Drawing Dead (15 page)

“I can't do that.”

“Tiger is not your sister. She could not be. Your code would never allow this, I understand. Not for the same reason you exclude Buddha's woman, but no less the truth. Whoever…
what
ever placed its brand on you, it will come to all of us. From family comes tribe.”

“And all tribes—”

“No!”
The Indian's voice sliced the air. “All tribes are not fated to war with each other. There is no Great Book in which this is written—this is a Law of Nature. The human race is
one
race. We would be gone from this planet had we not mixed our blood. Somewhere, somehow, sometime—it does not change the result. We invented different gods because we could not explain what we knew to be true. Rain, storms, snow. Dryness so pure that there is not enough oxygen for most of us. Thunder, lightning…those are weather. And weather is within climate. So the nomads—”

“He couldn't
leave
his climate!” Rhino's voice rose to a high-pitched squeak. “It was as artificial as an aquarium, one even a whale couldn't escape. But he could reach out past it….”

“That Circle of Skulls crew,” Cross said. “Whatever that…thing was, he wasn't a rapist. He wasn't a dealer. He didn't need money. But he made that whole rape-tape gang.
Created
them.”

“I…I think I understand him.” Rhino's voice dropped back to a whisper. “They made him…not exist. But he proved them wrong. All of them. Only one thing drives a person that hard.”

“Always the
same
thing, brother,” Cross said. “We always knew this. Somehow. But it's just like Tracker said….”

“I've seen it ever since you escaped from that prison basement,” the mammoth suddenly admitted. “I didn't want to say anything—I kept thinking it would go away on its own. That blue mark. It's flashing now, like a signal.”

“A warning signal,” Tracker added, unsurprised. “That creature we destroyed years ago, we should have known. He would never have gone without leaving behind the one thing we must all fear now.”

“Descendants of descendants,” Cross said. “Whatever evil he created in some—and that's what he must have done with that rape-tape crew—he could create in others.”

“He
has,
” Rhino said. “That's why I can see your…brand. It's
letting
me see it.”

Cross opened his left hand. A flame sparked in his palm.

The man with the bull's-eye tattoo on the back of his other hand didn't reach for a cigarette. He watched the flame, feeling Rhino and Tracker move closer to its campfire.

“TOO MUCH
to be coincidence,” Cross said, speaking very quietly. “Same method used twice, that wouldn't qualify. But maybe it wasn't.”

“I'm not following you,” Rhino said.

“I'm not sure I'm following my own damn self,” the gang's leader responded sourly. “Years ago, Buddha was lured out because of a threat to So Long, and we're looking at it like the same game was played with Ace. But there's really more differences than similarities, right?”

“I believe that is true,” Tracker said. “No matter who was involved in that ugliness with So Long, she would have been a random target. A woman of color living in a white neighborhood…what else would they need?”

“Buddha's not the same as Ace,” Rhino responded. “No question but that Ace would respond were his wife to be the victim of a rape. But Hemp sent an assassin to
kill
Sharyn. Whoever was responsible had to know…something. Not who Ace is—that's well known in Gangland, probably even to the police. But the house, that is
not
known. Ace would never endanger his wife and children. Remember, the authorities have his name from when he was locked up. Supposedly a juvenile record, so it would be sealed…but that's a joke. I found it in their database easily enough.

“But Hemp couldn't have gotten information on that house from Sharyn's name on any marriage license. She bought the house under her maiden name—a cash purchase, so no mortgage. And
she's
not on any public record, like Section Eight or Welfare. Her birth certificate wouldn't show in Chicago. She purchases whatever she needs—a car, furniture—but those are all cash transactions.”

“Pays taxes, too,” Cross added. “In business for herself. Professional ghostwriter, and the terms of her contracts always include keeping her employer's name a secret. Hell, you know all about that, Rhino—you were the one who set it up.”

“Her ‘agent' pays her by check,” Rhino's voice rumbled, as it did when he spoke quietly. “And he takes his fifteen percent off the top. He couldn't say who the actual writers are even if he wanted to—he doesn't know. All the contracts are close-ended: any other money the books make—a movie deal, foreign rights, all of that—Sharyn's not even entitled to
know,
much less take a share.”

