Immune (The Rho Agenda #2)(17)
Benny was one of the few old Italians left in what had once been the heart of Italian New York City. Now, for all intents and purposes, it was a part of Chinatown. Most of the Italian families had long since departed, including Benny’s. But not Benny Marucci.
His father had been a mob boss. His three brothers had risen through the ranks of the family business from low-level enforcers to high-ranking crime figures. Two of them had died under a hail of bullets in Morris Park and the other died in prison. But somehow Benny had served thirty years as a New York City M.E. while eating Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners with the mob. Having survived numerous investigations by Internal Affairs and a couple of hit attempts, Benny had just kept on working until he hit the mandatory retirement age.
Benny Marucci was a bulldog of a man, even now, late into his seventies.
The letter had confirmed that the fingers strung onto the necklace had been cut from the female victims while they were still alive with a guillotine-style cigar cutter. The fingers were from five different women, each of whom had been reported missing in northern New Mexico in the last year. Benny had included pictures and short bios of each. All of them were in their twenties, beautiful, and rich.
But it was the contents of the microscope slide specimen that had caused Benny to send the response with such urgency.
It was a razor-thin slice of human heart tissue. By calling in a few old debts, Benny had gained access to the DNA record of one Carlton “Priest” Williams and had verified that the sample was, in fact, his. The man’s records after joining the military were only partially available, indicative of a highly classified position. His discharge under other than honorable conditions in 2002 did not elaborate on the reasons.
What made the sliver of heart pressed between the glass slides so astounding was the blood. It was infested by something that Benny could not identify, other than to say that it contained a high concentration of microscopic machines of unknown manufacture and purpose. Benny had never seen anything like it and didn’t seem to think anyone else had either.
The letter had ended with just three words. “Be careful, paesano.”
Unfortunately, careful wouldn’t get it done for Freddy. These last few years had been filled with a growing sense that he was buried under circumstances beyond his control, doomed to a life of mediocrity in Hicksville, USA. Now he had been handed a chance to dig himself out, and he wasn’t going to give that up in the name of caution.
As the Subaru crested a steep rise, he saw it: an odd little ranch house nestled in a draw, so run-down its rusty tin roof drooped like the brim of a wet cowboy hat. Several wooden outbuildings sat off to one side, the barn so poorly maintained that the back third had fallen down. The entire compound was surrounded by a barbed wire fence, the gate of which lay open, its supporting post having rotted off near the ground.
As Freddy pulled up in front of the house and killed the engine, the sun finished sinking behind the western hills, painting the sky with scarlet. An old windmill stood silhouetted against the red skyline, several of its blades missing. Freddy was fairly sure that blades was not the correct term for them, but what the hell. Windmills, or any of this farmer shit, weren't exactly his specialty. Still, something about the sight of the tall structure with its missing appendages, backdropped by the red sky, sent a shiver down his back.
Freddy reached across the seat, grabbed his camera and an old metal flashlight, and slammed the car door. He started to lock it, then stopped. If someone came by and stole the old clunker, all the way out in this godforsaken spot, he just wasn't meant to have the damn thing.
Turning toward the old house, Freddy flipped on the flashlight. At first, it failed to respond, but after a couple of thumps, the batteries engaged the contacts, bathing the ground in front of him in a yellowish beam. The twilight sky still held enough light that he didn't really need the extra light, but the shadows from the overhanging porch made him skittish.
Three concrete steps led up onto the porch. It wasn't much, just a dozen feet of poured cement under a six-foot overhang. A rocker that looked nearly as old as the house sat to the left of the front door. It probably gave an excellent view of the broken windmill and crumbling barn. All that was missing was some mangy old mutt humping his leg and he'd be in redneck heaven.
The screen door didn't squeak when he opened it. Odd. A quick examination of the hinges showed the first sign of recent maintenance that he’d seen in a dozen miles. They were brass and had been recently installed, so someone had been living here. Somehow, Freddy doubted that someone was old man Graves.
From what he had been able to discover of the old hermit, Delbert Graves hardly ever came to town, a fact that didn't break too many hearts. He was reputed to be an old survivalist, mean as a snake and stupid as a fence post. The man didn't like anyone, and they returned the favor. His taxes were paid up for two years in advance so nobody bothered him.
From the look of the place, Delbert didn't seem like the type who would have bothered putting new hinges on the screen door. But the squeaking had bothered someone enough to do it.
Freddy expected the front door to be locked, but it wasn't. The door swung inward into the kitchen. On impulse, Freddy reached over and flipped the light switch. Nothing. The whole house probably ran on generator power, and he wasn't about to go around looking for that. Shit, he probably wouldn't know how to start the thing if he found it.
Sweeping the yellow beam around the small room, Freddy stepped all the way inside, closing the door behind him. A small rectangular table with a single chair sat against the window. An old wood-burning stove stood beside the sink. The only electrical appliance was the refrigerator. He opened it just long enough to confirm that the generator had been off for quite some time. What may have been food several weeks ago had been reduced to a foul-smelling mess.