Stuart MacBride - Sawbones

Soon as I see the police cruiser in the rear-view mirror I know were fucked. Friday morning, fifteen miles out from Bloomington, Illinois and pouring with rain. Bouncing back up off the grey tarmac in the early dawn light. The cruiser holds back must be running a check on our out-of-town number plate. I knew it was a bad idea to steal something with an I Love New York bumper sticker. .

Henrys sitting beside me in the passenger seat. He hears me swearing and turns to stare out the back window. The cruisers lights swirl red and white through the rain. The cop wants us to pull over. God-damn it, Mark, Henry says to me. What did I tell you?

Hey, dont look at me, I been driving like an old lady all the way from New Jersey. No speeding, no nothing.

Son-of-a-bitch.

For Henry, thats pretty mild.

He runs a hand through his long, grey hair and scowls at Jack in the back seat.

Listen up, he says. You dont do shit unless I tell you. Understand?

Jack isnt listening. Hes checking his Glock nine mm, making sure its loaded and ready to blow some poor bastards head off.

Henry glowers at him. I said, do you understand?

Jack shrugs, then winces. He looks like shit with his nose all broken and two black eyes, but hes a fucking super-model compared to Brian, the guy hes sitting next to.

Henry reaches a hand back between the seats as I pull over onto the hard shoulder.

Give me the gun.

Jack doesnt look at him. Fuck you. He doesnt sound nowhere near as cocky as he did when we started this thousand-mile-long road trip. But hes still trying to be the hard man. He peels back a chunk of torn seat cover and slips the gun in under the dirty-yellow padding. Happy now?

Henry looks at him. You and me going to have another problem?

I kill the engine now the only sound is Jacks wheezy breathing and the rain drumming on the roof. I look in the mirror again and see the State Trooper climb out into the storm. Hes on his own no partner sitting in the car. Maybe we can talk our way out of this after all?

He clumps his way through the rain till hes standing at my window, water dripping from the round brim of his big brown hat.

Mornin, officer, I say, keeping it light and friendly, horrible weather, eh? I give him my best smile.

Long way from New Jersey, he says in his shitkicker drawl. The guy looks like death warmed up. Bags under his eyes, blue-grey stubble on his chin. Maybe on the way home after a long shift thats why hes alone.

Yes, sir.

He sticks out his hand. Licence and registration.

I tell him its in the glove box, then lean across nice and slow to open it and pull out the bits of paper. Maybe were going to get away with it? Maybe hes not going to ask too many questions. Maybe. . Hes leaning on the car door, peering in at everyone and I get that fucked feeling again.

What the hells he going to think? Theres me behind the wheel. Henrys in the passenger seat fifty-eight, V-neck sweater on over a shirt and tie, like a retired door-to-door salesman. In the back we got Jack, with his leather jacket and fucked-up face. And sitting next to him, theres Brian, the eighteen-year-old, pale, shivering blob that used to be Lauras boyfriend, both hands clutching his groin. Thank Christ hes wearing black trousers so no one can see the blood.

The Trooper stares at him. What happened to your friend?

Brian here got himself a dose of something off this girl in Ohio, I say, trying on my smile again and lying through my teeth. I told him you gotta use a condom, but you know what kids are like these days. My face hurts from all the smiling lets face it, theres been damn all to smile about these last couple of days, Im out of practice but the Trooper seems to be buying it.

You got a tail light out, he says, then steps back, hooking his finger at me. I open my door and step out into the pouring rain.

It soaks right through my shirt, plastering my hair to my head as I follow him round to the trunk. He points at the offending light.

Sorry, officer, I say, hoping that this will be it. That hell get back in his patrol cruiser and fuck off to wherever the hell it is hes going. Ill take care of it first chance I get.

Uh-huh. He writes me a ticket, making me stand there in the rain while he copies down the cars registration and my licence details. And then he stops. Frowns. And checks the documents again. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck he knows theyre forged. Fuck! I told Henry we should have used someone more reliable.

The Trooper says, Open the trunk.

Look, officer, maybe we can

He places a hand on the gun at his hip. Open the trunk.

Sure thing. Not a problem. Fuck, fuck, FUCK. I slip the key into the lock and twist. The trunk pops open and Mr State Trooper steps up to take a look. Then swears.

I cant blame him, its not every day you stop someone for a busted tail light and find a dead FBI agent in their trunk. The Troopers almost got his gun out when Henry smashes him over the back of the head with an empty bourbon bottle.

We stand over the fallen man, watching the blood wash away in the rain.

He dead? I ask.

Will be when Ive finished with him Henry pulls out the Troopers handcuffs, drags the guys arms round behind his back and snaps the cuffs on. Then we haul him into the trunk alongside Special Agent Mills. Its a tight squeeze bleeding cop and dead agent but we make it work.

. .

. .

And believe it or not: this time were supposed to be the good guys.

Ten in the morning and its still raining like a bastard. Were parked outside a small 7-Eleven clone on the outskirts of Bloomington, waiting for Jack to get back with breakfast, while Henry puts in a call to our boss, Mr Jones. Yeah, hes saying, the cellphone jammed against his ear, morgues still shut. . Uh-huh. . Uh-huh. . Were going round to see him soon as it opens. . Yeah. .

One of them big minivans pulls up on the other side of the parking lot. Mom, Pop, and two kids. Pop hops out into the rain while Mom stays put to keep an eye on the brats. The guy hurries between the puddles towards the store, stopping when Jack pushes out through the front door. Arms full.

Pop nods a hello, but Jack just gives him one of those shitty looks hes been working on since yesterday lunchtime, when Henry rearranged his face for him. Pop backs up a couple of steps, then waits for Jack to limp past, before going inside. He looks back over his shoulder at this thug in the leather jacket.

Way to keep a low profile, Jack.

What? says Henry, sticking his finger in his other ear. Oh, right, the kid. He peers over his shoulder at the pale, shivering thing that used to be on the local high school football team. Hes doing OK. . Uh-huh. . Will do. You tell Tammy were thinking about her. . right. And then he hangs up.

You didnt tell him about the cop, I say, and Henry shrugs those massive shoulders of his.

He dont need more stuff to worry about.

Which is true.

The back door clunks open and Jack climbs in. Breakfast burritos, he says, handing out the little micro-waved parcels. Then its black coffee for me. Fifth of Old Kentucky, for Henry. And a jumbo Blueberry Squishy for Brian. Jack holds out the bright blue drink and Lauras boyfriend takes it. The kids hands are shaking, little brown flakes of dried blood falling from his pale skin as he clutches the huge cup of sugar, chemicals and ice. Jack tosses over a small yellow packet. Advil. They didnt have anything stronger.

Advil, good for a headache, but I get the feeling its not going to do much for Brians aches and pains. Poor bastard.

Henry twists the top off his early morning bourbon and takes a swig. That should even him out for a little while. Make him less likely to take another pop at Jack.