“One more. Then I head home,” the driver said.
“Where the missus has supper on the table, I trust.”
The driver’s face creased. “Lost my Bess a year ago. It’s just me and the cats now.”
“I’m sorry,” the Executioner apologized. “I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business.”
“Aw, hell, that’s all right,” the trucker said, slapping the side of his truck. No echo. The metal was thick, to prevent fires. The Executioner liked the irony. “Feels kinda good hearing her name in the wind, know what I mean?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
The nozzle clacked.
“Well, she’s full up,” the driver said, tugging the hose from the pipe. It reminded the Executioner of stripping entrails out of a steer. “Time to drive to Morris.”
“What’s there?”
“A plant nursery called, ‘We Sell Everything but Poison Ivy.’“
“That’s a mouthful.”
“I’ll say. But Miss Ivy pays promptly, so I say it like a mantra.”
They both laughed.
“A nursery requires gasoline?” the Executioner said.
“Sure. Gotta fuel the tractors and pickups and such.”
“Oh, right.”
“It’s a dandy end to my day, too. Plant sales in August are slim to none, so Ivy closes at three. Means I can stop for a sandwich on the way, and nobody’s drumming their fingers waiting for me to show up.” He removed his fishing cap, squeegeed off his dome. “I’ll drive in, drop my load, take off. Handle the paperwork over the computer.”
“Morris is a good place for a nursery,” the Executioner said, recalling it was forty miles southwest of Naperville. “Easy access from the interstate, but rural enough neighbors don’t complain about the noise.”
“Only thing in five miles is a farm,” the driver agreed. “And that’s abandoned.” He replaced the fill cover, rinsed off the hose, and closed up the truck.
“Nice talking to you, friend,” he said, climbing into the cab. “Have a good rest of the day.”
“You too,” the Executioner said.
A few minutes later, the truck was out of sight.
Followed by the Executioner.
6:19 p.m.
“How’s the tooth?” the grandma-strangler asked.
“Wiggles some,” Trent said. “But it’ll heal all right.”
“Cool. Be a shame losing something that first-rate.”
Trent nodded. He’d implanted a stainless-steel tooth in the hole Benedetti created during the 1990 arrest. Looked cooler than hell and burnished his rep as a bad-ass. He’d feared the COs dislodged it during the beat-down, but it turned out fine.
“So what’d you wanna talk about?” he said, stretching.
The strangler pried apart his food loaf. A couple of beet chunks flopped onto the floor. They were hard and greenish. He picked them up, popped them in his mouth. Get sick, win a stay of execution. That was the law.
“My brother got into town today,” he said, looking at the toilet in case Corey was embarrassed. “Couple cousins, too. Gonna witness my burn next week. So I was thinking I could, you know, if you want, ask ‘em to come by this Friday, too.”
“For what?”
“For your burn, man. You said no one’s gonna show for you. That sucks. You can have my family if you want. They’re good old boys. They won’t mind witnessing twice.”
Trent was deeply touched. Couldn’t say it, of course. But still.
“Naw,” he said, swatting the strangler. “Be all right. Just ‘cause my people’s a bunch of pansies doesn’t mean yours should do double-duty.” He grinned. “Not like I’m gonna die anyway.”
“Shee-it, boy, you gonna fry like hash browns,” the strangler said, chewing noisily. “Just like me the Friday next. So since we’re dead men talkin’, I want the no-shit truth from you.” His crossed eyes glinted. “Did you really cut that big ol’ cow into minute steaks?”
“Hell, no,” Trent said, still luxuriating at the feel of clean skin. He’d spent two hours scrubbing his five-nine’s nooks and crannies, scissoring his hair, and shaving his ratty-ass beard. The Row applauded when he came back from the shower. “I’ve never killed anyone in my life.”
“Me neither,” the strangler said.
“So why you on the Row if you’re innocent?” Trent said.
“I was framed.”
“Me, too,” Trent said.
They stared at each other.
Then burst out laughing.
“You really wanna know how it went down?” Trent said.
“Yeah.”
“Aw right then. Here goes . . .”
Old lady wants a kid. Me, too. I don’t want her messing up her figure though - that ho is hot and broke in just right. So I grab my keys and go shopping.
