When Slice looked again ten minutes later, Cassie was leaning against the passenger window, her head bouncing gently off the glass. She was sound asleep.
They arrived in Malibu just in time to see the sun dipping into the ocean. Slice’s all-white house, small by neighborhood standards, was located at the end of a one-way private street. He’d only gotten the highly sought after piece of real estate through a military connection, and he’d promised the old man that he wouldn’t level it and build a mega-monstrosity. The neighbors had protested, but after a short conversation with Slice, they’d decided to mind their own business.
Cassie was slow getting out of the car, fumbling with the door lever and stumbling when she tried to walk, ripping a hole in one leg of her fishnets and drawing blood from her knee. Slice picked her up off the ground and hitched the half-comatose girl over his shoulder. He was amazed at how light she was, barely heavier than a sack of cat food. He carried her into the house and dumped her on the couch in the living room.
Slice watched for a moment, looking down at her motionless body with a mixture of anger and pity. Cassie was drunk and dirty, flecked here and there with vomit and blood. Mascara had run wild down her cheeks, and her fake hooker hair had become a tangled, sweaty mess. Slice’s first thought was to simply cover her with a blanket and let her sleep it off. His second thought was that he couldn’t leave her like this. Cassie needed a warm shower, a change of clothes, and something to eat.
He went into the kitchen and filled the coffee pot, staying there until the brew was ready. Then he filled a large mug, added four teaspoons of sugar, and took it into the living room. Slice had to hold the cup to Cassie’s lips and support the back of her head to get her to drink. It took a while, and the coffee had grown cold by the time she finished, but the caffeine did its job and she was able to walk to the bathroom more or less under her own power.
Slice ran hot water, helped her out of her shoes and dress, and wrapped her in an oversized bath towel, clenching his teeth but saying nothing when he saw the array of marks and bruises on her thin, pale body. He averted his eyes while she removed the stockings and underwear and dropped the towel, resting her hand on his shoulder to keep herself from falling over when she stepped awkwardly into the shower.
In his underwear drawer, Slice found a pair of boxer shorts that had shrunk in the wash and a t-shirt he thought might fit Cassie. He placed them on the edge of the vanity with two more towels, then waited outside the bathroom with the door cracked open. He listened as Cassie finished her shower, rubbed herself dry, and slipped into the shorts and t-shirt. He did not look in. From the hallway, he told her she could find band aids for her knee in the medicine cabinet. She grunted thanks and asked if he had a brush for her hair. Slice remembered that Avalon had left a beach bag hanging from a hook on the back of the bathroom door and told Cassie to look in there.
The transformation when she stepped out of the bathroom made Slice’s jaw drop. The long, hot shower and strong, black coffee had worked their magic. For the first time, he could see Cassie as she was supposed to be, not a thief, not a prostitute, just a young, innocent girl with long, scrawny, ungainly limbs. She did not want food, she said. She wanted to sleep, sleep for a million years. Slice led her to his bedroom and watched her climb between the clean sheets he had put on the bed while she was in the shower. She looked almost angelic, he thought as he wished her goodnight and left the room, once again leaving the door open a crack. Slice went back to the kitchen and grabbed a beer from the fridge. He looked out the window across the ocean and caught his own reflection in the glass.
“I’m going to find her brother,” he said to himself. “As soon as this thing with Avalon is done, I’m going to pay that scumbag a visit.” He took a long swallow of beer from the bottle, returned to the living room, and settled down for a night on the couch.
He woke early the next morning, his back stiff from the couch, and smiled when he smelled the delicious aroma of fresh coffee. He stumbled, bleary-eyed, into the kitchen and saw the coffee machine bubbling happily away on the counter. Next to it was a note. Thanks Slice, but I have to go. Need to do some stuff. Please don’t come after me.
Slice scrunched the note up into a ball and cursed under his breath. He went to his bedroom and checked to see if she had really gone. The bed was made, and the clothes he had loaned her were folded neatly on the pillow. On top of the clothes, Cassie had left her cell phone. Slice went back to the kitchen, feeling more than a little useless. By leaving her phone behind, Cassie had cut off the only way he had of contacting her, and he couldn’t possibly find her brother without her help.
