Barber stared at the pen in his hand, as if he couldn’t quite comprehend what was expected of him. Finally, he leaned forward and, with painstaking effort, scribbled three letters. FTZ.
Narong’s face convulsed with anger. “What does that mean? It is just letters. Nonsense.” He was anxious to torture Barber some more.
Hack stared at Barber’s scribbling and smiled. He understood perfectly well what Barber had written. “It’s cool, Narong, you don’t have to torture him anymore.”
Narong looked at Hack expectantly. “We have our answer?”
“Sure do. Now you can go ahead and just finish him off.”
28
A thick gray bank of clouds scudded across a crescent moon, shielding the loading dock in a bank of shadows.
“This is good,” Hack said as he and Narong hauled the two dead bodies out to the rental van. “Nobody around to see what’s going on.” Hack knew that when the screaming and begging stopped, the real work began.
And he was prepared. The back compartment of the van looked like a hazmat truck, every square inch lined with thick plastic stitched together with duct tape.
“Piece of advice you can take to the bank,” Hack said. “Gotta use at least six-mil plastic sheeting. Anything else is crap, and you’ll spend the rest of the night with a bunch of bleach and paper towels trying to clean up a mess.”
“Okay,” Narong said. They shoved the two bodies in headfirst and slammed the doors.
“Now we gotta make these guys disappear,” Hack said, sounding reasonably upbeat.
“How?” Narong asked. “Where?”
Hack swiped a hand across his forehead. “If we was up in Duluth, I’d say we could dump ’em in the Devil’s Cauldron.”
“What is Devil’s Cauldron?” Narong asked.
“Way up near the Canadian border, there’s this state park where the Brule River comes roaring down like thunder. The current hits this particular rock formation . . .” He gestured with his hand. “And makes the river split. Half of the river tumbles down a waterfall and keeps going in this long stream, while the other half disappears into this long stone tunnel they call the Devil’s Cauldron.”
“And it comes out in your Superior Lake?” Narong asked.
“In Lake Superior? That’s the crazy part. It doesn’t. They’ve dropped dye down that stone tunnel, ping-pong balls, rubber ducks, all sorts of things, and nothing’s ever come out in Lake Superior.”
Narong was fascinated. “So where does the water go?”
“Nobody knows.” Hack shrugged. “That’s why it’s a perfect place to dump a body.”
Narong had a mental picture of Jay Barber’s rubber-limbed body being sucked down into the pit of roaring water and shooting straight down a dark stone tunnel to end up . . . where? Maybe in a lava tube? Or an underground cave, where his spirit could possibly gather strength? The concept was slightly disturbing. “But we’re not going there,” Narong said hopefully. “It’s too far.”
“I got another place,” Hack said. “Works just as good.”
• • •
HACK kept the truck at a steady fifty-five miles per hour as they drove down 35W, their tires humming against the road. Despite the late hour, they still shared the road with lots of other vehicles. And the weather had turned cold, testing the light jackets they had on. In fact, the weather lady on Channel 7 had predicted a light frost.
“Your weather,” Narong said. “Very cold.”
“It can be a bitch sometimes,” Hack agreed. “But this is nothing compared to January in Duluth. The temp drops to twenty below and the whole damn harbor freezes up. Part of the lake does, too. You go outside in the morning to start your car and your engine is practically frozen. You gotta have what they call a block heater. Plug it into the electrical.”
“That heats the car?”
“Well, the engine block anyway.” Hack took the exit to westbound I-494 and accelerated past a patrol car that was parked there. Probably just finished up with a traffic stop. It was a good reminder to pay close attention and not risk being pulled over, especially when you were transporting dead bodies. “It’s still colder than hell when you crawl in your car. Freeze your ass off in a matter of minutes if you’re not dressed proper.” He glanced at Narong. “If you decide to stay here, you’re gonna want to get yourself some proper gear. Maybe a down parka, some pac boots for sure.”
“We must go back home soon,” Narong said. “But I’d like to visit again. This is an interesting place, like nothing I’ve seen before.”
