Deadeye (6 page)

And there, next to the rack, stood what looked like a very complicated cage. “Here it is,” Seton said proudly. “You'll notice that it's made of wood. But it's possible that the one the Bonebreaker uses is made of metal. Go ahead,” Seton suggested. “Step through the opening and sit down.”

Lee stepped between a couple of uprights into the small area within. There was barely enough room to turn around and sit on a sturdy chair. “Good,” Seton said. “You'll notice that there are four sets of two uprights. Stick your arms and legs through the gaps. That's right . . . The uprights function in a manner similar to the squeeze chutes that farmers use to restrain cattle.”

Lee felt a sudden stab of fear, and was about to pull her limbs free, when Seton threw a lever. There was a series of loud clacking noises as a system of cables, pulleys, and ratchets caused the vertical pieces of wood to close in on Lee's arms and legs. She tried to pull them free but couldn't do so.

Seton nodded grimly. “You see? Let's say the Bonebreaker forced you to enter the cage at gunpoint. Or maybe you were drugged. It wouldn't make any difference. You'd be helpless either way.”

Lee fought to control a rising sense of panic. She'd been stupid. Very, very stupid. No one knew where she was—or what she was doing. She couldn't access her weapons, and it was quite possible that the Bonebreaker was standing in front of her. And that made sense. Seton had been
inside
the system, where he could monitor the efforts to find him and laugh at how stupid the police were.
She
was. Yes . . . They would find the car. But it was more than a block away. Would they make the connection? The odds were against it.

“Now here's where it gets interesting,” Seton continued. “Notice where the clamps are. At your wrists and ankles. That's important because much of what you've heard is wrong. The first thing the Bonebreaker wants to do is destroy a victim's joints. You remember the knee splitter? Same idea.”

Lee was breathing faster, there were tiny beads of perspiration on her forehead, and her eyes were darting back and forth. “Take your knees for example,” Seton said. “Imagine the pain associated with having your anterior cruciate ligament, the posterior cruciate ligament,
and
the medial collateral ligament all ripped apart at the same time!

“It would be excruciating, not to mention debilitating, making it impossible for you to flee even if the Bonebreaker left the front door open. As for
two
knees . . . Well, you would be reduced to little more than an animal begging for mercy.”

Talk to him,
Lee thought to herself.
Stall. Try to reason with him.
“But why?” Lee inquired. “Why would someone do that?”

Seton frowned. “To punish them, of course. Now pay attention because this is important. The easiest way to break a joint is through the use of lateral force. See the way your joints are exposed? If I were to swing this hammer, and hit any one of them from the side, that would do the job.”

Lee hadn't seen Seton go for the hand sledge, so it must have been nearby. She saw him grasp the wooden handle with both hands, pull it back much as a batter would, and prepare to swing at her left knee. That was when she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

But the blow never came. Lee heard a rapid clacking sound, felt the viselike jaws release their grip on her limbs, and opened her eyes. “So,” Seton said. “The rest is easy. Having immobilized his victim, the Bonebreaker can proceed in any way that he wants to. Since you read the reports, you know that tourniquets were used on some of the victims to keep them from bleeding to death while their arms and legs were being sawed off. Then the Bonebreaker would release all of the tourniquets at once. You can imagine the spectacle! Blood would spurt in every direction, and if my guess is correct, the Bonebreaker takes a great deal of pleasure in that.

“The flensing and boiling would be carried out later. And it wouldn't be until all of the flesh had been removed from the bones that the killer would ritualistically break them.”

Lee did her best to respond. But she was so shaken, so nauseated, that it was all she could do to maintain her composure long enough to thank Seton and leave. The experience had not only been extremely frightening—it had shaken Lee's belief in her own competency.

Looking back, it was easy to see where she'd gone wrong. Just because Seton had once been in a position of authority, she'd been stupid enough to trust him. It was a mistake she would avoid in the future.

So was he the one? Had she been face-to-face with the Bonebreaker and managed to slip through his fingers? No. He had allowed her to leave . . . And the Bonebreaker wouldn't have done that.

