“All my adult life,” Dyche said, “I’ve worked as a police officer, working to protect this town, these people. My people. And every week, I’ve had to go to church with my family and see guys I knew since they were in short pants driving up in Mercedes-Benzes, and Porsches and Cadillacs. And I know they’re dirty. The congregation knows they’re dirty. Heck, I imagine our pastor is fully aware of what they do when they’re not putting on a respectable face.”
“Frustrating,” Bob said.
Dyche put his glasses back on and his hands back into his jacket pockets. “Very. Very frustrating indeed. Because nothing ever happens to the ones with money. I still like to believe most folk are good folk, Mr. Richmond. But I’m old, and I’m tired of fighting the tide.”
Bob’s hackles rose. Where is this going?
“Now… are you going to tell me who your information sources are, your witnesses? Because I expect you want me to take this seriously.”
Something’s off. I can feel it. Bob checked their perimeter, looking both ways, pivoting on one heel quickly to check his six. The painkillers were still doing a job of keeping his cracked ribs from screaming.
Nothing.
“When you talk to Swain and formalize a deal to release Marcus and protect the witnesses, I’ll give you everything I’ve got,” Bob said.
“That’s… Ah, hell, son…” Dyche said, shaking his head gently. “That’s not going to happen. You all might want to look down.”
Bob’s eyes flitted downwards for long enough to spot the red dot of a laser sight hovering over his chest cavity. It was moving too much to be a pro, but Bob knew that wouldn’t matter.
“In case you’re thinking of using me to cut off the line of sight,” Dyche said, “There’s two more aimed at your back right now.”
Bob cursed his own naivete and Swain’s reassurances. “Why am I guessing from that speech that these aren’t Bakersfield PD SWAT?”
“You got that right. I’m sorry it had to be this way, son,” Dyche said.
“Czernowitz figured Merry Michelsen had another source other than Jeb, someone else on the take.”
“Like I said, I got old and tired,” Dyche said. “Tired of never being on the winning team.”
“So… they’re going to gun me down right here?” Bob said. “In the middle of a neighborhood?”
Dyche shook his head. “Naw, I don’t expect so. You’ve got information we need, Mr. Richmond, informant identities. I don’t suppose whoever’s snitching was ever a good soul.”
“Justify murder to yourself however you want, Sergeant,” Bob said. “Just don’t expect a pass from me.”
“Understood.” Dyche withdrew a Glock 17 from his coat pocket. “Turn around, please.”
Bob did as commanded. As stated, two more red dots took the other’s place, wobbling around his sternum. He heard the slight drag of shoe heels on concrete.
Then the gun came down across the back of his skull, and his world plunged into darkness.
45
Bob woke to the sound of dripping water, a poorly secured tap somewhere nearby. His back was cold, the surface he was lying on flat, hard, possibly stone or granite.
The room was cool, strangely damp for the desert city. He tried to move, but his wrists and ankles were manacled to the surface. He craned his neck to lift his head just enough to look around. Pain shot through his cracked ribs and burned skin, and he winced, gritting his teeth.
His surroundings were dimly lit, the lack of windows suggesting a basement of some sort. They’d strapped him to what looked like a rectangular kitchen island, minus the kitchen, grey-and-cream granite or marble. The restraints were chain link, too strong to force.
His head felt slightly foggy. The pinching sensation on his upper left arm, near the shoulder, suggested they’d shot him up with something.
He lowered his head for a moment to rest his neck muscles, then lifted it again moments later, straining his stomach muscles to sit up as much as the chains would allow. It got him about six inches off the surface, a prolonged abdominal crunch. Bob looked around the room quickly.
On a ratty old sofa by the cinderblock far wall, a figure was sitting on his own, in a sleeveless t-shirt, his hands on his lap, a pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarer knockoffs covering his eyes.
Bob squinted. “Terry?”
It took a moment for him to reply. His voice was frail, tremulous. “Ah… y-yeah. Uh huh.”
Bob leaned his head back. “What are you doing here? I gave you a chance to get out.”
“Wasn’t no chance,” Terry said sullenly. “He came by my house, picked me up before we could leave.”
There had to be more to it than that, Bob thought. The man had had nearly a day’s head start.
“But you can’t ever leave,” Terry said. “Ain’t no getting away from Merry. He’s the Devil. Can’t run from the Devil.”
Bob looked up again. He had a terrible notion, a fragment memory of a colleague from Iraq who’d been blinded by phosphorus. “Terry… why are you wearing sunglasses?”
Terry hung his head for a moment. Then he reached up and removed the shades. The eye sockets were bandaged and bloody. One of the bandages came loose, the adhesive slickly defeated. It flopped to below his lid, a dark, blood-spattered hole signifying where his left eye had been just a day earlier.
“He… He took my eyes. He…” Terry began to sob, a wretched, guttural cough accompanying each bout of weeping. After about twenty seconds, he went silent.
A moment later, he composed himself. “Said he’s going to sell the cornholes or something… Wouldn’t let me spin the Sig.”
Bob had no idea what he was talking about. He’d seen plenty of war wounds and as horrifying as the act was, Terry’s disheveled state was secondary to the questions running through his head.
“Why am I tied to this table, Terry? Is this where he did it?”
