Sawbones

Chapter 18

We’re already halfway across Illinois when the news comes on the radio — ‘Following an anonymous tip-off, police raided a farm on the outskirts of Polk County, Iowa this afternoon and discovered what’s being described as something out of a horror film. Sheriff Oswald and his team found the bodies of five dead women chained inside abandoned automobiles on the farm of plumber Frank Williams.’

I turn the volume down a bit, because Laura’s finally fallen asleep and I don’t want to wake her. She’s got a cardboard box in her lap, and every now and then I can hear that kitten shifting about in there, mewing.

‘Williams — a chaplain in the National Guard,’ says the news reader, ‘is missing, but police now believe him to be the serial killer “Sawbones”. A nation-wide manhunt is now underway.’

Not that they’re ever going to find him. By the time Mr Jones has finished with the son-of-a-bitch there won’t be enough left to fill a lunchbox.

‘Three young women, abducted earlier in the week, were discovered in Williams’ home, suffering from trauma and shock.’

Which only leaves. . ‘A fourth woman was dropped outside Mercy Medical Centre in Des Moines. Hospital sources say surgeons are battling to re-attach her arms and legs, but the outlook is bleak. .’

I listen for a bit longer, making sure they don’t say anything about Jack and Henry — then I switch over to something a bit more cheerful. I’m going to miss Henry, but it’s nice not to have to put up with his shitty taste in music.

As I flick through the stations I hope that Mr Luciano’s men got Henry to a doctor in time. He was bleeding pretty badly when Laura and I left. The guy in the Hawkeyes jacket said, ‘Anything you need, you give me a call.’ So I asked for a good doctor who don’t ask too many questions, like, ‘Who the fuck shot you in the back?’ If the old bastard doesn’t die on the operating table he’s going to be fucking pissed when he gets out.

And I hope they buried Jack somewhere nice, not just fed him to the pigs. Yeah, he was an asshole, but. . well, you know. You look after your own.

Two hundred miles later I’m humming along to some old Elvis Presley number, sticking to the speed limit, when I see the red, white and blue flashing lights in my rear-view mirror.

Fuck.

Laura yawns and sits up in the passenger seat, her face a confusion of fuzzy sleep and not knowing where the hell she is. For a moment it’s like she’s still a sixteen-year-old girl, a nice kid who loves her parents and respects her elders. Then she remembers what’s she’s been through since she was snatched from that alleyway in New Jersey and her face goes hard. Like it was when she took that guy’s leg off.

She reaches into the box with the kitten in it and comes out with Jack’s Glock nine mm.

And that’s when I know we’re fucked. .