Bond, Stephanie - Body Movers 05 (3 page)

by lots of reneging. The site was deserted, hemmed in by a

few trees, but there were no people or houses within

sight. Just baked dirt, tinged red with Georgia clay, as far

as the eye could see.

“Have you done this before?” Wesley asked his

companion.

“Oh, yeah. You get used to it.”

Wesley gagged.

“You’re thinking about it too much, little man. Fucking do

it already.”

Wesley took a deep breath and lowered the safety glasses

over his eyes. Then he knelt on the ground, averted his

gaze and felt for the man’s mouth. The dead flesh was cold

and pulpy and the head reeked, like a rancid piece of

meat. Wesley groped until he found the mouth, then pried

open the stiff lips. He glanced down and grew light-headed

at the sight of his hands in the mouth of the disembodied

head.

“Start with the front ones,” Mouse advised, chewing on his

burger. “They snap off like dried corn.”

Wes swallowed hard and positioned the pliers with a

shaking hand around one of the big square front teeth.

The stretching and pul ing had made the man’s eyelids pop

open, revealing his cloudy irises. Wesley squeezed the

pliers, but when he pul ed up, the head slid against the

ground and spun out of his grasp, rol ing like a melon.

Mouse bel y laughed, obviously enjoying the show.

Wesley wrestled the head back in position, then put it

between his knees to hold it stil . Panicky and sickened, he

repositioned the pliers and pul ed as hard as he could.

Something pinged against his safety glasses, and when he

looked down, half of the tooth was gone. Bile backed up in

his throat, but before he could change his mind, he broke

off the other half of the tooth and dropped it in the Micky

D’s disposable cup that Mouse had conveniently provided.

“See, that wasn’t so hard,” Mouse urged him on.

One by one, Wes rid the head of its teeth. Some of them

broke off, and some of them came out root and all. There

was no blood, thank God, but plenty of flying gum tissue to

muck up the safety glasses. Mr. Dead Man had spent a lot

of money on his choppers, because he had caps, and two

in the back were gold.

“I’l take those,” Mouse said, extending a handkerchief for

Wesley to drop them into.

“What wil you do with them?”

“Sel them.”

“Who the heck buys gold teeth?”

“Well, most of our sources have dried up because it’s

gotten too risky, but now those companies that buy gold

through the mail make it real easy. They send me a

postage-paid envelope, I drop in the gold teeth, and a

couple of weeks later, I get a check, easy-peasy.”

Wesley’s eyes bulged. “They don’t wonder where you got

an envelope ful of gold teeth?”

He shrugged. “They don’t care. Ain’t America grand?”

The molars and the wisdom teeth presented the greatest

challenge, but by then, Wesley had gotten the hang of it

and twisted them out like pul ing stumps out of the

ground. When he dropped the last tooth into the cup, he

sat back on his heels and tore off the safety glasses. The

head rol ed a quarter turn, its mouth a snaggly hole.

Wesley stumbled to his feet, walked to the nearest bush

and threw up.

Mouse chuckled, then picked up the cup of teeth and

headed back to the Town Car. “When you’re finished, let’s

go.”

Wes wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “What about the

head?”

“Leave it. It’s supposed to be a hundred degrees today—

the bugs and the birds wil take care of it.”

“What about the skul ?”

“Hel , if someone does find it, they’ll probably take it home

and put it on their bookshelf.”

Wesley walked back to the car to put the tools and gloves

in a bucket in the trunk. He stopped for a moment and let

the reality of what he’d done wash over him, then he

slammed down the lid with revulsion.

“Hey, take it easy,” Mouse cal ed. “Get in.”

Wes crawled into the front seat, hot and sweaty, the stink

of rotting flesh in his nostrils.

“Moist towelette?” Mouse asked, extending one of those

little foil packets that barbecue joints pass out to

customers.

