Slaves to Evil - 11 Read online

  Matt was almost relieved to see the police engaging in criminal activity, confirming that the rot he saw really did indicate a problem. Of course, drugs were a milder sin than he usually saw with people who’d been touched by Mr. Dark.

  He remembered the story about the murdered dealer. The theory was that he’d been killed by a rival. Yeah, thought Matt, rival dealers in the Breckenridge PD. Maybe this was how they dealt with any competing criminals who invaded their turf, by eliminating them. That was certainly one way to reduce the town’s crime rate.

  Matt followed the patrol car to the parking lot of the local high school, which was closed for the holiday weekend. The two cops got out, climbed a grassy hill by the football field, and sat in the sun. O’Neill pulled out another bag of powder and offered it to Woronicz. The decaying officer took a pinch and snorted it into the hole in his face. O’Neill helped himself to some and they sat in the grass getting high.

  After a while Woronicz took another hit. He picked up a few small rocks and began throwing them at the squirrels in the nearby trees. His aim was pretty good. He hit a squirrel and it fell off its branch. O’Neill applauded. Woronicz moved quickly to grab the little animal. He pulled a knife from his belt. He cut the squirrel open, ignoring its shrieks of pain. Bright red intestines tumbled out. He poked around curiously in its gut, pulling out a few organs. Matt looked away. When he dared look back, the cop had tossed the dead squirrel aside and was cleaning the gore off his fingers with a tissue. Matt felt chilled by the casual cruelty. This was more like what he’d expect from the seriously decomposed. There had to be more going on in Breckenridge than drugs. He was missing something.

  He needed to talk to Sheridan again, to find out if he really was one of the good guys. The absence of visible decomposition was no guarantee of virtue. Some people didn’t need Mr. Dark’s evil touch to become corrupt all on their own. Was Sheridan just hiding his moral rot better than his colleagues were?

  He asked for Sheridan at the front desk, only to be told that he was out. Matt figured he was responding to a call somewhere. He decided to look around town for a police car. He could always check back at the station later.

  Matt spotted the black-and-white parked in front of an Italian restaurant. He went inside. Sheridan was sitting alone in a booth near the back, apparently in the middle of an early dinner. There was a half-finished bowl of pasta in front of him and a nearly empty glass of red wine.

  Matt walked by the table and feigned surprise at seeing him. “Hi there.”

  “Hi,” said Sheridan, then recognized him. “We haven’t had any luck on your case, I’m afraid…”

  Matt waved this off. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to give you a hard time about it.” He slid into the seat opposite him, with a perfunctory “May I?” The other man didn’t protest.

  Sheridan was polite enough about the intrusion and asked what brought Matt to town. Matt repeated his story about relocating for work. He asked Sheridan’s opinion about living in Breckenridge and got the same rosy picture that Kathy had painted for him. As they talked, the cop finished his wine. Matt hailed the waitress and ordered Sheridan another. He had less than twenty dollars in his pocket. He hoped that would get Sheridan drunk enough to talk about his fellow officers.

  After another glass disappeared, Matt asked what it was like to be a cop in suburbia. It was OK, said Sheridan. Mostly pretty quiet. The biggest downside? All the paperwork needed for every little parking violation or noise complaint.

  “When I came in the other day, you seemed to have a lot of it,” said Matt sympathetically. When Sheridan nodded, he went on. “And the other officers weren’t doing any.”

  “They never do,” he answered, with an edge of bitterness. “I get all of it.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair,” Matt observed.

  “Lennox doesn’t like me.”

  “Why not?”

  Sheridan took another drink. “’Cause I don’t kiss up to him like the other cops. They can get away with anything.”

  “What do they get away with?” Matt was hopeful that he’d get some real information. He was disappointed.

  “Falsifying their hours, skipping entire shifts,” Sheridan griped. “If I tried that shit, I’d get reamed out. Even fired.”

  “But not Woronicz. Or Ross,” Matt prompted, stoking his annoyance.

  “Hell no. They’re all buddies, always hanging out together.”

