by Wiehl, Lis
People had remarked on his weight gain, his new muscles. They would surely comment when he dwindled back to nothing. Back to being the boy who wasn’t much bigger than a sixth grader. Girls would roll their eyes when he tried to talk to him, the way they had before.
But that’s what his mom and Charlie were dooming him to. They wanted him to go back to looking like the little kid they treated him like. His thoughts circled and looped the way they had all morning.
Five minutes ago, when Gabe thought about what had happened yesterday, about how his mom had snooped through his things, hot anger had surged up in him. Before he realized what he was doing, he had hit the wall with his fist. Now he flexed his hand, hoping he hadn’t broken anything. The way his mom had looked at him, her mouth twisted as if he had just betrayed her. He had wanted to curl up so tight that he would just disappear.
Last night she had told him that she loved him, that she would always love him, but the words had sounded rote. Stripped of all pride, of all joy. It was pretty clear she figured that she had to love him. Love as a burden. Love as shame.
He blinked away the sudden spark of tears and tried to find the anger again. His mom was always after him, saying that he was the man of the house. But now that he looked like a man, she wasn’t happy. But wasn’t that what she had wanted? Wasn’t it?
And what did Charlie think about him now? Did he think he was a loser? An idiot? A jerk? A few weeks back, Charlie had been talking about the two of them taking in a Seahawks game. Clearly, that would no longer be part of the picture.
Was Charlie right about what steroids could do to you? His mom could be counted on to get freaked out, to go all worst-case-scenario, but Charlie not so much. So if Charlie had said those things, maybe they were true. Or true-ish. Rolling over, Gabe slid off the bunk and headed into the bathroom, hoping that for once he would be left in peace for a few minutes. His mom had a bathroom all to herself, but between him, Eldon, and Brooke, it felt like someone was always waiting.
In the bathroom, he locked the door, then took off his shirt. His pecs were so much bigger now. But could some of it be because he was actually developing breasts? He poked at them, and they seemed firm. But did that mean anything?
He picked up a hand mirror and tried to see the back of his head. It took a lot of contorting and working the angles to get it right. Did he have less hair? Maybe? Yes? No? Between spiky brown strands, he could see tiny spots of white skin, but it was hard to know if that was new, since he couldn’t remember ever looking at the back of his head before.
Still, even if his body was changing in a few hardly noticeable ways, it was a small price to pay, wasn’t it? Not when he could see the respect in people’s eyes when he walked down the halls at school. Not when he could challenge himself to do nearly anything physically, and his body would respond like a machine, only one made of muscles and tendons.
He slid his T-shirt back on. When his head popped out of the hole, for a disorienting second Gabe thought he saw his dad staring back at him from the mirror. Like he was back from the dead.
Was it wrong that a big part of him still loved his dad, given that he had been such a jerk? Gabe wasn’t supposed to know what his dad had done, but he did anyway. How many of the commandments had his dad broken? Nearly every one except for “Thou shalt not kill.”
Instead, his father was the one who had been killed.
When he was little, Gabe had wanted to be his dad. His mom had an old scrapbook, and in it was a photo of Gabe wearing nothing but a diaper, his dad’s big shoes, and a grin.
He had his own memories from when he was a little older. His dad showing him how to build a birdhouse. Teaching him how to play guitar. Playing catch with baseballs and footballs and Frisbees. Pride had flooded his chest when his dad nodded or smiled at some achievement or accomplishment. His mom was all about words, while his dad hadn’t been big on talking. Still, you could tell when he approved.
The last year before his dad died, his parents had fought a lot. Even though Gabe hadn’t really known what it was about, he had been angry at his mom. She was such a nag.
Now he realized she had been desperately trying to turn his dad around before he crashed. And it hadn’t worked.
Was that what she was trying to do with Gabe? Turn him around before he crashed?
With a sigh, he unlocked the bathroom door. When he opened the door, he started back. Eldon was hanging out in the hall, clearly waiting for him to leave, although he hadn’t made a sound to let Gabe know he was there.
