The Victim (55 page)

Anton loosened his tie. Common sense grabbed him by the throat and he realized that he and Jack, dressed in their suits, were standing in a grow house belonging to a violent gang-affiliated felon on probation. His eyes swept the room for a quick exit.

Anton heard it first, although Jack caught his roving eyes and quickly tried to pinpoint its location.

The sound grew louder, approaching. A beefy sound, some horsepower behind it.

The low rumbling of a two-stroke engine.

A motorcycle.

CHAPTER 58

The hard wind pelted his face as he tore up I-10. His long reddish hair flailed like an Arizona wildfire.

A lifetime spent in and out of custody, Frank Wheaton never took the simple pleasures for granted. Most of them—booze, drugs, even sex if you were desperate enough—could be obtained just as easily in prison as they could on the street. But riding was something that he always missed. Every time he had to do a stretch he would lock up his bike in his Public Storage garage and count down the days until he could feel that power beneath him. The mule kick of shifting gears. The hum of the throttle.

His ride was a custom V-Rod with chrome ape hangers and orange flames painted on the gas tank. The Warmasters were strict Harley purists, not willing to evolve—as had some of the more progressive clubs—to include Hondas and Kawasakis. No crotch-rocket rider would ever be permitted to wear a Warmasters patch, at least not on Frank’s watch.

He turned off the Interstate under the shadow of the Pilot sign, the quiet giant standing guard above the town. He got onto Kofa and sped north.

He saw a car parked at the end of his driveway.

He hit the kill switch and walked his bike until it was hidden behind the trunk of a hefty oak, its roots buckling the sidewalk. Propped on its kickstand, he unzipped the leather saddlebag, retrieving his pistol-grip Mossberg, sawed down to a thirteen-inch barrel.

He racked the shotgun, a spent cartridge spewing into a patch of dry grass. He cocked the fore-grip, loading a fresh round into the chamber.

Frank held his shotgun low, peering around the tree.
Silver Hyundai, Nevada plates. Rental car.
If they were locals, there would be about a dozen black and whites lining the street. If they were DEA, there would be three or four blacked-out Suburbans. If this were a drug rip, it would be a couple of
Mara Salvatrucha
boys, two in the house while some little
vato
pulled lookout in the passenger seat of a tricked-out El Camino.

If they were Romans, he wouldn’t be standing behind a tree, sawed-off in hand. He’d already be dead.

Whoever these faggots were, they were in his house.

Frank hid the gun beneath the flap of his leather vest and crept alongside the house to the rear slider.

He’d catch these motherfuckers off-guard, split their melons with a couple rounds of twelve-gauge buckshot.

CHAPTER 59

Panic set in.

Jack cursed himself for allowing Anton to drag him into this. He was older, wiser, more experienced in life. He should have been the voice of reason.

The engine had stopped. They heard heavy footfalls sloshing through the mud along the side of the house. The sound rose and fell as he passed them on the other side of the kitchen wall.

They heard the grind of the rusty slider.

Anton slipped his hand underneath his sport coat but Jack shook his head, urging him to reconsider.

He stood in the open doorway. A droplet of sweat rolled off his face, splashed on the floor. Mud leaked from the soles of his boots, pooling on the tile, streaming along the grout lines. Frank Wheaton was holding a short-barreled shotgun at port arms.

He was in his early fifties, shirtless underneath his black leather vest. He had long reddish-gray hair and a thick reddish-gray beard. He wore sunglasses with black lenses. Rawhide skin clung loosely to his muscles. The tattoos were barely decipherable, most of the single-needle artwork blotchy and faded. Prison style.
wmmc
was written across his chest in sharp lettering. A massive swastika was emblazoned on his torso. A large Celtic cross adorned his right shoulder, with
white power
etched into his left. His arms bore a variety of iron crosses, eagles, and Norse mythology.
nlr
was inked across his throat, a tribute to the Nazi Low Riders.

Jack and Anton stood still, backing up slow and steady, palms facing. Everything about this man told them that he was someone not to be fucked with.

He took off his shades. His eyes had a corpse’s glaze.

He aimed the shotgun from his hip, pointing the cut-down barrel at the space between Jack and Anton. One slight turn and he could take out either one.

“
The fuck are you?” he barked, his voice raw, pack-a-day strong.

Anton kept his hands up at chest level. Not so high that he couldn’t reach for his own gun if he had to.

“
Mr. Wheaton?” he asked, trying to breathe through the tremble in his voice. His heart was beating so fast he could hear it echoing in his skull. “My name’s Anton Mackey. This is Jack Savarese. We’re attorneys from Miami, Florida. We meant no intrusion, sir. We’re just here to hopefully get some questions answered.”

Wheaton spit a yellow glob onto the tile. “You boys ain’t no fuckin’ cops now, are you?”

Jack looked to Anton to answer.

“
No,” he said, confident that he’d said the right thing. “We’re defense attorneys, sir. We hate cops.” He laughed nervously.

Wheaton shifted just enough so that the barrel of the shotgun was a few feet away from Anton’s midsection. He shuddered at the thought of a belly wound, the worst kind. A slow, painful death as your stomach acids leaked into your abdominal cavity.

“
Attorneys? What in the hell are you two doing in my house?”

A valid concern.

“
Mr. Wheaton. Is your brother Daniel Wheaton?”

He pulled back his lips, revealing jagged yellow teeth. The keloid on his cheek burned as an angry flush came over him.

“
What the fuck are you two faggots doin’ poking ’round askin’ ’bout my brother for? You workin’ for them Romans?”

