Cut to the Bone

by Shane Gericke

  He skipped the parts common to all execution documents - death warrant, controlling legal statutes, staff observations, weather conditions - for the particulars of June 29, 1972. The crime. The condemned. What went well. What didn’t. He shook his head. We burned Manuel in the eighteenth century. We’re burning Trent in the twenty-first. Some progress.

  The waitress gave him Milk Duds, one of the freebies Lou Mitchell’s handed out. He glanced at the TV flickering over her shoulder.

  “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the orange fury on the screen. “California brush fires?”

  “Explosion in Naperville,” she said.

  “Huh! I was just in Naperville.”

  “Nice town,” she said. “Think way too much of themselves, though. All that ‘Best place to raise children’ bragging they do? All I know is, I don’t call Judge Judy when I lose my iPod.”

  Sanders laughed. “Where was this explosion?”

  “Downtown. About three this morning. Blew out windows for blocks, started that Riverwalk on fire. Couple other houses burned, too. No one was hurt, though.”

  “Amazing,” he said.

  “Can’t believe it myself,” she said. “I was in a fire once. Small one, but it still scares you to death.” She showed him the ropy scar on her elbow. He murmured in sympathy.

  “You look awfully familiar,” she said. “Are you famous?”

  “Not really,” Sanders said. “I was the crash test dummy-

  “Yeah, that’s it!” the waitress said, slapping his shoulder. “Out at that Justice Center. I read that story in the paper. Laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe.”

  “Thanks,” Sanders said.

  “Sure, honey,” she said, slipping him an extra Duds and palming his check. “Breakfast’s on the house. We love our celebrities here at Lou’s.”

  She strolled off, putting a little extra wiggle in her wide hips.

  Who needs Oprah? he thought, savoring the moment. He watched the fire till the commercial, then started on Appendix F - the twelve official witnesses.

  “Reynolds,” he said. “Mahoney. Farri. Gee, those names look familiar.” He watched the buses rumble by on Jackson Boulevard. “Where did I just see them . . .”

  His cup slipped from his hand.

  “Honey, are you all right?” the waitress said, hurrying over with a rag and horrified expression. “That coffee’s scalding! Did you burn yourself?”

  He had. He didn’t care.

  “Tell me the fastest route to Naperville,” he said.

  9:06 a.m.

  “Big guy’s coming along,” Dr. Winslow assured as she bandaged Emily’s hip gash. She’d inspected the resident’s job, pronounced it sloppy, resutured. “He keeps asking to see you.”

  “Can I?”

  “Not yet,” Winslow said. “You’re going to rest here another hour. I’ll bring you coffee and a magazine. Hope you like Parents or Field & Stream. It’s all we’ve got these days-”

  “Forget it, Barbara. I need to see Marty. And get to work.”

  Winslow glared, and Emily knew resistance was futile. The good doctor wouldn’t think twice about locking the door to enforce her medical decisions.

  “All right, you grouch,” Emily grumbled.

  “I am rubber, you are glue,” Winslow said. “Besides, Marty’s got a knot on his head. I want to be sure his scans are clear before you visit.”

  Emily nodded. “Any other injuries?”

  “The usual for your merry band - burns, cuts, and bruises. Nothing serious, though.” Winslow pointed to the padded examination table. “All right, you know the drill.”

  “You should buy me dinner, all the times you’ve seen me naked,” Emily grumped, lying back and opening her cotton gown.

  Winslow snickered, began probing the scarred-over holes and cuts.

  Emily yipped.

  “Did that hurt?”

  “Your hands are cold.”

  “Sissy.”

  Six probes and a cheek pinch later, Winslow told her to get dressed.

  Emily reached for the bit-snug jeans Annie and Lydia Branch brought over. Her entire wardrobe was ash, so they’d cadged the manager at Lands’ End into a pre-hours shopping spree. The sizes were correct, but that didn’t mean much in women’s clothes - “ten” might mean eight, twelve, or maternity billowed.

