Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl

“What is it, Deputy?” Shad asks calmly.

“Paul Labry was just killed in a car accident!”

“What?”

“He hit a bridge abutment. Must have been doing seventy, at least.”

“Was anyone else hurt?” I ask.

“Nope. One-car accident. There was an empty bottle of vodka in the car too. Sally, over to the clerk’s office, told me Mr. Labry’d been hanging around here all during lunch. Said he smelled like a liquor cabinet.”

I look down at Shad, my eyes filled with foreboding.

“Thank you, Mitch,” Shad says. “Mayor Cage and I need to finish our conversation.”

“Okay, sorry. I just figured you’d want to know. I mean, is there anything special we should do because it’s a selectman?”

“No, just follow your normal procedures.”

Catton stares at us in puzzlement for a few seconds, then shuts the door and bangs down the stairs.

“This town is under siege,” I say softly. “And the biggest threat always comes from within. Don’t kid yourself that you can come out of this clean. Not without me. I don'’t know if Paul committed sui

cide or if they killed him, but when this is all over, there’s going to be a reckoning. Pick your side, Shad. Fast. That thumb drive is your only get-out-of-jail-free card. You know how to reach me.”

“Get out of my office.”

I hold up my forefinger and point at him, my eyes burning, then turn and go.

CHAPTER

54

Caitlin stands naked in the storeroom of the kennel, a leather dog collar tight around her neck, its thick chain binding her to the wooden support post of some shelves behind her. She’s bound so tightly that she can’t turn her head, which forces her to watch the scene taking place before her. She’s shut her eyes as long and as often as she could, but Quinn has sworn to Taser her if she does it again.

Linda Church lies bent forward over a crude table, her collar chained to a ringbolt set in its top. Naked from the waist down, Seamus Quinn plunges relentlessly into her from behind, his eyes on Caitlin to be sure she’s watching. Linda screamed so much when he began that Quinn wrapped four long pieces of duct tape around her face. Caitlin is afraid Linda will vomit and aspirate it before Quinn can get the tape off—if he’d even try.

“Don’t pretend you don'’t want to look,” Quinn says, panting from exertion. “Everything that walks on two legs would watch this…if they knew nobody was looking. Why do you think Romans paid their last coin to see this kind of thing? This is what we are, princess. The emperors gave the people what they wanted—sex and death. Everything else is just window dressing.”

Caitlin keeps her eyes on Quinn but speaks to Linda. “Think

about something else,” she says in what she hopes is a maternal voice. “Anything but this. This will pass, like every other thing in life. You don'’t believe me right now, but it will—”

“Shut your gob!” Quinn shouts, seizing Linda’s haunches and driving harder. “You know what they really loved in the arena? Women and animals. They’d take the urine of female animals and spread it on virgins, sometimes twenty at a time. Then they’d let the trained males at them. Baboons and mandrills, bulls and boars, dogs and leopards, even giraffes. That'’s history—real, every bit of it.” Quinn shows Caitlin his gray teeth. “People don'’t change, and you’re no different.”

Caitlin can’t bear to look at Linda’s face. All she can think to do is deflect some of Quinn’s bottomless rage onto herself. “I’d like to see

you

get it this rough,” she says. “See how you like being on the receiving end.”

Quinn huffs and laughs. “A man does the givin’, princess. The woman does the takin’. I'm not particular, so long as it’s warm and tight.”

“Your day is coming,” Caitlin says in a barely audible voice. “There are places not far from here where men twice your size will be happy to give you what you’re giving her. Twice as much, from what I saw when you dropped your pants.”

Quinn pulls out and starts toward Caitlin, but before he can reach her, the door to her right bursts open and two men enter the room. One wears a black balaclava hood, the other a green one. The man in the black mask looks from Quinn to Caitlin, then back at Quinn. It’s as though Linda isn’t in the room.

“What are you doing here?” Quinn asks in a dazed voice.

“Liam called me.” The black-masked man’s voice seems hardly distinguishable from Quinn’s. “About a day late, by the look of it.”

“You told me I could do what I wanted with her.”

“You bloody sod. For one night, I said.” The man looks at Caitlin, eyes glinting through the slanted eyeholes cut in the balaclava. “Has he touched you?”

Caitlin is certain that the man in the black balaclava is Jonathan Sands, but given the circumstances, letting him know that could be fatal. “Only to put this collar on me,” she says. “He’s raped her for

two days straight, though. She has some serious infections, her leg and her urinary tract. She needs an emergency room right away.”

Quinn laughs, then cuts off the sound with a cough.

The man in the black balaclava takes two steps toward Quinn and leans forward as though to speak, but then his right hand lashes out and cracks the bridge of Quinn’s nose. Blood erupts from the Irishman’s face, and he topples backward, holding his nose with both hands.

The third man watches without reaction.

Quinn gets to his knees but remains doubled over, blood pouring through his hands. Sands extends his arm to help him up, but when Quinn takes the hand, Sands snaps his boot into Quinn’s rib cage with a crunch. The force of the blow lifts Quinn bodily from the cement. He drops flat on his belly, gasping for air.

“Get up, you piece of shite.”

Quinn gets slowly to his knees, covering his belly like a beaten dog preparing for another kick, then slides up the wall behind him until he’s erect.

Sands jerks his head toward Caitlin. “Where’s her clothes?”

“Over there. In the cabinet.”

“Get ’em. And take that fuckin’ collar off her.”

“Why? Are you trading her?”

“Get her bloody clothes. And keep your mouth shut while you’re about it. Jaysus.”

Quinn goes to the cabinet and retrieves Caitlin’s jeans and T-shirt. “You broke my ribs,” he grunts, as he hands them to her.

“I ought to give you a proper digging,” Sands mutters. “You ignore another order and I'’ll have Liam kneecap you. I’'ve half a mind to do it here and now. Got a drill in the lorry.”

Quinn holds up both hands, silently pleading for mercy.

“What about it, ladies?” Sands asks. “You want to hear this bastard scream?”

“We just want to go home,” Caitlin says. “We don'’t care about you or him or whatever you’re doing.”

A toothy smile flashes through the mouth of the balaclava. “That'’s what you say now. But you’ll feel different later.”

“What are you going to do with us?”

Sands sniffs and keeps looking at her, but says nothing. Slowly, his eyes travel from her breasts to her ankles, then back to her eyes. As this happens, she realizes that there is no “us” for Sands or Quinn. In their minds, Linda is already dead.

“You’ll be home in twenty-four hours, good as new,” Sands says. “That'’s a promise.”

“I don'’t believe you.”

“You don'’t have to. It’s the truth.”

“What about Linda?”