Cut to the Bone(29)

The Executioner shook his head.

“Well, it’s not my business, anyway,” Mahoney said. “Man wants to see the Mojave by moonlight, no one should tell him otherwise.”

“That what Grandpa says?”

“Nah, that’s me.” He bent close, touched steel to flesh. Several dozen strokes later, he was wiping the Executioner clean with a hot towel from the baseboard steamer.

“Terrific job, Frank,” the Executioner enthused, watching the white fog billow into in the shivery air. “Best shave I’ve had since . . . well, ever.”

“Thanks. I pride myself on them. The razor helps.”

The Executioner reached to the shelf to examine one. He stopped midair.

“Oops, sorry,” he apologized. “All right if I sneak a look?”

“Oh, sure, be my guest.”

The Executioner raised the straight razor to the light, turned it this way and that. No tool marks. No burrs. Just gleam and perfect mating of ironwood handle to hollow-ground carbon steel blade. “This is a work of art,” he said, deeply impressed. “And you’re an artist with it.”

“Thanks,” Mahoney said, young chest puffing under the white smock. “That’s genuine Solingen steel, all the way from Germany. Grandpa got them off the Internet. They’re pricey, but they keep a nice sharp edge, which you need to clip those annoying loose ends.”

“Funny you should mention that,” the Executioner said, reaching to put the razor back.

“Mention what?” Mahoney said, bending to the steamer for the final hot one.

The Executioner sliced the kid from ear to ear, Solingen steel sinking so deep the edge clacked off the cervical vertebra.

“Awk . . . wha . . .” Mahoney gurgled as his eyes went full-moon.

“You’re a loose end,” the Executioner said, backpedaling to avoid the blood shot. “And I just clipped you. Pretty funny, huh?”

Mahoney collapsed like a brain-shot calf.

“No tip necessary, you say?” the Executioner said, snapping the kid’s nose with a heel strike. “That’s damn nice of you, Frank. You’re a chip off Grandpa’s block.”

No reply.

The Executioner scrubbed the razor with blue germicide from the comb jar. It was great fun using such an exquisitely crafted weapon - everything just died better. He’d save the knife he’d mailed to himself at Phoenix General Delivery for another target.

He checked the street - still clear - then removed two matches from his briefcase.

Ten seconds later he shook them out. He walked to the TV stand and pitched them underneath.

The cut to the bone took almost no effort, he reflected as he merged onto westbound I-40 to California. Easier than the cervical lance in Naperville, and far more satisfying. All that nice frothy blood. It was primeval. The way Bowie liked.

He wished he could call.

August 12, 1966

Earl Monroe breathed as shallowly as possible. Anything else reignited the incredible pain.

Thank God he’d been hit by solid-nose bullets. He’d seen a man shot a dozen times with those and recover with bragging rights. If the cops had carried those fancy new hollow-point bullets, the so-called “Super Vels,” he’d be toes-up in the county morgue.

Course, when the cops are done with me, I’ll be toes-up anyway.

He took in the hospital room for the thousandth time. Cinderblock walls. No windows. Linoleum floor. Worn linen. A metal tray for his food. Another to hold his bedpan. Two IV bags, one empty, one almost, hanging from a steel hook. An ashtray full of squashed butts. An unoccupied bed to his right.

A uniformed policeman was parked outside his door. Now and again he poked his shiny head inside, but didn’t say a word. Just glowered. Right now he was gone. Bathroom, snacks, or feeling up a nurse, Earl didn’t know. Didn’t care. The guy was a lump.

He moved his left hand under the blanket. It rattled. Same with his right ankle.

He was handcuffed to the bed.

Just like yesterday.

And the day before.

No police interrogation so far. That surprised him. Then again, the detectives were probably waiting for him to get “well” so their breaking-down would be more effective.

More fun.

The doctor was pleasant enough. Didn’t curse or scowl, just checked the ankle cast, tended the bullet wounds, and chatted about weather and sports.

The nurses weren’t. They pursed their lips, muttered under their breath. Anything Earl requested, they ignored. Or spat something rude, “slimeball” on the end more times than not. Jabbing harder than necessary when drawing blood, positioning the bedpan just far enough away that he’d miss and have to lay, humiliated, in soaked sheets.

The nickel-and-dime harassment that came with “cop-killer.”