Redzone (22 page)

Once the Bonebreaker was safely through, he began the six-block walk to a major arterial and the nearest bus stop. It would have been more convenient to steal a car locally. But to do so would attract more police attention to the area, which the Bonebreaker wanted to avoid.

And there were other threats as well . . . Including the gangs that ruled the night. Were some of them to come across a well-dressed businessman walking along a deserted street
they would pounce. Then they would die. Because the Bonebreaker was armed with a .22 caliber Ruger Mark III semiauto pistol. A suppressor was attached to the black five-and-a-half-inch barrel, and that made the weapon too long for a holster. So he was carrying the handgun down along his right leg.

Fortunately, the Bonebreaker was able to reach the well-lit bus stop without having to defend himself. The .22 was safely hidden within the outer pocket of his briefcase where he could access it if the need arose. Half a dozen other people were present and none of them were staring at him. A sure sign that the disguise was working.

The bus arrived ten minutes later and the Bonebreaker followed a young man aboard. It was his experience that most people see what they expect to see. And so long as a person doesn't appear threatening, and isn't unusually attractive, they pay very little attention. That was why the Bonebreaker loosened his tie and closed his eyes. Anyone who looked at him would conclude that he was a tired businessman returning home.

The Bonebreaker was forced to transfer twice before arriving in Northeast Los Angeles. A neighborhood that was a long way from the ossuary and therefore a safe place in which to steal a car. There was no particular reason why the Bonebreaker chose the street he did. Or selected that particular house other than the fact that he liked the car in the driveway. Not because it was fancy—but because it wasn't.

He made his way up a short flight of stairs and stood in a pool of light on the porch. Then he put the briefcase down on the “Welcome” mat so he could hold the ID folder with his left hand. Having made his preparations it was a simple matter to press the doorbell button and wait. There was the sound of footsteps followed by a moment of silence. The Bonebreaker held the ID up so the homeowner could see it through the peephole. Detective Harmon was dead—but his badge was still on duty.

The Bonebreaker heard a discreet click as the person on the other side of the barrier turned the bolt. Then the door opened to reveal a middle-aged black woman. She had nice hair, brown eyes, and a pleasant smile. “Yes?” she said. “What can I do for you, Officer?”

The Bonebreaker could smile, but the mask couldn't, so there wasn't any point in trying to do so. “I was wondering about the car parked in your driveway,” he said. “Does it belong to you?”

“Why yes it does,” she answered. “Why do you . . .”

That was when the Bonebreaker shot her in the face. There was very little sound other than a soft thump as the woman's body collapsed on the floor. “Cora?” a male voice called. “Who's at the door?”

“That would be
me
,” the Bonebreaker said, as he entered the living room. The man who was seated in the Barcalounger attempted to rise but was at a significant disadvantage. The .22 produced a gentle pop, and a hole appeared between the man's eyes. “Sorry about that,” the Bonebreaker said, as the body slumped back into the chair. “But have no fear—God has a place for you in heaven.”

Never assume anything. That was an important rule—and one that the Bonebreaker was careful to observe. The fact that he'd been able to successfully eliminate what appeared to be the two homeowners didn't mean that more people weren't living in the house. Children for example—or a visitor. So the Bonebreaker went from room to room, pistol at the ready. But with the exception of the cat sleeping in a laundry basket the rest of the place was empty.

After searching for and recovering both of the empty shell casings the Bonebreaker went looking for money. Not because he loved it but because he
needed
it, and was pleased to collect a total of $519.24 after going through the man's wallet and Cora's purse.

It was dinnertime by then and the Bonebreaker was hungry. So he went into the kitchen and opened the cupboards.
Chicken noodle soup! He was in luck. There wasn't any Melba toast . . . But some rye crispbread would do in a pinch, and Cora had some on hand.

The Bonebreaker made dinner, took it into the living room, and sat in what he assumed to be Cora's chair. The TV was on but it was too late to watch the 5:30 news. So, with soup bowl in hand, the Bonebreaker clicked through the channels until he came to a program about computers. He liked computers and watched the entire program.