He took it and tore it open, then unfolded the disposable

towel and held it against his face, breathing in the

antiseptic smel . God, that was the worst thing he’d ever

done. He had a feeling he’d be having nightmares about it

for a while. He needed a hit of Oxy, bad. He reached for his

backpack just as his phone rang from inside. Wes pul ed it

out and frowned. The screen said he had eight messages

and the incoming call was from Carlotta—something was

wrong.

“I need to get this,” he said to Mouse, then flipped up the

phone. “Yeah?”

“Wes, where are you? I’ve left you a half-dozen

messages.”

“Um, I’ve been working. Is something wrong, sis?”

He listened with incredulity as she told him how she’d

discovered that Michael Lane had been living in their

parents’ bedroom. He shook his head, his mind racing at

the implication—the psycho had been roaming around

their house at all hours, doing chores? “That’s crazy. For

how long?”

“We think since Friday.”

“Jesus Christ, why aren’t we dead?”

“Good question. Michael obviously had ample opportunity

to do whatever he wanted.”

He hated hearing the fear in his sister’s voice. “They don’t

know where Lane is?”

“Not yet. But at least Jack knows he’s on the run again, so

they have an APB out on him.”

“I’m going to install a security system in the town house,”

he said. Guilt tightened his chest. He should’ve done it

before now, considering all the trouble the pair had been

in lately. He wasn’t doing a very good job of taking care of

his sister after years of her taking care of him.

“I think that’s a good idea. But meanwhile, Peter invited

me to stay at his house until the dust settles.”

He frowned. “You’re moving in with Peter?”

“I’m staying at his house,” she corrected. “And Jack is

having a CSI team go over the town house, so you should

come, too. Peter has plenty of room.”

He remembered the man’s huge home from when he and

Coop had gone there to remove the body of Peter’s wife

after she’d drowned in the pool. “Thanks, but I’l probably

crash with Chance.”

“Okay,” she said, although he could feel her disapproval

vibrating over the line. Carlotta didn’t like his buddy

Chance Hol ander—she thought Chance was a bad

influence on him. Little did she know that he’d just

performed oral surgery on a severed head while Chance

was probably watching cartoons.

“Wes, there’s something else. It looks like Michael stole

your money before he left.”

His stomach fel . “No…no…. no. Are you sure?”

“I didn’t touch it, so if it’s gone, that only leaves Michael.”

He leaned his head back and groaned.

“I’m sorry, I know you had plans for that money. But in the

scheme of things, we’re lucky to be alive.”

“Yeah, I know. But stil .”

“So, how’s the courier job going?” she asked cheerful y.

He glanced down at the cup of teeth in the console and his

intestines cramped. “Fine and dandy.”

“Good. I’l have my cel phone with me, and here’s the

number at Peter’s.”

“Okay,” he said, taking down the information. “Later.”

He disconnected the call and sighed.

“Trouble at home?” Mouse asked.

“You know it.” Now he real y needed a hit of Oxy.

Reaching into his backpack, he palmed a pil into his mouth

and chewed.

“What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“Whatever you just put in your mouth, smart-ass.”

Wesley frowned. “What do you care?”

“Didn’t take you for a druggie,” Mouse said, looking almost

disappointed.

“Don’t sweat it, man. It’s just something to take the edge

off.” He wrapped his fingers around the section of his arm

where The Carver had lived up to his nickname by etching

the first three letters of his name into Wesley’s forearm

after Wesley had humiliated The Carver in a stunt at a strip

club. “My arm stil hurts, dude.”

“Maybe so, but drugs’l mess you up.”

Wesley lifted an eyebrow. “That’s rich coming from you.”

“I’m just saying, little man, watch yourself.”

The cool pleasure of the Oxy coursed through his system,

making the day’s events a rosy haze. Stil , high or not, he

realized that he needed cash, and Mouse wasn’t the kind

of guy to pass out bonuses. “Are we through for the day?”

“Yeah. I have to go to my niece’s dance recital. Where can

I drop you?”