Gabe just hoped he hadn’t been muttering to himself. He went back to their room and sat at the desk. He wasn’t planning on doing any homework until this evening, not until the last possible minute, but he still didn’t want Eldon taking up one more spot that was actually supposed to be his.
When Eldon came into the room, Gabe blurted out, “My mom found my supplies yesterday.”
Eldon’s eyes went wide and he swore under his breath. “What happened? How did she find them?”
“She was going through my stuff and she found my kit. She threw away the needles and flushed the drugs down the drain.”
“Are you serious, man?” Eldon winced. “Does she think I was taking them too?”
Gabe’s face got hot. Guilt by association. The idea made him feel even lower. “No worries. She knows you’re just naturally a big dude.”
“You must be in a lot of trouble.”
“She even had that cop she works with, Charlie Carlson, yell at me.”
Eldon’s eyes got even bigger. “Did he arrest you?”
“No. I wouldn’t be sitting here if he had.” Gabe’s sarcastic tone covered up a sudden jab of fear. He hadn’t even thought about that, about how Charlie was a cop. Taking steroids had never seemed illegal, exactly. More like a secret.
“So what are you going to do?”
Gabe started to say that he had promised his mom that he wouldn’t take them, but then he realized that didn’t mean much. After all, he had been using them before, knowing full well that his mother wouldn’t approve.
“I’m thinking about stopping.” As he said the words, he realized he might mean them. Maybe. “At least for now. Mom will be giving the evil eye, so I won’t be able to get away with anything.”
Eldon bit his lip, then said in a rush, “Maybe that’s a good idea. Since you started taking them, you’ve changed.”
“Of course I’ve changed. I can do stuff I never did before.”
Eldon gave him a look. “I mean, you seem like you’re angry all the time.”
“No, I’m not. That’s ridiculous.”
And then Gabe followed Eldon’s gaze to his hands, which had become fists again without his even noticing.
CHAPTER 36
Do you know why my business works?” Kenny was so angry the tops of his ears felt hot. He was in his office, along with the idiot he had made the mistake of counting on. “It is because I am careful not to make mistakes.” He sliced one hand through the air. “It is definitely not, how do they say it, because I shoot first and ask questions later.”
“I was taking care of your problem,” Chris Atkinson said sullenly. “And she was just where you said she would be. Ten forty-five to noon every Sunday, playing piano at the front of the church.” His lower lip jutted out like a spoiled child’s. And with his shaved head, his face did look something like a baby’s. Not the rest of him, though. He was nearly as wide as he was tall, muscled in places no one who didn’t use steroids even had muscles. “It’s not my fault it wasn’t her.”
Three years ago, Atkinson had been a security guard. A wannabe cop who wasn’t even allowed to carry a gun on the job. Then he had started buying steroids from Kenny. That had allowed him to gain fifty pounds of muscle on his five-foot-nine frame, leaving him so brawny he looked like a cartoon caricature. He started selling to guys at his gym, got a concealed carry permit, and eventually left his job and started working for Kenny on a freelance basis.
K
enny had enforcers, yes, Chinese men who made sure that those he smuggled over paid their debts. But Atkinson also had his uses. He had tapped into markets Kenny had only guessed at, gym rats and ex-cops and even boys in high school. And it was amazing how much better certain meetings went when you had someone standing behind you, someone menacing and muscled and with a gun openly displayed in a shoulder holster. It was only a bonus that he did not understand a single word of Chinese. No plans or pleas ever entered his ears.
And there were times when it was necessary to have someone get his hands dirty. Kenny preferred it if those hands did not belong to him. Kenny made the threats, and his enforcers or Atkinson carried them out. It was Atkinson who had shot Lihong.
But there were more fish in the sea. Atkinson could be replaced by another American looking for an opportunity to flex his new muscles. To be asked to act on his new aggression.
