Joe Victim: A Thriller (25 page)

Another hundred yards.

Then I slow down. I start studying the trees. The open clearing ahead is full of dirt that a year ago was also full of dirt. It’s all coming back, sure, but it’s also all looking a little different. The leaves have fallen from the trees and formed a brown paste with the earth. There is moss on the stones and rocks. Last year the same trees were hanging onto life a little better.

“He’s here,” I say to nobody in particular. I point at one patch of dirt that looks like any other while keeping my other thumb buried into my side. “I think,” I add. “If not here, then close to here.”

“That’s not too specific,” Kent says.

“A lot better than what you had before, don’t you think?”

The body is going to be a mess. These people hate me now, and what I did to Calhoun isn’t going to win me any admirers. Unless people admire those who cut off fingertips and pull teeth. Maybe it’s possible. If people can admire midget porn, they can admire anything. I dumped Calhoun’s parts into a plastic bag along with his identification to dispose of later. As hard as I try, I can’t remember what I did with that bag. It wasn’t found on me when I was arrested. I must have dumped it somewhere. If I told that to Ali, she wouldn’t believe me. But I was distracted that night. With blackmail and violence and love. Under the circumstances anybody could be forgiven for misplacing a bag of fingertips.

Jack begins to dig. Calhoun isn’t deep, maybe only a few feet. It doesn’t take Jack long to find evidence of it. The shovel hits a bone and Jack stops digging.

“We’ve got something,” he says, then uses the tip of the shovel to carefully scoop away the dirt covering Calhoun, creating a funnel into which dirt starts to sprinkle back inside. “Remains,” he says.

“Okay,” Kent says. “Cover him back up. We’re done here.”

“You’re kidding,” Jack says.

“You knew the deal coming into this,” Kent says. “You know we’re leaving him here.” Then she looks at all of them. “You all know the deal here. You’re not expected to like it, but it’s your job to shut up about it.”

“This is fucked-up,” Officer Dick says.

“No, this is the job,” Kent says. “And it is what it is. Put the dirt into place and pat it down,” she says, and she gets her cell phone out and starts playing with a GPS feature, marking the location of the grave.

Jack doesn’t start covering the grave. He’s leaning on the handle with both hands and he’s deep in thought. Then that thought makes its way out into the open. “There’s nothing to stop us from shooting him,” he says, and if I remember rightly he brought that subject up during the drive from my apartment to the hospital on the day I was arrested. It’s time to move on. “We shoot him and say he made a break for it. Then there’s no deal left to be made, right? We shoot him and we bring Calhoun back home.”

Kent lowers her phone. I start to raise my arms, but they don’t get far because the chain makes a clanking sound and brings any movement to a halt. “That’s not the deal,” I say.

“But it’s a good deal,” Jack says. “I say we vote on it.”

Nobody else says anything. They all look like they’re thinking about it. Really, really thinking about it. The air is so still that any sound could travel a mile, but right now nobody within a mile is making any kind of noise. I look from one face to the next, there are some poker faces in there and some faces with thoughts written all over them.

“Can’t we all just get along?” I ask.

Nobody answers. In fact only Jack is looking at me. The others are looking past me or through me. They’re still playing various scenarios in their heads. They’re playing out all the possibilities. Except Jack, who has played them out already. This is one of those moments that comes along in life that can change the direction of a man. A turning point. It’s a Big Bang moment all over again.

“Everybody needs to take a deep breath,” I say.

“The same kind of deep breath women would take when they found you in their homes?” Officer Nose asks.

Exactly! But I don’t say it. I look at Kent. I get the sense if she agrees with the idea then in the next few seconds I’ll be one part human and twelve parts bullet. Melissa is taking her sweet time about opening fire.

“I deserve a trial,” I tell them, but I don’t finish it up by saying I’m innocent. I think that would put them over the edge.

“We should take a vote,” Jack says again.

“It needs to be unanimous,” Officer Dick says.

“I agree,” Officer Nose says.

Suddenly we’re all looking at Kent. She is now the center of attention the way I was earlier. My life is in her hands. My heart is racing and my legs feel a little weak and I’m actually close to throwing up. A year ago I tried to shoot myself when the police found me, but that was impulsive and stupid. I don’t want to die. Not here, not now. Not ever. Not at the hands of these assholes.

At least it would stop the stomach pains.