Few minutes later, I’m at the preggo store. You know, toys and stuffed elephants and shit. Preggo’s in the parking lot, waddling to a car. Like a walrus, all stuck out. Looks beat.
I roll down my window, ask directions to a church. Real polite, ma ‘am and miss and hope your baby’s healthy. She leans close, all trusting. I whack her in the head with my tire iron. Shove her in the trunk, tie on the gag, take off.
Hour later, I’m at the abandoned gas station. Variety is the spice of life, right? Anyway, this place is out in the country, nothing around but crickets. Boarded up tight. I know which nails are rusted away, of course.
Haul my preggo inside. Bout broke my damn back ‘cause that balloon of hers ain’t exactly helium. I rope her hands to a busted toilet, feet to a water pipe. Stretch her like a hammock and slap her awake. Big cow eyes flicker open.
I pull the knife from my pants. It’s eight inches long and thick as a - no, man, my knife. T’other’s a mile long and a foot wide. At least. Hah.
Preggo whimpers into the gag. She already knows what’s gonna happen. Since I know it too, I figure let’s get it on. She follows the steel like one of them hypnotized snakes.
I cut away her panties, then the rest of her clothes. She’s good-looking for a preggo, why not enjoy it? I rub her down there to open things up, then put in the blade. She’s screaming like Judgment Day. Which for her, it is, I guess. I start sawing, adjusting my angle as the red squirts out. Gotta do this right, you know. Can’t damage Junior.
Meanwhile, I’m slurping them plump ol’ titties. Man, they tasty. All fat and goobly ‘cause a kid’s in the oven. Salty like pretzels. Maybe peanut butter.
I cut straight up to her ribs, then across, then down. Her belly falls open. Kinda like the flap on long johns. Kid’s right there, all webbed in like Spider-Man. I yank him out. I know it’s a boy because of his Johnson, though it’s shrimpy as a CO’s. Hah. I smack his ass to make him breathe. Saw that once on TV. Kid starts yelling like he’s shot.
I tuck Junior in my coat. Don’t want him catching cold. Preggo’s dead, naturally. I thought about humping them titties, but that would be kinda, I don’t know, weird. So I walk.
Couple feet later something’s tugging on me. I forgot to cut the cord! So I grab a handful and pop it off. Preggo bleats like a sheep. I hit my noggin jumping so high - it was zombie time, man. I stab her neck till she’s dead dead. Then tuck the cord under the kid, so it don’t leak all over my leather seats. We leave.
I’m just about to my car when the kid starts bawling. Shut the hell up boy or I’ll stick you like mama, I say. He’s not obeying, so I shake him. Gotta let ‘em who’s boss, right?
Next thing you know the little bastard’s dumping on me. Damn, it stinks. He’s screaming harder, too. So I smack him in the head, jam a hanky in his mouth. Now he’s quiet.
That’s when I hear the steps. I turn around. Two big bastards, rushing like nose tackles, something shiny in their hands. They’re hollering, Police, freeze, don’t move, or we’ll blast ya. Like Miami Vice except their clothes are shitty. Turns out they’re on a stakeout a couple miles away and stopped at the gas station to drain the lizard. Lo
oked inside while shaking ‘em off and saw the preggo. Heard the kid, spotted me.
I take off. I know these woods like the back of my hand, so it’ll be easy to lose two dopes who don’t, right? I wish! They’re gaining on me. So I bounce the kid off a tree stump. They’re cops so I know they’re gonna stop to save him.
Wrong again. Benedetti, the sheriff’s guy, he stops. Starts doing that CPR. But the other one keeps running. Branch. A Naperville cop, not sheriff’s. Got some goofy first name like Caesar or Detroit . . . ah, right, Hercules.
Anyway, Branch is about caught up to me. So I fall to the ground, start hollering I give up, don’t hurt me no more. But I’m hiding the knife under me. He lands on top. I snake around and sling the blade. Catch him right across his ugly face. He springs a dozen leaks, eyeball to chin. Keeps fighting, but weaker. I wiggle out of his grasp. Gonna stab him in the heart fore he triggers his bullets in my ass, then get myself gone in the woods.
