have the stomach for the job at all.
It was a conundrum.
Maybe he could grab somebody off the street—an innocent, a little girl, perhaps—and torture her in front of the pastor? But that was crazy. Where was he going to find a little girl at this time of night? The black kid with the beard could have been leverage, but it was too late for that.
The Vincent said, “So what’s it going to be, Rudy?”
The man shook his head. “I’m sorry. I just can’t.” He sounded genuinely apologetic. “I made a vow.”
Even on the meds, with his empathy reduced to a trickle, the Vincent could detect the sincerity in the pastor’s voice. Rudy was determined to keep his promise.
The Vincent put a hand on the man’s neck. Three small dots surrounded the “13” tattoo, representing Prison, Hospital, and Cemetery, the gangster stations of the cross. “Just a first name,” he said. Asking, even though it was futile. “Or the initials.”
Rudy said, “It’s not too late. It’s never too late. God can forgive you. Even after you do what you’re about to do.”
The pastor stared at the floor. He was already gone, gone as that Afghan farmer.
“What are we going to do with you?” the Vincent asked.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ollie and I rode in the backseat, Bobby alone up front. During the ride to the strip mall she held my hand, running her thumb up and down my wrist. Her fingers were no longer trembling. She directed Bobby to drive around the back.
She pulled my face to hers and kissed me fiercely. “For luck.” She jumped out of the car and jogged up the steps beside the loading dock. She looked twice as big in the camo jacket.
I hopped out after her, then leaned back in to the passenger window. “Keep the car running,” I told Bobby. I’d always wanted to say that.
Ollie took something out of her jacket pocket and inserted it in the lock of one of the doors. I whispered, “How long will it take to—?”
She pushed the door open and stepped into the dark.
“Okay then,” I said.
Ollie turned on a thin flashlight. She played the light around the wall adjacent to the loading dock doors and finally settled on a small white box at eye level. My eye level, anyway—the box was positioned just over Ollie’s head. The lid hung loose. She reached up and popped it off.
“Huh,” she said.
“Problem?” I still had my hand on the door.
“The alarm’s already disabled.”
I closed the door. Ollie flipped a light switch. I winced against the light, turned to face the room—and my body jerked, then froze—the microseizure of the life-endangered mammal.
In the middle of the warehouse, a figure lay curled on the floor, his back to us. I flashed on the body of Francine, sprawled on the tile of the NAT bathroom, and knew this to be another corpse.
I stepped forward, and Ollie put a hand on my shoulder. “We have to get out,” she said. “Now.”
I ignored her and walked toward the body. He was naked, or nearly so. His hands were clasped behind him. His neck was straight, supported by something small, so that his head hovered over the floor. Blood had pooled beneath it, then spawned a rivulet that meandered a few feet to a drain.
I moved around his feet to see his face. It was the pastor. His eyes were open, his lips slightly parted. I crouched to see what he was resting on. I touched his shoulder, and he tipped onto his back.
A rounded wooden handle was buried in the side of his neck. The tattoo I’d seen yesterday was obscured by blood.
Ollie said, “Lyda…”
I was shaking, and couldn’t stop myself. Some neural pathways are so old, the grooves so deep, you’re forced to realize that you’re an animal first. Reason, choice, self-control? They all showed up late to the evolutionary party.
“The chemjet,” I said. “We need the chemjet.”
Ollie walked toward the bathroom and I rose to follow her. She pulled open the door. Immediately she put up a hand to have me stay back, but I stepped
It was a conundrum.
Maybe he could grab somebody off the street—an innocent, a little girl, perhaps—and torture her in front of the pastor? But that was crazy. Where was he going to find a little girl at this time of night? The black kid with the beard could have been leverage, but it was too late for that.
The Vincent said, “So what’s it going to be, Rudy?”
The man shook his head. “I’m sorry. I just can’t.” He sounded genuinely apologetic. “I made a vow.”
Even on the meds, with his empathy reduced to a trickle, the Vincent could detect the sincerity in the pastor’s voice. Rudy was determined to keep his promise.
The Vincent put a hand on the man’s neck. Three small dots surrounded the “13” tattoo, representing Prison, Hospital, and Cemetery, the gangster stations of the cross. “Just a first name,” he said. Asking, even though it was futile. “Or the initials.”
Rudy said, “It’s not too late. It’s never too late. God can forgive you. Even after you do what you’re about to do.”
The pastor stared at the floor. He was already gone, gone as that Afghan farmer.
“What are we going to do with you?” the Vincent asked.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ollie and I rode in the backseat, Bobby alone up front. During the ride to the strip mall she held my hand, running her thumb up and down my wrist. Her fingers were no longer trembling. She directed Bobby to drive around the back.
She pulled my face to hers and kissed me fiercely. “For luck.” She jumped out of the car and jogged up the steps beside the loading dock. She looked twice as big in the camo jacket.
I hopped out after her, then leaned back in to the passenger window. “Keep the car running,” I told Bobby. I’d always wanted to say that.
Ollie took something out of her jacket pocket and inserted it in the lock of one of the doors. I whispered, “How long will it take to—?”
She pushed the door open and stepped into the dark.
“Okay then,” I said.
Ollie turned on a thin flashlight. She played the light around the wall adjacent to the loading dock doors and finally settled on a small white box at eye level. My eye level, anyway—the box was positioned just over Ollie’s head. The lid hung loose. She reached up and popped it off.
“Huh,” she said.
“Problem?” I still had my hand on the door.
“The alarm’s already disabled.”
I closed the door. Ollie flipped a light switch. I winced against the light, turned to face the room—and my body jerked, then froze—the microseizure of the life-endangered mammal.
In the middle of the warehouse, a figure lay curled on the floor, his back to us. I flashed on the body of Francine, sprawled on the tile of the NAT bathroom, and knew this to be another corpse.
I stepped forward, and Ollie put a hand on my shoulder. “We have to get out,” she said. “Now.”
I ignored her and walked toward the body. He was naked, or nearly so. His hands were clasped behind him. His neck was straight, supported by something small, so that his head hovered over the floor. Blood had pooled beneath it, then spawned a rivulet that meandered a few feet to a drain.
I moved around his feet to see his face. It was the pastor. His eyes were open, his lips slightly parted. I crouched to see what he was resting on. I touched his shoulder, and he tipped onto his back.
A rounded wooden handle was buried in the side of his neck. The tattoo I’d seen yesterday was obscured by blood.
Ollie said, “Lyda…”
I was shaking, and couldn’t stop myself. Some neural pathways are so old, the grooves so deep, you’re forced to realize that you’re an animal first. Reason, choice, self-control? They all showed up late to the evolutionary party.
“The chemjet,” I said. “We need the chemjet.”
Ollie walked toward the bathroom and I rose to follow her. She pulled open the door. Immediately she put up a hand to have me stay back, but I stepped
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