Then, slowly, Kent shakes her head. “This is ridiculous,” she says, without any emotion, as if she’s reading
The cow goes moo
off a cue card. Then she injects a little more conviction into it. But only a little. “I’m not going to risk my career for him,” she adds.

“There’s no risk,” Jack says.

“Of course there is,” she says. “You think we can say Joe ran so we had to shoot him? That we couldn’t catch him?”

“Why not? You think people will care?” Jack asks, and suddenly it’s looking like if Kent doesn’t agree, I’m not going to be the only one having new holes made inside them. They can say I got hold of a gun and shot her before they shot me. Then they’ll have an excuse for putting so many holes into me. Kent doesn’t see it. If she did, she’d stop arguing.

“People will care,” she says.

“Who?” Jack asks. “Come on, Rebecca, this is a freebie. This is why we became cops, right? To right some wrongs. To give justice. If we do this, then we can be honest about why we were out here. We don’t have to fuck around with this psychic shit.”

She doesn’t answer right away. There’s a pendulum swinging—or a wrecking ball—and she still hasn’t decided to go with it or against it. “Family members of victims will care,” she says.

“No they won’t. They’ll be thrilled,” Officer Dick says.

“They deserve to face him in court,” she says. “They deserve the right to confront him.”

Everybody goes quiet. More thoughts and no Melissa, just tension mounting upon more tension, and more tension rising in my stomach. I push my thumb a little deeper. Something in there swirls around. Something in there doesn’t want to be in there anymore.

“We can do this, Rebecca,” Jack says. “We can do it and say whatever we want. You know that, right?”

She nods. A slow, purposeful nod. “I . . . I don’t know,” she says. “But . . .”

“You can’t do this,” I say.

“Shut up,” Jack says. “Rebecca . . .”

“Can we live with it?” she asks.

“Don’t—” I say.

“Shut the fuck up,” Jack says.

“I can live with it,” Officer Dick says.

My stomach does one final turn, then my legs turn to jelly and my ass muscles just can’t hold on, and before anybody can add anything else a sound like a thunderclap tears itself free from my ass. It echoes through the trees and across the fields. The mess that follows is like a mudslide.

“Oh fuck,” Jack says, and Officer Nose says something similar and so does Dick and Kent, so it’s a chorus of
fuck
s. They all jump back from me. I fall to my knees and into the mud. There are more thunderclaps, quickly followed by what sounds like a bucket of water being thrown at a mattress. I fall onto my side. Dick looks like he’s going to throw up, and then Jack starts laughing. He throws his head back and he has to hold on to the shovel to stay balanced, and he laughs just as hard as Adam and Glen did earlier—harder, probably. He laughs like a man who is in danger of tearing his vocal chords. Kent starts to laugh too, just a grin at first that widens and makes her look even more beautiful. Jack’s laugh becomes infectious, the harder he laughs the harder the others join in. Officers Dick and Nose are on the brink of losing control. My stomach lets go once more—not so much a thunderclap this time, but like somebody sticking a knife into a car tire. I can feel fluid running across my thighs. I try to get to my knees, but don’t have the strength.

“Now we really should shoot him,” Jack says, and he’s laughing as he’s saying it, but there’s still some seriousness in there, some tension, but it’s been broken. “Let him stink up the coroner’s van instead of ours.”

Kent is smiling and shaking her head. She is holding her nose with one hand and talking into her hand. “Let’s just get him back,” she says, “and let the prison clean him up.”

Nobody objects. Nobody suggests they ought to shoot me again. Part of that may be to do with the technical details—I’m covered in shit, and shooting an unarmed man covered in shit is going to be a much harder sell.

“It’s gonna smell,” Dick says, and they’re all still laughing only not as hard now. It’s dying down.

“Let’s just go,” Kent says.

“Wait,” I say. I’m still lying on my side with my face in the cold mud.

“What for?” she asks.

For Melissa to shoot you. All of you. For her to come and save me. It’s getting darker, but the sun hasn’t quite set yet. Isn’t this twilight? Didn’t Mom pass along my message?

“I want to pay my respects,” I say.

“Let’s go,” Jack says, and he reaches down and pulls me to my feet. Officer Dick puts the dirt back into place and pats it down.

