Deadeye (17 page)

“You're familiar with Bierstadt?” Omo inquired eagerly. “That one isn't half as good as his worst painting, but a guy can try.”

“I know very little about art,” Lee confessed. “I took an art appreciation class in college. That's it. But I do remember Bierstadt. He was a member of the Hudson River School—and something of a romantic.”

She turned to look at Omo. “This is entirely unexpected coming from a gun-toting cowboy.”

Omo shrugged. “I have to eat . . . And I believe in what I do. People, regular people, need to be protected.”

“Which reminds me,” Lee said. “How's your family doing? Are they okay?”

“None of the rockets came close,” Omo replied. “And Momma says, ‘Hi.'”

Lee looked at her watch. It was half past ten. “It's late. I should get back to the casita.”

“You can sleep here if you like,” Omo offered. “You take the bed, and I'll take the couch. We'll get up early and swing by the casita then.”

Lee thought about how tired she was and the half-hour drive to the family compound. “That sounds good. But don't snore. I'll shoot you if you do.”

Twenty minutes later, Lee was between fresh sheets listening to Omo snore. Even though the couch was on the far side of the room, she could still hear it. The landscapes had been a surprise. But the art that affected her the most was the row of masks that hung on the west wall. There were seven in all . . . And she had seen some before, including the sardonic smile, what she thought of as the neutral look, and the “what the hell” expression. But it was the first time that Lee had seen the angry face, the laughing mouth, or the Omo with tears streaming down his cheeks. And that was the one that followed Lee into her dreams.

IT WAS HOT
in the desert. At least a hundred degrees. So as Manny Hermoza climbed the hill, he began to sweat. He glanced up from time to time to see the shape of a man on a cross silhouetted against the azure sky. But even though the man's name was Jesus, as in Jesus Alvarez, there was nothing holy about the hijo de puta (son of a whore). “Good morning,” Hermoza said cheerfully as he reached the top. “Wow! Look at that view! Although I suppose you have by now.”

Alvarez had been stripped naked prior to being crucified. His black hair was coated with windblown dust, his bloodshot eyes were barely visible in black caves, and his lips were cracked. Hermoza had heard that many depictions of Christ's crucifixion were inaccurate. But he regarded himself as a traditionalist, so three nails had been used to secure Alvarez. One through each wrist and one to pin both legs at the same time. All the wounds were crusted with dried blood. Did such details matter? They did to Hermoza. He believed in the old saying that “If a job is worth doing—it's worth doing right.”

Hermoza removed a small bottle of water from his back pocket and made a show of unscrewing the cap. Then, with Alvarez looking on, he took a long pull. The belch was fake but effective nevertheless. Alvarez ran a dry tongue over his broken lips and winced when Hermoza poured the rest of the water over his head. “Ah,” the gang leader said, as rivulets of water ran down his face. “That feels good.”

Then, after wiping the rest of the water away with a shirtsleeve, Hermoza looked up at Alvarez. “Enough screwing around, Jesus. You know why I'm here. The Blancos are about to bring some girls in from New Mexico. I know that. What I
don't
have is the when and the where.

“Such information is valuable,” Hermoza continued. “I know that. So, as I told you yesterday, I'm willing to pay for it. I offered you one thousand nubucks. That's a lot of dinero for anyone other than a cara mierda (shit face) like you. But, in light of your present circumstances, the price has gone down. Now I'm willing to pay you with one of
these
.”

El Cabra made an elaborate show out of removing the enormous Smith & Wesson revolver from its shoulder holster, flipping the cylinder open, and loading a single .50 caliber bullet into one of five empty chambers. “It's all yours,” Hermoza said as he pulled the hammer back. “All you have to do is tell me when the Blancos are going to arrive and where they'll be.”

Alvarez opened his mouth as if to speak, but Hermoza raised a hand. “Don't lie to me. If you do, I will snatch your wife and give her to my men. And you know what will happen then.”

There was a pause, as if Alvarez was thinking about what could happen to his wife, followed by a dry croak. “I'll tell.”

“All right, give.”

Alvarez swallowed in a futile attempt to moisten his mouth. “They're going to stop at the old Wilcox ranch north of Portal.”

“When?”

“Thursday.”

It was Tuesday. That meant the D-Dawgs would have to move quickly. “All right, Jesus . . . You'd better be right. If you're wrong, or if you lied to me, I'll be first in line to fuck your wife Friday night.”

Hermoza pointed the pistol and Alvarez closed his eyes. The report was loud enough to echo off the surrounding hills. The huge bullet hit Alvarez in the chest, passed through his body, and blew a chunk out of the wooden upright. Blood splattered the desert sand.

