Jack Daniels Six Pack (159 page)

“There could be ten phones in the chain, Harry. You said you can only pinpoint the call within a few hundred yards, and she could have these hidden all over the country.”

“It’s a start. I’ve got an RF detector. I can find the phones.”

I closed my eyes, thinking. Normally, when I was chasing a perp, there were witnesses to interview, evidence to examine, clues to follow up on. Alex was effectively invisible, and could be anywhere. How the hell do you find a person who only shows you what she wants you to see?

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’re our only hope here, Harry. There’s no other way to find her.”

“I can do it. It’ll just take some time.”

“Time is something we don’t have.”

“So I see.”

Harry brought the picture up on the monitor, of Lance taped to the bed and screaming. I checked my watch.

“Unless we can find him, he’s dead in just over eleven hours.”

Harry didn’t say anything, which was out of character. I wondered if the picture brought him back to the time he was Alex’s captive. She was the reason he had a prosthetic hand, and though he never talked about it, I knew a blowtorch played a part.

“We’ll find him,” Harry eventually said.

“How, if we can’t trace her calls?”

“She left us a clue.”

“What clue?”

“He’s a cop named Lance. Probably hundreds of those in the U.S. But how many have one of these?”

Harry pointed to the metal tripod, which held the thing that looked like a microphone over Lance’s head. I leaned in closer, squinting, and couldn’t believe I missed it earlier.

“It’s a pigstick,” I said.

“Yeah. Looks like old Lance is on the Bomb Squad. The pigstick is armed with a shotgun shell, attached to a blasting cap. That wire is shock tube, probably leading to a timer. When the time is up, the round fires into poor Lance’s face.”

If Alex was being honest. For all I knew, Lance might already be dead. Or he might not be named Lance at all. I stared at his face again, his agony forever frozen in time. I wondered if Alex was still burning him.

“Alex sent me an earlier text, a few weeks ago. Said she was in Milwaukee. I don’t know if she’s telling the truth or not.”

“She’s a lying crazy psycho bitch. Believing her is a mistake.”

“She bought this phone in Gurnee, which is on the way to Milwaukee. Maybe we should start heading up there.”

“If she’s lying, we could be heading in the wrong direction.”

I chewed my lower lip.

“You need to bring in the troops on this, Jackie. They can send out a bulletin to other cop shops. Maybe even get his face on TV.”

Harry must have noticed my reaction, because he shook his head.

“We don’t have to give them the phone. Or even a clone of the phone. We can forward the pictures and texts to one of their phones. Send it to fatso. He’ll take care of it.”

“Fine.” I held out my hand. “Give me the card back.”

“Let me save this first. Resolution is for shit. Maybe I can tweak it, get a serial number on the pigstick. Can’t be that many of those out there.”

Harry opened up a photo program, but my mind was elsewhere. I’d met a few Explosive Ordnance Disposal cops. Serious, professional guys. A pigstick was a portable arm that held a shell or a high-pressure water jet, used to remotely detonate suspicious devices. Detonation wire, shock tube, and blasting caps were tools of the EOD. But they weren’t the only tools.

Most bomb squads had bigger, more dangerous devices.

If Alex had a pigstick, what else could she have?

CHAPTER 12

T
HE JORDAN HISTORICAL SOCIETY,
located only a mile from the beach, has closed for the day. It’s dark and quiet.

Alex drives past the empty parking lot, over the grass, and pulls to a stop behind some fir trees. She kills the engine, grabs her army surplus duffel bag, and leaves the Honda, walking back toward the main building. The night has cooled off to the mid-forties. She tucks her hair under the hood and pulls the cords tight around her face. It’s doubtful anyone is watching, but it never hurts to be careful.

The M4 Sherman tank sits in front of the building on a dais of concrete, just like in the Web site pictures. Alex walks up to it, touches the cold green steel. It’s smaller than she expects, several yards shorter and half the weight of the MI Abrams. The 60mm gun on the turret is pointed east, poised to protect the shoreline from approaching enemy armadas. Metaphorically, of course, because the barrel is filled with concrete.