“
No, no, no. We’re not here about your brother. We’re here about your niece. Lola Munson.”

Wheaton brought the shotgun up to chest level and took a step forward, putting the barrel so close to Anton’s nose he could smell the burnt cordite in the bore. Anton closed his eyes, straining his face away from the gun.

“
You better make some goddamn fucking sense right fucking now or I’ll paint my kitchen with your brains, cocksucker!”

Jack stepped in. “Hey, look, pal. We’re not here to bust your balls. We’re—”

Crack!

Wheaton whipped his torso around, nailing Jack with a butt-stroke to the jaw. Jack fell back into the cabinets and slipped to the floor, his hands clutching his chin. He spit out a bloody molar onto the tile.

Something in Anton went haywire, like water dripping onto a circuit board.

His field of vision turned black as if the world had become a photonegative. Primal adrenaline engorged his arms, curled his fists into balls of bone. His nostrils flared out. He bit down on his tongue with alligator force.

Anton lunged for the gun, grabbing, twisting his body, his hands on the barrel. Wheaton fired, blasting a hole through the refrigerator door the size of a dinner plate.

Standing in front of Wheaton with his hands on the gun, Anton hooked his arm, trapping the barrel. He brought up his foot and stomped down hard on Wheaton’s instep. Wheaton growled, Anton seizing the moment to snatch the shotgun from his grasp and fling it across the floor. It spun like a top, crashing against the kitchen wall.

With one flick of his thumb Anton unsnapped the holster and drew, whipping around and smacking Frank on the temple with the side of the gun. He buckled to the floor, burying his head in his hands. Blood rushed down his face, smearing his palms as he pulled his hands away, inspecting the damage.

He looked up. “You son of a—”

Anton threw a soccer kick, nailing the point of his chin. The skin split, blood bubbling, clinging to his beard like paint on a brush.

Anton holstered the gun and stood over him. He cocked his fist and dropped a hard right to the side of his head. Wheaton toppled over. Anton’s knuckles swelled, tingled.

Jack sat up, dabbing his mouth with his tie. Blood shined on his lips.

“
Jesus, Anton. Cool it! Let’s just leave.”

“
Fuck that!” Anton snarled. His nostrils pulsed with heavy breath. He could feel the violence stirring in his gut, nearly exciting him. He wound up and slapped Wheaton hard, straddling him, watching him writhe in pain on the kitchen floor. Anton crouched, hands on his knees. “This punk’s gonna talk to us.” He pried his half-Windsor loose with his thumb, pulled his tie through his collar. “I didn’t fly all the way out here for nothing.”

Anton threw open the cabinet doors underneath the sink. The stench of mildew soured the air. He swiped away the crusty dishrags and aerosol can of Lysol. The U-shaped drainpipe under the sink was copper, not PVC like newer homes. Anton grabbed Wheaton by his leather vest, dragging him across the kitchen floor. He clamped down on Wheaton’s wrist, fastening one end of his tie in a tight knot. He secured the other end to the curve of the drainpipe.

Wheaton bucked and thrashed, his arm awkwardly locked behind him. He whipped his leg like a pendulum, trying to catch Anton, but he couldn’t reach.

Anton walked to the counter and picked up the Zippo lighter. It was engraved with the Warmasters logo. A grinning skull above crossed AK-47s. He flicked it and the butane-soaked wick caught. He closed the case and clutched it in his palm.

He eyed the aerosol can of Lysol, lying on the floor.

“
You don’t know me, Frank,” Anton said, kneeling. Wheaton flailed his muddy boots. Anton propped his knee on Wheaton’s ankle, holding it still while he wiggled the boot off. His foot smelled like Mexican food. He leaned across the floor, grabbed the Lysol can, and gave it a good shake. “I burn people alive. That’s what I do. Maybe you’ve heard about it.”

Anton uncapped the lighter and ignited the flame, aiming the aerosol can, creating a makeshift blowtorch. The flame roared like stiff wind, a blur of bluish-orange. He sprayed the bottom of Wheaton’s bare foot. His calloused sole began to blacken and blister. Wheaton flopped and wiggled on the floor, his bloodcurdling screams reaching an ungodly pitch. He fruitlessly tugged against the tie but the copper drainpipe didn't give. The knot was so tight the feeling in his hand and wrist was gone.

Anton lifted his finger off the aerosol can. The burnt fumes were replaced by the stink of seared flesh. Pale smoke rose from the sole of his foot. The residual burn caused the skin to ripple and pop.

“
Anton.” Jack’s voice crept up behind him. “This needs to stop. You’re losing it, kiddo.”

Anton ignored him. “Dead people don’t fly on planes, Frank,” he said. “On the morning of March 16, 2003, you and Kelsie McEvoy boarded a Southwest flight from Flagstaff to Phoenix. You had a connecting Aeromexico flight to Mazatlan. You didn’t make it out of the country but Kelsie did. Or at least someone claiming to be Kelsie.” He shook up the Lysol. “How can Kelsie McEvoy be on a flight when just hours earlier, she was killed on a highway outside of Payson?”

“
Fuck you!”

Anton rolled back the leg of Frank’s jeans, all the way to his knee, gripping his ankle with one hand as he tried to kick away. Anton thumbed the flint and reignited the torch. He directed the full brunt of the flame on the belly of his calf.

Hair sizzled, the skin crisped, peeling away in curls. Frank’s shrill cry reached a whole new level of pain.

Anton stopped. “So?”