Authors: J.A. Konrath,Blake Crouch

Stirred (28 page)

“You know I respect you, right?” he said.

I did, but damn it felt good to hear him say it. I nodded.

“And you know I’d die for you?”

I nodded again, swallowing the lump in my throat. If he’d proposed to me saying that, I probably would have said yes right away.

I wanted to hug him. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to apologize for being the Master of the Bitchiverse.

But I wasn’t sure how, and I didn’t have the time to figure it out. Later, after we were done.

“Are all of you insane?” Herb asked. “I just lost God knows how many men out there, to God knows what.”

“Maybe it was mustard gas,” McGlade said. “You like mustard, as evidenced by the stains on your shirt.”

“Just tell me where he is, Jack.” Herb’s eyes drilled into mine, his face imploring.

I turned to Groundskeeper Willie, who’d wandered back over and had been watching all of this like a child watches a slasher film, wide-eyed and horrified. “Luther asked if he had my ear. Bobby Franks was killed by Leopold and Loeb. Ear. Lobe. Are either of the killers buried here?”

Willie gave me something midway between a nod and a head shake. “No…no they’re not…but their families are. Samuel and Babbette Leopold. Allan, Anna, Albert, and Earnest Loeb.”

“Do you know where those graves are?”

“Yeah. They’re hard to spot. I can take you.”

“Let’s end this, Herb,” I said. “You’ve been so gung-ho about protecting me that you’ve forgotten all the times I saved your ass. I’m not some fragile porcelain doll about to break. I’m still the same woman I’ve always been, Goddamn it, and if we were still partners I’d be marching in there right now and you know it.”

Herb stared at me. “Do you even have a gun?” he finally asked.

Phin dug into the diaper bag, slapping my Colt into my hand.

“Okay,” Herb said. “Let’s end this.”

We all boarded Willie’s golf cart, and without even asking, the groundskeeper got behind the wheel and put the pedal to the metal, catapulting all seven of us through the entry arch of Rosehill Cemetery.

April 2, 3:14 A.M.

H
e pinches the bridge of his nose and allows himself a small, private smile.

This is perfect.

Even better than perfect.

April 2, 3:15 A.M.

T
hough Luther had alluded to Loeb by mentioning the ear, he could have easily been at the Leopold grave. That’s where Willie dropped off Tom and Roy, Herb giving them strict orders to maintain radio contact and treat any threat as deadly.

We rode over to the Loeb tombstone, passing through acres and acres of white monuments that gave off a pale, ghostly glow between the trees. We had just begun to slow down when I saw it, parked on the pathway: a semi-truck with the unmistakable logo of the Chicago Police Department—a black-and-white five-pointed star.

“Did we buy a semi-trailer since I retired?” I asked.

“I never got that memo,” Herb said.

He got on his mike, asking if anyone had parked a truck in this section of the cemetery. Then he turned to Harry. “You, bonehead, come with me. Phin, stay with Jack.”

“We’re covering you,” I insisted.

“No, you’re not.”

“Your ability to tell me what to do ended when you armed me,” I said. “I’m the best shot here. We’ll cover you.”

Herb looked ready to deck me, but he managed a curt nod.

We climbed off the golf cart and crept across the lawn toward the semi. It was dark, cold, and quiet except for the occasional scream from the Franks mausoleum, acres away. Sounded almost like birds from this distance.

While I was tempted to focus on the truck, I knew it could very well be a decoy Luther had planted to command our attention. So instead, I surveyed the trees, the headstones, the road that snaked through the cemetery.

There wasn’t a single streetlight for hundreds of yards in any direction, and I couldn’t see a damn thing.

I also realized I’d been unconsciously patting my belly again.

“Rear cargo door is open,” McGlade said as we drew within fifteen feet of the trailer. “And there’s something in back. Something big under a sheet. I see wheels. It’s a truck or a van.”

“Luther’s van?” I whispered to Herb.

“I’ll check it out,” Herb said. “You all stay here.”

“How you planning to get in there, tubs?” McGlade said. “There a crane nearby?”

“Give me a boost.”

“And get a quadruple hernia? No thanks. How about Phin goes in?”

“I’m not leaving Jack’s side,” Phin said. “Why don’t you go, McGlade?”