Alex rests the duffel bag on the front tread fender and sticks a mini Maglite in her teeth. Pointing downward, she tears the paper off a brick of PENO. The plastic explosive is gray, without odor, heavy for its size. Alex pulls off a fist-sized hunk and rolls it between her palms. It’s stickier, and slightly stiffer, than modeling clay. She forms it into a pyramid shape, then places the base against the frontal hull of the tank, which the Internet says is sixty-one millimeters thick.

Returning to the duffel bag, she removes a bridgewire detonator and loops the bag’s strap over her shoulder. The blasting cap is pushed into the tip of the pyramid, and Alex attaches a shock tube to that and plays line out of the spool until she’s fifty yards away, behind the side of the building. She crimps the detonation cord into an electric sparker and smiles her half smile.

“Fire in the hole.”

The explosion shakes the ground and momentarily deafens her. She remembers to open her mouth like she was taught, which equalizes the pressure on both sides of her ear drums. It still hurts, almost like getting struck in the head. The ringing continues as she approaches the tank, winding the now empty shock tube around her arm as she goes. There’s no fire, and the smoke has almost dissipated. Alex points her flashlight at the hull and sees a jagged twenty-inch hole where armor used to be. It smells like hot coals and melted iron.

“Perfect,” she says, but can’t hear herself say it. She stuffs the used tubing back into her duffel bag and heads for the car.

Phase one of the plan is finished. Time to start phase two.

CHAPTER 13

“
Y
OU SHOULD TURN THE PHONE IN,
Jack.”

Herb Benedict. We’d been partners for over a de cade, and often played conscience for each other. But right now I needed an enabler.

“I have to see this through, Herb. Start with Milwaukee PD. See if anyone on their Bomb Squad is named Lance.”

“How do you expect to find her? Track her cell phone?”

“It can’t be tracked. Not directly. Long story.”

“Then how? She could be anywhere. You’re just going to sit around and wait for her to send you clues?”

“That’s all I can do right now. That and prepare for when I’ll have a shot at her. Does your cell accept pictures and text?”

“You’ve seen my cell. I think it’s the very first one. It uses rotary.”

I sat on Harry’s sofa, shivering, and switched the phone to my other ear. The leather under my butt was cold.

“I want to send you what Alex is sending me. I know you’re off the case too, but I’m hoping you can be my ears while I’m gone.”

I could picture Herb thinking, probably rubbing his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Bernice has one of those new Motorola phones, the kind that does everything except make you a sandwich. Send it to her.”

He gave me the number.

“Thanks, Herb. I owe you so many I’ll never pay them all back.”

“There’s this mail order steak place. Grade-A prime-cut Angus beef. Ships them to you frozen. Their number is 1-800-MEATS4U. The
4
is a number and the
U
is the letter
U
.”

“Consider it done.”

“I like rib-eyes. And T-bones. And New York strips. And filets. Basically I like everything. They also sell Turduckinlux. That’s a turkey breast, stuffed with a duck breast, stuffed with a chicken breast, stuffed with bacon-wrapped hamburger patties.”

“I’ll call them as soon as we get off the phone.” I swallowed, hating to say what came next. “Look, Herb, I know you’re being cautious, but Alex might take a shot at you. Or your wife.”

“I could have Bernice stay with her mother, come and help you out.”

“No way.”

“My leg’s not that bad, Jack. I can move fast if I have to.”

Herb was loyal, smart, and tough. But he could never be called fast. And with his injury, all he’d be doing was putting himself in danger.

“Stay with your wife and heal. That’s an order.”

“What if I had some psycho killer after me? Would you stay out of it?”

“My psycho killer, my rules. I need you to stay close to the investigation, Herb. Keep me in the loop. Besides, I have some help.”

“That idiot McGlade? He’s a card-carry ing asshole. I’m serious. He once showed me the card.”

I eyed Harry, who was squinting at porn on the computer screen.

“He’s not that bad,” I said.

“Please don’t tell me you’re with him in that stupid RV.”

“It has really good air-conditioning.”

“Want me to turn it up?” Harry asked, never taking his eyes off the screen. A gorilla had joined the party. No—just a guy in a gorilla suit. What ever happened to normal, old-fashioned porn?

“Jesus, Jack. How am I supposed to sleep knowing that bonehead has your back?”

“I’m getting more help.”

