Then the icy anger slid away, leaving something warm and blissful. I lifted his broken arm, then dropped it and smiled.
"That's gotta hurt," I said.
"You bitch." Spittle rained on the dirt as he twisted under my knee. "You fucking -!"
I grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. He gagged, choking on his own curse.
"Ever snapped a man's neck, Ron? They say if you know how to do it, one wrench is all it takes." I pulled his head back another inch. He gurgled, but his eyes were slits, hiding his fear. "As fast as a CNS shot, with none of the noise and none of the mess. You don't even need a weapon. How cool is that? But it's not something you can get right on the first try. You'd need practice, and I bet you'd have trouble finding people willing to volunteer."
I eased back, knee digging into his spine. "That's the problem with postindustrial society. People just don't volunteer the way they used to. That sense of community, of helping a neighbor in need… people just can't be bothered. A girl and her baby go missing? If it's the wrong kind of girl, no one cares. They barely even notice."
I entwined my fingers in his hair, leaning forward again, weight back on my knee. "And you've taken full advantage of that, haven't you? Well, I'm going to give you the chance to make amends by volunteering for a worthy cause." I yanked his head back another inch. His eyes bugged, mouth working. "What do you say, Ron? Spend the last few minutes of your life helping a colleague further her education?"
"Let him go." The words rippled through the air, wrapped in a sigh.
Fenniger's hair pulled tight against my fingers as he struggled to see the newcomer.
"Come on, girl." Jack walked up behind me. "Get off him. You've had your fun."
"I'm not done yet."
"Yes, you are." A few seconds of silence passed. "Did you hear me?" His words came sharper now, that laconic, almost bored tone evaporating.
"He killed those girls. Shot them and took their babies."
"Yeah? And it's none of your fucking business, is it? You're here because I brought you in. My job. Now get the fuck off him."
I shifted, rising just enough to take the pressure off Fenniger's back. Jack's fingers closed on my shoulder.
"Hey, watch the hands. I'm getting – "
I propelled myself up, as if being yanked off, flying to the side, and landing hard with a squawk of outrage. Jack's good foot slammed into Fenniger's back as he tried to get up. Pinned again, Fenniger settled for straining to look over his shoulder at me as I pushed to my feet, brushing myself off, cursing and snarling.
Jack's gun pressed into the base of Fenniger's skull. "Eyes forward."
When Fenniger didn't look away fast enough, Jack smacked the barrel against his skull, knocking his face into the dirt.
"Bastard," I said to Jack.
"Just how you like it. Now go park yourself around front and watch for trouble." As I turned to go, he lowered his voice. "I'll make it up to you later."
"Think so?"
A growl of a chuckle as he slapped my ass. "Know so. Now get going."
I headed the way I'd come, behind Fenniger. Jack watched over his shoulder and gestured for me to stand near the corner, where I could watch the proceedings and still see anyone drive into the lot.
When I motioned that I'd broken Fenniger's arm, and mouthed an apology, Jack only nodded, unconcerned.
"What a piece of work," Fenniger muttered when he figured I was gone.
"Watch your mouth," Jack said.
"Hey, no disrespect. I bet she's worth it." A dirty old man chuckle. "She sure looks like she is. Hot little bitch with a temper to – "
"Watch. Your. Mouth."
Fenniger fell silent, struggling to find his footing now, thrown off balance by the edge in Jack's voice. After all, this was the good cop, the one who'd understand him, who'd rescued him from the bad cop. Had Fenniger realized how quickly – eagerly even – he'd fallen for the hackneyed routine, he'd have been horrified. But no matter how many times they see it in cop shows, perps still snap it up. It's the survival instinct. When faced with danger, we run for shelter, whether it's a solid building during a storm or a sympathetic face during an interrogation.
For a minute, Jack let Fenniger dangle in fear that he'd misread the signs, that Jack was not the reasonable colleague he'd believed. Then he said, "My partner takes issue with your new line of work."
In the silence that followed, I could have laughed, imagining Fenniger struggling as hard to interpret the meaning of Jack's full sentences as I did with his three-word ones.
Jack let him flounder in uncertainty some more, then said, "She doesn't like you killing teen moms."
"Oh, right. I-I can see that, her being a woman – "
"I don't much like it, either."
I swore I heard Fenniger suck in the rest of his words. I grinned as I flexed my hands, trying to still the giddy bubbles in my stomach. It was all but over. Now I could just sit back and watch Jack work.
After another thirty seconds of uncomfortable silence, Jack said, "But business is business. I suppose it'd be a lucrative way to make some fast money."
"It is," Fenniger said, words tumbling out. "If you want, I could cut you – "
"Not interested."
Reel him in. Let him drop. Keep him off balance, searching for equilibrium.
"Can I at least ask who I'm dealing with?" Fenniger said.
"No."
An audible sigh of relief. If Jack gave his name, even his street name, that would mean Fenniger would never get the chance to use it against him. By withholding it, calling me "girl," and getting pissy when Fenniger looked my way, Jack was suggesting that while he might intend to kill Fenniger, the matter was still open to negotiation. That was essential – a man who's about to be executed has no reason to talk.
"I suppose it'd be a decent gig, though," Jack said. "If you could stomach it. I can't blame a guy for that. I've done stuff…"
I'm sure Fenniger was barely breathing, eyes screwed shut as if he could mentally swing the pendulum his way. Thoughts of escape wouldn't enter his head. Jack was a pro, at least as good as he was, plus armed, physically bigger, and with a psychotic partner. Fenniger's only escape would come through cooperation. There was no cowardice in that, no loss of face… or so he'd keep telling himself.
"Shit like this?" Jack continued. "Not my style. But business is business, and you take what you can get. If you don't take the job, someone else will."
Ah, hitman justification at its finest. I'd used that one a few times myself.
"The sick fucks are the ones who put out the contracts," Jack said.
Fenniger's nods punctuated every word, though he probably didn't even realize he was doing it.
"Something like this?" Jack said. "Who dreams this shit up?"
My fingers stopped drumming against my thigh and I squinted into the darkness, as if I could see Jack's expression, though he had his back to me. What was he doing? We'd discussed what we needed from Fenniger. First, confirmation of the hit. Second, the name and location of the people who'd bought Destiny. I had no idea what I'd do with the latter – probably nothing – but if I didn't ask for it, I'd be waking up at 2 a.m., certain Destiny had been sold to a Satanic cult or something.
Parents… buyers… That's where he was heading – giving Fenniger an "out" by blaming them. The muscles between my shoulders tightened. Letting this bastard lay the responsibility on people whose only crime was desperation? But Jack was right. It provided Fenniger with an excuse for giving them up.
"That's who I'm interested in," Jack said. "You? You're just a means to an end."
"Okay," Fenniger said, head still bobbing. "So you want to know who hired me?"
"Yeah, that's what I want to know."
Silence.
Damn it, Jack. He's not that bright. Prod him. Dangle the buyer as his scapegoat and he'll -
"They made contact through the broker. A guy named Honcho."
"I've heard of him. Headhunter, right?"