“You shot an old white woman. Not Bo Yee.”
“She was wearing a black wig and she had her head bent over the keys when I came in. Anyone could have made the same mistake.”
“Maybe anyone could, but you are the one who did. You were supposed to kill Bo Yee. Half that congregation is Chinese. They would understand the lesson and they would know to be quiet. They would know not to cross me in the future.” It was like the parable: “Once bitten by a snake, a person is scared all his life at the mere sight of a rope.” “Only it’s a lesson no one is ever going to understand.” Kenny made a sound of disgust. “Because the wrong woman is dead.”
“But you’re the one who told me she was going to be there. Basically, I did what you wanted me to do.” Atkinson stared right back at him with a sullen expression. Stupid and sullen. But something about his tiny eyes—even the man’s face appeared too bulky—looked sly.
And stupid, sullen, and sly could become a bad combination. What if one day Atkinson had what he thought was a bright idea? A bright idea that might end with Kenny lying on the floor, a bullet through his heart.
“The police may not be able to figure out why that old white lady died. The congregation might not either. But you can be sure that Bo Yee will.” Kenny gritted his teeth in frustration. “And now she will go into hiding. Now she will be a lot harder to kill.”
“All right, all right. Give me another chance and I’ll make sure I get her. And I’ll even do another job at no charge.”
Kenny heaved a sigh, massaging his temple. “Spilt water cannot be retrieved. Let Bo Yee go, for now. With luck, she will leave Seattle and never come back.”
Should he take Atkinson up on his offer? He did not know Mia Quinn well, but well enough to know that she would not stop. She wanted David Leacham in prison. And now that she was wondering and worrying about Lihong, now that Chun had given her some more pieces of the puzzle, maybe she would start putting them together. Having Mia Quinn taken care of would put a stop to that.
It would have to look like an accident. A tragic accident.
But he wouldn’t use this fool to do it. He had to find another way. First he had to get rid of Atkinson. Before he talked. Or before he decided that the best way to solve Kenny’s having a problem was to kill Kenny.
He could hire another killer to take care of Atkinson, but where would that end? Anyone he hired might be reasonably afraid that they would be next.
He had decided it would be better if no one else was involved. Luckily, there was a way to have the man solve the problem himself.
“Give me a day or two,” Kenny said. “Let me think about the best course of action.”
“Whatever it is, I’ll do it. Just tell me what you want.” The big man nodded his head.
“Understood.” Kenny reached into his desk drawer and snagged a small blue-topped vial with his fingernails. He tossed it to Atkinson, who caught it with one meaty paw.
“What’s this?”
“I received something new this week from China. It’s supposed to be especially effective, but with no acne or hair loss. It’s not even available in the States yet.”
Atkinson held up the vial to the light. It was filled with clear liquid. Aside from the blue top, it looked like all the other ones he had sold.
“No hair loss?” he asked, running his hand over his shaved head. By the stubble, Kenny could see how his hairline had receded, one of the typical side effects of steroids.
“It’s even supposed to reverse any previous problems.” He shrugged, as if it didn’t matter to him. “That’s what they told me, anyway. Why don’t you see what your customers think?” With the back of his hand, he nudged forward a white paper takeout bag filled with a couple dozen vials.
The truth was that they didn’t contain steroids, but an animal tranquilizer. Some animal tranquilizers were used as club drugs. People said they liked how far away and blurry the drug made things. How uninhibited and full of love they felt.
Only this tranquilizer wasn’t made for just any animal. It was used to sedate elephants. Injected into a human vein, it would stop the heart.
Wearing gloves, Kenny had carefully wiped down the surface of the vials with antiseptic wipes before he put them in the paper bag. He wanted to leave no trace of himself. No partial fingerprint. No DNA.
Atkinson would want to be the first to sample this new wonder drug. He would be found with the needle still in his arm and with old track marks on his elbows and ankles. The authorities would wonder, but in the end, it would be chalked up to an accidental overdose.
