Scarla (12 page)

He eyed her body, licking his lips. “Whyn’t ya come in
here
, girl.” He wasn’t asking. Her nausea gave way to that
feeling,
and she went in.

* * * *

Downstairs, a skinny Mexican kid suddenly lurched out of the
Abandon Hope
apartment, naked and bleeding from the throat. He clutched his spurting jugular, but couldn’t stop the flow as he staggered for the front door. His lover tackled him from behind, pinning him facedown, biting the other side of his neck. Blood sprayed the wall. The guy was older, bigger, sporting a hard-on. Dark hair bristled down his back, three-inch razor-sharp tusks jutting from his lower gums. Like a wild boar. The kid opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came. The guy mounted him, biting mouthfuls of skin and muscle from his throat, thrusting him hard from behind. The kid bled-out and died being raped on the floor, his flesh soon to make a savory meal for his killer. The Haitian turned away with no emotion, closed the door.

Darrin Rattan sat at his desk, chin on his fist, staring at his computer monitor. Framed certificates and awards covered the wall behind him. He’d worked long and hard to get where he was, given decades to the force, a lifetime to the cause. He’d built a reputation of unflappable strength and safety in a city that had neither when he’d been handed the reins, sixteen years prior. He was the odds-on favorite for mayor in the upcoming election year, and a win would cement his legacy as one of the greatest law enforcement figures the city had ever seen. It was a glass ceiling he fully intended to break, the mayor’s office being just the tip of the iceberg, the governor’s mansion and Oval Office not far behind. Such pending glory made his current predicament very dire, to say the least. Escalating mass murder was a shot of cyanide in an otherwise peachy punch bowl. He hit a computer key, replaying the footage he’d been viewing, and resolved to let nothing—
and no one
—stand in his way. The intercom crackled, Jenn purring just the way he liked it.
Nick Rossi from the sanitation union on line one, would you like me to put him through?
Rattan scowled. “Tell him to fuck off. Take a message, or he can call Tommy.”
Yes sir
, she cooed. For politics’ sake, he’d been playing it straight with Jenn. But the more pressures accumulated, the closer he came to suggesting after-hours drinks and a hotel suite. She
was
a flirty little bitch, after all. Mostly why she got the job. Onscreen, elevator security footage showed Carmichael uncuffing Facil as they descended from the lobby. Facil used his phone and exited, followed by Carmichael and DiCenzo. Rattan sat stone-faced, mulling a hard decision. He picked up the phone.

* * * *

“Rise and shine, convict!” The voice boomed off the concrete walls, rattling Facil from a whole fitful hour of sleep. He lurched up, pain stabbing his torso, as two guards cleared the door to escort him out. They were smirking, chips on their shoulders. “Time to go, ya made bail. Bummer, the boys in GP miss ya already.”

Bail?
He wondered if it was Scarla, as he struggled to his feet. Breathing was tough, but walking was tougher, each step delivering lightning rods of pain as they made their way down the hall to catcalls from the peanut gallery. “That eye lookin’
bad
, you pig motherfucker!” “Gonna getcha
good
next time, bitch!” “They stitch that
ass
up for ya, punk?” Facil stared straight ahead, chin up, trying not to limp. An inmate spit in his face as he passed.
“Puto!”
They reached the end of the row, waited for the buzzer. When the door opened, the last person he expected to see was Dom Turkovich.

* * * *

The squad car rounded the corner and cruised the block, slowly passing a group of squinty-eyed youths in baggy clothes, before stopping at the red light. Carmichael bit into a Subway sandwich, talking with his mouth full. “Those kids—,” pointing back, “—might be no more than
fourteen
at the oldest—,” swallowing, “—but I can guarantee you there’s
at least
three felonies in the bunch.”

Behind the wheel, DiCenzo stretched and eyed the light, smirking. “Such faith in the human condition. We’re too
new
to be jaded, man. Relax.”

Carmichael nodded, dropping a tomato in his lap. He tossed it out the window, took another bite. “
You
can relax.
I’m
watching our asses.”

DiCenzo laughed. “Deal. Hey, I hear LeTour got his ass kicked last night in holding. He made bail this morning.”

Carmichael shook his head. “He shouldn’t have hit me. I’ll have his badge.”