“You come back, we’ll do some fishing.”
“That I would enjoy.”
“I like the tat you got.” Hack tapped the side of his neck. “You know, your blue snake. Does it mean anything in particular? It don’t look like any prison tattoo. Is it your gang sign?”
“Naga,” Narong said. “A divine serpent in Thailand. Naga controls the rain and affects prosperity.”
“Huh.” Hack wasn’t sure what snakes had to do with prosperity. But he was starting to enjoy Narong’s company. “So you got a lot of snakes in Thailand?”
“Over two hundred different kinds, sixty of which are venomous.”
“No kidding. Sixty poison snakes, that’s really something.” He took the turn off Highway 169 that led to Highway 21. “I saw a baby cobra once. Back in Duluth.”
“We have cobras,” Narong said. “Pit vipers, kraits, coral snakes. But mostly in Thailand we have pythons. Huge pythons. Some are six meters long.”
“I never did get the hang of that metric shit. How long is that in good old American feet?”
“Over nineteen feet long.”
“Holy shit! That’s one damn big freaking snake. Are those things worth anything? I mean if you shipped a bunch of them over here and tried to sell them, could you make a few bucks?”
“Maybe,” Narong said. “Possibly. But it’s a long trip, and if the snakes were shipped in containerized freight, they might not all make it.”
Hack nodded. “That would be a bummer.”
• • •
TWENTY minutes later, they left the lights and the last of the suburban sprawl behind. Now the land on either side of the mostly deserted road opened up. Dark fields, not yet plowed and planted, stretched off into the distance.
“What is this?” Narong asked as Hack turned down a narrow gravel road.
“Farm country.” Hacked opened a window partway and the aromas of fresh air mingled with damp soil and a tang of manure. “Now, that’s what Minnesota smells like.”
Narong’s nose twitched. “It smells a little like shit.”
“It is shit,” Hack laughed. “It’s all shit, man.”
One more long S-turn and Hack slowed the van. Then he cut his headlights and said, “We gotta be careful from here on.”
“Where are we going?” Narong whispered.
“Just a little bit farther. A place I like to think of as Minnesota recycling.”
Hack passed a solitary mailbox and then turned down a tree-lined driveway. Up ahead, a farmstead appeared out of the darkness. A two-story white house with a blue pickup truck parked in front of it. No dogs barking, no lights in the house.
“Lookin’ good,” Hack said. He drove an eighth of a mile past the house and stopped the van. There was a tall, hip-roofed barn surrounded by four large buildings with rounded roofs. Almost like greenhouses but not quite, because they were enclosed and had a series of fences. “We’re here.”
“What is here?” Narong asked.
“Come on. See for yourself.” Hack jumped out of the van and pulled open the door. Grabbing Barber’s feet, he pulled him out, Narong quickly leaning in to help. Together, they carried Barber toward a wooden fence. “On the count of three, we pitch him over the fence,” Hack said. “One . . . two . . . three.” The body went sailing and landed with a satisfying wet plop in a sea of mud. Toft’s body went in a half minute later.
Narong peered over the fence just in time to see two do
zen large black hogs come snuffling over to investigate the body. “Pigs,” he whispered.
“Berkshire hogs,” Hack said. He grabbed a twenty-pound sack of Nutrena pig feed from the van, leaned over the fence, and sprinkled it over the two bodies. The pigs came closer, keenly interested now. They had shiny black coats and delicate cream-colored hooves. One hog nosed the men gently with her pink, bristly snout and then gave a delighted snort. The others moved in, quickly deciding this gift from the gods might make a tasty midnight snack.
• • •
A mile from the farm, Hack pulled the van to the side of the road. He cut the engine and said to Narong, “Time to congratulate ourselves for a job well done. Maybe do a short pop.” Reaching into the glove box, he retrieved a small leather pouch. Inside were two disposable plastic syringes, a metal spoon, and a glassine bag filled with white powder. It was only a minute before they had a lighter hissing under the spoon and a mixture of powder and plain water bubbling away.
