Cut to the Bone

by Shane Gericke

  She clutched Marty’s waist and pulled herself sitting, fighting the sudden blizzard of panic. Her killer was back, choking her life away. She made herself breathe deeply and slowly, four seconds in, four seconds out. In. Out. In. Out.

  Better.

  “Woman’s . . . dead?” she wheezed, massaging both sides of her neck.

  Marty nodded.

  “Who knifes . . . receptionist . . . at a spa?”

  “Dunno,” Marty said, hugging Emily close. “But we’re sure as hell gonna find out.”

  11:08 a.m.

  The Executioner whipped into an empty slot, his blue eyes pulsing radar.

  No cops. Not even a curious civilian.

  He turned off the engine. As he’d learned from his numerous practice runs, this medical-office parking lot on Sherman Avenue - thirty seconds from the spa, nicely screened by trees and buildings - made an ideal place to switch cars.

  Though the advantage wouldn’t last if he dawdled.

  Leaving on his gloves and Chicago Bears cap, he peeled the fake red beard from his jaw. He wiped the rubber-cement boogers into a white supermarket bag, and added the beard and bloody knife. He crumpled it tight, looked around once more, ready to escape.

  An olive-green minivan was pulling next to the curb.

  Dammit.

  He had to wait now. He couldn’t risk the woman behind the wheel telling a cop about the maroon Subaru wagon that peeled rubber when the sirens got close. Get out of here, he warned silently, each tick of the cooling engine loud as artillery. Thirty more seconds and you die, too. Not that he minded, but the kill would take time he didn’t have. Leave. Now.

  She didn’t.

  He gripped the .40-caliber Sig snugged in his waistband.

  Five seconds . . .

  His left hand squeezed the chromed door handle.

  Three seconds . . .

  Exit, walk, shoot till dead, walk back, drive away. Easy.

  Two seconds . . . one second . . .

  A skinny girl in pigtails hopped out of the van and dashed through a door with a sign shaped like a molar. The woman made a three-point turn and exited the lot.

  Lucky you.

  The Executioner slid out, tossed the keys down the storm drain. Hopped into the Subaru with the bag, started the engine with a gasoline-heavy vroom. Nosed out on Sherman then onto Ogden Avenue. Quickly scooted to the middle divider to let a police cruiser scream past. The cop hunched over the wheel made a little wave, “Thanks.”

  He waved back, amused.

  He drove the speed limit to Wisconsin Avenue, cranked the wheel in a quick hard right, and began his side-street escape from the city.

  11:27 a.m.

  Governor Wayne Covington tipped back in his buffalo-hide chair, allowing him to rest his crisp, white-blond hair against the paneling. He steepled his fingers, blew a thin river of smoke.

  “What about riots?” he asked.

  “Won’t be any,” Naperville Police Chief Kendall Cross said.

  Covington snorted. “The anti-execution sissies agree with you, do they?”

  “Yes.”

  Covington’s tapered eyebrows flicked in surprise.

  “Publicly, the protest groups will ‘take it to the streets,’” Cross said, tapping a tail of ash into the governor’s Baccarat ashtray. “But their leaders assure me privately it’s marching and singing only. They’ve forbidden any forms of violence.”

  “Joe Citizen’s tolerance for that garbage ended September 11,” Covington said.

  “Right. So I believe them when they say no rioting. But if it happens, we’re prepared.” He mimicked the swing of a riot baton. “We’ll talk softly but carry a big stick.”

  Covington smiled, spun the brightly lacquered humidor.

  Cross surveyed the fat Cohibas with the oily, dark-chocolate wrappers. Governorship hath its privileges. He took one and accepted the wooden match. He sat back, flamed the end bright, took a deep mouthful of smoke. He savored its mineral sharpness a moment, then released a perfect blue ring. It fluttered toward the window, where an air blower broke it into wisps.

  He turned his attention to Covington, who suddenly seemed lost in thought.

  “Your brother?” Cross asked gently.

  “Ah. Yes. You’ve known me way too long,” Covington said, puffing furiously to cover the crack in his news-anchor voice.