“Because I’m not as stupid as fatso here. You’d have to have the IQ of a potato to willingly go into that—”

“Oh, God, help me! Please help me! JESUS CHRIST, SOMEONE HELP!”

For a half second, we all froze.

The cry emanated from the vehicle under the sheet.

Someone, hard to identify if they were a man or woman, in unimaginable pain.

Herb charged forward, hauled himself with great effort up into the trailer, and flopped into the cargo bay. Despite his size, he managed to scramble to his feet in seconds, rushing in to help.

As I opened my mouth to yell, “Careful!” he fell to his knees and rolled over onto his side.

“Herb!”

In hindsight, it was perfect. Some traps were baited with cheese or meat.

This one was baited with good will.

Seeing my ex-partner and best friend lying on the floor of the trailer flipped an automatic action switch inside me, and I climbed up into the trailer without a second thought, twisting out of Phin’s grip. Once inside, I struggled up off my bruised knees and tore ass to Herb, intent on dragging him out of there. I held my breath with my free hand over my nose and mouth so I didn’t inhale whatever gas had incapacitated him.

Already, Phin and Harry were clambering into the truck behind me, screaming for me to get back, their hands clutching my arms, but I was fighting them off, still reaching for my partner.

“Oh, God, help me! Please help me! JESUS CHRIST, SOMEONE HELP!”

The screaming voice repeated.

Verbatim.

No change in intonation or speed.

That wasn’t a live person—that was a recording—and it hit me flush in the chest, a sickening realization spreading through me like a flash of blinding heat as I stared at Herb, unconscious on the floor.

I’d put us all in danger.

We needed to get the hell out of there.

The moment I touched Herb’s arm, I heard the sound of the metal bay door at the back of the trailer. Two seconds before it slammed shut, I caught a glimpse of the man closing them—Groundskeeper Willie, smiling.

“I’m sorry,” I said to Phin and Harry. “I’m so, so, sorry.”

But they were already crumbling to their knees, and so was I.

Then my face lay against the cool plank flooring of the trailer, and I heard the voice of another officer coming through Herb’s mike: “Sergeant Benedict, we have no trailer on scene. Repeat, no trailer on scene. Over.”

I couldn’t stop my eyes from closing. Couldn’t fight it any longer.

One lingering, awful thought descending as the gas took me.

“Sergeant Benedict?”

Where—

“Do you read me?”

—will I—

“Sergeant Benedict!”

—wake up?

April 2, 3:22 A.M.

L
uther locks the trailer door and lets the QNB gas go to work.

As he waits, he removes the latex nose and the gold cap from his bicuspid, and pockets them both. Then he opens an alcohol swab pack and wipes the spirit gum off his face.

Finally, he un-cinches the pillow belted to his waist, letting it fall to the ground.

Thanks for the assist, Groundskeeper Willie.

Luther puts the gas mask back on, counts slowly to sixty, and then opens the bay door.

All four are sleeping and will stay this way for several hours.

Luther tugs out the steel ramps and then climbs up into the trailer.

He needs to work quickly.

It takes five minutes to load them all into the van. The fat one is especially difficult, and Luther almost considers leaving him, but he can’t.

All four—he smiles—it’s too much of a coup.

Besides, not only is Herb one of Jack’s closest friends, but Luther has a perfect spot for him.

Once they’re all inside, Luther splashes around a bucket of blood in the back of the Sprinter, courtesy of the real groundskeeper, and a bucket of bran cereal mixed with water, courtesy of Kellog’s.

Then he carefully backs the van out of the trailer and drives to the nearest cemetery exit on Western.

There’s a barricade, natch, but Luther’s gas mask, and the new stenciling on the sides of his Sprinter that read CDC—Center for Disease Control—go a long way toward establishing his credentials.

Even so, his van is stopped by cops.

“Don’t open the back!” Luther screams through his closed driver’s-side window. “Lewisite gas!”

“These SRT guys?” a baby-faced cop asks.

“Civilians inside the grounds, and they’re dying.”

The cop and his partner shine their spotlights in on his unconscious passengers.

The blood and the fake vomit make it look like a scene from a warzone.

“Gotta move them! Now!” Luther screams.

The cop, who appears to have just achieved puberty, speaks into his walkie-talkie and then waves him through.

Perfect.

Luther pulls out onto Western, mightily pleased.

Now the real fun can finally begin.