Slice sighed and poured himself a cup of hot, strong coffee. “Great way to start the morning,” he mumbled. Looking out the window, he raised his cup in a toast to the first incoming tide of the day.
Chapter Seventeen
The first photograph showed a pretty blond woman staring directly at the camera. At least, Zach thought, she would have been pretty if someone hadn’t blacked both her eyes. The second photograph showed a young boy with cigarette burns on the backs of his legs. Zach winced and handed the pictures back to Brody. The detective folded them in half and stuffed them into his jacket pocket. A waitress brought two beers and placed them on the table with a cheerless smile.
When she had gone, Zach said, “Who are they?” He’d called the detective and set up a time to meet to get answers to his questions.
Brody took a sip of beer. He stared across the table at Zach, as if he was looking for something in the former SEAL’s eyes. “Baker’s wife and kid,” he said and took another slug of beer.
Zach sighed and shook his head in disgust. “The bastard beat up on his family?”
“More than once. He was a major asshole when it came to home discipline.”
There was a pause as Zach lifted his Becks to his lips and drank, half-draining the bottle. “This doesn’t change anything,” he said at last. His gaze drifted around the bar and he scowled. The place had a stale, dirty aroma to it, like someone had cleaned the bar but hadn’t bothered with the drains under the sink. Zach wondered why Brody had chosen to meet in a dive like this. “Scumbag or no scumbag, I shot him in the back. Even Baker didn’t deserve that.” Zach stared up at the yellow ceiling.
Brody pasted a phony smile on his face. He reached into his pocket again and produced an official-looking document with “Coroner’s Office” printed across the top. “You’re off the hook, Lazarro. Coroner determined the bullet sequence. Shoulder first, back second.” He laughed and waved at the waitress. “Two more, hon.” He turned back to Zach. “Or should we have something stronger? Technically, this is a celebration.”
Zach took the papers and studied the text, his face tense. Finally, he shook his head. “It’s too early for the hard stuff. Besides, we don’t celebrate the death of a civilian.”
Brody rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. “What is it with you, Lazarro? Stop breaking your own balls. You killed a bad guy; get over it already. My office considers this case closed.” The waitress came and put two more beers on the table.
Zach stared at the Becks label, thinking about how Brody’s words echoed those of the Chinese cook. I killed a bad guy. That makes me a good guy. Go figure. “Did you manipulate the evidence?” he whispered, leaning across the table until his face was inches away from Brody’s.
The cop froze mid-drink. For a long second, he stared over his beer into Zach’s eyes, then slowly returned his bottle to the table. He looked around, checking to see if there was anyone listening. There wasn’t. Aside from the waitress, himself, and Zach, the bar was empty. “I resent that,” Brody hissed back at Zach. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”
“I know exactly who I’m talking to. Answer the damned question.”
Brody leaned back in his chair and grinned. “You make me laugh.” He shook his head. “You ex-forces guys. You think you’re the only ones who have a moral code? All that honor and
honesty bullshit. It doesn’t always work on the street.” His grin disappeared, and he leaned forward to meet Zach’s cold gaze. “Believe me, I’ve tried,” he said quietly.
The waitress looked up from the newspaper she was reading at the bar. “You fellas okay over there?” she drawled. “You ain’t gonna be a problem for me, now are you?” Her lazy voice drifted across from the bar, sounding flat and void of emotion.
Brody shook his head and pushed his chair back a couple of inches from the table. Zach also relaxed, leaning back and taking another swallow of beer. The waitress’s intervention had taken the tension out of the argument, and he shrugged; by doggedly avoiding his question, Brody had already told Zach all he needed to know. He wanted to leave. He missed Avalon; it was time to go home. Zach stood up, pulled his wallet from his back pocket, and dropped a few bills on the table.
“You don’t have to do that,” Brody objected. “The drinks are on me.”
