Sawbones: A Novella (2 page)

“What?” says Henry, sticking his finger in his other ear. “Oh, right, the kid.” He peers over his shoulder at the pale, shivering thing that used to be on the local high school football team. “He’s doing OK . . . Uh-huh . . . Will do. You tell Tammy we’re thinking about her . . . right.” And then he hangs up.

“You didn’t tell him about the cop,” I say, and Henry shrugs those massive shoulders of his.

“He don’t need more stuff to worry about.”

Which is true.

The back door clunks open and Jack climbs in. “Breakfast burritos,” he says, handing out the little micro-waved parcels. Then it’s black coffee for me. Fifth of Old Kentucky, for Henry. And a jumbo Blueberry Squishy for Brian. Jack holds out the bright blue drink and Laura’s boyfriend takes it. The kid’s hands are shaking, little brown flakes of dried blood falling from his pale skin as he clutches the huge cup of sugar, chemicals and ice. Jack tosses over a small yellow packet. “Advil. They didn’t have anything stronger.”

Advil, good for a headache, but I get the feeling it’s not going to do much for Brian’s aches and pains. Poor bastard.

Henry twists the top off his early morning bourbon and takes a swig. That should even him out for a little while. Make him less likely to take another pop at Jack.

I take a bite of my burrito – not bad, but not great. “Mr Jones say anything about the FBI?”

Henry sniffs his breakfast, peeling back the outer layer of the burrito to examine the mess of eggs, ground sausage, potato and cheese inside. “Turns out one of their agents is missing.”

“No shit,” says Jack with his mouth full.

Henry ignores him. “They’re doing an appeal on national TV for Laura tonight.
Fox News
and
America’s Most Wanted.”

I nod and take another bite. We always knew Mr Jones would end up on
America’s Most Wanted
, never thought it’d be as ‘father of victim’, though . . . “No clues?”

“Nah, you know what these Feds are like, sooner chop off their own dick than tell you anything.” He looks back over his shoulder at Brian and his blood-soaked trousers. “No offence.” Then downs some more bourbon. “With Feds and cops you got to
persuade
them a little – like with a hammer.”

Which is how come Special Agent Mills is now wrapped in plastic sheeting in the trunk of the car . . . with a lot of broken bones, his fingernails ripped out, and his face mashed to a bloody pulp.

“You know,” I say, finishing off the burrito and starting in on the coffee – which tastes like crap by the way, “we should really get rid of Agent Mills before he starts to smell.”

Henry takes a trial bite of his breakfast, chews a couple of times, pulls a disgusted face and spits it out the window into the rain. Then hurls the rest out after it. “How can you eat this
shit
? Jesus . . .” Another mouthful of bourbon. “Like someone scraped dog crap off the sidewalk and wrapped it in a fuckin’ used condom.” He looks over his shoulder at Jack. “What, they don’t have no fuckin’ donuts? They never heard of Krispy Kreme in fuckin’ Illinois?”

“You’re welcome,” says Jack. “It was that or hot dogs that looked like they been on the grill since Nixon was president. What the fuck you want from me?”

If I was a gambling man – which I am – I’d put money on Jack going back to New Jersey in a body cast. Or a body bag. You see, normal people know not to screw with guys like Henry, but Jack . . . I think he’s missing that little voice, you know? The one that says,
‘Don’t poke the fucking bear!’

“Tell you what,” says Jack, “you want something else for breakfast? You go get it. I’m sick of this shit.”

Henry carefully screws the top back on his bourbon. Half of it’s already gone. I’m hoping that’s enough to mellow him out, but I’m not taking any chances.

“Look at the time,” I say, starting the car, “we gotta get going. That guy’ll be back soon.”

Henry’s quiet for a moment, then he nods and the top comes off his bottle again. And Jack’s escaped another ass-kicking.

Nearly eleven and we’ve been sitting in the parking lot opposite the McLean County Morgue for fifteen minutes. It’s a crappy-looking building on the corner of West Front and North Main Street, just off highway fifty-one, with a line-up of shitty Fords parked at the kerb. No sign of our guy.

Henry lights up one of his fat old cigars and opens the car window, letting in the sound of the monsoon. I can hear Jack in the back, making pointed ‘cough, cough’ noises, like that’s going to make any difference.