The trip home was spent thinking about Seton's cage and wondering if her father had been tortured in one like it. She made a note to reread the autopsy report to see if his injuries were consistent with those that Seton described.

When morning came, and the alarm went off, Lee attempted to slap it and failed. And that was because she had placed it on top of the dresser rather than on her nightstand. The sound was loud enough to penetrate the pillow she had pulled over her head.

So after half a minute of nonstop beeping, she got up, turned the alarm off, and padded into the bathroom. She emerged fifteen minutes later, feeling refreshed and curious. Was a message from Popeye waiting for her?

Lee found the tablet sitting next to the Smith & Wesson. She pushed the power button and went looking for clean clothes. That wasn't easy because her laundry was piling up.

Once she was dressed, Lee went online and checked the “bait box.” There it was: “I have the following items to sell,” the e-mail said, followed by a list of parts. The message was from a person named, “Henry Peters.”

Lee brought up a copy of the message Cherko had sent to Mr. Fuentes and read it. The two e-mails were virtually identical. The only difference being Gary's name and that of the sender. “Peter Henry” rather than “Henry Peters.”

Lee uttered a whoop of joy and sent her response along with a blind copy to Jenkins. Then it was a mad rush to get in the car and drive downtown. Jenkins had offered to give her some help, and she was going to accept it.

*   *   *

Popeye was extremely tired and had been for days. But he couldn't sleep. The primary reason for that was a substance called speed, clavo, ice, glass, jib, crank, tweak, and half a dozen more. All of which were slang terms for methamphetamine or meth. It was a highly addictive drug, which, in spite of all the efforts by law-enforcement personnel, was still available throughout the nation of Pacifica.

Taken in low doses, meth could increase concentration and boost the user's energy level. That was the good news. The bad news was that people who were addicted to crank were subject to headaches, heart irregularities, elevated body temperature, diarrhea, constipation, blurred vision, dizziness, twitching, numbness, and insomnia. Which was why Popeye hadn't been able to sleep.

Black plastic had been taped to the windows in order to keep the room dark, but daylight still found its way in through tiny holes and projected gold dots onto the wall to his right. Popeye looked to see if Gina was awake and saw that she wasn't. How old was she anyway? Fifteen? Something like that. She looked even younger in her tee shirt and pink panties.

But regardless of that, Popeye knew that the teenager would wake up hungry. Not for Cheerios, but for clavo, which she would proceed to shoot up. And it was his job to go get it. That required going into the world that lay beyond the black plastic. A place where, according to Honest Al Nuri, a pig bitch was looking for him.
Well fuck her,
Popeye thought to himself as he crawled off the mattress.
I have some medicine for that disease.

Popeye was careful to slip his feet into some flip-flops before beginning the journey to the bathroom. The floor was covered with pieces of cast-off clothing, drug paraphernalia, and rat droppings. They would move soon and leave the garbage behind.

Popeye flipped the lights on as he entered the bathroom and turned to examine himself in the mirror. His eyes were red, there were open sores on his cheeks, and when he opened his mouth, it was like looking into a black hole. Like so many meth addicts, Popeye had a condition known as “meth mouth.” About a third of his teeth were missing, and the rest were in bad condition. According to the dentist he'd seen the year before, the problems were the result of dry mouth, poor oral hygiene, and the consumption of too many carbonated beverages.
Fuck him,
Popeye thought to himself as he lit his pipe and took a seat on the throne.

The fatigue seemed to melt away as the vapor entered Popeye's lungs. Then his thoughts began to quicken. Another fucking mutant was in town. A subhuman piece of shit who wanted to buy parts, take them into the red zone, and sell them to freaks. So the deal was a two-fer . . . Meaning a chance to whack a mutie
and
score some scratch. Gold, preferably, so he could buy tweak at a discount. That would make Gina happy, and everything would be jam. Popeye laughed. Life was good.

