The House of Broken Backs: A Joanna Mason Novel

by Amy Cross

  "Nothing," he mutters, looking back down at his work.

  "Jo," Dawson says after a moment, "are you sure you're okay? Maybe we should go back to -"

  "I'm fine," I say, pushing him away as he reaches out a hand. "Just stop talking about cults. It's a dumb, off-the-shelf answer and it doesn't fit. Something else was happening out here." Feeling a little dizzy, I walk away, making my way around the edge of the cordon until I'm on the far side. Turning and looking back across the wreckage, I try to empty my mind as I wait for that moment of inspiration to strike. I know it's coming, and I'm certain that there's no cult involved. Still, I won't be able to persuade Dawson until I've come up with an alternative explanation.

  "Come on!" Dawson calls out, heading to the car. "There's no point staring at a load of burned rubble. We should get back to the house and speak to the only witnesses we've got so far!"

  "You go," I say, staring at the wreckage. "I'll come later."

  "Jo -"

  "There's no point talking to them!" I shout, turning to him. "Just because they saw the women first, there's no reason to think that they've got any special insight. They're just -" I pause as I feel the moment of inspiration arrive, but suddenly I feel weak, as if I might collapse. Instinctively, I reach out to steady myself on one of the posts that's being used to mark the cordon, but it's not strong enough and I almost fall over before finally managing to keep myself upright.

  "Jo?" Dawson says, clearly concerned as he hurries over to me. "What's wrong?"

  Suddenly, I realize I can taste blood.

  "Jo?"

  "Nothing," I say firmly, determined to ignore my physical shortcomings and focus on waiting for the moment of inspiration. "I..." Pausing, I try to organize my thoughts before taking a step forward and realizing that the whole world seems to be pivoting around my mind. "Just be..." I stammer, before suddenly feeling as if my head's so heavy, I can't keep it up. I slump to the ground, and as I pass out, the last thing I hear is Dawson shouting my name, and the last thing I feel is his arms reaching under my body.

  John

  "It's me," I say calmly, staring at the gate ahead. "Let me in."

  With the engine still running, I sit and wait for the automatic gate to swing open. It must be three or four in the morning by now, maybe even later, and I'm exhausted, but there's no time to waste. The failings of other people have forced me to take action, and if that means pushing myself to the limit, then so be it. I've spent too long building this business up to let it fall apart just because a couple of hired hands couldn't do their goddamn jobs.

  Speaking of which...

  "Are you listening?" I say after a moment, before double-checking that the phone is still lit up. "It's me. Open the fucking gate, Leonard."

  Silence.

  Just as I'm starting to get worried, there's a nearby whirring sound and the large metal gate starts to swing open. Tossing the phone onto the passenger seat, I ease the car forward and into the yard, where I quickly park up next to the little tin shack that serves as our office. The last thing I need tonight is to have to deal with morons and halfwits, but it seems that I've surrounded myself with them. Lately, it's as if my whole world has come crashing down, culminating in the unfortunate but entirely necessary execution of Sharon and the children. I still can't help thinking about their bodies burning in the house, but the alternative would have been far worse.

  For them, anyway.

  "Hey!" a voice calls out, and I turn to see Leonard traipsing over from one of the far sheds, fastening his trousers along the way. He looks disheveled, as usual, and I can't help but sigh as I realize that in constructing my little empire, I've surrounded myself with men who lack my sense of purpose and rigor. It's hard to believe that Leonard - with his week-old stubble and his scrappy clothes - is my best employee.

  "Any problems tonight?" I ask with a sigh as I get out of the car.

  "Nothing," he replies with a faint smile. "Didn't think we'd be seeing you tonight, though, boss. It's not Tuesday already, is it?"

  "No," I mutter, glancing across the yard. "It's not Tuesday, and this isn't a normal inspection. Have there been any visitors at all? Any lights nearby, maybe? Any helicopters?"

  "Nothing."

  "Not a single thing that seemed out of the ordinary?"

  "You okay?" he asks. "You seem skittish."

