loveyoudivine His and His Kisses

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and characters are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Flatland Copyright©2010 Max Griffin ISBN 978-1-60054-521-4 His and His Kisses Edition Cover art and design by Max Griffin All rights reserved. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation. Published by loveyoudivine Alterotica 2010 Wide Web at www.loveyoudivine.com

~Franz Kafka

Dedication

Flatland by

Max Griffin

Chapter 1

Skip’s legs burned with the fever of a marathon. The hot night air seared his throat and baked his limbs. His feet pounded, his breath huffed, and his hair bounced against his brow, slaked with sweat. Sweat drizzled down his lean, shirtless torso and soaked his nylon running shorts. He tried to blank his mind of all thought except his run. His sneakers made little chuff-chuff sounds against the asphalt. In the distance, a dog sang a dirge to the full moon. Otherwise, the night was still as a coffin. He rounded a corner and squinted at the sudden flash of headlights. Ahead, the roar of pickup engines revving and the rattle of tires spraying gravel disrupted the little town’s sleepy repose. A bright red neon sign that flashed “beer” in all caps illuminated a wagon wheel hanging over the entrance to a tavern. Skip glanced at his watch. Two AM. Closing time. He thought about adjusting his path to avoid the crowd, but he’d plotted his run at exactly five miles earlier in the week. This was Kansas, after all, not Fallujah. What could go wrong here? As he approached, a black pickup roared out of the parking lot next to the bar and fishtailed into the street. It squealed to a stop behind two beat-up imports that sat side by side, blocking the narrow blacktop. The pickup’s lights flashed, and then its horn

Flatland blared. The driver leaned out of his window and yelled, “Hey, dickheads. Move your fuckin’ asses outta the way.” One of the cars pulled away, but a red-faced young man wearing a cowboy hat leaned out of the car in front of the pickup and yelled back, “Who you callin’ a dickhead, faggot? We got as much right to the road as you do.” A local. Skip had seen him stocking shelves in the grocery store. At six feet, he was an inch shorter than Skip, and his body had revealed the solid muscles and scarred knuckles of an experience brawler. The pickup, on the other hand, wasn’t local, based on its out-of-state plates. Skip figured that spelled trouble and faded into the shadows, waiting and watching. The pickup’s door flung open and a beefy guy jumped out wearing leather pants and a polyester disco shirt open to his navel. He raced to the cowboy, grabbed him by the collar and dragged him halfway through the window. “You need to learn some manners, you dumb fuck,” he raged. His fist smacked into the man’s face and blood splattered. Skip stopped with his hands on his knees, catching his breath. Disco guy landed another blow on the cowboy, and his head flopped like a sock puppet with no spine. The driver of the other car ran up and tried to pull them apart but got a quick backwards karate chop to his nose for his efforts. He collapsed to the street in a spray of blood while the other cars around the bar emptied. In seconds, a mob rushed to join the fight in defense of the two local boys. Skip figured disco guy didn’t have a chance. But then, from nowhere, a gunshot roared over the shouted voices of the crowd. Everyone froze. A chunky, redheaded woman stood in the bed of disco guy’s pickup, feet planted wide, a Glock

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Max Griffin .45 held with both hands and leveled at the crowd. “Nobody move.” Her voice held the snap of command. Disco guy shook himself free from the grip of two husky farmhands. “I don’t need no help with these faggots, Inez.” “I saw how good you was doin’, asshole.” She waved her pistol at the still-open driver’s side door on his pickup. “Get in, Oren. We’re leavin’. Now.” Her gun stayed leveled on the crowd of locals while her companion swaggered to his truck and slammed the door. She eyed a young woman who knelt next to the two young men that Oren had beat up. “Are they okay?” She glared back, but her voice shook when she answered. “I’m a nurse. I think he broke both their noses. But, yeah, they’ll be okay.” The redhead rapped a fist on the roof of the pickup. “Oren, pay them for their trouble.” “What? I ain’t payin’ them nothin’, bitch.” “You’ll do what I say, asshole. I got the gun, in case you didn’t notice. Five hundred should do it. I know you got it.” “Shee-it. You’re gonna pay me back.” Five bills fluttered to the dusty street and two guys from the crowd scrambled forward to snatch them up. The redhead surveyed the scene. “We’re all even here. Nobody follow us. Oren, let’s go.” She steadied herself on the cab as the pickup left the scene. At the last minute, one of the crowd threw a beer bottle, and the right rear tail light shattered in a tinkle of broken glass. The truck didn’t stop. It disappeared around a corner into the black Kansas night. Skip decided a full five-mile run wasn’t worth injecting himself into the angry group that now buzzed around the Wagon Wheel. He turned and jogged the two miles back to his trailer park.

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Flatland As he rounded the curve to his cul-de-sac, the dog in the corner lot sprang to the fence, barking and clawing at the chain links. He stopped, jogging in place, and crooned to the distraught animal. “What’s wrong, fella? Are you lonely?” The dog whined at him and tossed its head. Skip reached into the pouch at his waist and pulled out a dog biscuit. The animal’s nose twitched and it barked again. Skip tossed the treat inside the fence. The dog’s head lurched to one side and it ran to gobble up the morsel. Skip grinned and edged closer. “You like that, don’t you, Butch?” The dog looked up at its name before it returned to crunching on its biscuit. Skip tossed another one inside the fence and came closer. “That’s a good dog.” In the week since he’d started bringing treats, the dog had grown calmer at his approach. “You just need some company, don’t you, boy?” Butch sat on his haunches and barked before licking his chops. Skip came closer, his hand extended, but Butch tensed and a guttural growl escaped his throat. “Maybe tomorrow you’ll let me pet you, eh, boy?” Skip decided to run one more circuit around the trailer park before calling it a night. He followed the broken asphalt lane as it wound through the darkness. Amber illumination from streetlights puddled in sparse pools at alternate corners, but everywhere else, moonlight dusted the ramshackle mobile homes with ashen shades of gray. Even the vegetation, brown and lifeless during the daytime, turned to charcoal cinders in the night. Skip’s legs pumped out a steady cadence, and his body, covered with a fine sheen of sweat, floated through the silvery darkness like smoke. The street curved to where a stretch of vacant lots opened onto a fence, crabbed with weeds and trash. Beyond

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Max Griffin that, wheat fields stretched to infinity, where they merged with the blackness of the sky. The cosmos was flat, supine, and deflated, the horizon an invisible edge where the world met eternity. The road seemed to turn under Skip’s feet like a giant, dusty treadmill while he ran to nowhere. He felt like an ant trapped on a boundless tabletop as he raced on, his body in tune with nothingness. He halted when he returned to his cul-de-sac. This time, Butch lay sleeping, but now two vehicles sat in front of the dark trailer next door. One was a blue Jeep Comanche with government GSA plates, and the other was a black pickup with a broken right rear taillight. He peered at it more closely. He was certain it was the same as the one he’d seen earlier tonight at the fight. He wiped sweat from his face with his forearm and started as another vehicle rattled down the street. He recognized the ancient Toyota that his other neighbor, the cute one, drove. It stopped in the driveway of the trailer between Skip’s and the one with the Jeep and the pickup. Oren. That was what the redhead had called the tough guy. Skip stroked his watch and the LCD’s ethereal glow showed the time: three AM. He trotted on toward his trailer and stopped at the foot of his drive, his hands on his hips. The Toyota’s engine coughed to a stop and a slim young man clambered out of the car. Despite the heat, he wore black denim jeans and a long-sleeve sweatshirt, with the hood pulled up and drooping over his forehead. His bright red, high-top canvas shoes provided the only spark of color. Skip glimpsed his face and wondered why he wore sunglasses in the middle of the night. He thought about approaching him to say hello. The young man heaved an audible sigh as he opened his trunk. He reached into his car and pulled out four plastic sacks stuffed with groceries. He juggled the bags in one hand while he fumbled with

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Flatland the other for his keys. One of the bags slipped from his fingers and he barked out a cussword as his groceries tumbled to the ground. A can of dog food clattered down the gentle slope of the drive and rolled to a stop at Skip’s feet. He picked it up and walked to where the guy knelt, stuffing groceries into a sack. Skip squatted and held out the can. “Need some help?” The young man started and glanced up at him. For an instant, moonlight flared off his opaque sunglasses. “Yeah, thanks.” He handed Skip one of his sacks. “If you’ll hold the damned thing open for me, I think I can stuff my groceries back in it.” “Sure thing.” Skip held the sack and watched while the other guy gathered up his purchases. He was an inch or two shorter than Skip, and his clothes drooped on his thin, almost wraith-like, body. His black attire and his pallid complexion conspired with the mercurial moonlight to make him seem like an angel. Or maybe like a corpse. It was hard for Skip to know the difference. A shock of auburn curls, fine as silk and twice as delicate, fell across the young man’s face. His head tossed to one side, and he muttered, “I’ll be just another moment. I appreciate your help.” He rubbed his arm again. “I’ve got a Charley Horse or something. I’m not usually this clumsy.” “No problem.” The guy’s fingers, lean and bony in the moonlight, scuttled like spiders across ashes as they gathered up his purchases. Skip wished he could see the eyes that hid behind those sunglasses. “My name’s Skip Crow, by the way. I moved in next door a couple of weeks ago.” He nodded to his trailer. The young man’s attention fluttered up to Skip’s face and then skittered away. “I’m Danny Rajunas.” He looked around and stood. “Thanks. I’ve got it all. I appreciate your help.” He hefted two bags and eyed a third, which he’d left on the roof of his car.

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Max Griffin Skip still held the fourth bag. “Hey, you want some help carrying things inside? These damned plastic bags are a bitch.” He bounced upright and reached for the sack on the car. “Two bags each is about right.” Danny stared at him for a beat. His head moved up and down, scanning him like radar while the bags twitched in his arms. Skip flexed his abs and a trickle of pleasure oozed through him at the other’s inspection. He gestured with the bags toward the trailer next to Danny’s car. “Lead on. No reason to make two trips or risk spilling things again with these blasted plastic bags. It’s no problem, and I won’t bite.” Unless you give me a chance. He fixed a friendly grin on his features. Danny blinked. “Uh, sure. I’d be grateful for the help.” He walked up the gravel path toward the stoop for his trailer. “Watch the stairs. The middle riser’s missing. I’ve been meaning to replace it.” He fished his keys from his pocket and opened the door. “It’s kind of a mess. Hope you don’t mind.” Skip followed him inside. His exposed skin prickled at the chill, air-conditioned interior. He paused and let his eyes adjust to the light. A tattered sofa huddled against one wall under a window. Duct tape held together the brown-and-green fabric of one of the cushions. The faux wood Formica on the end table next to it was chipped and the braided throw rug was ragged, but everything was clean and nothing was out of place. Two slats of the blinds over the sofa dangled in a dented ruin, but their surface gleamed in the fluorescent light from the kitchen. A computer desk stood along the wall next to the door, with a foot pedal, headphones, and a DSL modem attached. A neat stack of papers rested next to a thick, dog-eared book. Skip read the title, The Physician’s Desk Reference, and wondered what the owner did

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Flatland for a living. Danny dumped his bags on the counter. “If you’ll just leave yours here, too, that’d be great.” Skip did as told and then glanced at his host. “I like your place, man.” He nodded at the living room. Someone had taped an Escher print of ants crawling on a Moebius strip on the wall next to the tiny black-and-white television. “I love that poster.” “Thanks. That’s the one thing that’s mine.” He removed his sunglasses and revealed deep, cobalt eyes. “The rest of this place is kind of old and worn out. It belongs to my grandfather.” He crossed the room while pulling off his sweatshirt, which he hung on a coat rack. Skip caught a brief glimpse of a pale, angular torso as the sweatshirt lifted his t-shirt to his chest. It flopped back into place and hid the tawny mat of hair that covered his body. His arms protruded from the loose sleeves, exposing lean muscle that reminded Skip of a greyhound. Auburn hair, gleaming like fine copper thread, floated in a limp halo about his head and hung to his shoulders. Red suspenders held up the black denim pants that made a loose loop about his narrow hips. Skip’s heart fluttered, but he controlled his longing. “Does your grandfather live here with you?” Disappointment flared for an instant at the thought of the old man popping out of a back room. Danny shook his head. “Nah. He’s not here much anymore.” Danny’s eyes roved over Skip’s body before he returned to the task of storing his groceries. Skip’s grin swelled when Danny’s gaze lingered on his crotch. He decided to play hard to get. “Well, it was nice meeting you. Maybe I’ll catch you later.” He edged toward the door, his eyes never leaving the other’s fey form.

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Max Griffin Danny pinned him with a smile and his voice stopped Skip’s retreat. “Hey, I really appreciate your help. Would you maybe like a beer or something? Seems like we should get to know each other, since we’re neighbors and all.” His face turned the same color as his shoes, and he dropped his gaze. A grin tugged at Skip’s lips. Danny’s tenor sounded like a song from Pan’s pipes to his ears. “A beer sounds great. Help me cool down from my run.” He wiped his palm across his chest. Delight flared like lightning as his hand pressed against the muscles that coiled under his taut flesh. He flinched for a moment before his attention returned to Danny. “Hey, could I use your bathroom?” “Sure. It’s the first door on the right.” He nodded to the darkened hallway that led beyond the kitchen alcove. Skip was careful to let his torso brush against Danny’s for the barest instant as he passed through the narrow kitchen to the hall. He flipped on the light in the tiny bath, closed the door, and toweled his sweaty hair dry. His blonde locks fell in tousled perfection after one swipe with his fingers. After he relieved himself, he washed his hands and knocked an amber pill bottle from the sink to the floor. He picked it up and read the label: Daniel Rajunas. Clozapine, 12.5 mg. Take twice daily. He put everything back as he’d found it and flushed the toilet. Geeze, I wonder what’s wrong with the poor guy. Back in the kitchen, Danny was still working on the groceries. He pointed and said, “Brews are in the fridge. Help yourself. All I got is Lone Star. Stupid 7-11 doesn’t carry anything else.” “Not a problem. You want one, too?” Skip opened the refrigerator and saw two six packs on the bottom shelf, nestled amidst neat stacks of plastic containers. He looked around. “Where’s your dog?” “Dog? What makes you think I have a dog? Sure, I’ll have a beer, too. Thanks.” 9

Flatland Skip put Danny’s beer on the counter and settled on one of the kitchen chairs. The vinyl, cold from the air conditioning, stuck to his skin like glue and sucked energy from his muscles. He popped the can open, slurped at his beer, and lounged back, spreading his arms on the back of his chair. “That really hits the spot. Thanks.” He hesitated. “The can I picked up was dog food, so of course, I thought you must have one. Sorry.” Danny turned pink. “Oh, that. I bought some dog food for Butch, the dog a couple of doors down. Poor thing feels abandoned since Melvyn and Rose went to Oklahoma City last week.” “I noticed. I fed him some treats tonight, but he still seemed scared of me.” “Yeah. Butch is lonely, so I was going to try to sneak next door and play with him.” He frowned. “I’m worried that new guy who moved in next door might hurt him.” Skip raised his eyebrows. “You mean the guy with the pickup? I’d watch out for him, and his girlfriend, too. They’re bad news.” “Yeah, Oren. Didn’t know he had a girlfriend. Anyway, I chatted with him some a couple of nights ago. He talks just like a refugee from The Godfather.” Danny shuddered. “He was all out of joint about Butch barking. I saw him pretending to shoot him, like a kid using his hand as gun.” “No shit? I saw him get in a fight outside the Wagon Wheel earlier tonight. He’s one scary dude, all right.” Danny nodded and his eyes rested on Skip’s biceps for a moment before he turned back to his groceries. “Thanks again for your help.” He opened up cabinets and stored his purchases in precise rows. “So, when did you say you moved in?” “Two weeks ago. I’m still settling into the place.” He hesitated,

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Max Griffin but decided not to mention Iraq. “Pretty quiet here. Just what I needed.” Danny finished with storing his groceries and perched on a chair on the opposite side of the table from Skip. He stared at his beer can. “There’re no distractions here, that’s for sure. No jobs, either.” He blinked and Skip thought no one should have eyes that blue. “Tell me about it. I’ve got a bunch of applications out, but no nibbles.” Danny nodded at his computer. “I’m lucky. I’ve got a part-time job online, for Cedars-Sinai in Los Angeles and for some smaller hospitals in Kansas City. I’m a medical transcriptionist. That’s what all the extra gear on the computer is for.” Skip cocked an eyebrow at him. “No shit. What, they send you stuff and you type it?” “Kind of like that. I download doctors’ dictation, clean it up, and then send it back, all via the internet.” Skip nodded. “Sounds interesting.” “Yeah. I like straightening out the doctors’ sloppy dictation.” Skip slitted his eyes. “I can’t do much of anything straight, if you catch my meaning.” He flexed his pecs, waggled his eyebrows, and waited. Danny turned crimson and again averted his eyes. “Uh, um, maybe...” Skip chuckled and finished his beer. He stood and stretched. “Look, it’s late and I should get back to my place. Thanks for the brewski.” He stuck out his hand. Danny gripped it and stared into his eyes. “Thanks. I do appreciate the help.” “You bet. Maybe you’d like to run with me some night?”

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Flatland “Uh, well, I work nights and sleep days. When I can sleep. I just took some time off to shop.” He stopped and licked his lips. “I don’t go out much during the day.” Skip shrugged. “Me either. It’s too hot, and I don’t like the sun. Well, if you ever want to run or just want to hang out, let me know. No problem, man. Thanks again for the beer. I’ll see you around.” After he departed, he stood on the step to Danny’s trailer for a moment, adjusting his shorts while a satisfied grin pulled at his cheeks. Tomorrow or the next day he’d come back and ask Danny over for dinner. Next door, the redhead slipped out of the trailer and scuttled to her Jeep while Oren glowered at her from the front step. Butch howled and snarled at them from the prison of his yard next door. Oren swayed on the stoop, swore, and gave the dog the finger before staggering back into his trailer. The Jeep departed in a cloud of dust and the night fell silent once again. Skip trotted across the gravel and sand to his mobile home and unlocked his door. The darkness, the heat, and Oren’s rage brought back memories of Iraq. He shuddered and decided to take two Zolofts tonight.

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Chapter 2

Oren slouched on the back step of his trailer and dreamed of murder. He wiped sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his t-shirt and scowled at the early afternoon sun. In the distance, the air billowed in eddies of heat, as though the world were melting. The relentless Kansas sun had seared everything to a dried husk: the dirt, the grass, even the wheat field behind the trailer park. A sudden cacophony of barks from the dog around the corner jerked his attention next door. An enormous hulk of a beast jumped up and clawed at the neighbor’s fence. Oren crushed his beer can and cussed at the stream of snarls and growls that disrupted his fantasies of death. Slobber drooled from the mutt’s lips. Brown and white fur clumped in tangled, muddy heaps from its shanks. It tossed its head and glared at him through the links of the fence. “Shut up, ya fuckin’ mutt.” Sweat burned in his eyes. He thought about his H&K .45 and cursed the FBI. They had confiscated his gun when they dumped him in this safe house. He always felt naked when he didn’t have a weapon. Witness protection, my ass. He snorted and longed for the comforting weight of his semi-automatic in his hand. The dog yapped again, and Oren’s fist punched the wall of his

Flatland doublewide, leaving a dent. It wouldn’t be long and he’d have his money from the Feds. He was sure he could find a weapons dealer in Wichita who’d sell him something off the books. A grin tugged at his lips. When you’ve got a gun, all your dreams come true. He closed his eyes and replayed the final moments of the last time he’d killed, the time that the FBI had caught him. The guy’s whole body had trembled, and he’d cried and begged. The loser’s voice had whimpered when he offered to forget about the money Oren had swindled from him and to recant what he’d told the cops. It had been over a year ago, but the metallic scent of blood and the satisfying sight of brains splattering on concrete were still fresh in his mind. His back arched and a little shudder gripped his body as the memory slithered through his soul. Soon, soon. It wouldn’t be long before he could do it again. Killing was even better than stealing. Barks from next door jerked him from the past. He glared at the dog. It would stop, sniff at the ground, raise its head, bark a few times, and then move on and do the same thing all over again. Revolting piles of dog crap littered the ground. The dried-up Bermuda grass didn’t provide much of a yard, and the dog had mutilated even that by digging it up and leaving behind holes and mounds of dusty soil. At least they keep the fuckin’ thing locked up. Someone should kill it. Oren pointed at the animal with his forefinger and whispered little kapow sounds while he imagined the dog’s head exploding. Not as satisfying as killing a man, but it would be better than nothing. Just wait’ll I get my gun, Cujo. He glanced at his watch. It was too late for lunch and too early for dinner. If he went inside, he’d still have to put up with the damned barking. If he went to the bar out by the interstate, it’d at least be quiet and he probably wouldn’t run into any of the locals

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Max Griffin from last night. He’d get out of the heat, knock off a few cold ones, and maybe pick up a newspaper. Kruppman’s trial finished a couple weeks ago. If he’d been sentenced, then the Feds would have to give Oren his money and he’d be free to disappear. Maybe he’d go to LA for a fresh set of victims. He stomped to his pickup and drove away in a flurry of dust. Two hours later, his truck wheezed to a stop back at his doublewide mobile home. He paused to take in the dismal little domicile, appalled at how far he’d fallen. Paint flaked from the steps and rust stains drizzled from the rivets under the windows. Dried-up weeds lay scattered across the ochre soil like spent works outside a crack house. A fine layer of powder clung to everything and gritted against his teeth. His eyes narrowed as they fell on the overgrown fence that surrounded the lot next door. The neighbor’s trailer faced the street around the corner from his cul-de-sac. It was even more dented and rusty than his, with milky grime covering the windows and a missing tread on the front stairs. A blond guy in running shorts and no shirt trotted down the dusty street. Sweat glistened on his tanned torso and his hair matted like wet ropes to his head. The muscle boy waved as he jogged past Oren’s parked pickup, and he gave a scant nod in response while his eyes narrowed. That fucking faggot better not be hittin’ on me. When the runner passed by the trailer next door, Cujo raced to the fence and erupted in a paroxysm of furious barks. The runner turned the corner and disappeared, but the dog’s noisome rage continued. Oren cursed and stepped out of the air-conditioned cab. Heat crushed against him like the blast from a car bomb. He grabbed his newspaper and squinted against the brassy sun that turned everything a washed-out, dusty brown. He took the stairs to his front 15

Flatland door two at a time and grabbed the doorknob. The searing heat of the metal made him snatch his hand back. He swore, fished a filthy handkerchief from his pocket, and wrapped it around his palm before he tried the knob again. This time, it was more bearable, like a shotgun barrel, hot after firing a load. Out of habit, he cased the neighborhood for cops and other threats and caught sight of his other neighbor peering at him from behind the blinds of a window in his trailer. The guy gave a hesitant wave and disappeared back into the gloom of the interior. Oren remembered talking to the little weenie when he’d arrived here a couple of nights ago. Fuck, another faggot. What is it with this place? Danny, that was his name. He lived in his grandpa’s trailer. The creep had worn suspenders and red sneakers, like a two-yearold. He reminded Oren of the guy he’d hired as his secretary back in New York. Queers could be useful, as long as they didn’t hit on him. The dog’s barking rose in a frenzied crescendo and jerked his attention back to the other trailer. The raging animal slammed into the chain-link fence, and the metal links rattled and swayed against the mangy creature’s weight. Its deep, relentless voice was more a roar than a bark. Its silvery eyes rolled in their sockets and it bared enormous yellow teeth as it struggled to get at him. One ear flopped in two pieces and a ragged white scar ran down its neck. Drool slathered from its lips and disappeared into the dry soil. Oren scowled and muttered, “Shut up, Cujo.” He thought about taunting the animal, but it was too hot and he was too weary to bother. He stalked into his trailer and slammed the door. Blessed coolness flowed over him. Delicate little claws clattered against the linoleum floors, and a white puffball of a dog bounced up to him.

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Max Griffin Her tongue lollygagged from her mouth and her black eyes danced with joy. He knelt and ruffled the animal’s ears. “Hey, Zsa Zsa. Did you miss me, girl?” She rewarded him with a slobbery kiss to his cheeks and a dizzying helicopter spin to her tail. A satisfied grin tugged at his lips. He fingered her diamond-studded collar and cooed, “Yeah, you’re the best girl ever, that’s what you are.” He reached into his pocket and rewarded her with a doggie treat before sitting at the kitchen table and spreading out his newspaper. He glanced at the front page and snorted. The Flatland Sentinel, the Voice of Southwest Kansas. Like this corner of Hell needed a voice. He found the story he wanted on page six.

Mob Boss Sentenced to 25 to Life Johann Kruppman, reputed mobster and leader of one of Chicago’s most notorious crime organizations, was sentenced today in US District Court to twenty-five years to life without the possibility of parole. While prosecutors alleged that Kruppman was the lynchpin in a real-life version of Murder Incorporated, he was instead convicted of money laundering, income tax evasion, and wire fraud. Authorities immediately transported Kruppman to the high-security prison in Leavenworth, Kansas, where he will serve his sentence. US Attorney Rufo Giovanni cited the testimony of the notorious investment banker and reputed mob financier Oren Lelande as providing critical evidence in the successful prosecution.

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Flatland Lelande disappeared after the trial and his location remains a mystery. Numerous civil actions are pending against him regarding allegations of misconduct at his firm, Lelande Capital Partners (LCP). Lawyers for the New York investment bank Brecht-Silverstein allege that LCP defrauded their clients of over ten million dollars in a Ponzi scheme. LCP has filed for bankruptcy protection and officials for the firm refused to comment on the lawsuits or on Lelande’s whereabouts. There are unsub-stantiated rumors of death threats and mob intimidation tactics against some of the plaintiffs. When asked if Lelande was in the FBI Witness Protection Program, Giovanni declined to comment. Oren leaned back and chuckled. Leavenworth, huh? That means the SOB’s got the same hellhole weather I’ve got. Serves him right. Satisfaction welled in him. It’d been smart to deal with the Feds. With what he’d already embezzled, he was going to be more than rich: he would be set for life. Sure, for now, he was trapped in the middle of nowhere with the hound from Hell next door, but soon that would all change. He looked out the window at the dried-up wheat field behind his trailer park. Little dust devils spun nasty whirls of red dirt and burr-infested weeds. The arid land stretched to infinity, flat as day-old beer and twice as revolting. In the distance, brown vegetation met the sky at a hairline horizon. Oren sighed and longed for the spires of the city. The dog was still barking. Oren groaned. He could swear the

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Max Griffin damned animal never quit. Ever. Even in the middle of the night, his growls and snarls penetrated the thin walls of the trailer and drummed into Oren’s ears. He rubbed his eyes and moaned, an incipient headache pounding in the depths of his skull. He sighed and stumbled into his bedroom where he slipped out of his scuffed loafers and flopped onto the rumpled and stained sheets. Zsa Zsa hopped up and peered at him for a moment before curling up at his side. He flipped on the television and surfed until he found a rerun of Law and Order. Frustrated dreams of violence and fantasies of greed drummed inside his brain. With each heartbeat, his mind pulsed within the prison of his skull. He stroked Zsa Zsa and welcomed the darkness.

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Chapter 3

Oren woke

and unwound the sweat-soaked sheets that twisted about his torso. A loud-mouth sales pitch blared on the television while the dog next door continued its relentless yammer. He groped for the remote and clicked the TV off. That just made the dog more annoying. Three barks. Pause. Four barks. Shorter pause. Three barks again, like some insane canine Morse code. He groaned, sat up, and ran his hands through his thinning hair. Moonlight played with shadow as it skittered through the broken slats of the blinds at his windows. A siren wailed and, for a blessed moment, drowned out the nagging yelps, but then it faded into the distance. The dog next door barked all the louder at its passing. He stood and padded barefoot into the bathroom where he sighed while he relieved himself. Finished, he pulled off his sweat-soaked t-shirt and inspected himself in the mirror. He still had a full head of hair, and his belly was still hard, but he was getting a little gut. Too much beer and too hot to work out, he reflected. He shrugged. It’s not like I need to keep in shape for anything. He stumbled into the kitchen for a beer. Zsa Zsa stood at the back door and looked at him. He popped the tab on his brew and sucked half of the foamy liquid down. “What you want, baby?” She whimpered and scratched at the door before turning her black eyes back on him.

Flatland “You need outside, girl?” He grabbed a cold six pack, opened the door, and followed her out. She romped to the back of his lot, near the fence where the tangled crabgrass and dead brush provided some cover. He grinned and sat on the back step. A hot breeze wafted across his bare torso and the stars overhead glittered with an impossible brightness. The waning moon, one day after full, huddled low against the horizon. He rolled his beer can across his chest and shuddered from the cold against his skin. Next door, the chain link fence rattled and creaked as Cujo thumped against it in a manic eruption of snarls and barks. Oren glared at the animal and thought about going to Wichita tomorrow to buy his shotgun. He knew just the kind he wanted to purchase: a Maul by Metal Storm, with a detachable stock and a handgrip so he could use it like an enormous pistol. Footfalls from the other direction brought him to his feet, old reflexes springing his muscles into a defensive posture. “Hey, relax, mister. I’m just the night watchman.” A fat slob stood at the corner of the trailer and held up his hands, palmforward. He wore a stained rent-a-cop uniform. A holstered automatic hugged his hips underneath the bulge of his beer belly. His stomach jiggled when he hitched up his pants and waddled forward. “We ain’t met yet. Name’s Leo.” His high-pitched voice warbled, like he needed to clear his throat. He stuck out a pudgy hand. Oren hesitated. The fetid aura of unwashed clothing and rotten eggs accompanied the man’s approach. Grime clogged his fingernails, and a greasy mane of blonde curls framed his porcine features. Oren glanced again at the man’s weapon before he gripped the proffered paw. “Oren here.” Shaking the guy’s hand was like squeezing raw sausages. Oren resisted the temptation to wipe his

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Max Griffin palm on his pants. “I moved in last week.” “I know. Your missus signed the rental papers.” Oren frowned. “My missus?” “Sure. Inez something. Don’t recall the last name. Good lookin’ redhead, nice full figure.” Oren recognized his FBI contact. “Inez Vasquez. She’s a business associate is all. Not my wife.” Not a bad fuck, either, not that it’s any of your business, fat ass. He sat back down and picked up his beer. “She’s pretty hot, though, if you like that type.” Leo leered at him. “Wouldn’t kick her out of bed for eatin’ crackers, that’s for sure.” He cast a longing eye at the six pack on the step. The mangy beast next door chose that instant to launch itself against the chain-link fence that separated the two trailers. Its roar beat against them as its paws scrabbled against the fence. Zsa Zsa gave a little yelp and scampered back to hide between Oren’s knees. He ruffled her ears while he glared at the animal next door. “Jee-sus Christ. Can’t you do anything about that animal? I can’t get any rest with the damned thing barking all the time.” The watchman shrugged. “I could speak to the owners, I guess. Melvyn and Rose been outta town, though. I think they got some kid lookin’ after their place.” He held out his hand to Zsa Zsa, who sniffed at it and then licked it. “Ain’t really my job. I’m just here to keep the place secure.” Oren narrowed his eyes, and then let a grin bend his lips. “Would you like a beer?” He gestured to his stash. “Help yourself.” He reflected that maybe this lard-ass could actually be useful. If he could get him off his lazy butt, he might do something about the neighbors. Leo grunted and settled his bulk onto the back step. He popped

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Flatland open a can and sucked at it. A trail of foam ran down his chin and dribbled onto his uniform. “Ah, that hits the spot.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. “Nothin’ like a cold Lone Star on a hot night, eh?” “You can say that again.” Oren leaned back and decided to talk shop first. “Mind if I ask what you carry?” “Sure, bud.” Leo whipped out a compact pistol and cradled it in his hand. “I used this baby when I was with Special Forces in Kuwait. Blew away a bunch of them Eye-Rackies.” He looked without touching. “A SIG Sauer P226? Nice.” A slow smile flowed across Leo’s flabby cheeks. “You betcha. You know your guns.” “It’s a hobby of mine. I used to own an NAA Guardian .38. It’d fit in an ankle holster or the palm of your hand and still pack a powerful punch.” “I saw one of those at the last Wichita gun show. Sweet weapon, man.” Leo slipped his gun back into its holster. “You ex-military?” “Rangers, but it’s been a long time.” Oren took another swig of beer. “So, do you think—” Another roar from next door interrupted him as the dog bayed at the moon. Oren raised his voice, “Do you think you could get the owners to do something about that damned dog? I’d make it worth your while.” “Now, they ain’t done nothin’ wrong. Poor pooch probably just needs pettin’.” The man’s whiny voice reminded Oren of a pimp he’d known in Cicero. “Still, I s’pose I could check it out next time I see ‘em.” More footsteps crunched through the gravel and Oren jerked his head toward where a skinny kid with a mop of chestnut hair coalesced out of the shadows.

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Max Griffin Leo waved to the approaching figure. “Hey, Danny. Good to see ya, boy. Come join us and have a beer.” He slapped the sagging step where he slouched. “I mean, if that’s okay with Oren here.” Oren kept the annoyance out of his voice. “Sure. Plenty more where that came from.” He recognized the little faggot with the suspenders and red sneakers from next door. “We talked some the other night, right?” The kid grinned but wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Yeah. Good to see you.” He sighed, as if a heavy burden weighed against his soul. “I’m just taking a break from work. I heard Leo and thought I’d come on over to say hi.” Leo scratched his crotch. “How’s your grandpa doin’? I ain’t seen him since he retired as Justice of the Peace. That was what, a year or more ago?” “Yeah, almost two years. Since then, he’s up in Kansas City. It’s been a few weeks since he was here.” Danny shook a stray lock of hair from his eyes. “He’s good people. Next time he’s back, tell him to come over and sit for a spell.” “I’ll do that. He thinks the world of you, Leo.” Danny swiped at his forehead and left a trail of grime. Zsa Zsa ran up to him, her tail agog, and danced around his feet. He knelt and laughed while she lapped at his face. “Hi, girl. That’s a good dog, yes she is.” He glanced up. “She played some in my yard the other day, and she’s been a regular visitor ever since.” “She ain’t been messin’ with your pansies, has she?” Oren sucked an indifferent mouthful of beer. “No, no, not at all. We just play fetch when she comes over. I like the company.” He settled next to Leo and glanced at the beer but didn’t reach for one. Leo stood and crushed his empty. “Thanks for the brewski, 24

Flatland man. Nice meetin’ ya. I gotta get back to my rounds. No rest for the wicked, y’know.” Oren nodded and kept his voice friendly. “Ain’t that the truth? You’ll check on the neighbor’s dog?” “Yeah. Ain’t gonna do no good, though. Dogs bark. It’s what they do.” He set his mangled can on the step and shuffled away. “Still, I can’t abide folks what don’t take care of their animals. I’ll talk to ‘em and set ‘em straight.” He nodded and hitched his gun belt. “Good seein’ you, Danny. You stay outta trouble now, y’hear?” “See you, Leo.” He leaned back and his eyes drifted back to the beer. Oren scowled. “You going to take one or just beg like Zsa Zsa when I’m eating steak?” Danny smiled and twisted one off the plastic ring. “Thanks. I didn’t want to impose.” He gazed at Zsa Zsa, who trotted off to chase fireflies by the back fence while he rolled the can in his hands. When he popped the tab, the contents hissed and foamed over his hand. He grinned and lapped it off his fist before he slurped at the opening. “Ah, that’s good stuff. Nothing like a beer on a hot night.” Oren shrugged. “Whatever.” Danny leaned back against the steps and Oren shifted away to avoid contact. Silence, punctuated by yaps from next door, stretched for a moment. Zsa Zsa bounded back and licked Danny’s hand. He stroked her and mused, “She’s such a beautiful dog.” Oren couldn’t help grinning. “She’s my baby. Don’t need no family since I got my Zsa Zsa.” Danny nodded. “Must be nice.” He slurped beer. “You don’t keep her on a leash or anything? Don’t you worry about her running away?” “Nah. She wouldn’t do that. Besides, I had her chipped. The

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Max Griffin vet put a little computer thing in her in case she ever gets lost.” “Really? I’ve heard of those for people with drug allergies. Kind of like an electronic medical alert bracelet. I didn’t know they made them for dogs.” “It was expensive, but nothin’s too good for Zsa Zsa. Dogs is better than people, you ask me.” That got him a cherubic smile, the brand of a born mark. “People aren’t so bad, you know, if you give them a chance. Still, maybe I should get a dog. What with Grandpa gone most of the time, I get lonely. Since I came back here, Leo’s about the only person I talk to.” Oren snorted. “I bet he’s great company. Like a side of beef with vocal cords.” “Leo’s a good guy. He’s just kind of different. Grandpa says he’s not been the same since he got back from Kuwait. But we all feel safer with him on guard. You’ll see, after you’ve been here a while.” His gaze wandered back to Zsa Zsa. “She’s a Bichon Frisé, right?” He took a slug of beer and his chestnut hair floated in waves about his head. “Yeah.” Oren tipped an eyebrow at his younger companion. You better not be hittin’ on me, you little creep. Not unless you want to lose some teeth. He kept his voice indifferent. “Not many people would recognize the breed.” “Dogs are kind of a hobby for me. I love watching the Westminster Kennel Club Show on television.” Zsa Zsa raced off toward the fence again, sniffing at the ground. Oren watched her with satisfaction. “Yeah, I like watching that dog show, too. I used to go every year.” “Oh? You lived in New York, then?” His eyes narrowed at the sudden inquisitiveness. “Nah. I just

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Flatland went there on business sometimes. I’m retired now. Like your grandpa.” “Grandpa’s not exactly retired. His health is just, well, not what it used to be.” He paused to suck at his beer. “You’re lucky. I wish I could afford to retire at your age. What’s your secret?” “No secret,” Oren snarled. That sounded suspicious, so he continued in a milder tone. “I did contract work. For a big syndicate.” He winced as the dog next door bayed at the moon. “Jesus Christ, does that fucking thing ever shut up?” Danny stared next door and sighed. “I guess he is a little noisy. Poor thing’s just lonely.” “Lonely, my ass.” Oren swilled some more beer. “I was talking to this guy at the Wagon Wheel the other day. Dingleman, Dinsmore. I dunno. Anyway, he said something’s been killing pets in town. There’s some dead cats, and a German shepherd got killed last month, too.” He scowled. “I tell you, that mutt’s a menace. Someone should do something about it.” Danny’s face turned red, and he stared at his beer. “We heard about those things, too. It’s awful. But who knows? Grandpa said that for all anyone knew, that German shepherd killed those cats and someone took revenge. Or maybe it was something else.” He sighed and stared at the moon. “It’s all just rumor, don’t you think? There’s no reason to think our neighbor’s dog is responsible. Anyway, Leo can’t do anything without probable cause.” He snorted. “Like that fat ass would do anything but stuff his mouth. I tell you what, kid. I don’t need no probable-cause BS to protect my Zsa Zsa.” He snapped his fingers and whistled. She looked up and her little ears perked. “Come here, girl.” She bounded across the yard like a snowball squirting out of Hell and leaped into his lap. Danny reached out and stroked her torso. “She’s a beautiful 27

Max Griffin specimen. I thought her fur would be silky, but it’s nice and springy.” He pursed his lips. “I bet it’s safe to let her out. After all, they keep that dog locked up behind their fence.” He averted his eyes. “Grandpa says dangerous animals should be locked up.” Oren snorted. “Dangerous animals should just be killed.” He glared next door. “One shotgun blast would turn its brains to spaghetti. Put it out of its misery and give us some peace.” Danny shuddered. “I suppose sometimes animals have to be put down. But don’t you think everyone deserves a second chance?” He glanced next door and the dog snarled at him. “Butch can be a good dog when he’s treated right.” “Butch, huh? I call him Cujo. Like in that horror movie.” A grin twisted Danny’s features at that. “I guess I can see where you’d think that fits.” He studied his beer can some more, as if looking for wisdom in the nutritional information. “You know, I wouldn’t jump to conclusions about Butch over there. I bet he’s completely innocent. After all, who knows what evil some stranger might have brought into our little community.” Oren glared at him, wondering what the little queer knew. But then the twerp belched like he couldn’t take his beer and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “‘Scuse me. You know, I read that timber wolves were making a comeback. One of the ranchers at the Seven Eleven told me they took some of his sheep.” “Wolves, huh?” Oren cradled Zsa Zsa in his arms and peered into the darkness. “We’ll see about that. Nothing’s going to hurt my little girl.” He didn’t like the sound of wolves. Maybe this place was more dangerous than he’d thought. “I’m gonna get me a shotgun. No wolf’s gonna eat my Zsa Zsa.” He guzzled beer and thought of blood and death.

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Chapter 4

Danny waded through his grandfather’s flower garden, careful to not crush any of the phlox. He timed his dash through the foliage to miss the spray from the sprinkler, but it whizzed a few droplets on his shirtless torso anyway. The damp, sandy loam, still hot from the late afternoon sun, oozed between his toes. The bottoms of his blue jeans flapped against his ankles, cold and wet from dragging through the moist underbrush. He groped for the faucet hidden behind the foliage, twisted if off, and the soft susurrations from the sprinkler fizzled into silence. The sweet perfume of the pink blossoms mixed with the earthy scent of the moist soil, as though a tiny jungle grew here in this mobile home park in the middle of the arid Kansas plains. He squinted at the dying orange sliver of the setting sun and made his way to the back stoop of his trailer, careful to avoid the rocks and nettles scattered in the discouraged grass. He hitched his suspenders over his bare shoulders and eyed the back door. Instead of going inside to his dreary online job, he slouched on the step, hugged his knees, and stared into the distance. The orange glow of the setting sun faded to purple as dusk gave slow birth to night. The waning daylight awakened crickets, while birds fluttered overhead toward their evening roosts. Lightning bugs flitted over the wheat field behind his trailer in random bursts of phosphorescence.

Flatland He looked up as footsteps crunched across the gravelly yard toward him and recognized his neighbor Skip. He wore only brief, blue running shorts and arrived carrying two cans of beer. In the glow of the setting sun, his body made Danny think of a Greek statue come alive, muscle and sinew rippling in light and shadow. Skip grinned and waggled the cans. “Hey, I saw you out and thought maybe you’d like to have a beer with me. Pay you back for the other night.” Danny’s heart leapt, but he tried to remain cool. He smiled and accepted the offered can. “Thanks.” He popped it open and took a sip, but continued to huddle into himself, wishing he’d stopped to put a shirt on. Skip’s sleek, muscular form and short, blond hair made Danny feel like a mole person. A hairy, skinny, geeky mole person. “Mind if I sit for a spell?” Without waiting, Skip plopped on the steps next to him. He opened his beer and foam spilled onto his hands. “Shit.” He sucked the foaming brew from the can. “Don’t want any to go to waste.” His bare shoulder brushed against Danny’s as he settled onto the stoop. Danny scrunched over to make room. “It was another hot one today. Beer really hits the spot. Thanks.” He suppressed a cringe at his words. Fuck me. Could I be more goofy? Skip didn’t seem to notice. “Yeah. I heard on the news we broke a hundred this afternoon. That can’t be good for your flowers.” “They’re my grandpa’s. I’m afraid I don’t take very good care of them.” “They look great to me. Smell nice, too. You must use a special fertilizer or something.” Danny shrugged, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. Skip prattled on, gazing at the blooms. “However you do it,

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Max Griffin it’s nice to have some green around. This place is still new to me. The endless, dried-up sea of brown kind of gets me down.” “You’ll get used to it. How long have you been here, again?” “I moved in two weeks ago. I’m house sitting for a buddy of mine while I’m between jobs. So here I am, in the middle of nowhere.” He blinked. “Sorry. Maybe you like it here.” Danny snorted. “This place is the ass end of no place, I have to agree.” Skip took another swig and glanced at the dog sleeping two yards away. “I see our neighbor’s pooch has settled down.” A smile bent Danny’s lips. “I fed him earlier. The poor thing. He even let me pet him.” “Really? He still won’t let me near him.” “Well, you kind of have to lead up to it.” Danny slurped on his beer. “Have you seen Oren’s dog?” “Oren? You mean the thug next door?” A smile toyed with Danny’s lips. “That’s him. Believe it or not, he’s got a cute little dog. A Bichon Frisé named Zsa Zsa.” “You’re kidding? That’s like this little frou-frou dog, right? I figured him for a pit bull, if anything.” Danny chuckled. “I know. It seems so out of character. But he dotes on her. He’s even put a rhinestone collar on her.” “Well, turn me over and call me done. I would have never believed it.” “I was hoping Zsa Zsa might come over and play tonight. He’s been letting her out, and she’s real friendly.” He sighed. “I get lonely sometimes.” Danny stopped himself, hating the quaver in his voice. “Sorry, I must sound like an idiot.” Skip laughed. “Hey, I’m the idiot. I feel like Zsa Zsa. I was hoping you’d be out and we could play.” He stared at the horizon.

