Word got back to the mayor that a narc named McQueen had been found shot to death in a safe house on the Lower East Side. He called the DA's office and the DA called Patricia, but the Assistant DA wasn't in. She had gotten Sunset to pull some strings across the Hudson and managed to get a court order to reopen the Electric case. That meant that a 21-year old Po Von Schwartz would be subpoenaed to appear in court.
Chaplin was on her way to deliver that subpoena, driving through the tail end of a severe storm on her way to the remote convent's estate. She hadn't notified anyone. Only Sunset and Sunset's cronies in Jersey knew of the writ but Patricia was prepared for whatever she might meet and whoever might try to stop her. The Forty-four in her car's glove box was her bodyguard in case anyone had any arguments with the law she had taken into her own hands.
She hadn't heard from Anna again, the last she did hear being the sounds of grave danger; gunshots, crashing bodies and the raging storm adding up to a mystery that Pat was throwing herself headlong into. If Electric were innocent, someone else was guilty and as guilty as Electric now was of multiple murder, that someone else was hell of a lot guiltier of god knows what else.
Bolton and Dell were lost in the mist. Dell knew it and Bolton wouldn't admit it. Dell didn't mention it, saving himself a smack in the teeth. Bolton kept hollering his cousin's name but Caleb didn't answer. The white fog didn't do anything but make him blind and sweat, every gamy scent swallowed by the fungal mist.
Caleb took to dragging the wet naked corpse by the hair, like he was pulling along a long sinewy rag doll that bucked and rolled as the scalp tore and maggots poured from the bloodless wounds the tender flesh came apart against the rough sheol of the earth. The woman's thin Asian eyes pulled open, rolling in the inert sockets and seeming to stare seeing nothing at all. Caleb couldn't see a thing either. He felt and groped his way through tangled brambles blinded by the fog as sweat poured over his face and into his eyes. The fog was whiter and thicker than the blackest night was ever black.
Sinclair was a foggy ghost town as I rode along the main drag. The sky had whitened but it was too early for businesses to be open. I was thankful for the calm and rode the Harley directly to police headquarters where a skeleton crew would be on duty, sleepily awaiting the day shift.
I rode the bike up and parked on the side of the building away from the cruisers and police scooters in the parking lot. Sinclair had more cars than cops and I wasn't too worried when I walked in and shot the man on the front desk through the badge before he could reach his nine. I kept going and seeing a young cop approaching before he saw me, I shot him through the head and stepping over his crumpled body, put another slug in his face, and then made for Bolton's office.
The cop that sat at the desk in his outer office was a uniform that had joined the force around the same time as I; a woman named Arlene Sandwater. I had two guns in my hands, Glock in my right, Rossi .357 in my left and I motioned her to stand away from the desk. Her mouth opened without a sound.
"Hello, Arlene," I sneered. "Where's Bolton?"
Her fingers twitched at her sides and I put a bullet through her arm, almost tearing it off. The muscle burst with blood and burnt ligament. I came behind her, holstered the magnum and snatched the nine from the holster bulging on her round hip. I pressed her gun to her head and snarled in her ear. "Where is he?" I guess I resented the fact that she was still on the job, albeit fifteen years without a promotion. But to her I was a mad dog on the run, staying just one step ahead of death.
"He—he ain't here, Barry— God! You smell t'hell!"
"Nice t'see you, too, but this ain't the time for chit chat. I'll ask you one more time—Where's Bolton?" I smacked her upside the head with the Glock's butt and blood trickled from beneath the strawberry blonde hair, running down the pale pink flesh of her cheek. "Where is he?"
"He's out on a manhunt—," she informed coldly.
"A manhunt? Who's he after this time?" She took a few heated breaths and I clocked her again. "Talk!"
"Ca—Caleb— His cousin Caleb! Bolton radioed in last night that Caleb and Zeb tried to gun'im. He—he—got Zeb—but Caleb got away— The Chief called Dell to come out with the doc an' some men. They been gone all night. Don't kill me, Barry—please—I—I don't think ya done it—," she blurted anxiously.
"Done what, Arlene?"
