Cut to the Bone(25)

He felt a little better.

Wayne retched hotcakes when he saw Andy’s gums. They were dangling from his mouth by a single pink sinew, teeth poking out like cob kernels. Blood wept from his flayed body. Flames threatened to burn him alive, so Wayne wrapped his arms around what was left and pulled Andy to safety. Blood whistled through a dozen holes.

The Fury was fully engulfed. The motel windows were shattered, the squeegee melted. A couple of cops scrabbled around like impaled crabs. The rest lay silent.

Car horns erupted.

Peering through the smoke, Wayne saw a filthy lump inch across Ogden Avenue.

“Oh no you don’t!” he howled.

He yanked the superheated .38 from his dead brother’s hand. Ignoring the searing brand, he stumbled half-blind toward the murdering bastard, firing as fast as he could.

“Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!” Earl grunted as bullets chunked his body. He flopped across the center line, forcing Ramblers and Chevys into screeching panic-halts.

“I surrender!” he yelled, pushing his arms over his head. “Don’t shoot any more! I give up!”

“Die, die, die!” Wayne snarled, pulling the trigger over and over though the blue-steel revolver was empty. He kicked Trent, screaming curses so filthy one driver slapped his hands over his son’s ears.

“This animal napalmed my brother!” Wayne shouted, wrenching from the bystanders restraining him. Others joined the free-for-all. Inhalator ambulances raced down Ogden, sirens rising. “Let go so I can wring his neck!”

“Take it easy, mister,” the biggest one ordered, locking his farm-browned arms around Wayne. “If he’s the killer you say, the electric chair’ll hit him like a ton of bricks.”

“That’s why we got Old Sparky,” another farmer said, kicking the revolver away. Everyone nodded, patted the man’s shoulders and back. “Don’t worry. Sparky’ll set things right.”





Saturday

2:30 a.m.

Emily laid her cheek on Marty’s damp chest. It smelled like strawberries - he’d run out of Irish Spring and had to use her body wash. “First mud, now this,” he’d grumbled. “Another year with you and I’ll be wearing a bra.”

She wiggled closer, enjoying the tiny shocks that erupted as his fingertips massaged the small muscles along her backbone.

“I feel like I ran a thousand miles,” she said.

“And it’s only the first day,” Marty said.

“Well, technically, the second,” she said, glancing at her bedside clock.

An hour ago, Branch told the detectives to knock off till seven. Their only good lead had evaporated - the cell phone log said Devlin Bloch had indeed ordered only hookers and pizza, and manager interviews proved it. Might as well catch a few hours’ sleep. Bloch would stay in jail till Minneapolis found the “misplaced” files of the convenience store robbery.

She and Marty headed to her house at the southwesternmost end of Jackson Avenue. They ate cold Brown’s chicken, showered, brushed their teeth, and hit the Posturepedic.

“Gets a million times harder from here,” Marty said, yawning.

“Well, aren’t we the little braggart.”

He chuckled. “I meant the case, dear. We’re back at square one. Bloch is a lug nut, but I’d bet the pension he didn’t do it.”

She didn’t disagree.

“Plus as soon as this isn’t wrapped up, we have to dance at Covington’s prom.”

“Oh. Right,” Emily said. In all the excitement, she’d forgotten about the execution coming to town Friday, and how many double shifts it would require to successfully police it. When it came to overtime at age forty-two, her spirit was willing but her body complained.

“Are you handling it all right?” he said.

“Fine,” she said. “I’m all for executing monsters like Corey Trent.”

He repeated the question.

“Oh,” she said, catching his real meaning. “I’m fine with that, too.”

“Don’t fib, Detective,” Marty said, wagging a finger. “The polarity of your spinal cord changes when you’re not telling the truth. My fingers sense it.”

“Really?”

“Nah,” he said. “It’s just I saw your face in the parking lot.”

“I saw yours first.”

Marty’s sour look said, Stop dodging the question.

“You got that wired expression when I was working out your calf spasm,” he said. “You thought you were dying like two years ago, right?”

Emily propped herself on one elbow and studied Marty’s face. It was all hard planes and angles, unsoftened by the kindly hazel eyes. His fleshy, exquisitely shaped lips held no hint of his usual smile.