Cut to the Bone(44)

“Of course they do,” Emily said. “Lieutenant Bates is a brilliant analyst and master tactician.”

“And almost as big a pain in the butt as you,” Marty said.

You have no idea, dear, she thought, sticking out her tongue. But you’re about to find out.

Marty showed her the available personnel numbers. “They ain’t pretty,” he said, tapping the page. “Ken should whistle up the State Police right now.”

Emily shook her head. “We can do this ourselves. We’re stretched thin, I know, but the double shifts and vacation cancelations should give us enough bodies.”

“You just peeing a circle around your territory? Or do you honestly think you can pull this off with available manpower?”

“Both.”

Marty tugged at his chin, considering. Emily looked around, trying to spot the bird whose warble rose and fell with shifts in the humid breeze.

“Then that’s what I’ll recommend,” he said, stowing the notebook. “How’s your calf?”

“Still sore,” Emily admitted. “I guess I pulled it worse than I thought in the parking lot. Then Devlin Bloch fell on it.”

Marty brightened. “Hey, we could charge him with that.”

“What?”

“Assault and battery on police gams.”

“Gams,” Emily said, liking how that sounded. She’d never thought her legs slim or pretty enough to be a gam. “I always wanted those.”

“You got ‘em, trust me,” Marty said. “Massage?”

Emily gripped the fence and lifted her leg behind her. Marty snugged it between his thighs and kneaded the kinked muscle.

“That feels great,” she moaned, electric shivering extending from foot to knee. “Thank you.”

“All the thanks I need is not lifting that heel any higher,” Marty said. “Hear about Branch?”

Follow the bouncing segue. “No. What?”

“He needs a new hip.”

Emily frowned, retrieved her leg. “So soon? Why?”

“You know how much it’s been hurting him lately,” Marty said, sagging against the fence. “He told the doctors, and they ran some tests. Turns out the one they put in two years ago is detaching from the bone. They want to saw it out and put in a new model.”

Emily groaned. “Meaning he starts from zero, rehab-wise.”

“Yeah.” He bashed the fence with a knotted fist. The chain links rattled like spare change. “Or, he can leave it alone and hope it stabilizes. Entirely his choice, the doctors said.”

“Some choice,” Emily said. “What’s he going to do?”

Marty didn’t reply.

She studied the terrain. This 200-acre closed landfill on Naperville’s Southeast Side was a good spot for Covington’s execution center. The grass-covered mountain of hot dogs, napkins, newspapers, party hats, burnt-out lightbulbs, junk mail, dead batteries, cough syrup, paint, diapers, tampons, and yellowing Da Vinci Codes wasn’t good for much else, anyway. The methane that belched from the rotting debris fueled a locomotive-sized generator that pumped out 1,500 kilowatts of electricity. Enough to fry a thousand Corey Trents without dimming a single light in the rest of the city. The tall chain-link fence encircled the mountain, which looked like a hairy green belly bulging into the sky. Its height - 190 feet above the surrounding plain - guaranteed nobody would reach the concrete death house at the peak without being noticed. The landfill fit comfortably inside the 1,700-acre Greene Valley Forest Preserve, providing a broad, leafy buffer from the rest of Naperville. Illinois 53, along the eastern edge of the property, ran straight to Stateville and its Death Row. Eleven miles from Death to Valley, Emily mused. Twenty minutes, depending on traffic . . .

“He decided to take the knife,” Marty said finally. “Go through rehab again.”

“Is he all right with that?”

“Got no choice,” Marty said. “Lydia will rip him several new ones if he starts whining.”

“I knew he married well,” Emily said, standing on tiptoes and brushing her lips against Marty’s sun-browned cheek. He tasted like man, salt, and Old Spice. “It goes without saying he has our support. Whatever Branch and Lydia need, we’ll do.”

Marty didn’t reply. Just nodded absently, face clouding, attention drifting.

It’s time, she decided. Just close your eyes and jump . . .

“What’s really bothering you, hon?” she said. “It’s a lot more than Branch.”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, Marty,” Emily said. “I know something’s wrong. Something bad. I deserve to know what it is.”