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Flatland Danny resisted the temptation to touch his knee. “Well, I’m glad you came over. You’re way more interesting than Zsa Zsa. A better conversationalist, too.” Skip dimpled. “And I’m housebroken.” He swirled his beer can between his hands and sighed. “I used to have a dog, but, well, we broke up and I lost the custody battle. I miss her.” “I’m sorry.” Skip shrugged. “Life happens. You’re not really alone, though, right? I had the impression you lived with your grandfather?” “Well, it’s his trailer, but he’s only here for a couple of days a month. His health hasn’t been so good, so he’s been staying close to his specialist in Verdigris Heights, up near Kansas City.” “So I guess we’re both kind of alone,” Skip mused. He turned and a wan smile played across his lean features. “Except you’ve got Zsa Zsa to play with.” They sat in silence for a while. Danny watched the fireflies dance to the song of the crickets and let the tension unwind within his core. He dared to stretch his legs out and inhale the musky scent that wafted from his neighbor. Skip stirred, and his leg brushed against Danny’s. “It seems to be cooling off some. I slept all day to beat the heat. I don’t know about you, but I prefer the night, even though there’s not much to do here.” He leaned back and arched his back. Danny moved his leg away before he nodded. “Me, too. That’s why I work nights.” He glanced at the rangy body arrayed next to him, and then forced himself to look away. Shit, he’s not wearing anything under those shorts. “Makes me miss Chicago, although there’s not much else I miss about that place.” Skip sat up and raised his eyebrows. “That’s right. You lived in Chicago, too. I loved it when I was there five years ago. What

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Max Griffin did you do in the city? Why’d you leave?” “I left because...I guess because I needed to come home and connect with my roots. I’d just gone through a breakup, like you, and, well, there were some other problems. So I came here.” Danny glanced up to see the effect of his words. Skip nodded. “I needed to get away, too, to find myself. The city can be overpowering sometimes.” “Exactly. As to work, well, it was pretty much the same there as it is here: medical transcription. Except that I worked for a clinic in Oak Park along with my online job.” “I worked in a garage as a mechanic in Ravenswood before I joined the army. Where did you live? My place was on the north side, on Addison near Wrigley Field.” Danny’s heart sank and he slumped back into himself. The army. He’s straight after all. Figures. I should have known a good-looking jock like him couldn’t really be interested in me. Good thing I didn’t hit on him. “I didn’t know you were a veteran. Have you met Leo, the security guard here? He served in Kuwait.” “That’s way before my time. I was in Iraq, though.” “That must have been tough.” “I lived through it. I’d go back, too, if they called me up.” Skip took another sip of his beer. “Hey, if you need to get to work, don’t let me stop you.” Danny squirmed and tried to adjust his trousers. “I really should get back to it.” He hesitated and dared to add, “My shift’s kind of screwed up. I get paid triple time on the weekends, so I take weeknights off. For example, I work the next two nights but have the one after off.” “In this economy, triple time is hard to turn down.” Skip reached inside his shorts and scratched, exposing a delicious trail

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Flatland of tawny hair that disappeared under his waistband. He stood and finished his beer. “Tell you what. Why don’t you come on over for dinner your next night off? I’ll whomp up some stir fry, and we can watch a movie or something? How about it?” Danny’s heart leapt. God, is he asking me on a date? Can’t be. He’s straight. “I’d like that.” He blinked, surprised at his own answer. Skip’s face split in a merry grin and he answered, “Great. I’ll see you at about, what? Shall we say eight? Or would you prefer later? I remember you work nights.” Danny’s breath caught in his throat, but he managed to croak out, “Maybe ten? That’s when I usually break for dinner on the nights I’m working.” “Great. You allergic to seafood or anything?” “Not that I know of.” “Perfect. I’ll see you then. It’ll be fun.” He paused for a moment and gazed into Danny’s eyes. He seemed to start to reach out, but then he turned away. “I’ll see you Monday.” He strode to his trailer and was gone. Danny closed his eyes and let the memory of Skip’s happy face and muscular torso warm his soul. He leaned back into the shadows and sighed, but then a shiver prickled his skin. Unbidden memories of his horrible last night with Justin, over a year ago, flooded through his mind. Still, this wasn’t a date. It was just dinner. It would be nice to have a friend. Next door, a pickup ground to a halt in a cloud of dust, and Butch broke into a cacophony of barks. Danny retreated further into the darkness; the last thing he wanted right now was to talk to his crazy new neighbor. Danny watched from the shadows while Oren stumbled out of his truck, and his drunken slur fought with the dog’s roar. “Shut up, 34

Max Griffin you fuckin’ mutt. Jus’ you wait. I’m gonna blow your head off. You’ll see.” He pointed at Butch with his finger, squinted as if taking aim, and murmured, “Kapow!” He swiveled toward Danny’s trailer and seemed to lose his balance before catching himself. Then he pointed again, this time in Danny’s direction and whispered, “Kapow! I hate fuckin’ faggots, too.” His head weaved, and he blinked before he staggered into his trailer and slammed the door. Danny shuddered, glad that Oren hadn’t seen him. At least the idiot didn’t have a real gun. He hoped, anyway.

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Chapter 5

Oren huddled at his kitchen table and let his fingers caress his new shotgun. The television showed a re-run of Homicide, Life on the Street, while a red banner at the bottom of the screen displayed tornado warnings. His mobile home shuddered as the wind gusted across the wasteland of the prairie and whistled through the gaps in the windows. Outside, gray clouds hid the afternoon sun and tumbled across the claustrophobic skies. Trash fluttered against the sides of the trailer. The flicker of the overhead fluorescent light fought the gloom from outdoors, but shadows still lurked in the corners. Next door, Cujo’s relentless barks provided a cacophonous duet with the grumble of the thunder and the howl of the wind. Oren narrowed his eyes and ran his palm over the grip of his shotgun. The magazine held five rounds, and he could fire them off in rapid succession. The barrel was short, for maximum spread of the shot. It had a detachable stock, but he planned to carry it like an over-sized pistol. It was just what he needed for the damned dog. There had never been a problem he couldn’t solve with the right firearm. If only the Feds would hurry up with his money, he’d blow the fucking thing to bits and disappear, like the wind across the flat Kansas plains. For kicks, he’d decided to snuff out that fuckin’

Flatland faggot, too. He closed his eyes and his head gave a little twitch at the thought. A rattle of wind brought him back to reality. His eyes fell on Zsa Zsa, who curled, asleep, buried in crumpled newspapers on the sofa. Lightning flashed and thunder cracked. The little dog stirred and whimpered but didn’t wake. A grin tugged at Oren’s mouth and his heart warmed while he looked at her. He jumped when a fist pounded at his door. Zsa Zsa’s eyes flicked open, and she lifted her head before settling back to her nap. The storm muffled the voice of the person outside, and his ears strained to pick up the words. “Hey, Lelande, it’s Inez. Let me in.” He scowled. Her husky voice and soft, Spanish accent grated on him like a case of the clap. He arranged a wad of dirty towels to conceal the shotgun and stomped to the door. “What you want? You got my money? It’s been days since Kruppman got sentenced.” He kept the door closed, drawing satisfaction from forcing her to remain outside in the weather. “What you think? I’m checking up on you. It’s part of the program. Now open up. It’s nasty out here.” He hesitated and eyed where his shotgun hid, thinking it might solve more problems than just a barking dog and an annoying queer. Not yet, though. He needed to get the rest of his money from the Feds first. He unlocked the door and sat back down at the kitchen table. “It’s open. Come on in.” A chill breeze gusted into the room as she stepped inside. The door caught in the wind and slipped out of her grip. It clanged into the side of the trailer while scraps of paper, brown leaves, and red grit whirled into the room. She snatched at the knob and slammed it shut. “Thanks. It looks bad out there.” She shook out her floozy, red hair. “You know where to go if the sirens go off?”

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Max Griffin His gaze roamed over her body, from her silicone-enhanced bosom to her ample butt and her chunky legs. “Yeah. There’s a shelter under the laundry, a couple of streets over. I should have figured the FBI would be too cheap to give me a real house with a basement. Instead, I get this fuckin’ tornado magnet.” She smoothed her lime-green sundress and adjusted the straps that kept her breasts from flopping out. He wondered why she bothered, since it looked like she’d sprayed the whole thing on. Besides, he’d seen her naked. It was no big deal, except it gave him some leverage to use on her. He remembered she carried her gun in the purse that hung by a strap from her shoulder. Her voice oozed into the room like warm whiskey. “They don’t put basements in houses here, Lelande. They flood in the rainy season.” She plopped onto the sofa and waved her thick eyelashes at him. Oren tried to ignore the raucous counterpoint to their conversation from the dog next door. Zsa Zsa stirred from the sofa, sniffed at Vazquez, and trotted to sit next to Oren. Her tail thumped on the floor and her black eyes stared up at him in adoration. He reached down and scratched the dog’s ears. She rewarded him with a wet kiss. “So, you got my money or what?” Vasquez lounged back while her fingers toyed with the ragged afghan that sprawled on the sofa. “Did you hear? The sentencing phase at Kruppman’s trial’s over. He’s in Leavenworth by now.” Her eyelashes fluttered while she spoke. He knew she was supposed to be undercover, but he wondered if the sleazy-whore act was on purpose, just to taunt him. He shrugged. “I heard. You playing messenger girl, Inez, or you just hot to see me?” He figured it wouldn’t hurt to play with her some,

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Flatland even though he didn’t want to sleep with her again. It had been exciting before, when she resisted his advances, almost like rape. But now that she was his for the taking, he wasn’t interested. A coy smile flashed across her face before she spoke. “Maybe some of both, lover boy.” Her smile flitted away and her voice stopped toying with his libido. “Now that he’s in prison, your agreement with the FBI says we can release the final installment of your payment.” She reached into her purse and he tensed, but she just pulled out a thick envelope. “There’s some stuff you have to sign for the Bureau. There’s an ATM card and your account info, too.” She tossed him the envelope, but it fell short and slapped to the floor next to Zsa Zsa. The dog sniffed at it, her tail whirling like tassels on a stripper. He grunted and leaned down to pick it up. “How’d you ever make it through Quantico? You throw like a girl.” She grinned and primped her hair. “I am a girl, in case you didn’t notice, maggot.” She took out a cigarette and lit it, her orange fingernails flashing in the fluorescent lighting. “You got an ash tray?” “I wish you wouldn’t smoke. You know I can’t stand the smell.” Bitch. “Hey, it stinks like fuckin’ dog in here. Why should you care?” She picked up an empty beer can from the end table and flicked an ash into it. His eyes threw daggers at her, but he kept his voice even. “Don’t you bad-mouth my Zsa Zsa. I toldja that before.” His fingers ran over the towels, and the contours of his shotgun sent a thrill up his arm. It would be so easy, but he’d have to move the money first. Time enough to settle with her later. Lightning flashed nearby and thunder rattled the windows. She

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Max Griffin peered outside. “That one was close.” Her gaze returned to the room, and she scowled at Zsa Zsa. “I hate that damned dog.” Her face turned hard and her tone official and cold. “I should have had it put down when we arrested you.” He sneered and pulled the papers from the envelope. “Yeah, and then you woulda got nothing from me. That would have been real smart. About what I’d expect from a bimbo like you.” Surprise and anger flared in her face. “Screw you.” Maybe now he wouldn’t have to fend off her advances. “When you’re with someone pretty like Zsa Zsa, everybody pays attention to the dog, not what you’re doin’.” Vazquez’s voice rasped like a drill through a safe. “You sayin’ I ain’t pretty?” He shrugged. “I’m just sayin’ she was the perfect partner. I don’t need no disguise with her along, and I don’t have to worry about her bein’ a snitch. She was always with me on every con. Never missed a beat. You woulda never caught us if you hadn’t got lucky.” He looked down and flipped through the documents. Her body stopped wriggling and her jaw jumped like she’d swallowed crickets. “Maybe you’re a better accountant than the squids at the Bureau, but you’re a crappy killer. You left clues all over the place. You’re not the genius you think you are.” She exhaled a cloud of blue smoke, and her eyes scanned the disarray in the trailer. “I see it didn’t take you any time to pig this place up.” She glanced out the window and snarled, “Does that goddam dog next door ever shut up?” His eyes snapped up, and he glared at her. “You get used to it.” She put on her professional FBI face, the one that she used in public, and her voice lost its bantering tone. “How about the

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Flatland neighbors? Any problems after the other night?” “Nah. Just that friggin’ dog, and I got plans for him. There’s a fat-ass security guard. Oh, and the queer kid next door was a little nosy, but I took care of it. I fed him a line about me being retired, and he bought it.” She snorted. “Anybody else been nosing around?” “Aint seen nobody but those two.” “Good.” She let smoke drift out her nostrils. He shrugged and reached for a pen. “I sign where the little red sticky things are?” “Yeah. Or initial, depending.” She lit another cigarette from the coal of the first and dropped the butt into the beer can. It gave off a little hiss when it struck the bottom. She hunched forward and exhaled a haze of blue smoke. “The security guard looks pretty harmless. The owner of this shit-hole trailer park gave him a make-work security job out of charity, ‘cause he’s a vet.” “Whatever.” Oren turned to another page and initialed. “I wouldn’t mind having his bean shooter.” “Yeah? What kind of heat does he carry?” “A SIG Sauer P226. Chrome-plated.” “Sweet.” Her eyes flickered for an instant to the kitchen table before she continued. “The kid’s just some druggie from Chicago. You ain’t gotta worry about him.” Oren fished a doggie treat out of his pocket and fed it to Zsa Zsa. “Faggots don’t worry me.” “Whatever. Now that Kruppman’s locked up, you should be safe. You got me to thank that the mob ain’t sendin’ somebody to whack you.” She studied the coal of her cigarette. Oren snorted. “I can take care of myself.” He stuffed the papers back in the envelope. “You got anything else for me?”

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Max Griffin Her eyes gleamed and she thrust her bosom forward again. “Nothing official. You got anything for me?” Her eyelashes fluttered in the smoky shadows. He let a smile tickle his lips. “Nothing I can think of, sweetheart.” He fingered his ATM card. The money he’d swindled was already in his safe deposit box in the Caymans, in the form of untraceable gold bullion. “When does the cash hit my account?” “It’ll take a few days for the paperwork to clear. Close of business Friday, at the latest.” “Fuckin’ bureaucrats. Can’t you speed it up? Maybe spread your legs for ‘em?” “Fuck you, asshole.” Her eyes narrowed and her face flushed. “You just watch yourself. Don’t do nothing else to draw attention. That fuckin’ fight was bad enough.” She stood and shook her finger at him. “You lay low, you hear? We can’t help you if you get busted for anything. There’s no telling what the locals might do if they catch up with you.” She took the papers from him and dropped them back in her purse. He smirked and rubbed his fingers on the towel, drawing power from the cold steel underneath. “I’ll be sure to not get caught, then.” Her eyes flashed. “I mean it, Oren. You get in trouble and I personally will see to it that you get locked up and they throw away the key. I don’t care how good a f—I don’t care what we done in bed. I’ll fix you good if you screw up. At this point, the Bureau don’t give a flying fuck if you live or die, if you catch my meaning.” He kept that little smile toying with his lips while his fingers lingered on his shotgun. “Perfectly clear, Agent Vasquez.” He stood. “We done here?” She glared at him. “Just because you aren’t using the FBI to

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Flatland relocate you, don’t think I can’t find you if you screw up. We got our ways. You know that.” “No doubt.” Oren was confident he could disappear on his own, and he didn’t want anyone, least of all the FBI, knowing where he was. As for her threat, he was sure Vasquez couldn’t find the checkout line in a Seven Eleven, let alone trace him. She sneered at him. “We’re though with you, Oren. Be outa our trailer by the weekend.” She glanced out the window. “I’m gone before that storm hits.” She dropped her cigarette into the beer can and rushed out, slamming the door after her. Oren sneered after her and uncovered his shotgun. He pointed it at the door and whispered, “Kapow.” Zsa Zsa looked at him and wagged her tail. “What you think, girl? Shall we have some fun on Friday night? Bag us a mutt and a faggot, too?” Arf! “That’s my girl. Then we can take our loot and run.” He winced as Butch barked. He turned up the television, lounged back, and sank into sensuous fantasies of wealth and violence.

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Chapter 6

Darkness cloaked Edgar

when he boarded the private jet in Chicago. He tucked his briefcase in the overhead bin and fastened his seat belt, comfortable with the knowledge that he could finish his business in Dallas and be back home before dawn. He frowned at the boisterous chatter from the five insurance executives who crowded into the cabin at the last minute before takeoff. Once in the air, his fellow passengers spent their time bullying the flight attendant, drinking gin and tonics, and exchanging obscene stories with one another. Edgar gazed at them in revulsion and imagined what it would be like to remove their skin and display their muscles and internal organs. Edgar despised crowds and sunlight even more than he hated phonies and bullies. He reflected it was worth a couple of hours with noxious corporate drones in order to travel in darkness and in relative privacy. Besides, charter-jet carriers didn’t bother to search him for weapons. After he arrived in Dallas, he bypassed the luxury lounge and concierge services offered by the fixed-base operator the charter used. Instead, he took a shuttle van from the FBO’s terminal to the arrivals gate for Southwest Airlines. The early-evening crowds jostled against him and he clutched at his briefcase. He pushed his

Flatland way inside and wrinkled his nose at the raucous assault of body odors from the concourse. He found the Avis rental car stand and put on his best smile while he handed the clerk an ID and credit card. “I believe I have a reservation.” The name on the credit card and driver’s license was Evan Kingston, although both had a photograph of the face that Edgar wore tonight. The young man behind the counter glanced between the photo and Edgar before his fingers clacked on his keyboard. He had used styling gel on his hair to create the illusion of dozens of blond spikes growing from his head. Edgar imagined the reverse: nails driven into his skull, while his blue eyes pled for mercy. Edgar’s smile broadened at the image. The clerk looked up and smiled back while he returned Evan Kingston’s credit card and license. “Yes, Mr. Kingston. We have a Chevrolet Cobalt waiting for you.” He pulled a folder of documents from beneath the ocunter with “Kingston, E.” written in magic marker across the front. You’re all set. If you’ll just catch the van out the double doors, it’ll take you right to your car. The keys are in it.” When the clerk handed Edgar the papers, his shirtsleeve hiked up and revealed blue tattoos of barbed wire encircling each wrist. Edgar wondered for a moment what those wrists would look like with real barbed wire around them and blood dripping down the fingers. His smile never missed a beat. “What’s the best way to the InterContinental from here?” “Your car has a GPS system in it, sir. You should be able to just keyboard in the name, and it’ll give you directions.” He looked at the expression on Edgar’s face and added, “Or I can trace it on a map, if you like.” He glanced over Edgar’s shoulder at the customers queuing up behind him. Edgar relished the moment of power over the clerk and those

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Max Griffin waiting in line. “Would you mind? I’m not so good with technology, I’m afraid.” He fumbled with the papers before putting them in an outside pocket of his briefcase. Everyone there would remember the red-haired man with buckteeth and a beard who made them wait in line. He grinned. By this time tomorrow, the buckteeth caps and the fake beard would be gone, and the red wig would no longer hide his ebony hair. He knew that no one who saw him tonight would recognize Edgar’s real face. The clerk blinked but pulled out a map and traced a route in yellow marker. “The hotel’s in Addison, just off Beltline at the North Dallas Tollway. You can’t miss it, sir.” “Thanks. See you around.” He winked at the clerk and ambled to the rental company’s van. When the driver pulled up to his Chevy, he slipped him a twenty-dollar tip. “Thanks so much for your help.” The grizzled old fellow looked surprised. “Thank you, sir. Do you have any bags?” “Just this, thanks.” He held up his briefcase and stepped out of the van, certain of another person who would remember Evan Kingston but not Edgar Szabo. Once he was alone, he climbed into his car, adjusted the mirrors, and drove out of the airport and turned right onto Mockingbird Lane. From there, he turned north onto the Stemmons Expressway and exited at Northwest Highway. Soon after, he pulled into the lot for the AMC Grand Multiplex, where he roamed the lanes as if looking for a place to park. When he spotted a yuppie couple parking their Ford Escape SUV, he pulled into a nearby space and followed them into the line for tickets. The woman looked at her watch. “We’re going to miss the previews. I wish you hadn’t dawdled over dinner.” Her whiny voice grated at Edgar’s ears, and he wished he could teach her a lesson in

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Flatland manners, but he had more important business this trip. The man scowled and peered at the line. “We’ve got plenty of time, Cindy. It starts at 9:05. Geeze, chill out, will ya?” Edgar made a show of looking at his watch. “Oh dear, I thought the movie started at 9:20.” He peered at the couple. “I’m afraid she’s right. We’re going to miss the opening titles.” The man’s eyes shot daggers at him, and he pulled out his cell phone. “Here, Too Fast, Too Furious 3 starts at 9:05, see? We must be seeing different movies. There’s, like, two dozen screens here.” “Could you check to see when In Bruges starts? That’s the one I want to see.” The sensor in Edgar’s pocket vibrated against his thigh, telling him it had gathered the information he needed from the RFID chip embedded in the key to the couple’s SUV. The man scowled. “What movie was that? I don’t see that one playing here. You must have the wrong theater.” Edgar’s eyes twinkled, but he let dismay creep into his voice. “Oh no! I was so looking forward to seeing it. It’s got Colin Farrell, you know. He plays a hit man. Are you certain it’s not here?” The young man held out his phone. “Yeah. See!” The woman pushed at him. “Marvin, we’re next. Go buy our tickets.” Edgar looked disappointed. “I guess I must have read the paper wrong. Thanks for the information.” He stepped out of the line and pretended to look at the marquee while Marvin and Cindy entered the theater. Once they were out of sight, he returned to where their SUV was parked, pulled out what used to be a mere PDA from his pocket, and pressed an icon on the screen. The Escape’s lights flashed and it beeped as the device simulated the car’s key to perfection. He grinned in satisfaction at his mastery of technology. It had only cost him $200 to purchase and program the chip that

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Max Griffin decoded the RFID security code in Marvin’s key. With the push of the button for the keyless ignition, he’d be on his way. He now had ninety minutes to carry out his contract. He pulled latex gloves from his briefcase and slipped them on before getting into the Escape. It took fifteen minutes to get back on the Stemmons and drive south to the Oak Lawn exit. In another five minutes, he parked outside a secluded mansion just north of downtown Dallas. Tall oak trees sheltered the Tudor-style home, and shrubs trimmed to geometric precision lined the driveway and walks. All the shadows made his chore easier. He reached into his briefcase, pulled out his H&K .45, and screwed a silencer onto the barrel. He hefted the weapon and smiled in satisfaction. He snatched a white Tyvek plastic coverall, booties, and a clear head screen from his briefcase before he departed the car, taking care not to slam the door. He strolled up the drive, ducked into the shadows, and circled to the back of the house. He pulled the PDA from his pants pocket, pushed a couple more icons on the screen, and the door clicked open. He smirked. Thank God for high-tech security systems. He paused to tug the plastic gear over his clothing. No reason to leave behind telltale fibers or to have any blood or body parts blow back on him. He slipped into the darkened mudroom and listened. A television sounded from within the house. He oriented himself according to the floor plan he’d memorized and crept forward. Lights flickered from a room at the end of a hall, and laughter from a soundtrack rustled through the darkness. He peeked around the doorway and spotted his quarry: a balding, gray-haired man lounging on the sofa. He could have been an insurance executive, like the jerks on his chartered flight. Edgar didn’t know what he did for a living. He didn’t even know his name. Edgar just knew that

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Flatland tonight was the man’s night to die. A blond woman, in her early twenties, cuddled next to his quarry. A tight red dress squeezed against her ample figure, and Edgar wondered if she’d used a trowel to apply her makeup. She wasn’t part of his contract, but she was going to die, too. Edgar never left any witnesses. He wondered what her boob job had cost and regretted the waste. He let a slight grin toy with his lips as he thought about killing her. The bald man and the floozy gazed with rapt attention at the television on the wall to his right. The soundtrack giggled with laughter again, although neither of them reacted in any way. Neither gave any sign of seeing Edgar, either. He held his breath, steadied his gun in both hands, whirled around the edge of the doorway, and fired two quick shots. The gun went chufft, chufft and two tiny holes formed in the forehead of the bald man. Brains, bone, and blood splattered across the back of the sofa and splashed onto the hardwood floor with a sound like spaghetti falling from a platter. The woman’s eyes bulged, and she opened her mouth to scream, but Edgar was too fast. He ran forward, stabbed three fingers into her larynx, hard enough to paralyze her voice box but not so hard as to kill. She tried to rise, and he clubbed her on the side of the head with his gun. She collapsed to the floor with the faintest of rustles as her shoes skittered on the hardwood. Edgar held his gun at the ready and listened. The only sound was a commercial for life insurance on the television. A smile bent his face as he reflected that it was bit late for either of them to purchase a policy. He pulled out his cell phone and took a quick picture to verify the kill. He glanced at his watch. Plenty of time to play with the woman. He removed the clear plastic sheath that encased his head and inhaled the sweet nectar of death. He knelt between her legs and gazed at her. He pulled a hunting 49

Max Griffin knife from a holster at his ankle and cut her dress and undergarments open, spreading them to expose her body. It would be better if she was conscious, but this would have to do. He leaned forward, closed his eyes, and took in her heady scent. His heart quickened, and the hunger that never left him quivered deep within in his heart. He nuzzled her throat, and his tongue flickered against her warm flesh. Her pulse beat against his cheek, and her moist breath warmed his lips. The pulse in her neck fluttered against his lusting lips. He hesitated, prolonging this delicious moment, extending the tension until he felt he must break. He rested the blade of his knife against her throat and kissed the steel, now warmed by her flesh. Finally, he surrendered to his need. With the gentlest of pressure, he sliced through her jugular. A hot jet of red pumped from the wound and splashed against his cheeks while he groaned in ecstasy. His mouth descended, and he suckled at her like a babe at his mother’s breast. He savored the sharp, coppery flavor while an electric thrill throbbed down his spine and out his loins. Her blood pumped too fast for him to gulp it all down and it ran down his chin to puddle between her breasts. She tasted sweet and salty, and he thought of strawberry ice cream and French fries. Exquisite pleasure like no other convulsed his body, as though he consumed the potency of her soul along with her blood. He wanted this moment, like the other similar moments before it, to never end. As with all things perfect, his ecstasy flamed and then it died and faded to oblivion. He shuddered, and in an instant, in an eternity, it was over. His chest heaved with spent lust, and his eyes dashed with mad abandon over her pallid, still form. A final shudder transformed him from fire to ice. With a casual insouciance, he stood and surveyed the

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Flatland scene. He used his knife to slash her throat from side to side to hide any outward signs of his feasting. He used a heavy, crystal ashtray to crush her skull and cloak whatever mark his gun might have left. Crimson blood and white brains matted her frizzy blond hair. He took another photo, to croon over later. He staggered to the downstairs bath and used an extra-large moist towel from his kit to swab the blood from his face and from the artificial beard. He had much experience, and he’d been careful; there wasn’t a lot to clean up. His jaw ached from the passion of his deathly kiss. He stared in the mirror and wondered what his employer would think if she knew of his special need. He shrugged. No doubt she wouldn’t care. All she cared about was the contract. And the money, of course. The scent of money seemed to compel her in the same way death did him. He departed through the front door and was back at the AMC Grand parking lot just sixty minutes after he’d left. He parked the Ford Escape near where he’d taken it. If Marvin and Cindy noticed it had moved, they’d just assume they’d forgotten where they’d parked it. If anyone had spotted the car outside the bald man’s house, they’d trace it back to the annoying couple who owned the SUV, not to Edgar. There was nothing to connect him—or Evan Kingston—to the bodies in the Oak Lawn mansion. He climbed into his rented Chevy and drove away. A block from the theater, he paused and stuffed the plastic booties, coverall, and headgear into the dumpster at a closed fast-food restaurant. The towel he’d used to wipe the woman’s blood from his face went into a storm drain a block away. He kept the latex gloves wadded in his pocket. Once at Love Field, he left the car at the Avis drop-off station and wound his way into the terminal. He found an empty restroom and sat in a vacant stall. He pulled out his cell phone and sent an email to Mrs. Conklin back in Iowa, 51

Max Griffin with the photo of the bald man’s body attached. His phone, like that of his employer, was pre-paid and untraceable. He mailed a photo of the woman to another, private address, where he would look at it and savor it later. His phone buzzed and announced Mrs. Conklin had sent a message back. Photo received. Payment on deposit. New job in Kansas. Return here soonest for info. Edgar smiled at the prospect of more work. He dismantled the phone, took out the memory chip, and flushed it away along with the latex gloves. As he left, he tossed the remainder of the phone into the trash. He’d be back in Chicago via another charter before dawn, and he’d be fifty thousand dollars richer by this time tomorrow.

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Chapter 7

Danny clicked

off the blow dryer and stared at his bathroom mirror. He gave his chestnut curls a few flicks with his fingertips to create the appearance that they had fallen into position by random chance. He pulled one curl loose, let it drape over his forehead, and stood back to examine the result. A reluctant smile tugged at his lips as he pulled on the cuffs of his crisp, white dress shirt and adjusted the collar. His fingers hesitated for a moment before they undid the top two buttons, exposing a tuft of chest hair. Charcoal-colored suspenders held up his creased dress pants to complete his ensemble. He turned to view himself in profile and frowned. His pants hung loose at his waist, his hair reminded him of something the cat barfed up, his nose was a cheesy Matterhorn in the middle of his narrow face, and his body looked like it was put together with tinker toys. His narrow shoulders slumped. Shit. I look like somebody put pants on a floor lamp and used a mop for the shade. He considered not going, but he didn’t have Skip’s phone number to call and cancel. Why did I ever agree to do this? What’s the point? He opened the medicine chest and tapped a little pink pill from the amber bottle he found there. For a long moment, all he did was stand there and gaze at it, as if he were frozen in ice like a woolly mammoth. Then his hand surged to his mouth, and he swallowed

Flatland the pill dry, afraid he might change his mind if he waited. Two quick breaths cleansed his mind, or perhaps it was the drug. He trudged to the bedroom where he slipped into his red sneakers. He sighed. May as well get it over with. Fireflies sparkled over the wheat field behind the trailer, and overhead, the stars glittered in an ebony sky. An orange half-moon hung low in the east, and the trees whispered secrets to the gentle breezes. Danny’s feet crunched on the gravelly soil and kicked up little puffs of dust as he strolled next door. His eyes avoided the rusty ruin of the chain-link fence that marked the boundary between Oren’s trailer and the one on the far side, where Butch stood and barked. The streetlight in the cul-de-sac flickered to life, casting dark shadows on the neighboring mobile homes, all empty and boarded up since last year. The steps creaked when Danny climbed them. Danny pursed his lips and muttered, “Well, here I am.” He lifted a hand, hesitated, and rapped twice. “Be right there,” Skip’s voice called from inside. A nervous chill gripped Danny’s core even as a frightening twinge tickled his loins. The door flung open, and Skip stood before him, a silly grin on his face and towel flung over one broad shoulder. The snap was undone on his blue jeans, and he hadn’t bothered to button his baby-blue shirt. “You’re exactly on time. It’s great to see you.” He stepped back. “Come on in.” He was so beautiful he snatched Danny’s breath away. Danny dropped his eyes and saw that Skip was bare-footed. “I brought some flowers from Grandpa’s garden.” He thrust forward a fistful of pansies and gardenias. Skip gave him a merry grin. “They’re beautiful. I’ll put them

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Max Griffin in water right away.” He waved at the sofa. “Have a seat. Dinner’s almost ready. I’ve got wine. I hope Riesling is okay.” He arranged the flowers in a vase and put it on the kitchen table. “The only thing I know about wine is that I can tell red from white. Most of the time.” Danny looked around at the spotless interior. The furniture was old and a bit tattered, like his, but this trailer was neat and orderly. The brilliant fluorescent overhead in the kitchen lit the entire space with a surreal, unforgiving sheen. There was a red and white checkered cloth on the kitchen table, along with two long, tapered candles. The scent of garlic and ginger filled the air. “This looks really nice. I see you’ve got an Escher print, too.” “I saw it in Target when I was up in Wichita on Sunday. It’s called ‘Ascending and Descending.’ How do you like it?” “It’s cool. I like Escher. I’m amazed they had it.” “Me, too. Hey, the wine’s open on the counter. Help yourself and pour me one, too, would you?” He returned to chopping vegetables in the kitchen. “Sure.” Danny found two wine glasses sitting on the counter and filled them both half-full. He handed one to Skip and took a sip from his own. “This is good. What is it again?” “Riesling. I like it, too, even though my wine-snob friends used to tell me it’s a beginner wine. Fuck ‘em, I say.” “Gee, I thought Ripple was a beginner wine. Goes to show what I know.” Danny’s face heated. “I must sound like an idiot.” Skip grinned and touched his hand. “You sound like a guy I’d like to know better.” He held up his glass. “To new friends.” A weak grin tugged at Danny’s features. He clicked his glass against Skip’s and murmured, “To new friends.” Skip drained half of his and whirled back to the kitchen when

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Flatland a timer dinged. “That’s the rice. Time for the stir fry.” He turned to the stove and started piling ingredients stored in coffee cups into a huge wok. Skip shot a twinkling glance his way while stirring the ingredients. “This will be ready in nothing flat.” He poured a brown sauce into the pan and covered it. “It’s got to steam for about a minute. Let me dish up the rice. You want to get the candles? There are matches in the drawer.” He tipped an eyebrow toward the counter. Danny tugged at the drawer, but it wouldn’t open. Skip glanced at him. “Damned thing sticks. I need to work on it. Lift up on it and pull at the same time, and it’ll open.” Danny followed directions and the drawer jerked open. Matches in hand, he turned to the table. He put his wine next to one of the place settings and lit the slender, white tapers. For a moment, the sulfuric scent from the matches burned in his nostrils, but Skip took the lid off the wok and the garlicky scent of Asian spices filled the room. “That smells great. What is it?” “Mu shu pork. I’m supposed to serve it with little pancakes, but I got lazy and just fixed some rice. Have a seat and I’ll serve you.” “It looks marvelous. Microwave macaroni and cheese is about the height of my culinary skills.” Danny took another sip of wine and sat at the table. “Well, I like to cook. At least, when I have someone to cook for.” He doused the lights in the kitchen and picked up two steaming plates from the counter. “Just a sec. I’ve got one more thing to do.” He strode to the living room, fiddled with his iPod and then put it in its dock. “There.” He settled into the seat across from Danny at the table and smiled. The strains of Rodgers’ and Hart’s “Isn’t it Romantic” wafted from the speakers. A flicker of candlelight caught in Skip’s blue eyes and Danny’s heart soared. “That’s lovely.” 56

Max Griffin “Nah, ‘It’s Delovely’ is on another track. This is ‘Isn’t It Romantic’.” “Ha ha. Very funny.” “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make fun.” He took a bite of his meal while a coy smile played with his lips. “How’s dinner?” Danny gave a little grin and took at taste. “Mmm. Ongerful.” The spices blended with the mushrooms and snow peas in a delightful medley in his mouth. “I wish I could cook.” Skip shrugged. “I just pretend I’m in high school chemistry and following a formula.” Danny shuddered. “I try to never think about high school.” “High school sucked for me, too. Would you believe I even played football?” “The closest I came to playing football was when the quarterback tossed me to the halfback, right before they beat me up.” Skip put down his fork and his eyes narrowed. “The fuckers really did that? If they’re still around, maybe we should go out and teach them a thing or two.” Danny’s fork played with his food. “They did it. But now they’re fat losers in dead-end marriages. Besides, what’s the point? What’s done is done.” Skip nodded. “Now that, my friend, is what I call a grown-up attitude.” The iPod track changed to “Someone To Watch Over Me,” and Skip smiled. “Those Gershwin boys knew a thing or two. I could use someone to watch over me.” Danny’s tension at last uncoiled and a quiet bliss warmed his soul. “Me, too,” he murmured. “You know, I love those old show tunes.” “Same here, but movies are my passion. There’s something about sitting in the dark with a bunch of strangers and watching a 57

Flatland bigger-than-life drama on the screen.” Danny nodded. “Do you like any special genre?” Skip turned pink. “You’ll think I’m a total geek, but I’m goofy for science fiction films.” “That’s incredible! I love science fiction. I bet I’ve seen Star Wars a dozen times.” Skip nodded. “I like that, too. The whole quest thing really worked.” His eyes sparkled and danced with the candlelight. “What’s your all-time favorite science fiction film?” Danny didn’t have to stop to think. “Oh, that’s easy. It’s Blade Runner.” Skip’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead he leaned forward. “Now, you’ve really got my attention. I agree. It’s the best science fiction movie ever made. So, do you think Deckard was really a Replicant?” “You know, that’s one of things I like best about it: the ambiguity. The movie plays with what’s real and not real, with what’s seen and not seen, and with what’s human and what’s nonhuman.” Danny paused to think and added, “All that we see or seem is but a dream within in a dream.” Skip’s eyes widened. “That’s from Poe. I think I’m falling in love.” His fork played with his rice. “So. You didn’t tell me if you think he’s a Replicant or not.” Danny shrugged. “I alternate on that. Tonight, I guess I think he’s a Replicant. It’s like all through the movie he’s fighting against who he is or who he might be, but in the end that’s not what matters.” “So true! At the end, love wins out. He realizes none of the other questions are important. All that matters is the two of them, Deckard and Rachel,” Skip finished the thought. “I love Dick, don’t you?”

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Max Griffin Danny gaped at him and blinked. Skip snickered. “You’re so silly. I meant Philip K. Dick. He wrote Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep...” “I know,” Danny interrupted. “The novel that Blade Runner is based on. Yeah, I like Dick, too.” Skip reached out and touched his hand. “Well, I’m glad that’s settled. We both like Dick.” Stars blazed in his eyes and Danny’s heart swelled. After dinner, Skip’s gaze caressed him, and his languid voice soothed his troubled spirit. “I’m glad I moved here.” “Me, too,” Danny repeated and then snorted. “I sound like I don’t have an original thought in my head.” “You sound like an angel, like deliverance and redemption all at once.” Skip shook his head. “You’ll think I’m getting all faggoty on you.” He raised his glass. “To us!” Danny grinned back at him and clicked goblets. “To us.” Working as a team, they cleared the table, rinsed plates, and loaded the dishwasher. Danny marveled at the perfect synchronicity of their actions, as though two were one. He stood from putting the last plate in the machine when Skip brushed against him. Danny froze, his breath passing over his open lips, and his gaze locked on the other’s face. Skip reached up and dragged a knuckle across his cheek. “This has been a great night so far.” Danny’s breath caught in his throat. He raised a tentative hand and ran trembling fingertips over Skip’s jaw, letting the invisible whiskers tug at his touch. Skip moved closer and their bodies met. Danny’s heart pounded in his chest and Skip’s breath floated across his face. Danny lowered his hands to the muscled contours of Skip’s chest and a little groan escaped his throat. Strong hands caressed

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Flatland his hair and pulled him closer before warm lips brushed against his. Danny melted and exploded, unwound and coiled, soothed and simmered, all in an instant that was an eternity. His need drove him closer, and his hands explored the taut body that pressed upon him, the body whose gentle embrace now anointed him. Two mouths merged while two tongues fought and teeth clicked in boundless urgency to be one. The universe stopped...and a cell phone shrilled. Skip’s body pulled back and he grimaced. “Shit. What perfect timing.” Danny’s breath pumped in his lungs, but he forced a smile to his face. “It’s all right. Go ahead and answer it.” Skip snuggled closer. “I’d rather kiss you again. God, where did you ever learn that? It was like nothing else in the world mattered except kissing me.” The phone shrilled again. Danny grinned and pushed him back. “I can’t stand a ringing phone. Answer it, okay? I’ll finish cleaning up.” “Shit. Okay.” Skip ran to the living room and flipped his phone open. Danny turned back to the kitchen and turned on the water so he could give Skip privacy. He found the detergent and filled the sink with soapy water so he could wash out the wok. Skip’s voice rose and Danny couldn’t help overhearing. “Dammit, Derek, what are you thinking?” Silence while he listened. “I know I owe you. I’m grateful for you letting me stay here. “Another pause. “All right, all right. I’ll be there. Give me the address again.” He sat on the sofa and pulled a notepad and pen from the end table. “I’ll be there tomorrow. Look for me by noon.” Danny looked up from the suds. “Bad news?” “No. That was Derek, the guy who’s letting me stay here. He’s

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Max Griffin getting married again, and he wants me down in Lawton to help with the wedding.” Skip stood and walked to the kitchen, where he put an arm around Danny. “It looks like I’ll be gone the rest of the week, just when I was hoping to spend some time with you.” He moved closer, his eyes closed, and his lips open. A whirlwind of emotions roiled Danny’s soul. The room rippled about him, and his body seemed to writhe and change shape. Memories of his last horrifying night with Justin thundered through his skull. “I’m sorry. I should go.” “Hey, don’t run away! I’ll be back this weekend, I promise. Saturday, Sunday at the latest.” Danny blinked and his vision wavered. It must be the wine. Justin’s voice eddied in his head, nagging him mixing alcohol with his medications. “I shouldn’t have had the wine. I have to go. Forgive me.” He stumbled to the door and the safety of the night.

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Chapter 8

Edgar wrinkled

his nose and rolled up the windows of his rented car. On his left, the Mississippi River flowed like spoiled molasses beneath Lock and Dam Twenty, exuding the aromas of dead fish, rotting vegetation, and scum-infested mud. An enormous barge plowed through the fetid mess, carrying coal and grain southward. Sunlight flashed off the windows of the tug pushing the cargo, and Edgar squinted at the little town that squatted next to the river. The ramshackle business district huddled along both sides of Highway 67. Its homespun shops filled two-story buildings left over from the nineteenth century. Some of the structures still had the original brick and ornate plaster fronts, while garish fiberglass covered others. They all overlooked the highway and the river, with Illinois and civilization a mile away on the opposite side of the waters. His stomach growled, but he wasn’t hungry enough to gag down the oily, deep-fat-fried catfish that the locals mistook for a delicacy. He bumped over the railroad tracks that ran down the centerline of the highway and pulled into a Subway, the only fast-food restaurant in town. It faced onto the street instead of the river. At least I won’t have to look at that shit hole. Edgar turned his lips up in a smile at the pimply-faced, redheaded geek behind the counter. “I’ll have a Veggie Delite and a Diet Coke.” He couldn’t

Flatland stomach the thought of eating meat, at least not with the stench from the river fouling the air. “Yes, sir. Would you like chips or cookies with that?” The boy’s voice warbled between falsetto and alto. Edgar’s heart warmed at the thought of castrating him and his smile broadened. “Just the sandwich, please.” “Six inch or foot long?” “I’ll splurge. Give me the foot long.” “What kind of bread, sir? And would you like it toasted?” Edgar kept his smile fixed and his voice even. “Surprise me. Fix it the way you’d want it.” “Yes, sir.” “Make it speedy, will you? There’s a good tip in it for you.” Grace wouldn’t like it if he was late. “Of course, sir.” The kid handed him a cup and nodded to the soda fountain. “Drinks are over there, sir.” He slipped on plastic gloves and assembled the sandwich. Edgar watched and imagined his freckled cheeks sizzling on the hot plate for the coffee. He sighed. He couldn’t play here, not in a small town where he had to make occasional visits. Maybe he’d stop in Rock Island or Moline before he flew back to Chicago. The kid finished assembling the sandwich, stripped off the plastic gloves, and stroked the cash register. “That’ll be six-oh-eight, sir.” Edgar gave him a ten. “Keep the change.” He retreated to his car and scarfed down half his sandwich before resuming his trip. He drove with one hand, maneuvering past the locals’ pickup trucks and beat-up Ford and Chevy sedans. At least there’s no goddamn foreign cars here. They’re patriots and don’t buy no Jap crap. He turned onto Highway 62 and took care

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Max Griffin to obey traffic signs as he wound his way to the edge of town. The sunlight glinted on the windows of the faux Victorian mansion Grace King had built on the hill overlooking the town. Edgar glanced at the clock on the dash and swilled down two quick gulps of Diet Coke. Ten minutes. Plenty of time. The tires crunched on gravel when he pulled into the long drive to Grace’s refuge. He punched the code into the automated gate and followed the switchbacks to the clearing at the top of the hill. A young man stood on the front porch, waiting for him. Edgar examined the lithe body that flexed under the man’s white muscle shirt and wondered where he kept his weapon. It must be in an ankle holster underneath his creased chinos. Edgar stared and caught the telltale bulge of the weapon when the man descended the stairs. Someday I’ll take you out in the woods and slice you open. I wonder what your expression will be when your guts fall out. “Good morning, Mr. Szabo. I trust you had a safe journey?” The guard’s tanned face creased in a smile that accentuated the ragged scar that zigzagged up his right cheek and disappeared under his scalp. Edgar stepped out of his car and shook the other’s hand. “It was good, Wayne. How’s Mrs. King?” “I’m afraid her sciatica is acting up again. She was a bit cranky this morning, but the Vicodin seems to help. She’s in the parlor right now, knitting while she waits for you. I’ve set out tea and crumpets.” He glanced at the half-eaten sandwich and empty Subway sack in Edgar’s car. “Will you be needing anything, sir?” “Maybe after our meeting, Wayne. Bourbon would be good.” “I’ll have it ready for you in my office, sir.” One of his fingers ran over his scar in an absent-minded gesture. “I’ve got left-over lamb chops, if you’d like some.”

