A Perfect Machine(45)

“Stall tactics, and I don’t give a fuck, Palermo. Get your ass in the car. You can lie to me all you want in there. You can lie until I slice your head off. Oh, and by the way, even if you wrestle the knife from me, my gun’s loaded with hollow points, so you’ll want to think twice. I know your body eats normal bullets, but a well-placed hollow point might just take your head clean off.”

“Why not just kill me now, then? Why are you waiting?”

“I want you to know who I am, and why you’re dying,” Krebosche said. “Once you know that, really understand it, I’ll take your fucking head. Or shoot it off your shoulders. Whatever.”

Palermo shuffled through the ankle-deep snow toward the car, Krebosche within arm’s reach the whole time. As he passed by the back window, Krebosche swept snow off it.

Krebosche was stronger than Palermo had anticipated when he’d found him on the ground outside the warehouse. He probably could overpower him, but he was younger and quick. And very, very angry.

When Palermo reached the passenger side, Krebosche put the gun under his chin, said, “Get in slowly, dickbag. Slide over to the driver’s side.”

Palermo grunted and got in the passenger side, slid behind the wheel. Krebosche kept the gun trained on him as he sat down himself, shut the door. Snow fell in a heap from the window.

Krebosche put the keys in the ignition, said, “Start it. Drive.”

“Where to?”

“Just drive, idiot. I’ll direct you as we go.”

Palermo turned the key, the engine flared to life.

“Windshield,” Krebosche said.

Palermo activated the windshield wipers. Snow fell to either side of the blades.

“Keep the lights off.”

Palermo put the car into gear, drifted away from the curb. “Left or right,” he asked as they approached the first intersection.

“Left. Away from your warehouse. And don’t indicate.”

Palermo came to a complete halt at the stop sign, turned slowly, carefully.

“A little faster would be nice.”

“Just trying to make sure we arrive alive.”

“Not a real concern for you right now, OK?”

Palermo shut up.

They drove on in silence for a couple of minutes, Krebosche directing Palermo at intersections, keeping an eye on the mirrors for lights. Then Palermo said: “Can I have something to stop my leg bleeding?”

Krebosche turned to him, a look of incredulity on his face. “Why would I care if you bled to death?”

Palermo sighed, and they drove on in silence.

The weather combined with the hour made it so there was barely anyone out at all, so spotting a tail would be fairly easy. Losing one on these roads, however, would be a different story.

Krebosche was trying desperately not to let doubts niggle at him, but Palermo’s words had, indeed, taken root. What if Palermo did know where the trigger man was? Krebosche hadn’t actually seen him kill her – and one other man, and a woman, were in the house he’d followed them to. But did it matter? Palermo clearly had something to do with his daughter’s death, was obviously someone – if not the main someone – to blame for it. Wasn’t that enough? Would killing the actual murderer really make that much of a difference? As for his sister, he knew he’d never find her killer, since the person whose bullet ricocheted down that alleyway probably didn’t even know what they’d done.

But did it truly matter who, specifically, was responsible for what happened to Adelina? With each street that went by, each corner turned, each streetlamp flickering by overhead, and the moon bathing him in its weird blue light through the car window, Krebosche knew with a growing certainty that yes, it did matter. It mattered very much.

They crossed the tracks, went deeper into the suburbs until Krebosche gave Palermo one final instruction: “Left up here, then turn into the first parking lot on your right. Home sweet home.”

The tires crunched snow as Palermo turned the car into the parking lot. It wasn’t really Krebosche’s home, but Palermo didn’t need to know that.

“Very back spot, in the shadow of that big-ass tree. Then kill the engine.”

Palermo steered the car into the spot, cut the engine, turned his head to look at Krebosche, said, “I’m bleeding onto your lovely seat covers here. Just so you know.”

“Duly noted.”



* * *



Back at the abandoned jeep, headlights cut dual cones through the snow and darkness. Another vehicle – this one a black Hummer – crawled close to the jeep, sidling up to it. Cleve’s arm was out the window, holding a handgun the size of his head, trained on the jeep.

“Any movement?” Marcton asked from the driver’s side.

“Nothing. I think it’s been ditched.”

As they pulled parallel, Marcton saw that this was the case. “Fuck.”

“Agreed. What now?” Cleve said, pulled his arm inside. “Does he have his cell on him?”

Marcton turned. “Probably. Why, you wanna text him: ‘where r u?’ Christ, Cleve, give it some thought.”

Cleve looked down at his lap. “No tracking device in his phone?”

“No. No tracking device, dummy. And no, we can’t do some clever shit with the GPS.”