Cut to the Bone(61)

I hear a bellow. Like Godzilla or something. I look. It’s Benedetti, and man is he pissed.

I get up the knife, but he don’t care. Kicks my arm like a football. Knife spins into the trees, arm spins the other way. He rips out a chunk of my hair, then locks up my good arm. Snap, it’s broke too. Hollers crazy stuff about my son, his son, dead sons, everyone’s son. Knocks me down and starts stomping. Those boots hurt like crazy, so I kick him in the nuts. It’s like they’re made of cement - he don’t care. He’s on fire. He kicks the snot out of me. Smashes my face on a tree root, knocks out my front tooth. I know I’m gonna die, right there.

Then he’s off me. Branch is yelling at him, Can’t do that, man, can’t kill him, ain’t got no weapon no more. Dumb-ass cops. I’m them, I kill me dead and stick the knife back in my hand. These knuckleheads too “moral” for that. They got “rules.” I don’t. That’s why I always win. Always, always, always.

Only thing I regret is not having my son no more. Woulda been fun having one of them. They play ball and shit, fetch you beer when you say. Make you look good. Walk tall. But Benedetti screwed that up. Made me kill my own damn son. If he hadn’t made me do that, who knows? Maybe Junior would of come by Sundays to visit his old man . . .

“Now that,” the strangler said, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, “is one bitchin’ good story.”

Trent punched his arm. “Stick around, sonny. Sequel’s better.”





7:02 p.m.

“Well, howdy, mister,” the fuel-truck driver said, turning toward the unexpected crunch on the gravel. “What are you doing all the way out-”

The three-shot reply silenced the cicadas.





9:42 p.m.

Marty dipped the sponge in the bucket of warm water. He squeezed it heavy-damp, resumed cleaning grout off the powder room floor.

He concentrated on making each wipe perfect. Press too lightly, the residue dried on the tiles, ruining them. Too heavy, he sucked the grout out of the joints and had to start from scratch. The hands-and-knees made him ache head to heels, and his eyes stung from the vapors. He ignored it. Finishing what he’d started took precedence.

He’d tried to catch Emily’s eye when Branch told the team to knock off for the night. She didn’t look up. He shrugged. Drove home to get some shut-eye.

Lay wide awake, cursing sheep.

He dressed, then fired up the GTO he’d spent a year restoring. He’d raced the amateur circuit for years, and when he was troubled by a case - or in this case, Emily - he blasted down the lonesome roads south of Joliet, stereo cranked, window down, not looking for anything or thinking of much, just feeling the wind.

That wasn’t working, either.

As he rounded the old Joliet Arsenal for the turn home, he looked at the steel ring dangling from the ignition. Emily’s nickel-plated house key was there. She’d painted a little red heart at the top, on both sides. Gave to him Christmas last. Hadn’t asked for it back.

That means something. Don’t know what. But something.

Time to find out if it’s still there.

He called the task force, hoping she’d pick up. They needed to talk. She didn’t want to, tough. He’d force the issue. Get this thing done. Cold wars were stupid - everyone suffered, not just them. He’d seen the knowing looks from the task cops, many of whom had Been There. Emily wanted out because of the kid, fine. But she’d damn well say it to his face.

Branch answered. Said Emily went for drinks with Annie. Way they talked, they’d be gone half the night. I can find her if you want. Buy you a beer if you need.

Nah, Marty said. I’m just gonna stop at her house a while, grout the powder room.

One less piece of unfinished business.

“So Marty’s a daddy,” Annie mused. “And he didn’t want to tell you.”

“No, he didn’t,” Emily said, topping their daiquiris from the lipped pitcher. She was feeling the burn from the expensive rum. Nice burn. “He still doesn’t.”

“How do you know?” Annie said.

“Know what?”

“He doesn’t want to tell you about his son.”

“Because he hasn’t.”

“Are you giving him a chance? You’ve frozen him out pretty solid.”

She’d pulled Annie aside at six, when Marty was at the morgue collecting Zabrina Reynolds’s results. She asked about the tommy-gun transfer at the Riverwalk. Annie said Marty was borrowing it for photographs - he wrote about weapons for the sheriff’s Web site - so she brought it along. Why? Emily sighed, given the bare bones. Annie said let’s get a drink when we’re done. At 8:30 they headed not to Our Neighbors, the friendly local cop bar with plenty of pretzels and ice-cold Schlitz, but to Lee Ann’s Mining Camp, an Alaska Gold Rush-themed drinkery that most cops slinked past for fear of getting cooties from the yuppie clientele. Perfect place for this conversation. Cops gossiped more than the oldest of old biddies, and Emily didn’t want her business making the circuit.