“I pay my own way,” Zach said and turned to leave.
Brody stood quickly and caught his arm. “You’re a good man. You and your crazy native friend did some solid work here. I’m just pissed a couple of amateurs had to come all the way down from California to do my job for me. Do yourself a favor: go back home and forget you ever heard of Baker,” Brody advised, then realized he was still holding Zach’s arm and let go quickly. His partner still had bruises from laying a hand on Zach’s partner, and the last thing Brody needed was to get his ass kicked all over the bar. “My superior is happy with how this case turned out, which puts me in line for a promotion. Case fucking closed.”
“Yeah,” Zach said. “I guess there’s nothing more I can do here. Done is done.”
Brody nodded, relieved that Zach was finally seeing sense… and that he hadn’t broken any of his bones. He held out his hand.
Zach hesitated. He stared into Brody’s eyes and saw just another poor slugger trying to do a dirty job with even dirtier tools. The guy was full of shit, but Zach didn’t like to judge. He ignored Brody’s hand.
He was halfway out the door when Brody called after him. “You kill any ISIS?” He stood looking at Zach with his eyebrows raised in anticipation of the answer to his question.
Zach simply smiled and disappeared through the door.
Brody grinned. “Another beer, Shirley; bourbon on the side,” he called to the waitress without turning around.
Outside on the street, Zach walked slowly back to his car. He tried calling Avalon, but she wasn’t picking up. He thought about calling Cable or the office, but he didn’t want to speak to anyone except his woman. “I miss the sound of your voice, babe,” he whispered.
He got into the Escalade and sat for a while, letting his conversation with Brody sink in. The cop had been right about one thing: a piece of scum had been wiped off the face of the planet. Baker wouldn’t be beating up on his wife and kid anymore. That was a good thing. Legally, Zach had behaved correctly; his honor was still intact. But somehow, it didn’t make him feel any better. Let it go, Brody had advised, don’t let your conscience darken the deed. Zach started the engine and pushed the gear lever into drive.
He was just about to pull out into traffic when he noticed a brown envelope on the passenger seat that hadn’t been there when he went into the bar. He put the car back into park, slid his finger under the flap of the envelope, and found himself staring at a picture of Avalon, half-naked in some kind of doctor’s office. For a moment, he couldn’t comprehend what he was looking at; he felt like a million thoughts were all simultaneously bouncing around inside his brain. He looked closer — yes, it really was Avalon. His Avalon. But she looked drunk, or drugged somehow. Zach’s mind immediately made the connection. Something was going on with her and that doctor — that psychiatrist. It had to be; she wasn’t seeing anyone else. The photograph in his hands began to tremble as seeds of rage began to sprout inside him. Then his cell phone rang. It was Sebastian Rossi, Avalon’s father.
“We need to talk,” he said.
Chapter Eighteen
Cable sat in a chair on the other side of Dr. Phillips’ desk. His head drooped forward, his huge chest rising and falling with the rhythm of his deep, slow breathing. The room was filled with the scent of cinnamon candles, and the soft sound of the ocean played on the sound system.
“Tell me about the dream, Mister…” Phillips checked his notes. “Mister Bears.”
Cable and Lark had decided to go with a “dream” story to entice the psychiatrist to try the same treatment he had used on Avalon. The plan was for Cable to act like he was hypnotized, lulling Phillips into a false sense of security, at which point, Slice would draw the doctor out of the office by causing a commotion in the waiting room. Cable would then have an opportunity to plug the flash drive into the doctor’s computer. It had all sounded so easy. And it was. Except for the fact that Cable really was hypnotized.
“The pigs,” Cable said in a dreamy, faraway voice. “It starts with the pigs.”
Phillips scribbled notes onto a sheet of yellow paper. “What about the pigs?”
“We stole four pigs,” Cable continued, his voice rumbling softly in his throat.
“Who is ‘we’?”
“Billy Goatfoot and me.”
“And how old are you in the dream, Mr. Bears?”
Cable paused, his eyes moving rapidly behind his closed eyelids. “Twelve.”
