realized that he’d never catch her. She was already around the farthest bend and running like the wind.
“Bitch!” he growled, and then turned and pointed at the retreating back of old man Guthrie, taking aim with a two-hand grip. Lightning flashed continuously, illuminating the man with enticing clarity, and the ghost of his old smile flickered on his lips as Ruger pulled the trigger.
Chapter 14
Terry Wolfe and the detectives made it to the crime scene in less than ten minutes. Their late-model dark Ford rocketed along, leaving Chief Bernhardt’s five-year-old police unit far behind. Terry sat in the back, gripping the door handle with one hand and the back of Ferro’s seat with the other. His face was pasty with terror, but most of his dread came from his memory of that phone call.
The car leaped and skidded and tore like a demon wind along the blacktop and it jolted him back to the moment.
“God!” he whispered as the car took a curve on fewer wheels than Henry Ford had intended, then bounced down onto all fours and swooped hawklike down a long hill. They rounded another, wider curve and saw two revolving dome lights in the distance. LaMastra actually accelerated down the hill and then screeched and slewed the car to a sideways stop that sent up curls of rubber smoke from all four wheels. “Oh my Lord!” Terry gasped, his finger still digging into the upholstery. “Where did you learn to drive like that?”
LaMastra grinned at him in the rearview mirror. “Old Steve McQueen movies.”
“My heart stopped beating miles back,” Terry complained.
Ferro looked faintly amused. “You’ll have to forgive the detective. He lives for this kind of thing. It’s what he does in lieu of having an actual life.”
LaMastra chuckled and leaped out of the car; Ferro followed, bringing with him a large, heavy briefcase.
Terry slowly unstuck his fingers and reached for the door handle. He stepped out of the car in the same shaky way that novices depart a particularly aggressive roller-coaster ride, placing his feet on the ground as if uncertain that it would hold him.
Officer Rhoda Thomas came jogging over to them, pale and uncertain. She carried a huge shotgun at port arms.
“Okay, Officer, what’s going on?” Ferro asked, cutting right to the chase. “The radio reports were, shall we say, a little disjointed?”
Rhoda looked up into Ferro’s cold eyes. “The others are still down there by the suspect’s vehicle. They wouldn’t let me go down and take a look.”
“Why’s that?” asked LaMastra.
“Well…Officer Head said that there was a body down there.”
“Uh-huh. And?”
“Well,” Rhoda said, licking her lips, “they didn’t say for sure, but I got the impression that it was in a pretty bad state. They wouldn’t say exactly what condition it was in, but when they first came back, they looked really upset. You know…shaken? Then all three of them got sick.”
“Oh, come on,” said LaMastra, laughing. “Jerry Head and Coralita Toombes getting sick? Get real.”
Rhoda just looked at him.
Ferro tapped LaMastra on the shoulder. “Let’s go have a look.”
“What should I do?” Rhoda asked.
“Just stay here. Stay by the radio. Your chief and additional units are just behind us. Send them on down once they get here.”
“Okay.”
To Terry, Ferro said, “Do you want to come with us?”
“Not particularly.” But he went anyway.
When they were within a dozen yards of the crime scene, Ferro called out, “Coming in!”
“Who is it?” Toombes’s voice called tersely.
“Ferro, LaMastra, and Mayor Wolfe.”
“It’s clear,” the woman called. “Kind of.”
They entered the clearing and saw the black car squatting there, dottled with dirt and corn pollen and blood. Jimmy Castle sat on the ground, his back against the bumper, smoking a cigarette. He didn’t even look up at them, but the three newcomers each exchanged a glance. They moved around the car to where Toombes and Head stood. Both officers held flashlights, but the beams were pointed at the ground to lead the way for the detectives. The side of the car, where the body lay, was in a dark bank of shadows.
Head stepped forward, clearly intending to block the way so they couldn’t see past him. His face looked strained, lined, and sick; it had paled from a deep brown to a sickly ashen gray. Beads of perspiration jeweled his forehead. He nodded at them. In a soft funeral parlor voice he said, “Sir, the crime scene is still pristine. Also, gentlemen, you really better hike up your balls before you take a look because this is some sick, sorry shit. I mean…I have never seen anything like this.” He looked at them, his eyes hard and deep. “Never nothing like this.”
“Let’s just get on with it,” said Ferro sharply, clearly annoyed at Head’s melodramatics.
Head just nodded and stepped aside. He turned and lifted his flashlight, training the powerful beam on the side of the car.
“Oh…” gasped Ferro.
“…my…” breathed LaMastra.
“…God,” murmured Terry.
Terry wiped the sweat from his face and looked at LaMastra, who had turned an unwholesome green. Ferro’s face was set and stony, but there was sweat on his upper lip. Head had joined Castle for a smoke at the back of the car, and Toombes was staring up at the moon as if she’d suddenly discovered a passion for astronomy.
“Get out the camera,” Ferro said, and his voice was hoarse. “We don’t have time to wait for a forensic unit.” He looked up at the sky. Clouds were racing in from all sides and the air smelled like rain and ozone. “It’s going to rain soon and we’ll lose the entire site.”
Nodding mutely, LaMastra knelt and placed the big briefcase on the ground. Opening it, he removed a big digital camera with a powerful flash unit. He checked to make sure it was adjusted for the bad light.
“Take a complete set.”
“Balls,” LaMastra breathed, but he did what he was told. Approaching cautiously, he came to within ten feet of the scene and raised the camera. He looked at it through the viewfinder, but he didn’t…couldn’t press the Release button. He just stood there, one index finger tapping nervously and unconsciously on top of the camera body.
“Vince,” a voice said quietly, and LaMastra turned, lowering the camera. Ferro’s eyes were kinder than he had ever seen them. “If you don’t want to do this, Vince…”
LaMastra inhaled through his nose, then shook his head. “No, Frank. I can do it. It’s just that…” He let it trail off. The English language didn’t really have a proper set of adjectives for describing the scene. Ferro nodded and clapped the younger man reassuringly on the shoulder. LaMastra raised the camera once again, drew in a deep, steadying breath, and began recording horror.
Tony Macchio, former felon. Former low-level mob muscle. Former enforcer. Former confederate of Karl Ruger. Tony Macchio, former human being.
A mouth thrown wide in the absolute extremity of pain and outrage. Not just the pain of dying, but the pain of violation on an inhuman scale.
