ST OP STOP STOPSTOP
Perry tried opening his eyes, but vision came only in strobelike bursts. The klaxon scream in his head was too much to bear. He’d lost again, he knew it, but he couldn’t even mutter a single word. Couldn’t
ST OP STOP
tell them he was so sorry
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couldn’t tell Daddy he would behave
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couldn’t beg Daddy to please G.o.d STOP ripping into my brain!
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He fell to the ground, motionless, not hearing the angry, irritated stomping coming from the ceiling above.
HOWDY, NEIGHBOR
Al Turner pounded his heel into the floor. He’d had just about enough of this s.h.i.t. He pounded again, and the yelling stopped.
He absently scratched his ample, hairy gut, then slid a hand into his boxers to scratch his sweaty a.s.s. Frigging hemorrhoids were killing him. They could put a man on the moon, but they couldn’t make your a.s.shole stop burning. Figures.
What the h.e.l.l had gotten into that kid? Screaming his head off like that. The guy had always been so quiet, Al rarely gave him a second thought. Well, not since the kid had moved in, anyway, and Al had found out that “Scary” Perry Dawsey lived right below him. Al introduced himself, had Dawsey sign a football for his nephew and a couple of U of M shirts for himself. Dawsey had smiled, as if he were surprised that someone would want his autograph. The smile had faded when Al asked him to sign the Rose Bowl shirt. That had probably been a little crude, but then again Al didn’t exactly subscribe to the Miss Manners school of thinking, right?
He’d never expected Dawsey to be so huge. Sure, football players all looked big on TV, but to stand next to them was another thing entirely. The kid was a f.u.c.king monster. Al had briefly entertained the thought that he and Perry could hit the bar every Sat.u.r.day during football season, maybe hang out on Sundays to watch the games. Wouldn’t Jerry at work be jealous of that, Al Turner hanging out just as casual as you please with one of — if not the— greatest linebacker to ever wear the maize and blue. But that had changed when he met the kid. Just standing next to Dawsey made Al feel like a seven-year-old. He didn’t want to drink beers with that freak of nature. It was like those science shows on big cats — fine to watch on TV, as long as you didn’t have to meet one face-to-face in the f.u.c.king jungle.
Al twitched as his a.s.shole flared with another round of burning. Felt like a G.o.dd.a.m.n red-hot poker was jammed in there. He grimaced and scratched. This s.h.i.t could p.i.s.s off the Pope, and Dawsey’s screaming fits weren’t helping his mood.
THE LOCAL YOKELS
In Dew’s experience, local cops rarely looked like happy campers. These particular local cops? Well, they looked downright p.i.s.sed. Three Ann Arbor police cars were parked in front of Nguyen’s house. They’d pulled right up on the lawn and sidewalk, pa.s.sing the three gray vans that had parked on the curb. The former occupants of those cars stood on the sidewalk and on the snow-trampled yard, staring up at a pair of men dressed in urban camouflage and holding P90s. Dew had told the four men in Squad One to lose the Racal suits and take positions at the entrances, two at the front door, two at the back. p.i.s.sed-off local cops always looked like genuine bad-a.s.ses, but Dew’s boys looked like they’d kill a man just as casually as they’d squeeze out a fart.
The six Ann Arbor locals were ticked because they couldn’t enter the house. They’d been told jack s.h.i.t. All they knew was that there were definite fatalities on their turf, and some government guy wouldn’t let them do their job. Five cars had responded already; the three parked in front plus one at each end of Cherry Street, rerouting all traffic.
A blue Ford slipped slowly past the east roadblock and pulled up to the house. A thick-chested man wearing a brown polyester sport jacket got out and stomped toward Dew. Maybe fifty, maybe fifty-five. This guy didn’t look like a happy camper, either. He had a jaw so p.r.o.nounced and rounded that he could have pa.s.sed as a cartoon character.
“Are you Agent Dew Phillips?”
Dew nodded.
“I’m Detective Bob Zimmer, Ann Arbor Police.”
Drew shook Zimmer’s hand.
“Where’s the chief, Bob?”
“He’s out of town at a terrorism training conference,” Zimmer said.
“I’m in charge.”
“A terrorist-training conference? d.a.m.n, talk about your irony.” “Look, Phillips,” Zimmer said, “I don’t know what the f.u.c.k is going on
here, and I’m having a donkey s.h.i.t of a day. I just got called to a house that had a gas explosion — mother and son are dead. On the way there, I get
calls from the chief, then the mayor, telling me some feds are running the show, that some government a.s.shole named Dew Phillips is in charge.” “The mayor called me an a.s.shole?” Dew said. “The governor I can understand, but the mayor? I’m hurt.”
Zimmer blinked a few times. “Are you making a joke?”
“Just a little one.”
“Now’s not the time, mister,” Zimmer said. “Then I get to this lady’s house, there’s four of those feds in chemical suits, saying they have to wait for the fire to die down so they can go through it. Then I get a call from the motherf.u.c.king attorney general of the f.u.c.king United States of f.u.c.king America, and then I hear you’ve locked down another house and won’t let my men in.”
“That’s a lot of phone time,” Dew said. “I hope you didn’t use up your minutes.”