Her body stiffened, fingers clutching the gushing bullet hole in her arm, leaving the gash in her head to pour over her face. "You don't think I done what, Arlene?" I was pressing in on her, breathing into her face, speaking right into the hoop ear-ringed ear, the blonde's ponytail working up a liquefying sweat that began to drench her collar. Steam was rising out of her blouse and the thick Kevlar jacket she wore underneath started to stink of musty perspiration.
"R—rape that girl! I know ya didn't do it! That ain't you!"
"You're so right, Arlene." I took the gun away and held it at my hip.
"Siddown," I commanded and she sat, still groping the flow of blood uselessly. She didn't look up at me when she sat, just held her head low and shook it a little from side to side.
"So, he's up at the shack trying to catch to up to a kill happy retard. That's not like Bolton either. He'd just as soon unleash a pack of wild dogs on'm. Caleb's not bright enough to be worth a damn. Bolton must want that boy dead all kinds'a ways. I wonder why—?"
"I told ya," she said, drooling with fear and tears. "I told ya—Caleb an' Zeb musta ambushed him up there—"
I snickered maliciously, "Now why would they do that? Zeb does all of Bolton's dirty work— They musta done something extra dirty. Why was Bolton up there in the first place?"
"I dunno—," she shrugged weakly.
I came behind her, pressed the .357 against the back of the wooden chair and pulled the trigger gently. The slug cracked through the chair and into her spine where it tore things apart and kept going. Her body heaved and her lap filled with blood. I raised the pistol and put a second slug under her hairline and her face came off and flew across the room, splattering the file cabinets like raw batter and dripped to the floor. It had been a pretty face but now the faceless skull slumped forward on the exposed nerves of her neck and slammed down on the desktop. Her brains spilled like an upturned can of beans and dumped themselves onto the floor. There would be more officers, so I left Arlene, going to the glass gun case and smashed my way in.
I threw two loaded shotguns and two Remington submachine guns over my shoulders and climbed out the window leaving Bolton's office. I got to the Harley and mounted it, gunning the engine noisily and pulling around to the building's front. There were two cops standing there that were startled by my sudden appearance and surprised as hell when the shotgun sang into their faces. They fell to the ground headless, the double barrel blast of shells leaving a gray cloud of burning gunpowder rising and settling over them. I took a back road out of town and headed for the hills.
The storm passed and left a shroud of humid fog hanging onto the trees. The ground hissed and steamed as the fog rolled over it through the brush and rose into the branches of lightning scarred and fallen trees. The air had become unbearably hot and cloying, the mud crisping over as the vapor clung to the steamy soaked trees with an implacable breeze spreading the gray shadows into elongated quivering ghosts.
Po stumbled, unable to find her footing as the hoarse loud voice bellowed: "Caleb!" in the distance.
She stopped trying to walk, sinking with each step, feet coated with viscous mud, her body slithering with it and she fell to her knees, then her belly and crawled.
"Caleb!" The voice was screaming and cracking, so unearthly yet so familiar.
The nightmares were alive inside of her head and all through her body, the ugly shouting voice making her tremble.
Caleb staggered weak and tired, gun in hand, blinded by the fog. The white cloud drift was like heaven but heaven was the last place Caleb wanted to be. He knew that he didn't deserve the honor and he gathered his strength and ran with the woman's corpse slung over his shoulder and light as a feather. He would keep it; love it and care for it like it was his child. The Agent's corpse was warm, moist on his cold shoulder and he held the legs and butt cheeks firmly in his grasp, the knee joints had busted as the legs kicked him in the chest as he ran as if she had come back to life. He imagined that she had, imagined they'd be able to stop and rest soon and get reacquainted but the loud bellicose cries of his own name kept his feet moving.
Trudging through the thick white fog and deep brown mud he slammed face first into an unseen tree and tripped falling backwards over an invisible scrub bush. Caleb had what he wanted and almost all that he needed. But he needed to get out of earshot of Bolton who fired blind into the dense vagueness and kept coming.
Dell was sick of the chase. His P-11's flashlight was useless against the impenetrable blanket of mist, but he knew the chief wouldn't turn back. The chief wouldn't give up the psychotic chase until he had Caleb on his knees and was shooting the dumb hick dead and deader until he was dead as he was gonna get at Bolton's feet. Dell didn't know why the chief was so fired up but the loyal sergeant didn't dare leave his side. Even fog blind, Bolton would put a bullet in Dell's back if he even tried.
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