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Flatland Edgar’s mouth watered. “Braised in fennel butter, like last time?” “Yes, sir. I’ve found a new recipe for a corn soufflé you might like, too. I’ll fix that while you meet with her.” “You’re incredible, Wayne. I hope Grace treats you right.” He quirked an eyebrow at Edgar. “She pays well, sir, but a smart man always keeps his options open.” “Indeed he does, my friend.” Edgar glanced at the house. “We’ll talk later.” He heaved a sigh and climbed the steps to the ornate front door. The delicate prisms in the cut glass scattered the sunlight in colorful rainbows across the Persian carpets in the entryway. The ornate wallpaper had a river theme, with catfish swimming through swirls of reeds. He inhaled, and the scents of lavender and Earl Grey filled his nostrils. Edgar shuddered at the filigreed architecture and floral prints that covered everything. He longed for the serenity of his Danish-modern abode, clean and devoid of ornamentation. A thready contralto beckoned to him from the parlor on his right. “Edgar, my dear, is that you?” The clock chimed one as he crossed the threshold. “It’s so good to see you, Grace.” He stooped and brushed his lips across the woman’s wrinkled cheek, careful not to disturb the layers of pancake makeup or the blonde wig that sat slightly askew on her head. “How are you, my dear?” She sighed. “I’m afraid my sciatica is acting up again.” She waved to a chair across from her. “Have a seat. Please excuse me for not rising.” She picked up her needles and resumed knitting, drawing purple and green yarn from a wicker basket at her feet and weaving it into an intricate shawl. “Wayne told me you were in pain. I do hope you feel better

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Max Griffin soon.” Edgar tried to settle into the chair but found the seat too shallow and the legs too high to be comfortable. Instead of a padded cushion, the chair’s upholstery covered a dome of hardwood that bit into his buttocks. He smiled at Grace and thought about removing her arms and using them to bludgeon her. Her face crinkled as she glanced up at him from her busy knitting needles. “I can’t even walk most days. Getting old sucks, Edgar. I don’t recommend it.” “It beats the alternative from what I hear.” A chuckle rasped from her throat. “I guess you’d know.” Her eyes glinted at him. “Would you mind pouring us some tea? That’s a dear.” He filled the delicate china cups with steaming liquid and leaned back in the chair, squirming against the hard surface. “So, it’s been about a year since we’ve talked business. Something must be up that you called me here instead of just Fed-Exing me the particulars.” “Tut-tut. Be patient, now.” She put her knitting in her lap and reached for her tea. “I hear from our clients in Dallas that they are pleased with our services.” “I do my best.” “You always do. You’re my top field agent, dear.” Her face creased in a spider’s web of a smile. “Strangest thing, though. I read in the newspaper that two people got whacked that night. You forgot to mention that.” Her blue eyes turned to shards of ice. “He had some whore there with him.” Edgar shrugged and put his tea back on the table. “No big deal.” He smiled at Grace. Maybe he’d use her legs instead of her arms to beat her. The warbling voice took on an edge. “Edgar, I don’t mind you playing. I really don’t. But you need to be more careful when you

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Flatland are on business.” His face heated, but he kept his voice under control. “What was I to do? Leave a witness? Besides, the cops are too stupid to catch me. I’m always careful. You know that.” “You are careful, Edgar, and smart. Too smart, sometimes.” Her eyes narrowed as she stared at him. “The cops are stupid, yes. But sometimes they get lucky. Don’t do anything like that again. Not when you’re working for me. You didn’t have to kill her. You could have knocked her out, or you could have delayed the hit. No telling who she was or who she was connected to. I don’t like unexpected consequences.” Anger seethed inside, but he favored her with only a curt nod. “Whatever you say, Grace.” Her eyes twinkled once more. “Do have some crumpets. Wayne fixed them special for you.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I think he’s got a thing for you.” “Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t like sweets.” I don’t like faggots, either. Don’t stop me from taking advantage, though, you old witch. Someday... Caution kept him from finishing the thought in front of her. In the past, she had exhibited an uncanny ability to tell what he was thinking. She shrugged. “You don’t know what you’re missing.” She broke one of the snacks in half and munched on it. “I wanted to talk to you about some changes in the business climate.” He snorted. “The recession won’t hurt us. It might even improve business. People always need our services, even more when they’re desperate.” “These are desperate times.” She sighed. “Death and taxes. The government’s got one of those cornered, but you’re right. There will always be a market for death.”

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Max Griffin “Even the government needs us. Remember the job last year in—” She waved her hand at him. “Shush, now. We won’t speak of that.” She paused. “You know, our special friend no longer lives on Observatory Circle, so we’ll probably be getting fewer government contracts from now on.” “Is that a problem? I figured he’d still find a way to throw business our way.” “No doubt. But those special contracts have been about a third of our business lately. He can’t keep up that volume now that he’s out of office.” “A third. I’ve only done two.” He thought for a moment. “You know, I’ve often wondered how many other agents your organization has.” She dimpled and a crack formed in the makeup on her withered cheek. “Don’t you worry your head, Edgar. Kingfisher Partners has as many as we need. That’s why I’ve got Wayne, to keep track of such things. I’ve got enough boys to go around, but you’re the best.” She drained her tea. “I don’t suppose you’ve been following the news about the Chicago Syndicate.” “I don’t watch the news. It’s too depressing.” He kept his voice warm and calm, but he thought about cracking her skull open and pouring steaming tea over her brains. “A shame. Lucky for you that I do. That’s how I can identify business opportunities and find new customers for our services. Take the big crime syndicates. They try to keep things in-house, you know. But that strategy bit them in the ass last year. One of their hotshot wise guys got caught by the FBI, and he squealed on them. Their whole wet-work business went belly up, along with the fancy-pants investment bank where they stashed their earnings.

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Flatland Kruppman, the asshole that ran it, is in Leavenworth.” “So what? You think they’ll come to us? Maybe replace some of the government contracts we’re not getting any more?” “They’ve already called. But there are complications.” Edgar squirmed in the hard chair and wished she’d come to the point. “Like what? Why should I care? A job’s a job.” She ticked off points on her fingers. “For one, the targets will be harder to hit. For another, I don’t want to get caught in a war between two gangs. We’ll have to research each job better. It’s not like these guys are exactly trustworthy.” He snorted. “Like our friend on Observatory Circle was trustworthy. He would have snuffed us out like bugs for an extra few pennies in his trust fund.” She nodded. “Exactly. These guys are the same as him, professionals.” She beamed at him. “Just like us. So we need to research each job before we take it, and then carry it out without a flaw. They wouldn’t be happy about fuck-ups.” Her eyes sparked. “I plan to use only my best agent for their jobs.” “You mean me.” “Exactly. If you fuck up, they won’t know who you are, but they sure as shit will know who I am.” She picked up her knitting. “I don’t fuck up, Grace.” I’d like to fuck you up though. He imagined sticking her knitting needles in her eye sockets and choking her with the yarn. “You can trust me.” Heedless of his thoughts, her needles clicked and she threaded purple yarn between her gnarled fingers. “I do trust you.” She paused and glared at him. “But don’t push your luck, Edgar. I’m the one at risk if you screw the pooch. You can play all you want when you’re on your own time. When you’re fulfilling one of my contracts, that’s all I want you doing.”

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Max Griffin “My dear, we already had this conversation.” This time he let a touch of annoyance show while savoring thoughts of cutting her heart out and feeding it to her. “More tea? Crumpets?” She shook her head. “Don’t take it personal, Edgar. I just wanted to be clear.” She looked back at her knitting. “I’ll give you a twenty percent increase in pay for syndicate jobs, for doing the additional research.” “Same arrangements as before when I fulfill the contract?” “Yes.” “It’s a deal.” “That’s good, dear. Their first job should be simple. No research needed. The FBI stuck their snitch, Oren something, off in some God-forsaken shit hole in Kansas. You’re to dispose of him. Wayne’s got the particulars in the usual file.” She paused in her knitting and glared at him. “Keep it neat and clean, you hear me? No collateral damage. I fucking mean it.” Sudden dimples crinkled her makeup. “You run along, now. I think Wayne has something special planned for you. Don’t disappoint him.” Edgar stood and wandered to the back of the house. It’s worth stringing that scar-faced faggot along if it gives me an edge over you, you old hag. Someday I won’t need either one of you, and then I’ll feed you both to the catfish one bit at a time. The succulent aromas of lamb and corn drew him to the kitchen, but thoughts of hot blood and cold revenge simmered in the depths of his soul.

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Chapter 9

Danny frowned

and adjusted his headphones. The computer made little whirring sounds to simulate a tape re-winding as he restarted the doctor’s dictation. The physician’s liquid accent stumbled over the words in the diagnosis, and Danny didn’t recognize the condition. He flipped through his copy of the Physician’s Desk Reference and searched for what he thought he’d heard. Sure enough, there it was: Prosopagnosia, some kind of perception impairment. He clicked back to the file for Leonora Szabo and skimmed what he’d typed. Elderly woman...somatic delusional disorder associated with phencyclidine abuse...recent head trauma, followed by inability to associate faces with names... That last part was consistent with the information in the PDR, so he decided he had heard the diagnosis correctly. He finished the notes, sent them off to the clinic in Missouri, and erased the file from his system. With the last document in his queue finished, his surroundings descended on him like Dracula’s cloak in a B-movie. The dismal kitsch his grandfather had accumulated over decades littered the trailer. On the dusky bookshelves, lava lamps and family albums crowded between worn copies of Kafka and Camus. A zigzag pattern on a purple and gray afghan hid the holes in the threadbare sofa. The brown shag carpet limped toward the pea-green linoleum

Flatland in the kitchen. The only modern elements were Danny’s computer, his poster of Escher’s “Ants” tacked on the wall next to a Coptic crucifix, and his iPod in its dock. The bizarre symphonic gyrations of Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique ground out from the speakers. Danny’s nostrils flared when he inhaled the lingering scent of sandalwood and myrrh from his grandfather’s incense. Danny stood, stretched, and flipped off the music. A glance at the clock in the kitchen told him that he’d put in ten hours without a break. Through the window, the setting sun peaked under the remnants of afternoon rain clouds that glowed a brilliant orange at the far horizon. Next door, Skip’s driveway was still empty. He should be back sometime this weekend. Not that it mattered. He’d screwed that up, just like all his other chances at a relationship. I’m not good enough for him, anyway. The air conditioner kicked in with a thud and a chill draft wafted across his shirtless torso. He shuddered as old terrors slithered through his mind. His bare feet whispered across the worn linoleum when he fled down the hall and padded to the bathroom. He splashed warm water on his face and ran his fingers over the bristles on his cheeks. A lean stranger with bloodshot eyes stared back at him from the mirror. Where did those dark circles come from? Fingers ran through the oily ropes of chestnut hair that exploded about the head of the person in the mirror. He tried to recall the last time he’d showered. He slipped his suspenders off his shoulders, stepped out of his blue jeans and stood naked before the reflected image. His gaze narrowed while the apparition in the mirror ran his fingers over sinew and bone. They traced a line from his chest downward, over faint ripples at his abdomen, and paused at his genitals. He lurched and gripped the edge of the sink, his breath heaving. Blood rushed

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Max Griffin through his veins and his body pulsed with the fiends that hid in his nightmares. He screwed his eyes shut and a grimace bent his face. It wasn’t fair! He jerked open the medicine cabinet and the mysterious stranger in the mirror vanished. Trembling fingers screwed open an amber bottle, and Danny swallowed a pink pill. His breath heaved and he yearned for surcease. He turned on the shower to the hottest he could stand and let the waters cleanse his body. The steam hid the tears that tried in vain to cleanse his soul. Cold spray pounded on Danny where he huddled on the floor of the shower. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but it was long enough that he’d drained the hot water heater. His bones ached as he twisted to his feet and cranked off the faucet. He stepped out of the shower and looked at himself in the mirror. God, I need a shave. He lathered up and scraped the scruffy beard from his face. He brushed his teeth and toweled his hair dry. After one last look at himself, he stepped into the bedroom. I guess I at least look more human, now. He pawed through a laundry basket and found a clean pair of jeans. After he attached a pair of red suspenders, he slipped into them, not bothering with a shirt. When he returned to the living room, he glanced at the television. He grimaced and instead flicked through his iPod. When the strains of the Siegfried Idyll sighed from the speakers, he opened a can of soup and put it on the stove to heat. His earlier despair still tugged at him, but it was distant, like the pull of a black hole that was no longer feeding. The serene chords of Wagner’s tone poem swelled in the confines of the trailer and warmed his soul. Outside, Butch barked

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Flatland and a smile pulled Danny’s lips upward. The poor creature was just lonely and neglected. He’d give the scary neighbor, what was his name? Owen? Oren, that was it. He’d have to tell Oren all about how Butch was really a friendly dog if you just gave him a chance. Danny spread the blinds on the kitchen windows and gazed across the backyard, hoping to catch a glimpse of his canine friend. Instead, he saw the muscular shape of Oren, crouching in a shadowy hulk on his back step. His arm rose and fell, as if he were using a hammer to smash something against one of the concrete blocks that formed the back stoop. Danny narrowed his eyes and peered through the early evening dusk. What looked like a nasty gun rested across his neighbor’s lap. Danny frowned, remembering the man’s violent threats against Butch. He, also, remembered Oren pointing at him with his finger and pretending to shoot. Surely he wasn’t that crazy. He thought for a moment, grabbed two beers from the refrigerator and headed next door. An afternoon storm had scrubbed the skies and tamed the heat, but another threatened in the distance. The cool air prickled against his bare chest, and the scent of damp earth and ozone wafted in the air. The sandy soil oozed between his toes and brown weeds stuck to the bottoms of his feet. Overhead, dense clouds drifted like dirty laundry lit by the pallid glow of the waning moon. In the distance, lightning flickered and thunder growled. As Danny approached, he saw that his neighbor wore only loose-fitting blue jeans covered with dark, oily stains. The smashed remnants of a computer’s hard drive lay scattered at his feet. He sat, still and quiet, on his back step and stared into the distance. His fingers stroked his gun, like it was a lover’s thigh. His muscles tensed, and he whirled as Danny approached. “Hey, Oren. It’s me, Danny. Your neighbor.”

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Max Griffin The man glared at him but said nothing. Sweat gleamed in the moonlight on his naked torso, and his abdominal muscles flexed with each breath. As Danny neared, a shiver raced down his spine at Oren’s milky glare. His pupils had narrowed to pinpoints and his eyes shimmered with opaque cruelty. Danny held out one of the beers. “Thought you might like a cold one.” Oren’s gaze raked over him, as if he were deciding whether or not to let him live, and then he relaxed. “Sure, why not? Thanks, kid.” He accepted the beer, popped it open, and sucked half of it down. Danny squatted next to him and opened his can. “Looks like you picked up that gun you mentioned.” A tight smile bent the other’s lips. “It’s a Maul, an automatic shotgun. The magazine holds five shells.” “It looks like a giant handgun.” Danny sipped at his beer and tried to stay calm. Oren hefted the weapon by the pistol grip and his muscles flared and flexed. “It is. You can pop off five quick rounds in nothing flat. It’d blow a man in half at this range.” He pointed the gun at Danny and grinned. “Uh, I’ll take your word for it.” Panic flashed through him. Maybe he was that crazy after all. Oren laughed and returned the shotgun to his lap with a spastic jerk. His muscles twitched and tension flared from his tight expression. He swigged some more beer. “Ain’t talked to you in a couple days, kid. What you been doing?” “Work mostly.” Danny paused and controlled his trembling fingers. He’d gone this far, he may as well deliver the message that brought him out here. “I wanted to tell you, I tracked down Butch’s owners.” 75

Flatland “Butch? Who the fuck is that?” His voice was flat, and he stared at the horizon, apparently indifferent to the pending storm. “Butch. You know, the dog next door. I talked to his owners. He’s a really nice dog once you get to know him. I played fetch with him the other day, and he licked my hand and everything.” “You played fetch? With that slobbering monster? What’d you do? He throw a stick and you bring it back to him?” Laughter wheezed from Oren’s lips, and he snorted. “No, no. I threw it...Oh. You were being sarcastic.” “You catch on real quick. You’ll go far with brains like that.” Danny took a deep breath. “Anyway, Butch’s owners are in Dallas, and they’ve paid this kid down the street to bring him food and water, but no one plays with him. When he barks, he’s just asking for someone to love him.” Oren stroked the barrel of his gun. “I’d like to show him some love, all right. Fucker kept me up all night last night with that damned barking.” Danny took a tremulous breath and sipped his beer. “Well, I wanted you to know. I’m going to spend some time every day with him, so he won’t be so lonely. I bet he’ll be quieter from now on.” “Whatever. Don’t matter, since I’m blowing outta this pit anyway.” Relief flooded Danny. “You’re leaving?” “Yeah. Tonight. Just got some loose ends to clean up.” He used a booted foot to toe the shattered pieces of his hard drive that lay scattered about. “Smashed up my computer, so’s no one can trace me.” Danny nodded, while thinking this guy was even freakier than the last time they’d talked. He sneaked a closer look at his eyes. He recognized the signs, having been there himself. Meth, most likely.

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Max Griffin “Look, if I can help in any way...” Oren crushed his beer can and tossed it into his backyard. “I don’t need no help, kid. Not from you. Not from no one.” He stood and glared at him. “Anyone asks, you ain’t got no idea where I went, right?” “Right. That’s easy, since I really don’t.” “See that it stays that way.” Oren spat and went inside his trailer, slamming the door. Danny nodded and stared after him. He murmured, “Thanks for the beer. And the company.” Shadows shifted, and for a brief instant, a stray moonbeam cast its ghostly sheen on him. Something slithered through the wet grass, and he jumped to his feet. An owl sang a mournful song, and the gloaming wind stirred debris in Oren’s back yard. Lightning crackled in the distance, and the clouds raced ahead of the advancing storm. Danny’s heart quickened and he fled to his trailer. Inside, his soup had boiled away and left a carbonized mess in the pot. He swore and put it in the sink to soak. He wasn’t hungry any more anyway after the beer. The iPod had changed tunes, and now Le Sacre du Printemps howled from the speakers. Something rattled in a corner of the living room and Danny’s heart clenched. He turned off the music and investigated, but nothing was there. The wind rustled and the old trailer creaked. Geeze, I’m hearing things. He took two deep breaths. “It’s all right. It’s going to be all right.” Hesitant at first then more determined, he strode down the hall to the bathroom. He opened the medicine chest and pulled out the amber bottle. He opened it and stared at the pink, round tablets inside. Something dark fluttered through the room and he jumped. His gaze jerked up, and he stared in horror at the mirror. A light

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Flatland coat of fur covered the reflection he saw there. He raised his hands to touch his torso, but they had morphed into claws. He gasped and stepped back, staring down at his body. It was smooth again, and his hands were hands. He looked back in the mirror for confirmation. Danny stared back, not the monster that lurked inside. It had to be his imagination. He gulped down two pills and returned to the living room to the crack of thunder. Rain rattled against the trailer as the skies opened in driving sheets of liquid. He glanced out the window as the same sound roared again, but this time, he saw Oren illuminated by a flash of lightning. He pointed his shotgun toward Butch and the muzzle flashed. Without thinking, Danny tore outside and into the sudden downpour. The gun roared again, and the flare from the barrel conjoined with lightning that slashed across the sky. Butch roared and tore at the fence in the surreal radiance. Oren raised his shotgun and pointed it at Butch’s head. Danny screamed for him to stop, but the wind and rain tore the sound from his lips and flung it to oblivion. Another muzzle flashed, this time from his left, at the fence line for the wheat field. The back of Oren’s head exploded in a liquid spray. His body lurched backward and splatted into a puddle of mud and brains. His shotgun tumbled to the ground a few feet from his outthrust fingers. His body quivered, and then lay still. Danny froze. Rain pelted his skull and his thoughts flowed like molasses. The lightning was almost constant now. The world flickered in light and darkness, in manic stop-motion bits of reality. The wind whipped the wheat into undulating waves. A figure dressed all in black rose from the depths of the fluttering ocean of grain. A ski mask hid his face. He clutched a high-powered rifle with a scope

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Max Griffin in one fist. When he strode into Oren’s backyard, he seemed to pass through the fence like a ghost. Butch clawed and tore at his fence, his roar managing to pierce the storm in patches of relative quiet. Danny backed toward his trailer, his hands held before him. The rain pelted his skin, and a cold chill gripped his chest. The man advanced, relentless and swift. The barrel of the rifle loomed ever larger, pointed at Danny’s head. Danny thought he could have jumped inside and slid down the cylinder if it came any closer. The man was right in front of him now. His eyes glimmered in the lightning, flashing like icicles in firelight. Danny cowered and hid his face from that cold, implacable glare. The last thing he saw was the rifle swinging toward him.

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Chapter 10

Edgar slouched behind the wheel of his stolen Hyundai and prowled the night streets of Wichita. His nostrils flared as he inhaled the darkness and a satisfied smile twisted his lips. Thunderstorms had slashed at him earlier tonight while he’d been working. Now, dirty puddles of run-off reflected the amber glow of the streetlights. The rain cooled the air, and he’d opened the windows in his sedan. The musky scents of the warehouse district rushed through the little car. He stopped at a red light, closed his eyes, tipped his head and heaved a deep breath. Fetid aromas of urban decay mingled with the musty piquancy of air scrubbed by gentle showers. He smiled at the whiff of bacon that wafted from the nearby Waffle House. Edgar gazed at the empty streets that stretched ahead of him to infinity in endless, planar lines. He imagined he was in a world struck by disaster, where civil authority had vanished and terror reigned, like in 28 Weeks Later or in one of the dozens of apocalyptic movies in his apartment back in Chicago. But city streets are never really empty, even at two in the morning. A bright yellow Pontiac Solstice buzzed up to the stoplight in the lane next to his. The top was down, and the muscular young

Flatlands man driving the car wore no shirt. The man’s hands beat on his steering wheel in cadence with the dance music that pulsed from his speakers. Edgar glared at the driver and thought about removing the top of his skull and eating his brains. The guy caught Edgar’s stare, smirked, and raced his engine. He flexed his pecs and yelled, “What you lookin’ at?” Before Edgar could answer, the light changed and the little car raced away. Water splashed and soaked his arm where it rested on the open window. Edgar narrowed his eyes and controlled the yearning that ripped at his core. Instead of chasing the sports car, he pulled into the Waffle House. He left the windows down and the door unlocked when he stepped out of the vehicle. The owner wouldn’t miss it if someone stole it from the parking lot. He’d killed her earlier that day, before driving to Flatland and his contract. At this hour, the narrow little diner held no other customers, just the waitress and the short-order cook behind the counter. That was how Edgar liked it. He sat in one of the two-person booths. He didn’t need to look at the menu; every Waffle House was the same, and he’d been to dozens, maybe hundreds of them. He could always find an open Waffle House, no matter what the hour. The waitress approached him with a tired smile that creased her leathery features. “Can I get you some coffee, sir?” She polished the table and placed a glass of ice water in front of him. He read her name from the tag on her ample breast. “Yes, please. Thank you, Mandy.” She beamed at him and returned with a cup, creamer, and a container that held sugar and various sweeteners. “Just give me a holler when you’re ready to order, hon.” Edgar avoided cringing at being called “hon” and kept a smile fixed on his lips. The spider’s web of wrinkles on the woman’s face

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Max Griffin and her whiskey-like voice made him think she must be a chain smoker. Yellow nicotine stains on her fingers confirmed his suspicion. Her dress was too tight for her plump figure, and her matching orange lipstick and fingernail polish completed his revulsion. He didn’t quite wrinkle his nose. It would be better if he could find his dessert elsewhere tonight. He made a pretense of looking at the menu. “I think I’m ready now, if that’s all right.” “You betcha.” She whipped out her order pad and stood at the ready. “Could I please have the steak and eggs?” She scribbled a note. “Sure. How would you like those cooked, hon?” Edgar didn’t wince. “I’d like the steak rare, and the eggs up, please. Oh, and I’d like onions in my hash browns, and whole wheat toast.” “You got it!” She finished the order with a flourish, turned, and sang it out to the cook. Edgar would have thought her voice was loud enough to wake the dead, except he knew they couldn’t hear. While the steak sizzled on the grill, she darted outside and lit a cigarette. She had barely finished two drags when the headlights from a red BMW convertible flashed in Edgar’s eyes. He squinted at the man who stepped out of the car. The guy’s gut hung over the belt of his sky-blue leisure suit and he wore his stained silk shirt open to the navel. His long, black hair hung in greasy ropes to his collar, and scars from long-vanished pimples pocked his face. He pushed by the waitress where she huddled next to the door and slammed inside, collapsing into a seat at the counter. His bulging eyes roamed the little café and he snarled, “Ain’t there any service in this dump?” The cook turned away from the grill. “The waitress is on break.

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Flatlands Can I get you some coffee?” The man’s eyes narrowed. “You too stupid to take my order or what?” Mandy had rushed inside, and she paled at the man’s words. Edgar picked up a trail of cigarette smoke as she passed his booth. “I’ll be glad to take your order, sir.” She pulled out her pad. “What, don’t I get no water? What kind of dumbass waitress are you?” She rolled her eyes at the cook, who filled a glass with ice water and plunked it on the counter. The new customer scowled. “Don’t you roll your eyes at me, bitch. Give your customers respect, you hear?” He gulped the water and slammed the glass down. Mandy swallowed. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. Can I take your order?” Her voice trembled. Edgar seethed. I hate bullies. He kept his face impassive while he memorized every feature of the man’s face. He ambled to the juke box and pretended to scan the selections while he glanced outside and noted the license plate number on the BMW. Before he returned to his booth, he selected a recording of Elvis singing “Are You Lonesome Tonight.” A grin tugged at his mouth when the song warbled from the speakers. Back in his seat, he pulled out his cell phone and linked to his hacked copy of the Kansas DMV database. In moments, he found the name of the owner of the BMW: Roland Winters. Mandy appeared, clanked his order onto the table, and freshened his coffee. “Can I get you anything else, sir?” Edgar took special care to keep his voice warm and friendly. “It looks wonderful, Mandy. Thank you so much.” She wiped an eye. “Thanks. Now, you just wave if you need

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Max Griffin anything, okay, hon?” The other customer banged on the counter with his coffee cup and she jumped. “Hey, I’m paying for some service here.” Mandy rushed to see what he wanted. Edgar ignored them and ate his steak. At the same time, he stroked the keys on his phone. Before long, he was looking at Roland Winters’ driver license photo; it matched the angry customer. A few more clicks, and Edgar knew that Winters lived in a row house a few blocks from here, was recently divorced, and had been charged with second degree domestic violence. He worked as a bouncer at a local club and had a credit score of 580. Delight writhed in Edgar’s core. The wiseguy he’d killed earlier tonight was satisfying, but that was business. Besides, it went south when that geeky kid showed up. Edgar scowled as he remembered Grace chewing his ass about collateral damage. Fuck her. He deserved some fun. Winters would be fun. While he chewed on his steak, Edgar checked his email with his phone. As he’d expected, there was a note from Iowa.

He nodded and deleted the pictures from his phone. No need for those anymore. He looked up as Mandy refreshed his coffee. “You need

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Flatlands anything else, sir?” “I’m done, thanks. Just leave me the check.” He glanced at it and left a twenty dollar tip for the harried waitress. Winters still slouched at the counter, berating the cook for not fixing his eggs to order, and stuffing pancakes in his mouth. Edgar let a grim smile form on his lips as he pulled out into the street. He drove past Winters’ home to confirm it was dark and the driveway empty. After he parked the Hyundai around the corner, he pulled his kit from the back seat. He slipped latex gloves onto his hands while his heart raced and his breath churned. A deep sigh cleansed his mind and slowed his heartbeat. Control was important. This time, he rolled up the windows and locked his getaway vehicle before he slinked through the shadows to Winters’ back door. Edgar slipped a pick into the cheap lock, jiggled it, and eased the door open. Inside, the stench of tobacco, week-old garbage, and stale beer assaulted his nose. He was relieved that there was no sign of a dog. Edgar hated killing dogs. That fucker Oren was going to kill that dog. Good riddance. He slipped into a white plastic coverall, and put plastic booties over his shoes. He pulled his H&K semiautomatic pistol from the holster at his ankle and scouted the house. Winters lived like a pig. A mountain of dirty dishes clogged the sink and overflowed onto the kitchen counter. A skillet sat on the stove, filled with congealed grease. Newspapers, pizza boxes, and beer cans lay scattered across the living room. The bedroom stank of dirty laundry and the bed was unmade. A photo of a smiling brunette sat on the dresser, but the glass was cracked and the frame broken. He closed the drapes that hung before the room’s one window. Edgar made sure he was alone in the house, not that the presence of someone would have deterred him. Yearning coiled

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Max Griffin tighter and tighter in him now that he was so close to his target. He relished the pressure that boiled inside, knowing that it made the ultimate release all the more satisfying. He sat on a chair in the bedroom and screwed the silencer into his gun. Lights flashed in the driveway and a car door slammed. Edgar stood by the door with his back to the wall, his gun held erect by his shoulder. The back door crashed open, and a light flicked on in the kitchen. Heavy footfalls crunched through the little house toward the bedroom. When Winters clumped into the room, he clubbed him behind the ear with the gun. The man collapsed to the floor like a pig in an abattoir. Edgar whirled, made sure he was alone, and then knelt and checked for a pulse in the man’s throat. He smiled as the blood fluttered under his fingers. He lifted Winters to the bed as if he were a rag doll and used his knife to strip off his clothing. He pulled nylon ties from his kit and used them to bind Winters’ wrists and ankles to the bed. Duct tape secured a pair of dirty underwear that he stuffed into his victim’s mouth. The man didn’t stir, so Edgar peeled back one of his eyelids and shined a penlight in his eye. The pupil contracted. Good, he’s still alive. Edgar reached into his kit one more time and pulled out an ice pick. A quick twist under Winters’ thumbnail, and the man’s eyes flared open. His back arched while Edgar faded into the shadows. Winters struggled against his bonds and muffled screams tore from his throat. Edgar let the man realize how helpless he was before showing himself. Winters’ head tossed back and forth and his eyes bulged, but Edgar was nothing if not efficient: the bonds were inescapable. Edgar crooned the words to the Elvis song he’d played earlier at the

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Flatlands diner and climbed onto the bed, straddling Winters. The edge of the hunting knife turned crimson as he traced a line from the man’s neck to his crotch. A trickle of blood oozed forth and Winters froze. Edgar leaned low and inhaled his fear, luxuriating in the scent of blood and panic. His tongue slithered out and lapped at the sweet red fluid, savoring its succulence. This would be slow and luxurious, not like the snap of his well-planned hit earlier tonight. This was fun. Desire flamed in Edgar at the coppery taste of blood. An exhilarating fury drove him to the man’s neck. Edgar let the knife toy with the flesh and made sure Winters felt its sharpness. A thin red trail trickled from his throat to the sheets and Edgar chanted, “Are you lonesome tonight?” His lips caressed the carotid artery and danced with its heady pulse. Power and fury squeezed his soul and his heart thundered in his ears. Winters’ head twisted and his body writhed, but there was no escape. When the blade sliced and the blood jetted, Edgar suckled on the hot, thick fluid. It was as though all the angels of heaven and all the demons of hell danced together in his soul. Warm blood, sweet as nectar, pumped into his mouth too fast for him to slurp it all in. It ran down his lips and dribbled onto the sheets. Underneath him, Winters convulsed. His back arched as his muscles clenched. He lurched, but Edgar clung to him with a manic glee. A whimper escaped Edgar’s lips when Winters’ muscles turned languid and the blood no longer spurted. As always, he found life’s departure sudden and uneventful, almost trivial. The end of the man’s headlong race with death left Edgar as cold and empty as the corpse he now straddled. A shudder wracked his body as he pulled back, his appetite subdued but not sated. He stood and glanced at the clock. Three in the morning. He

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Max Griffin picked up his knife and gouged the man’s neck, mixing whatever DNA he’d left behind in the wound. He removed the nylon ties and the duct tape and put them in a garbage bag. He glanced at the picture of the smiling woman and put it on the bed in a pool of blood, next to Winters’s head. He used the cleanest towel he could find in the bathroom to wipe his face, and then stored that in the garbage bag, too. The bag would go in a dumpster miles from here, before he dumped the Hyundai at the parking garage where he’d left his car. A tight smile bent his features as he returned to the kitchen, stripped off his plastic coveralls and disappeared into the darkness. This made up for the screw-up earlier tonight. If Grace bitched, he might just have to settle with her, too.

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Chapter 11

Danny slouched at his kitchen table. His gaze followed Special Agent Vasquez as she paced in a tight loop between where he sat and his cramped living room. “I already told all this to the sheriff and to Leo,” he mumbled. She jerked to a stop and her eyes whipped him. “To be blunt, Mr. Rajunas, the FBI isn’t interested in what the local authorities have or have not done. Oren Lelande was a person of interest to the US Attorney’s office in Chicago, and now he’s dead. You can answer my questions here, or we can take you to the federal office building in Wichita for a few days of protective custody. Your choice.” Her voice sounded like she’d been gargling vodka laced with sulfuric acid. She’d pulled her hair into a frizzy bun that stretched at her skin like a miniature coil of red barbed wire. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t answer your questions.” “Good.” She glared at him and tugged at the jacket of her business suit. The gesture made him think of Picard in Star Trek, the Next Generation, even down to the form-fitting fabric. At least she wasn’t showing any cleavage, even though the suit seemed to be sprayed on. When she perched on a chair opposite him at the table and crossed her legs, the fabric on her tan skirt rode up on her hefty thighs. She consulted the notes she’d jotted on the pad gripped in one sweaty fist. “Describe again what happened when you went outside last night.”

Flatland Danny wrinkled his nose as the stale odor of cigarette smoke seeped from her clothes and mixed with her cheap perfume. “I ran out and saw Oren fire his rifle at Butch, the dog next door. The poor thing was going crazy, what with the storm and bullets whizzing by him.” “Oren had a shotgun, Mr. Rajunas. Lead shot cartridges, no bullets. We found shot embedded in the fence posts and in the soil. Oren must have been taunting the dog. I think he planned to kill it.” Her eyes blazed at him. “This was the same shotgun he threatened you with earlier that night?” Danny shrugged. “I guess. How would I know? All guns look alike to me.” Her mouth turned down. “Then what happened?” “Well, something flashed on my left. And then...then Oren’s head kind of exploded.” Her eyes remained black pools, cold and unfeeling. “So the shot came from your left, in the wheat field?” “I don’t know. It was dark and raining, and lightning was flashing from the storm. I think it must have come from the wheat field, though, because that’s where the other guy came from.” “The other guy. The one dressed all in black?” “Yeah, completely in black, even to a black ski mask. He rose up from the wheat, from nowhere, and walked through the fence like it wasn’t there.” She nodded. “Someone had used wire cutters on the fence. The marks were recent, maybe even last night. You don’t remember seeing a gap in the fence before?” “No. I’d been there just the day before, with Zsa Zsa. The fence was whole then.” “That helps with the timeline. That idiot sheriff didn’t include

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Max Griffin that little tidbit in his report.” A predatory little smile played across her features. “You see now why I need to interview you, Mr. Rajunas?” “I guess.” She glanced at the white puff-ball snoozing on Danny’s sofa. “How did you wind up with Oren’s mutt? I’m surprised he let you near it. He doted on that damned creature.” “This morning, while the sheriff was going over the, uh, scene, one of the deputies went into Oren’s trailer. Poor Zsa Zsa came running out. She hadn’t been fed or anything.” The dog’s ears perked at her name. She lifted her head and her collar glinted in the late afternoon sunlight. “The sheriff said they were going to take her to the pound, so I asked if I could take care of her.” Zsa Zsa hopped off the sofa and padded across the room to where Danny sat. She nuzzled his knee and he scratched her behind the ears. “They would have put her down at the pound after just a couple of weeks. She deserves better than that.” “But you said you’d been at the fence with the dog the day before yesterday, before the murder.” She leaned forward and her voice rang with the triumph of one who has found a contradiction in a criminal’s tale. “Yet just now, you claimed that you didn’t get the animal until this morning.” “Well, yeah. When Oren let her out to do her business, she’d sometimes come over to visit. I was weeding the flowers, and we played fetch for a few minutes. That’s not a crime, I hope.” A humorless smile bent her features, but her eyes stayed frigid. “Let’s go back to last night for now. What happened after the man came through the fence?” “I backed away, hoping he hadn’t seen me. But he ran right up to me. I thought I was a goner.” Danny took a swig of cold coffee.

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Flatland “He was so close I could see down the barrel of his gun. He must have hit me or something, because the next thing I remember, I’m on my hands and knees and my head feels like a soccer goalie’s used it for practice.” He fingered his scalp, above his ear. “The lump still hurts. Anyway, the guy with the gun was gone, vanished.” “Just like that? Poof, and he’s gone?” “Yeah, just like that. He was there, and then he wasn’t.” “Why didn’t he shoot you, too?” “How should I know?” She gaped at him for a beat before asking, “What do you remember about his weapon?” “Not much, except that I hope I never have anything like that pointed at me again.” He frowned. “I guess it looked kind of like what Mark Wahlberg used in that movie, Shooter. It had a big scope on it.” She nodded. “Probably a sniper’s rifle, with a light-enhancing night scope. What else do you remember?” “Not much, other than being scared shitless. After he vanished, I ran back to my trailer, locked the door, and called Leo.” “Why him? Why call a security guard instead of the sheriff?” “I don’t know. I guess because I had his number on the phone.” “Uh-huh. How long have you known Leo?” “Since I was a kid spending summers here with my grandfather.” “You know he’s got a record?” “What? Leo? That’s nuts. He’s one of the good guys, and a vet, too.” An imitation laugh puffed from her lips. “Being a vet is not a guarantee he’s a good guy. It just means he knows how to handle weapons. Take Mr. Crow, your neighbor on the other side.”

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Max Griffin “Who? Skip? What about him?” “Where is he? No one seems to know.” Danny shrugged. “He’s down in Lawton, at Fort Sill, attending a wedding. He’s been gone for about a week.” She made a note. “Another bit of information the locals missed. Do you know when he’s returning?” “He said today or tomorrow. You don’t think he’s involved? That’s nuts. He wasn’t even here.” “Lawton’s only a few hours away. He’s a former Army Ranger, and he’s got a dishonorable discharge to his credit. The fact that he’s missing could mean something, or it could mean nothing. This investigation is just starting.” She consulted her notes again. “There’s a lot in your story that doesn’t make much sense, Mr. Rajunas. I see that you’ve been a patient at the Tallgrass Sanitarium in Kansas City. May I ask what you were hospitalized for?” Danny’s face heated. “I saw what I saw. I wasn’t hallucinating.” “Would you know if you were?” Danny’s mouth opened, but no words came out. Zsa Zsa chose that instant to scamper to the back door, wheel, and look at him with expectant eyes. He avoided Vasquez’s stare as he stood and approached the dog. “You need to go, little girl?” Arf! After he let her out, he turned back to the FBI agent. “Are we about done here?” She stood and peeked out the window at Zsa Zsa. “You said you played fetch with Oren’s dog. He didn’t object to you messing with it?” “He never said one way or the other. He wasn’t the most talkative guy.” “But he knew?”

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Flatland Danny blinked. “I think so. Yeah, he knew. He even asked me if she was digging up my flowers.” She scowled at him. “He pampered that damned dog. He would have killed for it, in a heartbeat. It’s hard to believe that he let you play with it, Mr. Rajunas. Unless maybe the two of you already knew each other.” “I never saw him before he showed up here a couple weeks ago. What are you trying to say?” “This was a professional hit. Oren had pissed off some very bad people in Chicago. The mob never forgets.” She consulted her notebook again. “You lived in Chicago up to about a year ago, isn’t that right?” “You think I had something to do with this?” A chasm, cold and hollow, opened deep inside him. “I’m not saying anything, Mr. Rajunas. We just have to follow all leads.” “First, you imply I’m crazy, and now you’re implying I’m a mob hit man. Make up your mind.” “Being crazy and working for the mob aren’t mutually exclusive, I assure you.” “You’re treating me like I’m the criminal! I’m just an innocent bystander here.” A discouraged sigh puffed from her lips. “You know, I believe you, really I do. It would be easier if I had any real leads. I apologize if I’ve been hard on you, Mr. Rajunas.” She stuffed her notebook back in her purse. “This investigation is just starting. You’ve got my card. Call me if you think of anything else or if Mr. Crow returns.” Danny hesitated. “You said this was a mob hit. Maybe I should

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Max Griffin take off. Why should I hang around here waiting for them to come back, gunning for me?” Her eyes narrowed. “Is there any reason they should do that?” “I guess not. No.” She paused with her hand on the doorknob. “It’s a bad idea to call attention to yourself in this kind of thing, sir. The mob would find you if you ran away. So would the FBI. All you’d do is piss off powerful people, which is never a good idea. I want you to stay right here, where I can find you.” Her expression hardened. “I can get a material witness warrant and place you in custody until hell freezes over if I need to. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay put. Are we clear on that?” Danny scowled. “Perfectly.” She jerked her head and departed, slamming the door behind her. Danny collapsed on the sofa and wondered what he’d gotten into. Grandpa would know what to do, but he was in Kansas City. He wanted to talk to Skip, too, to warn him about Vasquez’s suspicions. Assuming Skip would have anything to do with him. The trailer shimmered about him while shadows flitted from corners and fled into oblivion. His head ached while his soul withered and split. He stumbled to his bathroom and the temporary surcease of his little pink pills.

