The Murder Book

"Where is she?"

"She's fine, Bill, come on."

"I need to-"

I got hold of his shoulder.

"Leave me here," he said. "Let me go, I've had enough."

I began lifting him.

"Please," he said.

My burned hand began to throb. Everything throbbed.

A raspy voice behind me said, "Dead end, Mr. Cadillac."

CHAPTER 44

Vance Coury's silver hair caught moonlight. A black leather headband held it in place. The musk of his aftershave managed to seep through the scorched air.

He shined the flashlight in my face, shifted the beam to Bill, lowered it and held it at an angle that brightened the forest floor. As the white spots cleared from my eyes, I made out the rectangle in his right hand. Columnar snout. Machine pistol.

He said, "Up." Businesslike. Tying up loose ends.

He wore light-colored, grease-stained mechanics overalls- outfitted for messy work. Something flashed around his neck- probably the same gold chain I'd seen at the garage.

I got to my feet. My head still rang from the explosion.

"Walk." He motioned to his right, back to the clearing.

"What about him?" I said.

"Oh, yeah, him." He leveled the pistol downward, peppered Bill's frame with a burst that nearly cut the blind man in two.

The fragments of Bill's corpse bucked and flopped and were still.

Coury said, "Any more questions?"

He marched me out of the forest. A pile of cinders, snarls of electrical conduit, random stacks of bricks, and twisted metal chairs were the remnants of the little green house. That and something contorted and charred, lashed and duct-taped to a chair.

"Playing with matches," I said. "Bet you liked that as a kid."

"Walk."

I stepped onto the gravel path. Keeping my head straight but moving my eyes back and forth. Nacho Vargas's corpse remained where it had fallen. No sign of Aimee or Bert.

A cloud of musk hit my nostrils, sickly sweet as a Sacher torte. Coury, walking close behind me.

"Where we going?" I said.

"Walk."

"Walk where?"

"Shut up."

"Where are we going?"

Silence.

Ten steps later, I tried again. "Where we going?"

He said, "You are really stupid."

"Think so?" I said, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the short man's silver gun and wheeling fast.

Inertia caused him to pitch forward, and we nearly collided. He tried to step back, free the machine pistol, but couldn't get enough room to maneuver. Stumbled.

He hadn't bothered to pat me down. Overconfident rich kid who'd never grown up. All those years of getting away with bad stuff.

The little silver gun shot forward, as if of its own accord. Coury's goatee spread as his mouth opened in surprise.

I focused on his tonsils, shot three times, hit with every bullet.

I took his machine pistol and pocketed the silver gun, scurried off the gravel, found refuge behind a sycamore. Waited.

Nothing.

Stepping on greenery to muffle my footsteps, I inched forward, heading toward the road. Wondering who and what awaited me there.

I'd been overconfident, too, thinking Vargas and the small man had made up the entire army. Too important a job for a pair of thugs.

Coury had been a precise man who specialized at deconstructing high-priced machines and reconstituting them as works of art.

A good pla

Send in the B team while the A team waits. Sacrifice the B team and attack from the rear.

Another ambush.

Coury had come himself to take care of Bill. Bill was a living witness, and eliminating him was the primary goal. The same went for Aimee. Had he taken care of her- and Bert- first? I hadn't heard gunfire as I carried Bill away, but the firebombs and the kerosene blast had filled my head with noise.

I walked five steps, stopped, repeated the pattern. The mouth of the gravel drive came into view.

Choice point, none of the options good.

I found nothing.

Just the Seville, all four tires slashed flat, hood open, distributor cap gone. Tire tracks- two sets, both deep and heavily treaded- said the pickup and another working vehicle had departed.

The nearest house was a quarter mile up the road. I could barely make out yellow windows.

I was bloodstained and bloodied, one side of my face scraped raw, and my burnt hand hurt like hell. One look and the residents would probably bolt their doors and call the police.

Which was fine with me.

I almost made it before the rumble sounded.

Big engine, heading my way from Highway 150. Loud enough- close enough- for visibility- but no headlights.

I ran into the bushes, crouched behind a flurry of ferns, watched as the black Suburban sped past and slowed fifty feet before the entrance to Bill and Aimee's property.

It came to a halt. Rolled forward, twenty feet, stopped again.

A man got out. Big, very big.

Then another, slightly smaller but not by much. He gave some kind of hand signal, and the two of them pulled out weapons and hurried toward the entrance.

Anyone at the wheel? The Suburban's tinted windows augmented the night and made it impossible to tell. Now I knew that a run for the neighbors' house would be risky and wrong: Coury's shooting of Bill resonated in my head. Coury had pulled the trigger, but I'd been the angel of death, couldn't justify extending the combat to more i

I crouched and waited. Tried to read my watch, but the crystal was shattered and the hands had been snapped off.

I counted off seconds. Had reached three thousand two hundred when the pair of big men returned.

"Shit," said the shorter one. "Goddammit."

I stood, and said, " Milo, don't shoot me."

CHAPTER 45

Aimee and Bert sat in the third row of the Suburban. Aimee clutched Bert's sleeve. Bert's eyes lacked focus.

I got in next to Milo, in the second row.

At the wheel was Stevie the Samoan, the bounty hunter Georgie Nemerov called Yokuzuna. Next to him sat Red Yaakov, crew-cut head nearly brushing the roof.

"How'd you find us?" I said.

"The Seville car got tagged, and I got hold of the tagger."

"Tagged?"

"Satellite locating device."

"One of Coury's car gadgets?"

His hand on my shoulder was eloquent: We'll talk later.

Stevie drove to Highway 150 and pulled over just short of the 33 intersection, into a tree-shaded turnaround where three vehicles sat. Toward the rear, half-hidden by the night, was the pickup truck, front end facing the road, still loaded with fertilizer. A few feet away was a dark Lexus sedan. Another black SUV- a Chevy Tahoe- blocked both other vehicles.

Stevie dimmed his lights, and two men stepped from behind the Tahoe. A muscular, shaved-head Hispanic wearing a black muscle T-shirt, baggy black cargo pants and a big, leather chest holster, and Georgie Nemerov in a sport coat, open-necked white shirt, rumpled slacks.

The muscular man's T-shirt read: BAIL ENFORCEMENT AGENT in big white letters. He and Nemerov approached the Suburban. Milo lowered his window, and Nemerov peered in, saw me, raised an eyebrow.

"Where's Coury?"

Milo said, "With his ancestors."

Nemerov tongued the inside of his cheek. "You couldn't save him for me?"

"It was over by the time we got there, Georgie."

Nemerov's eyebrow arched higher as he turned to me. "I'm impressed, Doc. Want a job? The hours are long and the pay sucks."

"Yeah," said Yaakov, "but de people you got to meet are deezgusting."

Stevie laughed. Nemerov's smile widened reluctantly. "I guess results are what counts."

"Was there anyone else?" I said. "Besides Coury?"

"Sure," said Nemerov. "Two other party animals."