Aftershock (16 page)

I thought about Franklin. I had no doubt he’d help out with what I needed next, but I was afraid he might go too far with it.
And even though I wasn’t worried about his talking, I knew he could be recognized by size alone.

I would have bet a lot that he couldn’t move as quietly as I’d need him to—that wasn’t something any football coach would have trained him to do.

All I wanted was one of their jackets. But I had to make taking one look like it meant something else was going on. A branding iron would do it, but the brand had to at least
look
like it meant something. I decided on a “club,” the kind you see on playing cards—a spade or a heart would be too tricky, and a diamond could be mistaken for too many other things. To make a club, I wouldn’t need more than a stencil of a circle, a few pieces of iron, a pair of tongs, a small sledgehammer, an anvil … and a lot of heat.

S
ooner or later, one of them would walk off into the wooded area just past the pool of darkness. They weren’t dealing in anything but the chance to hang out with them. But if you’re selling “cool,” you can’t do it in a place that stinks. The shack that someone had slapped together in the woods behind that day-care place didn’t have any lines for electricity, and I was betting against plumbing, too. So a visit to the other part of the woods would be mandatory at some point—I just needed to wait until one came out there alone.

From where I was waiting, I could see one move off. But he wasn’t going to come anywhere near where I’d been watching from, so I had to parallel him to reach the intersection just before he did.

A .177 air gun makes even the most silenced firearm sound like a cannon. He probably thought the sting in his neck was a mosquito. I’d had to go damn near full-strength on the load.
Even if it wasn’t so dark, I’m not good enough with a pistol to take a chance—I had to get him unconscious before he could scream.

I was on top of him while he was still crumpling to the ground. By the numbers: Feel around for the dart, pull it loose, and pocket it in a little plastic bag. Wrap his face with duct tape from just below his nose to the Adam’s apple. Stick a couple of cotton wads into his nostrils, loose enough so he could still breathe through them.

Then I started bagging everything he was carrying, from his wristwatch to his wallet. Three gold chains around his neck, three different lengths. Heavy ring on his wedding-band finger. A little squeeze from my tube of a slicker-than-Teflon mix let me slide it away—cutting off the finger would have turned what he’d probably never admit to into something he couldn’t deny.

His black slacks were beltless, but I checked the waist anyway. I didn’t go too far before I felt a little lump. I tried passing over it, but it was too long. So I moved all the way to the end, then pushed my thumbnail toward where the slacks had been buttoned. Capsules dropped into my hand one at a time, like a dispensing machine.

Finally, the jacket. I wasn’t surprised to find a push-button knife inside. A quick wrap with one of the precut duct-tape strips made sure it wouldn’t pop open by accident. I’d check it properly once I got it back home. I couldn’t risk his cell phone’s having a GPS unit, so I just popped out the SIM card and the battery.

He didn’t move, even when I used the slicing side of my Tanto to cut off his shirt. He had the same tattoo as Cameron’s, and in the same place. But only the one on his arm, nothing on his chest.

I couldn’t know when he’d come around, so I pulled out the cotton wads, dipped them in chloroform until they were soaked, then shoved them back in.

I shielded the little gas-fired blowtorch so nobody looking this way could see the glow. Even with the heavy double-mesh gloves,
I could feel the heat from the branding iron as I held it against the arm tattoo.

He slept through it, but his blood was pumping hard, and he’d be conscious soon enough. I sliced off the duct tape from around his face and neck, then wrapped a fentanyl patch around his forefinger, shoved it deep into his mouth, and taped it closed. He wouldn’t wake up screaming. Not from pain, anyway.

I pulled the cotton wads out, tossed them into the same bag I’d used for everything else I’d removed, and moved far enough away to smash and abandon the gutted cell phone. Seven minutes, thirteen seconds, start to finish.

Then I was gone.

N
o reason for the police to pull me over on the drive back, but even if they did, I had all the paper I needed. The plates were from the exact same model car, registered to someone who had left it in a motel parking lot long enough for me to take out a short-term loan.