After inhaling his breakfast and donning a new set of dirty clothes, Popeye placed a series of phone calls. Then he made his way out into the filthy hallway and turned to lock the door behind him. After descending three flights of stairs, Popeye paused to peer out through a filthy window. Everything appeared to be okay, so he readied the long-barreled pistol and stepped out through the door. Nobody shot him. And that was a good thing. The cool morning air was only slightly tainted by the stink associated with a nearby Dumpster.

After restoring the pistol to its shoulder holster, Popeye placed a pair of wraparound shades over his eyes as he crossed the parking lot. It was home to three beaters and a couple of bikes. But the star of the show was crouched in one of the semiprotected end slots. Stella had been a '36 Caddy once. Well, most of her had, back before a previous owner wrecked her.

Then an enterprising fabricante married the original vehicle to a '34 Buick and threw in some personal touches as well. The result was the sleek, low-riding bitch that Popeye called Stella. She was, along with Gina, everything that he had in the world and therefore precious to him. That was why the lady was dressed in gray. Not because he couldn't come up with enough scratch for some shine—but because a fancy paint job was bound to attract trouble.

While at rest, Stella's curvaceous body came down over her expensive wheels to touch the ground. Not only was that a cool look—it made Stella very difficult to steal. Popeye removed a remote from his pocket and thumbed a button.

Hydraulics whined as the car rose, a spoiler appeared, and the lights blinked. Popeye never got tired of slipping in behind Stella's steering wheel, turning the key, and hearing the huge V-8 rumble into life. Feeding the bitch was almost as expensive as “feeding” Gina but worth every penny. And, thanks to California's offshore oil wells, the citizens of Pacifica would be using internal combustion engines for a long time to come.

After making his way onto I-5, Popeye followed the freeway north to Glendale and the LA Zoo. The instructions to the mutie were simple. She was to meet him out front of the main gate at twelve noon. He wasn't interested in any of that nighttime shit, when it was impossible to see who or what was hiding in the bushes.

Then, once he was close enough, Popeye would cap the freak and take her scratch. With that accomplished, it would be back to the city, score some crank, and party with Gina. While he drove, Popeye was listening to a premix of the single his band was going to release in a week or so. It was a solid rap titled “Mutant Massacre.” He was chanting the lyrics as he left the freeway and made his way onto Zoo Drive. Except that it wasn't a zoo anymore and hadn't been since 2039, when some of the animals contracted the plague, word got out, and a mob took the place apart. Elephants, zebras, you name it. The cits killed
everything
, including seven staff members. And that, to Popeye's way of thinking, was the best way to deal with mutants.

After pulling onto the outer edge of a vast parking lot, Popeye stopped and put Stella in
PARK
. Then he opened the door and got out. It was necessary to remove the sunglasses in order to use the binoculars. As Popeye panned from left to right, he saw a burned-out car, a pile of rubble from some construction site, and an old travel trailer. It was riddled with bullet holes and had clearly been used for target practice. A momentary breeze came up and sent pieces of litter skittering across the broken concrete before dying away.

Then, as Popeye's gaze slid over a bloated dog carcass, there was a hint of movement. He brought the binoculars back a hair and adjusted the focus. The main entrance appeared. And there, framed inside of it, was a figure dressed in black. Fabric billowed as the breeze came up again, and Popeye knew he was looking at a burqa-clad female. What did she have? Three arms? Anything could be hidden under the baggie. He glanced at his watch. It was 11:58. The freak was right on time.

But, conscious of the fact that there was more territory to examine, Popeye continued the scan. Once that effort was complete, he turned his attention to the sky. The LAPD had drones. Everyone knew that. But when Popeye looked up, all he could see were a pair of white claw marks on the otherwise blue sky. Fighters probably—on patrol.

Satisfied that everything was as it should be, Popeye got into Stella and sent a text message. The reply came quickly. So Popeye put Stella in gear and guided her between various obstacles until he was about a hundred feet away from the woman in the black burqa. Then he got out, went to the trunk, and removed a large duffel bag. It was loaded with rocks to give it heft and chunks of Styrofoam to bulk it out. With the Colt in one hand and the bag in the other, Popeye began to walk.

*   *   *