Deadeye (13 page)

When that occurred, it was Mona's job to feed the prisoners, empty their potty buckets into a toilet inside the house, and guard them when her husband went off to spend time at the local tavern. And that was the situation the night Amanda escaped. She had been one of two prisoners at the time. After using some of her own feces to lubricate an ankle, and bending her foot in a manner that most people couldn't, she'd been able to remove the ankle bracelet.

And if Amanda had chosen to leave the garage at that point, she would have gone free. Instead, she made use of Conroy's tools to break into the neighboring cage and was trying to free a girl named Shelly when their captor returned.

Conroy was drunk. He beat Amanda, put her back in her cage, and tightened the ankle bracelet. Then he entered the house. Mona was watching TV. “He called the children into the living room,” Mona said miserably, “and he told them how stupid I was. Then he forced them to watch while he beat me.”

Lee was experiencing all sorts of emotions by that time. Admiration for Amanda, a fierce desire to punish Conroy, and concern for Mona's children. “I will tell the prosecutor everything you told me,” she promised. “You should have reported your husband to the police. But, if you continue to cooperate, there's a chance that you'll get off without doing any time. We'll see.”

The police officers left after that. “So,” Omo said, as they arrived on the street. “What now?”

“Rictor,” Lee said. “Can you get somebody to pull his package? There's bound to be one.”

“I'll get to work on it.”

“Good. Then we need to find Amanda. We need to find
all
of them.”

After they returned to the sixth floor of LAPD headquarters, Omo borrowed a desk while Lee went to get coffee. She returned to find her partner staring out a window. She put a cup and a straw on the desk next to his elbow. “So? What did you learn?”

“Rictor had a record all right—and it's as long as your arm. He was wanted for murder among other things.”

“Was?”

Omo turned to look at her. That particular mask had a sardonic expression. “Somebody shot Rictor last night. He's dead.”

AFTER GRABBING SOME
sleep, Lee had been ordered to attend a high-level meeting with the chief of police. And that was a rare event indeed. It made sense, however, since Bishop Screed was still throwing his weight around—and there was every reason to believe that Amanda was alive.

Lee felt nervous as she followed McGinty and Omo into the large conference room located adjacent to Chief Corso's executive-style office. The walls were decorated with artistic black-and-white photos of the “new” LA, planters were full to overflowing with carefully arranged greenery, and the glossy-looking redwood conference table could easily seat twenty people. Corso was ten minutes late and clearly in a hurry. “Okay,” he said as he claimed the seat at the head of the table. “I'm taking flack on the Screed case . . . Bring me up to speed.”

McGinty provided Corso with a good summary of what had taken place over the last few days, and Corso nodded. “Good job. But here's the deal . . . In spite of all the progress that has been made, Bishop Screed feels that things are moving too slowly.”

McGinty started to protest, but Corso raised a hand. “I know . . . That's grade-A bullshit. But that's what he told the mayor, and she's buying it. So I want you to put some new people on the case, send them over to kiss Screed's ass, and do whatever they can to find any traffickers who may be lurking here in LA.”

Lee thought she'd seen every expression McGinty had to offer. Especially those that conveyed irritation, annoyance, and anger. But she was wrong. McGinty's face turned beet red and it looked as if his head was going to explode. Corso laughed. “Don't blow a gasket, Ross . . . There's more. You may find this hard to believe—but I still consider myself to be a cop. And I want to find
all
of the missing women. So I'm directing you to send Lee into the red zone along with Deputy Omo. I called Sheriff Arpo earlier this morning. And, while I'm not sure he's real happy about the prospect of having a norm on his staff, he agreed.”

The statement was followed by a moment of silence as McGinty took it in. Then, bit by bit, a smile appeared on his face. “Yes, sir! Thank you, sir.”

Corso smiled. “Be sure to warn him about Lee here . . . Personally, I feel sorry for the poor bastard.”

*   *   *

It was a sunny day, warm air was buffeting her face, and Lee felt good. Thanks to the unexpected orders from Chief Corso, she and Omo were headed east. That meant she could put McGinty and the LAPD's rules behind her for the moment. Plus there was the very real possibility that they would find Amanda.

There was the red zone to think about, of course, but she had plenty of masks and nostril filters with her. So everything would be fine. That's what Lee told herself even if she didn't entirely believe it. The red zone was up ahead somewhere.

*   *   *

As they passed through Beaumont, Omo glanced at Lee and back again. The side window was open. The slipstream ruffled her hair and produced a gentle rumbling sound.
What's she thinking?
he wondered. There was no way to tell. Because in spite of the way Lee ran her mouth, she kept most of herself hidden.