“Not at the house—the police are there.” Wes lifted his

hand. “Don’t ask, man, it’s a long story.” On impulse, he

pul ed out his phone and brought up Coop’s cel number.

After a few rings, Coop answered.

“Hey, Wes, what’s up?”

He wet his lips, suddenly nervous to talk to the man he’d

let down by conspiring to steal a body they’d been

transporting. “I was wondering if you had any work for me

tonight?”

The silence on the other end indicated that Coop wasn’t

going to be easily persuaded to trust Wesley again. “I don’t

know. We need to talk.”

“Okay, where are you?”

“At the morgue, working in the lab.”

“Can I come by?”

Coop sighed into the phone, then made a frustrated noise.

“Uh, sure.”

“Great. See ya.” He closed the phone and glanced at

Mouse. “Can you drop me at the morgue?”

Mouse nodded. “Sure.”

“Turn at the next street.”

Mouse laughed and put on his signal. “I know the way,

little man. I know the way.”

Wesley swallowed, picturing Mouse driving by the morgue

and pitching out bodies like apple cores. He leaned his

head back on the headrest. What had he gotten himself

into?

3

“When you pul up to the gate,” Peter said, “just enter my

code—four three nine nine.” He demonstrated. “And the

gates wil open.”

They did, swinging back like great black wings, welcoming

Carlotta into the privileged neighborhood of Martinique

Estates. Peter’s Porsche two-seater surged forward, like a

giant cougar. The guard at the pristinely designed

gatehouse waved as they drove by.

Cruising past palatial custom homes, Carlotta was struck

with a sense of déjà vu. She and her family had once lived

in a private subdivision like this one. They’d belonged to

the neighborhood pool and vol eyed on the neighborhood

tennis courts. But these days, in addition to the multiple

pools and other shared amenities, individual home

owners, like Peter, were likely to have their own pool and

their own private add-ons.

Each home was its own little estate.

When he pul ed in to the downward-sloping driveway of

his sprawling brick home, Carlotta had to catch her breath.

She had seen it before, of course, but not in daylight, and

not through the eyes of someone who would be living

there. The house was impressive, with a paved circular

driveway in front that featured a huge fountain, with wide

steps leading to the two-story entryway. Palladium

windows and gleaming white trim gave the eye a pleasing

break from the intimidating mass of brick. The landscaping

was lush and flawlessly manicured.

To the right of the house was the pool. Carlotta was glad it

was daylight. The memory of seeing Peter’s wife, Angela,

lying under night-lights next to the pool where she’d

drowned was branded onto Carlotta’s brain. But in the

brightness of day, with the sun high and the trees ful , it

was tempting to believe that the tragedy hadn’t happened

in this perfect neighborhood.

Peter touched a button on his visor and one of the doors

to a four-car garage opened, revealing his other vehicle, an

SUV. She assumed he’d sold Angela’s Jaguar.

“My insurance company is sending a rental car tomorrow,”

she murmured, remembering her own transportation

situation. As much as she’d hated the blue Monte Carlo,

she hadn’t wanted to see it blown to smithereens, not

when she owed more on it than it was worth.

“Nonsense,” Peter said. “You can drive the convertible, or

the SUV, whichever you prefer.”

“Peter, I couldn’t.”

“Why not? Otherwise one of them wil just be sitting in the

garage while you drive a rental. That doesn’t make sense.”

She hesitated. “It just doesn’t seem right. People wil talk.”

“People are going to talk anyway.” He gestured to another

house before pul ing in to the garage. “My next-door

neighbor is in the Junior League, so I figure Tracey

Lowenstein wil know about our situation in less than

twenty-four hours.”

Tracey Tul y Lowenstein, renowned socialite and daughter

to Walt Tul y, Carlotta’s godfather and her father’s former

partner at what used to be Mashburn, Tul y & Wren

Investments. When Carlotta’s father had been indicted for

fraud, the name Wren had been removed from the firm’s

letterhead, and from the Buckhead social register. Tracey