Then the Bonebreaker went down the hall to the master bedroom where he removed the mask and hung his clothing in the closet. It was important to keep the suit looking good. After that it was a simple matter to perform some personal maintenance using items from the kit in the briefcase, wrap himself in the bedspread, and lay down on the king-sized bed. He was nearly asleep when the cat landed on the bed. The tabby was purring as the Bonebreaker drifted off.

*   *   *

The Santa Monica Pier was especially pretty at night. The Ferris wheel was set with jewel-like colored lights and could be seen from a long way off. Below it, and all along the pier's length, thousands of other lights glowed, blinked, and strobed as the ghostly sound of an old-fashioned calliope floated across the water. And that was where Lee and Kane had agreed to meet.

The psychologist was there when Lee arrived, standing below the neon sign that had welcomed thousands over the years, and Lee was glad to see him even though the dinner date wasn't entirely voluntary. True to his word, Jenkins had spoken with Kane, but the psychologist wasn't willing to sign a release without interviewing Lee first. And, consistent with the location of prior meetings, Kane had suggested that they have dinner at the beach. Specifically, on the pier.

So Lee went home after work and changed into a seldom-used cocktail dress and a pair of high heels. Was that
appropriate attire? she wondered. Or was she trying to turn an exit interview into a date? But if it wasn't a date then why were they meeting over dinner? On the Santa Monica Pier of all places.
What do you want it to be?
Lee asked the woman in the mirror. “You need some lipstick,” the other Lee replied evasively. “And some gold hoops.”

So as Lee went forward to give Kane an air kiss, she wasn't sure what to expect. “You look wonderful,” Kane said. And, judging from the look in his eyes, he meant it.

“Thanks,” Lee said lightly. “You look pretty good yourself.”

“I made a reservation at Captain Mike's,” Kane told her, as they passed under the neon sign. “Have you eaten there before?”

“No,” Lee replied, as the crowd closed in around them. “But I like seafood.”

“Me too,” Kane said. “As long as it's cooked. I promise you won't be disappointed.”

Lee felt her cares drop away as they passed the line for the Ferris wheel, a carnie-style booth where people could “fish” for prizes, and a sign pointing people to the aquarium.

Captain Mike's was just beyond that, on the left side of the pier. The façade featured the name and a wood-relief carving of what might have been a Maine fisherman back before the plague. But Maine was part of a red zone now—so there was no telling what a fisherman might look like.

The restaurant's interior was fitted out with all of the predictable maritime kitsch that might be expected of such a place including a huge ship's wheel behind the receptionist, fishing nets that were slung between the fake rafters, and a beachy paint job. “I know, I know,” Kane said apologetically. “The décor is a joke . . . But the food makes up for it.”

Once they were seated, and had drinks in front of them, the conversation turned serious. “So,” Kane said, “how were the San Juans?”

There was enough snark in the way he said it that Lee could tell that Kane was teasing her. “What did Jenkins tell you?”

Kane shrugged. His expression was serious. “You went into the red zone by yourself, you got into a gunfight, and you made it out.”

“Yeah, well, that's true,” Lee admitted. “I'm sorry I lied to you . . . But I wanted to see my mother—and I knew you'd try to stop me if I was honest.”

“You got that right,” Kane said, as he sipped his drink. “So how did the visit go?”

“Are you upset with me?”

“Yes.”

“How can I tell?”

“My right eyelid is twitching.”

Lee laughed. “Oh my God, it is!”

“Like I said,” Kane insisted. “How did the visit with your mother go?”

Lee looked out the window. The night was divided between the dark ocean, and the bright, glittering lights of Santa Monica. Her eyes came back to meet his. “I learned that she's selfish, irresponsible, and adrift.”

“And?”

“And I let go. She is what she is—and it isn't about me.”

“What about your father?”

“Pretty much the same thing.”

Kane raised his coffee cup by way of a toast. “Good. I pronounce you to be as emotionally intact as a human with your experiences can be.”

Lee smiled. “And you'll notify the police department of that?”

