To her surprise he shook his head, puffing out his cheeks to show the thought made him nauseous. She put the back of her hand on his forehead. Maybe he was a little feverish.
“Sam’s the same size as me. Can’t you just get the same stuff for both of us?” he mumbled. “I’ll barf all over everything if I have to go out.”
Molly folded her arms and looked at both her sons. If Trent was sick, she couldn’t make him go. That would be way too unmotherly of her. She pursed her lips in thought. He was only eight. Even eight-year-olds needed a little TLC when they were sick… But there were the sales to consider and Trent was mature for his age. Maybe going out at all would be too unmotherly… She was just not cut out for this.
Jared Roberson spit the frayed remains of a wooden toothpick out the window of his patrol car and tried to shrug off the unidentifiable nagging in his gut. A half mile below the rocky bluff where he sat overlooking the Denver suburb that was his domain, a parade of three garbage trucks rumbled single-file toward the Fashion Center Mall. Bits of cottonwood fluff floated up on the lazy summer air.
Roberson took a swig of Maalox, hoping the chalky stuff might drown whatever desert viper had slithered down his throat and coiled in his guts during his last tour in Afghanistan. It struck at him every other day or so, just to keep things interesting. Molly said he should see a therapist, but cops didn’t visit shrinks — not if they wanted to keep their jobs.
The three trucks, blinding white under a noon sun, bore left on Spruce Avenue from the Interstate 25 access road. Something about the precise, almost choreographed way they moved reminded Roberson of a military convoy.
Glancing up, he caught a glimpse of his scar in the rearview mirror. Courtesy of a roadside bomb near some poppy fields outside Kabul, the grizzly war memento covered the left side of his face in tight, translucent flesh — and got a lot of second looks when he was writing tickets. It still ached — more than he confessed to Molly — and served as a constant reminder that he had survived when so many better soldiers had not. His twin boys seemed unbothered by the gruesome new look and reasoned that since their dad fought bad guys and had funny-looking skin, he must be a superhero. They called him Plastic Man.
On the streets below, the garbage trucks rolled to a stop at North Mall Drive, waiting for the light. They were perfectly spaced with a truck’s length between them.
The serpent in Roberson’s gut writhed impatiently. Plastic Man’s instincts told him something was wrong.
Halibi’s eyes flashed to the side mirror. Ismail was lagging behind. “Keep up, my cousin,” he said, speaking into the prepaid cell phone. “We are very close. You do not want to waste our opportunity.”
“Do you truly believe, Mahir? No doubts?” Ismail’s voice quavered like a small child.
“I am here, am I not?” Halibi whispered as much to himself as his cousin. Beads of sweat ran down his forehead, stinging his already burning eyes. An infidel woman in a pair of short pants that revealed much of her jiggling buttocks crossed the street in front of his truck, licking an ice cream cone like a mindless cow. “The Americans call this the Sabbath, yet they spend their holy day shopping and stuffing gluttonous faces.” He took his foot off the brake. “Follow me, my cousin. We have come too far to falter now…”
Roberson hadn’t checked out for lunch, but dispatch knew where he was. He came here every day. This was his spot. It was where he’d proposed to Molly, where she’d told him she was pregnant with the boys, and where he’d broken the news to her that he’d reenlisted with his old Ranger unit after September 11.
The muffled squeals and honks of traffic rose on waves of heat from acres of concrete and asphalt. The pungent smell of cedar mingled with the fragrance of freshly mown grass from the spacious Rocky Mountain estates that overlooked the city on the granite ridge behind him.
On the streets below, the light turned green and the trucks began to roll.
Fashion Center Mall was set up in a rough clover shape with its three anchor stores comprising the point of each leaf. Sun sparkled on an endless sea of windshields in the mall’s three expansive parking lots. A steady stream of cars and SUVs poured in from I-25 like ants to a picnic. The big-box stores had advertised huge back-to-school blowouts for the weekend.
Molly would be there by now, buying the boys new jeans at the Sunday sales… the Super Sunday Sales…
Roberson snatched up the radio mike from where it hung on the dashboard.
“Three-twenty.”
The dispatcher answered immediately. “Go Three-twenty.”
“Gina, I got three garbage trucks rolling up on Fashion Center. Any idea why the city would have trucks out today?” His stomach ached as if he’d gone three rounds with Rocky Balboa.
There was a long silence. “Uhhh… to pick up garbage?”
“On Sunday?” He slammed back another shot of Maalox.
“Ahhh.” Now she got his point. “Public Works should be closed. I’ll check with the fire department to see if they’ve heard—”
“Three-eighteen.” The new voice on the radio was Brian Long, the officer working the northern sector. He was from Connecticut and his strong accent made it sound as if he was trying to eat the radio mike.
“Go ahead, Three-eighteen.” Gina’s voice bristled with this-better-be-good snippiness at having been interrupted.
“I’m out behind Public Works now. They’re definitely closed, but somebody’s gone and cut a big hole in the fence. You could drive a school bus through this thing. I got two empty box vans that don’t look like they belong here and… holy shit!”
The radio went dead for what seemed like an eternity.
“Three-eighteen,” Gina snapped. “Your status?”
Brian came back frazzled. “I… I got me a dead guy here. Looks like his throat’s been cut…”
“Ten-four, Three-eighteen,” Gina came back, icy calm again. “I have two CSP units heading your way for backup.”
Roberson watched as the garbage trucks picked up speed. The first two in line kept right at the entrance to the lower mall parking lot while the straggler hesitated, then veered left toward Sears.
“Three-twenty,” Gina’s voice broke squelch. “Three-fourteen and Three-twenty-two are leaving the station, heading your direction at this time. Looks like whoever took your garbage trucks is good for a homicide.”
Roberson keyed his mike as the second truck peeled away, moving toward the packed lot in front of Nordstrom. “Ten-four,” he whispered. Memories of Afghanistan and cordite and screaming pressed in around him. The viper in his belly struck with renewed vigor.
He dropped the mike in the passenger seat and jumped from his patrol car, punching his wife’s speed dial on his cell phone with his thumb. His eyes locked on the mall.
“Molly!” he yelled as if he could shout his wife a warning from the ridge top. She was down there with the boys. Dread flooded his system like a debilitating drug, making it difficult to stand. Her cell rang twice before she answered
“Hey, Super Dude,” she said. “What’s up?”
Roberson kept his eyes glued to the scene below.
“Molly, where are you?” Bile seared the back of his throat. He knew it was foolish, but he searched the rows and rows of parked cars for her Impala. Of course he couldn’t locate it from where he was. He wanted to run to her, but if he moved he’d lose sight of the trucks.
“Trent was sick so—”
“Thank the Lord,” Roberson sighed. “So you’re not at the mall?”
“Of course I’m at the mall. Trent stayed home. Sam and I are looking at boys’ underwear in Sears,” she said. “Why?”