And now all Kenny had to do was to take care of Bo and Mia himself.
CHAPTER 37
As he waited for the church’s pastor, Bob Ho, to get off the phone, Charlie’s thoughts went in circles. He believed that the key to solving a murder was to start with the victim. Why had the killer chosen that particular person? If you could pick out that first thread, you could start pulling it until it led back to the murderer.
Whoever had killed Abigail Endicott this morning had clearly sought her out. The killer had walked past dozens of other potential victims, ignored the people who fled screaming at the sight of his gun. Paid no attention to Marvella Lott, the greeter who had followed on his heels and shouted out a warning to the congregation. In other circumstances, Charlie might have said her actions had saved dozens of lives, but the more he heard, the more he was certain this man had come with only one purpose: to kill Abigail Endicott. He had been a man on a mission. And once he had succeeded, he had fled without trying to harm anyone else or even uttering a single word.
Confronted by chaos, the first responders had radioed for additional units to help question witnesses and search the area. A lot of the congregants had already fled in a mad panic, resulting in sprained ankles and even a few broken bones. They had run down the street until they could run no more, or piled into their cars and peeled out of the parking lot.
The first officers on the scene had herded those who remained into the social room, the place where coffee and cookies were normally served after the service. Officers had questioned each person briefly, getting names and addresses and a quick description of what they had observed. Unfortunately, no one seemed to have witnessed the killer leaving.
Their best lead was Marvella, the only one who had seen the killer before he pulled down his ski mask. The rest had focused on the eerily embroidered white balaclava with the black stitches across the lips. What else they remembered: about his height, weight, and even ethnicity varied dramatically from person to person. Marvella was working with a sketch artist, but Charlie was afraid that her fixation on the gun had pushed aside anything else.
They had no suspects, Charlie thought as he shifted on the hard bench. No leads. There was no video camera in the foyer, and none in any nearby business that focused on the street. The little information they had on the suspect was being broadcast. But you couldn’t get very far putting out a BOLO for a white male in his thirties or forties, about five foot nine, wearing a black winter coat and dark pants, and who was believed to have fled in an unknown vehicle
in an unknown direction of travel.
Marvella had said he was white and had a stocky build. She also thought his head was shaved, but Charlie didn’t know whether that was true, because the balaclava he had worn like a hat had covered his head. The lady had paged through mug shots, but so far not a one had been familiar. And the spectacular MO certainly did not match any other recent crimes in Seattle or even in surrounding states. Charlie had checked.
The only clues the guy had left behind were the spent brass from his gun and the bullet in Abigail’s head. The best Charlie could hope for was that the guy had ditched the balaclava—and his DNA along with it.
So Charlie’s first job was to start with the victim and learn everything he could about her. It was like a spiral, the beginning of the yellow brick road. It was here at the church that she had died—and also where she had spent a big chunk of her life.
On the other side of his office window, the pastor raised one finger to indicate to Charlie that he was almost done. Charlie nodded in return, his thoughts still consumed with Abigail.
The problem was that the road seemed more of a dead-end. Why would someone want to kill a seventy-two-year-old widow? She had no history with the criminal justice system. Not even a parking ticket. She had lived in the same house for thirty years and seemed to have had no disputes with the neighbors. Abigail had a forty-three-year-old married daughter who lived in Missouri, a daughter who loved her and who was bewildered.
She was a retired piano teacher. It was hard to imagine that the killer was a former student, come back to wreak revenge for being forced to spend their formative years playing “Fur Elise.”
Her social life revolved around her church. So it seemed the most likely suspects would be found here, at the very place where she had been killed. A rival Sunday school teacher? A jealous spouse? But then why hadn’t Marvella recognized the killer?
Charlie’s mind circled around the problem and tried a different angle. If you wanted to kill someone, the last place you would do it would be in front of hundreds of witnesses. Unless you wanted to be showy. What if this was a murder for hire, designed to send a message to someone else in the congregation?