Phillips made more notes and sighed. He had resigned himself to a boring session when he spoke to Cable in the initial interview. But pigs and kids? Heaven help him.
“Go on, Mr. Bears. What do you and Billy do?”
“It’s night, dark; we steal four pigs from Billy’s father. Paint numbers on their backs.”
“Numbers?”
“1, 2, 3, 5.”
“No number four?” Phillips asked. He was curious now; he hadn’t heard anything quite like this before.
“No number four,” Cable repeated.
“And what happens then?”
“We take the pigs to town, to a big supermarket, and sneak them in the back door.”
“Go on, Mr. Bears.” Phillips had become intrigued. He sat forward on the edge of his seat and scribbled frantically on his yellow sheet.
“We wait until morning, then watch…”
“Watch what? What are you watching, Mr. Bears?”
“Watch everyone round up pigs.”
“And then what?”
“Then everyone’s looking for pig number four.”
Phillips blinked. “What?” He stood up and walked around his desk. When he reached Mr. Bears, he stopped and clapped his hands once, loudly, next to the big man’s ear. The man did not react. Phillips shook his head. He checked the back of Mr. Bears’ neck; the acupuncture needles were still there. Phillips pulled, and one at a time, they came out bent and twisted.
“Thick-skinned son of a—” The sound of shouting came from outside his office door. The noise grew louder, accompanied by the muffled rumble of running feet. Curious, Phillips went to the door and looked out into the hall.
In the middle of the staff and patients rushing for the exit stood a man in the gear of a firefighter. His voice was firm but calm, and he waved his arms in a way that reminded Phillips bizarrely of a flight attendant.
“Everyone to the exits, please. Remain calm. Quickly and quietly, people.”
Phillips heard the mumbling of excited people trying to restrain panic.
“Is the building on fire?” asked one.
“There’s no smoke, stupid. It must be a gas leak,” replied another.
“Terrorists,” said someone else. “It’s a bomb.” Panic erupted.
Phillips was gripped by the urge to join the frantic exodus. He turned to look at his patient, still in the chair, still hypnotized; for all intents and purposes, he was fast asleep. The doctor took all of two seconds to weigh the risks and benefits of saving himself or his patient. “Sorry, big fella,” he said and bolted from his office and down the corrido
r.
Slice watched him go, then took off his fire helmet and wiped the sweat from his brow. He moved calmly down the hall and looked into Phillips’ office.
“Good to go, Cable. Make it quick. The virus will take a few minutes to work.” No reaction. Cable slumped in the chair, head on his chest, snoring quietly. “Cable?” Slice tried again. Realizing something was wrong, he stepped quickly into the room and rushed to Cable’s side. He pushed his fingers into the sleeping man’s neck and felt his pulse. It was slow but strong. Slice shook Cable by the shoulder. “Wake up, buddy. Time to go.” Cable continued to snore, oblivious to his surroundings. “Dammit!” Slice swore.
He had to move fast. Slice rifled through Cable’s pockets, looking for the flash drive, and found it inside his jacket. Acutely aware that time was running out, he dashed around Phillips’ desk and plugged it into the drive. A few swift taps of the keyboard, and the computer monitor came to life, showing the gradual progress of the virus upload.
He returned to Cable and tried to lift him out of the chair. It was no good. Cable’s dead weight was simply too much for Slice to budge. He began to hear voices outside in the hall. Without Slice out there to keep the hoax going, people were starting to drift back into the building. Slice had no choice. Using an unofficial technique that not all SEALs are taught, Slice pried Cable’s knees apart and gave his balls a short, sharp slap with the back of his hand. His partner’s eyes flicked open, wide with shock and pain, and an agonized groan escaped his huge chest.
“Owww!” Cable blinked rapidly as tears sprang to his eyes. He looked around the room, trying to remember where he was. Then his gaze fixed on Slice.
“What did you do?” he asked in a squeaky, high-pitched voice.
Slice ignored the question. “Time to go, big boy.” He helped Cable out of the chair.
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