When Hack pushed the needle into his arm and released the plunger, he moaned with pleasure. It was like a Roman candle going off in his veins. Every hair on his arm stood up straight and a deep warmth crept from his feet to his skull, then slammed crazily into his brain. Gasping loudly, he felt his vision swim before his eyes. Nothing mattered. All was well. Everything seemed so simple and bright. He managed to turn his head and look over at Narong, who was grinning. His right hand held an empty syringe, his left hand was slowly swimming in tiny, tight circles.
A time later—Hack wasn’t sure how long it was—he fired up the truck and swung back onto the county road. He drove slowly as the road swayed and undulated before his eyes, concentrating hard to keep the truck pointed straight ahead. It wouldn’t pay to end up in the ditch now, especially when so much was at stake.
“What now?” Narong slurred in the passenger seat.
“We make another stop,” Hack said. The warmth was still coursing through him. “We’re just getting started.”
29
AFTON stirred in her sleep. She was having one of her climbing dreams. Halfway up a rock wall near Goosebury Falls, she’d just inched her way up a narrow chimney and negotiated a careful traverse over to a burly pillar. The nubbins, or small handholds, had been pretty decent, but now she’d run out of cracks and was having difficulty finding good toeholds. Now she was dangling there in her harness, feeling frustrated and unable to find a way up and over the crux of the wall.
“Tonya?” she murmured. Tonya was one of her Women on the Ropes climbing partners. But when she looked up, the cliff loomed smooth and dangerous overhead but nobody was there with the rope. Tonya had been her belayer, but now Tonya had disappeared. And Afton had a horrible feeling that she was about to fall . . .
Clenching her teeth, Afton fought to rouse herself from her dream, to pull herself out of its murky, frightening depths. She knew, deep down in her subconscious, that this wasn’t reality. The reptile portion of her brain was probably overstimulated and playing nasty tricks on her.
A hand touched her thigh.
No, it’s nothing. Nothing’s there, Afton told herself with a sharp intake of breath.
Then a slightly more urgent touch.
Afton’s eyes flew open as she shot up in bed, her hands twitching and fumbling for something, anything, to defend herself with.
“Mommy?” came a plaintive voice.
Afton blinked. “Poppy?”
“I had a bad dream,” Poppy moaned.
“You had a bad dream?” Afton was still fighting to clear her head as her heart thudded heavily inside her chest.
“There were bugs flying around my nightlight.”
“Oh, honey. You know they’re not really there.”
“I know,” Poppy said. She touched a hand to her head. “But they were in my dream and I’m really scared. Can I please sleep with you?”
“Of course.” Afton pulled the covers back and let Poppy crawl in next to her. “Better?” Poppy didn’t say a word, just snuggled in close, but Afton could feel the girl nodding her head. “Okay, you just relax and drift back to sleep, honey. I’ll stay awake and watch over you for a while.”
And she did, staring into the darkness, trying to calm her own jangled night fears. Thinking about . . . what else? The two killers who so far had eluded them every step of the way. They were out there—Afton could feel it—but where were they? Who were they?
Afton had taken Poppy and Tess to the Blue Dragon Children’s Theatre a few months ago to see a show of Indonesian shadow puppets. It had been fascinating, these small, flat cutouts made huge by the light projected behind them. Like chimeras, these shadow-puppet figures had flitted and danced around as the narrator wove a charming story.
That’s how this case felt. Shadowy and deceptive. Maybe even the stuff nightmares were made of.
It was only when she heard her daughter’s steady, measured breathing that Afton allowed herself to relax and fall back asleep.
30
HACK bumped down a back alley in a shabby Richfield neighborhood. This was an area of small, aging bungalows stuck almost directly in the flight path of every plane that thundered off the runway at Minneapolis–Saint Paul International Airport. Noisy. But quiet in its own way, too, because most everybody was a renter and nobody much cared.
“What is this place?” Narong asked as Hack swung the van onto a patch of hardpan. Six other cars were parked there, too, hunkered beside a broken swing set.