The sound of breaking glass got their attention. Carmichael turned to see the kids rounding the corner in some excitement. DiCenzo watched the rearview. Neither of them noticed the late-model Impala crossing lanes to come up on the driver’s side. When DiCenzo finally looked over, it was too late. A burst of AK-47 fire tore through his face and chest, killing him instantly. Carmichael, grazed and bleeding, saw the ski-masked shooter and reached for his weapon. The light turned green. The Impala cut in front of the squad car, its gunman unleashing a hail of bullets that riddled Carmichael as he tried to return fire, then sped off. The black-and-white rolled through the intersection in slow motion, windshield gone, two dead men inside.

* * * *

Facil and Turkovich emerged from Tower One of the Men’s Central Jail and headed for Turkovich’s car, parked in his personal VIP yellow zone at the curb. Facil took his wallet, keys, and phone from a ziplock, stuffed them in his pockets. He chewed up a few aspirin, threw the rest away. No badge. He eyed Turkovich. “I owe you, Dom.”

Turkovich kept walking. “I know.”

Behind them, across the courtyard, Tommy Delmones emerged from headquarters, moving fast.
“LeTour!”
he barked, out of gas. They turned. Delmones caught up, winded but trying to hide it. “I heard you were getting out. I have something for you.” Facil waited. Delmones glanced at Turkovich. They had history. As Bureau Chief, Delmones headed the internal affairs investigation that almost ended Turkovich’s career.

Turkovich rolled his eyes, turned to Facil. “I’ll be in the car, hurry up.”

He walked away, and Delmones held out a cell phone. “It’s Fragran’s.”

Facil’s blood ran cold. “Is she—” The words wouldn’t come.

Delmones shook his head. “She’s
alive
, but it was close.”

Facil tried to breathe deep, but pain cut him off. “How bad?” he asked.

“I don’t know, she left the hospital today.
Escaped
is more like it.”

Facil almost laughed.
You wanted her, you got her.
“Where is she?”

Delmones shrugged. “Figured you’d know.”

Facil nodded. “What about the perp?”

Delmones watched him. “There
is
no perp. She tried to kill herself.”

It took a moment to process the news.
“What?”

“Slashed her wrists after her psych evaluation yesterday. Crane’s report said she was delusional, with possible borderline personality disorder. Freaked him out so bad, he suggested we pull her off the street and start counseling right away, then she went home and tried to cash it in. Luckily, I went by to talk with her just in time to get her to the hospital. They said ten more minutes, she’d have been dead. She woke up today and ran, assaulted a cop, carjacked some broads in the parking lot, disappeared. Not doing herself any favors. Rattan pulled the plug, the operation’s over. If you
find
her, and you can lay low someplace, it’d be best for everyone. You’re in the clear, Smith declined to press charges. Think out of town. We didn’t talk.” Delmones walked away fast.

Facil pulled out his phone, hit AGPS, saw a blip on the corner of 6th and Valeria.
She’s home?
Turkovich started the car. Facil hobbled over. “One more favor, Dom.” Turkovich stared in disbelief.

Marlene Schneider’s severed head sat on a stainless steel tray, empty eyes staring. Calvin Harris placed her DNA slide under an ultra-sensitive microscope that tracked a sample’s protein down to individual atoms in real time. He adjusted the lens, took a look, stared. He raised his head, blinked, looked again. Something he’d never seen before. He raised his head again, grabbed a pen, made a note in his journal. He heard the elevator doors, but was so excited, didn’t turn to see who it was. He looked again, scribbled another note. Could it be, after toiling for the better part of a year, a breakthrough? His mind raced. Behind him, a shadow drew nearer. Harris studied the slide, speaking out loud without realizing it.
“I’ll be damned.”

A voice replied, right behind him. “Sie haben eine Entdeckung gemacht?”

Harris jumped out of his skin. He turned to see Ray Smith standing too close. “
Smith.”
He took a deep breath, heart pounding.
“
Don’t sneak up on me like that.” He grimaced at the sight of Smith’s face. “
Jesus,
what happened to you?”

Smith smiled. “If I frightened you … I’m sorry.”