I hear a bellow. Like Godzilla or something. I look. It’s Benedetti, and man is he pissed.
I get up the knife, but he don’t care. Kicks my arm like a football. Knife spins into the trees, arm spins the other way. He rips out a chunk of my hair, then locks up my good arm. Snap, it’s broke too. Hollers crazy stuff about my son, his son, dead sons, everyone’s son. Knocks me down and starts stomping. Those boots hurt like crazy, so I kick him in the nuts. It’s like they’re made of cement - he don’t care. He’s on fire. He kicks the snot out of me. Smashes my face on a tree root, knocks out my front tooth. I know I’m gonna die, right there.
Then he’s off me. Branch is yelling at him, Can’t do that, man, can’t kill him, ain’t got no weapon no more. Dumb-ass cops. I’m them, I kill me dead and stick the knife back in my hand. These knuckleheads too “moral” for that. They got “rules.” I don’t. That’s why I always win. Always, always, always.
Only thing I regret is not having my son no more. Woulda been fun having one of them. They play ball and shit, fetch you beer when you say. Make you look good. Walk tall. But Benedetti screwed that up. Made me kill my own damn son. If he hadn’t made me do that, who knows? Maybe Junior would of come by Sundays to visit his old man . . .
“Now that,” the strangler said, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, “is one bitchin’ good story.”
Trent punched his arm. “Stick around, sonny. Sequel’s better.”
7:02 p.m.
“Well, howdy, mister,” the fuel-truck driver said, turning toward the unexpected crunch on the gravel. “What are you doing all the way out-”
The three-shot reply silenced the cicadas.
9:42 p.m.
Marty dipped the sponge in the bucket of warm water. He squeezed it heavy-damp, resumed cleaning grout off the powder room floor.
He concentrated on making each wipe perfect. Press too lightly, the residue dried on the tiles, ruining them. Too heavy, he sucked the grout out of the joints and had to start from scratch. The hands-and-knees made him ache head to heels, and his eyes stung from the vapors. He ignored it. Finishing what he’d started took precedence.
He’d tried to catch Emily’s eye when Branch told the team to knock off for the night. She didn’t look up. He shrugged. Drove home to get some shut-eye.
Lay wide awake, cursing sheep.
He dressed, then fired up the GTO he’d spent a year restoring. He’d raced the amateur circuit for years, and when he was troubled by a case - or in this case, Emily - he blasted down the lonesome roads south of Joliet, stereo cranked, window down, not looking for anything or thinking of much, just feeling the wind.
That wasn’t working, either.
As he rounded the old Joliet Arsenal for the turn home, he looked at the steel ring dangling from the ignition. Emily’s nickel-plated house key was there. She’d painted a little red heart at the top, on both sides. Gave to him Christmas last. Hadn’t asked for it back.
That means something. Don’t know what. But something.
Time to find out if it’s still there.
He called the task force, hoping she’d pick up. They needed to talk. She didn’t want to, tough. He’d force the issue. Get this thing done. Cold wars were stupid - everyone suffered, not just them. He’d seen the knowing looks from the task cops, many of whom had Been There. Emily wanted out because of the kid, fine. But she’d damn well say it to his face.
Branch answered. Said Emily went for drinks with Annie. Way they talked, they’d be gone half the night. I can find her if you want. Buy you a beer if you need.
Nah, Marty said. I’m just gonna stop at her house a while, grout the powder room.
One less piece of unfinished business.
“So Marty’s a daddy,” Annie mused. “And he didn’t want to tell you.”
“No, he didn’t,” Emily said, topping their daiquiris from the lipped pitcher. She was feeling the burn from the expensive rum. Nice burn. “He still doesn’t.”
“How do you know?” Annie said.
“Know what?”
“He doesn’t want to tell you about his son.”
“Because he hasn’t.”
“Are you giving him a chance? You’ve frozen him out pretty solid.”
