Sawbones

I nod. Wondering how the hell we’re going to get the list, but Henry’s a lot smarter than me — he’ll figure it out. “You think the Weasel in the morgue was right?” I ask. “That, you know, the girls might still be alive?”

Henry shudders. “Christ, I hope not.”

“Yeah. . you’re probably right.” More miles drift by in silence. “What you think he does to them? You know, after he cuts their arms and legs off?”

“I don’t know, Mark,” he says to me, “and I don’t really want to know.”

Chapter 10

The back of a filthy Winnebago

Laura’s almost asleep when the side door is flung open. Orange streetlight spills in through the opening, draining the colour out of everything. The Bastard’s back and he’s not alone — he’s got a girl thrown over his shoulder.

He dumps her on the Winnebago’s filthy carpet, then climbs in after her, pulls the door shut, and switches on the pale, flickering lights. The Bastard grabs the new girl by the armpits and drags her backwards until she’s up against the fridge, then cable-ties her hands and feet to one of the rings bolted into the floor. He’s humming Nearer, My God, to Thee as he works, with a great big grin on his face.

And then he strokes her leg, starting at the ankle and going all the way up to the fleshy part of her thigh. Squeezing it as he bites his bottom lip.

The Bastard shivers, crosses himself. Then stands.

“Repent,” he says, throwing his arms wide, “for the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand.” He smiles down at them. “Now we can all go back to the garden.”

He ducks back outside, returning with the kitten in its cardboard box, stroking its fur and telling it how good it’s been. How special. The Bastard puts the box back under the table, then picks his way between the five women, staying out of Laura’s kicking range. He may be a bastard, but he’s not stupid.

For a brief moment he sings the opening bars of Home on the Range, then he pushes through into the driver’s compartment, and switches off the light. The Winnebago’s engine rumbles into life.

Laura knows that when they get wherever they’re going, it’ll make what’s happened so far look like a trip to Disneyland. This is just the warm-up act. What comes next is going to be more horrible than any of them can imagine.

Chapter 11

Saturday

Three in the morning and I’ve got a headache like you wouldn’t believe. The car’s been getting slower and slower all night, no matter how hard I press the accelerator. Its engine has started making clanking noises, and the effort of keeping the shuddering steering wheel straight is beginning to tell.

Jack’s asleep on the back seat with his knees curled up, snoring gently. Henry’s dozed off too, the half-bottle of Old Kentucky drained and hurled out the window about a dozen miles ago.

So now it’s just me and the rattling cough of the car as something in the engine eats itself. This God-damn thing’s going to fall to pieces long before we get to Polk County. And so am I.

I blink at the dashboard, trying to figure out what the little yellow light means. Then I tap the glass and find out as the fuel gauge needle does a rapid crash to empty. Son-of-a-bitch.

Luckily there’s a Casey’s General Store not far off the Interstate, its red and yellow signs glowing in the pitch-black night. I drive the car down the off-ramp and onto the forecourt.

Henry wakes up as I’m filling the tank. He yawns and stretches, then clambers out into the cold night. “What time is it?” he asks, blinking up at the bright lights — and when I tell him he swears. “How come it’s taking so long?”

I grit my teeth. “Because you said we had to steal this ancient, God-damned piece-of-crap Ford Crown Victoria. That’s why.”

He wipes the sleep out of his eyes. “We’ll get something faster when we hit Des Moines.”

“Sixty, seventy miles. About two and a bit hours in this piece of — ”

“OK,” he says, “OK, you don’t like the car. I get it. Fill her up and we’ll see if we can’t find something a little closer.” Henry closes his eyes and shudders. “Gotta take a crap. .” Then he starts towards the store, muttering as he goes, “God-damned morons. Fifty-four Ford Crown Victoria’s a classic. .”

I finish filling up, and pay at the pump — using my credit card in the machine — then follow Henry into Casey’s. Doesn’t matter where you go, pretty much every Casey’s General Store is the same. There’s a big fat woman, with a basket full of donuts and Diet Coke, arguing with the spotty kid behind the counter about the ‘three for two’ hot pizza slices.

I ignore her, and go for the hot filter coffee in the far corner. Maybe get some gum too; something to keep me awake for the rest of the drive. And because I’m in a shitty mood, I don’t get anything for Jack or Henry.

And then I feel guilty and get a six-pack of root beer and two big bags of tortilla chips. I’m paying for them when I realise there’s a Winnebago on the forecourt. It’s brown. I catch a glimpse of the driver as he sticks the nozzle back in the pump and pays. A man, dressed in black, glasses. .

The spotty youth behind the counter tells me to have a nice day — even though it’s half-three in the God- damned morning. He’s holding out my credit card.

Outside, the guy in black climbs back into the Winnebago. Fuck.

Probably not him, but I’m gonna have to check it out.

I’m pushing out through the door when the Winnebago’s engine starts up, its headlights sweeping across the forecourt as it turns back towards the Interstate. That’s when I get a look at the front, there’s a little statue of Jesus and a hoola Elvis on the dashboard. It’s him!

Behind me the spotty till-jockey is shouting, “Sir? You forgot the stuff you bought! Sir?”

“Henry!” I’m running for the car. “HENRY! GET YOUR ASS OUT THAT DAMN TOILET!”

No sign of him, and I can’t wait. I jump in behind the wheel and crank over that gritty, crappy engine. It clicks, groans, whines then grumbles back to life, complaining that I won’t let it die in peace.

I tell it to stop fucking moaning and put my foot down. There’s a grinding sound as I work up through the gears, swearing to God that this is the last time Henry ever gets to pick the car we steal. “Move, you piece of shit!”

“What the fuck?” It’s Jack, he’s sitting up in the back, bleary-eyed as I throw the Ford round and back onto the Interstate. Following the Winnebago. “Where’s Henry?”

“It’s HIM!” I say, pointing through the wind-shield at the little red dots in the distance — the motor home’s tail lights, “He was getting gas! I saw him, right there on the forecourt!”

“Henry was getting gas?”

“Not Henry, you moron! Sawbones!”

And suddenly Jack’s wide awake. “Fuck!” He ducks out of view, but he’s back moments later clutching that Glock nine mm of his. Then Jack’s left leg appears in the gap between the front seats.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting into the front. .”

We’re gaining on the Winnebago. It’s slow and it’s painful — and the Ford’s engine sounds like it’s about to explode — but we’re closing in.

I slap his foot away. “Will you sit your ass down?”

“God-damnit,” says Jack, “Pull over so I can swap seats.”

“You have got to be fucking kidding me! Took me long enough to get this piece-of-shit up to forty the first time, I am not pulling over.”