The trip out here is put into reverse order. Now the mountains in the distance are on my right. Same trees, same dirt, same rocks with mold. Same view all around except darker. A hundred yards. Two hundred. The seat of my prison jumpsuit is cold. It’s sticking to my legs and ass and smells just like the sandwich. The walk is slow thanks to the chains around my ankles. The pain in my stomach has lessened, but I can already feel it starting to build again. Melissa is in the trees somewhere, but taking her time, just waiting for the perfect shot. Being covered in my own shit will be a mood killer for her, but I’ll clean up good. I lose my shoe in the same place I lost it earlier, but don’t have the strength to bend down and look for it. It’s getting darker by the minute. My sock is soaked in mud and my foot is cold and it hurts when I step on a tree root or a stone or anything else that isn’t flat. Then we’re at the fence. We go over it the same way as before, two ahead of me to drag me, but the two behind me don’t want to push. They don’t want to touch me. So the two ahead have to do all the work because I don’t have any strength to help them. When I’m over I break the fall with my arms and am given only a few seconds before being pulled back up. We approach the van. My feet are heavy with mud. My bank account is about to be heavy with cash. Cash I can’t use unless Melissa starts shooting. Only she doesn’t. Nobody does.

We all stand at the back of the van wondering how to make the next step less messy than it’s going to get, but nothing comes to mind, there’s nothing to lay across the seat first, so I head in and the reverse order continues. Hell, even Calhoun was found and then not found. The only thing that hasn’t been taken back is me shitting myself—that one was for keeps. The chain between the eyelet and my handcuffs is fastened. I’m all hunched over. The two cops back here sit as far from me as they can. Jack opens his window. Kent opens hers the rest of the way. There’s a moment where the van doesn’t want to start, a good two-second turnover of the engine where I get to think Melissa has done something to it, but then it catches and Jack pumps the accelerator a few times then releases the hand brake and pulls a U-turn. More lefts and rights, but in the opposite order. Jack flicks on the headlights. A rabbit on the road twenty yards away is all lit up and seems happy with the idea of being hit by the van, and that happiness probably fades as he goes tumbling under the wheels. Moths are flying into the lights and splattering over the windshield. It’s as though nature is trying to kill itself around me, that we are a van of death driving into town. Traffic is thin. My feet are wet and cold. Melissa didn’t come.

She didn’t come.

Chapter Forty

The outer shell of the building is complete. Inside are offices in various stages of completion. The complex won’t reach the finish line until hard economic times become good economic times. Nobody knows when that will be. Opposite the building are the Christchurch Criminal Courts that, until recently, were also under construction. Hard times or good times—it doesn’t matter where the economy is at when it comes to prosecuting crime. The old courts are a few blocks away, but Christchurch was a growing city with bigger problems, and it needed bigger courts to reflect that and to feed bad people into the prison population at a faster rate.

The offices on the third floor of the complex where Melissa and Raphael are standing range from fairly complete to hardly started. The one they’ve chosen is mostly complete. All the walls are in place and there are light fittings and power fittings and no exposed wires. There are some tins of paint resting against a wall, some cleaning supplies, some loose tools, a couple of sawhorses, and a plank of wood that doubles as scaffolding. There’s a whole lot of dust. Things have been sanded down, but nobody cleaned up. Everything looks settled, like it’s been that way for some time and there’s no reason to think that’ll change.

Six months ago she killed a security guard who worked the building two blocks away, the one that overlooked the front of the courts that she was originally going to use. In an unfortunate twist of fate—at least for the guard—she wasn’t trying to kill him. Just pickpocket his keys. He caught her doing it. She had no choice. She thought back then that that building was going to be part of the plan. She thought they’d be taking a shot from the roof. This building is easier. She didn’t need to kill anybody. All she needed on Thursday when she picked this building was a minute with the lock of the entrance around the back. A child with a toothpick could have picked that thing. Once she opened the door, she used a screwdriver to remove the lock on the inside, leaving it so the door couldn’t latch closed. She had to. If she locked up, then re-picked the lock in front of Raphael, she thought at the time that he’d ask too many questions. It’s a miracle the offices in here aren’t all like two-star hotel rooms for the homeless. She’s surprised anything nailed down hasn’t been stolen and sold.

Raphael opens up the case. He starts to assemble the gun. She could tell he loved shooting it. He loved being the man. All she could do was hit dirt. Or that’s what she showed him. It cemented the dynamic in their relationship. He was the shooter. She wasn’t the shooter. She was the collector. He wasn’t the collector. It was a shooting and collecting relationship, hence it’s a two-person plan. Nothing wrong with that.

Raphael doesn’t put the scope on the gun. Instead he stands in front of the windows holding the scope in both hands. He’s wearing a pair of latex gloves. They both are. There’s no reason to leave their fingerprints everywhere. The police uniform is still in the bag.