  “Drinking, partying… ,” suggested Matt.

  Sheridan nodded, his movements getting unsteady. “For all I know, they’re having orgies up there.”

  “Up where?” He tried to sound casual.

  “You want more garlic bread?” asked Sheridan. “I want more garlic bread.”

  “Sure,” said Matt. He gestured to the waitress.

  He tried to get more detail about where the other police went and what they did but got nowhere. Sheridan was more interested in bitching about Lennox. “He doesn’t know what the job’s really about. With him, it’s all photo ops and schmoozing. I mean, sure, he gets more money for the department, but if you ask me…” He lowered his voice. “He’s got something on those city council guys.”

  “Like what?”

  Sheridan shrugged. “Hell if I know. But they’re afraid of him all right.”

  “Maybe you should find out why,” Matt said. “Investigate.”

  The cop let out a short chuckle. “Why bother? That’s how things get done. You think it’s different anywhere else?”

  Matt wanted to think so but didn’t argue the point. Sheridan continued, “Nobody wants to hear about all the backroom shit. They just want to live their nice little lives in their safe little town, and who cares how it happens.”

  Matt listened to Sheridan complain for a while longer, then asked for the check. Fortunately his drunken pal slapped down a few bills to cover it.

  It had gotten dark by the time they left the restaurant. Sheridan tried to get in the driver’s seat of the patrol car, but Matt stopped him and confiscated the keys. There was no point in taking Sheridan back to the police station. He was obviously done for the day. Matt got directions to take the man home.

  Sheridan and his family lived in a neat little bungalow with a play set in the front yard and a nicely restored seventies-era Mustang in the driveway. Matt pulled him out of the patrol car and to the front door. The woman who answered his knock was already irritated. She became even more so when she saw them.

  “Jesus Christ, Alan.” She glanced at the neighboring houses to see if anyone was watching and hustled him inside.

  Haley Sheridan was tiny, barely scraping five feet. But she supported most of her husband’s weight as Matt helped her maneuver him to the couch.

  “I’m OK,” Sheridan protested as they set him down.

  “Sorry about this,” said Matt, not sure why he felt the need to apologize.

  “So who are you again?” she asked, efficiently pulling off Sheridan’s shoes and laying him back. She’d obviously had practice.

  “Matt,” he said. “I’m a friend.”

  She looked doubtful about this. “Right.”

  He handed her the car keys. They stood there for a moment, looking down at Sheridan, who was already snoozing.

  “Things were supposed to get better,” said Haley. “That’s why we moved here.”

  Matt nodded. “This place isn’t really so great, is it?”

  “No,” she agreed. “It kinda sucks.”

  Maple Grove, North Carolina

  After the beating, Matt was embraced by the Patriots as one of their own. One afternoon he sat with Brady and Peter at a backyard cookout, sipping lemonade. It was a scorchingly hot day and nobody strayed too far from the pool. Matt could feel the back of his neck getting crispy, despite three layers of sunscreen. He wondered how soon he could politely excuse himself and leave. At the moment, he could barely get in a word as Brady went on yet another rant about how so-called multiculturalism was undermining American moral
s.

  “We need to strike a blow,” he declared.

  “Sure thing,” agreed Matt. He’d been hearing that sentiment for weeks.

  “The problem is that fucking mosque. It makes them feel like they’re welcome here,” said Brady.

  Peter smiled, excited. “Tell him.”

  The older man considered this, then leaned closer to Matt, lowering his voice. “We’re going to bring it down.”

  Matt nodded, trying to keep his expression even. “Great. How can I help?”

  Brady laughed. “You’re a man of action. I like that.”

  “We’re going to slip them an IED, just like they use on us,” said Peter.

  Matt kept nodding. “You need any more parts for it?”

  “No. We’re all ready to go,” Brady assured him.

  “Great,” Matt said again. “When?”

  “Wednesday,” said Brady. He raised his empty lemonade glass to his lips, trying to coax out a few more drops. No luck.

  Peter added, “It’s some Arab holiday. The place should be full.”