  Annie also included a Cylinder & Slide Glock 17 with holster, belt, and spare ammo. She didn’t trust Emily’s cooked equipment, and would lend from her custom armory “till you get to the toy store.” A fire marshal found Emily’s badge in a mud puddle. It was scorched and dented, but functional. She’d been tempted to accept Cross’s offer of a new badge, but decided she wanted this one instead.

  “I’m really sorry about your house,” Winslow said, walking to the sink. “You and Marty worked so hard on it.” She had, too, spending more than a few nights with them bending conduit and taping Sheetrock. “Think you’ll rebuild?”

  Emily’s eyes filled. Not with sadness, but fury. The devil who attacked her - and her man, and their home, and the savior tree - was going to meet a very nasty end. She’d promised herself that dangling from the limb, and intended to deliver.

  “I don’t know, Barbara,” she said. “I really don’t. This is the second time; you know. It’s a great location and means so much to me. But maybe it’s jinxed beyond hope.”

  “Evil spirits?”

  “Something like that.”

  Winslow nodded. “I get that. But don’t do anything rash. It’d be such a shame to feel driven out by that scum.” She washed, toweled, and wiped the sink. “If you decide to sell, let me know. I’ll buy it as an investment. You can buy it back if you ever change your mind.”

  Emily thanked her profusely, then pointed to her scars. “Speaking of rash and scum . . .”

  “Those look great,” Winslow said. “All healed up, and fading nicely. Is the one on the calf still bothering you? It bites back when I press.”

  Emily thought about saying no, so the truth didn’t get to NPD’s medical board. But she wouldn’t lie to Barbara. The medium-tall brunette with the dusting of freckles and big, caring eyes was a friend as well as Edward Hospital’s chief of emergency medicine.

  “Yes,” Emily said, feeling the tug when she flexed her foot. “It hurts when I do this.”

  “Then don’t do that,” Winslow said.

  Emily rolled her eyes. “I could have said that and I didn’t even go to medical school.”

  “Me neither,” Winslow said. “I just like to stick needles in people.”

  9:27 a.m.

  “Quit yelling. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m in the chair next to yours,” the Executioner said, downing his bourbon in a single gulp. He deserved Bowie’s tirade, but was tiring of it.

  “I know I shouldn’t have deviated from the plan,” he said. “But I thought the house was empty.” Another fill and gulp. “They made it out alive. Both of them. So stop worrying. Nothing will stop tomorrow. Nothing. All right?” Bowie grinned from ear to ear.

  9:32 a.m.

  “Aw, come on,” Sanders groaned at the unending line of cars. I-88 was a parking lot thanks to lane reconstruction, and he’d been stuck much too long. “Let’s go.”

  He did. Another three feet.

  He swerved onto the shoulder, ignoring the shouts and horns. He’d take the next exit to Ogden Avenue, drive west till he hit Naperville. He wasn’t worried about tickets.

  He’d get a police escort when they heard what he’d found.

  9:46 a.m.

  Cross dragged over a chair. Branch said his hip was fine. Cross tapped his gold badge, which read chief.

  Branch sat.

  “Emily should be here soon,” Marty said. Saying it aloud made him happy. A few more times and he’d float like on morphine. “Doc’s got her in lockdown to rest.”

  Cross knew that because he’d arranged it with Winslow. Emily was a thoroughbred, and as such, needed the occasional forced cool-down not to cripple h
erself. “We just came from her room. She looks good. Came through it like a champ.”

  “Course she did,” Marty said, though he wouldn’t actually believe it till they were face to face. He took a deep breath, let it out. “OK, tell me.”

  “The house was bombed,” Branch said.

  “How?”

  “Gasoline,” Annie said as she tied a fist of get-well-soon balloons on the window latch. “Fire marshal figures 100 gallons give or take, given the size of the explosion.”

  “How did it get inside?”

  “Pumped through the mail slot,” Branch said. “The point of origin was the front door.”

  Marty thought about that, nodded. Made sense. The slot was the only accessible opening on Emily’s first floor, as her windows were locked and her exhaust ducts too high to reach.

