gangsters had hooked the trailer to a truck and towed it away. Red-faced, the politicians had replaced the trailer with a heavy container, like the ones used on cargo ships.
Manning the satellite station was a punishment detail. Gershwynne Galant had made the mistake of getting caught with the takings of a drug dealer he had just busted. So he was frying like an egg, alone, day in and day out for a fucken week. Jesus.
Galant was paging through a magazine he’d found lying outside the container when the woman and her son walked up. Galant looked at his watch. Six o’clock. He would have to listen to their story.
The boy was holding a pair of Nikes. He was walking barefoot with a kind of skip, his bare feet burning on the hot sand. His mother looked like a bloody battle-ax.
Galant listened to what the boy had to say, about bodies in the veld, and decided not to phone this in to Bellwood South. Instead he dialed Rudi Barnard’s cell phone. Gatsby thrived on this kind of information, and it never hurt to do the fat man a favor.
Galant killed the call and told the mother and son to wait. Somebody was coming.
The battle-ax scowled at him. “And how long must I wait?”
Galant shrugged, his nose already back in his magazine.
The woman sighed, then spoke to the boy. “I got to finish cooking and help your sister with her homework. You wait here and sort this out. You hear me?”
The boy nodded, and she walked off.
Barnard’s Toyota scraped across the uneven veld. His great weight dragged the suspension down, and the exhaust smacked the ground alarmingly every time he hit a bump. The little half-breed was flying around in the seat next to him like a turd in a tumble dryer. Barnard’s car threw up a cloud of dust in the evening light, heading toward the spot where the kid said the bodies lay.
Barnard slid the car to a stop and hauled himself out, wheezing, wiping a beefy forearm across his sweating face. Ronnie September climbed out, staring at Barnard in mute terror.
Barnard pointed to the Nikes lying on the floor of the car. “Bring those with you.” The kid did as he said. Barnard told him to lead the way.
Barnard followed the kid toward a clump of bushes.
He saw Rikki Fortune first. Barnard squatted down. If the stench bothered him, he gave no sign of it. He took in the gash across the throat. Also the torn garbage bags and the duct tape. Who the fuck wrapped corpses up like Christmas presents before dumping them? No gangster he knew.
Barnard snapped a couple of pictures of Rikki with his cell phone camera.
He lifted himself and went across to the tall half-breed. Looked like he had been stabbed in the chest and shot in the stomach. Barnard took a couple more happy snaps.
Ronnie was hanging back, still clutching the shoes by the laces.
Barnard beckoned him over. “Come here.”
The boy came over to him. “Tell me again what happened.”
Ronnie began nervously. “I was coming on here this morning…”
“What time?”
“Past eight.”
“You alone?”
Ronnie nodded. “I was coming on when I saw that one.” He pointed to Rikki. “Then I saw the other one next.”
“You see anybody else here?”
The boy shook his head.
“Ja. Then what you do?”
Ronnie held the shoes up. “I took these.”
Barnard fixed him with a stare. “And then what?”
“Then I got a taxi. To Bellville. To play games. Then I went home. And my mommy saw the shoes. And I tole her about them.” He pointed to the bodies. “And she took me to the cop.”
“You didn’t bring anybody here?” Ronnie shook his head. “You lying to me?”
Ronnie shook his head even more vigorously. Barnard stared down at the boy. He thrust a hand toward the Nikes. “Gimme those.”
Ronnie held the shoes out to him. Barnard grabbed them, flinging them onto the tall guy’s body. He poked a finger into Ronnie’s chest. “You wait here.”
Barnard walked back to the car and popped the trunk. He took a. 38 revolver from under the spare tire and shoved it into his waistband. He’d taken it off a dead drug dealer and kept it for special occasions. Like this. Then he hauled out a jerrican and walked back to the kid.
Ronnie looked as if he was thinking of making a run for it.
Barnard stopped in front of him and set the jerrican down. Then he took the revolver from his waistband, cocked it, and shot the kid between the eyes. The little bastard hadn’t even seen it coming, just gave him a stupid look and dropped. Barnard shot him once more in the chest, jst to make sure.
Barnard dragged Rikki Fortune’s body until it lay next to his beanpole buddy. Then he grabbed the half-breed kid by a bare ankle and slung him across the two gangsters. He emptied the jerrican onto the bodies, set fire to a scrap of cloth, and tossed it, stepping back. The bodies exploded into flame.
There was no way that Barnard was going to let this crime scene into the system. He knew there was only an outside chance that anybody would give a shit about these useless lives ending, but it was a chance he wasn’t prepared to take.
No, he knew that the answer to his prayers lay in a house up on the mountain. This was a gift from God.
In very fucken weird wrapping paper.
CHAPTER 9
Burn found Susan making up the single bed in the spare room. “This for me?”
She nodded, tucking in a sheet. “I think it’s best.”
He tried to help, taking one side of the sheet. She snapped it out of his hand. “I can do this, Jack.”
“You know that Matt’s slept with me the last couple of nights?”
“Then he can sleep with me.” She shook a pillow into a cover.
“He’s wetting the bed again.”
“I’m not exactly surprised.” She levered herself up to standing. “He needs counseling. I want him to get help, as soon as we’re back in the States.”
He nodded. “Sure.” He turned to leave the room.
“Jack?” Her voice stopped him. She was looking at him, in the direct way she had, as if she could read the fine print on his soul. “Do you believe in retribution?”
“Susan, where’s this going?”
“Do you ever think of that cop? In Milwaukee?”
“Every day.”
“Do you even know his name?” Burn didn’t answer her. Susan pressed on. “Do you know he had a wife? And a son?”
Burn said nothing, letting her get done with this.
She walked past him, that splay-footed balancing act. “Just like you, Jack.”
When the fat boer showed her the picture on his phone, Carmen Fortune felt a sense of disbelief. Could it really be? Could Rikki really be dead? Did this really mean she would never again feel him shove himself inside her or hit her with his fists?
She stared at the image on the phone. “Is it cut? His throat?”
“No, he’s smiling for the camera.” Gatsby grabbed the phone out of her hand and slid it into the pocket of his sweat-stained shirt.
“Who did it?” a ht='0em'›