“I can see everything,” he says.

“What about the courthouse? How does it look?” she asks, but she knows how it looks. She’s been here already. The office has a direct line of sight into the back entrance of the courthouse. A nice, clear view of the parking lot and the courthouse doors and the ten-yard strip of concrete between the parking lot and those doors. A lot can happen in a ten-yard strip of land. There are going to be thousands of people out in the street, but within the parking lot there’s only going to be a couple of cops and Joe. Shouldn’t be a problem. Crowd won’t be in the way. All Raphael has to do is stay calm. Six months ago the view from the other building she chose was very different. Six months ago it looked like a mess from any angle. Cranes. Bulldozers. Work crews.

“Everything is so clear,” he says.

“May I?”

He hands her the scope. It has higher-quality optics than the binoculars. She looks at the courthouse, then up and down the street where there is going to be lots of traffic. The courthouse is a single story. The elevated view from the third floor of the office complex means she can see over the top of the courthouse and further into town. The courthouse takes up an entire block, with the back entrance right in the middle. She can see roads leading in all directions, two main roads running parallel up and down the city—one road passing by the courts on the left, the other on the right. So many protesters will be here on Monday that some of these roads will be closed off. It’s going to be perfect. Right now the roads are almost empty. Saturday evening in the middle of winter in a part of town where there are office buildings and a courthouse and nowhere serving beer—why would there be people down there?

“Here,” she says, and hands the scope back to him.

He lies down and holds the scope. A nice elevation. Simple to look down on the parking lot without anything in the way. Not too high that they have to worry about wind swirling between the buildings. And not too high that they won’t be able to escape quickly.

Biggest thing they have to worry about is weather. They don’t need great weather, but bad weather won’t work. It can’t be pouring heavy with rain. Can’t be gusts of wind. Problem with Christchurch weather is the way you forecast it is the same way you forecast who’s going to win a horse race. You go with the favorite, but everything has a chance.

“I won’t be able to lie down,” he says. “It’d mean shooting through the window. Windows open waist high and above.”

She looks at her watch. It’s ten minutes from six o’clock. The transport is arriving at the back entrance of the court at six o’clock on the dot. She knows that because it was in the itinerary she stole from Schroder. She also knows the solution to Raphael’s problem. She’d figured that out when she came here on Thursday.

“Help me with this,” she says, and she moves over to the paints where a large, canvas drop cloth has been folded up into a neat square foot. They unfold it and carry it over to the window.

“What’s the deal with this?”

“We hang it up,” she says, and reaches into her bag for some duct tape.

Raphael seems to figure it out and together they start stripping off lengths of tape and a few minutes later they have a curtain that shields them from the street. The room, dark to begin with, now becomes pitch-black, and she uses a flashlight function on her cell phone to shed some light. She takes a knife and cuts a square of drop cloth away from in front of one of the opening windows, leaving a hole not much bigger than her head.

“I shoot through this?” Raphael asks.

“And you’ll be lying down too,” she says. “From out on the street nobody is going to see a thing.”

“Lying down on what?” he asks, and she turns toward the sawhorses and the plank of wood and he doesn’t have to ask anything else.

They drag the makeshift platform into place. He lies down on it and shuffles himself into position so he can see out through the drop cloth.

“Try it out,” she says, and she attaches the scope to the gun and hands it over.

He shuffles himself a little further up the planks. He puts the scope against his eye. Tightens the gun into his shoulder.

“It’s good,” he says.

“So you’ll be able to pull off the shot?”

He smiles up at her. “With the window open, yeah.”

“Just don’t open it when you’re in the uniform,” she says. “You open it before that.”

“I know,” he says.

She looks at her watch. “It’s almost time,” she says.

Raphael stays in position. Melissa moves to the edge of their makeshift curtain and kills the light on her phone before pulling the curtain aside. Street lights, building lights, tungsten and neon burning from every direction in the city, more than enough to see clearly. They don’t make any further conversation. They just wait in silence. Somewhere in an adjoining office, or perhaps even the one below or above, an air-conditioning unit kicks into action, the low hum creating a background noise that makes the office complex feel less like a building in a ghost town. But not a lot less.

Right on time a series of headlights comes from the south. Three police cars leading a van, three police cars following it. They’re driving slowly. None of the lights are flashing. They disappear from view, as the angle of the courthouse gets in the way as the cars get close to it, but she knows they’re turning toward the front of the building.