“Just a place to hang out after the bars close,” Hack said. “For a lot of folks that 2:00 A.M. last call comes way too early.”
“We drink?” Narong said. He sounded interested.
They climbed out of the van and eased their way onto a sagging back porch. Hack knocked on the door and waited a few moments. The door opened a crack and a burly biker-type guy peered out at them.
“Whadya want?” the biker asked. He had a shaved head and a hoop earring.
Pirate, Hack though dreamily. Hanging out with pirates. “Is Roseanne home?” That was the password. At least it was last time he was here.
“Who wants to know?”
He shrugged. “A friend.”
The biker pulled open the door and took a step back. “Come on in and behave yourselves.”
As bad as the house was outside, it was even worse inside. Large holes had been punched in the walls; the carpet was torn up in places, exposing the subfloor; a sound system warbled uneasily. But the living and dining rooms held a bar with a buzzing blue Coors sign and a dingy, mismatched array of furniture. And the drinks seemed to be flowing freely.
“It sure ain’t Studio 54,” Hack said, “but at least you can wet your whistle here.”
Hack and Narong elbowed their way past a dozen or so unsteady customers. A heavy-lidded, graying blond woman in a Lynyrd Skynyrd concert tee barely looked up as they vied for elbowroom at the scuffed wooden bar.
“Two whiskies,” Hack told her. When Narong made a motion to pull out some money, Hack waved a hand and said, “No, I got this.” They got their drinks, served in red Solo cups, and settled onto a rump-sprung sofa.
Narong looked around. “We drink here?”
“Drink? Hell, yes,” Hack said. “Do whatever you want, really, if you got enough cash.”
“Women?” Narong was eyeing a blue-haired woman who normally worked as a waitress but was sitting on the biker’s lap, sipping a beer and smiling lazily.
Hack stifled outright laughter. “I don’t know if you’d call old Donna over there a grade-A prime female supermodel, but, yeah, she’ll entertain you all right if you slip her a twenty.” Hack winked. “Slip her a lot more.”
31
THE sun was barely up and Gene Schreiber had already had a busy day. His dairy herd was already milked and, after that, he’d zeroed the row unit and drained the air-storage tanks on his planter. It wasn’t going to be planting season for a few weeks yet—as evidenced by the fresh blanket of frost that coated almost everything in sight—b
ut Gene liked to stay ahead of his chores as much as possible. Gene was what his neighbors would call “farm strong.” Five feet eight inches in height in his work boots, and barely over a hundred seventy pounds the day after Thanksgiving. Gene wasn’t imposing, but his muscles and body had been forged through a lifetime of hard work and near constant activity. Right now, hauling two twenty-gallon buckets overflowing with greens, grain, and kitchen scraps from his barn to his pen was easy because he’d done it nearly every day for thirty-five years.
Pausing outside the barn, Gene listened to the soft cooing of nesting doves overhead. Their song was as soothing and welcome as the noises made by all his animals—especially his hogs. Gene was bragging-rights proud of his hogs. Two of them weighed well over three-hundred-and-fifty pounds and one sow had taken a blue ribbon at the Scott County Fair last year.
The hogs were expecting him, half of them lined up at the fence like anxious customers in a deli.
“Hey pig, hey pig,” Gene called to them. He flipped the latch and stepped into the pen. Dumping the first bucket into their trough, he noticed that not all his hogs had lined up for breakfast. Four of them were rooting around on the other side of the pen. Snuffling, tearing at something.
“Get over here, piggies,” he called. Dropping his other bucket, he squinted in the half light. Something was sticking up out of the mud.
What the hell is that?
Gene took ten steps across the pen and, when his heart jolted clear up into his throat, decided it had to be a prank. Please God, let it be a prank, because a bloody arm sticking right up out of the mud was so bad. A joke, right? Perpetrated by that crazy Perry Gunderson who worked for him as a hired hand.
But no, two of the fingers were missing. Gnawed off.
A sick, sour feeling swept over him. Of course Gene had heard stories of pigs attacking humans, but his pigs? And what human?
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