True Detectives

CHAPTER 44

Three firecracker snaps. Seconds of dead air.

Three more shots.

By the time Juan Silva, the three Homicide D's, and four other fugitive cops assumed new positions closer to the cabins, lights had gone on in two front windows of the centermost outbuilding.

Everyone thinking the same thing: Weird. Why advertise?

Nothing but yellow light could be seen behind lace curtains.

Snick snick snick, as pistols and rifles put the windows in their sights.

Aaron Fox hung back a few feet. Close enough to see and hear, but well away from anyone's nervous trigger finger.

The target was slope-roofed and log-sided, with a full-length covered porch. Mini-me of the main house.

Silva handed his rifle to one of his squad members, cupped his hands. “Police, come out now! Walk backward with your hands on your head now! You are surrounded now! Come out now!”

Nothing.

Silva repeated the warning, motioned two of his men to circle to the back of the cabin.

Before they got going, a woman's voice said, “I'm safe… thank you. Come in. Please.”

“You come out, ma'am.”

“I… can't move… too scared. Please.”

Juan Silva re-conferred with his men. “Go back there and see if you can breach safely. If it's righteous, exit out the front.”

Gemma Dement sat on a peach-colored rocking chair next to a molded plastic bed shaped like a race car. She wore a heavy, oversized plaid shirt and pink sweatpants. The bed sported realistic-looking plastic tires, headlights, bumpers. The automotive theme extended to a thick wildly colored comforter printed with Ferraris and Lamborghinis and other shovel-nosed monsters. Matching throw pillows, lots of them. From the height and bulk of the comforter, additional bedding below.

Lots of cold nights in the Malibu hills; no sign of heating in the cabin.

Gemma's pale hair was loose, frizzed by the distant ocean. The peach of the chair was good for her complexion. She'd pleaded with Silva, then used smiles and eye-flutters, claiming she'd wet herself, was still too scared to move. No obvious sign of bladder problems on her sweatpants but no one was asking her to budge.

Petra said, “Raul, please get a camera.”

Biro left.

Gemma Dement's mouth puckered. “I was so scared,” she recited, woodenly. “He tried to hit me. Again.”

To her right lay a small, square, chrome handgun, its magazine now in the custody of Moses Reed.

To her left was Lem Dement. Flat on his back, one meaty leg bent, the other straight. A monumental hillock of belly aimed at the ceiling. A gelatinous face grizzled with white stubble dipped past the neckline of his T-shirt.

Dement's mouth had flopped open. A dental appliance-a partial upper bridge-dangled from slack lips. His hands were thick, hirsute, outstretched. The left palm was pierced by a ruby-fringed hole.

The shirt was a Saul to Paul souvenir, once white, now pretty much scarlet. The blood deepened in hue when viewed on the absorbent brown velour of Dement's white-piped sweatpants. The director's blue-veined feet remained encased in black suede slippers with little gold wolves on the toes.

Two feet from Dement's head sat a gray hat, grubby, battered, studded with bass lures.

Aaron thought: No water in sight, who's he been trying to kid?

For no particular reason, he began counting bulletholes.

In addition to the defensive wound in Dement's hand, he spotted two in the right upper thigh, two in the torso, one of which looked like a nice clean heart-shot.

Messy one in the groin. All kinds of leakage pooling on the pine-plank floor.

Three shell casings in plain sight, the others had probably rolled under furniture or were embedded in the wall-oh yeah, there was one behind the bed, five feet above the comforter.

Six shots, six hits.

No scorch or powder rings around any of the wounds that Aaron could see, but too much blood to be sure.

Gemma Dement said, “I'm starting to breathe again.” She demonstrated.

A muffled sound came from under the race-car comforter. Movement jostled a Ferrari. Fabric rolled.

Gemma snapped, “Quiet, you!”

Petra and Juan Silva took hold of her arms, stood her up, guided her away from the bed.

Moe Reed lifted the covers. A child-a boy-a toddler-button-nosed, chubby-cheeked, ruddy-bronze with black hair, huddled on a urine-soaked sheet, teeth chattering.

He wore blue p.j.'s with built-in feet. Diapers bulked the rear flap. To Moe's eye, he looked to be two or so.

Gemma Dement's eyes said the child was shit on satin.

Aaron thought: She's been with him longer than his mother ever was and hates him. Feeling his gut tighten, he stepped forward so Gemma could see him.

She mouthed Oh, but didn't utter the word. Softened her features. Mechanically-weirdly-she smiled.

Aaron said, “Guilt and atonement.”

Expecting some sort of explosive reaction.

Gemma Dement winked. Nothing sexual. Sly and all-knowing. Smug.

Enjoying a private joke that Aaron didn't want to understand.

He watched Moe pick up the little boy. The kid clung to Moe like one of those orphaned monkeys at the zoo who'll love anything warm.

His brother looked uncomfortable with the contact and Aaron suppressed a smile. Smiling right now, all this blood and death and misery, would brand him as an asshole.

As if something had passed from the boy's body through Moe's, Moe suddenly cradled the kid tenderly, tousled his hair. “Gabriel?”

Gemma Dement laughed.

Petra said, “Something funny, ma'am?”

“He's not Gab- riel, he's Adra-el.” Another wink-comical and all the creepier for that.

“Adrael who, ma'am?”

“Oh, please,” said Gemma Dement, as if the question was beyond absurd. “Study your scriptures. Study your Jew scriptures because those people know.”

The boy burrowed his face deeper, not minding the roughness of the Kevlar.

He's been with her longer than his mother but he knows…

Gemma Dement's shoulders stiffened as Petra and the fugitive cop tightened their grip.

Moe said, “Mrs. Dement-”

“I've got nothing to worry about. But you do.” Cocking her head at the child. “You're touching him and he's a messenger of trouble.”

The kid couldn't see her, but maybe he'd sensed the contempt; he began to whimper, tiny frame bouncing against Moe's massive chest.

Moe patted his back. “It's okay, little buddy. Get her out of here.”

Petra and the fugitive cop eased Gemma toward the door. Gemma didn't resist, but she strained to keep her eyes fixed on the tiny body.

No interest in the other body. Blood spreading, slowly, steadily. Cops having to shift their position to keep out of the expanding pool.

Aaron thought: Obsessed with the kid. It's all about the kid…

The boy began crying.

“Silence, you!” Sparkling white teeth didn't prettify Gemma Dement's snarl.

Suddenly she fought to break free, was held fast. Spit flew. Some of it landed on the fugitive cop's vest. He remained impassive.

The boy was sobbing, gulping air, and Moe was comforting him.

As Gemma Dement was dragged through the door, she said, “Curse you, Adrael.”

Not screaming. Chanting-incanting. In a flat, detached, crazily rhythmic voice that mocked music.

As metallic as the gun on the floor.

“Curse be you, curse be you, curse be you, Adrael. Blessed damned blessed damned angel of death.”