  “Since you were our county’s state’s attorney. And now you’re smoking Cubans in the Governor’s Mansion.” Cross tipped his head. “Helluva run you’ve had, Wayne.”

  “I’d give up every bit to have Andy back.”

  “I know,” Cross said, flexing his mutilated backside. Damn that shotgun blast. “I’m sorry I never had the pleasure of knowing your brother.”

  Covington blinked. “You two never met? I’d have sworn - oh, that’s right. We buried him well before Naperville hired you as chief. Time flies.”

  They smoked in silence.

  “Earl Monroe murdered my brother in 1966,” Covington said after a while. “But it feels like yesterday. I still catch myself driving by our old house sometimes, seeing if he’s in the yard.” His eyes got bright. Cross stared out the window to allow him the moment . . .

  “Sorry,” Cross said, reaching for his warbling pager. He checked the display, frowned. “Use your phone, Wayne? My cell doesn’t work in here.”

  Covington pushed it across the coffee table. “NPD?”

  “Nine-one-one from Hercules Branch,” Cross said, speed-dialing his chief of detectives. “He knows I’m here and wouldn’t interrupt unless - hey, it’s Ken. What’s happening?”

  His expression darkened.

  “How many dead?” he grunted.

  Covington jerked straight up. He stabbed a button, and a wall of plasma TVs sprang to life. Each sported a news anchor with practiced motions and perfect hair. Each crawl spat “Naperville” and “dead” and “kill” and “slay.”

  “All right,” Cross said. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Stiff with anger, he disconnected.

  “You remember my detective Emily Thompson?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Covington said. “From two years . . . oh Lord, she’s not dead, is she?”

  “No. But she came this close,” Cross said, pressing thumb to forefinger. “Someone walked into a spa she was at and stabbed the receptionist.”

  “And Emily?”

  “She ran outside and tried to capture the killer. He hit her with a car.”

  “Goddamn murdering scumbags!” Covington bellowed, flushing so dark his eyes glowed like high beams. “How bad was she injured?”

  “She bounced off instead of going under the wheels. Nothing serious.”

  “Thank God. Was she able to-”

  Cross shook his head. “Car absorbed the bullets. Manhunt’s under way.” He stubbed the cigar. “If we’re done . . .”

  “Yes, yes, by all means get going,” Covington said. “You want my jet? It’ll get you home in thirty minutes.”

  “No, that’s all right,” Cross said. “Branch is acting chief when I’m out of town. Nothing I can do that he won’t do better.” He smiled, but it held no humor. “Just tell your troopers I’m driving a Naperville black-and-white, and I’m not stopping for any speeding tickets.”

  11:31 a.m.

  “You want tickets, lady?” County Sheriff’s Sergeant Rayford Luerchen mumbled as the maroon Subaru wagon wove over the yellow line. “I’ll give you tickets.”

  He’d gotten lippy in a roomful of brass the other day, airily correcting one of the lieutenants without dicks about some point of law she’d been droning about. Payback came this morning in the form of a new assignment - traffic citations, and nothing but, for two months. Him! A senior sergeant. A leader of men. Pulling over jerk drivers like some carrot-brained newbie.

  He tried groveling. “I was wrong, ma’am, and I’m very extremely sorry,” he’d said. No good. She’d insisted on her pound of flesh.

  So he’d write up every two-bit
violation he could muster.

  In Naperville.

  The people in this snooty burg would raise hell for getting ticketed one mph over the limit. Or putting a toy in their back window - “dangerously obstructed view” - or sporting an unwashed license plate. Enough flame-throwing to the sheriff from the gentry, Luerchen reasoned, and lady lou would get the message.

  Don’t cross Ray Luerchen.

  He accelerated.

  The Executioner stiffened. He was well away from the spa, in a quiet residential area. Five miles under the limit. Signaling every turn. There’s no way he should be pulled over.

  So then why was this cop swooping down in his rear-view?

  He caressed the Sig’s walnut grips as he sorted his options.

  Luerchen shook his head, wondering what to do. His computer wasn’t connecting because Plank Road was a cellular “dead zone” with its steep hills and valleys. He couldn’t ask the dispatchers to run the plate - they were swamped from the spa murder. Like I should be. He dare not wait for either problem to clear because lady lou would rip him for loafing.

