One of the Wicked: A Mick Callahan Novel by Harry Shannon Page A

down. He watched the DVD for a while. A teenaged girl who seemed genuinely terrified was being slapped around by two naked men wearing Halloween masks. She spoke Spanish. They burned her with a cigarette, then choked and raped her repeatedly. If it was faked, it was Oscar caliber work. Bone figured it for an actual video pirated from another country. His blood started to boil. He turned off the television, sat down near Gordo, aimed the rifle at the dealer and flicked on the light.
    "What the . . . ?"
    Bone once told me that nothing concentrates the mind as perfectly as the business end of a gun. Gordo shook off the drugs and booze slowly, but then sat up straight when he saw the man with the pantyhose face. His red eyes bulged wide. One palm came up in the classic vain gesture meant to ward off a bullet.
    "Hey," Gordo said weakly. "Hey."
    "It's about your money, motherfucker." The intruder spoke quietly, firmly. "And I want all of it."
    Gordo tried the usual bobbing and weaving. Said he didn't keep it all at the house, the safe was locked and an employee kept the key, maybe tomorrow morning; I'll get you for this and you can run but you can't hide asshole. Bullshit like that, the things people say when they're bluffing. Meanwhile, the strange man just sat there with his face all twisted up.
    Gordo probably got bolder then, made some threats without getting a response. Bigger threats. Maybe Gordo even eventually made the mistake of threatening Bone's family. I figure something like that must have happened, something that compounded having viewed the sadistic video. How do I know?
    Because Bone tied Gordo to the chair, gagged him, and started in with the knife.

Ten

    Flies already circled my dying cat, Wink. Her skinny sides heaved as she struggled for air. I didn't know what had happened; whether the little tabby had been hit by a car, eaten something bad, or maybe my stepfather had kicked her too hard. It was almost dark out and we were on the back porch. I was maybe eleven years old. The cat yowled and writhed for a second, then went silent again. I held Wink in my lap and did my best not to cry. Danny was drunk again, way too drunk to drive into Dry Wells. Besides, he said, "We ain't got money to waste on a vet. That animal don't do shit around here, except for killing rats. . . ."
    I'd been fighting that day, and my elbows and knuckles were scraped raw. Danny had grudgingly cleaned me up and given me some of the money we'd won. I thought of offering to use that to pay Doc Langdon, but knew if I went to the phone Danny would beat me for sure. He had already said no, and Danny didn't brook sass, especially when he was drunk.
    I decided that if the cat was still fighting for her life when my stepfather passed out, I'd collect my savings, put her in a sack around my neck, and ride one of the horses into town. With luck, I'd find Doc and be back before dawn.
    Just then, the cat stopped breathing. My chest ached. I closed her eyes and cursed Danny, wished him dead along with the animal, but promptly felt a wave of guilt and shame. He'd given me a roof and food when my mother died. He was rough, but he was all I had. I reminded myself to be grateful.
    My knuckles hurt. I put the cat down and tried to look at my hands but suddenly they weren't in front of me at all, they were behind my back, and I couldn't move. . . .
    "When's he going to wake up?"
    I was lying sideways on a seat that smelled like genuine leather. My hands were tied behind my back. I'd been gagged and blindfolded. The fight in my yard, the blow from the baseball bat. . . .
    Everything was humming, vibrating. We were probably in the van, moving rapidly, maybe out on the highway. My head felt too large and I had what felt like a terminal hangover. My stepfather's memory spoke up from deep inside. Danny chewed me out for having lost a fight. I felt a little sick, probably from blows to the head, but also from shame. When you get the chance, boy, you make them