Scarla cinched her wrist with a belt, tapping the veins in her hand. She sat on a dirty bare mattress on the floor, red Christmas lights strung haphazardly around her. The Haitian lit a stick of incense and turned up the reggae, taking a hit from a charred glass pipe. She flexed her fist, massaging a bulge between her index and middle fingers. He watched as she clamped the belt between her teeth and shot up. She sat still, feeling the effects. The Haitian exhaled a plume of smoke that fogged the small room. He swung his hand at knee level, like a pendulum. “You go
down
—” He sounded far away, and she thought he wanted a blowjob, until he swung his hand up high, offering the pipe. “—now come
up
.” She wasn’t interested in crack, just … something … what she
really
wanted was her pills, but without them, maybe
anything
would do. Anything to satiate the desire. She raised her hand, needle still stuck in her vein. The Haitian knelt and pulled it out, slipped the belt from her wrist, eyed her bandages. He held out the pipe and she wrapped her lips around it. He lit it up and she inhaled deep, watching the rock sizzle. The Haitian smiled wide, nodding in time with the music. She felt relaxed, blissfully cradled, comfortably numb. Her heart suddenly jump-started, blue eyes flushing black, pupils dilating as she came alive, hyper-aware. The Haitian caressed her legs, vicariously feeling the rush. “Ya
like
dat, woman?” She nodded. Outside, the sound of horrified shrieks, banging doors. He slid a hand between her legs and she opened them wider, breathing heavy. “Ya
warm
,” he hummed, ignoring the racket. She unbuttoned her jeans, guided him in. Their eyes locked as he eased a finger inside her, then two. She threw her head back, letting him pull her pants down. Someone shouted, “Oh,
fuck!
” and bounded downstairs, followed by another with, “I got
bats!
” She wondered if he meant mammals or hickory. There was loud crashing, muffled shouting outside. She felt the Haitian’s tongue penetrate her, threw her legs over his shoulders and palmed the back of his head, thrusting her pelvis up.
“Yeah,”
she purred, “
tongue
fuck me, baby.” His big hands slid under her shirt to caress her tits. And just like that, it was over.

The Haitian shot to his feet, left Scarla with her legs in the air. He hopped across the room, scouring the dresser for rocks. She sat up, watched him drop to his knees and comb the carpet. There were a million things on the floor that could’ve been crack rocks—crumbs, lint, plaster, et al.—and he examined every one of them with bugged eyes, fiending as his quickie high wore off.
So much for a piece of ass. Code of the streets. Rock trumps pussy.
Going in, she didn’t know if he’d turn, and without the pill she couldn’t intuit as well, but judging by his priorities, he wasn’t a transformer.
Yet.
Regardless, it was time to go. She pulled her pants up and went for the door, leaving the needle and morphine behind. She’d barely felt anything after the initial rush. Something was amiss in her physiology, though she didn’t know exactly what. The Haitian wasn’t even aware she was leaving as she closed the door. She dodged her vomit, stopped at the top of the stairs. The drunk hadn’t moved. The kid was on his stomach, his head gone. Huge pieces of flesh and muscle were torn from his back, and his ass had been bored wide open, still bleeding into the floor. She froze, looked around, remembered her gun in the car. The front door was ripped off its hinges, lying outside. She heard a baby crying, but couldn’t tell if it was real or TV. The door across the hall suddenly opened, startling her. Conroy’s Blondie wobbled out, glassy-eyed and loaded, in pink panties and a dirty half-top. She looked in Scarla’s general direction, barely coherent. “Was gononna herrre?” Scarla watched her almost walk right off the edge, then stagger closer, teetering. “You
preee.
”
Whatever that meant.
“Yuwa
fuck
me?”
Got that.
Scarla left her babbling and descended the stairs, hopping the drunk.

Outside, two baseball bat-wielding gangstas had the kid’s killer cornered in the street. Scarla guessed they had to climb off Blondie to get their vigilante on. Boar Man snarled, holding the kid’s severed head by the hair, strips of flesh wedged in his tusks and teeth, bloody cock swinging between hairy legs. Both guys stayed out of arm’s reach, bats raised, waiting for a shot. One of them saw her. “Don’t come out here, bitch! Get back!”
Pardon you, shithead.
The thought of killing all three of them crossed her mind, but she had somewhere to be.
Maybe another time.
Ignoring his warning, she went for the car, a bit surprised it was still there. Boar Man spotted her and one guy swung, batting the kid’s head into the air. It landed on Scarla’s hood, just as she got behind the wheel. She grabbed the .38 from under her seat, stepped out and aimed. The Bat Men dove for cover. She locked eyes with Boar Man and he bared his gory grill, staring down her barrel. She tapped him once between the eyes and he dropped like a marionette. The gangstas stared, slack-jawed. She got behind the wheel, revved the engine. “Later, bitches,” she called, peeling away. The guys jumped up, bats in hand, and she hung a u-turn that sent them scrambling again. “Yo,
fuck you!
” one yelled, hurling his bat at the Fastback as it roared away. His partner shook his head. “Bitch can
shoot.
” Then, eyeing Boar Man’s corpse. “
Ugly
mothafucka
.
”