“Who? The criminal guy? Phineas something?”

“Troutt.”

“What makes you think he’ll help you?”

I got an image in my mind, of the last time I saw Phin. He had hugged me, holding it longer than our friendship warranted.

“He’ll help.”

Herb sighed, loud and dramatic.

“I want you to call me. Every eve ning at seven. If you don’t call, I’m coming after you.”

“Thanks, Herb. We’ll talk soon.”

“We’ll talk tomorrow. At seven. Sooner if I hear anything. And tell that asshole McGlade to sit on his mechanical thumb and spin.”

Herb hung up, and I tucked the phone back into my purse.

“How’s the partner?” Harry asked. “Still fat?”

“He says hi. Can you send the picture and texts to him?”

I handed Bernice’s cell number to Harry.

“Sure. I got a program that can do it from the computer.”

“We also need to go to Wrigleyville. Joe’s Pool Hall, to see if Phin is there.”

“Check and roger.”

“And turn off the porn.”

Harry batted his eyelashes. “Anything else I can do for you, Your Highness?”

“Yes,” I said, thinking of Alex. “Take me to the nearest gun shop. I need to exercise my second amendment rights to bear arms.”

CHAPTER 14

A
LEX SITS IN A BOOKSTORE CAFÉ,
dressed in her funeral best.

The WiFi is free, and her laptop is open. Her back is to the wall so no one can see her screen.

She uses a search engine to find her next victim. First the name. Then the town. It takes less than three minutes to get a phone number, and another two minutes to find the address.
Scary how easy it is to find someone
, Alex muses. People should pay closer attention to protecting their privacy.

The drive will take a few hours. Alex decides to wait until morning before leaving. She can’t go back to the Old Stone Inn, because her bed is currently occupied. She calls the cell phone using the computer program, and a window opens, showing her a live feed of Lance. The picture isn’t very good—even with all the lights on, the room is pretty dim. The camera phone is taped up to the wall, offering a wide angle. She presses some buttons, zooms in on Lance’s chest.

He’s asleep. Or unconscious. The burns have stopped bleeding, begun to scab over. It makes the symbols easier to see. She saves a picture of her laptop screen as a JPEG, crops it in Photoshop, and uploads it to her cell, viewing it from various angles, and judging it clue-worthy.

It’s all Greek to me,
Alex thinks.

Jack will get a copy later to night.

Alex hits the hibernate key, blanking out her screen, and lets her eyes prowl around.

The bookstore is one of those large chains, ten times bigger than the library in the town where she grew up. Alex’s father hated libraries. Believed that people only needed one book, the Bible, and that all others led to Satan. But according to Father, pretty much everything led to Satan. He blamed the dev il for his appetites. He should have learned to embrace them. Indulge them without remorse.

Like she does.

Alex yawns, stretches out her long legs, and leans back in the chair to scope out women.

One walks by, wiggling her hips, getting in line for coffee. The right build. Right age. She orders something called chai tea. Alex doesn’t know what that is. It would be a good thing to use as a way of introduction. But when Alex stands she notices how short the woman is, and doesn’t bother. She sits back down.

Another woman, tall enough, but too young. Some men, whom Alex barely glances at. Then, a brunette. Age and height fine. A big ass, but people can lose weight. Alex gets into line behind her.

The woman orders a large vanilla latte and a pecan Danish, neither of which will help narrow her gluteus maximus.

“Are the Danish good here?”

The woman glances over her shoulder.

Alex doesn’t smile behind the veil. She knows how it contorts her face, makes her look even more freakish. It’s a definite handicap. Smiles disarm people. Taking a smile away from a recreational killer is like taking a pinky from a major league pitcher.

“They’re pretty good. Not as good as the coffee place on Prospect.”

The woman faces the cashier again. She’s either in a hurry, not wanting to chat, or Alex’s veil has set off subconscious warning bells. Strangers aren’t to be trusted. People who hide their face are hiding something else.

Alex moves in a little closer, watches as the woman digs into her purse for a wallet. Though her clothes are decent, expensive, her handbag looks more like a backpack than an accessory. Alex catches glimpses
of a tissue pack, some children’s Tylenol, and a large key ring attached to a Lucite-encased family photo.