  "I'm wary," I reply, "and I'm cautious. I'm also tired. I need coffee."

  "Come on in," he says, turning and slouching his way toward the office door. "Coffee's one thing I've got plenty of, so long as you don't mind it black. I forgot to buy milk."

  "Black's fine," I mutter, following him to the door before stopping to glance back at the barn on the other side of the yard. Given the events that took place at the Staten building over the past twenty-four hours, I can't help but feel worried about this second facility. Then again, Leonard's much more reliable than Albert or Manuel ever were, and as I duck through the doorway and head into the office, I force myself to remember that it's important not to become paranoid. Fortunately, I'm not the kind of person who gets easily overcome by emotion.

  "So were you just passing or something?" Leonard asks as he starts to boil some water. "I mean, if you don't mind me saying, it's not like you to just drop in unannounced. I thought you prefer things to run like clockwork."

  "I wanted to surprise you," I mutter, walking over to the window and parting the blinds to look out at the yard. "I have some bad news," I continue. "The Staten site is no longer in operation. In fact, you might be seeing something about it on the news in the next few hours. I'm afraid the staff there proved to be inadequate to the task they were given." After a moment, I turn and see the shocked look on his face. "Relax," I add, "there's no need to worry. I've always kept the different sites completely separate from one another. There's not a scrap of evidence linking that place to this facility or to any of us."

  "But -"

  "Not a scrap," I say firmly. "Believe me, I took extra precautions." For a fraction of a second, I can't help but think back to the moment when I pulled the trigger and killed the children, and then the moment when I killed Sharon. Leonard has no idea of the sacrifices I make in order to keep this business running. "In fact," I continue after a moment, "I took more precautions than were strictly necessary."

  "So what happened?" he asks, clearly agitated. "Did the cops just stumble onto the place?"

  I shake my head. "Albert hired some local idiot named Manuel, but unfortunately Manuel had a pang of conscience and freed the women."

  "You're not serious," Leonard replies, his eyes as wide as dinner-plates.

  "Fortunately," I continue, "Albert was able to intercept Manuel before he could cause any more damage. Manuel is very much out of the picture." I pause for a moment. "So's Albert, actually," I add. "I couldn't tolerate his continued involvement in the project, and it's not as if I could just fire him and write a reference note."

  "So..." He pauses. "You slugged him?"

  "I had no choice," I reply, trying to sound calm. "I'm sorry, Leonard. I know you and Albert had built up something of a rapport, but there was no way I could let a weak link remain in the system. Please try to understand."

  "Oh, I understand just fine," he replies, pouring hot water into two mugs before adding some instant coffee. "I think it's a damn shame, but I understand." He stirs the mugs. "I never thought Albert was the type to fuck up like that, though. He seemed like he had a good head on his shoulders."

  For a moment, he seems lost in thought as he continues to stir the coffee.

  "I need to know that this isn't going to cause us any problems," I say eventually.

  "Us?" He smiles as he hands me a mug of coffee. "Hell, boss, you know you can rely on me. I don't hire anyone to help me, for precisely that reason. As long as you keep me around, you've got nothing to worry about. Not with this facility, anyway."

  "I'm sure," I reply, before taking a sip of coffee. "This is foul," I mutter. "Are you sure it's coffee
?"

  "Cheapest in the store," he says with a smile, as if he's proud of the fact.

  I pause for a moment. "I need to see them," I say finally.

  "Who?"

  "The boys," I continue. "The men. Whatever you want to call them. The assets. I need to see them."

  He stares at me. "You never want to see them," he says after a moment. "You make a thing of -"

  "I want to see them right now," I reply, interrupting him. "After all the crap that's gone down, I want to see them with my own eyes and make sure there are no problems." I wait for him to answer. "Is this going to be difficult to arrange?" I ask eventually. "I'm sorry if I'm intruding, Leonard, but I'm sure you'll understand that I'd like to double-check our arrangements."

