Poughkeepsie (41 page)

When Beckett turned to her again, Eve’s horror was illuminated in the twilight by the phone’s screen. He pulled it out of her hands and looked for himself.

Silence.

Then the night echoed with Beckett’s anguished wail. “NOT MY BROTHERS!”

Eve grabbed his angry face, using all her strength to force him close to her. Beckett’s eyes had rolled back in his head. He was losing his mind.

“Look at me!
Can you hear me?”
Now Eve was the one yelling too loudly.

Beckett breathed quickly and through his teeth.

“We’re here together. We’ll get him back. I promise you,” Eve said. “Merkin has no idea I’m with you. I’ve practiced killing for years, and tonight I’m going to use everything I’ve learned to save Cole. Do you believe me?”

Beckett still sounded like an angry bull, but he nodded.

“I will not let you lose your family. I won’t let it happen to
you
.” Eve’s hands circled his big, tense neck.

He shook his head and let out a defeated breath. “I’m so sorry, Eve. I can’t even…Well, now I guess I can imagine what I did to you—just a little.”

Her words had hurt him, knocked him down. That’s not what she’d intended. She would have to lay it out.

“Beckett, I’ll save you from that fate because I love you. I love you.” She let her hands slip to his chest.

His heart. His beautiful heart, surrounded by thorns, guns, and pain. Beckett kissed her again, and together they began to plot like two evil bastards. Beckett had Eve send Mouse a text to catch him up and get his eyes on Blake; she signed it so he’d know why the spelling was so perfect coming from Beckett’s phone.

33

Hobosexual Healing

C
HRIS
C
OULD
H
AVE
S
TRANGLED
Dave—if he didn’t need him. Dave texted every thirty freaking seconds with an update.

Hobo on road!

Hobo still on road!

Lost Hobo!

Found Hobo!! ☺

The smiley face made Chris want to punch Dave in the fucking taint.

Holy Crap! Explosions!

I’m ok! U ok?!

My balls r tingling!

Hobo still alive! Hobo headed to Firefly Park!

Chris put his truck in gear and started rolling. After this whole show went down tonight, he planned to build a life-size exclamation point and beat Dave to death with it.

Got my work buds!

Great. Dave’s work buds were the fools that got off on throwing pennies at bums. He’d known them since high school. Losers. All of them. Chris honestly wondered if they could tell real life from gaming.

Hobo headed in woods!

Waiting for you, Robin Hood!

Dave seemed to be living out every nerdtastic dream he’d ever had. Would he be wearing a goddamn beanie and his mother’s pantyhose like Little John?

Chris pulled into the parking lot and cut his lights. Immediately Dave bounced over with Wilson, Jamie, and…Dorkalooza. Chris couldn’t remember that last asshole’s name. He unlocked his truck box, pulled on his hunting jacket, and slid some tools into the pockets and holes.
Flashlight, check. Rope, check. Cell phone, check. Pliers, check
.

Dave nearly blew off Dorkalooza’s head as he flashed his dad’s Sig Mosquito .22.

Sweet Baby Jesus in a waffle cone!
Leave it to Dave to come armed.

It was a nice little pistol with a ten-round magazine—simple enough for even Dave to fire. Chris took it out of his hands and double-checked the safety.

“Hey, fuck nugget!” Chris thumped Dave on the forehead with his middle finger. “We’re not in a video game. This doesn’t take batteries. You can’t masturbate with a real fucking firearm.”

Dave rubbed his forehead and looked at Chris with wounded eyes. “You’re a shit. Who followed this bastard all over Poughkeepsie for you tonight?”

Chris knew he needed to keep the peace. “You’re a solid-gold ass avenger, Dave. Which way did he go?”

Dave trotted ahead like Quasimodo getting ready to hump a giant bell. Chris tucked the gun in the back of his waistband.

“Right here!” Dave pulled the fence out of the way.

Chris he said nothing. They didn’t have a wild ass-pimple’s chance in hell of finding this bastard in the woods. Chris had hunted long enough to know his way around a forest, but the hobo was a hobo. He’d have to send up a goddamn flare for them to locate him.

Trudging along the dirt path, Chris almost didn’t believe his good luck when he saw the glow of fire hovering over the next hill. After a brief foray off the path, he realized it was an all-out bonfire.
Son of a bitch
. It couldn’t be him
.

Chris rolled his eyes as he listened to his highly prepared-for-nothing crew behind him. They kept trying new plays on the word
hobo
like a gang of fucking second graders.

“We’re about to commit hobocide.” Wilson’s observation was met with girly cackles.

“It’s hobo-smashing time,” added Dorkalooza.

Dave snorted through his laughter and proclaimed, “I want some hobosexual healing,” in a sing-song voice.

Everyone stopped to stare at him. Chris aimed his flashlight right at Dave’s face.

“Dude. Too much,” Wilson said and took a step away.

Dave blinked in the harsh spotlight. “What? Whatever. I’m excited. I even put a condom on!”

Dorkalooza shook his head in disbelief. “You put a love glove on your limp dick?”

Dave shrugged. “Who said it was limp?”

Chris rolled his eyes. “Your mom, asshole.” He was headed into war with a gang of crotch-lobsters. “You bastards couldn’t sneak up on a dead whore,” he hissed. “Shut your traps and try to staple on some balls.”