“Yes, of course. And there's one more thing . . .”

“Which is?”

“I hereby resign my position as your therapist.”

Lee frowned. “Why?”

“Because it would be unethical to try to seduce a patient.”

Lee laughed. “And that's your plan?”

Kane nodded soberly. “Yes, it is.”

“I'm armed, you know.”

“I suspected as much. That's why I'll have to be sneaky. Are you ready to go? If so, how 'bout a stroll on the pier?”

They left the restaurant and returned to the boardwalk. It was even more crowded than it had been earlier. They passed a ring-toss booth before arriving in front of a store called Ye Old Curiosity Shop. Kane led the way inside, where they prowled aisles stocked with fake shrunken heads, plastic skulls, and the inevitable tee shirts. Kane offered to buy Lee an African mask with a
MADE IN OREGON
tag on the back, and she laughed.

Farther down the boardwalk, they encountered a so-called living statue. The street performer was wearing a Stetson, Western clothing, and pointing a Colt .45 at a tourist. Both his skin and his costume were a dark bronze color. A second hat lay on the deck in front of him. It contained some bills and a sprinkling of coins.

A clown stood only a few feet away. He was juggling some brightly colored clubs as a street mime pretended to do likewise. A small crowd had gathered as the couple paused to watch. “I wonder how much money they . . .”

Kane never got to finish his question as a man stepped in front of them and the cowboy's .45 went off. The tourist produced a grunt of pain as the slug hit his shoulder and spun him around. He was falling as Lee removed the Glock from her purse.

Lee heard screams, and sensed movement around her, as the cowboy prepared to fire the single-action revolver again. Lee shot him in the chest and turned. If there was one shooter, there might be more. That was when she saw the clown take a swing at Kane. The psychologist ducked and the club passed over his head.

Lee yelled, “LAPD! Freeze!” But the clown
didn't
freeze. He fired a small-caliber semiautomatic pistol as he turned
in her direction. Or tried to, except that Kane's body blocked him, and the bullet flew wide.

Lee was about to help out when the mime attacked from behind. The police officer saw a piece of wire pass in front of her eyes—and felt it start to tighten around her neck. She wanted to release the Glock in order to protect her throat but knew that was the wrong thing to do. So she stomped on the attacker's right foot instead and heard the woman swear as the spike-style heel punctured a canvas shoe. Lee took advantage of the opportunity to bring the Glock across the front of her body and point it back under her left arm. The bullet creased the mime's side. She stumbled away, recovered, and was trying to flee when a tourist took her down. Thus freed, Lee turned back to find that Kane was sitting astride the clown's chest, pounding the man's face. “That's enough,” she told him. “Good job.”

Sirens wailed in the distance as Lee went to get her purse. The boys and girls in blue were going to arrive soon, and she would need to show some ID. Their date was over.

*   *   *

After hours spent filling out reports, and being interviewed by various members of the LAPD, Lee had to sit through a health screening. None of the attackers had been wearing masks, so there was a chance of infection although the doctor didn't think it was likely. Still, if Lee experienced any of half a dozen symptoms, she was to call him right away. And when she asked, the doctor assured her that Kane would receive the same counseling, and both would be notified if any of the blood tests were BN positive. Then Lee was allowed to go home. It was about 2:00
A.M.
by that time—so she felt entitled to sleep till 8:00, when the alarm jarred her awake.

She rolled out of bed and padded into the living room. The first thing Lee saw when she turned the TV on was a reporter standing on a mostly empty Santa Monica Pier. The
background consisted of a cloudy sky and the gray ocean. “This is the spot where the street performers attacked and tried to kill controversial LAPD Detective Cassandra Lee,” the reporter said. “She killed one of her assailants and wounded another. Both were later discovered to be mutants. Lee's companion, Dr. Lawrence Kane, is credited with subduing a third suspect. The LAPD will hold a press conference at 10:00
A.M.
, and our cameras will . . .”

Lee thumbed the remote, and the TV went to black. “I won't forget.” That was what the note from Crystal Bye said. And, judging from the attack, she hadn't.