75
ANSON
“You found her, didn’t you?”
Detective Moss said this with little emotion.
More out of frustration than anything else.
Like I had inconvenienced her somehow. I couldn’t help but look at her hands the way I had studied Stash’s.
I saw no marks on her either. Nothing to indicate she’d killed Meagan.
Nothing to indicate she’d put the bag over the other woman’s head and yanked the string tight, possibly bracing herself, pushing on Meagan’s back with her other hand, or possibly her foot or knee for leverage.
I couldn’t shake that image. Somehow, I knew that was how Meagan’s killer did it.
Then the answer came to me, as obvious as the sun rising in the east. “You wore gloves . . .”
She snickered like this was funny. “Of course I wore gloves.”
“Why did you kill her?”
Her gun remained perfectly steady, leveled at my chest. “Because she got soft on me. She wanted to let you go.”
“She recognized me from my house. From Simpsonville.”
There was something behind Moss’s eyes, this shift.
I’d always found her difficult to read, and perhaps that’s why I didn’t see this.
Even now, as she pointed a gun at me, I didn’t want to believe she was involved.
But her eyes had changed; there was no denying it.
The thick veil that had kept her true intentions hidden from me had lifted.
Any warmth that had been there moments earlier was gone, leaving nothing but a chill as sharp as the Reaper’s blade.
“Originally, they brought the Kid to a hospital outside Charlotte. I suggested they move him here to Roper, then to the Quick. I knew if we brought your friend here, you’d show up.
It was just a matter of time. Where else could you go, right?
After Finicky’s. There are only so many places around here to hide.
We’d hoped by giving you a taste of freedom, you might make contact with your mother, or maybe she’d come back for you.
We think your mother and the Carter woman ditched Kirby not long after Simpsonville.
We can’t be sure. He hasn’t turned up. He will, though.
They all will. Can’t hide forever. Finicky’s was too remote, too hidden.
But the Quick? The second you set foot in the Quick, half this town knew about it. We figured she’d have to come for you.”
“She didn’t.” I swallowed. “She won’t. Mother doesn’t care about me. She left me.”
“Hillburn thought that was a ruse, but I’m beginning to think you might be right.
Hell, even when I painted the killer’s target on your back, she didn’t show up.
That was all over the news; no way she missed it.
What kind of mother does that? She cares more about protecting what she stole than she does her own son.
” She pursed her lips. “That’s bad for you, Anson.
Tucker wants everything returned to him, and he’s not a very patient man.
I suppose you’ll see that soon enough.” She motioned toward the mouth of the slide with the barrel of her gun. “Get in.”
I didn’t argue with her; there was no point.
I backed up to the slide and crawled in.
I didn’t go down, though. Instead, I held onto both sides and told her, “I left your phone sitting on the landing at the north steps along with a note that says, ‘Detective Gracie Moss killed Meagan Ward and left her body in a closet.’ Who do you think will find that first? One of your dirty cops or one of the good ones? I suppose we’ll have to wait and see who comes up those steps . . .”
Her face twisted into a frustrated frown. “You’re a little shit.”
She went to push me, but I let go before she could.
The world went dark as I dropped down the tube. The walls were slick, covered in some kind of oil or wax, and unlike some playground slide, this one was steep. My stomach jumped. Stagnant air rushed by, filled with the sweat of all those who had gone before me.
The moment I shot out the bottom, hands were on me. They grabbed me from both sides, picked me up, and nearly tossed me to the pavement. Somehow, I managed to keep my legs under me, as wobbly as they were, and quickly took in my surroundings.
I was in an alley.
The Market District building at my back, the Quick up above.
There were men in SWAT uniforms all around, and others in plain clothes.
Safe.
We were—
Someone kicked me in the back of my knee and my leg buckled.
I went to the ground. When I looked up, Hillburn was standing there, the same grin from the security monitor plastered on his face.
A half-filled syringe was pinched in his fingers, with dozens of used needles at his feet. “Hey, Anson. Welcome to the party.”
I saw Vincent and Paul on the ground behind him, both unconscious.
Drugged with whatever Hillburn had in those needles.
Their hands and feet were neatly zip-tied for when they woke.
They weren’t alone. The alley was riddled with bodies, both young and old.
A semi had backed up to the mouth of the alley, and men dressed in SWAT gear were carrying the unconscious people up a ramp and loading them in the back.
The men we had seen getting out of the white vans were all there too, and I realized they were sorting everyone.
The young went to the truck; anyone over twenty went through a doorway into an adjoining building.
All of them were working together. I caught a glimpse of two men carrying Stash’s unconscious form inside the building before they vanished in the shadows.
Hillburn caught me looking at the men in SWAT gear and his grin widened. He shouted at one with short salt and pepper cropped hair, “Hey, Murdock, your sister likes to take it up the ass!”
The man he called Murdock raised his assault rifle, pointed it at Hillburn, and pulled the trigger. Three quick shots rang out. Hillburn’s body jerked, then he started laughing. “That never gets old!”
Blanks.
They were all firing blanks.
The entire thing had been a ruse.
From a nearby crate, Hillburn snatched up a video camera with a wire trailing through the doorway where they were moving the adults.
He held the camera up to his face. “Line ‘em up, Anson. They’d better be there when I open this door!” He started laughing like this was the funniest thing in the world before tossing the camera back down to the crate.
“We’ve got this whole place wired. Not exactly hard to swap out a camera feed. ”
Another man dressed in SWAT gear peered out the back of the semi. “Quit screwing around. We should have been on the road twenty minutes ago!”
Carmichael.
They were all dirty.
Every last one of them.
It took six people to carry Pudge’s unconscious body up the ramp into the back of the truck.
Hillburn raised the syringe and gave the plunger a little pressure—just enough to send a drop of whatever drug it contained out through the tip. “Time for you to take a nap, Anson. I’m handing you to Tucker myself.”
He took a step closer.
From above came a deep roar.
The windows of the Quick, covered from the inside, blew out into the night sky on a wave of flames. A boom deep enough to rattle the pavement.