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Chapter 12

Edgar fidgeted in the spacious waiting room of the Tall Grass Sanitarium. It was after five, and he was the only person present, except of course for the pert receptionist working behind the counter. He imagined taking her out for a gourmet meal, and then luring her back to his hotel room. They would have sex, and then, when she least expected it, he’d slip his knife out from behind the pillow and...She glanced up at him and smiled, interrupting his fantasy. He nodded back and tore his eyes away. She was too tempting, and he needed to stay calm and cool. He could find a playmate later, before flying back to Chicago. He pulled out his cell phone and checked the time. The doctor was over ten minutes late for their appointment. His fingers stroked the little virtual keyboard, and soon the screen displayed the doctor’s home address, where her children attended school, her bank balance and her credit rating. Edgar tucked the phone back into the pocket of his sport coat, confident he could wreak satisfactory revenge at any point. For now, just that knowledge was enough to soothe him. The receptionist’s flat, Midwestern twang interrupted his reverie. “Mr. Szabo? The doctor will see you now.” He grunted, stood, and strode to the door to the Inner Sanctum,

Flatland to the physician’s office. His ankle felt light and naked without the holster and the weight of his automatic. The serrated ceramic knife that replaced his gun provided some comfort, and it had the advantage he didn’t set off the metal detectors at the entrance to the sanitarium. The door buzzed when the receptionist punched the unlock button, and he pushed through to the interior hall. The same annoying posters of soaring eagles and cuddly puppies still lined the walls of the corridor, just as they had every visit for the last eight years. Edgar grimaced and controlled his rage. He stopped at an open door and rapped his knuckles against the jam. “Dr. Basaji? They said you were ready for me.” He kept his voice cool and deliberate. No telling what these psychiatric types could discern from a quirked eyebrow or a chance inflection of tone. She sat behind her desk, illuminated by the soft glow from the floor lamp at her side. At the sound of his knock, she looked up and a bright smile split her dark features. “Mr. Szabo. I see it’s the third Thursday of the month, again.” Her Cambridge training showed in her proper English accent, but the liquidity of her vowels exposed her Punjab heritage. Edgar thought that the Brit accent made her sound phony, but he knew she was the best addiction specialist in the Midwest. She gestured to the guest chair in front of her desk. “Won’t you have a seat, please?” Edgar kept his most pleasant smile glued to his features. He was grateful for the hours he’d spent studying Tom Cruise and then practicing the expression he’d learned in front of a mirror. Even a psychiatrist couldn’t tell it from the real thing. “I appreciate you taking the time to see me this evening, Doctor.” He settled into the plush, maroon leather and let his gaze scan over the office before locking back on her face. He knew people liked it when he made eye contact. 97

Max Griffin “Of course, of course. We’re always glad when the family takes a continuing interest. I’m on call tonight, anyway.” Her fingers danced through the charts stacked on her desk and she picked one out. “Would you care for coffee or a soft drink? I could have Melinda get some for you.” “She already asked. No, thank you. Caffeine makes me jittery.” “Well, then. You know your mother had an episode last week?” “I got the voicemail message, yes.” She nodded. “We tried to contact you. I understand you were indisposed, then?” His jaws ached with the need to scream, and he took a deep breath. “Yes. I was working on a...government contract. I’m sorry, I can’t say more. I couldn’t take any calls. That’s why I signed a medical power of attorney.” She nodded. “Yes, of course, Mr. Szabo. It’s in the file, and I do recall. Still, we like to check with the family in these cases, before undertaking...certain procedures.” His anger flared for an instant before his iron will crushed it. His Tom Cruise smile never faltered, though. “You mean electroshock. I understand, Doctor. I appreciate your diligence, and I’m grateful for the care my mother gets here.” She nodded and continued to flip through the chart. “How have you been, Mr. Szabo? It’s been a month since our last conversation.” How would Tom Cruise react to such a question? “I’ve been busy, I’m afraid. My work can be stressful at times, what with all the travel. I wish I could visit here more frequently.” “Your mother’s file doesn’t reflect your profession, Mr. Szabo.” That dark gaze she threw his way couldn’t be sultry, not now, not from her. He decided it must be a trick. “I’m afraid it’s classified. Surely it can’t have any bearing on

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Flatland my mother’s treatment?” She shrugged. “Most likely not, although one never knows. Her case is unusual.” She closed the file and leaned back in her chair. “Don’t you want to ask how she’s doing?” Ah! That’s the trap she planned for me. “Surely you would have told me right away if there were any significant changes in her condition.” I’m smarter than you are, despite your fancy Cambridge education. You can’t outfox me, you fucking towel-head. “Yes, of course.” She sighed. “Alas, there has been no change. I wish I could report otherwise. We’re learning more all the time about the persistent effects of phencyclidine and methamphetamine use. Perhaps someday we’ll find pharmacological interventions. In the meantime, we just do what we can for your poor mother.” She paused to smile at him. “She’s lucky to have a son who cares enough to pay for treatment here.” And makes you rich, bitch. He blinked. It wasn’t safe to think such thoughts, not now. “So, is her condition stable, then?” “Yes. The electro-convulsive therapy resolved the intermittent hysteria. Zoloft seems to maintain her calm, and we hope the clozapine will help with the somatic delusional disorder.” “Somatic delusional disorder. So she still thinks she’s a vampire?” This time he used a lop-sided Brad Pitt grin. He was sure the doctor bought into this one, too. People were so easy to fool. Besaji tossed him a wry grin back at him, kind of like Ashley Judd in Twisted. Edgar wondered if she practiced in front of a mirror, too. “I’m afraid so. The anti-psychotic has stopped the delusions that she grows fangs, or that her body transforms to a bat. But she still has blackouts and false memories. She thinks that she killed a nurse who’s just away on vacation, for example.” She sighed and weariness dragged at her features. “Phencyclidine abuse can

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Max Griffin causes delusions about body image in some patients, but this is an extreme case, I’m afraid. We have another, an outpatient, who thought he was a werewolf. He has a history of PCP use as well. His delusions have responded quite well to the clozapine therapy, which gives us hope for your mother.” Edgar snorted. “Angel dust is nasty stuff. I remember. She used it when I was growing up.” “Well, we’re fortunate these delusions don’t seem to lead to actual violence, at least in the two cases we’re aware of. You’re lucky she didn’t use PCP when she was pregnant with you. The clinical data suggest it can have serious effects on fetal development that show up later, in impaired empathy and social development.” A black hole chilled his core, but he kept his voice diffident. “So I hear. I guess I’ve been lucky in many ways.” Her smile was broader this time and toothy. Like Julia Roberts. He wondered what her expression would be if he pulled her teeth out, one at a time. With pliers. He suppressed the image before she could read it in his eyes. She continued, “Yes, well, she’s eager to see you. Lately, she’s been especially insistent that she doesn’t belong here and convinced that you will rescue her.” “We’ve been through that before, too, doctor. I’ll just be firm with her, like last time.” “I’d like someone to monitor your conversation, just in case the hysteria re-presents.” “Do you think that’s a danger?” She shrugged. “Who can say? But any disruption to her routine, even a visit from you, could destabilize her.” He nodded. “I understand. I’ll be careful.” He paused. “I’d like to stroll through the grounds with her. You know she loves the flowers. Perhaps one of your guards could stay in earshot? Just in 100

Flatland case?” “Of course. In fact, she’s in the rose garden right now, along with one of the attendants. I’ll be available, too, should the need arise.” She peered at him and a worm of fear slithered up his spine. Surely she couldn’t read his mind. She tapped a pencil on the file and mused, “Remember that the prosopagnosia means she might not recognize you until you speak.” He shrugged, but then decided that wasn’t the proper reaction. “That’s such a strange condition, Doctor. It’s a bit...unsettling to have my own mother think I’m not me.” His voice oozed concern. She nodded. “We think it might have something to do with the head trauma from when she fell a year ago, when she was visiting you in Chicago. Since then, it’s been hard for her. Our staff wears uniforms, and since she can’t associate faces with memory, she gets confused and often can’t recall who the regular staff are or what they do.” “I just thought this was another carry-over from her angel dust years.” “It’s possible, since long-term phencyclidine use can damage certain brain pathways, but head trauma is the more common cause. It’s just hard to say.” “What’s the prognosis?” “There’s no real treatment for the prosopagnosia. We have high hopes that the somatic delusional disorder will respond to the clozapine therapy. We’ll just have to see.” “I understand, doctor.” He decided it was time to sigh and perhaps show a weary Humphrey Bogart face. “Can I see her now?” “Of course.” She hesitated. “I have one more thing. She’s been threatening to run away. We watch her, of course, but we’ve got some new technology we’re testing for the Department of Defense

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Max Griffin that would provide an extra layer of protection. It’s a small implantable tracking device, a little tube 32 millimeters long and five millimeters through. If she wanders off we can use it to locate her.” Suspicion flared in him. “She’s never run off before.” He struggled to keep his face impassive. “Implantable? That means you inject it into her?” “We insert it under the skin, at the nape of her neck. She won’t even notice it’s there.” He shook his head. “I’d rather you didn’t experiment with my mother.” She shrugged. “Fine. It was just a suggestion.” She leaned back in her chair. “You know, I don’t usually encourage smoking, but if you brought cigarettes for her, that might help build her trust.” He patted his coat pocket. “I came prepared.” It hadn’t been hard to lace the cigarettes with angel dust, and no one would ever know. “Excellent. Do you need someone to show you the way?” “I remember. I’ve been here before.” He stood and offered his hand. “Thank you for taking care of my mother, doctor.” “Of course,” she murmured. Her hand slinked into his like a snake with no spine. He resisted the temptation to crush her bones and slit her throat with his knife. Instead, he turned on his heel and went looking for the woman who gave him birth. He negotiated the corridors at a deliberate pace to let the pent-up rage dissipate. The relentless barrage of cheery images and bright colors that splashed across the halls just amplified his irritation, like honey injected into a rotting tooth. Once outdoors and in the gardens, he stopped to inhale the darkness. The early twilight filled the scene with shadows and turned the foliage from

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Flatland green to ashen. He eyed the path to the rose garden and a slow smile twisted his features. A deep breath cleansed his heart, and purposeful steps carried him forward. He paused at the arbor that marked the entrance to the rose garden. Even after all this time, a rush of surprise passed through him at how old she had become. She sat there, huddled on a park bench, small and frail, with wisps of iron-gray hair floating about her head in the moonlight. She wore black slacks and a blouse the color of chalk. She raised an anemic hand to her mouth and a cough foamed up from her chest. Her breasts, once so round and supple, now hung hollow and barren. Her lips, once so full and ruby red, now withered cyanotic and chapped. And her hair, once a luxurious sable of ebony curls, now coiled in a brambly steel bun. Edgar’s heart ached. He shuffled forward and knelt before her. “Momma,” he murmured. Her cobalt eyes lowered to gaze upon him and sent ice picks into his soul. “Eddy. Where have you been?” Her voice rasped like sandpaper over his eardrums. She reached out to caress his cheek, but her palm raked across his skin like ancient parchment. “You seem different tonight, not like my Eddy.” “It’s just me, Momma.” He reached up and cradled her hand in one of his. He stroked it, afraid that it might crumble like rotting sticks under the pressure. “How have you been?” A weary sigh fled her lips, and her face sagged in a web of wrinkles. “Momma’s been tired, son, so very tired.” She leaned forward, nuzzled his hair, and inhaled. “That’s my baby’s scent. I’d know it anywhere.” She pulled back and peered at him. “What have they done to your face?” “Nothing, Momma. I’m just older. Don’t you remember me?” She snatched her hand back and her eyes threw cold daggers 103

Max Griffin at him. “I remember you, all right. You put me here, in this place. Now you can just take me home.” “You know we can’t do that, Momma. You can’t take care of yourself anymore, and I can’t stay with you. I’ve got to work.” Sorrow and guilt gripped him as he slumped over. “I don’t like it here. Not one fucking bit.” She glared at him. “They make me take these little pink pills.” “The doctor said the clozapine will help you, Momma.” Her voice turned sing-song. “The doctor said, the doctor said.” Her hands knotted in fists and her face turned into a Medusa’s mask of hatred. “It’s all a conspiracy. They’re all out to get me, and you’re helping them, you little fuck. I wish I’d never had you.” Edgar’s throat constricted and he hated himself for the tears welling in his eyes, but then he remembered his gift. “Here, Momma. I brought you cigarettes, just like the old times.” He held them out to her, like a wise man bearing frankincense and myrrh, or Jason offering the fleece up to Medea. She wrenched the pack from his fingers. “It’s already open. Did you add Momma’s special recipe?” “Yes. Just like you taught me. Just like old times.” He held up a lighter. She puffed one to life and inhaled the smoke deep into her lungs. “That’s Momma’s good boy.” The pleasure in her voice bubbled up from some unseen chasm in her core. She inhaled again, and the coal glowed red and menacing. Her eyes cast a furtive glance behind them. “There’s a guard back there. I know there is. I saw him earlier. They don’t let me out without guards.” “I know, Momma.” “He’ll take my cigarettes away after you leave. You’re a bad boy for leaving Momma here. You know that, don’t you?” “I know, Momma. But I don’t know what else to do.” Misery 104

Flatland whined in his voice and he rested a wet check against her bony thigh. “You know what you could do to make Momma feel better?” His breath caught in his throat. Dread and...something else...swelled his heart. “You know we can’t do that here, Momma. We’d get caught.” She shoved him away. “Then you’re worthless. Get the fuck out of my sight, you little sack of shit.” Her voice snapped like a whip. She stood and tottered to the edge of the garden, her back toward him. The cigarette tracked a trembling crimson path to her lips as she inhaled once more. “Go, I said, before you make me puke.” Edgar stood and backed away. Agony and rejection gripped his soul, but there was a thread of power, too. It was hard to turn her down, but it gave him a small measure of control. At least she hadn’t begged him to kill the guard so she could drink the man’s blood. That he would not do for her. At least, not anymore.

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Chapter 13

Inez Vasquez exited the Yellow Line and pushed through the Saturday noon crowds debarking at Gallery Place. She climbed from the cool of the Metro Station into the stifling Washington heat and passed under the gate to Chinatown. Her business-like, brown pants suit wilted against her skin in the gruesome humidity of the nation’s capital. She strode past the crowds lined up on the sidewalks outside the jammed dim sum restaurants, grateful her meeting was elsewhere. Around the corner on Sixth Street, she entered a nondescript souvenir shop. Inside, the narrow aisles pushed against her elbows. Tacky jade Buddhas, paper dragons, and Chinese-language bootleg DVD’s crowded the shelves. The place stank of incense and garlic. She pretended to examine a cheesy painted ceramic statue of a beckoning cat while she cursed her contact under her breath. A lean, short, Asian man wearing an Aloha shirt, Bermuda shorts, and flip-flops sidled up to her. “You know that the maneki neko brings good fortune.” His breathy voice oozed from his lips like dirty oil from a crankcase. He gazed at her through opaque, washed-out blue eyes. She replaced the trinket and glowered at him. “About time you got here, Morton. Can we get out of this dump? I’m afraid I’ll knock something over and the whole place will fall apart.”

Flatland “Fear not. It’s not as fragile as you seem to believe.” He picked up an ebony laughing Buddha. “Come, let me purchase this for you. A present from me to you.” “Whatever. I just want to get out of here.” She followed him to the cash register where he paid extra to have his purchase gift wrapped. He accepted it from the cashier, bowed and offered it on her with outstretched hands. “May the Buddha bring you joy and peace.” She shrugged without accepting the package. “Let’s go. Where shall we meet?” “The buffet across the street looks like there’s no line.” She spun on her heel and strode outside the shop. He followed her to the curb. “My dear, someday you will appreciate the Zen of enlightenment.” A tight smile bent his features, but his eyes remained cold as liquid nitrogen. He slipped the package into her hands with a gentle squeeze. “What I appreciate is the Zen of getting the fuck out of this heat and away from this shit.” She waved at the store they’d just departed and then scanned the traffic. She spied a break and dodged into the street. Tires squealed and a horn blared. “Watch where you’re going, fucker.” She slapped the hood of a green BMW and gave the driver the finger before she bounced to the curb on the opposite side of the avenue. When she looked for her companion, she spotted him at the crosswalk waiting for the light to change. “Jee-sus.” She stuffed the package with the Buddha into her purse and pulled out a cigarette. Morton sauntered across the street, smiling and nodding at passersby. He stopped and spoke to an overweight couple with a gaggle of unwashed brats. He pointed back toward the Metro stop and the Chinatown gate. Before they dragged their children away,

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Max Griffin the man slipped him a tip, which Morton accepted and stuffed in the pocket of his shorts. At last, he ambled up to Inez and beamed at her. “Shall we go in, my dear?” “Whatever.” She stomped inside and stopped at the maître d’s station. “Two. We’d like a booth.” The man led them into the dining area, where they sat and ordered their drinks. She scowled at her companion. “Okay. We’re here. What you need from me? I don’t like meeting like this, in public.” Morton tipped his head back and inhaled. “You know, I usually don’t care for a buffet. I prefer things to be more fresh, more spontaneous, don’t you?” “I hate Chinese food.” “A shame. Perhaps we can educate your palate.” He inhaled again. “The luohan zhai smells adequate today. Won’t you join me?” He stood and sauntered to the buffet. Inez stared, her mouth agape, jumped to her feet and chased after him. She leaned down and said, “I don’t want any crappy Chinese food. Can we just get this over with?” His eyes stabbed daggers of ice at her and his words, quiet and precise, snapped. “Ms. Vasquez, you seem to forget yourself. I own you. I have been polite when I did not have to be. Now you will shut the fuck up and join me for lunch.” He paused and licked his lips. Inez thought of a Gila monster. “If you prefer, you could deal with someone else. Perhaps I should arrange for a visit from our foreclosures division instead? We have outsourced our business to a new contractor who seems quite efficient.” Her breath caught in her throat. “That won’t be necessary. I’m sorry, sir. It’s just...” “Now, now, Inez. Don’t worry your pretty head.” He reached

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Flatland for a set of tongs. “Here, let me serve some lo mien for you. And the jiaozi look good.” He fished some greasy rolls out of the brown muck in a warming tray. He loaded their plates with an endless array of slimy, stinky wads of food, all the while enunciating their incomprehensible names in his precise diction. Inez inhaled garlic and cilantro and wanted to puke. “I appreciate the effort, Mr. Arthur, really, but I’m on a diet.” He looked at her hips and snickered. “Yes, yes, of course you are. Plenty of time for that later. Today you have this wonderful food from my country.” He piled her plate higher. When they finally returned to their table, he settled into his seat and sipped at his tea. “Eat, Ms. Vasquez. It’s quite good, I assure you.” He picked up his chopsticks and slurped noodles into his mouth. God, he’s got the manners of a lamprey sucking blood. She fumbled with her chopsticks and one of the slimy dumplings flopped onto her lap. Morton giggled. “You are so silly. Imagine! An adult who can’t use chopsticks. Look. Everyone is laughing at you.” Her face heated and she looked around the room. “Maybe they’ll bring me a fork.” “No!” His voice rose for the first time today. “If you cannot eat like a good Chinese, then you use fingers. Like a baby.” He smiled with his lips, but his eyes glinted with a frigid stab of menace. He nodded to her plate. “Eat.” She lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry I snapped at you, Morton.” “Eat!” His fist slammed into the table and their dishes clattered. “Pick up a handful of lo mien. With your hands.” His voice shrieked and spittle flew across the table. The room hushed and everyone turned to watch. 109

Max Griffin She stared at him and tossed her hair to one side. Her breath heaved, but she knew better than to challenge him when he was like this. With reluctant fingers, she scooped up a fistful of slippery, slimy noodles and stuffed them in her mouth. “Good. Now slurp them up. Don’t spill any.” She sucked at the mess. The sauce dribbled across her blouse and smeared her cheeks and chin. He leaned back. “That’s good.” He raised a hand and snapped his fingers. “Waitress. A fork for the lady.” One of the staff ran to deliver fresh napkins and a fork for Inez and then backed away. Morton looked around at the other diners and a bright smile bent his features. “Why is everyone quiet? Eat!” He cackled like Tom Hulce playing Mozart. “Be happy now, for you don’t know what tomorrow will bring.” His eyes danced and his hands waved. The other customers looked away and the room filled once more with random chatter. He leaned back and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Now, Inez, are you ready to be polite?” “Yes, sir.” “Good.” He picked up an egg roll with his chopsticks and took a dainty bite. “Our employers are not happy about current events in Kansas. Tell me what you know.” “I already sent in my report to...” “You haven’t told me, dear. I want to hear it in your own words, from your mouth. That’s why you’re here. Now, you paid that motherfucker Oren his bribe from the feds, right?” “Right. I’m sure he had a weapon in his trailer when I paid him off. I was afraid he was going to blow me away.” “That would have saved us the trouble. It wouldn’t have paid

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Flatland his debt to us, though.” Morton smiled. “Go on. Tell me why you should live.” She took a deep breath and tried to steady her heartbeat. “I followed FBI protocol. That’s what you hired me to do. I staked out Oren’s safe house from a trailer a couple of blocks away. We had his place bugged, and I’d put a GPS tracker in his pickup. It rained like a cow pissing on a flat rock two nights ago when he got hit. Thunder, lightning. I think he planned to blow away some damned dog he’d been bitching about. At least, the whacked-out security guard at the trailer park was all over me about it later.” “Tell me about the guard.” “He’s a Desert Storm vet, Special Forces back in the day. Had some trouble with the law after he got out, but now he’s fat and bat-shit crazy. Swaggers around like a porky Barney Fife, and gun-happy. He blamed me for bringing Oren to his trailer park. He threatened to blow me away.” “You seem to inspire that sentiment, Ms. Vasquez.” He sucked at a chicken foot and licked his fingers. “Didn’t that fucker Oren have a dog? Some little faggot mutt?” “Yeah. A neighbor has it now.” He nodded. “I’d hate to think that any innocent animals were injured in this mess. Go on. When did the hit happen?” “As near as we can tell, around midnight. The neighbor kid, the one that’s got the dog, witnessed the whole thing. His cell phone logs show he called the security guard about then.” “He called the guard and not the police?” “Yeah, that’s only one of the strange things about this case. The kid’s a nutjob, and he’s a druggie to boot. I’m not sure how reliable he is. He also spent time in Chicago. We’re checking that out, to make sure he’s not mobbed up. The security guard has a record, too, but I’m sure he’s too stupid to pull this off.” 111

Max Griffin “So what happened after he made his call?” “The security guard, Leo something, he shows up and messes with the crime scene. He waits at least an hour to call the sheriff, and he doesn’t drag his fat ass down there to investigate until maybe 3AM. No one can tell me the reason for all the delays. They’ve got lame excuses like the weather or a tornado in the next town.” “I see. And in the meantime, what was the inestimable FBI doing?” “We were monitoring the bugs in Oren’s trailer. We didn’t know anything was going on until six thirty, when the sheriff finally thought to send some of his deputies into Oren’s place.” “As I thought. You sat on your expensive ass doing nothing.” He sighed and put his chopsticks down. “You are a major disappointment to our employers.” “Look, we went into high gear as soon as we knew. I had a team in Oren’s trailer, and at the crime scene. We recovered bits of Oren’s hard drive, and it’s in the lab at Quantico right now. If anyone can get data off of it, they can. I personally interviewed the kid that called it in. We’re checking his connections, too.” “That’s all interesting, Inez. In the meantime, our employers want to know what you’re doing to get their money back.” “Yeah, I’m aware of that. Look, I came here to report in person, like you asked. But I need to get back there before the evidence walks away. We’re watching Oren’s trailer, and the kid next door. We’ll find the money. You just gotta be patient.” “You have another potential suspect, do you not?” he mused. He closed his eyes and seemed to be meditating. “Yeah. Another neighbor. He just got there, about the same time as Oren, and now he’s disappeared. My gut tells me he’s involved.” Morton snorted. “Your gut doesn’t seem to be working so well. 112

Flatland Still, it might be something. Tell me about this mystery man. Is there some reason you didn’t mention him?” “He’s in the fucking report. You didn’t give me a chance. Look, he’s a faggot that got himself discharged from the Army. But before he was in the Army he worked for a bank in Chicago that fronted for Kruppman. He knows weapons. He was a Ranger, and his file shows he was a high-value covert ops commando in Iraq. Add all that to the fact that he’s vanished and it’s gotta make you wonder.” Morton shrugged. “It sounds weak to me. In any case, let me know what you learn about him.” He dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “Oren stole money from our employers, Ms. Vasquez. You were supposed to get it back for them. But now he’s dead, and you still can’t tell us where it’s at.” He gazed at her. “I mentioned we’ve engaged a new contractor for our foreclosures division, a firm out of Iowa. Kingfisher Partners. Perhaps you’ve heard of them?” She shook her head. “Well, they do specialize in being discreet. I think we will set them to work on this, in view of how you’ve fucked it up. They come highly recommended. In the meantime, I wonder what I should do with you.” “It’s not my fault.” Her breath came in shallow bursts. “I tell you, I can still find the money. You can’t have many reliable FBI agents on your payroll.” He smiled. “The question is, do I have any reliable FBI agents on my payroll.” Her breath caught in her throat. “I’ve just started my investigation. The money can’t have just disappeared. Oren has it stashed someplace. I’ve got the full resources of the FBI working on it. We’ll find it.”

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Max Griffin He nodded. “Our employers will be most vexed if you do not. See that you do.” “Yes, sir. You can count on me.” She used her fork to fiddle with her food, and then glanced up. “The usual arrangements apply for my payment?” His mouth made a little “oh” shape and he tittered. “My, aren’t you bold? You must have not been listening, Ms. Vasquez. Your pay is that you may continue breathing for a while longer.” He folded his napkin into a precise square. “You will not fuck up again.” He pulled a slip of paper from his shirt pocket and pushed it across the table. “An agent from Kingfisher Partners will be in touch with you. They will use this code word. You are to give them your full cooperation.” A simpering smile folded his lips. “If you fuck up again, well, we can’t afford any more mistakes.” She swallowed and started to speak, but he held up a finger. “No promises. No try. Just do...or do not.” His face twisted into a Yoda-like smile. “You will pay for the meal.” He stood and departed, his flip-flops making little slapping sounds against his feet. The waiter placed a tray with the bill and a fortune cookie next to Inez on the table. “Would you care for anything else, ma’am?” he asked while he poured fresh water into her glass. She shook her head. “No, thank you.” She cracked open one of the cookies and a slip of paper tumbled out. While she crunched on the sweet confection, she read, A thrilling time is in your immediate future.

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Chapter 14

The steamy

water from the shower drummed against Danny’s shoulders. He arched his back and let the spray rinse the shampoo from his hair. The lump above his ear still throbbed when his fingers ran across it. He turned around and let the hot needles pound against his skin. The shower couldn’t wash away the gruesome memories of the murder. Images of brains and blood splattering across Oren’s naked torso cascaded through his psyche and ravaged his soul. That bloodied body, sprawled in the mud with its ruined head askew, commingled with his forlorn memories of Skip and that wonderful, ethereal kiss they had shared. The texture of Skip’s rippled abdomen under his fingers, the musky scent of his body, tumbled through his mind, tied in a murky conflagration with Oren’s destruction. Memories grotesque and divine scoured his mind. He closed his eyes and let his fingers trace a line on his chest. Skip’s hand had stroked him there. His nipple hardened at the memory of that gentle touch. Fantasies of love fused with nightmares of death. He looked down in disgust at his body, covered in scraggly hair like a soulless beast. Skip’s smooth muscles had felt so different, so immaculate that night. When they’d kissed, when their bodies pressed together, Skip’s erection had pressed against his own. Their bodies had resonated like the chords of a Bach cello

Flatland suite. He groaned at the recollection. His fingers dropped to the rigid shaft that rose from the tangled thatch at his crotch. His eyes turned to slits as a shudder of pure pleasure passed from its tip down the shaft and up his spine. Skip’s features, with an easy grin gracing his lips, seemed to hang in the mists. But Oren, his skull an open ruin and a leer still on his lips, hid in the shadows. Stop it. He jerked his hands to the faucet and turned the water from hot to frigid. His erection shrunk, reluctant at first, but then it shriveled under the onslaught. You’re such a fucking idiot. He’ll never have anything to do with you again. A whimper escaped his lips, and he leaned into the fiberglass wall of the stall. After a moment that was an eternity, he sighed, turned off the shower, and reached for a towel to dry off. The trailer shuddered in a gust of wind, and sand and leaves rattled against the sides. Danny wrapped his towel about his waist and stepped to the window. Outdoors, the air glowed with surreal, pea-green radiance that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Behind the fence, the wheat undulated in waves, like an endless brown ocean. Overhead clouds tumbled in bronzed billows that hid the setting sun. Zsa Zsa hopped from the bed and pawed his ankle, her collar glittering in the light from the bathroom. “What you want, baby?” She gave a little bark and skittered toward the kitchen. Danny followed and found her standing by the back door, her brown eyes riveted on him. “You want to go outside?” He glanced again at the threatening skies and decided it was a good thing she wanted out now, before the storm broke. He opened the door and she raced into the backyard. Danny smiled and turned on the lights against the deepening gloom. He started coffee and leaned against the counter

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Max Griffin with a mug, waiting for enough to drip through to get his first dose of caffeine today. Next door, lights glowed in Skip’s trailer. He must be back from Lawton. Not that it matters. He remembered Agent Vasquez’s instructions to call her when Skip returned. Fuck her. Still, maybe he should say something to him. The trailer shuddered again, and a few splats of rain clattered against the metal roof. Danny peeked out the back door to see how Zsa Zsa was doing, and at first, all he saw was the whirl of dust and the flicker of distant lightning. A cold chasm opened when he saw another dog in the yard, a mangy mongrel twice Zsa Zsa’s size. Mud flecked against its shanks. Ribs showed through its lean torso underneath a tangled mat of fur. Zsa Zsa huddled close to the ground, her ears flat to her head while the strange dog advanced. Danny ran to the kitchen door and flung it open. A gust of wind caught it, like Zephyr in the sail of the Argos. The door banged against the side of the trailer before it slammed shut behind him. The wind whipped at his hair and tore at the towel around his waist. Scattered raindrops prickled against his skin and conspired with blowing dust to cloud his vision. The two dogs were tangled together. He knew Zsa Zsa wouldn’t have a chance in a fight with this wild animal. He tore forward, shouting incoherent demands at the interloper. Next door, Butch barked and yowled at the strange dog, his paws raking against the fence that penned him in. Gravel and rocks bit into his feet. Pellets of hail clattered against the trailer behind him and pounded into his flesh. Before he could reach the dogs, his foot twisted in a hidden crevice in the yard, and he plummeted forward. His head banged against a rock, and the world turned crimson and black.

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Flatland

“Get out of here! Scat!” Whose voice was that? Somewhere a dog was barking. He needed to rescue Zsa Zsa. Danny struggled to sit up, but his arms and legs wouldn’t obey. Strong hands gripped his shoulders. “Are you all right? My God, you’re bleeding.” His head stung at someone’s touch. He blinked and Skip coalesced before him, like Gabriel come to sound the rapture. “Zsa Zsa. Is she all right? That other dog...” “She’s fine. The other dog ran away when you came after them.” Wind raged about them and the skies opened in a Niagaralike deluge. “We’ve got to take care of you. Can you stand up?” Danny struggled, and then let Skip pull him to his feet. “Yeah.” The world rippled about him and a sudden pulse of nausea tickled his throat. “You hit your head. Come on. Let me get you inside so we can fix you up.” When Danny wobbled, Skip wrapped an arm around his back and used his shoulder to leverage him forward. “Here’s my trailer. Watch the steps.” Danny’s feet tripped, and Skip’s shoulder lifted him onto the stoop and then indoors. Danny balanced himself by draping an arm across Skip’s back. Muscles rippled under his fingers and Danny’s breath caught in his throat. He let Skip guide him to the sofa while Zsa Zsa ran in after them. She paused at the door, where she turned herself into fuzzy little fountain while she shook her fur out. Skip ran to the kitchen and returned with a towel while Zsa Zsa sat at his feet and turned her sorrowful eyes at his face. The television was muted, but weather alerts ran along the bottom of the screen underneath a rerun of House. Skip leaned over and dabbed at his forehead with a towel. “It looked like you took quite a fall out there.” 118

Max Griffin His head stung, but not as badly as it had outside in the storm. Skip ran his fingers across the wound. “It looks like it’s already stopped bleeding. That’s good.” He held Danny’s chin and peered into his eyes. “How are you doing? Did the fall knock you out?” “I don’t think so. Everything went kind of black for an instant, but I don’t think I ever went out.” Danny looked down at where sand and gravel mixed with raw flesh on his legs. “Geeze, look at my knees.” “Yeah, we need to get some bandages on you for sure. Hold the towel against your head, okay? I’ll go get some disinfectant and bandages.” He stood, and as he raced down the hall, called over his shoulder, “You looked like an avenging angel when you came tearing out of your trailer.” Danny offered a hand to Zsa Zsa, who licked it. Her tail thumped against the floor. “At least Zsa Zsa seems to be all right.” Skip returned with a handful of first-aid supplies. A crooked grin canted across his features. “Did you see what they were doing?” “It looked like they were fighting.” “Well, from here it looked more like they were making puppies.” A giggle snorted from Danny’s lips at that. “Really? Zsa Zsa, you bad dog.” He flinched as Skip daubed a cotton ball against his forehead. “Hold still. This will just take an instant.” Danny concentrated on Zsa Zsa instead of his hurts. “She can’t, you know.” “Can’t what?” “Have puppies. I had the vet check her out yesterday. The vet said Oren must have had her spayed. He really took care of her, for being such a jerk. She’s even got some kind of electronic chip thing in her, in case she gets lost.” 119

Flatland Skip’s eyes jerked up. “A chip? In a dog?” His head swiveled up and he rubbed the nape of his neck before returning to Danny’s injuries. “So she’s got her own personal locator beacon. I’ve heard of those. The military uses them, for combat pilots and other high-value assets like commandos.” “No kidding? This is just a data chip, though, not a beacon. It’s implanted under her fur. It has her ID and pedigree and stuff. The vet looked her up in a database.” Skip poured something on a cotton ball and swabbed his forehead. He flinched at the sting. “Ouch! That hurts.” “All done. Now let’s check on your knees.” Skip knelt between his legs. “This is going to hurt. I’ve got to wash out all the gunk that’s in there.” He retreated to the kitchen and ran the hot water. “Let me get a washcloth and towel from the bathroom. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” Danny leaned back and stretched his leg out in front of him. His knee ached, and burned where he’d skinned it. His right wrist and palm throbbed. He rotated his hand and examined his hand. “Is your arm okay?” Skip knelt by him and put a steaming bowl of water on the floor. He rang out a washcloth and suds it with green soap. The scent of tea tree oils filled Danny’s nostrils. “I think I’ll be okay. Good enough to type, anyway.” The warm, soft terrycloth and soapy water soothed the nagging pain in his leg. Skip’s touch was as delicate as a surgeon.

“What are you doing with Zsa Zsa, anyway? Dog sitting for our hoodlum neighbor?” “You haven’t heard? Oren was shot and killed two nights ago. The FBI thinks it was a mob hit.”

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Max Griffin Skip’s head jerked up and his eyes turned to saucers. “You’re kidding. A mob hit? Right here in Flatland? Who’d a thunk? May as well be in Baghdad.” He turned to his ministrations. “You say the FBI was involved?” “Yeah. They want to talk to you.” Despite himself, Danny watched Skip’s face for a reaction. He didn’t look up from tending Danny’s wounds. “Why would they want to talk to me? I was two hundred miles away. What could I know?” “Uh, I think they just want to talk to everyone who lives here.” “Hold still. This is going to hurt.” Skip unscrewed the cap from a bottle of antiseptic. “Have at it. Pain is good. It tells me I’m alive.” Danny let his eyes rove over the trailer. The television now showed the progress of the storm in Technicolor swirls. “Should we be heading to the shelter?” “The weather guy says winds and hail, but no hooks and no funnels. I left the TV on so we can keep an eye out.” The lights flickered for an instant and then came back on. “So, anyway, how did you wind up with Zsa Zsa? Not that I’m complaining, understand. She’s a nice dog.” “The Sheriff was going to take her to the pound, so I asked if I could have her instead. I didn’t want to see her put down, and I thought I could use the company.” “That’s sweet of you.” Skip shook his head. “God, a murder right next door. What happened, do you know?” “I saw the whole thing. Oren had this ginormous pistol thing, and he was shooting at Butch. I ran out to try to stop him, but before I could do anything, his head just kind of exploded. Then this guy dressed all in black runs from the wheat field and knocks me out.”

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Flatland Skip’s face paled. “Danny! You could have been killed!” “That’s what Vasquez, the FBI agent, said. She wasn’t very nice. She threatened me and you, too. I think she’s just looking for someone to blame.” “She threatened you? Fuck her and fuck the FBI, too. They should be looking for the real killers and protecting you.” Lightning fluttered and the lights flickered again. “Shit, I hope we don’t lose power.” “I bet we do. Always seems to happen in bad storms here.” A hand pressed against the interior of his thigh and Danny yielded, spreading his legs a bit further apart. Skip glanced up at him and then returned to his ministrations. “Thanks. I’m almost done. The antiseptic goop is supposed to have some pain-killers in it, too.” Danny’s attention wandered to the kitchen. The scent of chamomile tea wafted from the stovetop and mixed with the spicy oils from the soap. Zsa Zsa curled in a muddied ball underneath the kitchen table, her collar glittering in the light from the television. “Look at poor Zsa Zsa. She’s all covered in mud. She needs a bath.” Skip’s murmured voice brought Danny’s attention back to the sofa. “Yeah. Plenty of time for that later.” He glanced up and his eyes glowed. “I was watching the storm when I saw Zsa Zsa and that other dog in the backyard. At first I thought they might fight, too. Then you came tearing out, and I saw you fall.” He returned to his chore. “God, when I saw you fall, I was so scared. Your head bounced, and then you just kind of laid there.” Embarrassment erupted inside Danny. “I’m such a klutz. Thanks for helping me.” “Sure. Of course.” Another glance, this one with a quick, lopsided grin. “At least it got you back in my trailer.”

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Max Griffin Danny’s face heated. “Skip, I’m so sorry about the other night. Just running out on you with no explanation or anything.” “I came on too strong. It was my fault.” He patted Danny’s thigh. “All done.” “Thanks.” Danny flexed his legs and didn’t quite grimace. “The pain-killer goop seems to be doing its thing.” “Ha. I saw that expression on your face. It’s going to hurt for a while.” He still knelt between Danny’s legs, and his hand still rested on Danny’s thigh. Shock pulsed through him as he realized he wore only a sopping wet towel. He snatched a hand to his crotch, but it was too late to hide his incipient erection. “Shit, I forgot I’d just gotten out of the shower.” Even though Skip wore rain-soaked t-shirt and jeans that exposed the contours of his body, Danny still felt naked. Skip raised his gaze from the tent starting to rise inside Danny’s towel. “I could get you something of mine to wear.” His eyes twinkled. “Yeah, right. Your clothes would just fall right off me. I’m like a scarecrow compared to you.” “I like the way you look. A lot.” His fingers squeezed Danny’s uninjured knee. “I think I’ve got a robe you can wear, and I want you to get out of this wet thing.” He stood and called over his shoulder as he departed down the hall. “Help yourself to some tea.” Danny sat and stared at the television. Another gust of wind shook the trailer, and hail clattered against the roof. Skip called from the bathroom, “I left a robe on the bed. If you want, you can wash up in the spare bath down the hall, but I don’t think you should take a shower until your leg scabs over.” Danny nodded, and then realized Skip couldn’t see him. “Okay. Thanks.”

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Flatland “Great. I’m going to take a quick shower myself. Help yourself to some tea. Pour me some tea, too, will you? Three sugars.” The rush of the shower joined the sounds of the storm. The lights flickered again, and darkness closed in.

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Chapter 15

Danny blinked

at the sudden darkness, and Zsa Zsa whimpered. “It’s okay, girl. I’m right here.” Her tail thudded against his shin as he struggled to his feet. He still ached, but the salve Skip used had already taken most of the sting of out his knee. He steadied himself against the sofa and felt his way forward. Skip’s voice sang from the bathroom. “Hey, you all right?” “I’m good. Take your shower. I’ll light candles. I know where stuff is from the other night.” “Okay. I’ll be out in a minute.” In the kitchen, is hand fumbled until he found the drawer where he remembered seeing kitchen matches. By touch he found the box, pulled one out and struck it. In the faint glow, he made his way back to the table where he knocked a shin against one of the chairs. “Shit.” It screeched against the floor and Zsa Zsa yipped at him. He shook the first match out and lit another. He found the candles still on the table. Once he had all four burning, the kitchen-dining-living room combo glimmered in light and shadow. Mystery and redemption seemed to lurk in the depths, as though he were in a scene painted by Rembrandt instead of a trailer in a seedy mobilehome park. He shivered at the damp towel around his waist and went hunting for the promised bathrobe. He found it folded in a neat

Flatland bundle on Skip’s double bed. Danny smiled at the tight military corners and the taut bedspread, just like Grandpa’s bed, and nothing like the rumpled mess he’d left behind in his own room. Grandpa always told him to make his bed when he arose so it would welcome him at night, but that seemed like too much effort to Danny. He pulled the robe on and the soft terrycloth warmed his aching bones. The filthy towel he’d been wearing he threw into the washing machine in the alcove behind the kitchen. He spent a few moments in the spare bath cleaning mud splatters from his body. He rinsed his mouth and ran his fingers through his hair. I guess I look presentable. Back in the kitchen, he poked around looking for cups or mugs for the tea. A smile tugged at his lips when he found dog food in the pantry, and he wondered if Skip had bought it for Zsa Zsa or for Butch. “Hey, girl. Are you hungry?” One of the drawers held an old screw-type can opener, and before long slurpy doggie sounds provided a counterpoint to the drumbeat of the rain. At last, Danny sat at the table with two cups of tea, one with three sugars. Skip collapsed into a chair next to him, using a towel to dry his hair. “I see you found the matches.” Danny’s eyes widened a bit to see that now Skip wore only a towel about his waist. “Uh, yeah. I found a can of dog food, too. I fed Zsa Zsa. I hope that’s all right.” She’d curled up on a pillow on the floor and fallen asleep despite the storm, as if this were her home. “Sure. I bought it when I went shopping for our meal. I thought I’d feed some to Butch and maybe Zsa Zsa, too. Food is a good way to make friends, don’t you think?” He didn’t quite wink. “Is this my tea?” He draped the towel he’d been using on his hair over his shoulders and pointed. Danny nodded, still trying to not look at Skip’s lithe body. In the glow from the candlelight, he looked more like a golden Adonis 126

Max Griffin than the sweaty runner from the other night. “Three lumps, right?” “Perfect, thanks.” Skip paused for a sip and then cast a wry glance downward. “I’m afraid you’ve got my only robe. I hope you don’t mind the towel.” “Uh, no, not at all. Geeze, I didn’t mean to take your only robe.” Dismay cascaded through him. I can’t get anything right. “Hey, I wanted you to have it. When you just had that towel on, I had a hard time concentrating on anything but your hot, little body.” He looked shamefaced. “You must think I’m a slut or something. I assure you I don’t hit on every guy I meet.” “I wasn’t thinking that. Not at all. You’re nice. I mean, you even saved me from the storm. Also.” He stopped. “Okay. Now I sound like Sarah Palin. You must think I’m a dolt.” Skip laughed out loud. “I think you’re nice, too. And dolts can’t quote Poe or figure out whether or not Deckard’s a replicant. But I, also, think you’re way too down on yourself. Hasn’t anyone told you lately what an interesting person you are?” “Me? I’m boring old Danny, who never goes anywhere and hides in his trailer.” “Well, you’re not boring to me. Our dinner the other night was the best time I’ve had in...well, I don’t know when. And that was because of you, Mr. Good Looking.” Danny flushed and an alarming hardness started to press against his robe. “I was just thinking when you sat down, that you looked like Adonis in a Rembrandt painting.” He halted, embarrassed by his unintended honesty. Skip gave him another one of his lop-sided grins. “I’m not sure Rembrandt ever painted Adonis. Rubens, maybe, but his Adonis was kind of fat, and had a woman hanging on him. Ick.” Skip placed a palm over Danny’s chest. “But you, my friend, you are gorgeous.

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Flatland You make my heart go pity-pat.” Danny squirmed and pushed his chair closer to the table to hide what now pulsed between his legs. “Well, there’s no accounting for taste,” he muttered. “Now, you’ve just got to stop that. Promise me that you won’t put yourself down one more time tonight, okay?” Skip jumped to his feet and went to Danny’s side. “Man, you’re all tensed up.” His hands dug into Danny’s back and shoulders. “Just relax. That’s it, deep breaths.” Like magic, the tension in Danny’s muscles unwound under Skip’s expert massage. His heart swelled, and the fine hairs on the back of his neck tingled with pleasure. “Oh, that feels nice.” “Don’t talk, just relax. Let it be about you, about me making you feel good. You deserve it.” Memory fought with the moment and a quiver of fear bolted through him. “No...” “Shh...just feel. Don’t think. That’s it. Let all that tension out. Give it to me, so you don’t have to bear it alone.” Pleasure and guilt and wonder and panic all coalesced, and then dissolved to reality. He squirmed away and fled to the sofa. Lightning cracked and the trailer rattled. “You don’t know me. Trust me, you don’t want to know me.” Skip followed him and knelt at his feet. Shock reverberated through Danny at the sight of Skip’s athletic body and the obvious evidence of desire that swelled underneath his towel. Skip slipped a gentle hand upon Danny’s thigh and toyed with the hairs he found there. His voice wavered, and his eyes seemed liquid as he turned his gaze to Danny’s face. “I don’t know who hurt you so. I don’t need to know. I just want to be here for you, now, tonight. The past can take care of itself, but tonight, won’t you

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Max Griffin let me be yours?” His voice faltered. “Everyone has secrets. Me, too. You can’t know...Let’s forget our secrets. Never mind our yesterdays, and our tomorrows will take care of themselves. We only have now, this instant. Let’s make the most of that, while we can.” Danny reached out and touched his chiseled cheek, tracing a line to his jaw. “I would like to forget the past, to live in the now.” Skip leveraged himself up to the sofa. His breath warmed Danny’s cheek as he whispered, “I’ll help. I need the same thing. We can help each other.” Danny ran his fingers through Skip’s hair, silky and soft, the color of corn silk. Their lips moved closer and brushed together. Skip reached inside his robe and his palm grazed against the hairs on Danny’s chest. His towel had come undone, and now draped over his body so it scarcely hid his nakedness. An enticing trail of short, tawny hair vanished underneath, and the swollen tip of his cock peeked out from behind the fabric. Danny reached out to touch his flawless physique. His skin was soft and supple, but rigid muscle twined under his perfect flesh, hard and taut. Awe and wonder filled his soul at such beauty. Skip snatched his towel to one side and exposed his immense organ, moisture glistening from its tip, its rigid core bound in veins that coiled under the skin like ropes. Skip pulled him closer. His mouth touched Danny’s lips once more, before descending to the hollow of his neck, underneath his ear. Pinpricks of pleasure shot down Danny’s side in response to his probing tongue. Skip’s hard-on pressed against him and his hands spread the robe open so their bodies could touch. Desperate to surrender, Danny tore the robe from his body. Exposed, but not vulnerable, he leaned back and pulled Skip toward him.

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Flatland Skip hovered over him, the tips of their cocks touching and their breaths commingling. They kissed, and Skip murmured, “You are so beautiful. I could look at you forever and never tire.” He leaned forward and his tongue found Danny’s neck once more, and then his ear. Danny arched his back and pulled the other man near. Skip paused, and whispered in his ear, “I need you so much. I want to be inside of you, for us to be one.” “God, I want it, too.” Skip grimaced. “We should be safe.” A rueful expression clouded his features. “I’ve got condoms and lube in the bedroom. I hope this doesn’t break the moment.” Danny relaxed. “No, I don’t think anything could break the moment.” “Shall we go? We’ll be more comfortable in the bedroom, and we won’t shock poor Zsa Zsa.” He stood and offered a hand. “Lead me, oh Obi Wan. I am but your Padawan.” “Very funny. Come on.” Skip grabbed a candlestick from the table and the two raced each other to bedroom. Danny bounced on the bed. “These sheets are so tight they feel like a trampoline.” “Sorry about that. It’s an old habit I picked up in the military.” “No wonder you look like Achilles. All those calisthenics soldiers do.” Skip frowned. He opened a drawer and put lube and a crimson condom packet on the nightstand. “No past, okay? Like we said.” Depression almost overwhelmed Danny then, but Skip rolled onto his back and waved his cock at him. “I thought you were gonna put a sheepskin on this thing.” “Sorry, all we seem to have is latex. But he does look like he’s

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Max Griffin ready to graduate.” Danny leaned over Skip and inhaled his sweet, musky scent. He ran his tongue down Skip’s shaft, from the crown to the base and then back again. He licked at the salty liquid that oozed from the tip and used his tongue to smear it over the head. Skip groaned, and his hips rocked. “Mmm, that’s nice.” Danny warmed some lube in his palm and used one finger to layer it onto the head. Then he gripped the entire shaft with his hand and slid it up and down, spreading the slick substance until it glistened in the candlelight. He reached for the condom packet, tore it open with his teeth, and unrolled it over Skip’s hard-on. When he was done, he opened his mouth and caressed Skip’s cock with lips and tongue. First, he toyed with just the head, but then he opened his jaws and his throat and accepted the entire organ. Skip gasped as Danny’s head continued in a slow waltz, in and out, up and down, teasing and swallowing. “Stop, stop. I don’t want to come yet. I want to fuck you.” Skip’s chest heaved and his breath husked. Danny pulled back and took in the gorgeous man beside him. “I want that, too.” He settled onto his back while Skip rolled over and knelt between his legs. He closed his eyes when Skip’s hands again worked magic, this time with his shoulders and his chest. “I love that you’re so hairy. It feels so masculine against my skin.” He nuzzled against Danny’s chest, rubbing his check back and forth. He roamed lower, his tongue toying with the dense fur on Danny’s abdomen, then tracing a delicate line lower. Sparks of delight flew down Danny’s thighs when Skip’s fingers found his balls. Then a wondrous, wet warmth consumed his cock, and he dissolved into the pure bliss of the moment, letting Skip play him like Galway plays a flute. The moment stretched, and he thought he might explode.