  “Awright, awright,” he decided. “I’ll write it up now and call it in later.”

  He flipped on his roof lights and burped the siren.

  The Executioner spotted the colorful wooden sign for Seager Park. Nodded. He knew Seager. Lots of trees for concealment. With no playground equipment to attract children, usually deserted this time of day. It should work.

  * * *

  He put on his signal and crunched up the gravel driveway.

  “Park it while we’re young, pal,” Luerchen muttered, scratching his sunburned scalp.

  As if hearing him, the Subaru pulled underneath a towering maple. Brake lights flashed, window went down, engine shut off. The driver shrugged dramatically: “What did I do, Officer? I didn’t do anything! Why are you pulling me over?” - but kept his hands in plain view, as the Rules of the Road encouraged.

  We have a winner! Luerchen thought, smirking. The guy’s panties were already in a bundle from being pulled over. When he found out he’d pay triple-digits for bumping the yellow line during his oh-so-careful turn from a side street . . . well, he’d be just the type to phone the sheriff. Even better, send one of those snippy “I pay your salary” letters to the local paper. Those always made cops hoot with laughter.

  He grabbed his ticket book, already thinking about the next jerk.

  “Focus,” the Executioner murmured as the cop widened in the side mirror. “Do what you have to do, then get out,” He hung his left elbow out the window like he was preparing to defend his driving skills, and let his right hand slip casually into his lap.

  “Good morning, sir,” Luerchen said, dipping his head to the driver’s level. “Do you know why I pulled you over-”

  Blam!

  Luerchen fell back screaming as the .40-caliber hollow-point tore away his jaw. Blood and teeth spattered into his eyes, blinding him. His left hand clawed for the Mayday button on his radio. His right fumbled with his safety holster, trying desperately to free his gun.

  The Executioner jumped out of the Subaru, leveled the shiny barrel.

  Blam! Blam! Blam!

  Luerchen collapsed with a single, strangled huff.

  The Executioner waited till blood quit flowing, then kicked the cop in the right temple, making sure he wasn’t faking.

  The snapped neck said no.

  He ran to the cruiser, slid into the hard, grimy seat. Found the switch that controlled the roof lights. Toggled it.

  Siren whooped.

  Untoggled, tried another.

  The flashing stopped.

  He put the cruiser in gear and backed it next to the splayed feet. Plucked handcuffs from the stretched-out gun-belt around the cop’s belly. Snapped one cuff around the left ankle, the other to the cruiser’s tow ball.

  Taking care to not drip sweat on anything, he climbed back inside and stomped the gas, dragging the cop into the trees. In the rearview, he saw the head bounce-bounce-bounce off rocks and roots. It reminded him of those World’s Funniest Videos. He smiled.

  Then he braked, threw it in Park, and ran to his Subaru, finger on the trigger just in case.

  Not necessary.

  He returned the Sig to his waistband and drove out of Seager Park. Made sure he used his turn signal. Got back on Plank Road and continued his escape.

  11:35 p.m.

  “Enough already,” Emily groaned, shooing the paramedics who’d been poking, prodding, and painting her scrapes antiseptic-purple. “I gotta get dressed.”

  “Before CSI bags our clothes as evidence,” Marty agreed. He grasped his waist towel with one hand, offered Emily the other.

  She grabbed his fingers and pulled herself to her feet. The movement shook up her vision like a snow globe. She blinked a dozen times to clear it, then began walking toward the spa, planting one foot firmly before lifting the next. She’d feel silly tripping in front of the Fire Department.

  “Wait up!”

  Emily turned to see a blonde in a black-and-white. It was Lieutenant Annabelle Bates, commander of the Naperville Police SWAT team and Emily’s closest girlfriend.

  They stopped to let her catch up.

  “We were serving a warrant when we heard the officer down,” Annie said, eyes dusting Emily for injuries. “We just got back. Are you all right?”

  “A little banged up,” Emily said. “But nothing broken.”

  Annie whistled her relief. “I understand we found the car.”

  “Patrol spotted it a few minutes ago,” Emily said. “In that medical mall on Sherman. We know it’s the killer’s because Marty and I shot it.”