On Monday their progress will be made slower by the traffic and by the crowds of people.

They’re the decoy.

At the same time a van comes into view from the parallel street. It disappears from view as the courthouse blocks them, but then comes back into view as it comes around the back. It turns into the street between the office building and the back entrance. There’s a chain-link fence stretching the perimeter of the court’s parking lot. Somebody inside the compound pushes a button and part of the fence rolls open. The van drives in. The fence rolls closed.

The van parks up close to the door. The back of the van is facing the office window. Its doors swing open.

“I can see all of it,” Raphael says.

“Focus,” she says. “Don’t miss the shot.”

She can see it all too, but not in any great detail. Two men dressed in black step out of the back of the van. Then out shuffles a man in orange. She can’t see the chains, but can tell by the way he’s moving he must be wearing them around his ankles as well as his wrists. He steps down. People are pointing weapons at him. For two seconds nobody moves.

A lot can happen in two seconds.

The prisoner starts his thirty-foot walk.

“Do you have the shot?”

“I have it,” Raphael says.

“How clear is it?”

“Clear enough.”

The thirty feet get eaten up. The group stands around the back door.

“May I?” she asks, and she turns toward Raphael, but can’t see him. She puts out a hand and takes a step toward him. The only light in the office is what’s coming through the hole in the curtain. She feels nothing at first, then touches the side of the gun that’s being held toward her. She grabs it and moves back into position. She looks at the four cops and the man in orange. Almost like a painted target. The man in orange is a police officer. She’s seen him before. On TV or in real life she can’t remember, and it doesn’t rightly matter. Tonight he’s playing the part of Joe. This small field trip’s a rehearsal for Monday morning’s big event.

Also a rehearsal for Raphael and her too.

The cops are chatting with a security guard at the entrance. One of them throws back his head and laughs and the others are grinning at him.

“Can’t miss,” Raphael says.

“There are going to be a lot of people down there,” she says. “People will figure out the police may use the back entrance. The police may panic and have a couple of cars escort it. But no matter how many there are, there’s still only going to be one van. One Joe. And he’ll be covering the same ground his stand-in just covered.”

Raphael gets onto his feet. He picks up the gun case and sits it on the plank he was lying on a moment earlier. Melissa uses duct tape to put the hole she cut in the curtain back into place. Then she switches her cell-phone light back on. Raphael starts taking apart the gun and putting it away. The magazine is empty. There is a mostly empty packet of bullets in the gun case—it’s the last of their supply. There are only two bullets left inside it. Plus the bullet she had to order especially. That one she hands to Raphael.

“This one goes at the top of the magazine,” she says.

He hefts it in his hand, checking the weight, as if it would make a difference.

“This is the armor-piercing bullet?” he asks.

“Don’t miss with it. It’s our only one.”

“I won’t,” he says.

He puts the round into the case, jamming it downward into the foam to separate it from everything else.

“Try not to use the other two rounds,” she says. “The longer you stay up here, the higher chance of getting caught. We need this done in one round. More rounds also means more people being put at risk.”

“It’ll get done in one.”

Melissa climbs up onto the platform and gets to her feet.

“What are you doing?” Raphael asks.

She reaches up and pushes a ceiling panel aside.

“Safer for us if the gun stays here,” she says.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t think it’ll look good on Monday morning if you have to carry it in here. We hide it up here, you use it, then you put it back up there. The police are going to figure out where the shot came from, but there’s no reason for them to think the gun will still be here. And even if they do somehow get lucky, it’s going to be clean.”

“Makes sense,” he says. “Here, let me get it.”

They swap positions. He reaches up and puts the case into the ceiling. She hands him the bag with his police uniform in it. “We keep this here too,” she says.

He slides the panel back into place then climbs down.

“So you won’t be back here,” he says.

She shakes her head. “No reason to,” she says, because she’s going to be down among all the action, among the cops and the protesters, right in the middle of the tension and the chanting and the screamed insults. Raphael is the shooter. She is the collector. No reason to pretend any different.

“We’re not going to practice anymore?”

She shakes her head. She tucks aside the curtain and looks out the window at the van as it starts to pull away. The only difference in the layout between now and Monday is there will be an ambulance there too. There’ll be a few of them scattered around the streets near the courthouse.

There’ll need to be because the protesting is a powder keg ready to explode.

That’s why she got her hand on a paramedic’s uniform months ago. After all, she’s the one who’s playing the collector.