Neil McMahon - Revolution No.9

“Had to happen, Shrink,” he said. “Motherlode was freaking about the kid. I could feel her getting ready to do something stupid. This will calm her down.”

“You should take him someplace, man. Like I said.”

That had been Shrinkwrap’s idea when Mandrake started acting weird-to take him several hundred miles away to another state, and abandon him in front of a hospital. He was too young for anyone to identify, and he’d be taken care of.

“You still could,” she said. “This is no place for a kid.” She wasn’t bad-looking, although thin as a bird, and she looked more feminine now, with a little pleading in her eyes.

Her anger was easy to deal with. This softness was not.

“Mandrake’s got to get his shit together,” Freeboot said uneasily. “Let it go, okay?” He pulled a bottle of the Monte Alban mescal from a shelf and drank from it, still watching the computer screen.

It was showing a news clipping from that day’s Atlanta Journal-Constitution-a small item, the kind they stuck down at the bottom of a back page because it wasn’t really news anymore.

CALAMITY JANE MURDERS STILL A MYSTERY

Atlanta-The murders of prominent businessman David Bodewell, his wife, and four employees last November 19-dubbed the “Calamity Jane murders” because Bodewell’s collection of rare, so-named golf clubs was later found among the homeless in downtown Atlanta-are no closer to being solved.

“There’s not much to work with-no motive and no evidence,” an anonymous source inside the police department has stated. “Whoever did it was either real lucky or real careful.”

Police are continuing to pursue the investigation aggressively…

“No, it’s not okay,” Shrinkwrap said hotly. “There’s a million fucking doctors out there. Why’d you have to pick Coil’s dad?”

“Because Coil’s dad won’t take a chance on sending his kid to prison.”

“When’s he going to get that chance? Don’t tell me you’re going to let him go.”

“I want him to think I will. And you never know, he might come in handy down the line.”

“What the fuck are you saying-‘down the line’?”

“Some of the shit Coil’s told me, Monks has got a crazy streak,” Freeboot said, with a mocking edge. “Maybe he’ll come around.”

She stood up from her chair and stabbed toward his chest with a shaking finger.

“Quit fucking around, man. A dumbass trick like this could bring us down,” she said.

Freeboot gave her a heavy-lidded, measuring look. Shrinkwrap was a psychologist and very smart, but her buttons were easy to push.

“Where’s Coil?” he said.

“In our cabin,” she said warily. She knew the gaze she was seeing.

“What’s he doing?”

“Getting high, probably.”

“I need him to find me some insulin.”

“Hey, lighten up. He just got back from a mission.”

“I’m trying to make him feel more like a maquis, Shrink. Let’s face it, he’s a mama’s boy.”

She flinched. She was more than fifteen years older than Glenn Monks-the latest in a long series of the bad boys she craved.

“What are you going to do, B &E a drugstore?” she said sullenly. “There’s no place within a hundred miles of here open this time of night.”

“Don’t you think maybe I know that?” Freeboot swigged from the mescal bottle again, still watching her.

She lowered her gaze, defeated.

“Have him hack the local pharmacy records and find somebody around here who buys that stuff,” Freeboot told her. “Old people, or a woman living alone. Then call down to Base and tell Callus to go get it. Mask and gun, scare the shit out of them. Take everything they got, needles, the works. Give them a couple hundred bucks and tell them if they keep quiet, he won’t be back. They call the sheriffs, he will. And I want everybody moving with the fucking speed of light, starting now.”

Freeboot watched her thin blue-jeaned ass hurry up the ladder. He drank again from the bottle, a long burning pull, then leaned over the computer’s keyboard and brought up a master file.

“Where you think Hammerhead’s at?” he asked Taxman. Hammerhead wasn’t hell for brains, but he was fierce and loyal.

“He did okay tonight,” Taxman said.

“I’ve been working him up, about Marguerite and Captain America.”

“He’s right on the edge, for sure.”

“You want him in on this next one?”

“Let’s have a scalp hunt tomorrow night, give him a chance to get savage,” Taxman said. “If he makes it, I’ll take him along.”

He spoke with his usual quiet drawl. Somebody who didn’t know better might mistake it for timidness. Taxman was ex-Special Forces, who’d left the army in disgust after the Gulf War because there wasn’t enough close-range killing. Now he got his fill of it, leading the almost thirty maquis that he had trained so far. The most experienced ones were out there in the world, unknown to anyone but each other-drifting, quietly stirring up anger in homeless camps and ghettos, and waiting to be summoned for their next mission.

Freeboot turned back to the computer screen and scrolled. A collage of newspaper headlines appeared, dated several weeks apart over the past months.

SEDONIA STUNNED BY KILLINGS

GROSSE POINTE POLICE TIGHTLIPPED

DOUBLE MURDER IN DARIEN

There were eleven sub-files from the past two years, made up of clippings about the killing of rich citizens in different parts of the country. The outrage tended to start as long front-page reports, only to shrink and disappear as police admitted their frustration.

The “Calamity Jane” file was the latest one. Freeboot transferred the clipping from the disc to the master folder. He had an online search done daily for news about any of the murders, and he read it all carefully. It was important to stay on top of developments.

“I think it’s time for us to let The Man know what he’s dealing with,” Freeboot said. There hadn’t been any reason for police to link the killings yet, at least officially. The maquis had played it safe at first, choosing low-security targets while they perfected their operations.

Taxman nodded. “Let’s jack it up a notch.” He knew a lot of ways to get under people’s skins. Dumping the golf clubs at the homeless camp had been his idea.

“What you got in mind?”

“Pull up Emlinger on the screen.”

Freeboot scrolled farther down the master file, to an alphabetical list of names. There were several hundred of them, mostly men but a few women. Each name was followed by a short description.

He paused at an entry that began:

Emlinger, Robert James, b 1951.

Res 1155 Laurel Lane, Atherton, CA.

Pres/CEO of several companies since 1985. Restructuring/outsourcing specialist w history of diverting assets to execs in bankruptcies/laying off employees wo benefits.

Atherton was a several-hour drive south of here. The FBI knew that serial killers tended to start close to home, then branch out geographically. Freeboot had been careful to do it the other way around.

He double-clicked on Emlinger’s name, bringing up a longer file. It included photographs of Emlinger and his family; a plan of their spacious house and grounds, including the security system; city and area maps; and a detailed analysis of their personal habits and daily routines. Emlinger looked like a generic corporate executive, with gold-rimmed glasses and perfect teeth, brimming with confidence in his own net worth. Mrs. Emlinger was a Stepford-type trophy wife, almost twenty years younger than her husband, and very good-looking.

“She’s got a thing about jade jewelry, antique Chinese stuff,” Taxman said, tapping her photo with his finger. “He bought her a collection of it for a wedding present-used to belong to the Princess of Monaco, or some such shit. If that ends up in a Dumpster, they’re gonna read the mail.”