  “Next time we’ll stencil a fake one,” Marty said, walling off the destruction to allow full concentration on the work ahead. “How was the gas delivered?”

  “Most likely truck,” Branch said. “People eating downtown around the time of the blast reported a small fuel tanker driving south on Washington.”

  “Markings?”

  “None reported.”

  “Plate?”

  “Partials from six different witnesses,” Cross said. “None the same. Task force is running every combination, and rousting fuel suppliers to conduct an immediate inventory.”

  “Checking sales, too?”

  “New and used,” Cross said. “Wholesale and retail.”

  “Good,” Marty said, for lack of anything better. He remembered the blast. Nothing after.

  “Was anybody hurt?” he asked, holding up his wrists. They were black as shoe polish, with mustard-yellow dots throughout and purple flares off each side. “Besides me and Em?”

  “Cinders ignited five houses,” Annie said. “But FD got everyone out. Including Shelby.”

  “Outstanding,” Marty said, genuinely pleased. The yellow Labrador retriever lived a few doors down. He’d helped save Emily two years ago, and Marty had barbecued him a twenty-pound prime rib as thanks. They’d been pals ever since. It helped immeasurably when his own dogs died. “He’s got more lives than Garfield.”

  “Yep,” Annie said. “So zero casualties other than your thick head.”

  She danced away from Marty’s swat.

  “We found two burnt matches,” Branch said. “On Jackson, where the gasoline fuse started.”

  “The what?”

  Branch explained.

  “So it’s our serial killer,” Marty said, feeling murderous despite the compartmentalization. “And he clearly wants Emily dead.”

  “Or you.”

  “Me?” he said, startled. “How you figure?”

  “You were there,” Cross said.

  “Yeah, but how would the bozo know that? It’s Emily’s house.”

  “The man does his homework,” Cross said. “Knows you stay over most nights.”

  Marty thought about the rich irony in that, shrugged. “Well, yeah, I’d much rather he target me than her,” he said. “But I just don’t think that’s the case. Among other things, Emily being the target explains the Riverwalk knifing.”

  “Emily’s look-alike,” Cross said.

  “Mm-hm,” Marty said, biting his lip. The wrists really smarted. If they were only strained as Doc insisted, he’d hate to feel broken. “When the victim’s identity made the news, he realized he botched the kill. He needed to take out Em some other way. Something equally ballsy, to send whatever message he’s dreamed up. So he pumps gasoline into our house-”

  Annie smiled at “our.”

  “-then lights the liquid fuse. Since there’s no body, he escaped.”

  “Meaning he’s still out there hunting,” Branch said.

  “The better for us to . . . catch him,” Marty said.

  They nodded, knowing exactly what the pause meant.

  “How did she and I get out?” he continued. “Were we blown clear?”

  “Not exactly,” Cross said.

  He described Emily’s rescue moves.

  Marty’s jaw dropped. He tried to speak. No sound emerged. He tried again.

  “Good God,” he managed, completely stunned. “How is that even possible?”

  Cross massaged his backside, mentally cursing the errant shotgun blast that removed half of it two decades ago. “Motivation and adrenaline,” he said. “When I worked patrol in Vegas, I came upon a fresh accident - a kid pinned under a minivan near his home. His mom came charging down the street, bent over, and lifted off the van. Lady was a ninety-eight-pound weakling - her words - yet she was so buzzed from her child in danger she lifted that van like it was nothing.”

  “I hear ya,” Marty said, still shaking his head. “But what Emily did was . . . is . . . impossible.”

  “Good thing it wasn’t, bucko,” Branch said. “Or you wouldn’t be here taking up space.”

  “Speaking of burned,” Annie said, “how did you get into that tree?”

  “Didn’t you hear Ken?” Marty said.

  “That’s how Emily evacuated you,” Annie said. “Not how you guys survived the blast to begin with.” She wrote “100 gal. gas” and “1000 tons concrete” on the nurses’ whiteboard. “This plus that equals instant death,” she said, tapping the numbers. “How did you avoid that fate?”

