

  I ran my hand over my chest. Fresh from the shower, the center of my chest appeared a shade of purple, darker than my skin. “Hurts like a mother.”

  “You took off the bandages.”

  “Showering seemed more crucial.” I turned to Mason. “Today’s field trip wasn’t far off fro
m what I expected.”

  “Then you’re a sick motherfucker too.”

  There was always that possibility. One didn’t stay in a place of power in the Chicago underground without a tendency toward the extreme. I didn’t shy away from pushing the limits of the law, or blowing through those limits as we did today, as long as I could justify the means. Today’s exercise did that—twice. What occurred with Zella was both retaliation for Lorna and Mason’s childhood traumas and a search for information to help us find Jettison and his blonde partner.

  I reached for the deodorant. “Where did you learn to do what you did today? They didn’t teach us that in basic.”

  “I had a different basic, one that made me useful to the Order.”

  “Before you remembered who you were, did you recall serving in the army? Why would you have chosen those tattoos?”

  Mason exhaled. “I didn’t remember a fucking thing. I was told shit. The focus was on the present and future, never the past. I was part of a special unit. Only those with previous military experience were part of the Order.”

  “Marines or navy were also possibilities.”

  “You forgot fucking merchant marines and coast guard.” Mason tossed a different plastic deodorant container into a sink. “I wasn’t taught as much as I was encouraged to explore,” he said, answering my earlier question. “I watched and learned. It’s simple. There are certain ways to coerce cooperation. Humans have pretty basic survival instincts. You’re smart. You know the five stages of grief. Today Zella knew on some level—even in her strung-out mind—that she was going to die.”

  I nodded. “Denial is the first stage.”

  Mason grinned. “Right. And then anger. It doesn’t matter if the person was Zella or a four-star general. You can count on anger and fighting back, at least verbally and the bigger they are, the more they like to bluster. Next?”

  “I’d guess your favorite stage, bargaining.”

  “It’s the most useful. Give the person just enough possibility to let them think they have the ability to bargain for their life. It’s the moment when a sheik will offer his daughters and wife. A world leader will offer launch codes. Even a piece of shit like Zella will offer something. Everyone has something to offer.”