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Flatland Shivers of pleasure cascaded down his spine. Pleasure surged from his cock and pulsed to his core. His back arched in yearning for the sweet feel of those steely muscles against his quivering flesh. Skip’s lips again brushed against his as he whispered, “You’re so beautiful.” A finger traced a line down Danny’s cheek. “Your face is so cultured, so sophisticated.” Other fingers feathered against Danny’s chest and incited little flares of electric pleasure. “And your body drives me wild. It’s so slim, so inviting. All that hair on that elegant body gives me these wild, animal cravings.” His chest heaved. “Are you ready, my handsome prince?” “I think I’ve been ready all my life.” He lifted his legs until they rested on Skip’s shoulders. Skip’s fingertips traced a trail of flame down his ribs and to his buttocks, even as his organ teased Danny’s hole. Warm fingers, slick with the lube, found their way inside first, and his soul ached for completion. The muscles guarding his anus flexed and opened in longing. At last, slow and sure, Skip filled his need. Inch by inch, he eased inside until their bodies merged. Once there, he retreated, almost but not quite leaving, but then returning ever deeper. Their bodies communed together, in a dance that was ancient and new, hallowed and homespun, redeeming and redeemed. Danny’s palms skimmed against Skip’s flesh while Skip’s strong grip held him fast. More than mere pleasure resonated between them. A glimpse of the divine, always out of reach but so close now, drew them together. Their hearts beat as one, joined by a visceral yearning just as surely as their bodies were joined in the embrace primeval. Danny’s core thrummed in resonance with each thrust, faster and more powerful. His insides burned with the flame of friction and primal need. Skip’s body tensed as he thrust into Danny and halted, his muscles caught in a spasm and his face frozen in a grimace of

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Max Griffin penultimate pleasure. At that transcendent moment, when he and Skip merged in pleasure divine and eternal, time stopped. Danny was at once lost and found, consumed and fulfilled, exalted and exhilarated. His body and soul convulsed with Skip’s in a harmony that was sacred and profane. Bliss, mutual and solitary, consumed him and confirmed him. For an instant, the universe and all its horrors vanished in the gift of physical love. After an eternity that was too short, the world returned. Hot liquid jetted from his cock and splattered onto his chest, his cheeks, his lips. Skip lurched over him, gasping. Perspiration dripped from his nose and ran in streams down the contours of his body. Skip pulled away and lowered Danny’s legs. “Oh God, that was...I can’t tell you how wonderful that was.” He flopped onto his back, his chest heaving, and gripped Danny’s hand. “Promise me you’ll never go away.” Danny gazed at him in wonder. How could this incredible man feel this way about someone like me? Yet, there it was. The evidence was in the deed. But being what he was, bearing the cross that was his fate, how could Danny promise anything? Rain from the spent storm still drizzled against the windows. He squeezed Skip’s hand. Tomorrow would be another day.

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Chapter 16

Danny squinted against

the late afternoon sunlight streaming through a crack in the drapes, stretched, and rolled over. He ran his hand across the Skip-sized indentation in the crumpled sheets, and a smile pulled his lips upward. The scents of coffee and bacon and the clatter of pots and pans told him Skip must be busy in the kitchen. Still naked from last night’s lovemaking, he sat on the edge of the bed and suppressed a groan. His knee and forehead twinged from yesterday’s fall, and he ached in other, more personal places as well. His joints creaked when he clambered to his feet and staggered toward the bathroom. He moved the clean linens and the toothbrush, still in plastic shrink-wrapping, from the top of the toilet and performed his morning ablutions. A knock sounded while he brushed his teeth, and Skip called to him through the door. “I see you’re awake. I’m fixing breakfast. How would you like your eggs?” Danny answered around the foam in his mouth. “Sunny side up, if that’s okay.” “Up it is. There’s time if you want to take a shower. I already took mine in the spare bathroom, so I wouldn’t wake you.” “Will do.” Danny ran his fingers through his scraggly hair and over his stubble. There was a razor, but he didn’t think he should

Flatland use it without permission. He left the scruff on his face and settled, instead, for a quick shower. Feeling refreshed, he toweled his hair to a-slightly-soggy mop and ran his fingers through it to straighten the curls as best he could. Danny was sure that he’d left his robe by the couch in the living room, but now it hung on the back of a chair in the bedroom. Skip must have retrieved it and laid it out for him. He wrapped it about himself and followed his nose into the other room. Skip stood over the stove wearing running shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt. Danny touched Skip’s shoulder as he squeezed past. “That smells great. Eggs and bacon. Oh! And you fixed waffles, too. Now that’s fancy.” He pulled a mug from the cabinet and poured himself coffee. Skip’s arms wrapped around his waist from behind. “I wanted to show you I can be domestic. Also.” He snickered and planted a kiss on Danny’s neck before he returned to the skillet. Danny put his mug on the counter and sidled up behind Skip. “You gave me such a nice massage last night, let me return the favor.” His fingers dug into the taut muscles of Skip’s shoulders. “Ohh, that’s nice.” He twisted his neck and oozed against Danny’s chest. He grinned and worked his way up Skip’s shoulders to the nape of his neck. He paused and frowned when he found a hard lump, maybe an inch or so long buried under the hairline. “Hey, what’s this? It feels like a little nodule or something. Maybe you should have a doctor check it out.” Skip pulled away. “It’s nothing. Just a leftover from when I was in the Rangers. Hey, breakfast is almost done. Can you pull a couple of plates from the cabinet?” Danny let him load his plate with steaming waffles, bacon and

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Max Griffin eggs and then carried it to the table with his coffee. Skip poured two glasses of orange juice, served them, and returned with his own breakfast and coffee. “Did you sleep well?” he asked as he sat down. “Like a baby.” “Uh huh. Like a baby gorilla. Did you know you snore?” Dismay cascaded through Danny at Skip’s words. “I hope I didn’t keep you awake!” “You look like I just slapped you! I was kidding. If we’re going to be around each other, you’ll have to get used to my warped sense of humor.” “I’m sorry. I guess I’m too sensitive.” “Arggh! Stop apologizing already. I like having you here. I loved listening to you snore. It told me there was this hot, masculine man in bed next to me.” He grinned and reached out to stroke Danny’s knee. “I don’t know about you, but last night was pretty marvelous. In fact, life’s been really looking up ever since I met you.” A sunny smile dazzled Danny before Skip returned to his food. “How are you feeling?” “Good. Well, I mean,” he corrected his grammar. “I’ve got some aches and pains from falling but nothing bad.” He blushed and squirmed. “I ache other places, too, in a good kind of way. Personal places, from where you, well, you know.” Skip waggled his eyebrows. “I know. I’m hoping I can give you some more of those aches later.” He stopped to crunch on bacon. “No headaches? No blurred vision?” Danny tossed his head and wet hair flopped against his neck. “Nothing. You’re a good medic.” Skip winced. “I’m no medic.” He toyed with his food. “How’s breakfast?” “Fantastic. You really can cook.” Danny swallowed a piece of waffle. “Last night was great for me, too. The best ever, in fact.” 136

Flatland Skip’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead and his face turned crimson. “I was thinking the same thing, but I wasn’t brave enough to tell you. I was afraid you’d think I was coming on too strong again.” He stopped and gazed into Danny’s eyes. “I think this is the start of something really special. I’ve thought that ever since I saw you that first night with your groceries, looking so mysterious and edgy with those sunglasses. Why were you wearing them, anyway?” “Sometimes bright lights hurt my eyes, even headlights. I just got in the habit, I guess.” “Well, I’m glad you didn’t hide those beautiful brown eyes the other night.” The sound of a paw scrabbling against door interrupted them. Skip jumped to his feet. “I fed Zsa Zsa when I got up and then let her out. I gave her a quick bath, too. I told her to be sure to come back here instead of going home. Looks like she’s a smart puppy.” Zsa Zsa bounced into the trailer, stopped to lick Skip’s hand, and then ran to where Danny sat. She plopped onto her haunches and her eyes followed his hand as he lifted a piece of bacon to his mouth. He hesitated. “You want some, baby?” He broke a piece off and held it out. She slipped it from his hand and scarfed it down with a toss of her head. Arf! Skip laughed and retreated to the sofa. “Now you’ve done it. She’ll expect the rest of your breakfast.” He clicked on the television. “I thought I’d catch the afternoon weather report. It’s almost five.” “God, we slept all day?” Danny slipped the rest of his bacon to Zsa Zsa and stood. “You cooked, I’ll clear the table.” He stacked dishes and headed to the kitchen. “I really have to get back home, at least for some real clothes. I can’t be running around half naked, after all.” He’d need to take a pill soon, too. 137

Max Griffin “That’s all right. You should run around naked. Just for me.” Skip leered at him and turned up the volume. “We missed Bones. This one has Colin Fisher in it. He’s so cute. He reminds me of you.” Danny scraped the plates and loaded them in the dishwasher. “Sorry, I don’t know the show all that well. Mostly, I watch old movies.” “Well, I like old movies, too. Oh, here’s the local news.” Skip leaned forward to watch. “You want another cup of coffee?” Danny called from the kitchen. “Sure. One teaspoon of sugar and no cream, please.” Danny carried two cups into the living room and perched on the arm of the sofa next to Skip. On the screen, the news guy’s cheery voice read something about highway construction in Wichita and stimulus funds. The picture changed and a photo of striking blond woman flashed on the screen. The news drone’s voice took on a deeper tone. “An anonymous source with the Kansas Bureau of Investigation reports more developments in the mysterious murder of Roland Winters. Friends found Winters’ body two nights ago when he failed to report to work. According to our sources, the wounds that killed Winters bear a striking similarity to those of Brandi Meyers, the Wichita native who was murdered last week at the Dallas residence of Mortimer Tillinghast. Our viewers will remember Meyers from the many commercials she did over the last several years as the spokesperson for a local frozen custard chain.” Danny sipped at his coffee. “Where did they find this guy? A Mary Tyler Moore rerun? He sounds like he’s from the Ted Baxter School of Journalism.” “Well, it’s the local Fox outlet. What can you expect?”

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Flatland The camera cut back to the sliver-haired newscaster, and his voice resumed in deep, pseudo-grave tones. “Sources report to the Fox News Team that Tillinghast had been indicted by the US Attorney under the RICO anti-racketeering statute but was cooperating with prosecutors. The police indicate both murders are still under investigation and may be connected.” He flipped a page on his desk and beamed at the camera. “Stay tuned, and the Fox Sports Team will update you on the latest from the Wildcats’ football camp.” Skip frowned and clicked off the television. “I thought you wanted to catch the weather?” “I changed my mind. I hate local news anyway. We can get the weather off my computer.” “Sure.” Danny stood. “Really, I should go get some clothes.” Skip gave him a lopsided grin. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be grumpy.” He sighed. “Go ahead and get some clothes. Will you come back? I promise to be nice.” “Sure. I don’t work for two more nights.” “Good. Maybe we’ll download Blade Runner from Netflix and watch it.” Danny stood and took his coffee cup to the kitchen to rinse it out. “Hey, Zsa Zsa looks great after her bath.” Skip followed him and kissed him on the cheek. “Yeah, she was so patient. She just stood there and stared at me with those big, doleful eyes. I’ve got to show you what I found inside her collar, too. It had a zippered compartment, like a money belt. Go ahead and get your stuff. You can take a look when you get back.” He dragged a bent finger across Danny’s cheek. “Bring more than just one night’s worth of clothes. Move in, if you want.” “Be careful what you wish for. I might just do that.” Danny

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Max Griffin tightened the belt on the robe. “I’ll be right back.” Zsa Zsa’s ears perked up when he headed to the door. “Baby, stay here with Mr. Skip. Daddy will be right back.” He dashed outside and ran to his trailer. The sun-baked soil burned against his bare feet. He swerved to avoid a stagnant pool of rainwater and snatched open the door to his trailer. “Damn, that’s hot!” He shook his fingers out from the scalding doorknob and headed to the bathroom and his pills. When he returned from next door, Skip was sitting at the kitchen table staring at his laptop. A much-folded piece of paper and two keys were arranged in a neat row next to him. His face lit up as Danny came in. “Hey. That didn’t take long.” “So how’s the weather look tonight?” “Clear and hot. Maybe we can go jogging later. Or something. Do you jog?” “You jog, I’ll ride my bike. Will that work?” “Sure.” Skip glanced at the two plastic bags in Danny’s fists. “The second drawer in the dresser in the bedroom is empty. I didn’t have enough to fill it up when I moved in.” “Kewel. Be right back.” Danny retreated to the bedroom and stuffed two pairs of blue jeans and a wad of t-shirts into the drawer. He fished his amber pill bottle from his pants pocket and looked around the room. After a moment, he stuffed it under the t-shirts and closed the drawer. Back in the kitchen, he headed to the coffee pot. “Want another cup?” Skip shook his head. “Nah. More than two cups and I won’t sleep later.” He looked up from his computer screen. “I’m glad you didn’t shave. I like the scruffy look.” “Scruff today, ZZ Top tomorrow. I’ll have to scrape it off

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Flatland tonight.” A grin bent Skip’s features. “I should have such problems. If I don’t shave for a week, I look like a peach. But it takes a week.” He glanced back at his screen. “Come look at this.” Danny poured a cup of coffee before he walked to where he could look over Skip’s shoulder. “It looks like a logon screen for something.” He peered at the screen and read, “Banque Internationale de Crédit. What’s that? Some French bank?” “It’s in the Caymans.” Skip clicked the mouse and opened a new tab on his browser. “The only thing related to it I could find online was a news story about a murder of some Chicago socialite a couple of years ago. The article implied that the bank was mobbed up.” “Uh huh. Are you looking for a place to hide ill-gotten gains?” Skip snorted. “I wish. I couldn’t afford the rent for this dump if my buddy weren’t paying.” His index finger tapped the creased paper on the table. “I found this stuffed in the zippered pocket in Zsa Zsa’s collar when I gave her a bath.” “No shit? What’s on it?” Danny took a sip of coffee. “I love mysteries, don’t you?” He pulled out the chair next to Skip and sat down. “Maybe. It depends.” His tone was grim. “Our neighbor, the one that got blown away in the mob hit.” He read a name from a piece of paper on the table. “Oren Lelande.” “Yeah, that was his name.” “Right. This paper is a rental contract signed by Lelande for a storage locker in Wichita. Someone scribbled some stuff at the bottom, under the signatures.” He handed it to Danny. “I take it this web address is for the bank?” “Right.”

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Max Griffin Danny dropped his gaze back to the paper and read, “Gate Pass Code 8834, account number X93AJ54K. What do those mean?” “When I type in the account number on the bank’s website, it says ‘enter your four digit password.’” “That’s the other number?” “No. It told me it didn’t match and I had two more tries or I’d be locked out of the account.” Danny frowned. “So you think Lelande had a secret bank account in the Caymans and that you’ve got the account number but not the password.” “Right. And there’s more. I did a search on Lelande. It looks like the dumbass didn’t even use a fake name while he was here. From the news articles I found, I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts that he was in the FBI witness protection program.” “I like doughnuts,” Danny mused. “Why would you think he was in witness protection? Other than the fact that he wound up in Flatland? We are the ass-end of nowhere.” Skip’s voice stayed steady. “He testified in a mob case in Chicago, and then he disappeared. The prosecutor wouldn’t deny he was in protection. And you said that the FBI was interested in him. I bet this was a witness protection holding station before they moved him on to the next location.” “Witness protection works like that? I figured they’d just move him someplace remote and dump him.” “Depends. Most of the time they move the witness around for a couple of years. They go through different locations with only a few months at each one, until they’re sure they’ve left no trail.” Danny frowned and remembered that Oren wouldn’t be going anywhere. “I had no idea. You seem to know a lot about it.” Skip waved his hand in dismissal. “It just makes sense.” He

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Flatland picked up one more piece of paper. “The only other things in the collar were these keys.” He handed them to Danny. Danny glanced at the rental contract. “This says the storage locker is in Wichita. You think the keys open the locker?” “I bet one of them does. Or else the pass code, the one on the paper, opens it. The other key looks like it’s for a safe deposit box.” “Well it’s a mystery, all right.” Danny shrugged. “Shouldn’t we turn this over to the FBI?” Skip leaned back and folded his hands behind his head. “According to the news articles, this Oren guy swindled millions from the mob. No one ever found the money. I bet that it’s sitting in that bank in the Caymans or else maybe in the storage locker.” “Millions, huh? I think I could retire on that. You didn’t answer my question, though.” Danny forced a smile. “I need more coffee. You want anything?” “In a minute. Look, I’m going to go to Wichita tomorrow and check out that storage locker. Suppose the money’s there? Or maybe the password to the bank account is in the locker. We could be set for life.” “We?” A thrill passed through Danny. We, just like normal people. “I like the sound of that. But won’t we get in trouble?” “If the FBI is too stupid to find it, why should we give it to them? It’s mob money anyway, right? Finder’s keepers. Come with me. We’ll be partners in crime, share and share alike. If we find the money, we’ll be rich beyond our wildest dreams. We can just disappear and start over, together. We’ll buy a Greek island and hire cute houseboys to cook and clean. What do you think?” Danny let his face relax into a smile. “It sounds like a nice dream. I guess it’s worth a trip to Wichita to find out. What’s the harm in doing that?”

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Chapter 17

Edgar scowled

at the clock on his dash: midnight. Highway 67 twisted in front of him, looping northward through the hills on the Iowa side of the Mississippi River. The headlights of an oncoming vehicle dazzled him, and he flashed his brights on and off. “Son of a bitch, dim your fucking lights.” He squinted gritty fatigue from his eyes and blared on his horn as the car flashed by him. His lips compressed in a grimace, and he longed to turn around and follow the offending driver, but discipline kept him on his path. The mysterious text message from Grace two hours ago grated on him. That fucking bitch better have a good reason for dragging me all the way out here in the middle of the night. He pushed a button on his GPS, which announced it was twenty-eight minutes to his destination. The car’s cruise control kept a steady pace four miles an hour above the speed limit. Lightning flashed on the horizon and wind whipped at his car. A giant thunderbolt slashed from heaven to earth on his left, and heavy raindrops splatted on his windshield. He swore and turned on the radio, looking for weather information. His rain-sensing wipers swished on, while static crackled from the radio. The car crested over a hill, and a torrent of rain buffeted the vehicle. He switched the wipers to high and slowed. Fuck. I can’t see shit. He used the car’s Bluetooth link to make a call. The phone

Flatland rang once through the speakers before Wayne’s crisp voice answered. “King residence.” Rain drummed on the roof of Edgar’s vehicle, and he slowed further. “I’m about thirty miles south of you, near Sabula. The weather sucks. You got any information on whether it’s gonna clear up?” “Edgar. How nice to hear your voice. Mrs. King is upstairs watching Rockford Files reruns. Would you like to speak to her?” Edgar turned up the volume. “No. I want to know if there’s any fucking tornados out there.” Hail clattered on his roof and he slowed further. “I’ve got the TV on here in the kitchen. The Dubuque stations say there’s a severe thunderstorm warning, and it looks like there is hail where you’re at. No funnel clouds, though.” Edgar squinted again. “I can’t see a fuckin’ thing. I’m down to like thirty miles an hour. There better not be any hail damage to my car.” Wayne’s bantering voice came back. “Would you like me to relay that message to Mrs. King?” Edgar clenched his jaws and took a deep breath. “No. Of course not. Just tell me what the fuckin’ radar shows. Am I gonna have to drive through this shit all the way there?” “Just a minute while I check another channel.” The speakers emitted an undercurrent of weatherman babble. “Okay, Channel 8 has Doppler radar up. It looks like the cell you’re in breaks up just north of Sabula. There’s another one over Maquoketa headed this way, but if you hurry, you should beat it here.” Like I’m gonna dawdle, asshole. “Okay then. Tell her I’ll be there in, what? Not more than forty minutes, I think. You’re right, it’s clearing up some.”

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Max Griffin When Edgar’s car finally squished to a stop in front of Grace’s gingerbread Victorian mansion, the rain had diminished to a steady drizzle. As he ran from his car to the front porch, an enormous bolt cracked nearby, followed at once by a deafening roar. The house lights flickered and dimmed before returning to full strength. The skies opened, and sheets of rain, driven by relentless winds, drenched him even under the shelter of the porch. Edgar wanted to pound on the door, to break it in and kill someone, anyone. Instead, he clenched at his sport coat and rang the bell. Once. A tree limb cracked and fell to the ground in another gust of wind. He eyed the doorbell and resisted the urge to ring a second time. The hall light came on and the door opened to reveal Wayne, wearing his usual crisp, white slacks and tight muscle shirt. A smile creased his face. The ragged scar that ran from the corner of his mouth and up his cheek seemed to widen his grimace into a predator’s gaping maw. “Edgar, won’t you please come in?” He stepped back and eyed Edgar, who entered and stomped his feet. Water spattered on the immaculate rugs and wood floors. “You look like a drowned rat. Here, let me get you a something to dry off with.” He went to the hall bath and emerged with a fluffy, floral towel. Edgar swiped at his hair and face, almost gagging on the scent of lilac from the fabric softener. “Any idea what the fuck this is about?” “Tsk. Such language.” Wayne narrowed his eyes. His tongue flicked, lizard-like, behind his grin and hid under his teeth. “She got a call from our newest clients about seven last night.” He fingered his scar, and Edgar longed to slice it open. “I must say, she seemed most vexed afterwards. About an hour later, she told me you’d be joining us.”

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Flatland “So you don’t know anything. Fine. Where is she?” “Upstairs in her sitting room. I’ve alerted her that you’re here. She’s still watching her shows, and there’s tea.” Edgar snorted. “I could use something stronger.” “If I may, sir, I’d suggest that you wait for that until after you talk to her. As I said, she was quite vexed.” Edgar inspected his bland visage. “Vexed. Right. Maybe you could have something ready for me, then, when we’re done?” “I’ll prepare Irish coffee, sir. Something to take the chill out and settle your...well, something to take the chill out.” He tipped an eyebrow toward the stairs. “She’s waiting.” Now his scar ran from the corner of his mouth up his cheek in a grotesque imitation of a leer. “Right.” Edgar heaved a deep breath. His wet clothes and the too-cold air conditioning chilled his limbs as he climbed the treads. His toes turned to semi-numb sticks of ice in his soggy socks and shoes. Someday I’ll pay her back for this. At the top of the stairs, he followed the lights to an open door. Grace looked up when he entered her bedchamber, and what passed for a smile wrinkled her face. “Edgar, how nice of you to join me.” She reclined on a divan and pulled at the lavender frills on her robe, clutching the pink flannel underneath more tightly to her bosom. Strands of iron-gray hair trailed from underneath her red wig, and the emerald-green fake fur on her slippers puffed around her feet. Her eyes twinkled in the glow from the single crystal chandelier on the end table at her side. Votive candles filled the room with heavy scents of chamomile and anise. Dialog from The Rockford Files murmured from the television. He kept his voice steady and bent his lips into a smile. “Always a pleasure, Grace.” He glanced at the chair across from her and raised his eyebrows. 147

Max Griffin “Please, have a seat, dear.” She waved at him and then turned her attention back to the television where James Garner and Stuart Margolin seemed to be arguing over some ridiculous scam. “Have you seen this episode? It’s one of my favorites. But I must say, I don’t see what Rockford sees in that awful Angel.” He tried to settle in the chair, but its hard seat and stiff back defeated him. “I’m afraid I don’t watch much television, Grace.” “You really should, Edgar. It can be instructive.” She sipped at her tea. Tonight there was only one cup, and she didn’t offer any to Edgar. That asshole Wayne, acting like there was tea here for me. Like I’d want any. I’m going to enjoy pulling his guts out and using them to strangle him. Someday. He nursed the thought to cool his anger. Silence stretched between them. Outside, rain pelted the windows, and the house shuddered against the wind. Thunder clapped and lightning lit the surrounding woods in an almostconstant flicker of blue light. At last the television switched to a commercial, and Grace turned back to him. “How did things go in Kansas, Edgar?” Her mango-sweet voice turned his stomach. “You got the photo. You paid me. Contract fulfilled.” He wondered again why she had summoned him. Whatever the reason, it couldn’t be good. “Yes, I did pay you.” She sipped her tea. “You remember our conversation about...extra-curricular activities?” “Of course.” “So there was none of that?” “No.” He licked his lips. “The target wasn’t exactly alone, though. Some kid showed up, but I followed your desires. I just

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Flatland knocked him out and made my getaway. No collateral damage. No big deal.” She nodded and her wig slipped. “No big deal.” She took another demure sip of tea. “No big deal.” She murmured. Edgar didn’t jump when she threw her teacup across the room, and it shattered against the wall. “What about your little escapade in Wichita? That could have been a fucking big deal, you asshole.” Her voice lashed like boiling oil. The tea dribbled down the wall and reminded Edgar of blood splatter after a head shot. He thought about feigning ignorance about Wichita, but he didn’t really give a fuck what she thought. “Really? I’d closed the deal in Flatland. You’d confirmed the contract and paid me. I was off the fucking clock. Free to do what I wanted.” Her eyes flashed and her nostrils pinched. “You’re free when I fucking tell you’re free and not one second sooner.” Despite her whiskey voice, her words snapped out. “I’ve done this kind of thing before, and it wasn’t a big deal. What’s so different about this one?” “I fucking told you we’ve got new clients, ones that care about this kind of shit.” She adjusted her robe, and her feet shuffled like little green tribbles about to mate. “Little escapades like that could fuck everything up for us.” Her fingers made little quotes as she said “escapade.” He wanted to slice her digits off and use them to write the words in blood on the television screen, but instead, he shrugged and said, “I don’t see that it’s anyone’s business.” “I couldn’t give a crap about that dickhead whose throat you slit. But I just landed another new client. They were here, negotiating a contract with me when they got a call. Seems that Kruppman’s organization wasn’t the only one interested in, what

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Max Griffin was the guy’s name? Owen something?” “Oren Lelande.” He supposed she’d get to the point eventually. “Whatever. Well, they were going to hire us to squeeze him. This swindle of his ripped off the wrong people, including our new clients. They wanted us to snatch him and find their money. Naturally, I thought of you and your special skills.” He nodded. “Naturally.” “Here’s where it could turn to shit.” She squirmed on her divan and leaned forward. “I tell you, these new clients are connected. By the next day, they had the local sheriff’s file on your hit, the FBI’s fucking file, and a state police survey of all criminal activity that night. Your little adventure in Wichita stood out like a fucking sore thumb. Two professional hits with no clues, on the same night, and in the same ass-end-of-the-universe state. That would get the attention of Forrest fucking Gump.” “I see. I couldn’t have anticipated this, Grace.” “But I did, you dumbass. That’s why I told you no playing around when you’re on the job. If they connect us to that hit, we’re both fucked. You’re lucky I didn’t just have Wayne blow your head off at the front door.” He shifted and the weight of his weapon comforted him. Fucking lucky for you, bitch, that you didn’t try. I’d be eating your brains right now if you had. He kept his voice as smooth as semen dribbling over a fresh kill. “Now, Grace, you know you wouldn’t do that. I’m your best agent.” She snorted. “If you’re the best, then I’m truly fucked.” Rockford came back on and she snatched up the remote control and shut off the television. “They haven’t connected either hit with you. At least not yet. Let me tell you, though, they were royally pissed that what’s-his-name, Leeland, got killed before they got their

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Flatland money back. Anyway, they got another lead for us to follow.” At last she was getting to the point. “Go on.” “Seems this Leeland guy--” “Lelande.” She scowled. “Don’t interrupt. Seems he had a secret account in the Caymans. Except our clients knew about it. They tried to break into it, except this bank’s tied up with some outfit in Paris, outside their control. But they left a Trojan in the bank’s computer, to alert them if someone tried to access Leeland’s account.” You dumb bitch. At least get his name right. He nodded. “And now someone has.” “Yeah. They tracked it right back to that shithole in butt-fuck Kansas where you did the last job. Some faggot that just got dumped by the Army tried to access the account yesterday. He lives in the same trailer park as Leeland did.” “And now our new clients think he will lead them to their money.” “Exactly. That’s your new job.” “They don’t know about our earlier contract? The one with Kruppman.” “Of course not. They connect us to that hit and we’re dead meat. They already told me they plan to take out whoever did the hit. They don’t like being inconvenienced, and losing them their one lead to their money royally pissed them off. They’ll never know it was us. You think I’m a fucking idiot?” He refrained from giving the obvious answer. “Playing two clients against each other sounds like a dangerous game, Grace. What if they talk to each other?” “You let me worry about that. We play this right, and we’ll do fine. I’m telling you, these new clients are big. We’re gonna make

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Max Griffin a fortune off them.” She pushed a button and Wayne’s bland voice came over the intercom. “Yes, Mrs. King?” “Wayne, I’m afraid I’ve broken a teacup. Could you please bring more tea, and two cups? One for Mr. Szabo, too.” “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be right up.” “Edgar, this is big. You give them access to that bank in the Caymans and they’ll pay us a cool million bucks, no questions asked. Half for me, half for you.” “It sounds simple enough. I do know how to extract information from unwilling subjects.” “Your prior employer trained you well, dear.” She rubbed her hands together. “I’ll say this for these new clients. They got decent intelligence for us. The file they gave me has a complete description of this loser faggot, even a photo. Drain him dry then kill him. But first, find out the account numbers and the pass codes.” Edgar’s heart warmed at the image of draining him dry. He shrugged. “Can do.” He paused. “I take it their agent who gathered this intelligence was discrete? The target doesn’t know anyone is watching?” “He’s as clueless as a fish sniffing at a baited hook, dear.” “Well, in any case, I’m sure he won’t be expecting my special skills.” Edgar paused. “I wonder if the FBI will be nosing around after our earlier...activities?” Icicles glinted in her snake-like eyes. “I’m sure they are.” He nodded. “I’ll have to spook our prey then, and get him out from under their thumb.” She shrugged. “I’m sure you’ll think of something creative.” Her voice turned stern. “I want you there tomorrow. No fiddling around on this. We need action right away.”

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Flatland He thought for a moment. “I can do that, but I’ll need you to arrange access to electronic surveillance equipment.” “Work it out with Wayne. There’s a supplier in Wichita we’ve used before.” She stopped speaking when her major domo cleared his throat and entered the room. The servant didn’t even glance at the stains on the wall or the broken china. Instead, he placed the silver tea service he was carrying on the table next to Grace, and purred, “Would you like me to pour for you, ma’am?” She lounged back and tugged at her robe. “Be a dear and pour for both of us,” she simpered. Her palm touched Edgar’s wrist. The feel of her touch evoked thoughts of dried leather stretched over sticks. “Sit with me for a while, and we’ll talk of more pleasant things.” Her velvet voice tickled his ears, sweet as arsenic and delicate as old lace. Outside, lightning flashed and thunder cracked. The house lights flickered and then the storm snuffed them out. The faint glow from the votive candles cloaked the grin that twisted Edgar’s lips. This was going to be fun.

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Chapter 18

Skip peered at the GPS screen on his phone, and then gazed out the windshield of Danny’s car. “It looks like you’ll turn right at the next cross street, and then the storage place is on the left.” “Good.” Danny glanced at him before turning his eyes back to the street. “It’s great to have a navigator. I’m always getting lost when I’m by myself.” His fingers tapped the steering wheel in time to the song playing on the radio: Journey’s Any Way You Want It. “I’m glad you don’t mind oldies.” Skip nodded. “I remember my mom listening to this song when I was little.” He pointed as Danny turned the corner. “There’s the sign.” He glanced at the abandoned car dealership across the street. “This neighborhood looks pretty deserted.” The storage locker compound hid in darkness and shadow underneath a burned-out streetlight. He longed for a sidearm or at least a combat knife. Threat assessment. You’ve got to stop that, Lieutenant. You’re in Kansas now. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s around.” The suspension in Danny’s old Toyota creaked as the car bounced over potholes in the street. Zsa Zsa had been sleeping in the back seat, and she woke and gazed out the window. “Sorry, girl,” Danny muttered. He turned the volume down on the radio as the tune changed to George Michael singing Faith. “It’s kind of hard to see.” He pulled into the drive and stopped at the gate. “There’s a keypad. What’s the number again?”

Flatland “8834.” Skip turned on the map light and consulted the rental contract. “We’re looking for building nineteen, unit twelve.” Danny punched the keypad and the barrier lifted. He drove into the narrow lane separating the storage buildings. “Are there any signs? The headlights are useless here.” Skip opened the glove box. “You got a flashlight, maybe?” “There’s one in the back seat, in the duffel bag. Grandpa made me keep an emergency kit in the car in case I get caught in a blizzard.” “Smart man.” Skip knelt on his seat and inspected the contents in the rear of the car. He shoved a coat and some newspapers aside and unzipped the duffel. Zsa Zsa sniffed at his hand, and he paused to accept a doggie kiss. “I see you’re well supplied. Water, energy bars, toilet paper. There any lube in here?” “Don’t be silly.” “Here’s the flashlight.” He turned it on and shined it on Danny’s face. “You’re blushing. I knew you would be when I mentioned lube.” “Stop it. I can’t see.” Danny held up a hand in front of his eyes. “Let’s just find the locker and get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.” “Okaley-dokaley.” Skip rolled down his window and illuminated the building next to them. “This is building eight, and it looks like the one to our right is building nine. Why don’t you go forward to the next row?” The car edged ahead and Skip checked the number. “Stop. This one’s fourteen, and that one is fifteen. I bet nineteen is at the end of this row.” “Okay.” Danny turned the car into the narrow strip between the two buildings and the vehicle crept forward. “Sixteen, seventeen. Keep going.” Skip watched. “Yup. There

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Max Griffin it is: nineteen. Let me hop out and find our unit.” “You mean Oren’s unit.” “It’s ours now, babe.” Skip bounced out of the car and read the numbers painted on the garage doors. “Shit. One through six on this side, so I bet twelve is on the other side. Why don’t you drive on around, and I’ll just walk there and open it up.” He checked to make sure the key was still in his pocket as he headed for the walkway between the buildings. The car and the headlights vanished around the corner at the end of the row while Skip slowed and checked the perimeter. Something rustled and dashed into the shadows. He flattened himself against the building and memories of urban warfare in Karbala flashed through him for an instant. Don’t be nuts, man. This is Wichita. No snipers here. He panned the light over the scrub brush and red eyes stared back at him. He jumped when a raccoon dashed out of hiding and scrambled away. “Shee-it.” Feeling like an idiot, he continued around the building and found Danny waiting in front of unit twelve. “Where you been? I was worried.” “I got spooked by a raccoon.” He fished the key out his pocket. “You want to do the honors?” “Good thing Zsa Zsa didn’t see it. She’d want to play. Hold the light for me, please.” Danny unlocked the padlock and raised the garage door. “What the fuck?” Skip shined the light over the interior of the small room. Rat droppings, cobwebs, and a scattering of newspapers filled the ten-foot square space. “Shit. It’s empty.” “Not quite.” Danny knelt next to the right-hand wall and held up a rectangular piece of metal. “This looks like an electronic component of some kind.”

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Flatland “Can I see?” Skip shined the flashlight on it and turned it over in his hand. “It says it’s a Toshiba HDD 1901. God, it’s tiny. I don’t recognize the connectors, either.” “Well, ‘HDD’ has got to mean ‘hard disk drive.’“ Danny paused for a moment, as if in thought. “I went to high school with someone who’d know what it is. She lives right here in Wichita now.” “Yeah?” Skip checked his watch. “It’s after ten. You think we can call her tonight?” “She’s a night owl’s night owl.” He pulled his phone from his shirt pocket and dialed. “Tina? It’s Danny.” He listened, and then a smile split his face. “Yeah, that Danny. How you doing, girl?” Skip turned away and shuffled through the papers on the floor of the storage locker, hoping to find something else that might be useful. He knelt and read want-ads from Wichita and Flatland from a week ago but found nothing else of importance. “Well, she says it’s a hard drive all right.” Danny closed his phone and headed back to the car. “She’s got the tools to read what’s on it, too. Come on. You’ll like her.” “Okay. There’s nothing else here but rat shit anyway.” Skip brushed the dirt from his hands. “I wish there was a place to wash up.” “There’s hand sanitizer in my duffle. Just a second.” Danny opened the back door and rummaged through his bag. “Here you go.” He handed Skip a squeeze bottle of germicide gel and a roll of toilet paper. “Thanks. You must have been a boy scout.” “Ha. They wouldn’t let me in. I was too geeky and weird.” Skip tossed the used tissue onto the ground and dragged his palm over Danny’s cheek. “You’re not geeky to me, babe. I love

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Max Griffin you just the way you are.” He grinned and tugged at his lover’s beard. “God, you weren’t kidding about how fast that grows. That look and feel drives me wild.” Danny looked away. “We should go.” Skip shined the light on him. “Geeze, you’re blushing again. You’re so cute. Come here.” He pulled Danny to him, squeezed him in a bear hug, and gave him a fierce kiss. “I’m glad we found each other.” “Me, too.” “Okay, now we can go. Lead on, MacDuff, and don’t cry, ‘hold, enough.’” “Macbeth. Except the line really is...” “Stop right there. Are you sure you want to correct me? I know karate.” Skip crouched in an attack pose and let an evil grin play with his lips. “Do you really know karate?” Skip rolled his eyes and looked at Zsa Zsa, who peered at them from the backseat of the car. “You know, girl, we’re really going to have to work on this sense of humor thing.” He climbed into the passenger seat. “Come on. Let’s see what Oren left for us on this hard drive.” Skip relaxed and toyed with Zsa Zsa’s springy fur while Danny negotiated the late-night streets. The dog stuck her head out of the passenger window, her tongue a gaggle in the slipstream from the car and her tail a gleeful little engine that thumped against his thigh. He glanced at Danny and inquired, “You say you’ve known, what’s her name? Tina? You’ve known her since high school?” “Yeah. Tina Mann. We were best buds in school, kind of the dweeb squad outcasts. We even went to vo-tech together.” Skip sighed. “I’ve lost track of my high school friends. Thank God.” 158

Flatland Danny glanced at him and returned his eyes to the road. “Tina and I chat online sometimes late at night, when I take a break. But I know what you mean about high school. If I ever see most of those jerks again, it’ll be too soon.” “Same here.” Skip thought about his former comrades-in-arms from the Rangers and melancholy settled over him. “I’m glad you’ve got a friend like Tina. My life feels pretty disconnected sometimes.” Danny nodded but didn’t say anything. Skip closed his eyes and stroked Zsa Zsa’s back, grateful that he could shut the world out even for a brief time. He stirred when, less than twenty minutes later, the car stopped and shook for a moment while the engine coughed and finally died. He opened his eyes when a finger touched his cheek. “We’re here. Are you okay?” Skip forced his lips into a grin. “Couldn’t be better. How about you?” “Sure.” He glanced at the half-moon glimmering through the mimosa tree and blinked. “We should probably leave Zsa Zsa in the car. Tina’s got cats.” “I like cats.” He pushed Zsa Zsa from his lap and onto the floor boards. With his hand cupped under her muzzle, he gazed into her eyes. “We’re going inside for a while, but we’ll be back, I promise. You be a good girl and wait for us.” He pulled a doggie treat from his pocket, and she lapped it off his outstretched palm. Arf! Danny left his window open a crack and stepped out of the car. Zsa Zsa pressed her nose against the glass, and her stare followed them as they climbed the steps to Tina’s front door.

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Max Griffin Guilt panged at Skip for a moment for leaving her behind. “She’s such a good dog.” “The best.” Danny pressed the doorbell. A short, hefty blonde opened the door, and Skip squinted against the bright interior lights. She squealed, “Danny. It’s about time you came to see me.” Her beefy arms clenched at her friend while Skip inspected her appearance. He took in her scuffed hiking boots, black denim slacks, and plaid work shirt, but it was her bulging triceps and biceps that caught his attention. Inside, he spotted a pair of bulky tabby cats lounging on a weight bench. When she was done squashing Danny, she held him at arm’s length. “Let me look at you, boyfriend.” A scowl wrinkled her features. “You been eating right? You’re so skinny.” “I eat fine.” She gave him a playful tap on the chin. “You’re all furry. I like it.” She stepped back from the door. “Where are my manners? Come on in and sit a spell. You must think I was raised in a barn.” A grin split Danny’s features. “Tina, you were raised in a barn. I know. I saw it.” She ushered them in and removed a stack of computer hardware and shrink-wrapped manuals from the sofa. “Don’ t you dis my Momma’s place. She had more important things to do than housework.” Before Skip could sit, she grabbed him by the shoulders. “What’s this you’ve got, Danny? You didn’t tell me you had a boy toy.” She squeezed Skip’s biceps and he winced. “Nice. You work out much?” “Uh, nice to meet you. I’m Skip.” “Sorry.” She stuck out a hand. “Tina here.” She cocked a bushy

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Flatland eyebrow at Danny. “Don’t mind him. He never learned no manners from his grandpa.” Danny laughed. “My manners are fine. You just won’t shut up long enough to let me do introductions.” Skip pulled his hand back and wondered if she’d broken any bones when they shook. “Thanks for seeing us so late.” “Late? It’s not even midnight. You want anything? Coffee? Beer? Whiskey? Pizza should be here in thirty minutes or so.” Danny headed into her kitchen. “I’ll fix the coffee. I remember where stuff’s at. You two get acquainted.” Skip flexed his fingers and sat on the edge of the sofa. “Danny tells me you were friends in high school?” He tried not to stare at her hairdo, while wondering who told her a mullet was stylish. “Yeah. He moved in with his grandpa at the start of our junior year, after his parents kicked him out. I wouldn’t have made it without him to talk to.” Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me. I bet you were captain of the football team.” “That’s my deep dark secret. Now you and Danny know. Don’t tell anyone else.” “You’re safe with me.” She plopped into her desk chair, and it creaked under her weight. “God, where did he find you? If your eyes were any bluer, the Smithsonian could put you on display and sell off the Hope Diamond.” Skip suspected his dimples were showing. “I moved in next door to Danny’s trailer a few weeks ago. We, well, we kind of hit it off.” “Good. Our Danny’s special, and he deserves a real boyfriend, not some dyke like me.” Her look turned fierce. “You be good to him, you hear me?” “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt him, ever.” Skip paused. “Can I tell you a secret?” 161

Max Griffin She leaned forward and whispered, “I love secrets. You can tell Tina anything.” “I think I’m falling in love with him.” Skip’s face heated. “Shit, that sounds so phony.” She sat back and her face turned solemn. “You’ve known him less than a month, then?” “Yeah, just a few days. But somehow I just know he’s The One.” “I hope you’re right. I love him, too.” She hesitated. “Don’t let him chase you off. He’s always afraid he’ll hurt the one he loves, but he’s a gentle soul at heart. All he needs is love.” The old Beatles song rang in his head. “I think that’s all anyone needs, really.” “Well, that and a few million bucks.” Danny returned balancing three steaming mugs of coffee. “I could use a million bucks.” He handed one to Tina and the other to Skip. “Speaking of buried treasure, did you give her the disk?” “No, not yet.” Skip put his mug on the floor and pulled out the drive they had found in Oren’s locker. “Danny says that you can read what’s on this?” She took it and peered at the label. “Yeah, sure. It’s a ZIF drive, like they use in iPods. No problem.” She turned to her desk and ran a cable onto the drive. A few clicks of her mouse later and she said, “There’s not much on here. It’s got the Android OS, but someone’s wiped most of the user files.” Disappointment welled in Skip. “Well, we had some hope, anyway.” “There’s two files that might have something.” She clicked and a black and white movie started up in another window. “It’s the 1952 version of Moulin Rouge. Jose Ferrer’s great in it. He got

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Flatland screwed out of the best actor academy award.” Danny sipped at his coffee and asked, “What else is there?” “Just a text file, password dot text.” Skip locked eyes with Danny. “That could be it. What’s it say?” She opened it. “Three words. ‘Zsa Zsa’s star.’ That’s it. Does it mean anything?” Skip shook his head. “Not to me.” “You know. Zsa Zsa was Oren’s dog before. I told you about her when we chatted the other night.” Danny paused. “The storage locker contract was inside her rhinestone collar. Could it mean that?” Tina shrugged. “Sorry, I can’t help you guys.” The doorbell rang. “That’ll be the pizza guy.” She grabbed a twenty from the clutter on her desk and rushed to the door. Skip shook his head. “Looks like a dead end.” Danny settled on the couch next to him and squeezed his knee. “Well, striking it rich was a nice fantasy while it lasted.” Tina returned with a slice of pizza in hand and deposited the opened box on top of a stack of computer components. “Have a slice. I hope you like anchovies.” She sat down at her desk and her eyes returned to her screen. “Hey, you want to watch the movie? This version is way better than the one with Nicole Kidman.” She took a huge bite of pizza. “When I was in Hollywood last year, I did a pilgrimage to the Sidewalk of the Stars, just to visit the ones from this movie. Jose Ferrer. Zsa Zsa Gabor...” Danny sat up. “You visited Zsa Zsa’s star.” “That’s what I said.” Her eyes twinkled. “If you’re going deaf, I could build a hearing aid from this junk.” “That’s what the text file said, right? Zsa Zsa’s star?”

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Max Griffin “Yeah. So?” Danny got it then, too. “Can you maybe look up where her star is located?” “It’s on Hollywood Boulevard. Like all the other stars.” “He means the address.” Danny stood and walked to where she sat. “Can you Google it?” “Are you planning a trip? I didn’t know you guys were fans.” She clicked a new window open and typed. “It’s at 6925 Hollywood Boulevard.” Danny whirled to face Skip, and glee danced across his features. “6925 Hollywood Boulevard. Four digits. You think that’s it?” “Only one way to find out.” He put his coffee down. “You mind if I use your computer for a second, Tina?”