Henry drowns him out by turning on the radio – R&B crackles out of the car speakers and he curses. “God-damn fuckin’ jungle music, all drums and shit, these bastards never heard of a melody?” He spins the dial till he finds a station playing Sinatra. “Now
that’s
music!” He settles back in his seat, smoking and humming along.

I like Henry; we’ve been friends for years. But he can be a real asshole sometimes.

Five minutes later a little guy in a white lab coat and Megadeth T-shirt sticks his head out the back door of the McLean County Coroner’s office. Big pointy nose, ginger hair, beady little eyes and a goatee beard thing – he looks like a real fucking weasel. He glances up and down the street. Then waves at us.

“Right,” says Henry, winding his window back up, “Jack, you stay here with Brian.”

“Aw, for fuck’s sake, how come I – ”

“’Cause I say so. Besides, Brian likes the company, don’t you, Brian?”

Laura’s ex-boyfriend just shivers. He doesn’t say much, not since his meeting with Mr Jones, anyway.

“What if he pisses himself?”

“Then the back seat’ll be all nice and warm for you, won’t it?” Henry steps out into the downpour. I follow him across the road and up to the morgue where the Weasel is looking nervous, holding the door open for us.

“Hi,” he says, ushering us out of the rain and into the stink of floor polish, disinfectant, and whatever it is they use to preserve the dead bodies. The Weasel scurries down the corridor ahead of us, leading the way. “I can only give you fifteen minutes, OK? There’s a staff meeting and they’ll be back afterwards.”

He shows us into the cutting room – all shiny stainless steel and sparkling tiles. There’s something on one of the autopsy tables, covered with a white plastic sheet.

“This clears what I owe, right?” says the Weasel. “My little problem with the horses? No one’s going to come round and break my thumbs? Right?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” Henry doesn’t really care. “Now show us the body parts.”

The Weasel nods, grabs one side of the white sheet and pulls it away like he’s performing a magic trick.

And we get to see what we drove all the way out from New Jersey for.

It ain’t pretty.

Chapter 3
Laura’s Ex-Boyfriend

New Jersey – Wednesday – Two Days Ago

Brian’s what you’d call a pain in the ass. Eighteen, on the football team, brown floppy hair, dimpled chin, blue eyes . . . exactly the sort of guy a sixteen-year-old blonde girl would fall for. I’ve seen him at Mr Jones’s place a couple of times, picking Laura up in that flashy convertible his mom and dad bought him. No surprise he’s a cocky bastard.

Only Brian doesn’t look quite so cocky now. He’s standing in Mr Jones’s living room, trying not to meet anyone’s eye. As if we give a shit that he’s been crying – we’ve got more important things to worry about. Like where the fuck is Laura.

“We can only stay a couple of minutes,” says Sergeant Maloney, hat in his hands, all respectful like. “FBI’s holding a briefing and I gotta be there to make sure everyone’s got paper and fuckin’ pencils.” He stops, looks at Mr Jones’s wife. “Pardon my language, ma’am.”

I don’t think she even notices.

“I tell you,” says the Sergeant, “these FBI cocksuckers – pardon my language – are running about like it’s
Silence of the
God-Damned
Lambs
. Not one of them ever heard of proper solid police-work.”

Henry’s standing over by the window, watching as the sweeping headlights of someone’s car makes the front yard glow. The FBI have searched the grounds and now they’re heading further out. Probably looking for something illegal they can pin on Mr Jones. Bastards. Like he doesn’t have enough to worry about with his daughter getting snatched by some sick weirdo.

“I think,” says Henry, “Mr Jones would like a word with Laura’s boyfriend.”

“Right,” the Sergeant backs up a pace, “Right, yeah. Of course.” He pushes Brian forward.

The kid looks at the carpet, looks at the paintings on the wall, looks at the fireplace, everywhere but at Mr Jones.

“Where the fuck were you?” asks Mr Jones. “Where the
fuck
were you when my little girl was getting taken?” He picks up a glass full of scotch and hurls it into the gas fire.

Brian mumbles something.

“What?” Mr Jones grabs him by the lapels and shakes. “What the fuck did you say?”

“I said it wasn’t my fault!” Brian breaks free and smoothes down his jacket. “We had a fight. She didn’t want me going to Harvard. She threw Diet Coke all over me. Stormed out of the movie.”

“And you didn’t go after her?” Mr Jones’s voice is low and precise, and all the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. This is not good for Brian. But what does he know? He’s eighteen, he’s rich, probably thinks he’s immortal.