She’d pulled Annie aside at six, when Marty was at the morgue collecting Zabrina Reynolds’s results. She asked about the tommy-gun transfer at the Riverwalk. Annie said Marty was borrowing it for photographs - he wrote about weapons for the sheriff’s Web site - so she brought it along. Why? Emily sighed, given the bare bones. Annie said let’s get a drink when we’re done. At 8:30 they headed not to Our Neighbors, the friendly local cop bar with plenty of pretzels and ice-cold Schlitz, but to Lee Ann’s Mining Camp, an Alaska Gold Rush-themed drinkery that most cops slinked past for fear of getting cooties from the yuppie clientele. Perfect place for this conversation. Cops gossiped more than the oldest of old biddies, and Emily didn’t want her business making the circuit.
“Whose side are you on?” Emily flared, slapping her glass on the photo-collaged table.
“Yours,” Annie said. “And his.” She held her glass to the light, admiring the icy yellow shimmer. “These are nice and banana-y, aren’t they?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“OK,” Annie said, putting it down, emptying the pitcher, and signaling for another. “The subject is you, and Marty, and you love each other, and you’re being total dicks about it.”
Emily sputtered.
“Don’t get mad at me, girly,” Annie said. “I’m just telling you what I see.”
“And that would be?”
“Two people who are made for each other, but too stubborn to forgive old trespasses.”
“He’s got a son, Annie,” Emily said. “How can I forgive that?”
“‘Cause it’s part of what makes Marty Marty. You fell for him two years ago, right?”
Emily nodded.
“Loved him tender, loved him true? Never had a reason to doubt it? Knew in your bones he felt the same?”
“Yes . . .”
“Well, guess what? He had a kid then, too.”
The Executioner shifted for the hundredth time, trying to get comfortable. His back hurt, his joints popped like bubble wrap, and it was hard staying awake. Killing time in the front seat of an SUV wasn’t his idea of fun.
At least it was working well.
He’d buried the driver in a grove of white pines, using the rusted shovel he liberated from a tea-rose display. Tamped the backfill so the hole looked like everything else. It simply wouldn’t do for anyone to discover him before Friday.
He drove the Land Rover back to the parking lot and scrambled atop the fuel truck, which he’d stashed behind the perennials barn. No need to arouse the curiosity of any passing cop. He unscrewed the inspection hatch and illuminated the tank’s interior with the driver’s flashlight, shirttail over his nose and mouth.
Five hundred gallons, give or take.
Plenty enough.
He gripped the ladder with both hands till his fee
t hit terra firma. A broken ankle would ruin everything.
He slid into the Land Rover, turned on the news, and guzzled coffee from the truck driver’s thermos. Made a face at the sugar.
“Tell me something,” Annie said, draining her glass. “How would you feel if Marty had died at Seager Park instead of Ray Luerchen?”
“That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard,” Emily said.
“Answer anyway. How would you feel?”
Emily’s tongue felt thick. Booze or honesty, she couldn’t tell.
“Like I’d died, too,” she admitted, staring at the pitcher.
“Of course you would. And that’s exactly how you’ll feel if you dump Marty. You waited a lifetime for this man - don’t lose him by being stubborn.” Annie leaned across and punched her arm. “Just talk to him, OK?”
“Idiot,” Marty spat, banging the sponge off the wall as something he’d forgotten popped into his head.
He wiped up the grouty mess and grabbed his keys. Headed out Emily’s back door and trotted to the Judd Kendall VFW a block east. He’d parked the GTO there, instead of in her driveway or garage. Wanted her to come inside the house, not see his car and leave.
But the tommy gun was still in the trunk. It was irreplaceable, and he’d never have left it if he hadn’t been so damn distracted.
He got to the trunk in a minute flat.
“Hey, baby, how you doin’,” he purred at the violin case. Weapons were frozen music, not just flanges and pins and screws. This song was especially priceless, being Roaring Twenties, fully restored, and owned by Annie, who appreciated guns as much as he did.
He tucked the case under his arm and trotted back to the house. Poked around for a safe place to store it. “Not you,” he said to the kitchen and powder room. He didn’t want a grain of stone dust marring that gleaming blue finish. The foyer and family rooms were equally out - under construction or filled with tools.
Second floor.
He hustled up the sanded oak steps and put the gun and ammo drum in the closet on the landing, under Emily’s winter clothes. They’d already finished this part of the house, so the closet was nice and clean.
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