Hermoza flipped the cylinder open, ejected the empty casing, and placed a speed loader over the empty chambers. Once loaded, the weapon went back into a shoulder holster. Hermoza looked up at the dead man, crossed himself, and turned away.

Going downhill was easier than climbing up had been even in white loafers. Hermoza could see the white SUV at the foot of the hill. The engine was running, and the interior would be nice and cool. That would feel good. And stealing a shipment of women from the Blancos? That would feel even better.

*   *   *

Lee and Omo were up and out of his house by 6:00
A.M.
That would give them time to swing by the casita and make it to headquarters by 8:00
A.M.
Traffic was heavy as usual, but they made good time and pulled into the family compound at 6:33.

After parking the truck, Omo went to say hello to his mother while Lee made the short journey to the casita. She had slept surprisingly well given the strange bed and the events of the previous day. So after taking a quick shower and putting on some clean clothes Lee would be ready to go. That's what she was thinking as she approached the front door. It was ajar, and the wood around the lock was splintered. Just like the door to her apartment back in LA.

Lee drew the Glock, toed the door open, and announced herself. “Maricopa County Sheriff's Department! Come out with your hands on top of your head.”

Not hearing a response, Lee went in ready for anything. It took less than a minute to confirm that the intruder or intruders were gone. But the word
BONEBREAKER
had been written on the bathroom mirror using her own lipstick.

“What happened to the door?” Omo wanted to know as he entered the room. And then he looked past her to the mirror. “
Bonebreaker?
What does that mean?”

Lee sighed. “I'll tell you on the way to work. In the meantime, I suggest that you warn your family. Somebody came over the wall. Probably a single individual—but I can't say that for sure. I'll pay for the door.”

“Screw the door,” Omo replied. “I want to know why you were holding out on me.”

“Because it didn't have anything to do with the Screed case.”

“Does this have something to do with the tracker that was placed on my truck?”

Lee shrugged. “Yes, maybe, hell—I don't know.”

Omo nodded. “Okay. I'll ask Uncle Gary to get the door repaired—and we'll put more people on the wall. But here's something to consider . . . You weren't home last night. What if you had been? I'll meet you at the truck.” And with that he left.

Lee thought about what Omo had said as she showered. Assuming the word
BONEBREAKER
had been left there by the serial murderer himself, and that seemed to make sense, had he or she been there to kill her? Or was the break-in part of a continuing effort to intimidate her? If so, it was working.

Omo was waiting when she arrived at the truck. “Uncle Gary is very sorry and hopes that you will accept his apology,” Omo said. “He plans to add a man to the night watch. It's difficult, however, since most members of the family work during the day.”

“I'm the one who should apologize,” Lee responded. “By agreeing to stay in the casita, I put your family in danger. Please tell Momma and Uncle Gary that I will move to a hotel.”

“No way,” Omo said firmly. “That would hurt their feelings. Come on, let's get going. We can talk about this on the way.”

Once they were on the freeway and headed east, Lee told Omo about the Bonebreaker murders, her father's death, and her determination to find the perp or perps. The full briefing included information about the break-in at her apartment and the fact that the name “Bonebreaker” had been written on his truck as well.

Omo heard her out, but then he spoke his mind. “So why keep everything to yourself, Cassandra? Why wall everyone out?”

Lee took a moment to think about that. “There are a number of reasons,” she said finally. “First, I'm not supposed to work on the Bonebreaker murders. Second, once you share personal things, people have a hold on you.”

Omo glanced at her. “And that includes me.”

“Of course it does,” Lee answered honestly. “Or did. You were a stranger . . . Why would I spill my guts to a stranger?”

“Plus I'm a mutant.”

“That's bullshit, Ras. My last partner was a norm. I didn't tell him either.”

Omo was silent for a moment. “Okay, but no more secrets. Right?”

“Maybe,” Lee said. “And maybe not. Who's the girl in the photo? The one with the big boobs? I saw the picture sitting on your desk at home.”

Omo said, “None of your business,” and both of them laughed.

The cleanup was still under way at the headquarters building, but considerable progress had been made. The burned-out bus had been towed away, and additional concrete barriers were being lowered into place with a crane. It took a full fifteen minutes to pass through security, and once inside the building, the bomb damage and bullet holes were still visible.

The bodies had been removed, however, and repairs had begun. “We're going up to the fourth floor,” Omo announced. “That's where the gang squad hangs out. They need to know what we're up to—and we need their help.”