And you're no different,
Omo told himself.
She's going to find out. So tell her.

But Omo didn't want to tell her. Because if he told her, then she'd view him differently. Or would she? Maybe her opinion was low already.
And what difference does it make?
Omo asked himself.
She's a norm, for God's sake . . . And you're a freak. It's impossible to lose a chance you never had.

*   *   *

It was almost 1:00
P.M.
when they entered the outskirts of Indigo. It had been a railroad town once, but that was long ago. Now it was a farming community with a reputation for producing excellent grapes, citrus, and dates. “There's a roadside stand up ahead,” Omo said. “How 'bout some lunch?”

“I'm hungry,” Lee answered. “And a break would be nice.”

Omo pulled off the highway and onto a frontage road where a row of cars was parked in front of an open-air market. They were out of the truck and walking toward an arched entryway, when Lee saw the sign:
NO MUTANTS ALLOWED
. Omo came to a stop. “You go ahead,” he said. “I'll wait here.”

“You're a police officer. They can't keep you out.”

“There's no point to forcing the issue,” Omo replied. “I'd like a cold drink, a hunk of cheese, and some fruit. I'll give you some money.”

Lee waved the offer away. “There's no need. I have this.”

Lee entered the market, purchased the items Omo had requested, and returned to the truck. “There's a rest area up ahead,” he told her. “Let's eat there.”

The rest area was only half-full, which meant Omo could park in a patch of shade. Some picnic tables were located nearby, so they took the food over to one of them. “How are we going to do this?” Lee inquired.

Omo pointed at a table twenty feet away. “You sit there—and I'll sit here. Phone me. There's something we need to talk about.”

Lee looked at him. “Is this about a divorce? If so, I want your truck.”

Omo laughed. “No . . . It's just that there's some stuff you don't know. Call me.”

So Lee went over to the table and laid out her lunch. She dialed the phone, looked at Omo, and saw that his back was turned to her. He answered right away. “Hi there.”

Lee popped a section of orange into her mouth. It was cold and juicy. “So, what's up?”

Omo took a sip of Coke. “We're headed for Phoenix. And once we arrive, you'll learn the truth. So I might as well tell you now.”

“Wait!” Lee said. “Don't tell me . . . Let me guess. You collect Roy Rogers stuff.”

“No.”

“You communicate with the dead.”

“No, but that would come in handy sometimes.”

“You're a part-time ballet dancer.”

“Nope. I like Salsa though.”

“Okay, I give up. What is this dreadful secret?”

“I shot my partner.”

Lee turned to look at his back. “You
what
?”

“I shot my partner,” Omo repeated. “A perp had an arm around his throat and was using him as a shield.”

“So you shot the poor bastard?” Lee asked incredulously.

“I shot
through
him,” Omo explained. “The bullet passed between his left arm and chest. It hit the perp and killed him instantly.”

“Shit,” Lee said. “I
love
it! Did they give you a medal?”

“Nope,” Omo answered soberly. “My boss gave me a negative performance rating—and I was sent to LA by way of a punishment.”

“I don't understand,” Lee said. “Your partner was okay.”

“Yeah, but he shit his pants when the bullet creased his side.”

Lee began to laugh. “I thought you were the departmental hotshot! The perfect guy to serve as an ambassador to the LAPD.”

Omo shook his head. “No way. Sheriff Arpo doesn't like Pacifica, or norms for that matter.”

“Then who set the loan up?”

“Maria Soto serves as president of the Maricopa Board of Supervisors, and she swings a big stick. So when McGinty contacted her, she asked Arpo to send a deputy to LA. He chose me in the hope that I would get lynched or something.”

“And you're telling me this because?”

“I'm telling you because we aren't likely to get a whole lot of support from the sheriff. Not unless it suits his purposes somehow.”

“And Soto?”

“She hates traffickers,” Omo replied. “So she'll support what we're doing. But she has zero authority over the sheriff's department and the way Arpo runs it. So we can't expect much help from her.”

Lee took a sip from a can of lemonade. “So you're known as the departmental screwup.”

“Yes. I'm afraid so.”

“Well, don't worry about it, Cowboy,” Lee said. “We'll find a way. And Ras . . .”

“Yes?”

“If a perp has
me
by the throat, shoot the bastard.”

They were halfway back to the truck when Lee felt the now-familiar prickling sensation. She paused to take a long, slow look around. There were people, some of whom were near the market, and some of whom were seated at tables. Any one of them could have been eyeing her. “What's up?” Omo wanted to know.

“It's a feeling, that's all,” Lee replied. “Like we're being watched.”