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Chapter 19

Edgar stopped

his van a block away from his target’s trailer. He pretended to read from a clipboard while he inspected his surroundings. The half-moon hung low in the east and cast a shadowy gleam on the empty streets. The trailer park was as sleazy as he’d remembered from his earlier reconnaissance. Sand and scraps of trash clogged the gutters lining the cracked blacktop. Patches of dried-up crabgrass and sumac scattered across the sand and clay lots. Edgar estimated that the park was at least a third empty, maybe more. He sneered at the rusted, dented mobile homes that hulked in the arid squalor. The trailer next to Crow’s house stood out as the only exception to the relentless dreariness. Its manicured lawn and brilliant beds of purple and white flowers made it a little oasis of color in this tedious desert. A fat slob in a rent-a-cop uniform waddled down the street from behind where Edgar sat. He recognized the security guard for the park, although he couldn’t image what was worth guarding in this dump. He decided to ignore the guy’s approach and flipped a page on his clipboard. When a fist rapped on the driver’s-side window, Edgar rolled it down and fixed a friendly smile on his features. “What can I do for you, officer?” When he saw the man’s sidearm, he hitched at the pant leg that covered his own weapon. A sheen of sweat slimed the guy’s forehead, and little droplets

Flatland clung to his upper lip. His pig-like eyes squinted as he peered into Edgar’s van. “You here to fix the cable?” He tossed a greasy rope of hair out of his face. Edgar reflected that the guard had remarkable powers of deduction, since his van bore the name of the local cable TV franchise. “Yeah. We had some reports of interference from a couple of customers.” He read the guard’s plastic name tag and stuck out his hand. “Chuck Lemons, here, Leo.” “Nice to meetcha.” They shook, and then Leo turned his attention to down the street. “Hot enough for ya?” Edgar blinked and thought about using a blow torch to sear the skin and layers of fat from Leo’s corpulent body. “Like an oven. Think it’ll rain?” “Weather guy says maybe next week. In the meantime, all’s we got is heat and dust.” He scuffed at the street with his boot, and little puffs of dried mud settled on his wrinkled trousers. “I been gettin’ a shadow on my TV when I watch Dog, the Bounty Hunter. Think you can fix that?” Edgar smiled while thinking that gouging Leo’s eyes out would be the perfect solution. “That’s what I’m here to check. I might need to walk around some of the back yards. Will any of the residents have a problem with that?” “Nah. Most of the places on this street is empty, anyways.” He nodded toward Oren’s trailer. “Stay away from that one. There’s crime scene tape blocking off the back yard.” Edgar let surprise show on his face. “Crime scene tape? My, what happened?” “Guy got murdered a coupla nights ago. Last Friday. The sheriff’s still workin’ the case.” “Murdered, you say?” Edgar frowned. “Maybe it’s not safe

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Max Griffin for me to be here?” “Nah, you’ll be fine.” He leaned forward and his foul breath washed across Edgar’s face. “I think it was a mob hit. The FBI even was here, checkin’ it out.” Edgar wanted to rip his stinking lungs out, but he just tsked instead. “A mob hit? Here in Flatland? What’s the world coming to?” “Ya can say that again. But I’ve checked the neighborhood out. There’s nothin’ here to be scared of.” Edgar appreciated the irony but kept the worried expression on his features. “That makes me feel better, officer. How about dogs?” “Well, there’s Butch, but he’s locked up inside now that his owners is back. Otherwise, there’s just a little puff-ball next door to the crime scene, at the place with all them flowers. She wouldn’t hurt a flea if it bit her tail. Anyways, Danny and Skip took Zsa Zsa, that’s Danny’s dog, and headed off to Wichita earlier tonight.” Skip. Edgar nodded and kept his face impassive. “Do they live in the trailer with the flowers?” He hesitated, as if in thought. “Actually, I think the problem I need to fix might be next door.” “Next door, huh?” Leo wiped sweat from his brow. “That’d be Skip’s trailer.” He scratched his balls. “They’s both good boys. I think they might be kinda sweet on each other, if ya catch my drift.” Edgar’s stomach roiled, but he kept his voice business-like. “Well, if they’re gone, it probably won’t bother them if I have to check out the cable connections at their residences.” “Guess not.” Leo pulled a sweat-soaked business card from his shirt pocket. “I gotta finish my rounds. You need anything, you just give me a call, okay?”

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Flatland “I’ll be sure to do that, Leo. Thanks.” “You betcha.” He waddled back in the direction from which he’d approached earlier. Edgar waited until he’d disappeared around the corner, and then started his van. He edged forward and stopped across the street from Skip’s trailer. His lips turned down when the sickly-sweet scent of flowers invaded his nostrils. He killed the engine and clambered into the back, where he settled into a chair facing a computer console and a rack of electronic surveillance equipment. Within minutes, he’d completed his examination of all four trailers in the little cul-de-sac. The infrared showed that they were all empty, while the radio frequency scans revealed at least two active devices inside Skip’s residence. A wry smile bent his features when he recognized one of them as a standard FBI surveillance camera. He flipped a switch on his console and tapped into the RF signal, sending it to his computer. The monitor displayed the dark interior of the trailer and the speakers played a steady drip, drip of water from a leaking faucet that the camera’s embedded microphone picked up. No other sound came from the interior. The second device was a standard 802.11 wireless network router. Edgar rattled his fingers on the keyboard. It wouldn’t be hard to break the commercial encryption on the firewall, but if the computer was turned off, he’d still have to break into the trailer. He shrugged and put latex gloves on his hands, picked up a ski mask, and shrugged into a work vest. His hands checked the pockets to be sure all his gear was present and secure before he opened the door. When he stepped outside the van, his eyes surveyed the street one more time. The trailers were all dark, and there was no sign of the fat-assed security guard. Without running, but not wasting any movement or time, he strode into the back yard. It took him seconds 168

Max Griffin to jigger the trailer’s pathetic lock, and he pulled the ski mask over his face. The FBI tapes would show an intruder, but even his disguised identity as a cable repairman should be safe. Night vision goggles turned the interior a brilliant green. Edgar did a quick check to be sure the area was secure. A smattering of shirts and pants hung in the closets, and some socks and underwear were wadded up on the bed. Edgar’s mouth turned down when he noted that one set of pants was smaller than the others. Two men apparently lived here, just as the gossipy guard suspected. Later, maybe, he’d return and cut the guy’s tongue out. Serve him right for telling tales about people he was supposed to protect. A sigh gusted from his lips, and he glanced at his watch. Twenty seconds. He turned his attention to the laptop on the end table in the living room. The charge light blinked at him when he opened it, so he ran his forefinger on the touch pad. Sure enough, the owner had left it in standby mode. In seconds the glow of the desktop screen filled the room. Edgar flipped his goggles up and tore into the machine’s files. Within seconds he’d opened the hidden browser history and knew the name of the bank in the Caymans, the account number, and saw the record of Skip’s failed attempts to logon. Gotta love Microsoft. A dry chuckle escaped his lips while he continued his search. Before long, he’d discovered the location of the storage locker in Wichita from the same browser history, and concluded that must be where his target had gone tonight. He frowned and dug deeper. As he’d expected, someone, probably the FBI, had inserted a Trojan into the system. With a bit more analysis, he identified the code. A quick check of his watch told him he’d been here almost ninety seconds. He’d have to go soon. A hasty trace of the IP/MAC crosstabs in the ISP’s database

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Flatland located the machine where the Trojan sent its reports. He froze. Shit. It’s right here, in this trailer park. He thrust a USB thumb drive into the computer and saved the files he’d examined. It took him less than thirty seconds to pull out drawers, overturn tables, smash dishes, and slash the sofa. He pulled a can of spray paint from his jacket and wrote, “Die fags” on the wall. Less than two minutes had elapsed since he’d departed his van. Now he was back inside and pulling away from the curb. There was one more task to complete before he left the trailer park. He pulled to a halt four blocks away from Skip’s trailer, at the address that the IP scan had found. Lights glowed from inside the residence where he’d stopped, and a nondescript, late-model sedan sat in the driveway. When he used his phone to run the plates, the DMV records showed that the vehicle belonged to a tax accounting outfit in Kansas City. He grinned, enjoying the challenge. It took him less than thirty seconds to confirm that the firm was really an FBI shell for covert operations. He was sure he could break into their systems and discover the identity of the agent or agents inside the trailer. For now, a simple GPS tracking bug on their car would suffice. With the bug hidden in the tire well, Edgar drove a couple of miles into the country on a gravel road and stopped near an ancient farmstead. The constant winds had long ago eaten the paint off the buildings, and the roof on the house had caved in. He edged the van into the barn, where he stripped off the cable TV logos and replaced them with the trademark for a diet supplement company. He screwed new license plates onto the van, using a set he’d stolen from a parking lot in Emporia earlier that day. Finally, he changed clothes, put on a new toupee, and added horn-rimmed glasses to his disguise.

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Max Griffin Minutes later, he was back in Flatland, where he stopped at the run-down motel on the main drag. Instead of a lobby, there was sign outside a glass window that read, “Press button for manager.” Edgar pressed the button. The manager showed up wearing a stained t-shirt, blue jeans, and barefoot. What little hair he had splayed above his head like a discouraged frill on a dinosaur. “You lookin’ for a room, mister?” “No, I just was lonely and wanted someone to talk to. Of course I’m looking for a room.” “No reason to get nasty,” the guy whined. He slipped a registration card under the window. “That’ll be thirty-five dollars plus tax. It’s an extra five bucks if ya want cable. Cash or credit card up front.” Edgar pulled out two twenties and shoved them under the window. “I don’t need cable.” He scribbled on the card and pushed it pack at the man. “Thanks, mister,” the manager paused while he read the card. “Schwarzenegger. Hey, you any relation?” “None. I think I might take a walk before I go to sleep. Are there any cafes nearby?” The guy laughed while he put the room key in the tray under the window. “This late, the only thing open’ll be the MacDonalds. It’s just down Main Street. Ya cain’t miss it.” “I saw it. Thank you.” The room stank of cigarettes and ancient dust, but it was clean. Edgar dumped his suitcase on the bed and left after he locked the door. He retrieved a manila envelope from the van and strolled three blocks to the home of the mayor of Flatland. Once there, he replaced the license plates he’d stolen earlier that night from the woman’s pickup. He grinned. If that dolt watchman at the trailer park

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Flatland happened to take down the license of Edgar’s van, he’d be sending the cops to investigate the mayor. Back in his room, Edgar stripped and lay on the bed that was both lumpy and too soft. He opened his laptop and tapped into the FBI’s bugs. Skip’s trailer was still dark, and no one seemed to have noticed his vandalism. Tomorrow or the next day, his target would return. A slow smile tugged at his features. He’d have fun getting the rest of the information he needed. Maybe he’d kill both of those fags and their little dog, too.

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Chapter 20

Skip settled into the desk chair in front of Tina’s computer and pulled the sheet of paper with the URL for Oren’s bank from his pocket. Empty Dorito sacks, shrink-wrapped computer manuals, cans of Coke Zero, and endless scraps of computer hardware cluttered the surface of her desk, so he folded the paper to make it fit onto the mouse pad and tabbed to the browser window. Tina and Danny hovered behind him while he typed. She swept some clutter from her desk onto the floor. “Don’t say anything about my desk. It’s a sign of my creative mind.” Danny snorted. “Then you must be the Salvador Dali of computers.” “Why, thank you, girlfriend. That’s so sweet of you.” She planted a loud kiss on his forehead and ruffled his hair. Skip’s fingers clacked on the keyboard, and he pulled up the bank’s logon page. “Well, here goes nothing.” He typed in the user name and responded with “6925” in the pass code window. Less than a second later, a new screen popped open showing a link to both a savings and a money market account. Tina whistled. “Look at all them numbers. If that’s in dollars, you’re one rich puppy. Marry me?” Danny laughed. “Tina, you’re a lesbian and Skip’s gay. Don’t

Flatland be silly.” “I’ll get a sex change operation. Besides, I’ve already got more muscles than you.” She waved at the screen and whistled. “Look at that, will you?” Skip leaned back. “Wow. There’s nearly two million in the money market account, and twelve million and change in the savings account.” Danny’s voice trembled. “That’s dollars, right? Not lire or litas or anything like that?” “It says US dollars.” Skip pointed to the screen. He clicked the money market account to open the detailed transactions, and his heart chilled. “Uh-oh. There’s been a debit in the account today.” He leaned forward and squinted at the screen. “Oh, it looks like an automatic monthly charge for the rental of a safe deposit box.” He clicked again. “There’s an EFT deposit for a cool million from a week ago. No other activity for the last six months. That’s as far back as the history goes.” Tina looked from Danny to Skip and back again. “Okay, guys. So what’s going on? Where’d you find all this money?” Danny sighed. “Well, it’s not exactly ours.” “Whose is it, then? Exactly?” Skip leaned back. “We’re not sure, Tina. From what we can piece together, it’s mob money.” She nodded. “Oh, well that makes me feel loads better.” She scowled at them. “What are you guys thinking? Mob money?” Danny touched her arm. “Tina, honey, sit down. Have a piece of pizza. Let us tell you what we think happened.” Her voice was incredulous. “You’ve got your hands on millions of dollars of mob money, and you want me to have pizza?” She seemed to think about it. “Okay.” She snatched up a piece, took

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Max Griffin a huge bite, and plopped on the sofa. “Tell Tina what’s going on.” Danny dumped computer junk off a kitchen chair and pulled it close to where she sat. “You remember that guy that got murdered the other night?” “That jerk? How could I forget? He’s the one that owned Zsa Zsa, right?” She sat up. “Where is Zsa Zsa, anyway? You didn’t leave her back in your trailer, did you?” “Uh, she’s in the car. I didn’t want her fighting with Blanche and Percy.” “In the car?” She jumped to her feet. “Daniel Rajunas, you march yourself right out there and bring that poor girl in here. All those cats do is sleep anyway, and they can do that shut in my bedroom. Now git, you hear me?” A sheepish grin flowed across Danny’s face. “Yes, ma’am.” “You better say ‘yes, ma’am.’ In the car, indeed.” She swept away to gather up the cats while Danny stepped outside to retrieve Zsa Zsa. Skip popped open a can of diet soda. “You need any help, Tina? I like cats.” She beamed at him. “You just get better and better, did you know that?” Her face lit up with a sunny smile. “But if you help, then they’ll have to make friends with you, and then you’ll have to pet them, and I’ll never learn about you and Danny and the mob. It’ll be quicker if I just do it, honey.” She retreated with one cat lounging over her shoulders and the other cradled in her arms. Skip sat back at her computer desk just as his cell phone chimed. He frowned. Who the fuck could be calling? “Hello?” “Skip? This is Leo. Remember me?” Skip frowned. “Yeah, sure. What’s up?” Leo had taken down his cell phone number the day he’d moved into the trailer. Why was he calling now? 175

Flatland “Are Danny and Zsa Zsa with you?” Skip’s heart skipped a beat at the urgency in his voice. “Yeah. Did you want to talk to him?” “No, I just wanted to be sure you were all safe.” “We’re fine. We’re in Wichita, visiting a friend of his. Why shouldn’t we be safe?” Skip thought of mobsters and Oren’s murder and a cold chill wrapped about his core. “Look, I’m in your trailer. I was doing my rounds when that FBI agent, Vasquez, showed up. She just waltzed right into your place like she owned it.” “What? There’s an FBI agent in my place?” Skip scowled in confusion. “Oh, right, you never met her. Anyway, somebody broke in and trashed the place. It looks like gay-bashing to me, from what they spray-painted on the walls.” “Shit, you’re kidding. How bad is it?” Skip thought for a moment. “Wait a minute. Why the fuck is the FBI there? I don’t get it.” “They’ve been keeping the trailer park under surveillance, since the murder. You know that guy Oren got hisself killed, right?” “Yeah, Danny told me. So they saw someone break into my trailer and didn’t stop them?” “I don’t know what they’re doing. They were all over me about where you and Danny went, but I didn’t tell them nothing. I’m hid out in your bathroom right now, so they can’t hear. I just wanted to be sure you guys were safe.” “We’re fine, Leo.” Shit. First, a murder and now some hooligans trashed Derek’s trailer. That’s all we need. “How much damage is there?” Tina returned, saw him on the phone, and retreated to her

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Max Griffin kitchen where she made noises running the faucet and rinsing dishes. Leo’s voice turned to a whisper. “The place is trashed pretty bad. They cut up the sofa and spray-painted all over the walls. And the FBI’s gone bat-shit. They really want to talk to you, man. If I was you, I’d lay low for a while.” “Why the fuck would they want to talk to me? They can’t think I had something to do with the murder, can they? I was in Lawton, for God’s sake, when it happened.” “I don’t know. I told them you weren’t here. I gave them Derek’s contact information, too, so they could verify with him you were in Oklahoma, but they said he wasn’t answering.” “He’s on his honeymoon. Of course he’s not answering.” “Yeah, well, I don’t think this agent is too bright. Anyway, she’s hot to see you. She even talked about getting a material witness warrant.” Skip pursed his lips. “Thanks for the warning, Leo. I think we’ll just hang out here for while. Call me or Danny if you learn anything more, okay?” “Sure thing. They’re pounding on the door. I think they suspect something. I gotta go.” The phone fell silent. Tina stood in the dinette and wiped her hands on a towel. “Bad news?” He took three deep, cleansing breaths. “Not exactly. Looks like some bashers broke into my trailer back in Flatland.” Fury flashed in her eyes. “Bashers? Fucking redneck bastards. That’s why I left that place. I told Danny he should move up here.” “I think he wanted to be with his grandfather.” Skip frowned. “There’s more. For some reason, the FBI is involved. God knows why.” She shrugged. “They’re probably still checking out that

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Flatland murder.” She tipped her head to one side and gave him a narrow look. “First, a murder, and now fucking bashers. I hope trouble doesn’t come in threes.” She put her hands on her hips. “You be good to Danny, you hear? He don’t need another bad boyfriend experience.” “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt him. Ever.” “Okay, then.” She tossed the towel toward the kitchen counter and missed. It flopped onto the floor. “I never met the boyfriend previous, but he seemed like a bossy little prick, always telling poor Danny what to do.” “I’d never do that. I just want him to be happy. And to be with him.” “Well, I do have a good feeling about you.” She gave him the once-over and smiled again. “You need my help with anything, you just let me know. You know, I think the two of you should spend the night here. No reason to go back to the shithole.” “That’s kind of you, Tina. I think you’re right that we should stay away from Flatland for awhile.” “Well, I got a spare room.” She looked around. “Where is our problem child, anyway?” She stepped to the door and peered out the window. “Sweet. He’s playing fetch with Zsa Zsa, the little airhead. Hey, Danny,” she called, after opening the door a crack. “Come on inside. It’s safe. The feline monsters are all in their cage.” A wide grin split Danny’s features when he returned with Zsa Zsa. The dog stuck her nose to the floor and sniffed her way in a bee-line to the rear bedroom where the cats were shut up. Arf! Danny shook his head. “Zsa Zsa, now you quit that. Come here and sit by me.” Arf? “Yes, right now.” He patted his knee. She scrambled to his

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Max Griffin side and rested her head at his feet. “That’s a good girl.” Her tail thumped on the floor, and she gazed up at him with adoring eyes. Skip sat tailor-fashion next to Zsa Zsa and held Danny’s hand. “I think we should spend the night in Wichita, sweetie.” Danny ruffled Zsa Zsa’s ears. “We’d have to pay fortune at a motel since we’ve got Zsa Zsa with us. We should just drive home.” Tina piped up. “You two can stay in my guest room. Just don’t make too much racket when you boink each other.” Danny blushed. “Thank you, Tina, but that’s not necessary. Besides, isn’t that where you keep the handcuffs and other toys?” Skip squeezed his hand. “Sweetie, Leo called me while you were outside. Some thugs broke into my trailer and trashed it. They spray-painted homophobic threats on the walls. I don’t think we should go back there, at least for a while.” “You’re kidding. That’s awful.” Danny frowned. “Uh, I really need to go back. At least in a day or so.” Skip remembered the clozapine he’d seen in Danny’s bathroom that first night but didn’t want to mention it in front of Tina. “Are you sure? There can’t be anything there that we can’t replace in here. After all, if we need to, we can just tap into Oren’s money market account.” Danny shook his head, but then his expression brightened. “We could go to Kansas City and you could meet my grandfather. I can get what I need there, too.” “Actually, I think going to Kansas City is a good idea, anyway. I’d also like to pull some money from Oren’s account. I want to pay Derek to have his trailer fixed up.” He hesitated. “There’s more. Leo says the FBI wants to talk to me. They’re threatening to get a material witness warrant. Like I’d know anything about Oren’s murder.”

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Flatland Danny’s eyes turned to saucers. “I know. I told that agent, Vasquez, that you were in Lawton. She’s a thug with a badge, if you ask me. First, she accused me of killing Oren, and then she accused you. What a doofus. It’s like she’s too lazy to do a real investigation.” Tina nodded. “So it’s settled, then. The two of you will stay here tonight. No rednecks, no FBI. Plenty of time to figure out what to do later. Tomorrow’s another day.” Danny grinned. “Fiddle-dee-dee.” He blinked once before he continued, “Thanks, Tina. We appreciate you.” The sofa exhaled a scrunch when she sat down. “All right, then. You were telling me about Zsa Zsa’s ex-owner.” Danny frowned and scratched Zsa Zsa behind her ears. “I’m not sure where to start.” Skip decided to speed this up. “By accident I found some things hidden inside Zsa Zsa’s collar. It had this zippered pocket, like a money belt. There was a rental contract for a storage unit here in Wichita. That’s where we found that hard drive. The URL and the logon for the bank were scrawled on the bottom of the contract.” He stopped for a sip of coke. “I Googled Oren’s name and found out he was some kind of crooked investment banker back in Chicago. Apparently, he’d swindled a bunch of people, and then turned state’s evidence.” Danny nodded. “Skip says he must have been in witness protection or something. That makes sense, the way the FBI nosed around after his murder.” Tina munched on pizza crust, nodded. “Witness protection, huh? So you think the money this guy swindled is what’s in that bank account?” Skip nodded. “What he stole was never recovered. It could include payoffs from the FBI, too. For his testimony.” 180

Max Griffin She gazed at him through hooded eyes. “They pay much for that?” He shrugged. “I guess. For a big mob case, I bet it’s a lot.” He paused. “There’s, also, the key to a safe deposit box. I bet that’s at the bank, too, since there were charges on the statement we found. I wouldn’t be surprised if he converted some of his money to precious metals: gold, maybe platinum. There might even be diamonds.” Tina’s eyes twinkled. “Like in Marathon Man? I have to ask, is it safe?” Skip nodded. “Good question. You mean is it safe for us to access it? It’s been untouched for at least six months. I think no one but us knows where it’s at. It’s about as safe as anything like this could be.” Danny broke in. “You know, if it were, say, drug money or something, I wouldn’t have a problem with this. But now that we really know it’s there, well, doesn’t that money really belong to the victims? The ones Oren swindled.” Tina nodded. “You’ve got a point, there. I have to say, I think taking this money is one of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard of. If that’s mob money, they don’t forget. Ever.” Skip frowned. “You know, I agree, on both counts. It’s not safe to take it all, and it really does belong to Oren’s victims. But that last deposit, the one last week. That was the FBI’s bribe. That should be safe for us to take, don’t you think?” Danny almost bounced in his chair. “Exactly. Plus there’s the safe deposit box. We need to go to the Caymans to see what’s there.” Skip nodded. “I agree. Like I said, I think we should wire a few thousand here from the money market account. If we use Western Union, we can probably just get cash and stay under the

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Flatland radar. We could use it to buy plane tickets to the Caribbean. We’ll have to get passports, though.” He frowned, puzzling out how to avoid the FBI. “Fake ID’s might be a good idea, too.” “I bet Grandpa’s friends can help with that. He’s got lots of connections. Once we’re in Kansas City, I know they’ll help us.” “If we wanted to expedite the passports, we’d have to go there anyway,” Skip mused. Danny jumped when his cell phone chimed. He glanced at the caller ID. “Shit. It’s the FBI. Should I take it?” Skip frowned. “Don’t answer. In fact, maybe we should shut our phones off. They can use them to locate us, you know.” “Okay.” He complied, and then asked, “What’s next?” “Nothing more tonight. Tomorrow, we need to get some cash. We’ll want new, pre-paid cell phones, too. And I want to get a weapon. Something tells me we’re going to need it.” Danny paled. “You mean a gun? After the other night, I was kind of hoping it would be a while before I saw another one up close and personal.” “This one will be to protect us. There are some bad people involved in this. From what you’ve told me, that FBI agent may as well be one of them. I want a semi-automatic pistol, ideally an MK3s like I used for ops in Iraq. We’ll be safer.” A predatory grin spread across Tina’s face. “If anyone tries to get to you tonight, they’ll have to go through me. I’ll set the alarms and be sure my .22 is loaded and by my nightstand. Ain’t no intruder gonna make trouble for us here.” She stood. “Let me put fresh linens on your bed, boys. It sounds like you all got a busy day ahead.” Skip squeezed Danny’s hand and hoped they were making the right choices. The promise of all that money propelled him. Danger was an old friend. The familiar adrenalin rush tingled in his fingers

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Max Griffin as he concocted plans. He gazed into Danny’s eyes, grateful that he now had someone who made risks worthwhile.

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Chapter 21

Edgar lay

supine and naked on top of the sheets in his motel room. The laptop computer that rested on his stomach cast an ethereal glow on the water-stained walls and the lime green shag carpet. The window air conditioner wheezed, the too-soft mattress sagged, and the room stank of ancient dust and cigarettes, but Edgar didn’t care. For now, all that mattered were the images on his screen and sounds that came through the speakers. His tap into the FBI cameras and microphones in Crow’s trailer worked perfectly. For all its other failings, he reflected that at least this dump of a motel had decent wireless. A flick of his fingers on the mouse pad expanded the window to full screen. He settled back and watched as a chunky redheaded woman stormed around the inside of the trailer. She kicked aside the shattered dishes and broken bits of computer and then stopped and stared at the words spray painted on the wall. Die fags. Edgar yearned to make it happen. Soon, soon. The floozy snatched up her cell phone and dialed a number. She yelled into it while prancing around the trailer. Only her side of the conversation came through, but it was clear she was the FBI agent in charge of the investigation of Oren’s death, and she was pissed at this turn of events. Apparently, Skip had left without the

Flatland dumbass FBI noticing, despite their electronic surveillance. Amateurs. Edgar’s eyes narrowed when she mentioned a cell phone trace to Wichita. That confirmed what the fat-assed guard told him. She hung up and kicked at the furniture Edgar had trashed earlier before she stomped to the hall leading to the master bedroom and pounded on the bathroom door. “What you doin’ in there, asshole?” Flushing sounds came from his speakers, and then the security guard waddled into view, hitching up his pants. “Sometimes you just gotta go.” “Yeah, well this is a crime scene, and where you gotta go is outta here! Now!” She pointed to the door. The guy’s piggish eyes narrowed, but he shuffled away without a word. She stormed about the trailer for a few more seconds before she flounced onto the sofa and lit a cigarette. She lounged back, exhaled smoke, and stared at the walls, her eyes slits. She chainsmoked two more cigarettes before her cell phone shrilled. “Talk to me.” She nodded. “Shit, they shut their phones off?” Another pause. “That’s in Kansas City, right? Interesting coincidence....uhhuh...Stick with them, and call me if anything else turns up or if they change locations.” She pursed her lips and punched a number into her phone. “Morton? He’s back on the grid. His cell phone signal popped up on a tower in Wichita. We’ve got an agent in place watching them.” She winced and held the phone away from her ear. “Ya don’t gotta blast me. I know that. It won’t happen again, sir.” Another pause while she squirmed. “I’m not so sure about this Kingfisher outfit.” Edgar leaned forward. He was from Kingfisher. What the fuck is she talking about? “I’ve played back the video of the break-in at Crow’s trailer.

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Max Griffin It was a professional job, in and out real quick. No fingerprints. He messed with the computer, but then he tried to cover it up by trashing the place--like he was too stupid to figure out that we’d have it bugged.” A slow rage boiled in Edgar. I’ll show you who’s stupid, you bitch. He turned up the volume. She prattled on. “Yeah, that’s what we think, too. This assassin guy don’t look all that smart to me...Yes, sir. Whatever you say. The contact you sent me will take care of sending him our intelligence on Crow’s location and plans...Yes, sir.” Edgar scowled . What was Grace up to? Did she have a second agent on the job, on his job? Vasquez stood and wandered out of camera range. Edgar switched cameras and watched her examine the broken dishes in the kitchen. “Like I said, he don’t look too bright, despite what you told me. And from the way he left this place, he looks like a loose cannon.” She peeked through the window above the sink. “Uh huh. We need somebody inside that sanitarium, Tall Grass in Kansas City. You want I should post an agent there, too?” She listened and Edgar scowled. What the fuck did the Sanitarium have to do with anything? Inez continued to chatter into the phone. “Yeah. Our targets talked about heading there, before they shut off their cell phones. I tell you, this Crow guy is one sharp cookie. Not many would think that we’d use their own phones for surveillance.” She returned to the sofa and Edgar changed cameras again. His breath came in short, controlled bursts, and sweat ran down his brow and burned his eyes. She nodded. “Okay, then. We’re all set.” She hung up. She closed her phone and dug in her purse for another cigarette.

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Flatland Edgar muttered, “Good thing I put a bug on your car, bitch. I’m gonna be on you like maggots on shit.” His fingers rattled on the keys of his computer and while he leaned back. He needed to think this through. What did this job have to do with the hospital where he kept his mother? Edgar didn’t believe in coincidences. His face relaxed in a smile as he thought about ways to force the answer out of Vasquez. She wasn’t bad looking, in a cheap kind of way. He glanced down at his lean torso and admired the rigid lines of muscle that coiled under his flesh. The thought of tying her up and cutting her clothes off sent passion searing through him. He fingered the hunting knife that rested beside him on the bed and imagined her blood, hot and steamy, jetting across his body. He crooned and absentminded fingers toyed with the fluid leaking out of the tip of his hard cock. Maybe he’d slice new holes into her to fuck, after she spilled her guts. That was it. He’d let her warm, slimy insides splash across his torso and run down his legs while he fucked her. He arched his back and moaned. Another figure joined Vasquez in Crow’s living room, and Edgar’s attention lashed back to his computer screen. The newcomer was a man, but the camera only showed his backside. He wore a cheap FBI suit, but he walked with the taut athleticism of a trained killer. Edgar knew that walk from somewhere. This guy was a professional, not like the dumbass FBI agent. When he spoke, the hairs on the back of Edgar’s neck prickled. Where have I heard that voice? “I just talked to the rent-a-cop. He said that there was a TV repair guy here earlier, asking about Crow. It was about the time we were, uh, busy.” Edgar leaned forward and swore at the cheap speakers on his laptop. Turn around, asshole. Let me see your face. 187

Max Griffin Vasquez snorted. “When we were screwing you mean.” Edgar’s mouth turned down and disgust flooded through him. Fucking unprofessional. Get the job done first, assholes. A slow smile eased across his features. Whatever. Sloppy fuckers will just be easier to take out. He adjusted the volume and peered at the screen. He was sure he’d heard the newcomer’s voice somewhere before. Vasquez stood and paced the room. “We gotta get an agent at that Sanitarium.” She ground her cigarette out on the floor. “You sure there’s nothing between the little faggot and your agent?” He shrugged. “The only connection is they both have relatives who are whacked out in the same way. This place specializes in treating these nut cases.” He waved smoke out of his face as Vasquez lit another cigarette. “Those things are gonna kill you.” She gave a little snort. “I’ll be lucky to live that long.” She stared at the ember end and frowned. “I don’t think the faggots will give us any trouble. I’m not so sure about your guy, though. He looks like a nut job himself.” Her companion shrugged. “If Szabo decides to double-cross us, we can control him with his mother.” Edgar sat upright and his fingers tensed on the edges of his notebook. Fucking bastards! She stopped pacing and whirled to look at him. “How likely is he to go rogue, anyway? I don’t like this one bit.” The man ambled to the couch and sat down, at last exposing his face. “He’s crazy, that’s for sure. But we think he’ll do the job. His pattern is to stay on task, but once the violence starts, he sometimes doesn’t stop.” Rage, cold as liquid nitrogen and hard as tungsten steel, thrust through Edgar at the sight of the man’s face. “Wayne,” he

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Flatland whispered. “What the fuck are you doing here, you slimy little bastard?” Vasquez took a drag on her cigarette. “So what makes you sure he won’t just go after the money himself instead of giving us the information?” “Can’t be sure, of course. More likely he’d go on a killing spree. That’s what floats his boat. He seems to just want the money as a means to an end.” “Ain’t that all anyone wants it for? Still, Morton’s Syndicate don’t like taking chances. If he tries to rip us off, we’ll show him a thing or two about torture. Or at least we’ll show his mother.” She squirmed on the sofa next to Wayne. “I can’t afford any more screw-ups on this job.” He oozed next to her and dragged a knuckle down her cheek. “Szabo’s one scary dude. Personally, I think it’d be a mistake to threaten him.” Edgar’s breath husked in his throat and his muscles writhed, but his body remained still, rigid, and his face stayed impassive. “You better believe it’s a mistake, asshole,” he murmured, and flicked a finger at Wayne’s image on the screen. Vasquez snorted. “He can’t be as scary as Morton’s Syndicate. As nearly as I can tell, they’re tight with big international banks, and they own high-powered politicians in a dozen countries, including the good old US of A. They got private armies, and maybe even their own little arsenal of nukes. I’m not sure just what games they’re playing here, but I’m pretty sure there’s no limit to what they can do. They want the money that Oren stole from them, and what they want, they get. Always.” She licked her lips and her hand found its way to Wayne’s crotch. He reached out and ran his fingers through her hair. “Don’t

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Max Griffin worry. My boss has it all figured out.” His lips lingered on hers for a moment before he continued. “After Szabo tortures the codes out of this Crow guy, he’ll snuff him and any other witnesses. Elegant. No loose ends.” Wayne’s hands massaged her neck and shoulders. She kicked off her shoes and leaned back. “Yeah. I think Morton has the whole thing planned out with your boss.” She hesitated. “No loose ends.” The words carried a deadly finality. Wayne nodded. “You mean Szabo.” It wasn’t a question. “Exactly. Once the job’s done, one way or another we’ll waste him, too. Morton don’t like loose cannons, and he wants payback for all the trouble killing Oren caused. Getting rid of this Szabo freak is part of the deal with your boss. I’m sure of it.” Instead of rage, cold calculations slammed through Edgar’s mind and plans clanked into place like girders on a skyscraper. He’d survive. He always survived. He’d already had ideas on how to steal all of Oren’s money, and vanishing into the night unnoticed was his specialty. He’d show the fuckers. Wayne’s baritone continued from the speakers. “I’ll be glad to see him go. So will my employer. He was getting harder and harder to handle. He’s an efficient hit man, but there’s always collateral damage.” He leaned forward and kissed her. “Bastard makes me sick. The only thing that turns him on is death, torture, and blood. Oh, and money, too.” “According to his mother’s medical record at Tall Grass, you could add her to the list of what turns him on. He’s a real sicko.” Wayne stopped and gripped her hair. “Don’t underestimate him. He’s psycho for sure, but he’s smart and efficient. Last week in Wichita, he got pissed off at some pimp and butchered him alive. That’s how your guy, Morton, connected him up with Oren’s hit. Anyway, the SOB showed me the pictures he took. I thought he was gonna cum right there, just from watching.” 190

Flatland Edgar’s face relaxed into a smile at the memory, and his cock throbbed. “I’ll show you bastards. Double cross me, will you?” Vasquez shook her head. “I toldja. He’s psycho.” She sat up and straightened her blouse. “Let’s go back to the trailer where we got some privacy. The cameras are still recording this place.” After they left, Edgar switched to the geo-tracker he’d put on Vasquez’s car. The radio link to his computer showed them tracing out a route back to the trailer where he’d found her earlier that night. “You lazy slut. I should get a chain and slice you both in half right now. Serve you right.” Instead, he called a number in Kansas City. “Jackson? This is Lionel Hargrave. I expect to need to fly to the Caribbean in the next couple of days. Can you have a plane ready for me by, say, midnight tomorrow?” “Of course, Mr. Hargrave. The usual deposit will apply, sir.” The man’s voice oozed respect. Edgar hated sycophants, and someday he’d cut out Jackson’s throat and use one of his jet engines to shred his body. But not now. Now, he needed him for transportation. “No problem. I’ll transfer the funds as soon as we’re done. There will be two of us this trip, Jackson. I’ll be bringing my mother along.” “No problem, Mr. Hargrave. A little family vacation?” “You might say that. We’ll be going to George Town, in the Caymans, and then I think on to Saint Croix.” “Very good sir. Midnight tomorrow.” “Have it ready to go then, Jackson, but we might be as much as a day later than that. I’ve got some business to settle first. When we’re ready, we’ll want to leave right away.” Edgar broke the connection, lay back in the bed and let a slow

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Max Griffin smile crease his features. His list of victims was getting longer and more delectable. He slipped into an erotic dreamland filled with murder, torture, and money. And blood, of course. Oceans of delicious blood.

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Chapter 22

Skip glanced at the GPS screen on his phone. “This says that there’s a rest area and gas station at El Dorado, maybe ten miles ahead. After that, it’s about two and half hours to Kansas City.” “Good. We can stop and fill up the car. I need to take a leak, too.” Zsa Zsa gave a little snuffle from the back seat, and Danny grinned. “Sounds like she might need to go, too.” “Fill up the car, empty Danny and the dog. Got it.” The highway stretched in front of them in endless, gentle curves, undulating up and down over the rolling planes. “At least it’s not so friggin’ flat here.” “Not so flat but just as boring. Notice the lack of any signs of human habitation.” “Gee, you’re right. Except for the other cars on the highway, there’s nothing. No towns, no farms, no trees. Just hills and wheat, as far as the eye can see.” “That’s Kansas for you. Oh, look! There’s an armadillo!” “You mean that flat pancake thing in the road? Yuck.” “Yeah, they’re a little slow, and they think the road is just a mud flat so they try to waddle across. Of course, they get squashed by the traffic.” “Poor things.” Skip leaned back. “So much for civilization.” “Yeah.” Danny squirmed. “Ten minutes, you say. Won’t be

Flatland too soon.” Skip grinned, but then his nose twitched. “What’s that smell?” A noxious mix of sulfur and tar whirled into the car. “Smells like brimstone. I knew Kansas was close to Hell. Should I look for the River Styx on the GPS?” Danny chuckled. “I bet it’s the refinery at El Dorado. When the wind’s just right, you can smell it.” “I’d say more like when the wind’s just wrong.” Skip rolled up his window. “That helps, but now it’s like an oven in here. How long will this last?” Danny’s face flushed. “I’m sorry. I should have had the air conditioning fixed, but, well, I didn’t have much money and...” “Stop it already. I’m just being bitchy. It’s not your fault.” He rolled the window back down. “That’s better. I can stand the stink more than the heat.” The car crested a hill and a massive industrial complex came into view. Skip blinked and leaned forward for a better view. “Is that the refinery? It looks like something from a Mad Max movie.” Danny nodded. “That’s it. You know, there was a refinery in the first Mad Max movie.” “I remember. Haven’t watched it in years, though. I won’t watch anything with that racist fucker in it now.” He stared out the window at the refinery. Cracking towers rose like steel obelisks from the desolate earth. A ladder of brilliant lights snaked up the sides like diamonds on a tiara. Clouds of snow-white steam billowed about the industrial monoliths before drifting into the brassy Kansas sky. A chaotic morass of pipes gleamed in massive, frozen ropes on the ground, like a metallic Ouroboros suckling at a mechanical teat. The reek of sulfur and tar fouled the air and burned Skip’s nose. “Wow. Where’s the EPA when you need them?”

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Max Griffin Danny snorted. “I’m sure this place has a clean bill of health. Besides, the people here have to survive somehow. That plant means jobs for the folks around here, and jobs mean survival.” He winced and twisted his foot. “That damned beacon thing Tina gave us has come loose in my shoe. You sure we need it?” Skip flexed his toes against the hard kernel of the device hidden in the toe of his right shoe. “Hey, I don’t want to take any chances on losing track of you. Or you losing track of me, for that matter.” He pulled a modified PDA from his pocket and gazed at the screen. “They’re both still working. You can adjust it at the gas station.” He stuffed the PDA back in his pocket. “If we get separated for any reason, not only we can find each other, but we’ve got Tina and Leo in reserve.” “Yeah, I know.” He glanced in the rear view mirror. “I can’t see Leo’s car.” “He’s smart. They’ll stay four or five miles behind, tracking us. The beacons have a ten-mile range.” Danny nodded. “I guess. I just wish that she’d put it somewhere besides inside my sneaker.” “It’s as good a place as any. You won’t lose it there, and you don’t have to think about it.” “Except when it pinches.” He twisted his foot again. “You know, it’s not like we’re going into combat or anything.” A feeble grin passed across his features. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to complain. I know you’re just being careful.” “Better safe than sorry. I’m glad Tina thought of these.” “Well, she had you to inspire her.” His voice took on a lighter tone. “There, see the rest area ahead?” “Got it. Why don’t I fill up the car while you take care of Zsa Zsa?”

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Flatland “Sure.” Danny pulled off the turnpike and into the combination gas station, rest area, and fast-food restaurant. He stopped at a pump and killed the engine. “I’ll be just a minute.” He hopped out of the car and knelt to untie his sneaker. Zsa Zsa gave a little yelp and danced around him. “Just a second, girl. Let me get this thing adjusted. Ah, that’s better.” He stood and snapped his fingers. “Okay, girl. Let’s go.” A grin pulled at Skip’s lip while he watched Danny and Zsa Zsa trot off to the pet-relief area. His heart quickened at the sight of his lover’s elfin figure, so delicate yet so alluring. With a relaxed sigh, he pulled out the pre-loaded credit card he’d purchased at Western Union earlier that day using Oren’s money. One swipe in the reader released the pump. While he filled the tank, he noticed that little black strings of asphalt had collected on the windshield and other surfaces, as though the car had driven through streamers of the stuff. As he topped off the tank, Danny returned with Zsa Zsa. He let her into the back seat and hitched up his blue jeans. “She’s all done. Now it’s my turn.” “Okay. Look at all this gunk on the windows.” Danny ran his finger across one of the strands and left a greasy trail. “Must be from the refinery.” “Geeze. Well, I’ll clean it off while you’re inside. Hey, get me a Coke and some chips, will you?” “Sure thing.” Danny dashed off, and Skip pulled out the squeegee from its container between the pumps and tore off a fistful of paper towels. While he worked, a van creaked into the adjacent stall and dieseled to a stop and a cloud of fumes. Skip glanced over and saw that someone had painted a garish cartoon of apes playing guitars

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Max Griffin and drums on the side of the vehicle. The words “Flying Monkeys Band” arched over the picture in viridian letters. A wry grin formed on his lips at the name before he returned his eyes to the mess on the windows. He jumped when a Chesterfield voice husked next to him. “We’ve got the same crap on our car. You’d think they’d do something about that fucking refinery.” A busty woman with crinkly red hair stood too close to him, watching him scrape at the gunk. He edged away. “It seems to come right off, at least.” “I guess. Can we use that thing when you’re done?” She nodded to the squeegee. “Sure. I won’t be but a minute or two longer.” She turned to her van, where her companion was gassing up their vehicle. “Hey, lover. I’m gonna go use the ladies’ room. You want anything from inside?” Then guy glanced up at her. “I’m good.” A black sweatshirt with no sleeves fluttered about the man’s body, revealing rippling biceps and chiseled lats. A ragged scar ran from his mouth up his cheek and disappeared into his scalp. He nodded to Skip. “How ya doin’, buddy?” “I’m doing well. How about you?” “Couldn’t be better.” His eyes leered while his redheaded companion strutted toward the restrooms. “She’s so fuckin’ hot.” He turned back to Skip when she disappeared around the corner. “Go ahead and look at her. Don’t bother me none.” Skip blinked. “Uh, thanks.” The man’s face split into a grin, which his scar seemed to lengthen into the predatory maw of shark’s smile. “You travellin’ by yourself, man?” Skip frowned. “I’m with someone. He’s inside, getting us some

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Flatland snacks.” He turned his back and swiped at the rear window, smearing red dust, tar, and soap into a sudsy miniature oil spill. The man finished pumping and sauntered over to where Skip worked on the rear-view mirrors. “I think you missed a spot.” He pointed to a swirl of muck on the windshield. “Thanks.” Skip wiped at it with a paper towel. “Hey, is this tire low?” He squatted next to the rear of Danny’s car and ran his fingers inside the tire well. “It doesn’t look low to me.” “Lemme check for ya. I gotta wait while you finish anyway.” The man strode to the air pump and then unscrewed the stem on the tire. Skip frowned, but didn’t say anything. He took one final swipe at the windows, and then knelt next to the scar-faced guy. “It looks okay to me.” “Yeah, the pressure’s fine. Musta been an optical illusion.” He stood and replaced the air hose. “Ya done with the cleanin’ stuff?” “Yeah.” “Great. Thanks, man. Good talkin’ to ya.” “Same here. Thanks for checking the tire.” “You betcha.” The man swaggered away without looking back. Skip ran his fingers over the tread and watched through slitted eyes while the guy started in on his windows. Something didn’t feel quite right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Most likely, the redhead and her boyfriend were just the garrulous bumpkins they seemed to be. Danny’s light tenor lifted him from his reverie. “Hey, is there something wrong with the tire?” Skip looked up to where his lover stood over him, clutching a plastic sack filled with chips and drinks. “Nah. I thought maybe it was low, but it’s fine. You ready to go?” 198

Max Griffin “Sure am. You want to drive for a while?” “Sure, why not?” Skip slipped into the driver’s side and pulled back onto the turnpike. “At least there’s hardly any traffic. We should make good time.”