As they arrived on the fourth floor, Lee saw that it was undamaged. The terrorists had been able to reach the third floor but hadn't gone any higher. Omo led her through a maze of cubicles to an open area. The conference table was littered with cups, printouts, and a variety of personal belongings. Five cops were present, all of whom looked like the sort of people they were supposed to chase. Omo made the introductions. The team leader was a man named Van. He had a bald head, a handlebar mustache, and a pair of world-class biceps that were on full display. Lee couldn't help but notice the webbing between his fingers and wondered how that would affect his ability to fire a gun.

Next came a woman named Fossy. She had purple hair, an elfin face, and arms covered with tattoos.

“The Stick,” as Van referred to him, was so thin he looked like a living skeleton. He waved a hand.

A woman called Coco was sitting next to the Stick. She had blond hair, a pretty face, and a snakelike tongue. It flicked in and out from time to time.

Finally, there was Kirby. He was so short that he had to sit on two cushions and was armed with a G-26 or “Baby Glock” rather than a larger weapon. Once the introductions had been made, he looked at Lee and frowned. “Are you the one who saved the people on the third floor?”

“No,” Lee said. “I'm the one who held on to the switch while Deputy Omo shot the asshole in the head.”

A number of looks were exchanged, and Lee knew, or thought she knew, what the police officers were thinking. Omo was the same man who shot a perp through Arpo's son. Some of them chuckled, and Van extended a hand. “Nice work, Omo . . . You saved a lot of lives.

“Okay,” Van continued. “The word came down that the case you're working on could be connected to the D-Dawgs. We'd love nothing better than to nail those assholes. How can we help?”

*   *   *

It was dark, but thanks to a silvery frosting of starlight, Manny Hermoza could see the dirt road below. It was the perfect night for killing Blancos and taking their women. Hermoza planned to take a norm bitch for himself one day and use her to produce a son. A fine, strapping boy who would inherit his father's organization and make it even larger. Carla wouldn't like that, but so what? Hermoza's thoughts were interrupted as a voice came through his earbuds. “They coming.”

The lookout was correct. As Hermoza looked to the left, he saw a pair of headlights appear. Strips of duct tape had been used to reduce the amount of light they produced, but a couple of horizontal slits were visible. “Okay,” he said into the boom mike in front of his lips. “Now remember . . . Hit the first ride, and the second ride, but stay off the rest. If somebody shoots a girl, I'm gonna roast him like a pig.”

After walking the road the day before, Hermoza and his gang had chosen the kill zone laid out in front of him. There was no way to know how many vehicles the Blancos would bring and the length of the intervals between them. So it was impossible for Hermoza to offer anything more than general instructions until some specific information came in. It seemed to take forever but was actually no more than thirty seconds or so. “The last one is coming your way,” a lookout announced. “It's a gun truck with a fifty on the back.”

“Okay,” Hermoza said. “Hold, hold, hold . . . Fire!”

All of the D-Dawgs were lined up along the north side of the road so they wouldn't shoot each other. The RPG men fired first, and both grenades flew straight and true. Light strobed the night as the lead vehicle slewed sideways and veered into a ditch. It was on fire and blew up when the flames found a box of ammo.

It was tempting to sit back and watch the fireworks. But Hermoza knew better than to do so. His job was to stay in touch with the big picture, and thanks to a flood of radio reports, he knew that while the last vehicle in the convoy had been hit, it wasn't blocking the road. And that meant the surviving Blancos could back out of the trap. “They're escaping!” someone shouted, and it was true. But Hermoza had an app for that. “Blow the charges,” he ordered. “And when the bastardos get out, shoot them.”

Hermoza left cover and took the slope in a series of jumps. The Blancos were firing wildly in hopes of scoring some lucky hits. Then the charges went off, and a curtain of soil shot upward. Clangs were heard as rocks rained down on the SUVs and struck some of the D-Dawgs as well. One man stumbled away, holding his head.

Hermoza was on the road by then, with his pistol raised. The headlights in front of him continued to grow dimmer as the vehicle backed away. He chose a point halfway between the lights and squeezed the trigger. There was a loud boom, and the recoil was so powerful that Hermoza had to pull the hog leg back down before he could fire it again. The second shot was right on the money, and the especiale jerked to a halt as a cloud of steam poured out of it.

At that point, the Blancos had little choice but to beg for mercy or fight back. And, since there was no likelihood of mercy, they came out firing. The D-Dawgs gunned them down. Then, just to make sure, a Dawg named Deuce put two bullets into each head. Hermoza went over to spit on the last one. “How you like that, bitch?” he demanded. The woman didn't answer.