“Long range on base,” her voice fills his headset.
“Downwind?”
“Roger.”
His footsteps are loud and excited as he walks quickly down the hallways. He can hear what he feels in the way his booted feet move over the scarred old wood, and he carries the shotgun. He carries the shoebox that holds the airbrush, the red paint and the stencil.
He is prepared.
“Now you’ll say you’re sorry,” he says to the open doorway at the end of the hall. “Now you get what you deserve,” he says as he walks quickly and loudly.
He walks into the stench. It is like a wall when he walks through the doorway, worse than out by the pit. Inside the room, the air doesn’t stir and the dead stench has nowhere to go and he stares, shocked.
This can’t have happened.
How could God let this happen!
He hears God in the hallway and she flows into the doorway, shaking her head at him.
“I prepared!” he yells.
God looks at her, the one hanged who went unpunished and shakes her head. It is Hog’s fault, he is stupid, he didn’t foresee it, should have made sure it couldn’t happen.
She didn’t say she was sorry, they all do in the end when the barrel is in their mouth, talk around it, try to,I’m sorry. Please. I’m sorry.
God disappears from the doorway, leaves him with his error and the girl’s pink sneaker on the stained mattress and he begins to shake inside, shake with a rage so powerful he doesn’t know what to do with it.
He screams as he strides across the floor, the filthy floor, sticky and foul with her piss and shit, and he kicks her lifeless, disgusting, naked body as hard as he can. She jerks with each kick. She sways from the rope around her neck, angled up to her left ear, and her tongue protrudes as if she is mocking him, her face bluish deep red as if she is yelling at him. Her weight rests on her knees on the mattress, and her head is bent, as if she is praying to her God, her bound arms straight up, her hands together, as if she is celebrating victory.
Yes! Yes! She sways from her rope, victorious, the little pink shoe next to her.
“Shut up!” he screams.
He kicks and kicks with his big boots until his legs are too tired to kick anymore.
He slams and slams her with the stock of the shotgun until his arms are too tired to slam anymore.
44
Marino waits to activate a series of human-shaped targets that will flip up from behind bushes, a fence and a tree on the base curve, or Dead Man’s Curve, as Lucy calls it.
He checks the blaze-orange wind sock center field, verifying that the wind is still out of the east and gusting at maybe five knots. He watches Lucy’s right arm holster the Glock and reach back to an oversized leather saddlebag as she glides at a steady speed of sixty miles an hour around the crosswind curve, entering the downwind straightaway.
She smoothly pulls out a nine-millimeter Baretta Cx4 Storm carbine.
“Going hot on five,” he says.
Sculpted of a nonreflective black polymer, with the same telescoping bolt used in an Uzi submachine gun, the Storm is a passion of Lucy’s. It weighs less than six pounds, has a pistol-grip stock that makes it easy to handle, and ejection can be altered from left to right. So it is nimble and no-nonsense, and when Marino goes active on Zone Three, Lucy rolls in and brass cartridge cases flash in the sun, flying behind her. She kills everything on Dead Man’s Curve, kills everything more than once. Marino counts fifteen rounds fired. All targets are down, and she has one round left.
He thinks about the woman named Stevie. He thinks about Lucy meeting her tonight at Deuce. The 617 phone number Stevie gave Lucy belongs to a guy inConcord,Massachusetts, a guy named Doug. He says several days ago he was in a bar in Ptown and lost his cell phone. He says he hasn’t cancelled the number yet because some lady apparently found his phone, called one of the numbers in it, ended up talking to one of Doug’s friends, who then gave her Doug’s home number. She called, said she’d found his cell phone, promised to mail it to him.
So far she hasn’t.
It’s a slick trick, Marino thinks. If you find or steal a cell phone and promise to send it to the owner, maybe he doesn’t get his electronic security identification number deactivated right away and you can use his phone for a while, until the person gets wise. What Marino doesn’t quite understand is why Stevie, whoever she is, would go to all the trouble. If her reasoning was to avoid having an account with a cellular company such as Verizon or Sprint, why not just get a pay-as-you-go phone?
Whoever Stevie is, she’s trouble. Lucy is living far too close to the edge these days, has been for the better part of a year. She’s changed. She’s gotten inattentive and indifferent, and at times Marino wonders if she’s trying to hurt herself, hurt herself badly.
“Another car has just sped up from behind,” he radios her. “You’re history.”
“I’m reloaded.”
“No way.” He can’t believe it.
Somehow, she has managed to drop out the empty magazine and slide in a new one without him noticing.
She slows the bike to a stop below the control tower. He sets his headphones on the console, and by the time he gets down the wooden stairs, she has her helmet and gloves off and is unzipping her jacket.
“How’d you do that?” he asks.
“I cheated.”
“I knew it.”
He squints in the sun and wonders where he left his sunglasses. He seems to be misplacing things a lot these days.
“I had an extra magazine here.” She pats a pocket.
“Huh. You probably wouldn’t in real life. So yeah, you cheated.”
“He who survives writes the rules.”
“What’s your thinking about the Z-Rod, about turning all of them into Z-Rods?” he asks, and he knows what she thinks about it, but he asks anyway, hoping she’s changed her mind.
It doesn’t make sense to increase the engine some thirteen percent, from an already enhanced 1150cc’s to 1318cc’s, and an already beefed-up breaking horsepower of 120 to 170, so the bike can rocket from 0 to 140 miles per hour in 9.4 seconds. The more weight the bike loses, the better it will perform, but it would mean replacing the leather seat and rear fender with molded fiberglass and losing the saddlebags, and they can’t lose those. He hopes Lucy isn’t interested in butchering their new fleet of Special Op bikes. He hopes that for once, what she has is enough.
“Impractical and unnecessary,” she surprises him by saying. “A Z-Rod engine only lasts ten thousand miles, so imagine the maintenance headaches, and we strip these things down, it’s going to call attention to them. Not to mention how much louder they’ll be because of the increased air intake.”
“Now what,” he says with a huff as his cell phone rings. “Yeah,” he answers it gruffly.
He listens for a moment, then ends the call and says “shit” before he tells Lucy, “They’re going to start processing the station wagon. Can you get started without me at the Simister house?”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll have Lex meet me.”
Lucy unclips a two-way radio from her waistband and gets on the air, “Zero-zero-one to the stable.”
“What can I do for you, zero-zero-one?”
“Gas up my horse. I’m taking her on the street.”
“She need a bigger burr under her saddle?”
“She’ll do just fine the way she is.”
“Good to hear. Be right there.”
“We’ll head out toSouthBeacharound nine,” Lucy says to Marino. “I’ll meet you there.”
“Maybe it’s better we go together,” he says, looking at her, trying to figure out what’s in her mind.
He never can, not that mind. If she were any more complicated, he’d need an interpreter.