Edgar hunkered in the front seat of the SUV he’d stolen from the Wichita airport earlier that day. The foul fumes from the refinery commingled with the rancid odor of the trashcans next to where he’d parked his car. He watched with grim satisfaction while Wayne placed a bug in the tire well of the beat-up sedan that Skip drove. The prey obviously didn’t suspect a thing. This was going to be easy. In less than a minute, a second blip winked into existence on the screen of his laptop, next to the one for the FBI van. His tap into the FBI surveillance system worked to perfection. He wasn’t surprised when his phone beeped to announce a text message. Subject at El Dorado Rest Area on I-35, headed north to Kansas City. Acknowledge.

He used his thumbs to type a reply with the word “Received.” The fools thought he was still on their leash and that he needed them for anything. They’d learn soon enough not to fuck with him. His eyes stayed glued to his computer, following the new blip as Danny’s car pulled out of the gas station and back onto the turnpike. The standard FBI bug had a twelve-mile radius, so he had time for one more errand before he followed them.

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Flatland He reached to the seat beside him and picked up what looked like a 35mm camera. He focused the viewfinder on the right rear wheel of the Flying Monkeys van. When he pressed the shutter button, the device gave a little whir, followed by a whish as a needle-sharp dart whizzed from the camera body. He increased the magnification and spotted the black fletching of the nail he’d just fired into the van’s tire. He smiled in grim satisfaction and repeated the process with the other rear tire, and then again with the right front tire. With any luck, they’d all blow at the same time and splatter Wayne and that bitch FBI agent over the highway like strawberry jam. Edgar’s only regret was that he wouldn’t be there to see the result. At the worst, they’d have three flat tires. That would give him at least an extra hour head start to carry out his plans. A smile slithered across his lips as he tossed his cell phone out the window, severing his last contact with Grace and her idiot minions. Everything was going according to plan.

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Chapter 23

A light mist of rain drizzled onto the windshield as Skip pulled into the parking lot of the Tall Grass Sanitarium. He frowned and glanced at Danny, who slouched asleep in the passenger seat next to him. “Hey, kiddo, we’re here.” His companion stirred but didn’t answer. Skip pulled into a parking stall near the entrance marked “visitors” and gave his companion’s shoulder a gentle shake. “Wake up, sleepy head.” “Whazzat?” The words fuzzed from Danny’s mouth as his eyes fluttered and he shook his head. “We’re at the address you gave me, but it doesn’t look like the right place. This is some kind of hospital. I thought your grandfather worked in an office.” Danny’s forehead wrinkled, and he peered through the window. “Uh, yeah, this is the right place.” He pointed. “That’s where we go in.” “Okay. Is he on the staff or something?” Skip started to open his car door, but Danny put a hand on his knee. “Wait a minute. I’m still all cobwebs. Crazy dreams.” He shook his head again and looked at the visitor’s entrance. “There’s a metal detector just inside the door. Maybe you should leave your gun in the car.” “It’s a pistol. It’s already stashed in the glove box.” Skip stared

Flatland at his lover’s confused visage. “Are you sure you’re all right? You seem a little shaky.” “I’ll be fine.” A heavy sigh gusted from his lips. “Let’s go.” Zsa Zsa gave a little yip and bounced into the front seat. Skip smiled and gave her a treat. “I’m sorry, baby. I think you’ll have to stay out here for a while.” He paused and reflected it had been over two hours since their last stop. “Do you need to go?” Arf! “Shit.” Skip attached the leash to her collar. “You want to go on inside while she takes care of business?” “I’ll wait here. Give me a chance to wake up.” He stretched. “There’s an umbrella in the back seat.” “It’s just drizzling. We won’t melt. Come on, girl.” Zsa Zsa dragged him across the parking and between the flower gardens that flanked the visitor’s parking lot. Her nose snuffled at the ground for a few minutes before she found just the right spot. “That’s a good girl. Is that better now, baby?” Arf! “You understand every word we say to you, don’t you, girl?” Her tail whirled a dizzying assent while he ruffled her ears. “Come on. Back in the car.” She gave him an accusing glare but hopped into the back seat. She pressed her nose against the window and watched while Danny and Skip climbed the stairs to the main building. A bored security guard sat behind a desk watching security cameras and chomping on potato chips. He didn’t bother to look up as he asked, “Good afternoon. Are you here for a visit?” “We’re here to see my grandfather, Mykolas Rajunas.” Danny’s voice wavered a bit as he pronounced the name.

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Max Griffin The guard shoved a clipboard at them. “Sign in here, along with who you’re visiting and the time. It’s 3:45.” He nodded to the glassed-in reception area on the opposite side of the lobby. “Check with the counter over there. They’ll help you.” Skip followed Danny and waited while he gave his name and the purpose of the visit to the pert receptionist behind the counter. Her fingers flew across the keyboard of her computer, and she gave them a sunny smile. “You can see Mr. Rajunas in the solarium. Do you remember where that’s at?” “Yes, thank you, Mandy.” Danny turned to Skip. “Come on. I’m still feeling a little confused, but I know I can find the way to the Solarium. It’s the nicest room in this place.” Skip followed him down a spacious corridor lined with inspirational nature posters. After one turn, they entered a room with broad windows facing onto the manicured gardens of the hospital. Overstuffed sofas and easy chairs scattered in intimate seating groups across the flagstone flooring, and a fireplace dominated one wall. Even with the dreary weather fogging the view, the room exuded comfort and peace. A few people sat in quiet groups, chatting, but the space was mostly empty. Danny strode at once to a sofa near the fireplace and sat. “This is Grandpa’s favorite place. I bet he doesn’t keep us waiting long.” Skip took a seat in an easy chair facing Danny. “This is a great place. Very restful.” The soft leather of the chair folded about him like a mother’s embrace. “What did you say he does here, again?” At that moment, a frail, elderly man appeared in the entry to the room. Wisps of white hair floated about his head and glowed in the fluorescent lighting like a feeble halo. A younger, muscular fellow accompanied him, almost like an escort. Danny jumped to his feet and exclaimed, “Grandpa! It’s so good to see you.” He ran

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Flatland across the room and embraced the older man in a bear hug. Skip recognized an echo of Danny’s golden tenor in the timbre of the older man’s voice, but its pitch wavered with the delicacy of age. “Danny, my boy. It is so good to see you.” He pulled away and a broad smile split his features into a morass of delighted wrinkles. “What brings you all the way to Kansas City?” His eyes narrowed. “Is something wrong?” His muscular, young escort led them back to the seating group where Skip stood waiting. Danny’s grandfather leaned on the man’s arm and accepted his assistance in sitting in the sofa. Once he was settled, the aide shook Danny’s hand. “Good to see you again. How have you been?” “Good. Uh, Mark, this is my friend Skip. Skip, this is Mark.” “Pleased to meet you.” After they shook, Skip turned to the older man. Danny reached out to where his fists squirmed in a nervous wallow on his lap. “You must be Danny’s grandfather. I’ve heard so much about you. I’m Skip.” The man’s skin was like brittle parchment wrapped about a bag of sticks. His face crinkled as he peered at Skip’s face through eyes clouded by cataracts. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. Who did you say you are again?” “I’m Danny’s friend, Skip.” “Danny. He’s my grandson. He’s a good boy.” His attention seemed to wander. Mark’s hearty voice interrupted. “Danny, don’t wear him out, now. Dr. Bryant will be along shortly. I know he wants to talk to you. I’ll be back soon.” He nodded to Skip and left. Concern flooded Danny’s features. “Grandpa, how have you been? Have they been taking care of you?”

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Max Griffin “Danny, is that you? What are you doing here? Is everything all right?” “Everything’s just fine, Grandpa.” He glanced at Skip and shook his head. “Leo says hello.” “Leo’s back from Cue-Wait? That’s good.” “He’s been back for a while now. You knew that, Grandpa.” “That’s good. He’ll take care of you, then, while I’m here.” Sudden worry cascaded across his features. “I’ve not been myself lately, you know. Is everything all right? Leo can help if there’s a problem.” Danny ran his palms up and down over his face before leveling a steady gaze at his grandfather. “Leo will help, Grandpa. So will my friend Tina. You don’t need to worry.” The old fellow smiled. “I like Tina. When the two of you going to tie the knot?” That earned a wan smile from Danny. “Now, you know we’re not the marrying kind. I’m with Skip now.” “Who? Who’s that?” Skip leaned back and listened as the two chatted about people back in Flatland and about relatives. This certainly wasn’t the way he had expected this meeting would go. He reviewed his memories of how Danny talked about his grandfather and his “connections.” He supposed he could have misunderstood. After all, how could anyone have thought that this poor, confused old man could help them? Skip decided Danny must have meant a business acquaintance or maybe even someone at the hospital. Time to ask those questions later. Anyway, according to Tina, Leo knew people who could give them fake IDs, birth certificates, and Social Security cards. That was really all they needed to disappear with Oren’s payoff.

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Flatland He looked up when a trim, young man in a lab coat approached and joined the group. “Good to see you, Danny.” He ran his fingers through his brown curls, which fell in stylish disarray about his ears. “Justin,” Danny stammered. “Uh, I mean, Dr. Bryant. Good to see you, too.” His gaze flew to Skip, and then back to the physician. “This is my partner, Skip Crow. Skip, this is Grandpa’s doctor, Justin Bryant.” The man’s grip was firm but not crushing. “Nice to meet you, Doctor.” “You, too. I’m glad to learn that Danny has someone in his life.” A dazzling smile lit up his face. Skip thought that he could rent his teeth out for a Pepsodent commercial. “I think I’m the lucky one.” He frowned, remembering Tina’s description of Danny’s ex. “Have you known Danny long?” The Doctor cocked an eyebrow at Danny. “Oh, it’s been almost two years since you started coming here, hasn’t it?” Danny turned crimson. “Uh, yeah. About that long. Look, Justin, I really need to talk to you.” “Of course. I think your grandfather might be getting a little tired.” He stroked the elder Rajunas’ hand. “How about it, Mykolas? Would you like to go back to your room to rest?” The old man sagged. “I’m tired. Will Mark help me?” “I’ll send him along.” Bryant pulled a cell phone from his pocked and spoke briefly before he turned to Skip. “You can wait here if you like while Danny and I chat.” Danny shook his head. “No. I don’t have any secrets from him. I want him along.” Bryant gave him a grave look. “I have your permission to discuss things with him, then?” “Yes. Please.” He didn’t look Skip in the face. “He needs to know.” 206

Max Griffin The doctor nodded. “Our session still needs to be private. I’d like a blood test anyway, so why don’t you go to the Medical Lab, and let them get started on that while I brief Skip? Is that all right?” Danny shrugged. “Sure. Whatever.” His eyes stayed focused on the flagstone flooring. “That’s what we’ll do, then. Ah, here’s Mark.” He pulled a pad from his pocket and scribbled on it. “Mark, perhaps you’ll help Mykolas to his room? And then show Danny the way to the Medical Lab? I’d like them to draw some blood. Here’s the order.” He handed a slip of paper to the attendant. Skip frowned as he watched Danny shuffle away. “Doctor, what’s going on?” The other stood and threw another gleaming smile Skip’s way. “Let’s go to my office, shall we?” He led him at a brisk pace back down the corridor. “What do you know of Danny’s condition?” “Well, nothing. I mean, I know that he’s taking clozapine. At least, I’ve seen the prescription bottle with his name on it. I know that’s an anti-psychotic. But I haven’t seen anything unusual about him or his behavior. Except for the fact that we’re in love with each other.” He gave a little extra emphasis to the last, just to be clear. “Nothing unusual about that. In fact, that’s a great thing for both of you. How long have you been together?” “Not so long, actually. But I’m sure it’s the real thing.” Bryant stopped at a door and led him into a comfortable office. Patient charts piled high on the desk. Diplomas from the University of Kansas and certificates from the Menninger Institute lined one wall. Photos of a smiling blond woman and three cherubic children decorated his bookshelf. Two over-stuffed chairs covered with soft, indigo leather sat facing each other in front of the desk. Bryant relaxed in one and pointed to the other. “Please have a seat, Skip.

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Flatland May I call you Skip?” His voice purred now. “Sure. May I call you Justin?” This chair had the same comfortable embrace as the one in the Solarium, but that wasn’t enough to reduce the tension that coiled inside him. “Of course. We encourage familiarity here.” He leaned back and tented his fingers. “That’s usually a healthy thing, but sometimes patients fixate on their therapists. I’m so glad that Danny has a relationship now. That’s another confirmation of his progress.” “He fixated on you?” Skip tried to keep the snarl out of his voice. “I think he may have, about a year ago. Of course, I made sure our relationship stayed professional in all ways.” He paused. “You have nothing to fear from me.” “I’m glad to hear it.” Skip took a deep breath. “You were going to tell me about his progress?” “Ah, yes. You’re right that clozapine is most often used as an anti-psychotic, but that’s not why Danny’s taking it. He’s never exhibited any classic symptoms of psychosis. Instead, he’s had this persistent but harmless delusion.” Skip’s mouth turned down. “What is it? That his grandfather is a powerful executive?” Justin smiled. “Is that what he told you? At one time, before his heart attack, that was true. He was a judge and then ran an organization for immigrants here in the city. He even served on our Board, in fact. I’m afraid his mind isn’t what it once was, though.” “I could tell.” “That’s been hard for Danny. They are quite close as I’m sure you can tell. Perhaps later, you can meet some of his business associates. They’re an impressive group, although I fear that some of them might have some, uh, unsavory roots. Still, they are all

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Max Griffin unquestionably loyal to Mykolas and Danny.” He almost simpered this last sentence. “Maybe we’ll do that when we’re done here.” That must be what Danny meant when he said his grandfather’s connections could help them. “Back to Danny...” He raised his eyebrows. “Yes, of course. He suffers from something called somatic delusional disorder. It’s not all that uncommon, except that his particular manifestation is quite rare. There are only a handful of cases in the literature, and we’ve pioneered diagnosis and treatment here at Tall Grass.” A smile flashed across his features and disappeared as he launched into doctor-speak. “The clozapine seems be an effective therapy at reducing and even reversing the progress of the disease. You say he hasn’t had any delusions in the time you’ve known him?” “No.” Skip thought for a moment. “He seems depressed, and he has low self-esteem.” He let a lop-sided grin twist his features. “I’m working on that.” Justin nodded. “That’s good. Those symptoms seem to have been side effects in his case. You say you saw his prescription bottle?” “Yeah. I think he’s out of pills though. We left Flatland in kind of a hurry.” “I see. In fact, he needs the medication less than he probably thinks. We’ve been reducing the dosage for the last year, and our treatment plan has been to phase it out altogether. I don’t like the idea of clozapine as long-term therapy. There’s risk of agranulocytosis or even myocarditis, among other things. I’d like to change him to something milder, maybe Zoloft. That would help with his depression, too.” Skip nodded. “I take Zoloft, for PTSD.”

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Flatland “So you can appreciate the benefits then. That’s good.” Sudden popping sounds burst from the corridor and interrupted their conversation. Running feet clumped past the door, and a shouted voice rang in the distance. Skip jumped to his feet. “That’s gunfire!” Justin blinked. “I don’t see how it could be. Besides, there would be an alarm...” A tone chimed in the hallway, followed by a calm voice from what sounded like a hospital enunciator system. “Doctor van Helsing, please go to the Medical Lab. Doctor van Helsing, please go to the Medical Lab.” Every muscle in Skip’s body tensed. “What’s that mean? Is that some kind of code?” Justin’s face turned ashen and a tremor shook his fingers. “It is. A call to ‘Dr. van Helsing’ means there’s an imminent threat of violence wherever he’s supposed to go. We have to stay here. That call means it’s not safe to be on the grounds.” More popping sounds, this time closer, along with screams. “The medical lab is where the trouble’s at? Isn’t that where they draw blood?” The doctor nodded, his eyes like saucers and his mouth a little oh-shape. “That’s where Danny’s at. I’ve got to go to him!”

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Chapter 24

Danny huddled in the waiting room for the medical lab. He flipped through the pages of an ancient People magazine, but the content didn’t really register on his mind. He was numb from seeing his grandfather still so fragile. Even worse, dementia now muddled that once razor-sharp mind. For so long, Grandfather had been his anchor in an uncertain world. Now Danny felt at sea. At least he had Skip. Except Justin was even now telling Skip all about his...problems. He probably wouldn’t have Skip that much longer once he knew. He focused on the syrupy rendition of Sting’s “I’ll Be Watching You” playing over the clinic’s speaker system and tried to shut out the world. “Danny?” A portly, middle-aged man wearing blue surgical scrubs stood holding the door to the lab open. He gripped a file in his hand and scanned the waiting room with an expectant look on his face. “That’s me.” Danny stood and followed him into the bowers of the lab. The man’s bald spot and big ears made Danny think of a gibbon he’d seen at the zoo in Oklahoma City when he was a child. Those were better times, when Grandfather was strong and lifted him up. Not like now... The technician stopped at an alcove and pointed to the

Flatland phlebotomy chair. “If you’ll just have a seat, we can get started.” He pulled a curtain closed, shutting them off from the hallway. Danny settled into the padded seat and read the man’s nametag: Tony. He waited in silence while the lab tech filled out forms and put labels on three little tubes. “Do you have a preference which arm I use?” Tony didn’t even look up from his paperwork when he asked the question. “It doesn’t matter. I guess my left.” The man wrapped a plastic band around Danny’s bicep before he swabbed the hollow of his elbow with disinfectant. The cool alcohol sent a chill up his arm. Tony snapped at Danny’s arm with a finger and murmured, “Nice veins. You’ll be easy to stick.” “So they tell me.” The tech ran his fingers down the needle tracks on Danny’s forearm, but didn’t say anything. Danny averted his eyes at this evidence of his sins. Tony pulled the rubber tip off his needle with his teeth and muttered, “Hold still. You’ll feel a little pinch.” Danny watched the needle go into his arm. “I didn’t even feel it. You’re good, Tony.” “Thanks. I guess it helps to get lots of practice.” Blood spurted into the first of the three vials that the technician connected to the needle. “Good flow, too.” He swapped out to the second vial. “Sometimes it clots and they have to stick me a second time.” “Mmm.” He slipped the third vial onto the needle and massaged vein. “I don’t think we’ll need to do that. Just a little bit more now.” Tony slipped the needle out and pressed a cotton ball against

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Max Griffin Danny’s arm while he released the elastic band. “Hold this in place for me.” Danny flexed his fingers. “That was easy. Are we done?” Tony stored the samples in a tray and wrapped a plastic bandage around Danny’s arm. “I’m done, but the doctor ordered a urine sample, too.” He handed over a plastic cup with a lid. “There’s a bathroom down the hall. When you’ve filled it up to the line, there’s a little door in the wall. If you’ll put the sample inside that, you can leave.” “Good. Uh, do you know where I’m supposed to go next?” “Dunno. I can have the receptionist call Dr. Bryant to find out if you like.” “Thanks. I’d appreciate that.” Danny found the bathroom. The door was closed, but a little sign above the knob read “available.” He opened it, and on the inside, there was a little toggle where a dead bolt would be. When he turned it, the sign changed from “available” to “occupied.” There was no bolt, of course. He closed the door and sighed, wishing he were anywhere but here. The room stank of wintergreen and disinfectant. The polished tile floors, the shiny chrome handrails, and the gleaming sink just reminded him of his previous stays at this place. A small built-in shelf hung next to the sink, with a sliding door above it. A sign on the wall had an arrow pointing downward and instructions to put samples here and close the door. Danny sighed and unzipped his pants. A rapid sequence of distant popping noises penetrated the bathroom door while he tried to fill the sample bottle, but he didn’t think much about them. Shit. If I’d known I was going to have to do this, I would have had another soda on the way here. He closed his eyes, turned on the faucet in

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Flatland the sink, and concentrated. It took a few minutes, but he eventually managed to splash a few ounces into the cup. Just as he was zipping up, a sequence of loud cracking sounds snapped in his ears, interrupting the muzak playing over the speakers. Inchoate voices screamed, followed by two more cracks and a wet splattering noise, like a bowl of spaghetti being thrown against a wall. After that, silence. The only sound came from the speakers, now playing an easy-listening version of the Hank Williams spiritual, “I Saw the Light.” Shit. That couldn’t be what it sounded like. They check people for guns in this place. Still, he eyed the door and decided to stay put for a minute or two. An authoritative voice called from the hallway. “Mr. Rajunas? Are you in here?” Danny shuddered. That wasn’t the orderly Mark or anyone he recognized. Besides, everyone here called people by their first names. A fist rapped on the door. “Mr. Rajunas. This is the FBI. There’s been a shooting. I’m here to protect you.” Shit. What’s the FBI doing here? He remembered Vasquez bullying him and that they wanted to talk to Skip. Maybe they followed them here somehow. Danny backed against the wall, wondering what to do. “Mr. Rajunas. I’m coming in now. I work with Special Agent Vasquez. You met her the other day. The people who killed your neighbor are looking for you and Mr. Crow.” The door swung open and revealed the corridor beyond. A tall, swarthy man whipped into the room. He held a pistol in both hands, just like the cops on Law and Order. The barrel swiveled across the room and pointed right at him before the man relaxed and held it erect at his side. He turned and looked back down the hall while he spoke. “I’m Special Agent Joe Gilead. There’s a shooter loose in the building.” His rapid-fire

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Max Griffin words exploded into the tiny room like rounds from an Uzi. When he finally turned so that Danny could see his face, a vicious scar dominated his visage. It ran in a ragged line from the corner of his mouth up his cheek and disappeared at his temple. Danny fought the trembling in his limbs. A flat, coppery smell penetrated his nose, punctuated by the foul smell of urine and feces. The agent tugged at him, and the flowery scent of his cologne comingled with the vile odors from the hallway. A trail of vomit burned the back of Danny’s throat. He read the badge on the man’s lapel. Sure enough, it said “FBI” in big blue letters and had his photo and name underneath it, just like the agents on “Without a Trace” on TV. Danny shuddered and managed to quaver, “What’s going on?” “There’s been a shooting here in the lab. We think it’s the same person who killed your neighbor, a mob hit man. We followed him here.” His voice took on greater urgency. “We think he’s looking for you and Mr. Crow. We need to get you out of here right now.” He tugged harder on Danny’s arm. “Now.” Danny jerked back. “What about Skip? I can’t leave without him.” “Don’t be a fool. This man’s already killed six people. The hospital security team will take care of Mr. Crow. You need to let me take you to safety.” He pushed Danny into the hall. “Come on. Don’t look at the lobby.” Being told not look guaranteed he would. It’s like being told to not think hippopotamus. What’s he thinking, telling me not to look? The world stopped when he entered the lobby. He gasped and stumbled at the Hell that the room had become. Four bodies sprawled on the floor, inert and grotesque. Dark pools of blood

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Flatland oozed beneath mangled skulls and ruptured torsos. Crimson splatters painted the walls in an abstract vision of horror that combined the worst of Quenton Tarentino and Jackson Pollack. The fetid stench that had wafted down the hall to the bathroom clogged the air out here. He gagged and doubled over, hurling vomit across the body closest to him. He recognized Tony’s burly form, but his head no longer had a face. There was just a bloody maw, oozing globs of white and gray goop and bounded by shards of bone. “Shit. Oh my god, this is awful!” “I told you not to look.” The agent grabbed the hand of an older woman who stood impassively in the midst of the horror. “We’ve got to go. Now.” He jerked at Danny’s arm and pulled him down the hall toward the front of the building. The hall seemed to narrow and swirl about Danny. He gagged and staggered against the agent. Gilead, that was his name. His stomach convulsed and more vomit splattered on his shoes. The agent looked at him with disgust. He snapped “Don’t faint on me.” Then his voice turned warmer, gentler. He spoke in a slow, deliberate manner, as if he were Bogey reassuring Ingrid Bergman. “Hold it together, kiddo. Once we get you outside, everything will be okay.” He lurched at Danny’s arm again so hard that pain shot through his shoulder and down his back. Danny staggered after him. “Okay, already. I’m coming.” Gilead yanked him forward. “Hurry! We don’t know where he might strike next.” The once-cheery corridor now narrowed to an endless tunnel of fear and panic. The small of Danny’s back quivered with the certainty that a rain of bullets was about to strike him down. The horror of Tony’s ruined face haunted him, and he imagined his own

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Max Griffin destroyed by bullets slapping into his skull. Worse, he imagined Skip...”We’ve got to find Skip.” “He’s safe.” Gilead pointed to an earpiece and a coiled cord that disappeared behind his collar. “Agent Vasquez has him in a secure room. Come on, we need to go.” He pulled Danny forward, wrenching at the same arm as before and sending white-hot knives of pain deep into his muscles and bones. Danny stumbled along between Gilead and the strange old woman they had picked up in the waiting room. She followed along without urging and without speaking. A part of Danny’s mind wondered who she might be. She wore her iron-gray hair in a tight bun behind her head, and her narrow face reminded him of Margaret Hamilton’s character in The Wizard of Oz. He remembered the drizzle outside and the insane worry struck him that she might melt. A hysterical smile bent his lips before the macabre memories cascaded back. When they reached the lobby, the security guard cowered behind his desk, his gun wobbling in his hand. “Stop!” His voice quavered. Gilead turned so he could see his badge. “FBI here. Special Agent Joe Gilead. Have you called the authorities?” The man stood, relief flooding his features. “I pushed the panic button. The police should be here soon. What the fuck happened? I heard there were shots in the medical lab.” “Four victims down there, two more out in the gardens. I saw the shooter running out the back, headed toward the rose garden.” Gilead pushed his charges forward. “We think he’s after these two. I’m going to get them to safety outside. Tell the other agents when they get here. Be sure to call an ambulance.” He shoved Danny through the door.

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Flatland The rain was heavier now, soaking his clothes. The musky scent of damp earth cleansed his nostrils of the grotesque scents of death, but nothing would ever erase those ghastly images from his soul. He stumbled on the steps. “God. Skip. What about Skip?” “I told you. He’s safe. You can talk to him once we’re in the van.” Gilead shoved him forward. Danny pushed on, and then his eyes caught his car. Zsa Zsa pressed her nose against the rear window, her tail agog, and gave a little bark of welcome. A frenzied giggle slipped from Danny’s mouth. “Zsa Zsa...” “Forget that fucking dog.” The agent’s hands were rougher now, thrusting him against the side of a filthy van. He slammed the door open and threw Danny inside. The older woman stood outside in the rain, patient and silent. She had yet to speak or show any emotion. Danny’s feet tumbled as he lost his balance and fell. His head banged against something hard and unyielding, and for an instant, he saw only blackness. He blinked and shook his head to clear his vision. The floor of the van was hard and covered with tools that jabbed into his limbs and his back. His head throbbed, and the world had turned to mist and fog around him. Sirens wailed in the distance. “What the fuck are you doing? That hurt...” The door slammed shut. Gilead stood over him in the gloomy interior, holding a crowbar in one hand. He tugged at the side of his face and peeled something away. Like a miracle, his scar vanished. “Shut up, you fucking little asshole. I don’t know why the two of you came after my mother, but you’re going to regret it. You’re going to wish I’d killed you the night I took out Oren.” Without taking his eyes off Danny, he raised his voice and whined,

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Max Griffin “Momma, will you get in the fucking van, already?” The sound of the door opening was the last thing Danny heard before the crowbar descended on his skull. Agony exploded then, followed by darkness and nothingness.

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Chapter 25

Skip ran into

the hallway and stopped, realizing he didn’t know where to go. He whirled about only to find Justin on his heels. “Where’s the lab?” Despite his ashen face, the psychiatrist’s voice was cool. “Stop and think, Skip. This isn’t a good idea. Security will have pressed the panic button and the police will be here soon.” “Not soon enough! Where to?” Skip squinted his eyes closed and took two quick, cleansing breaths. He remembered his commando training. Panic was bad. Impulsive action was bad. What he needed was better intelligence. “There were security cameras at the front desk. Which way is that? I’m all turned around.” “We’re supposed to stay in our offices.” This time a quaver crept into Justin’s voice. “Otherwise the authorities might mistake us for the intruder.” Skip resisted the temptation to slap him. He kept his voice level and low. “I’m going whether you help me or not. Make up your mind. Now.” The doctor bit his lip and blinked. “I’ll go with you. The guard at the front knows me, and my lab coat will identify me to the police.” Skip followed as he strode down the hall. “Hurry. Seconds count.”

Flatland When they burst into the reception area, they found the guard kneeling behind the sign-in counter. “Stop,” he squeaked. His gun wobbled upward to point in their general direction. Justin barked, “Donald. It’s Dr. Bryant. It’s all right. Skip is with me.” “Dr. Bryant?” The man holstered his gun. “What’s going on?” Skip ran behind the counter. “That’s what we’re here to find out. Which one of these screens is the medical lab?” Donald punched a button, and the ghastly array of corpses in the lab’s waiting room appeared in grainy black-and-white on the screen. The guard gasped. “Oh shit. Thank God the FBI’s already here.” Skip’s eyes snapped to the man’s face. “The FBI’s here? Already? That doesn’t make any sense.” “Well, they’re here. I saw the agent’s badge with my own eyes. He left less than a minute ago.” The guard peered at him. “Hey, didn’t you just get here with...” He snapped his fingers. “Danny, that’s it. Danny was with him. The agent said he was taking him and some old lady to safety.” “Where did they go?” The guard nodded to the door. “Out there.” “Outside? They went outside, when there’s a shooter loose?” He grabbed the guard by the shoulders. “How do you know that wasn’t the fucking shooter?” Donald scowled at him and jerked back. “Hey, who the fuck are you to ask me questions. Besides, I saw his badge, and he was carrying a gun.” “A fucking gun? Any bozo can fake an FBI badge. How did he get in here with a gun, past your security? Didn’t it occur to you that he might be the fucking shooter, you dumb schmuck?” Skip

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Max Griffin pointed at the carnage on the screen. The guard paled. “I didn’t think of that.” Skip raced out the front door and stopped at their car. He peered through the drizzle, but there was no sign of Danny. “Shit, shit, shit.” He flung open the passenger door to the car and pulled out his pistol. He stuffed it into the waistband of his jeans and pulled his shirt over it for cover. Three extra clips, already loaded, crammed into his pockets. He stood up and scanned the parking lot. Tina and Leo had to be nearby. He’d checked in with them via cell phone right before they got to Kansas City. The signals from the beacons hidden in their shoes were working then. They had to still be working. Danny’s safety depended on it. He grabbed Zsa Zsa from the back seat and cradled her in his arms. When she tried to lick his face, he tossed his head in annoyance. “Not now, baby. Just be still.” Sirens wailed, close now, no more than a block or two away. They’d have to hurry. If they were still around when the cops got here, they’d be held up for hours. He spotted her two rows down in the parking lot: a solid woman holding a soggy newspaper over her head and waving at him. Her mullet hairdo gave her the appearance of a hefty, drowned muskrat. “Tina!” He scrambled across the pavement and slammed into the back of the car. Zsa Zsa hopped onto the back seat and gave him a reproachful look. Tina climbed into the front seat. “What’s going on?” Leo turned from where he hunched at the driver’s seat and asked, “Yeah, what gives? We saw Danny climb into a van and leave just a minute ago. He was with some old woman and a scary-looking guy that had this huge scar on his face, and—” Skip interrupted, “Someone’s kidnapped Danny. Tina, are you

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Flatland still tracking his beacon?” “You betcha.” She tapped at the screen of her lap. “Let’s go! We’ve got to get out of here before the cops get here.” Leo gunned the engine, and tires squealed as he backed out of the parking place. Skip leaned forward and grasped his shoulder. “Whoa. Easy, Leo. Nice and slow. We need to look like just any other car driving down the street, not like killers escaping a crime scene.” “Whatever you say, boss.” Leo eased the car to the street. “Which way?” “I don’t know. Right, I guess. Slow and easy.” He turned to Tina. “You still got Danny’s signal?” “Loud and clear. You had Leo turn the wrong way if you want to follow the van.” “We can circle around. Right now, I don’t want the cops to hold us up.” “Okay. The signal’s strong. We won’t lose it.” “Good. Leo, circle around on back streets and get us pointed in the right direction. Stay away from the entrance to the hospital, though.” He pulled out his weapon and checked the action. Two police cruisers screamed by, lights flashing and sirens blaring. “We got out of there just in time.” Tina peered at the GPS display on her computer and then out the windshield. “It looks like they stopped about a mile from here. Turn left at the next street. It loops back to the main drag.” She glanced back at Skip and her gaze landed on his weapon. “You want to tell us what’s going on?” “I don’t know. There were shootings at the Sanitarium. Lots of casualties, probably some fatalities. The security guard said that

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Max Griffin Danny left with an FBI agent, but his story didn’t make any sense.” Leo piped up, “Well, I suppose the guy he was with could have been an FBI agent. But he could have been Al Capone, too, what with that scar on his face.” He pulled back onto the boulevard that ran past the hospital. Behind them, emergency vehicles with flashing lights blocked the roadway. Tina glanced at her screen. “Keep going on this street. It looks like they’re about a mile ahead of us on the right.” Skip put his gun in his lap and wiped sweat from his palms. “I need time to think. Are they still stopped?” “They haven’t moved since we left the hospital.” “Okay. Pull over for a second, will you, Leo?” He closed his eyes and ran through the events of the last ten minutes. “This isn’t making any sense. Describe what you saw for me, again?” Leo harrumphed and turned to face him. “We was sittin’ in the parking lot, waitin’ for you boys just like you said. I was kinda half-driftin’ off, listenin’ to the rain on the roof of the car, ya know? But then Danny came a-runnin’ out of the hospital. He looked all scared, like he’d seen a ghost.” Tina joined in. “There were three of them. Danny, some old woman, and this other guy, all muscles and a huge scar on his face. Danny stopped at his car, like he was going to get Zsa Zsa or something.” The dog perked up at the mention of her name and gave a little bark. Tina reached out and ruffled her ears while she continued. “The muscle-guy dragged Danny on to a van, like he was in a big hurry. They all got in, drove away, and then you showed up.” “All right.” There was something important in what they’d said. If he could just concentrate. “A scar! Fuck. He followed us here. There was a guy with a scar on his face back when we gassed

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Flatland up at El Dorado. Did the van have writing on the side? Maybe for a rock band or something?” Tina shook her head. “I don’t recall. It was all kind of fast. Why would the FBI have a van for a rock band?” Skip scowled. “They wouldn’t, unless it was undercover. But this wasn’t the FBI, I’m sure of it. This isn’t how they’d operate.” Leo growled, “It sure ain’t. Ya think this is maybe connected somehow to Oren’s murder?” Everything clicked into place in Skip’s head. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I bet you’re right, Leo. I bet it’s all tied in to the money. This scar-faced guy isn’t FBI. I bet he’s after Oren’s loot. Maybe he’s even the guy who murdered him.” He firmed his jaw in determination. “All right. I’m ready. Is Danny’s signal still stationary?” Tina nodded. “I’ve been watching. It hasn’t budged.” “Leo, take us there, nice and easy, like we’re out for a relaxing drive in the rain. I want you to drive past the signal. Don’t stop or do anything to call attention to us.” “Got it, boss.” Skip leaned back and gripped his weapon. Its solid weight pulled against his arm, and its promise of deadly force hardened his resolve. He could do this. It was just like any search and rescue mission. Except this one was in Kansas, and it was his lover he was rescuing. Tina pointed. “It looks like they’re in this strip mall.” The car’s suspension creaked as it bounced over the chuckholes in the parking lot. Skip peered through the swishing windshield wipers at the disheveled mall. Scraggly clumps of grass grew in cracks in the asphalt. The windows for most of the storefronts were cracked and boarded up. A few cars were parked

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Max Griffin near a cluster of discouraged-looking establishments: a beauty parlor, an Asian restaurant, and an auto parts store. Another one proclaimed itself as the “Full Gospel Temple of God’s Word.” The crazy thought that it must compete with a “partial Gospel” temple someplace down the street rattled through Skip’s head while he evaluated the terrain. “I think that’s it.” Tina pointed to a van that sat partly hidden behind a dumpster at one end of the mall. Skip nodded. “Okay. Leo, drive by like we’re looking at the stores, then park in front of the beauty parlor, at the end closest to the van.” The car squished through the muddy potholes in the parking lot and eased by the van. It was dark and silent. Tina looked up from her computer. “The signal’s loud and clear. He’s in there for sure.” Leo turned and parked their car. Skip nodded. “All right, then. I’m going to reconnoiter. You two stay here. Keep an eye out. If anything goes wrong, call the FBI. You’ve got the number?” Leo nodded. “It’s in my cell phone. Shouldn’t we call them right away?” “They can’t do anything right now. We can’t wait for them to get here.” Besides, he reflected, he didn’t trust the FBI either. “If it’s clear for you to come, I’ll give you a thumbs-up sign. Otherwise, stay put.” He clambered out of the car, holding his weapon stiff at his side to cloak it from the eyes of passers-by. The scent of ginger and garlic from the restaurant mixed with ammonia from the hair salon and the musky odor from the storm. He strolled down the cracked sidewalk, as if out for an afternoon constitutional. All his senses quivered at full alert for hidden snipers, IED’s, or whatever other

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Flatland danger might lurk hidden in the shadows. The storm’s intensity had increased, and rain drummed on the metal awning that covered the sidewalk. Water gushed from downspouts and splashed into muddy runnels in the empty parking stalls. As he approached the dumpster, the rancid odors of spoiled food hung in the air. A bedraggled alley cat skittered away and hid in a sewer drain. The van, dark and silent, squatted under the claustrophobic skies. Rain spilled in muddy tracks down the side of the van and puddled underneath in oily pools. The heavy weight of the gun pulled at his arm as he peered around the corner of the mall at his objective. Water streaked the van’s windows and clouded his view of the inside. Still clinging to the side of the mall, he moved to a better vantage, so he could look directly through the driver’s window to the other side. The passenger window showed in the clear without obstruction: no one hid in the front seats. He scampered to the side of the van, holding his weapon downward. Once there, he placed his ear against the clammy metal and listened. Silence. He crept to the back of the vehicle, heaved a deep breath, and sneaked a quick peek through the rear windows. Nothing. A coat of grime fogged the glass on the outside, but otherwise it was clear. Skip frowned. If anyone were in the van, the interior windows should be fogged given the rain. He slaked his hair back, closed his eyes, and counted off ten seconds to let them adjust. When he peered into the gloomy interior a second time, he picked out trash and tools scattered on floor, but no figures. He slammed the rear doors open and gripped his weapon with both hands, gave a quick once-over to the inside. It was empty.

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Max Griffin He turned and gave a thumbs-up sign to Tina and Leo before he stepped into the van. What had looked like a pile of trash from the outside he now recognized as discarded clothing. When he kicked at it, he revealed Danny’s red sneakers. He knelt and sorted through the pathetic little heap: Danny’s blue jeans, his bikini undershorts, his t-shirt. They looked like they’d been cut off, and the t-shirt was blood-stained. He picked up the right shoe and shook out the beacon. It plopped onto the pathetic heap of clothing, its transponder light still flashing. The van swayed as Tina jumped inside. “Are you all right? Where’s Danny?” Skip raised his gaze to her face and showed her the bloody and torn t-shirt Danny had been wearing. “He’s gone. They must have changed vehicles.” Leo peered in from outside. “What are we going to do?” Skip’s jaws jumped. “We’re not going to give up.” He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated. Search and rescue. What’s your strategic objective, what’s the enemy want, and what are your tactical advantages? The glimmerings of an idea began to coalesce in his mind. Tina stroked his shoulder. “We’ll help. Whatever you say, we’re here for both of you.” Tears pooled in Skip’s eyes and he blinked them back. “I know you will.” A shaky, post-action sigh exhaled from his lungs. “If they’re after Oren’s money, there’s still hope.” He rubbed the nape of his neck and the reassuring little nub rolled under his fingers. “I’ve got the beginnings of a plan, but it’s risky. For all of us.”

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Chapter 26

Inez scowled at the rent-a-cop and resisted the temptation to slug him. The man hunched over the control console for the Sanitarium’s security system. She leaned against one of the racks of equipment in the cluttered basement security office of the Tall Grass Sanitarium. Her voice dripped with scorn as she asked, “Just how in fuck did an armed gunman get in this place?” The man flinched and snapped, “Do you want to spend some more time chewing on me, or you want I should show you the tapes?” “I want fucking answers, that’s what I want.” She held a soggy handkerchief to her nose and sneezed. “This place must be rotten with mold.” She glanced at the ceiling where fluorescent lights dangled from exposed pipes and heating ducts. “Why the fuck is your security HQ in the cellar anyway?” “It’s the safest place in the facility. The tornado shelter is just down the hall.” He stopped a tape and held a photograph next to the screen. “This looks like one of the guys you’re looking for.” Inez blinked tears out of her burning eyes and peered at the screen. “Yeah, that’s Crow all right. And Rajunas is the guy next to him. Run it forward in slow motion.” The grainy, black-and-white image jerked forward in stop-motion, one image for every three seconds. Skip and Danny jerked to the guard’s desk, then across the

Flatland hall to the glassed-in reception area. The next image showed the guard standing, grabbing his crotch before he disappeared. Two images later, a figure flashed on the screen. He by-passed the metal detector then sat in the waiting area behind Danny and Skip. “Stop. Back it up. I want to see that guy’s face.” The images reversed, like a slow-motion Charlie Chaplin movie. Inez snapped, “There. Can you enlarge his face?” As the image expanded, the fuzzy edges pixilated. “Stop.” She picked up the photo of Szabo that Wayne had given her and held it next to the screen. The guard peered at it. “I guess that could be him, except this guy,” he pointed to the screen, “has this whomping big scar on his face.” “So he does. It could be a disguise. The only thing amateurs will see is the scar, not the face.” She looked down and read the man’s name off his badge. “So tell me, Mr. Jerome Ostermann, where the fuck did your guard go? To get a donut?” The man squirmed. “He took a bathroom break. We gotta let them have breaks. It’s the law.” “In the meantime, any old serial killer can just saunter into your facility. Good work, Mr. Ostermann,” she sneered. “You can bet your ass this will be part of my report.” “We don’t know this guy was the shooter.” “Right. Play the scene from the medical lab again.” This time the jerky images showed the same nondescript man strolling into the waiting room for the medical lab. He led an older woman by the hand, while his other hand held an automatic pistol behind his back. Between one image and the next, the waiting room transformed from tedium to carnage, with two staff and two patients sprawled on the floor. She froze the image. “Who is the woman?”

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Max Griffin “Leonora Szabo. The gunman shot a couple of attendants when he snatched her from the rose garden.” “Szabo,” She repeated, hissing the name like a curse. She had to be the Kingfisher assassin’s mother. A cold knot of fear and fury roiled deep in her stomach. This wasn’t good. Not good at all. She pointed to the screen. “Do you agree this is the same man who sneaked into the lobby?” She blew her nose, a long pronounced honk. “It could be. The images are pretty crappy. They aren’t designed to ID people.” She kept her voice grim. “It’s him. Okay, run it forward.” More jerky images showed Edgar running into the lab and dragging Danny out before they disappeared down the hall. “It looks like he went there specifically to get that man, don’t you agree?” He nodded. “Maybe. Look at this.” The screen jerked back to the reception area. This time it showed Skip and Danny move, strobe-like, across the room and disappear down the hall. The scar-faced man followed close on their heels. “He must have been following these two, for some reason.” “No doubt.” She stood and paced the room. “Do you have surveillance on the parking lot?” “Yeah, but it’s only about one picture every thirty seconds. I’ve looked at that, too, but it don’t show much.” His fingers danced on the console’s keyboard, and the image changed to a long shot of the visitor’s lot. “The rain really screws with the resolution, but you can kind of see what’s happening.” A succession of images showed Edgar, Danny, and an old woman at the front door, then midway in the parking lot before they vanished. The next image showed a van at the lot’s exit. The guard murmured, “They must have gotten into the van. There’s a little

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Flatland more.” Three more images flashed, and then Skip crouched next to Danny’s car. A couple of rows of cars away, what looked like a chubby man with a mullet haircut stood with one hand upraised. The next picture showed a car leaving the lot. Inez kept her voice even. “Any chance of getting a license on either of those vehicles?” “Not with the rain. The cameras ain’t got such resolution to start with, and the drizzle just fogs them up all the more.” “Perfect. Just perfect.” She stood and paced in the cramped space, sneezing and wiping at her eyes. “I got to get out of this fucking basement. Get me an office that’s not filled with fungus and God knows what else.” “You can have one of the physician’s offices.” He picked up the phone and dialed a number. “The guard at the front desk will take you to one.” “You sure he won’t be on a fucking bathroom break?” She coughed and wiped at her eyes. Damn. I bet I look like shit. Not that I care about these bozos. Jerome looked like he’d bitten into an apple and found Inez inside. “Do you want an office or not, Agent Vasquez?” “I said so, didn’t I?” She turned on her heel and slammed the door to the security room open. While she trudged up the stairs to the reception area, her thoughts turned to Morton. She’d have to report to him soon. Her fear of his reaction just fueled her rage at the incompetence of the sanitarium’s security staff. At least Wayne seemed to have two brain cells to click together. Maybe he could think of something to salvage this mess. When she stormed into the reception area, a guard stood fidgeting by the front desk, waiting for her. He raised his eyebrows at her approach. “Agent Vasquez?”