  Matt looked thoughtful, as if considering the logistics. “It’ll be tough to get it into the mosque. A white man can’t exactly waltz in there with a big package under his arm.”

  Brady gazed contentedly at the kids splashing in the pool. “The gate protecting the front is weak. We ram through it with a truck, drive into the courtyard, and…” He mimed pressing a button with his thumb.

  “You’re using a remote trigger?” asked Matt.

  “Course,” said Brady. “Nobody’s trying to be a martyr.”

  “I don’t know,” joked Peter. “What about those seventy-two virgins?” He and Brady both laughed. Matt forced a chuckle, trying to think of some way to get to that bomb.

  “What kind of trigger are you using?” he asked.

  Brady shook his head. “No idea. Everett put together the electronics.”

  Vamping desperately, Matt said, “You know, some of those remote receivers are kinda twitchy. Like if there’s a cell phone on the same frequency…”

  The other man hesitated, and Matt feared that his bullshit had been detected. But Brady only said, “Ask Everett about it.”

  “Sure.” Matt shrugged, deliberately casual. “I could also look over the circuitry. Never hurts to have an extra pair of eyes on a job, just to be sure.”

  Brady took the bait. “Yeah, have a look. We’re loading the truck in the morning.” He looked supremely satisfied. “It’s time for some fucking payback.”

  “You think it would make you feel better, don’t you?” Matt asked Elena that night as he swabbed his wounds with disinfectant.

  She was immediately defensive. “What?”

  “Blowing me away.”

  Elena didn’t answer, but she didn’t have to. Matt went on. “You think it will make losing your brother less painful. Let you move on and get back to your life. Assuming you don’t get locked up for murder, that is.”

  She didn’t blink. “That’s the risk I have to take.”

  “For justice,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  He nodded, taping a fresh square of gauze on his shoulder. He’d been lucky, he knew. If she’d shot a couple of inches to the left, he’d probably be dead. “What do you plan to do about the nightmares?” he asked.

  She started to protest, but he cut her off. “I know…you won’t have any nightmares. Because I deserve it and you’ll be doing the right thing.”

  “Yes,” she said again. Matt remembered that kind of certainty. He missed it.

  “Problem is,” he told her, “that won’t make any difference.”

  Elena stared at him, dubious. “What do you mean?”

  Matt allowed himself a wry smile. “Turns out that even if the person you kill is undeniably bad, even if you do it to save innocent lives…you will never forget that person’s face. You’ll see it every night. You’ll see all of them.”

  He turned on her, pointing at his own face. “You ready to carry this with you? To have the image of your bullet going through my skull haunt you for the rest of your life?”

  For a moment he thought he’d made a dent in her armor. She looked away. “You’re just trying to talk me out of killing you.”

  “That too,” he admitted. “But I’m not lying.”

  She didn’t answer, her face still turned to the wall. Matt let her be. He settled down on the carpet, head on his duffel. It promised to be another long, sleepless night.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  As soon as Kathy Lennox opened the front door, Matt wanted to apologize. She looked appropriately festive in a skirt, sweater, and pearls. His “best” clothes were a pair of gray pants and a faded blue shirt he’d slept on last night. Still, he’d felt presentable enough, at least until he worked up a sweat riding here on his purloined bicycle. Now, he knew, he was a mess.

  To her credit, Kathy didn’t hesitate to give him a warm hug. “Happy Thanksgiving,” she said. “I’m so glad you could come.”

  The Lennox home was beautiful, much bigger than Sheridan’s. Matt wondered how much a civil servant pulled down these days. It was decorated in tasteful neutrals with bursts of color from several large flower arrangements. The only flaw Matt could see was a section of wall that had been patched but not yet painted.

  Kathy caught his glance. “Sorry for the mess. We just moved in a month ago.”

  Now Matt was even more impressed by the showroom elegance of the place. Kathy led him into the living room, where Lennox was sitting with a couple in their early sixties. All were dressed impeccably. Of course.

  She made the introductions. “You’ve met Tom. This is my aunt and uncle, Diane and Edward Williamson.”