The butt-munchers quieted down and followed Chris like a group of baby ducks. When Chris finally stepped into the flaming meadow, the hobo stood right in front of the fire like he was roasting marshmallows on his dick.

Chris nodded as he wordlessly sent three of the assholes across to get him. They grabbed the hobo’s arms. He didn’t even flinch. It was like he knew they were coming. Chris felt so powerful. This was better than killing deer.

When Wilson, Dave, and Jamie turned the hobo around, Chris smiled at his forlorn face.
I only shoot the ones that don’t run
, he reminded himself. This was totally justified. It was open season—the hobo had just given him permission.

Merkin stayed in the back of the mercenaries’ cargo van and tried to look tough. The men surrounding him—with the exception of Craig sitting uncomfortably in the passenger seat—were as manly as they come. He opened his laptop and checked the locations of Beckett’s crew via cell phone GPS. Eve was off grid. Probably ran over her phone with her motorcycle. She was too smart to let Beckett track her after she blew up the mall. Beckett was in the woods, and Mouse was, predictably, still at Jo-Ann Fabrics.

Merkin nodded and got to his knees when the hired gun came to tie him up and gag him. They needed to set the stage for the next part of the plan. Merkin put his hands behind his back and lay next to Cole’s motionless form.

He closed his eyes as the man took his picture. Merkin wrote the text to Beckett himself after the mercenary released him:

Got 2 of ur men. Meet at Symbols Warehouse. Come alone.

The abandoned warehouse was a great spot for his assassins to entrench themselves. So much to kill one man. Maybe too much. But bringing big ol’ Beckett to his knees would gain Merkin respect in so many places.

“You got the other guys in place?” Merkin made his voice a little deeper.

The driver just nodded. Merkin suspected a trace of annoyance.
Fuckers think they’re the only professionals.

“Tell them it’s go time,” Merkin said. “The mark they’re following will be driving a flaming hearse. Find him and you find Blake Hartt.”

Of course Beckett would send Mouse to protect his other brother. Merkin knew that as sure as the sky was blue. Beckett trusted Mouse implicitly. Merkin nodded smugly as the driver relayed this information to the others via his wireless headset.

Really, Blake wasn’t needed. Merkin
could
get the job done with just Cole, but tonight would be legendary. Craig would witness it, and all these hired men would see that Merkin was deadly.

Cole moaned, and Merkin looked over. His face was pressed into the dirty, metal floor of the van. One of the hired guns prepared another hanky full of the chemical that had taken Cole’s consciousness the first time around.

“No, I want him awake,” Merkin said.

The hired gun recapped the canister of liquid.

“He’s gonna puke.” The man sat back as if Merkin’s decision was a poor one.

“Take the gag off and let ’im puke then.”

After Cole was done, he glared at Merkin. “Where is she? Where is she!” Cole threw up again. Speaking was asking too much of his ravaged body.

“Shut up, Cole. Don’t make me drug your ass again.” Merkin tried to ignore his burning stare.

“WHERE’S KYLE??” Cole screamed at a deafening level.

The mercenaries rolled their eyes and looked annoyed.

“Damn it. Just gag him again. Shut the fuck up, Cole. Do you want to die?”

Cole struggled to keep his mouth free. “Merkin, tell me!”

Merkin took a deep breath. “Cole, if you sit pretty for the man, I’ll tell you all about Kyle.”

Cole stopped struggling instantly and let the mercenary replace his gag. But the burning stare never wavered.

“Kyle was not even raped, Cole. Do you see how much respect I have? Do you see how nice I am? She’s with more of my men. You do what I say, and I’ll be true to my word. I won’t kill her.”

Merkin watched hate climb into Cole’s eyes like a tiger. For the first time he doubted his decision to grab the priest instead of the homeless brother.

34

Patterns Begin

P
ATTERNS
.

Patterns had set the tone of Mouse’s day since early in his life.

Poughkeepsie’s Jo-Ann Fabrics store was one of his most vivid memories of childhood. He could picture his grandmother picking her way through the towers of fabric. Mouse had loved to reach up and touch the ones with the patterns. The happy ones with colorful animals were always rough on his fingers. The white borders on the ends had been perplexing.
Why did the fun have to end?

Inevitably, his grandmother would catch his small hands roving over some cloth. When she smiled her eyes would crinkle, and she’d quickly cover her teeth, which were far from perfect, with one hand as emotion filled her face.

“You want the puppies, Jimmy? I make you a great shirt with the puppies.” His grandmother could carry the bolts effortlessly.

He loved when the women would smooth fabric over the impossibly wide table and decide just how much they needed to cover Jimmy now. He knew he was small for his age, but they always made a fuss over how big he was getting.

Mouse would stare at the silver ruler embedded in the white laminate as the correct amount of fabric was cordoned off and cut. His grandmother would then head for the yarn. The yarn aisle was Mouse’s favorite. Each bundle seemed like a puzzle waiting to be solved.

“Meemaw, this green is really great, don’t you think?” Mouse grabbed it by the white paper that kept the yarn from spilling out.

“It’s perfect, Jimmy. Just like you.” She put it in the cart on top of the puppy fabric.

Meemaw plucked vibrant colors from the wall of choices like ripe apples from a tree. Her grand total was always a little more than she expected, and she usually said exactly that with a chuckle as she dug for her wallet.