  “You,” Marty said.

  Her eyebrows lifted.

  “Soon as I stepped in that gasoline pool, I knew there’d be an explosion,” Marty said. “No other reason for it to be there. The fireball would cremate us if it didn’t have a place to exit before it reached the bedroom. So I created one.”

  “How?”

  “Your tommy gun.”

  She stared.

  “Heat rises. So I machine-gunned the skylight,” Marty explained. “Created a chimney. Most of the blast vented straight up and out the hole. Reducing the fireball just enough to save us.”

  Stunned silence.

  “Talk about impossible,” Cross said. “You’re a whole lot smarter than you look.”

  “Thanks,” Marty said. “I think.”

  “That’s the best sacrifice that burp gun could have made,” Annie said, kissing Marty’s forehead. “Saving Emily’s life.”

  “Hey! What about me?” Marty demanded.

  “I told you not to scratch it,” Annie replied.

  10:17 a.m.

  “You know how this makes me look?” Covington snarled through the cell crackle. “Blowing up two cops on the eve of my execution and I can’t do a thing about it? That’s pathetic, Ken. Catch that animal and catch him now. Before I become the punch line on late-night TV.”

  Cross looked at the phone in disgust as he sped south on Illinois 53. Intelligence reported a big wave of buses exiting I-88, so he was heading to the Justice Center to make sure the National Guard understood his rules of engagement. The thought of an irresistible force - roiling protesters - meeting the immovable object - soldiers with live ammo - made his teeth hurt. Covington was turning it to root canal.

  “Good thing they didn’t die,” Cross said. “You’d look even worse.”

  “That’s for goddamn sure,” Covington said, not getting the sarcasm but mercifully losing steam. “Hey, did Emily really drag Benedetti out on that limb?”

  “She did.”

  “That’s one silver lining, anyway,” Covington said. “I’ll play that up at my press conference this afternoon.” “You do that,” Cross said.

  “Helluva cop you got in that woman, Ken. Maybe I’ll steal her for my security detail.”

  “Maybe I’ll stick you in that electric chair,” Cross said.

  Covington laughed.

  Cross didn’t.

  Lockdown expired, Emily practically skipped toward Marty’s room. She couldn’t wait for the big reunion. They’d clear the air between them, then go nail the-

  “Where are you?” she wondered to the rumpled bed.

  “Getting more head scans,”
Winslow said, appearing from around the corner.

  “Why?” Emily said, frozen as Fargo in December.

  “Computer crash,” Winslow said, looking disgusted. “It ate Marty’s results along with a few dozen others. He’s at the head of the line, but it’ll still be an hour. Maybe two. Sorry.”

  Emily thawed. “At least he’s all right.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’m heading to the station, then. The more of us working-”

  “-the quicker you catch the guy,” Winslow said. “By all means, go.”

  Annie had retrieved her car from Lee Ann’s and parked it in the south garage, so Emily headed for the exit. “Call me the minute I can see him?” she called back.

  “The second,” Winslow said.

  “Want a break from the road?” the choir director shouted over “Crown of Glory.”

  The minister nodded and pulled onto the shoulder. They switched places. He stretched as the bus rejoined traffic, then headed to his granddaughter, who was sitting by herself in the back.

  “How you doing, kiddo?” he asked, snapping the purple rubber band in her ponytail.

  “Fine, Grandpa,” she said, looking up from SpongeBob Jesus. “But how come you aren’t?”

  That startled him. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re sad,” she said. “I can tell.”

  “Really? How?”

  “Your eyes get all shiny,” she said. “And your mouth goes like this.” She crooked each little finger and pulled down the corners, flattening her cheeks.

  “That’s a very interesting observation,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she said, her sit-in-place curtsy exposing her knobby knees. She tugged her pink dress over them. “How come you’re sad, Grandpa?”

  He sighed. “Well, capital punishment is a very sad thing. We’re doing the Lord’s work, driving to Naperville to protest this execution. But that doesn’t mean it’s fun.”