  Her uncle stood and held out a hand. “Call me Eddie.”

  “Matt Cahill.” He shook the man’s hand and smiled at Diane, who looked briefly dismayed by Matt’s appearance but recovered quickly.

  “Get you a drink?” asked Lennox as he went to the wet bar. The rot had continued to spread across his face. Most of his jawbone was now exposed, a few scraps of bloody muscle tissue still clinging to it.

  “Please,” said Matt. “Scotch would be great.”

  He sat on the overstuffed couch and chatted with the relatives as Kathy returned to the kitchen. He spun a tale about the new job he’d be starting at a furniture company in Duluth, keeping it boring enough to avoid a lot of questions. Eddie reciprocated with the story of how he’d opened a single stationery store twenty-two years earlier and now owned a chain of five stores across the state. Matt was duly impressed.

  Lennox had clearly heard this before. He paid little attention as he finished one gin and tonic and made himself another, light on the tonic.

  Kathy announced dinner. As the others moved into the dining room, she stepped into the hallway and called, “Chris, time for dinner.”

  She had to call twice more before a slight twelve-year-old boy reluctantly appeared. He had such a bad case of acne that Matt had to look twice to be sure the lesions weren’t something worse.

  Kathy plucked the earbuds from her son’s ears and turned him toward Matt. “This is Mr. Cahill.”

  “Hey,” Chris muttered.

  “Nice to meet you,” answered Matt.

  Everyone took their seats, as indicated by place tags adorned with little pilgrims. Lennox sat at one end of the table, Kathy at the other. Matt was between her and Diane.

  Everyone joined hands as Eddie said grace. Then the chief went to work on the turkey. Matt felt even less comfortable watching him wield a carving knife than he had watching him with the big scissors at the library opening. When the suppurating sores on Lennox’s face started to drip on the sliced meat, Matt had to look away. He reminded himself that the decomposition he saw on people was metaphorical, an indication of moral rot within. There was no, repeat no, actual bodily fluid on the food.

  Even so, it took some willpower to eat enough turkey and trimmings to avoid insulting the chef. The moment anyone’s plate lo
oked half-empty, Kathy offered them more food. When she brought the dish of sweet potatoes to Lennox, he pushed it away.

  “Stop your damn hovering,” he snapped. She stepped back quickly. Matt saw a flash of fear on her face.

  She replaced it with a pleasant smile as she turned to Chris. “Sweet potatoes?”

  “No.” He didn’t look up from his plate. Kathy retreated to her seat. Eddie and Diane exchanged a glance but said nothing.

  Everyone ate in silence for a moment. Diane turned to Matt with deliberate cheer. “Where are your people from, Mr. Cahill?”

  “Washington State,” he told her.

  “I hear it’s just lovely there.” She beamed.

  “It is,” said Matt, distracted by Lennox emptying a bottle of Chardonnay into his glass. “Especially the mountains.”

  Kathy served herself green beans. “We took a vacation in Washington once. Near Spokane.”

  Lennox added, “You were pregnant.”

  His wife smiled at him, pleased. “You remember.”

  “I remember that you couldn’t hold your bladder. And how you wet the bed at that hotel.” He faced her across the table, looking for a reaction. She betrayed none. He went on. “Got so bad you had to wear a diaper. That was real sexy.”

  Kathy stood and headed for the kitchen. “I’ll get the pie.”

  Eddie turned to Lennox. “Tom… ,” he began.

  The cop looked at him. “What?”

  Whatever Eddie saw in the younger man’s face was enough to shut him up. Lennox scooped up a big forkful of cranberry sauce and put it in his mouth.

  Matt sat there, not sure if he should go after Kathy. What could he say? That’s not really the man you married? He looked at Chris, whose eyes were still fixed on his plate. He played with the napkin in his lap, his hands twisting and retwisting it silently. Matt wanted to talk to the boy, but what about?

  “So, Chris,” he asked, “what are they reading in English class these days?” It was a pretty lame question, he knew.