T
he reason for branding the man over his arm tattoo was that there
was
no reason. That’s all terrorism is: bad things happen to noncombatants; there’s nothing special about the victims, they were just in the wrong place when it happened. Not like Idrissa’s night-kills—they surely terrorized the enemy, but the enemy were soldiers: they
knew
they were in a war.

I didn’t get the feeling that any of the branded man’s pals were icy enough to cut his throat and bury him right there, so my money was on an ER dump.

Whatever they told him to say, he’d have to tell the cops that same story. The only thing he really had to lie about was
where
it had happened.

Or maybe he wouldn’t wake up until daylight, find himself alone in the woods, and …

Whatever was going to happen would shake them all, no matter what they decided to do. And whatever that turned out to be, it might help—the best way to find out who’s inside a building is to set it on fire.

An hour after I got the Lexus into our garage, it had the correct plates back on. And I had the branding iron and the stolen plates welded into a single unrecognizable lump, knowing that the little kiln would remove any trace of DNA. While the metal was still pliable, I added some clay and swirled it around until it had the right form. When I pulled that free, Dolly would have a nice flowerpot.

Even held inside my jacket to mask the flash, the digital camera had done a perfect job. The symbol on the jacket I took from the target-of-opportunity in the woods was a perfect match for the dead kid’s arm tattoo.

I used the same photo to make a clear scan, then I sent it down a twisted wire of communication lines. It would only take a day or two for me to find out exactly what that symbol meant—provided it meant anything at all.

T
he next morning, Dolly was still admiring her new planter when I asked her, “How much do you know about softball?”

“A lot, I think. But you’re after something a lot more specific than that, Dell. So why don’t you just tell me what you’re looking for?”

“I don’t know what I’m looking for, honey. This is like trying to
snatch a moray eel out of an oil barrel. I can’t see it, but I know it’s there. And I can’t just reach in. So I’ve got to drain the barrel, see?”

“Not … really, Dell. Can’t you try and just ask narrow questions? If that doesn’t work, we can try the long way, okay?”

I thought for a minute or two. Then I asked, “How come you know a lot about girls’ softball? Because of all the kids that’re always swarming this place?”

“Some of that, sure. But there’s a special thing about girls’ softball. It took me a while to pick up on it, but it’s a sport where you see girls on the field and boys in the stands. Not ogling or anything like that. Supporting. Cheering for their team.

“They start playing when they’re kids. Boys have Little League baseball; girls have the same thing, only it’s softball. Then there’s the juniors—when they’re too old for Little League, but still high school age.

“And you know what you see there? A lot? Girls’ brothers and boyfriends in the stands, making some serious noise. They hold up signs, wear crazy costumes.… Some even have stuff painted on themselves, so they can take off their shirts and make a statement.

“It’s not like they’re some male version of cheerleaders. They’re … I know! One time I saw three boys in the stands. All different ages, but you could tell they were brothers. Each one had a word painted on his chest, and they all had their shirts off. Every time this one girl got up to bat, they’d stand up, and you could read the message:

“CRUSH! ONE! TINA!

“I remember thinking that there’s something about girls’ softball that brings out the best in boys.”

“Hmmmm …”

“What, Dell?”

“MaryLou didn’t have brothers. And she didn’t have a boyfriend. I can see Franklin cheering for her, but not holding up a sign or anything like that.”

“Sometimes people get, well, not jealous exactly, but crazy to have someone. Obsessed with them. And if they feel rejected, they can turn vicious in a second. But that wouldn’t work here. There’s no way MaryLou could have been rejected by that boy she shot.”

“Because she’s gay?”

“And she didn’t try and hide it. But, also, why shoot the other boys? It’s almost as if they’d all raped her and she was out for revenge. But I can’t see any of that. Can’t bring it into focus. It’s like she just went insane
before
she shot those boys. Even now, she’s so calm it’s spooky. She has to know she’s facing spending the rest of her life in prison, but … but that’s okay. Okay with her, I mean.”

“You always drop into that kind of calm when you know the mission’s over. You did a job that never needs doing again. You can go home.”