“People stare at me all the time,” Omo said. “I'm a mutant.”

“Yeah, that could explain it,” Lee agreed. But she didn't think so. Omo was understandably self-conscious, but he
looked
normal because plenty of norms wore masks.

Once they arrived at the truck, Lee insisted on performing a 360. Something she should have done before leaving LA. Omo joined in, and he was the one who found the black box. A simple magnet held it against the inside surface of his back bumper, and while there wasn't any sort of label on the device, Lee knew it was a tracker. What else
could
it be? So she walked over to a tractor-trailer rig and let the magnet attach itself to the truck's frame.

Would the trick work? Not if they were under surveillance. One thing was for sure, however . . . Someone was following them. The question was not only
who
, but
why
.

It took about an hour and a half to reach the outskirts of Blythe. It was located on the border between Pacifica and the Republic of Texas. It had long served as a stopover for weary travelers and still did. But unlike the sun-baked tourist city of preplague days, Blythe was now called
Fort
Blythe, and served as a very important border-control point. There were only a dozen locations where people could legally enter or exit Pacifica, and Fort Blythe was one of them.

A series of successively lower speed limits forced the truck to slow down—and Lee could see the many ways in which the military had put its stamp on the community. There were lots of signs directing incoming troops to various operational areas, bases, and firing ranges.

To the left and right, Lee could see a vast sprawl of identical prefabs all shimmering in the midday heat. And there were water towers, too . . . Not to mention vehicle parks and airstrips for a variety of planes and drones. The whole thing had an ominous feel.

“How do you want to play it?” Omo inquired. “Would you like to spend the night here? And leave in the morning? Or tackle the border crossing now?”

“How long will it take us to reach Phoenix?”

“A little over two hours.”

Lee thought about Amanda. Time was critical. “Let's go for it. The sooner we arrive, the better.”

“Right,” Omo said. “That makes sense.”

A few minutes later, Lee saw a sign that read,
BORDER CROSSING AHEAD. MUTANTS RIGHT LANE ONLY
.

Omo turned the wheel in that direction. An off-ramp delivered them into a single-file line of vehicles. There were at least fifty of them. Many sat with windows open and their engines off. “This could take awhile,” Omo predicted as he turned the truck off.

They were inside the security lane at that point, and there were concrete barriers on both sides. That made it impossible to turn around and leave. Steel pylons were located every hundred feet or so, each of which supported a sensor package.

That was to be expected. But when the hummingbird-style drone dropped down to hover in front of the windshield, Lee felt a stab of fear. The device hung there for a moment, scanned the interior, and darted away. Lee looked at Omo. He nodded. “You think
that's
scary? Getting in is worse.”

It took forty minutes to get through the line. A barrier dropped in front of the truck as it stopped between a pair of what looked like concrete pillboxes. Soldiers took up positions on both sides of the vehicle. They wore full-face respirators, body armor, and were armed with submachine guns. “Step out of the vehicle,” the man on Lee's side said, “and place your hands on top of your head.”

Lee did as she was told, then a third soldier appeared. He, or she, ran a wand up and down the detective's body. It beeped intermittently as it sensed the pistols, backup ammo, a pair of cuffs, and a flick knife. “She's armed,” the soldier said.

“Of course I am,” Lee said. “I'm a police officer. If you will allow me to lower my hands, I will show you my ID and a Priority One government passport.”

“Unload her,” the first soldier ordered, “and stay out of the line of fire.”

Lee was forced to submit as the second soldier took her weapons and went through her pockets. “Look at my ID,” she said through gritted teeth. “I'm a member of the LAPD.”

“Yeah?” the first soldier said skeptically. “If you're a cop, who's the freak?”

“His name is Deputy Ras Omo, and he's a member of the Maricopa County Sheriff's Department on loan to the LAPD. Please treat him with the same respect due me.”

That was too much for the private, who laughed as he brought the clip-on mike up to his lips. “Grimes here . . . Ask the sarge to come out. We have a couple of yo-yos here. One is a norm, and the other is a freak. They claim to be police officers.”

What happened next was both predictable and annoying. A sergeant came out, examined Lee's papers, and put in a call for an officer. Lee couldn't see what was happening to Omo, but heard snatches of commentary like, “This takes the fucking cake. A freak with a badge.”

But once a businesslike lieutenant arrived on the scene, things took a positive turn. After examining Lee's credentials, she ordered the soldiers to return the detective's belongings. The officer's name was Snyder. She had overplucked eyebrows, a long nose, and thin lips. “Sorry, ma'am . . . We get all sorts of scam artists, many of whom have fake IDs.”