  “For what little good that did,” Marty grumbled. “Canine units are searching, but I’m betting he stashed an escape vehicle and took off.” A dirt fog erupted as he scratched his mud-crusted forearm. “Unfortunately, nobody at the mall saw anything.”

  “Security cameras?” Annie asked.

  “Only inside,” Emily said. “Guarding the drugs and equipment. None point at the lot.”

  “We’re never that lucky,” Annie said. She squeezed Emily’s arm, her petite features tight with concern. “Are you sure you’re all right, hon? Branch said you got run over.”

  “Well, sort of,” Emily said. She explained.

  “She jumped right up and chased the bastard,” Marty added. “Might have caught him, too, except for the charley horse.”

  Annie’s eyes dropped to Emily’s calf. “Again?”

  Emily nodded, disgusted the two-year-old injury was still getting the best of her.

  “Well, you’re standing now,” Annie said. “Took half the day to do that last time your calf went nuts. Progress.”

  “Enough that I can be useful here,” Emily agreed.

  Annie’s face twisted. “You don’t think you’re working this case, do you?”

  “Of course I am,” Emily said. “I’m a detective.”

  “You’re a witness,” Annie pointed out. “A participant. You’re involved.”

  “I tried to apprehend a murder suspect. That’s the extent of my so-called participation,” Emily argued. “I’m not a witness. I didn’t see the killing. I only heard the screams.”

  “It’s true,” Marty said. “We’re only ear-witnesses.”

  Annie still looked dubious.

  “It’s like back at the station,” Emily said, grasping for another straw. “First detective to answer the phone gets the case. I was first detective here.”

  “Totally by accident,” Annie said, kicking at the ragged hem of Emily’s robe.

  “Still counts.”

  “And your leg?” Annie pressed. “You can walk and kneel and perform crime-scene tasks?”

  Probably not, Emily thought, feeling the lobster pinch when she put weight on it. But she wasn’t going to miss a homicide because of a stupid cramp.

  “I’m fine,” she said, massaging her scalp with her hands. Mud flakes rained. Talk about a bad hair day. “Besides,
I already talked to Branch. He’s inside with the victim.”

  Annie’s faint smirk said she knew Emily was tap dancing - talking to Branch wasn’t the same as getting approval from Branch - but would ignore it because she’d do the same thing. “Well, hell, why didn’t you say so?” she said, aiming Emily at the spa. “Let’s find your clothes, so you can get right to work.”

  She looked over her shoulder at Marty, cranked the smirk to full wattage. “You go finish your bubble bath, dear. You missed some dirt behind your ears.”

  His reply was blacker than the mud.

  12:38 p.m.

  The Executioner slapped the turn signal so hard he bent the stick.

  Cursing his adrenaline-fueled ham-handedness, he turned onto Royce Road on the Far South Side. Headed for the secluded split-level he’d purchased when Covington announced he was building the electric chair in Naperville. The radio squawked bare bones about the spa. Nothing about Seager Park.

  Excellent.

  He studied the rearview. Narrow, winding blacktop shaded by oaks and maples. Drainage gullies left and right, here and there. Kids running free in long, sloped yards. Cars going both ways. None ugly or plain enough to be unmarked police.

  The DuPage River Park to his right was dotted with worn structures from century-old farmsteads. The land skidded hard to the water below, which twinkled blue-green in the merciless August sun. The cloudless sky held no helicopters or low-flying planes.

  He drove slow and wide around the trucks idling on the shoulder. Checked peripherally to make sure no SWATs were hiding in the cab, waiting to attack. Nope. Just City of Naperville water crews, backs bent, elbows flying, digging up a main.

  Bowie, waiting for him at the house, would chuckle at this excess of caution.

  But he’d understand.

  12:40 p.m.

  Emily sniffed cautiously as she entered the lobby, wondering if she’d need the nose soap.

  She sneezed, shuddered, sneezed again.

  Yup.

  Death had short-circuited the woman’s bowels and bladder. The smell mingled with the congealed blood, whirlpool chlorine, and jasmine from the mood candles. Fear-stink pulsed from employees and clients, who couldn’t leave till detectives took their statements.