face him.
DeBoer lowers the gun just a little. “What the fuck? Who the hell are you?”
A shaved head, yes. Skinny, yes. Wearing the same leggings and skull t-shirt as the punk. But not Katja. Not even female.
“Please . . .” the boy says, holding out his hands, shuffling closer. His face is swollen and bloody, his lips crusted with dried blood.
“Hey, hey!” DeBoer warns him, jabbing the pistol at him. “You just stay right the fuck where you are! I’m a detective, you understand?”
“I don’t know what’s going on,” the man says, a globule of saliva dripping from his mouth. Still shuffling. “I was just . . . I mean . . . I don’t even . . .”
And then before the detective knows what is happening the boy lashes out, kicking the gun from DeBoer’s hand and sending it skittering across the wet pavement. DeBoer turns and the boy leaps out, knocking DeBoer to one side before fleeing past him. The boy runs back up the alley, leaps over Lady Delicious’ still-prone form, collides with the wall and the van then is gone. DeBoer recovers his weapon and gives chase but he gets wedged in the small gap between alley and van. He tries to squeeze through, his raincoat snagging, eventually having to take it off to free himself but by then the boy is long gone.
“Motherfucker,” DeBoer growls.
He still isn’t sure what’s going on, whether the informant has set him up or not, but what he does know is when it is time to get the hell out of somewhere. He goes back around the other side of the van, stops by the driver’s door. Opens it. When he leans in his main intent is to hope the vehicle’s keys are there and either steal them or just take the van but those plans vanish at the sight of the bags lying in the footwell. Three of them. He reaches in and pulls one of them across.
It’s stuffed with money.
He grabs all of them, calculating how much might be inside. Twenty thousand at least—maybe thirty? Enough to cover his debts plus a little extra, and though maybe not as much as the punk might have brought him it’s certainly far less trouble.
He snatches the bags then hurries back to the station wagon, deciding that Lady Delicious can keep her fucking van. He has what he needs—now all he has to do is clear what he owes before anyone realizes how he has been able to do so.
27.
Stasko flicks the headlights back on then rushes around to where the punk’s body lies, hoping that he’s hit her hard enough to floor her without doing any major damage.
She groans, holding her leg. Rolls onto her back.
“What the fuck is going
on
tonight?” she says.
No.
He
says.
The boy holds one hand up against the glare of the headlights to protect swollen and bruised eyes, injuries that look as if they were there prior to the impact of Stasko’s car.
“You’re wearing her . . . her clothes,” Stasko says as the realisation hits.
The man sits up before suddenly crying out in pain.
Stasko grabs him, eliciting another yelp. Shakes him viciously. “Where’s Katja? What the fuck are you playing at?”
“I don’t—I can’t—”
Stasko shakes him harder to get some sense out of him. Slaps him across his already-battered face.
“Where is she?!”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about!” the boy protests, still clutching at his leg.
“The girl! You’re wearing her clothes!”
And the boy looks down, plucking at the t-shirt and leggings as if only noticing his clothing for the first time. He appears to be trying to figure out an answer to Stasko’s question. Then something clicks.
“Nikolai’s friend?” the boy asks.
Stasko stops shaking him. Nikolai. Bridget’s guinea pig.
“Tell me where she is,” he asks, more softly this time.
“I don’t
know
.”
“Where can I
find
her?”
“I don’t
know
!” the boy pleads, then his expression suddenly changes. He points over Stasko’s shoulder. “There.”
Stasko looks where he is pointing, farther up the street.
DeBoer lowers the gun just a little. “What the fuck? Who the hell are you?”
A shaved head, yes. Skinny, yes. Wearing the same leggings and skull t-shirt as the punk. But not Katja. Not even female.
“Please . . .” the boy says, holding out his hands, shuffling closer. His face is swollen and bloody, his lips crusted with dried blood.
“Hey, hey!” DeBoer warns him, jabbing the pistol at him. “You just stay right the fuck where you are! I’m a detective, you understand?”
“I don’t know what’s going on,” the man says, a globule of saliva dripping from his mouth. Still shuffling. “I was just . . . I mean . . . I don’t even . . .”
And then before the detective knows what is happening the boy lashes out, kicking the gun from DeBoer’s hand and sending it skittering across the wet pavement. DeBoer turns and the boy leaps out, knocking DeBoer to one side before fleeing past him. The boy runs back up the alley, leaps over Lady Delicious’ still-prone form, collides with the wall and the van then is gone. DeBoer recovers his weapon and gives chase but he gets wedged in the small gap between alley and van. He tries to squeeze through, his raincoat snagging, eventually having to take it off to free himself but by then the boy is long gone.
“Motherfucker,” DeBoer growls.
He still isn’t sure what’s going on, whether the informant has set him up or not, but what he does know is when it is time to get the hell out of somewhere. He goes back around the other side of the van, stops by the driver’s door. Opens it. When he leans in his main intent is to hope the vehicle’s keys are there and either steal them or just take the van but those plans vanish at the sight of the bags lying in the footwell. Three of them. He reaches in and pulls one of them across.
It’s stuffed with money.
He grabs all of them, calculating how much might be inside. Twenty thousand at least—maybe thirty? Enough to cover his debts plus a little extra, and though maybe not as much as the punk might have brought him it’s certainly far less trouble.
He snatches the bags then hurries back to the station wagon, deciding that Lady Delicious can keep her fucking van. He has what he needs—now all he has to do is clear what he owes before anyone realizes how he has been able to do so.
27.
Stasko flicks the headlights back on then rushes around to where the punk’s body lies, hoping that he’s hit her hard enough to floor her without doing any major damage.
She groans, holding her leg. Rolls onto her back.
“What the fuck is going
on
tonight?” she says.
No.
He
says.
The boy holds one hand up against the glare of the headlights to protect swollen and bruised eyes, injuries that look as if they were there prior to the impact of Stasko’s car.
“You’re wearing her . . . her clothes,” Stasko says as the realisation hits.
The man sits up before suddenly crying out in pain.
Stasko grabs him, eliciting another yelp. Shakes him viciously. “Where’s Katja? What the fuck are you playing at?”
“I don’t—I can’t—”
Stasko shakes him harder to get some sense out of him. Slaps him across his already-battered face.
“Where is she?!”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about!” the boy protests, still clutching at his leg.
“The girl! You’re wearing her clothes!”
And the boy looks down, plucking at the t-shirt and leggings as if only noticing his clothing for the first time. He appears to be trying to figure out an answer to Stasko’s question. Then something clicks.
“Nikolai’s friend?” the boy asks.
Stasko stops shaking him. Nikolai. Bridget’s guinea pig.
“Tell me where she is,” he asks, more softly this time.
“I don’t
know
.”
“Where can I
find
her?”
“I don’t
know
!” the boy pleads, then his expression suddenly changes. He points over Stasko’s shoulder. “There.”
Stasko looks where he is pointing, farther up the street.
Similar Books
