The Survivors Club

Careful not to touch anything, not with hands or feet or body or clothing.

George Hanley had that clumsy inanimate look corpses get—caved to the side like a grain sack that had fallen off a shelf, propped up against the blood-stained interior wall as if someone had pushed him there.

His bloodied DL had been thrown on his stomach like a playing card. The wallet they’d found nearby, tossed into a corner of the cabin.

He wore a flannel shirt, tan chinos, and running shoes.

Tess had to hunker down close and squint hard at the license, had to read it through the dark red stain, read it aloud to her partner.

She took photos of the corpse and the graffiti-covered Sheetrock wall. Although in truth, she didn’t need to.

She saw the crime scene in every indelible detail, and she would remember it that way. Every bloody flap of skin, every jagged crater—many of them so close together they made one cavernous, many-chambered wound.

Blood soaked into the floor as if someone in a rage had stomped hard on a crateful of blackberry Popsicles.

His torso had been turned into a sieve. Thirty rounds from an AK-47 will do that. From his crotch to his throat, he was riddled with bullets. He’d been shot through each eye, and the duct tape affixed to his mouth.

She had a whole gallery of gruesome images inside her skull, but this was the worst.

Overkill.

No—

Overkill squared.

Tess had what her new partner, Danny, liked to call “The Supah Power.” Her memory, virtually photographic, was a parlor trick to the people she worked with, a topic of conversation but also something her fellow cops liked to have her utilize on their own cases.

She was the most popular girl in school.

But already there were too many suspects. This homicide, in the rickety old ghost town of Credo right on the border between the United States and Mexico, looked like a hit. It looked like a hit by an enforcer for one of the Mexican cartels—either Sinaloa, which owned this part of the world, or the Zetas, or the violent upstart group, Alacran—Spanish for “scorpion.”

George Hanley had been riddled with bullets and then “silenced” by duct tape. All of this pointed to a message being sent.

But to whom?

“What d’ya think?” Danny Rojas said behind her.

“What do you think?”

“Looks like a cartel hit to me.”

“A sixty-eight-year-old white guy?”

“A sixty-eight-year-old white guy who used to be a homicide dick.” Danny held up his smartphone. “I looked him up. If it’s the same guy, and I think he is, he was shot up before.”

“He was?” Tess stepped carefully to peer over Danny’s shoulder. She had to squint. Jesus, those screens were small.

“See? He was on a reality show—The Ultimate Survivor.”

“Huh.”

“And this. You’re not going to believe this. This is why.” He pulled up the article for her.

She read the headline.

“Kind of weird, huh, guera?” Danny said.

Pronounced “Wetda.” He called her “guera,” which could mean anything from “blonde” to “Anglo” to “white,” ostensibly to get under her skin. But in the couple of months they’d worked together, it had become more of a pet name.

Danny said, “I mean, look. He won the lottery. A three-hundred-thousand-dollar payout. The guy sure was lucky.”

“Until he wasn’t.” Tess grabbed his phone and scrolled through the article. In 1991, Hanley, then a veteran homicide detective with Phoenix Metro PD, was shot multiple times in a gun battle with a street gang. He died twice on the operating table, but was resuscitated. He returned to work but had to take a desk job. Eventually, he worked his way up to lieutenant.

“The lottery, man,” Danny said. “Three hundred thousand dollars. He gave most of it away to the Humane Society.”

Tess was barely listening. She was reading the part where ten-year-old George Hanley had been home sick the day his mother drove his sister four blocks to the elementary school. The car had been T-boned on the passenger side, his sister was paralyzed.

“Lucky Lohrke,” Tess muttered.

“Who?”

“Somebody else who was lucky.”

CHAPTER 2

“So who was this Lucky Looky guy?” Danny asked as they drove back the way they’d come, bumping over the bone-jarring washboard road. They’d finished up at the crime scene late in the day, seen the techs to their cars, and closed up. They’d padlocked the gate to the ghost town, even though the border here was porous and anyone who could crawl through a four-strand fence could get in.

“Lohrke,” Tess said. “Not Looky.”

“Who is he? Somebody who was lucky, eh?”

“He was a baseball player,” Tess said.

“You like baseball?”

“Nope. I just saw his obit in a magazine.”

“Bet you don’t like soccer, either.”

“You’re batting a thousand today.”

“So let me guess. You remember every detail of this obit, am I right?”

“Yup.”

“Weren’t you, like diagnosed or something? What’s it called? Superautographical—”

“Superautobiographical memory.”

“Yeah, that. If I give you a date you can tell me what day it was and what you were doing.”

“True.”

On May 2, 2009, she’d picked up a Time magazine. It was a Monday in Albuquerque, sunny with a few high clouds. She’d stopped at the Coyote Springs Safeway to pick up a few things she’d run out of—milk, bread, toothpaste, and a packet of hairpins. She’d been working a particularly ugly homicide—Yolanda Ochs, beaten, and her throat slit—and was on the way home. As Tess waited in the checkout line, she flipped through the magazine, and that was when she saw it.

Jack “Lucky” Lohrke’s obituary.

“So what made this Lorhke so damn lucky?” Danny asked her.

“In World War II, the two guys on each side of him were shot and killed.”

“So? That doesn’t sound so unusual.”

“Okay. After the war, he was bumped from a transport flight home by a high-ranking officer at the last minute…”

“Just him, right?”

“I dunno. Probably.”

“So let me guess…the plane crashed.”

“Killed everyone aboard. But that wasn’t all.”

“Oh, do tell!” Danny using his Carmen Miranda voice. “Choo don’ mean there’s more, do you?”

“Your accent needs work.”