“It's worked perfectly for a long time,” Cross said, opening his left hand—this time to light another cigarette. “And no one's taken a shot at Sharyn all these years. Her kids, they've all gone to private schools, sure…but they never walked around with bodyguards.”

“So, for this to work, Hemp had to have found out not just where Sharyn lives, but that she was married to Ace. And that all her children are his,” Tracker said, thoughtfully.

“Yeah,” Cross said, slowly. “Buddha and Ace each being smoked out, those don't
have
to be connected. All that's in common is a threat designed to flush out a target. But with Buddha, it could have been no more than it looked like—a bad accident. That thing we killed, he could have been in the rape-tape business just to test his ability to pull off something like that without ever leaving that cage his parents kept him locked up in. We'll never know.

“Anyway, we used the same tactic ourselves, didn't we? On him, I mean. Princess harpooning that dirtbag, that would spook anyone. And it worked. But we never thought to stop and ask him anything. We didn't have much time, and we wanted the money. Remember, all we have is what kicked
us
off…that letter So Long got. Not a rape, the
threat
of one.”

“So…”

“That's right, Rhino. Time for another talk with Mike Mac.”

THE RUNNING
track circling the football field had been kept in good repair.

The same could not be said about the man slowly churning out lap after lap, not increasing or decreasing speed but doggedly determined to finish whatever number of circuits he believed he should be doing.
What do those doctors know, anyway?
So he had a torn meniscus behind one knee, and they'd have to replace the other hip at some point. The titanium implanted in his forearm hadn't stopped him from competing last year, had it?

“You always look the same,” he said, as he slowed to a gradual stop in the grandstand shadows.

“Clean living,” Cross replied.

“I wouldn't know about that,” the detective said. “What I meant was, you look like you always do.”

“Uh-huh.” Cross nodded, lighting a cigarette, as if to acknowledge that the cop's statement hadn't been a compliment.

“Last time I saw you and Rhino here—”

“The same thing.”

“Are you serious? That rape gang was put out of business a long time ago. All we found were a couple of charred bodies in the wreckage of a car in Winnetka, of all places. And right across from it was a beautiful limestone mansion. ‘Was' is right—a cracked foundation was all there was left. If anyone had been alive inside when that explosion went off, they weren't a half-second later.

“It was a big case. Got checked out every way you can imagine. The owners of that house, they'd been done in by a drunk driver years before. A teenager…”

“Sure. No motive there. By the time the place went bang, the former owner's kids were somewhere off the Bahamas, on their yacht. They'd left
their
kids in some boarding school. No live-in staff at the house.”

“Yeah,” the detective said, drawing out the word. “You seem pretty well informed.”

“I read the papers.”

“You make some headlines, too, the way I figure it.”

“Me? Come on, Mac; you know how much I love publicity.”

“I know how much you love C-4. Or whatever new witch's brew you've cooked up lately.”

“Not me.”

“Actually, that's true enough, I guess. Buddha's always blowing things up, but his style is more RPG than plastique. Likes to admire his work, huh?”

“I'm not following you.”

“Yeah, I know. That's just me, talking in riddles again, right?”

“I was just about to—”

“Ah, that's right,” McNamara interrupted. “I forgot to tell you. The fire marshals are good at what they do, and they checked every little bit of that house. But in the car, the one that got firebombed in the street, you know what the CSI guys found? Strangest thing. The bodies were all charbroiled, but we recovered a few slugs. Tiny little things. Maybe .177 caliber, could even have been smaller, like whoever put them together turned them into armor-piercing rounds. Must've been close-range, too, that tight a grouping.”

“What's that got to do with what I'm asking?”

“You haven't asked anything.”

“I would, if you'd take a damn breath.”

“That case is closed,” the detective said. “The two men in the car, they must have been the ones who blew up the house. Probably took fire on their getaway from…who knows, maybe a bodyguard?”

“Then you wouldn't mind telling me if that gang was sending warnings before they hit.”

“Warnings? You mean like…?”

“Specific threats. To specific targets. ‘Get out of the neighborhood or else,' that kind of thing.”

The cop's stare was implacable. Cross dropped out of any impending contest quickly, knowing it was a game he couldn't win—not dropping his eyes wouldn't get him what he wanted.