“She said she hated me; was going to take a cab home. I – ” He makes a strange squeaking noise as Mr Jones takes a hold of his face and shoves him back, banging his head off the wall.

“You let my daughter, my SIXTEEN-YEAROLD daughter wait alone for a fucking cab? In the middle of the fucking night? In the dark? In that part of town?”

Sergeant Maloney can see what’s coming. “Come on now, Mr Jones, let’s all just calm down. I’m sure – ”

Mr Jones smashes a fist into the Sergeant’s face and the cop falls to his knees, hands clutched over his nose, blood pouring out between his fingers. Moaning in pain.

“Mark,” Mr Jones speaks to me without looking round, “take Sergeant Maloney and get him a drink.”

I say, “Yes, sir,” and help the guy over to the couch – then hand him a stack of napkins and a large scotch with ice. He dabs his broken nose with one and sips at the other, thanking me.

Brian sees this – sees Mr Jones punch a police officer and the police officer taking it – and something clicks on in his brain. It’s fear. The sudden knowledge that being rich and eighteen isn’t going to be enough this time. That Mr Jones doesn’t give a flying fuck if Brian’s father is chairman of the golf club. That Mr Jones wants his daughter back and he wants her back
now
.

And Brian left her to take a cab home on her own, and some bastard snatched her.

“Henry,” says Mr Jones, “go fetch the bolt cutters. I think Brian here’s about to have an accident.” It’s not a sight I’m going to forget in a hurry.

Chapter 4

Today – Friday – back in the morgue

Henry looks down at what’s on the autopsy table, then pulls out his Fifth of Old Kentucky and takes a long swig. He offers me the bottle, and I know I’m driving and everything, but I take a drink anyway. It’s not every day you’re faced with two sets of severed arms and legs laid out like that.

I don’t offer the bottle to the Weasel, just ask him what the hell we’re looking at.

“They’re arms and legs. Women’s arms and legs.”

Henry stares at him. “We know they’re fuckin’ arms and legs. We’re not blind!”

I know the Weasel can hear the voice –
‘Don’t poke the fucking bear!’
– because he hurries over to the counter-top and comes back with a clipboard, flicking through the pages and stammering in his rush to be helpful. “We . . . we’ve got another three sets of limbs in the morgue . . .” pointing at a row of refrigerators “... they were all removed ante-mortem with a sharp knife and some kind of saw – ”

I say, “Back the fuck up. Who the hell is Auntie Mortem?”

“Ante-mortem . . . it means ‘before death’. The victims were alive when he cut them up.”

“Fuck.”

Henry pulls a pair of latex gloves from a box next to the table and snaps them on. Then he leans over and prods at the remains. “Not easy,” he says, one hand resting on an upper thigh, “taking a leg off someone who’s still alive.” He makes like he’s got a saw in his other hand, hacking away at the point where the pale yellow-purple skin turns in to raw meat and bone. “They’d struggle like hell. You’d get blood everywhere.” He lets go of the woman’s thigh. “Much easier to hack someone up when they’re dead.”

And he’s right. We’ve done more than our fair share of nasty shit in our time, but we’ve never cut some poor bastard’s arms and legs off while they’re still alive. Not to say we’ve never chopped anyone up, but just, you know, after they’re dead.

The Weasel goes pale. “Right . . . Yeah . . . Er . . .” eyes scanning the coroner’s report, looking for something that will get us the hell out of his nice quiet morgue, “we’re doing a tox screen on the blood, but the labs are swamped right now. They’re supposed to be sending an FBI agent down to – ”

“Special Agent David Mills.”

Weasel nods. “That’s – ”

“He’s not going to make it.” That’s because he’s lying dead in the trunk of our car. But he was nice enough to tell us everything the Feds knew before Henry finished with him.

And the guy goes even paler. “Ah ... right. OK.”

“We want details,” I tell him, “like: where did they find the bits? How long they been dead?”

“Ah . . . that’s just it, isn’t it? The arms and legs were removed when they were still living. There’s nothing to say the victims are dead. I mean with the shock and everything it’s likely, but you never know. They could still be alive.”

I look at Henry and I know he’s thinking the same thing I am. Laura, no arms or legs, trapped in some shitty bastard’s basement while he does
stuff
to her. She’s only sixteen, for fuck’s sake.

Henry growls.

I scrawl my cellphone number on a scrap of paper and tell the Weasel to call me if anything else comes up.