  "Well... sure," he says, setting his cup of coffee down before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a set of keys. "I should warn you, though. They stink. I mean, they really stink. I wash 'em down when they're going out usually, but when they're just in the barn, I let 'em live in their own filth. They don't know any better, so it's not like it's cruel or nothing."

  "I want to see them," I say again, forcing myself to go through with this even though the thought makes my stomach churn. "I want to see for myself that everything's running smoothly. We can't afford any more mistakes, not after what happened at the Staten building tonight. The situation's under control, but any more knocks and we might have to start looking over our shoulders."

  Joanna Mason

  "So is this a new hobby?" Dawson asks. "Fainting?"

  When I open my eyes, it takes me a moment to realize that I'm on a trolley in the back of an ambulance. I try to sit up, but I still feel a little dizzy; pausing for a moment, I wait for everything to settle, and finally - even though I've still got a pounding headache - I'm able to see that there's a drip running into my arm, connected to some kind of clear fluid in a bag hanging above the trolley. For a moment, I can't work out whether or not I'm back at the hospital having more of that dreaded chemotherapy.

  "I'm not really the kind of person who needs a hobby," I tell him.

  "Still," he replies, "it might help."

  "What would you suggest? Stamp collecting?"

  "You were pretty badly dehydrated," he continues. "Your blood alcohol level was kinda high too. Definitely over the limit for driving." He pauses. "Jesus, Jo, you could have just told me you were drunk. I'd have understood if you didn't want to come out until the morning."

  "I'm not drunk," I say firmly, starting to panic as I realize that the paramedic might have given the game away and inadvertently told Dawson about my illness. "I'm fine," I continue, even though I feel like crap. "I didn't faint. I just... passed out a little. It's a different thing."

  "Sure."

  "It is!" I insist, although I immediately realize that I'm being way too defensive. "Where's the paramedic?" I ask after a moment.

  "I told her I needed to talk to you alone," he replies.

  I stare at him for a moment. "So why did it take you so long to call me?" I ask.

  He frowns.

  "As soon as I saw this case on the news," I continue, hoping to distract him, "I knew you'd be here, and I knew you'd need my help. I could almost see you in my mind's eye, fumbling around and trying to work out what the hell's going on. You've always needed me for this kind of case, but it took you hours to get in touch. So what gives?"

  A faint smile crosses his lips. "Believe it or not," he says after a moment, "my first instinct isn't always to turn to you for help."

  "It should be," I snap back. "You can't do these big cases without me."

  "I can't do them with you, either," he replies. "Not if you're drunk or..." He pauses again. "People don't just faint like that if they're healthy, Jo. Even if they've been getting wasted. I saw the look in your eyes just before you collapsed. Sure, you've been drinking, but you can hold your liquor, so this was something else."

  "I'm fine," I say firmly.

  "Come on," he continues. "It's me. You can tell me -"

  "Congratulations on the baby," I reply quickly, determined to get him off my case. "I spoke to Elaine earlier and she gave me the happy news. You must be so happy. I know you've always wanted to be a father."

  He stares at me, and it's clear that I've finally managed to turn the tables. He looks shocked, as if this is the last thing he wants to talk about. Dawson knows my feelings about Elaine, and he's probably braced for a barrage of insults and ridicule.

  "I can't believe you didn't tell me sooner," I continue with a smile, hoping to twist the knife a little deeper into his soul. "I hope I'm going to be invited to the baby shower. Of course, I'll have to find out what a baby shower actually involves first, 'cause the name along sounds kinda crazy."

  "Jo -"

  "It's great news," I add, determined not to let him get a word in. Not yet, anyway. "How long have you two been married now? Four years? Five? It's about time she started popping out little Dawsons. I mean, between us, I think if you'd waited any longer, people would have started wondering whether maybe there was a problem. Weak sperm, maybe, or knotted ovaries." I smile, keenly aware that I'm making him feel desperately uncomfortable. "This is gonna make me sound mean," I continue, leaning over to him and lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "but Elaine's got the kind of face that makes you think of knotted ovaries. It's hard picturing her as a mother, but I guess -"

  "Jo -"

  "Maybe it'll be the making of her?"