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Max Griffin She snorted. “No, I’m the other redheaded, female FBI agent. Who else would I be?” Asshole. The man’s face paled, but his voice stayed even. “Your colleague, Agent Pelletier, is already using Dr. Besaji’s office. Can you share, or do you need a private office?” “Take me to where Wayne’s at. I need to talk to him.” She followed the guard down the hall. He stopped by an open door. “Will there be anything else, ma’am?” “I could use some coffee.” Without looking back, she entered the office. Annoyance flared when she saw that Wayne already lounged in the owner’s executive chair, his feet resting on the desktop. She collapsed into one of the easy chairs and relaxed, despite herself. “What a fucking mess.” Wayne looked up from where his computer rested on his lap. “You learn anything?” “It was Szabo for sure. He snatched his mother and that kid from Flatland, Rajunas.” “Interesting. He’s not answering our pages. We traced his cell phone back to the rest stop at El Dorado. He must have followed his targets here.” “El Dorado? Fucking bastard. That must be where he screwed with our tires.” “I’m sure you’re right. We were lucky. He’s usually more lethal. Still, he did delay our arrival here by over ninety minutes. It gave him time to achieve whatever objective he had.” “He still looks like a fuck-up to me. He didn’t even grab the right guy.” Wayne shrugged. “I’m sure he has a plan. Ultimately, what he’s after are the codes to that bank account. I have no doubt that he will obtain them.”

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Flatland She looked up when a guard rapped on the door and peeked inside. He held up a tray with two steaming Styrofoam cups. “Uh, I’ve got the coffee you asked for.” “Thank God.” She kicked off her shoes and pointed to the desk. “Just leave it there. And close the door when you leave.” She waited for the man to depart before she sneered, “I hate fuckin’ incompetent rent-a-cops.” A sly smile slipped across Wayne’s features and then vanished. “The FBI hasn’t exactly covered itself with glory so far. You seem to have lost track of our quarry.” “You ain’t doing so good either. You’ve lost track of your guy, too.” He remained impassive. “Perhaps. Or perhaps he’s otherwise occupied. In any case, Mrs. King has other assets she can deploy.” “Whatever.” She jumped when her cell phone shrilled. “What the fuck.” She stared at the screen and didn’t recognize the number, but pressed talk anyway. Maybe she could be rude to someone. “This better be good.” A muffled male voice came from the other end. “Agent Vasquez?” “Yeah. Who’s this?” “I have information you want.” “Szabo? Is that you, you fuck? You weren’t hired to go ape shit in a fucking nuthouse. You better be callin’ to tell me you got the codes.” Maybe everything would work out after all. The voice on the other end hesitated. “Not yet. I’ll call you again.” The connection went dead. Wayne leaned forward. “Szabo called you? How’d he get your number?” “Fucked if I know.” She pushed the recall button and got a 234

Max Griffin message that the owner was unavailable. She snapped her fingers at Wayne and snarled, “Gimme something to write on, and I’ll start a trace.” After she scrawled on the pad he gave her, she stabbed at the keypad on her phone. “Blake? Vasquez here. I need you to pull the logs on a cell phone for me.” She read off the number from her notes. “I need this like yesterday. Yeah, yeah, I know. Call me when you’ve got it.” Wayne frowned at her. “Exactly what is going on?” “Somebody called my number and said they have the information I want. Sounded like they were talking through a handkerchief or something. Fucking amateur. Anyway, he knew my number and called me by name.” Wayne’s eyebrows crawled up his skull. “Anything else?” “That’s it. He said he’d call back and hung up.” The corners of his lips turned down. “Then the caller didn’t identify himself?” She shook her head. “Who else could have the information I need?” He snorted. “Who indeed? So let me get this straight. You not only revealed our strategic objective to some stranger who just happened to know your number, you also compromised our agent. Brilliant work, Inez. I’ll be sure it’s in our report to Morton.” Fear chilled her core and tingled out her fingers. “Fuck you. What difference could that make anyway?” She scowled at him. “I thought we were in this together.” “We are. Much to my regret.” He leaned back and folded his fingers across his stomach. “He said he would call back?” “Yeah. What of it?” “Then we wait. Maybe this will work out after all. I’ve got an

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Flatland idea who might have been on the other end of that call.” A sly smile slipped across his face. This time he let it stay there.

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Skip folded his pre-paid cell phone and frowned. He leaned back on the too-soft sofa in their cheap motel room and stared at Tina and Leo. “That was interesting. Does the name Szabo mean anything to either one of you?” Leo sat on the edge of the bed and stroked Zsa Zsa’s fur. “Doesn’t ring a bell.” Tina shook her head. She hunched over her laptop and her fingers flew over the keys. “I wonder how you spell that?” “Got me.” Skip shrugged. “It sounds Hungarian. Vasquez thought she was talking to someone with that name.” “So you think that’s another FBI agent?” Tina asked. “I don’t find anything for ‘Zabo’ with a ‘Z,’ but ‘Szabo’ with an ‘Sz’ gets some hits.” She read from her computer. “I don’t think we’re looking for a World War Two secret agent.” Leo shook his head. “Vasquez had another agent with her, but he had a French name. Pell-tee-ay or something like that.” “I don’t think this guy’s an agent, at least not from the way she talked to him. She called him a dumb fuck and asked if he had the bank codes yet.” Leo scratched his nose. “I didn’t trust that bitch from the first time I met her. I bet she’s after the money for herself.”

Flatland “Could be,” Skip mused. “I’m glad I called her though. She didn’t ask about hostages or anything else. She just asked about the money. That tells us what her priorities are. The FBI won’t be any help with Danny. Our plan is looking like our only choice.” Tina squirmed. “You sure it was a good idea to change the password on that account?” “It’s a calculated risk.” Skip shook his head. “If we’re right and the kidnapper was after Oren’s money, changing the code forces him to come to me. At a minimum, it buys Danny some time.” Tina nodded. “I get that. Danny can’t reveal what he doesn’t know. But what if this guy’s just whacked out? What if he’s not looking for the money at all?” “Then Danny’s fucked no matter what we do.” Skip’s jaws jumped, and he fought to keep his voice steady, but a tremor crept into his words. Leo walked across the room and gripped his shoulder. “I think you’re right. According to the news, this guy shot a half-dozen people, but he took two hostages. If he’s just a psycho killer, why take hostages at all? And why Danny in particular? This has got to be connected somehow to Oren and the mob.” Tina sighed. “So we just wait. Drives me crazy.” Skip nodded. “Me, too. But if we’re right, we’ll get a call soon. Danny’s cell phone wasn’t in that van, so the kidnapper must have it. It’s got this number programmed into it.” He held up his own phone. “Once he realizes he can’t get the code from Danny, he’ll call.” Tina fidgeted. “I get antsy not doing anything. Maybe we should tell the FBI about the kidnapper’s van.” Skip closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Maybe. But there might be something that lets them trace back to

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Max Griffin us. A surveillance camera or something. I don’t want them finding this place just yet. Let’s stick to the plan.” “Whatever you say.” She opened a window on her computer. “You got your beacon in your shoe?” Skip flexed his toes of his right foot and the hard nub of the device pressed against them. “Yes.” “Good. Both beacons show up loud and clear on here.” She gave him a lop-sided grin. “We’ll be fine so long as you don’t detour through a mountain. The radio’s not that strong.” A little smile pulled Skip’s mouth upward. “I wasn’t planning on it.” The cell phone rang at that moment, and everyone jumped. Skip’s breath caught in his throat as he pushed the talk button. “Hello?” A suave, cool voice answered. “Is this Mr. Crow?” “Yes. Is this Szabo?” The line was silent for a moment. “How do you know that name, Mr. Crow?” The voice stayed cool, but an undercurrent of wariness added an edge to the tone. “Vasquez told me. Do you have Danny?” “Ah, yes. Agent Vasquez and her lackey. I’ll take care of them in due course. Perhaps you’re familiar with my work? Your neighbor, Oren, was my most recent project.” Skip’s jaw jumped and his muscles writhed, but he kept his voice steady. “If you can’t put Danny on the phone, we don’t have anything to talk about.” “Tut, tut, Mr. Crow. In due course. I assume that you have the access codes to the bank in the Caymans?” “Yes.” “Very clever of you to change them. Your... friend...was sure he’d revealed them to me. He didn’t want to, but I can be quite 239

Flatland persuasive.” “Put him on, you fuck, or I’m hanging up right now.” Cold fear lashed at him and his limbs trembled, but his voice rapped with command. The phone emitted a tearing sound, followed by someone gasping for breath. As if from a distance, the suave voice murmured, “Your lover is worried about you. Tell him how you are.” Danny’s voice, hoarse and frantic, rasped from the phone. “Skip, is that you? I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I had to tell him. He hurt me...” Skip gripped the phone. “Danny, I love you. It’s all right. I’m coming...” “I’m sure you are,” Szabo interrupted. “You have something I want. I have something you want. Shall we trade?” Skip scowled. “That’s the plan. If you’ve hurt him...” “He’s got some bruises and maybe a cut or two. But he’s still...intact. That won’t last if you double cross me.” Skip shuddered. “Understood.” At least he really was still alive. After the carnage at the Sanitarium, Skip wasn’t sure despite what he’d told the others. “So, what are the codes? Give them to me now, and I’ll release him.” “Bullshit. We’ll do an exchange. At Worlds of Fun. Meet me at the park entrance and bring Danny. I’ll be wearing...” “I won’t have any trouble recognizing you, Mr. Crow,” the voice interrupted. “Very well. We will meet in exactly one hour. Be there. Oh, and if you bring the cops or those fools with the FBI, I’ll know, and your friend will die an imaginative death. Then I’ll track you down and get what I want anyway.” The line went dead. Skip squashed his eyes closed and shivered. The man’s voice had stayed cold and detached through 240

Max Griffin the whole conversation until the end. Only when he’d talked about killing did any human emotion creep in. At that point, his words oozed with anticipation, as though he’d savor the event the same way a gourmet chef might contemplate an exquisite sauce. Leo’s touch on his shoulder and gruff voice brought Skip back to reality. “What did he say?” “He’s got Danny. I heard him speak, so he’s still alive. He agreed to meet to set up the exchange.” Relief flooded across Tina’s face. “So everything is going according to plan.” Her voice shook. “Do you think he’ll bring Danny like you said?” Skip shook his head. “Not a chance. He’s not going to expose himself like that in a public place. I’m sure he’ll take me someplace remote for the exchange...assuming he really does one.” Leo nodded. “That’s where we come in.” “Exactly.” Skip heaved a sigh. “We’ve done all we can do. Let’s go.”

Sweat drizzled down Skip’s sides and soaked his t-shirt. The storm clouds from earlier in the day had cleared, replaced by an oppressive, muggy heat. The entrance to the amusement park teemed with harried adults and riotous children. Screams drifted from the distance as the roller coaster careened down a steep incline and swept into a long, graceful curve. The scents of hot dogs and popcorn floated in the storm-scrubbed breeze. A church group, all wearing blue shirts that asked, “Have you found Jesus?” crowded by and pushed him against the map kiosk. One of the children stomped through a mud puddle and soaked Skip’s blue jeans and sneakers.

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Flatland A hand gripped Skip’s elbow and a suave, cool voice muttered in his ear. “Self-centered little brats. Maybe if I sawed off their legs they would learn some manners.” Skip stiffened. “Szabo? Where’s Danny?” He tried to twist around, but the man held him fast. “He’s quite safe, I assure you. You didn’t think we’d do the exchange here, did you?” Skip shook his head. “I’d hoped.” The man’s voice dripped with disappointment. “And I thought you were a professional.” He jabbed something hard into Skip’s back. “That’s a Sig Sauer P238. At this range, it would rip out your kidneys. Of course, I’d have to take out some of these children, too, to cover my escape.” He jabbed Skip again. “You’ll be good, won’t you, Mr. Crow?” “What about our deal?” “Ah, yes. Our deal. We will do our little exchange, but not here. I will take you to your...friend, and you will give me the code.” He pushed Danny forward. “In the meantime, we’re just two friends out for a walk. Maybe people will think we’re lovers. Can you walk like a faggot, Mr. Crow?” Skip relaxed and followed the man’s directions. So far, so good. They stopped at a van parked in a handicapped space. His captor pushed him against the side. “Hold still. If you pull anything, I’ll cut off your cock and balls and feed them to your lover.” His hands probed Skip’s clothes and stopped at the handgun stuffed into his jeans. “What’s this? I thought you might have something.” He pulled it out and tossed it into a nearby trashcan. “All right, you can get in now.” He nodded to the van. Skip opened the passenger door. “Not there. You drive.” He handed Skip the keys.

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Max Griffin Skip shrugged and climbed inside while Szabo slipped into the passenger seat. “It’s so convenient to have a handicap parking decal, don’t you think? The owner won’t miss it, you know. She’s had an unfortunate accident.” His voice sounded almost merry, as though he were describing someone’s birthday party. Skip started the engine and pulled out of the parking space. “Szabo, you’re one sick fuck.” He beamed at Skip. “You really think so? You know, we should be friends. You may call me Edgar, and I’ll call you Skip. How’s that?” “Where are we going?” “I asked you a question!” Edgar’s voice snapped, and he showed Skip his pistol. “You can call me anything you want, Edgar.” “That’s a good lad.” He lounged back. “Get on I-435 southbound. You’ll get off on Winner Road.” “How soon do I see Danny?” “My, aren’t we just full of questions? Soon enough.” He lounged back and they drove in silence for a few minutes. “There’s your exit. Turn left when you get to Winner Road.” “Where to after that?” “There’s a cemetery a quarter mile ahead, on the right. We’ll change vehicles there.” Edgar leaned back and fondled his weapon. “Did you know your friend had this most interesting device in his shoe? It was a locator beacon, as though someone were tracking him.” A chill ran down Skip’s spine. He kept his eyes on the road and didn’t respond. “I don’t suppose you have something similar? I’d hate to think you might try to double cross me.” He pointed. “Pull in there, and park next to the silver SUV.” The little parking lot hid behind the 243

Flatland stone fence that surrounded the cemetery, out of sight of the traffic zooming by on the highway. In the distance, a backhoe dug a grave, but otherwise they were alone. The tombstones ran away from them in rigid rows, as though the dead marched in lockstep on the way to heaven or perhaps to hell. Skip stopped the car and turned to Edgar. “We both wore beacons, so we wouldn’t lose track of each other. The FBI was chasing us and—” “And you just wanted to be careful. I understand.” He pointed his weapon at Skip. “Just to make me feel safer, you will strip. Now.” Skip scowled at him. “I want to see Danny. How do I know you won’t just kill us both?” “How, indeed? You’ll just have to trust me.” He narrowed his eyes. “Strip. Now. Everything.” Skip weighed his options, and then pulled off his t-shirt. “That’s a smart boy. I knew I could count on you.” Edgar’s eyes ranged across his body like a butcher looking at a side of beef. “Hurry up now. Your Danny awaits.” Skip slipped out of his sneakers and let his blue jeans drop to the floorboards. Edgar ran the barrel of his pistol down Skip’s chest and let it rest on his jockey shorts. “Those, too.” Skip complied. “Are you getting an eyeful, you sick fuck?” A coy smile played across Edgar’s lips. “Really now, is that any way to talk to friends?” He opened the glove box and pulled out handcuffs. “Put your hands behind your back. I can’t have you getting any ideas while we drive to see your lover.” The cold metal of the cuffs dug into Skip’s wrists. Edgar reached across him and opened his car door. “Get out and climb into the passenger side of the SUV. Don’t try anything.” 244

Max Griffin The rough concrete abraded the soles of Skip’s bare feet, and the moist breeze wafted over his bare skin. His cuffed hands threw him off balance, and he stumbled a bit. Edgar opened the door to the SUV and helped him inside. “That’s a good lad. Sit still, now.” He cinched the seat belt about Skip’s waist, letting his fingers linger for an instant on his genitals. Edgar returned to the van and shook out Skip’s right sneaker. The beacon fell onto the driver’s seat where its LED pulsed with a ruddy glow. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands before he tossed it into the back of the van. The SUV swayed when he climbed into the driver’s seat. “I’m disappointed, Skip. I expected you to have a signaling device of some kind, but really! That one is so...clunky. I know the FBI can do better. Who’s getting that signal? Not Vasquez, surely. Maybe your buddy Leo, the rent-a-cop from Flatland?” Skip’s face flushed. “Ah, I see I’m correct.” Edgar mused, “Maybe I should just let him follow us. It might be diverting to kill him.” Skip twisted in his seat. “Leave him out of this.” “Well, it would complicate our arrangements. I think I’ll keep our little exchange all in the family. That’s best all around.” He started the engine and headed back to the freeway while Skip sagged in the passenger seat.

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The handcuffs bit

into Skip’s wrists and the leather seats of the SUV stuck to his naked skin. He leaned forward to ease the pressure on his arms. The air conditioning blasted frigid air across his torso and between his legs. He craned his head to gaze out the passenger window, but the chill air from the vent in the dash had fogged the glass. Edgar glanced at him. “Don’t worry, my friend. We won’t be long.” He pulled onto a twisting industrial road that wound between towering limestone bluffs. His hand patted Skip’s knee with fingers that were cold and dry as a lizard’s. “I’m glad you’ve decided to cooperate.” “It’s not like I’ve got much choice,” Skip muttered. That earned him a beatific smile from Edgar. “So true. It must be your Ranger training that makes you professional about all of this.” He turned onto a gravel lane and the SUV bounced over the ruts. “You know, though, it wasn’t very professional to go after my mother. Was that Vasquez’s idea? Or maybe her assistant’s, Wayne?” Skip shook his head. “What the fuck are you talking about?” “At the Tall Grass Sanitarium. Really, we could have done this all in a much more refined way if you hadn’t gone there. After all, didn’t you think a son would protect his mother?” Skip twisted to gaze at Szabo’s face. “Your mother’s at Tall

Flatland Grass? We went there to see Danny’s grandfather. Nothing else.” Edgar glanced at him and frowned. “Don’t lie to me. It’s not smart to lie to me.” Skip enunciated with a slow and even pace. “Danny’s grandfather is a patient there. Danny’s own physician is there. He was getting a blood test when you grabbed him. I don’t know anything about your mother.” He hesitated. “As far as we’re concerned, Vasquez has her head up her ass. We don’t want anything to do with her or with the FBI. We just wanted Oren’s money.” “As do we all,” Edgar mused. “As do we all. But only one of us is smart enough to get it.” The SUV bounced around another corner. Skip gazed out the windshield and his heart sank when he saw that the road ended in a tunnel in the side of the bluff. A rusted sign hung askew at the entrance that announced, “Thatcher Underground Storage.” The headlights flashed on as they entered a wide cavern carved into the limestone. Shadows arose and vanished like ghosts as the vehicle crawled down the flat roadway. The ceilings, tall enough to hold a semi-trailer truck, reflected the glow from the car’s lights, giving the appearance of a holy grotto. Every thirty feet or so, enormous, spindle-shaped columns rose along the walls. The SUV crunched over loose gravel, broken cardboard boxes, and filthy Styrofoam packing molds. The car ground to a stop next to a small, roofless shack buried deep in the hillside. The windows glowed yellow from interior illumination. Edgar killed the engine and turned to Skip. “You know, I like you. I really do. I think I believe you about your lover’s grandfather. At least he told me the same story, and I don’t think he would have lied to me.” A reptilian grin slithered across his face.

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Max Griffin Skip shuddered and asked, “What did you do to him?” “I just...convinced him that it was in his best interest to talk to me. He’s quite safe, I assure you. No permanent damage. Besides, he’s a bit skinny for Momma’s taste.” He licked his lips and his eyes ranged over Skip’s naked body. Another smile flashed on his features. “Well then, let’s get this over with, shall we?” He bounced out of the car, trotted to the other side, and jerked Skip into the damp humidity of the cavern. “Come, come. Don’t you want to see your Danny?” Skip stumbled forward, unbalanced by the cuffs restraining his arms. His fingers tingled when he flexed them to force blood back into his hands. He sucked in a deep breath and almost gagged on the stench of bat shit and animal droppings. The door to the shack creaked open, and an old woman sat at a rusted kitchen table smoking a cigarette. A single light bulb dangled from a rafter overhead. The woman glared at them as they entered. “Well, it’s about time you came back. This place stinks, and that brat in the other room kept whimpering. I slapped him around some until he quit.” She turned up the radio, and the strains of Elvis singing “Don’t be Cruel” reverberated against the stone walls. “At least there’s a decent station to listen to.” “We won’t be long, Momma. Soon we’ll fly away on a jet plane, and you’ll have all the luxury you could want.” He shoved Skip forward. “He’s through that door.” Skip stumbled and caught himself against the wall. Splinters dug into his shoulder and he winced. Edgar kicked the door open and yanked him into the gloom beyond. Light and shadow marched in broken fragments across a figure that slouched in a chair. Edgar flipped a switch and sudden, cruel illumination revealed Danny,

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Flatland naked and bound. His head wobbled up and he blinked while he scanned the room. When his gaze found Skip, his eyes grew to white saucers with sepia centers. A single tear crept down his cheek, leaving a clear trail in the caked grime and blood on his face. He mouthed, “Skip,” but no sound came out. Skip careened forward and fell at his knees. “It’s going to be all right. Everything’s going to be all right.” He yearned to hold him, to comfort him, but only his eyes could caress him. A trail of blood followed a wound that ran from Danny’s right nipple and ended just above his crotch. Skip twisted about and faced Edgar. “What have you done to him?” He scowled and tossed his head. “I told you. I had to persuade him. Feel lucky I didn’t castrate him in the process.” He kicked another chair toward Skip. “Make yourself comfortable.” Skip looked at Danny and saw his head had fallen to his chest and his eyes were closed. His chest rose and fell, and his pulse beat in his throat. Edgar’s voice rapped out, “I said, get in the fucking chair.” Skip teetered into the seat and threaded his arms over the back. He glowered at Edgar. “What did you do to him?” “Your concern is so touching.” Edgar stooped to retrieve the end of a coil of rope from the floor. “I told you there’s no permanent damage to him. Yet. The scopolamine will wear off in a few hours, and he’ll be good as new.” “You drugged him?” Rage boiled in Skip, but he struggled to keep his voice steady. Edgar shrugged. “How else could I be sure of what he told me? Torture is delightful, but the results are so unreliable.” Another smile oozed across his captor’s features, but it vanished when his mother’s voice shrilled.

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Max Griffin “Eddie! I said I wanted to leave this place.” She peeked in from the doorway, a ghostly phantom framed in the light from the other room. “Are you going to mind me, or are you going to be fucking useless, like usual?” He waved her back. “We’re almost done here, Momma. Just wait out there for another few minutes.” His eyes never left Skip. “Now, I believe you were going to tell me something.” “Release us first.” Little puffs of laughter erupted from Edgar’s lips at that, an imitation of mirth. “You seem to have not noticed that your negotiating position is compromised.” The fingers of his free hand toyed with the frayed end of rope, but the gun in his right hand never wavered. Skip heaved another breath, and the revolting stink filled his nostrils. He had to get this right. “The codes are on a laptop in a motel in Independence. I don’t know what they are, but I know where they are at. Release us, and I’ll give you the location.” “You don’t know them? You have an accomplice?” Edgar’s voice was smooth and his face impassive. But his eyes, his eyes threw icy daggers into Skip’s soul. Skip shook his head. “No accomplice. I set the password by typing in a random sequence. I didn’t look at the screen or think about what I was doing. It won’t do any good to torture or drug me, because I don’t know the code. But there’s a program that recorded the keystrokes. Webwatcher. There’s a link on the desktop of the laptop. All you have to do is go there, click on the link, and you’ll have the password. I’ll trade you the location for Danny.” Edgar scowled. “This was not our agreement.” The muscles of the arm holding his gun writhed. Skip snorted and twisted in his seat. “Neither was this. Release

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Flatland us. What are we going to do? We’re naked, and we’re at least a mile from anything. If I’ve lied, you can be there and back before we can get far. If I’ve told the truth, you’ve got your money.” Edgar peered at him and seemed to think it over. “Silly boy. I thought you were professional. Of course I’m not going to release you.” His hand jerked and rope snaked up from the floor. “I think what I will do, though, is tie you up and check out your story.” Skip sat still and let him wrap ropes about his torso, binding him to the chair. Duct tape bit into his ankles and shackled him to the chair, helpless and motionless. Edgar stepped back and contemplated his work. “Now, give me the address.” “Why should I?” “Because if you do not, my friend, your lover here will regret your obstinacy,” he kicked at Danny’s legs, eliciting a low moan. “Now tell me. Your time is up.” Skip told him. “The room is unlocked. Will you let us go now? We had a deal.” “So we did.” His voice deepened. “Pray I don’t change it further.” He leaned close to Skip and his breath, minty and fresh, wafted across his face. “If you’ve fucked with me, you will be sorry. I’ll be back, and I’ll slice off your lover’s cock and make you eat it. You’ll watch while I carve out his heart. Then I’ll start on you, until you give me what I want. I always get what I want. Do you understand?” A cold ball of horror gripped Skip’s gut. He jerked his head up and down. “The password is there. I’ve kept my part of the deal. Once you’ve got the money, what happens to us?” Edgar licked his lips. His eyes glinted as a gossamer smile deformed his lips. He leaned forward to plant a delicate kiss on

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Max Griffin Skip’s neck. His mouth nuzzled higher, to Skip’s ear, where he whispered, “Your fate will be the same as all my friends, dear Skip.” His breath, piquant and moist, lingered in the air while his words, placid and malign, resounded in Skip’s soul. Edgar pulled back and a dragged a knuckle down Skip’s cheek. Then he whirled on his heel, flicked the lights out and slammed the door. His voice passed through the wall, dead and stolid. “Momma. Come with me. We’re leaving now.” “For the airplane?” she whined. “We’ll see, Momma.” The lights blacked out, but the radio still played. Elvis crooned “Return to Sender” while the SUV engine started. Its tires crunched on the gravel surface and faded away. Skip twisted against his restraints, but the ropes were hopelessly tight. His fingers were cold, dead sausages at the ends of his hands, and pain shot through his arms when he flexed them. “Danny?” he whispered. No response except for the soft susurrations of his breath. Elvis crooned “The Wonder of You.” At last, tears streamed down Skip’s cheeks. At least they were together. Minutes passed while Elvis crooned. A flashlight cast a wavering beam on the ceiling of the cavern above them. The illumination echoed into their wooden jail in uncertain flutters of light. Footfalls sounded from the tunnel, and gravel rattled across the hard surfaces. Elvis sang, “What Now My Love,” the notes marching in relentless cadence with the approaching steps. It was too soon for Edgar to be back. Skip firmed his jaw and waited, determined to never give up.

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Chapter 29

Skip’s breath caught

in his throat when a sudden rush of batwings fluttered in the cave. The footfalls stopped. The beam of a flashlight careened off the craggy ceiling and fragmented the darkness while a hesitant contralto reverberated against the stone walls. “Is anyone here?” Relief flooded through him. This part of his plan had worked after all. “Tina! We’re tied up in a shack inside the tunnel.” “I see it. Are you alone?” “Just Danny and me. For now. Hurry.” “Coming.” The rush of running feet across gravel sang in his ears, more blessed than a chorus of angels singing hosannas of salvation. “How’s Danny? How are you?” “I’m fine. That bastard drugged Danny, but I think he’s okay.” The outer door creaked and sudden light seeped through the cracks in their prison. “We’re in the back room.” “Gotchya.” The interior door slammed open and Tina’s flashlight cascaded across them. “Son of a bitch.” Her silhouette bulked in the doorway, framed by a halo of incandescent light. The strains of Elvis crooning the gospel hymn “Oh Happy Day” rang from the outer room. Skip writhed in his bonds. “There’s a switch next to the door. Let’s get out of here before he comes back.” He squinted as an unforgiving glare flooded the room.

Flatland Her grim voice husked. “Let’s hope he doesn’t come back.” She reached to her shin and pulled a serrated hunting knife from a holster belted underneath her chinos. “Sweet Jesus, you’re both naked.” “Nothing we didn’t expect.” He twisted as she sawed through the ropes that bound his chest. “Hold still. Let me get the duct tape at your ankles.” She knelt and glanced at his wrists. “I’m glad we brought bolt cutters. The knife won’t do much good with those handcuffs.” Skip staggered to his feet and staggered toward Danny. “Where’s Leo?” “He’s standing guard outside with his shotgun.” She started to work on his lover’s bonds. “I can do this faster if you get out of the way.” Skip stood back and watched. “Yeah, sorry.” A sudden shudder shook his body. “Shit, I thought we were screwed when he pulled into this fucking cave.” He longed to scratch at the beacon buried in the nape of his neck. “I guess the military specs for the Ranger beacons have a stronger radio than we thought. The signal made it through the bluff okay, then?” She glanced up at him while she sawed through ropes. “Not exactly. We stayed about a mile back, like you said. When the implanted beacon moved and the decoy in your shoe stayed put, we weren’t too worried. But then you just faded out. No signal, nothing.” Danny’s head wobbled as he moaned and strained against the ropes binding his arms. “Hold still, honey. Tina will have you free in just a second.” Skip’s breath rushed out of his lungs and his legs turned to sudden rubber. He staggered against the rough boards of the shack’s wall. “Shit. So how did you find us?”

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Max Griffin “I had the GPS location where you disappeared. Leo figured out right away you must be in one of these underground warehouse things. They’re all over this side of the river. Google found this place for me. We hid out and watched the lane that led back here. When we saw the SUV leave, we came looking for you.” “That close,” he murmured. “What if he’d had an accomplice here?” “We would have handled it. Besides, he didn’t.” She sawed through the last of the ropes binding Danny. “There you go, sweetie. Do you think you can stand?” Danny’s head swayed back and forth, and he gave her a glassy-eyed stare. His breath rasped in his throat, and then a hoarse whisper escaped his chapped lips. “Help me...” Tina heaved him to his feet and slipped one of his arms over her shoulder. “I can’t carry you, baby. Just take one step at a time.” Skip watched in dismay. “Shit. I can’t help with my hands cuffed behind my back. Should I run to get Leo?” “We’ll manage. We’re doing fine, aren’t we, Danny?” Together they stumbled forward, crab-like. “Go ahead. Have Leo get those damned cuffs off of you. If we’re not out when he’s done, come back and you can help.” They were outside the shack now. Daylight glimmered from the entrance to the cavern less than two hundred yards away. Skip hesitated. He had to know. “How’d the call to the FBI go?” “The bitch bought it, hook, line, and sinker. Everything’s going according to plan.” She pulled Danny forward and scowled at him. “Now get!” Skip pivoted and raced to the entrance. Gravel, bits of metal, and broken glass tore into his feet. The stench gagged in his throat. Caution seized him as he neared the entrance. “Leo. It’s Skip. I’m

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Flatland coming out alone. Everything’s fine.” He cursed himself for not thinking to equip his team with walkie-talkies. Leo’s gruff voice came from nowhere. “Show yourself.” Skip shuffled forward and blinked against the sudden dazzle of sunlight. Leo’s head peeked up from behind the fender of his beat-up Honda CRX, and then disappeared. “Skip. You’re a sight for sore eyes.” “It’s all right, Leo. Tina’s behind me with Danny.” He reeled forward. “Can you get these damned cuffs off of me?” Leo stayed put. “You sure it’s clear? Where’s Tina?” “She’s helping Danny. The fucker drugged him, and he’s pretty woozy.” Skip leaned against the car and then jumped back from the hot metal. Zsa Zsa bounced inside, her tail a frenzied semaphore signaling her elation to see him. The car’s closed windows muffled her little voice welcoming him. Skip touched the window where she pressed her nose and then glanced at where Leo still huddled behind the fender. He called out, “I’m glad you’re being careful, but we need to hurry. I need to get these cuffs cut off me so that I can go back in and help Tina.” The car chirped and the trunk emitted a little chunk as the latch released. Leo stayed low behind the vehicle and scrabbled to the rear, where he pushed the hatch open. Without taking his eyes off the entrance to the cave, he reached inside and pulled out the bolt cutters. “Can you squat down here in front of me?” “Sure. You’re a good soldier, man.” Skip knelt in the shadow of the vehicle and held his hands out behind him. Leo grunted and the cuffs tugged at his wrists as he adjusted the cutters. When Skip’s hands fell free, his fingers tingled and his shoulders ached at their sudden release. “Thanks.”

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Max Griffin “You bet. I can pick the lock once we’re away from here. Get ‘em off you completely.” “This is good for now. I’m going back to help Tina. Start the car, will you?” Skip ran into the tunnel, where he found Tina and Danny just a few dozen yards from the entrance. A sheen of sweat covered her face, and her breath panted from her gaping mouth. Danny’s face was ashen and he slumped under her supporting arm. Skip hastened to them and lifted from the other side. “Leo’s right outside. Let’s go, guy. Just a few more steps.” Danny’s body shivered under his touch, clammy and flaccid. Skip picked him up like a baby and carried him. He didn’t weigh anything at all. Tina helped him wedge his beloved cargo into the rear of Leo’s car. Zsa Zsa danced around them before she squeezed next to Danny and stared at him with doleful eyes. Tina climbed into the front seat and snatched up the shotgun while Leo gunned the engine. The tires sprayed mud, and gravel rattled against the tire wells as the vehicle lurched down the rutted lane and back toward the city street. “Careful,” Tina murmured. “We don’t want to blow a tire. Not now.” She glanced at her watch. “Twelve minutes elapsed. He’s still at least five minutes away from the motel.” The van slowed and Leo pulled onto the highway. Skip huddled in the back with Danny in his arms. Zsa Zsa curled in a ball next to Danny’s side. She whimpered and licked his fingers. A shaky smile bent Skip’s lips and he blinked back tears. “It’s all right,” he whispered and took a moment to caress the dog’s ears. “He’s going to be fine.” His fingers returned to Danny and snagged in his lover’s muddied and blood-soaked chestnut curls. Now that they were away, his arms turned to mush and his muscles to water. Tears finally streamed down his face. He leaned close and

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Flatland whispered in Danny’s ear, “Everything’s going to be all right. You’re safe now. We’ll protect you.” Danny’s eyes wandered before they found his face. A quivering hand rose and he dragged a knuckle across Skip’s cheek. He mouthed the words, “I love you,” but no sound came out. His eyes closed and his body sagged. Panic flared in Skip’s heart and frantic fingers groped for a pulse in Danny’s neck. There it was, strong and steady. He leaned forward and rested his ear against Danny’s chest. His heart beat a steady, even cadence. Tina peered over the back seat. “How is he?” “His heartbeat’s strong. Let’s get a little farther away, and I’ll want to check his vitals.” Skip closed his eyes and listened to that wonderful sound. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. He didn’t know when he’d heard anything so beautiful. “Szabo said he gave him scopolamine. He’s probably going to fade in and out. Twilight sleep they call it. I saw videos in commando school. I bet he doesn’t remember much of what happened.” Leo’s gruff voice sounded more beautiful to his ears than Pavarotti singing Verdi. “That’s a blessing. Praise be to God that we’re all safe.” Tina sighed. “Praise be to Skip, you mean. He’s the one who worked out the plan and took the risks.” Skip rested and listened to Danny’s sweet heartbeat. “We all took risks. We wouldn’t be here without you two. >From the bottom of my heart, thank you. We’ll never forget.” The car swayed and accelerated as Leo pulled onto the interstate and headed south. The keys rattled on Tina’s computer. “Butler is only about an hour south of here. You sure we shouldn’t just keep on driving until we get to Mexico?”

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Max Griffin Skip didn’t lift his head from Danny’s chest and the sound of that miraculous heartbeat. “Colonel Arthur’s trailer is deep in the woods east of town. He let me stay there right after I...left active duty with the Rangers. It’s as safe as anywhere, and Danny needs to rest.” Leo grunted. “We stick with the plan.” Tina’s voice still held doubt. “What if this Arthur guy is there? Won’t he be suspicious?” “Last time I talked to him, Morton was on detached duty at Langley working some big anti-terrorism case. He won’t be there.” Skip closed his eyes and let the tension flow out of him. It was almost over. The tires’ hum against the roadway and the steady rhythm of Danny’s breathing lulled him to sleep.

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Epilogue

Skip sat

on the redwood deck behind Colonel Arthur’s trailer and sipped at strong coffee. All around him, the rosy fingers of dawn woke the oak forest that surrounded this rustic retreat. Birds flitted in the treetops and sang challenges that announced their territories. A grey squirrel scampered across the ragged grasses and stopped to nibble on a hidden morsel. Gentle breezes rustled in the leaves, and wisps of feathery clouds, tinged with the blush of the morning sun, drifted over the verdant Missouri hills. Zsa Zsa danced through the grasses and yipped at butterflies. He fingered the pistol that lay ready at his side, confident he wouldn’t have to use it but comforted by its presence. Soon enough, he would need to go back inside and check on Danny, who slept fitfully in the Colonel’s massive, four-poster bed. But for now, he savored the peace of nature and the temporary solace of solitude. A family of hummingbirds skittered near the backyard feeder, bouncing up and down and back and forth like the Dragonflyer unmanned surveillance helicopters he’d used in Iraq. He sighed, and for a moment, a sense of loss tugged at him. Those days and those missions were part of his past. He resolved once again to put that part of his life behind him. His destiny now lay with Danny. When his cell phone buzzed, he frowned and glanced at the screen. His features relaxed when he saw the number. He flipped

Flatland the phone open. “Crow here.” He recognized the Mandarin cadence of the Colonel’s speech, acquired from long years of covert operations in Asia. “Good to hear your voice, Lieutenant. What is your status?” “I’m at the Agency’s base outside Butler, sir.” How easy it was to fall into the old habits, reciting a status report, as if reading from a balance sheet. “The two civilians I recruited to assist in the operation are in Kansas City acquiring fake ID’s for us. Danny, I mean Rajunas, is here with me.” He licked his lips. “Szabo drugged him, but otherwise his injuries are superficial. We’ve concluded our phase of the operation without any losses.” “Good, good.” The voice at the other end seemed to warm, but Skip knew better. “I realize you care for him, Skip. I’m glad he’s not hurt.” Skip closed his eyes and took a cleansing breath. “What about our other objectives?” “Your plan worked brilliantly, I must say. Szabo showed up at the hotel just before that idiot Vasquez arrived with a local SWAT team. Szabo didn’t have a chance. He’s terminated and good riddance. His crazy mother is back in our sanitarium.” His voice took an ironic turn. “I regret to say that Special Agent Vasquez met with an untimely death during the firefight with Szabo.” “How about Major Pelletier?” “He’s fine. He recovered the password to the bank. It was right where you said. Better yet, our operation in Iowa is secure.” Skip nodded, not exactly relieved but glad that the man wasn’t hurt. “Good. I didn’t know him well, but he seemed like a competent guy. All our objectives have been met, then.” “Exactly. Szabo is dead. Our FBI plant had become a liability, so we added her liquidation to our objectives. Most important, the funds in question are back in the hands of the New York Syndicate.” 261

Max Griffin Skip scowled. “All of this just to make some fucking rich bastards richer.” “You know there’s more to it than that, Skip. We’ve got our country to protect.” “Those guys don’t give a fuck about our country. All they care about is money. And power, too, but mostly money.” Morton tut-tutted at him. “Skip, Skip. You know one can’t make an omelet—” He interrupted. “Fuck that bullshit. There’s no difference between the ends and the means.” Skip thought of the trail of bodies that Szabo had left in his wake. He thought of the dead FBI agent, and of the risks that Leo and Tina and the SWAT team at the motel had taken. He thought about Danny, tied up and tortured by that fucking sadist. All that, just to make some faceless financiers richer. Self-loathing flushed through him. “I want out. I hate what I’ve become. This is my last op.” The phone fell silent for a moment, and when Morton spoke again, Skip shivered at his chill tone. “That’s up to you, of course. You know that you can’t tell anyone about our organization.” Skip snorted. “I’m not a fool, Morton. Your secrets are safe with me. I don’t want to meet an ‘unfortunate death’ like that FBI agent.” “I’m confident you’ll be discreet.” His voice assumed business-like tones again, almost dismissive. “How long will you remain at the Butler base?” “Probably a couple of more days. Then I think we’ll disappear, maybe go to the west coast.” Skip knew he couldn’t really disappear. The agency would always know where he was at. “Whatever.” Skip could picture Morton’s narrow shoulders shrugging. “Just remember to keep our secrets. If you don’t,

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Flatland you--and your friends--will suffer the consequences.” The phone went dead. Skip blinked against the glare of the morning sun and retreated with Zsa Zsa back into the trailer. He sat on the edge of the bed next to where Danny still slept and stroked his lover’s chestnut curls. Zsa Zsa jumped onto the sheets, sniffed at Danny’s fingers, and then curled at his feet and closed her eyes. Skip smiled. Finding Danny made it all worthwhile. He slipped off his sneakers and stretched out next to his lover. The heavy Empire furnishings of the bedroom pressed in on him. Sunlight peeked through the edges of Damask draperies and marched in golden shards across the brilliant colors of the Persian rug that covered the floor. The air conditioner wheezed on and cool air chased away the incipient mugginess of Missouri in July. He snuggled next to Danny inhaled his warm, musky scent. The soft whisper of his breathing sang hosannas in Danny’s ears. He closed his eyes and tried to forget his past. He sat up when Danny stirred. His eyes fluttered open and he asked, “Where am I?” His voice husked, as if he’d forgotten how to use it. Zsa Zsa’s ears perked up, and she sat at his feet, her tongue a-goggle and her eyes alert. “You’re with me, and you’re safe.” Skip stroked his forehead. “How do you feel?” Danny stretched and winced as he sat up. “Stiff.” He looked at the welts on his wrists and a finger traced the hairline scab that ran from his chest and disappeared under his jockey shorts. “What happened to me?” Zsa Zsa padded up to him and licked his hand. “That’s a good girl,” he murmured while his fingers toyed with her ears. “You’re safe. You were kidnapped, but Tina and Leo helped

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Max Griffin me rescue you.” Skip tugged at Danny’s hand and squeezed his fingers. “Kidnapped?” His face turned ashen. “I remember now. At the Sanitarium. Dead bodies everywhere, and then an FBI agent took me away.” He eyes grew wider and his grip tightened on Skip’s hand. “How’s Grandpa?” “He’s fine as far as I know. What else do you remember?” Danny frowned. “I remember being in the parking lot and thinking I needed to get Zsa Zsa.” He shook his head and stared into her eyes. “After that, nothing.” Skip nodded. “Don’t worry about it. You’re safe now.” Danny squeezed his fingers again. “As long as I’m with you, I don’t care.” He looked around at the mahogany furnishings in the bedroom. “Where are we? What is this place?” “We’re in a trailer that belongs to...a friend of mine. Someone I knew in the military. It’s in western Missouri.” Danny looked puzzled. “We’re not in Kansas anymore?” A smile bent Skip’s lips. “No, we’re not.” “So what will we do now?” His features brightened. “I guess we’ve still got the money.” Skip shook his head. He’d have to be careful now, to not reveal too much. “The money’s gone, Danny. The kidnapper took it.” He reflected that was close enough to the truth, at least for now. Danny looked again at the scab on his torso, and then rubbed his wrists. He shuddered. “All that money did was bring us trouble. I’m glad it’s gone.” He scratched Zsa Zsa’s ears, and a stray beam of sunlight glittered in her collar. He raised tentative eyes to Skip and murmured, “As long as I’ve got you, that’s all the treasure I need.” Skip’s features relaxed into a smile. “I agree. We don’t need

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Flatland no stinking treasure. All we need is each other.” Danny nodded. Zsa Zsa gave a little yip and showered his face with kisses. He laughed and ruffled her ears. “All we need is each other and Zsa Zsa.” Laughter bubbled in Skip’s throat, and he fought to keep relief from turning to hysteria. “And Zsa Zsa,” he agreed. He thought of Tina and Leo. “And our friends. We wouldn’t be here if Tina and Leo hadn’t helped.” “They’re good people, all right.” Danny stroked Zsa Zsa’s fur and asked, “What do we do now?” “Now? Now, we rest and gather our strength. Later, in a few days, I thought we’d go someplace else, far away from here. Maybe the Caribbean.” Danny nodded. “I’d like that. An island paradise, just you, me, and Zsa Zsa.” The dog’s tail zipped in a perky circle at her name. Danny’s eyes danced, and his wan smile warmed Skip’s heart. “Someday you’ll have to tell me what happened. Right now, I just want you to hold me.” They settled back onto the plush bedding. Zsa Zsa bounced about before she settled into a round puffball at their feet. Skip lay together with Danny, in love’s gentle embrace, side by side and mouth to mouth, satisfied at having at last found his true destiny.

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Author Bio Max Griffin writes horror and science fiction stories, often with a dark twist. Authors as diverse John Updike, Dean Koontz, Richard Matheson, and Lawrence Block inspire and inform his literary style. Max Griffin is the pen name of a professional mathematician who is the author of a textbook and numerous research articles. When he is not writing fiction, his days are filled with teaching mathematics and statistics, research, and administrative work at a major comprehensive university in the southwest. He is the proud parent of a daughter who is a librarian. He is blessed to be in a long-term relationship with his life partner, Mr. Gene, who is an expert knitter. The two humans in Max's household are the pets of an Abyssinian cat named Mr. Dinger, short for Erwin Schrodinger the Cat. Mr. Dinger graciously lets them live in his home in return for food and occasional petting. Oh, and there's that litter box thing they do for him too.

Also by Max Griffin Shadowlands of Desire The Ascension Jon and Luke hope that a week camping and making love in the mountains will renew their stressed relationship. Instead, a dark mystery lurks in the mountain that threatens to consume them both. The Hounds of Hollenbeck Allen and Sam are unlikely lovers in the small college town of Hollenbeck. When a serial killer stalks young men in the town and Sam investigates, the clues lead back to the genetically engineered dogs in Allen's lab. Danger mounts as the killer closes his grip on the city. The Time of His Life Jeff's job selling suspended animation to wealthy clients pays the bills but poisons his life. Everything changes when Cal appears and love blossoms. But his life shatters when he loses his job and discovers the truth about Cal. There is still hope, though, for the time of his life.

Print ISBN: 978-1-60054-369-2 Genre: Gay Lit Length: 328 pdf Pages Cover Price: $19.99 www.loveyoudivine.com www.amazon.com

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