“That’s soldiers, Dell. Not—”

“It’s not only soldiers, Dolly. You see it every day. A man gets up in the morning, just like usual. Then he kills his wife and kids, drives over to his in-laws’, and kills them both. Maybe he’s got a few more names on his list—especially if he’d just been fired from his job.

“But when he finally puts the gun to his own head, if you could be there at that moment, you’d see how calm he was about it. The job was done. He was going home.”

“That is just crazy.”

“To you, sure. Not to him.”

She sat down, clasped her hands together in her lap. I knew what that meant.

“I … I think I know what you’re saying, Dell. Even if what MaryLou did was crazy on the surface, somehow it made sense to
her
.”

“She paid what it cost, girl. We just don’t know what that ‘it’ was.”

“And she’s not going to tell?”

“I don’t think so. There’s a story to tell here, all right. But I don’t think it’s her story.”

“Then whose?”

“I’m damned if I know. But I’ll take another shot at squeezing it out of her tomorrow.”

“T
hanks” is how she greeted me.

I made a “For what?” gesture.

“The money on the books. Makes it a lot easier to live here.”

“Why do you think it was me?”

“They let you use phones here.
Their
phones, I mean. You warned me about not talking about … what happened. But I didn’t know that even if you’re calling five blocks away you have to call collect.”

“And you don’t like that?”

“I don’t. Who would? But who would I call, anyway?”

“Dolly?”

“She’s done enough. More than enough. More than I could ever pay her back for.”

“She’s your friend, yes?”

“I … I guess she is.”

“So why fuss about paying her back?”

“That’s me. That’s what everyone knows about me.”

Not everyone
, shot through my mind, too quick for me to grab it.

“So we’re back to ‘Why thank me?’ ”

“Is this a test or something? I know that lawyer wouldn’t put money on the books for me. The only person who could do it would be someone who knew he could do it, and how to get it done. None of my friends would know. Dolly wouldn’t, either. That leaves you.”

“Your family—”

“Forget them,” she said. Not like a teenage girl who was annoyed—like a grown woman, giving an order.

“Franklin knows you’re in here.”

“Franklin? He’s a sweetheart. But figuring things out isn’t something he’s good at.”

“You think if he could he’d do it?”

“Yeah, I do. Franklin’s like me in a lot of ways. When people look at us, they only see a piece of us. Without Franklin, our football team’s a joke. Same as our softball team would have been without me. But that’s not all there is, not about either of us.”

“I’ll keep your commissary on max while you’re here.”

“I already thanked you for that. And I will find a way to pay you back. I’ve got a whole life to do that.”

“Life at Coffee Creek, is that what you mean?”

“Where else?”

“Don’t act like you’ve already been convicted.”

“Are you—? No, that’s me being stupid, not you. But I’ve got no way to beat this one.”

“And you knew that going in.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

It was time to take that shot I’d told Dolly I’d be doing. “You only wanted one of them.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, you do. You only wanted one of them. Maybe you wanted to send a message, too. But Cameron Taft, he was the target.”

“He was just closest, that’s all.”

“They’ve got cameras in the hallways, MaryLou,” I said, like that settled the argument. It was only a half-bluff—the school did have those cameras, but I hadn’t seen the footage.

She bounced back so fast that I knew she’d thought this all the way through. “It might
look
like I passed up a couple of them before I shot him, but that’s only because I had a clearer shot if I cut across on an angle.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I think you do, but I’ll say it anyway. You know what makes a great pitcher? Not speed—although you have to be able to really bring it if you want to get any mileage out of your change-up—and not a filthy breaking ball, either. You have to be able to hit your spots. Some hitters will murder anything on the outside corner, but going in on them ties them in knots. See?”

“I do. This Cameron boy, he was the spot you had to hit.”

“Jeez!” she said, throwing up her hands. For the first time, she looked like a teenage girl—one exasperated beyond endurance at her parents’ being so thick.

At that moment, I knew more than I had when I walked into the Visiting Room. But I was still way short of what I needed.