  "Jo, please -"

  "I wonder if she'll get a radiant glow -"

  "Stop!" he says firmly.

  Leaning back, I can't help but smile.

  "Yes," he adds after a moment, "Elaine and I are having a baby. We've been trying to start a family for a while now, and eventually we went to see a fertility specialist. Everything went well and now it's all on course. She had her latest scan last week and it's all looking good, but you and I both know that we're not here to talk about my personal life."

  "A fertility specialist?" I reply with a smile. "Does that mean you didn't actually have to put your -"

  "Will you just shut the fuck up?" he adds, interrupting me. "Please? For one fucking minute, will you stop talking and just listen to me?"

  I pause, forcing myself to keep smiling even though I'm a little surprised by his outburst.

  "You're not fooling anyone," he continues. "You're sick, Jo. I can see it in your eyes. You've been off work for three months, and the only thing that could ever keep you at home would be..." He pauses, almost as if he doesn't want to say the words. "I know you," he adds. "I know you better than anyone else. I've been there before with you, remember? I've seen you when you're fighting this thing, and I know those little telltale signs of fear in your eyes, and in your voice. You think you can hide them, but you can't."

  "You don't know what you're -"

  "Cancer," he says suddenly.

  I stare at him.

  "It's back, isn't it?"

  I sigh. The truth is, I was confident I could keep this whole mess from Dawson, but he seems to have surprised me and become a little more observant. Damn it, when did he decide to start noticing things?

  "The same as before?" he asks.

  We sit in silence for a moment.

  "More or less," I say eventually, shifting uncomfortably on the awkward, creaky metal trolley. Looking up at the drip-bag, I see that I should be almost done soon, which is a relief; this is by far the most excruciating conversation I've ever had in my life, and I desperately want to get the hell out of this ambulance. After all, it's hard persuading someone that you're healthy when you're literally sitting in front of them with a drip running into your veins, even if the two situations are completely - completely - unconnected.

  "And you're getting treatment?" he asks.

  I nod.

  "Chemo? Radiation? Pills?"

  "All of the above."

  "So how's it going?"

  "Absolutely splendidly," I reply, forcing myself to meet his
gaze even though eye contact is the last thing I want right now. "It's all, you know... super duper, that kind of thing. The treatment options have really come on leaps and bounds since the last time I was sick, and the doctor says I'm a real model patient. Get that, huh? I always thought I should be a model something."

  "Are you in remission?"

  "Sort of. I guess."

  He sighs.

  "What do you want me to say?" I continue, starting to feel a little exasperated.

  "I want you to tell me if you're in remission," he replies.

  "I'm in remission," I tell him, which isn't strictly true.

  "Well that's one good thing," he mutters.

  "I know what you're really asking," I reply. "You're asking if I'm gonna die." I pause, realizing that I still need to keep the truth from him. "No," I add. "I'm not gonna die. Not from cancer, anyway. Not this time. I have it, but I'm fighting it and it's almost gone. Another month, maybe two, and I'll be completely clear, and then I'll be back at work and I'll be putting you in the shade again." I pause, waiting for him to say something. "So watch out," I add with a smile.

  "When did you find out?"

  "A little while before all the recent stuff with Sam Gazade."

  "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" he asks.

  "Why didn't you tell me about the impending baby?"

  "They're two very different things, Jo," he replies.

  "Not really," I point out. "I have tumors growing in me, Elaine has a baby growing in her. It's just that the thing growing in me is evil and has to be killed, and the thing growing in Elaine is a wonderful little bundle of joy." I pause for a moment, unable to miss the irony. "She and I are pretty similar, really, when you think about it."

  "Jo -"

  "It's kinda funny, actually."

  "Jo..." He pauses.

  "What?" I ask, worried that he might somehow have figured out that I'm dying.

  He shakes his head. "Forget it," he says quietly.

  "Come on," I continue. "Out with it."

  "It doesn't matter."

  "What's wrong?" I ask. "Embarrassed?"