So as I watched the twins Harry had hired, I gleaned a lot about them, but it didn’t offer me any more insight into their future actions than the color of their eyes, their height, or their muscle mass.

  All of that aside, a little voice in my head told me these two were bad news, and worth keeping an eye on.

  My first hint was their utter lack of interest in anything other than their computer screens and each other. It was behavior that teens could get away with, but these guys were in their thirties. They pretty much ignored me, except when they were snickering. They ignored Rosalina, even when she made attempts to play. They sat so close together, their legs were touching, even though the Crimebago had ample room to stretch out. And when they laughed, it wasn’t nice laughter. It was the secret, cruel laugh of bullies and assholes.

  Their appearance was also unusual. Long hair, greasy and knotted. But their sideburns were razor straight, meaning recent shaves. Shirts looked like they came from a thrift shop, with stains and holes, but their loafers were Ferragamo, at least five hundred bucks a pair. They had body odor, strong enough for me to consider saying something about it, but they also had recent manicures.

  Spoiled rich kids trying to portray a hipster image? But who were they dressing up for? Themselves? Each other?

  Something was wrong with these guys.

  “Do you have a lot of video experience?” I asked.

  They looked at one another again and laughed their mean boy laugh.

  “Heckle and I worked on a lot of docs,” Jeckle said. “Some underground horror grinds. Some adult stuff.”

  “Anything I can look up on IMDb?”

  Another shared glance, another chuckle. “IMDb is wackypacks,” said Jeckle.

  Heckle nodded. “Total lamestream.”

  “Got a YouTube channel?” I asked.

  “Most of our work is password protected, if you catch our wave.”

  “I don’t catch your wave.”

  Jeckle grinned in a way I didn’t like. His teeth were white and perfect, but there was something black stuck in his gums. “You know crush? Soft crush? Hard crush?”

  “Never heard of it.”

  They traded another telepathic look, and then Heckle turned his laptop screen toward me.

  There was a movie playing. A woman’s legs, from the knee down, wearing stockings and a pair of strappy heels, walking across a carpeted floor. It had that cheap look of digital video, rather than the grittiness of film.

  I waited for something to happen, to see where the actor was heading, but when she reached the end of the room she simply turned around and walked back. After returning to her starting spot, she sat down, took off a shoe, and rubbed her foot.

  Then she put her shoe back on and walked the same route.

  We never saw her face, or anything above her hips.

  There didn’t seem to be any plot at all.

  I was about to ask what the point was, and then I realized what I was seeing.

  It was one of those fetish videos. For people who were turned on by feet and shoes. There was no plot because walking around was the plot.

  I didn’t judge. Whatever got people off, as long as there was legal consent. But the name was odd. Crush? Why did they call this—

  Then the woman walked over to a kitten, sleeping on the carpet.

  I glanced up at Heckle and Jeckle, who were eyeing me like scientists studying a particularly fascinating petri dish.

  I turned back to the screen.

  As I’d feared, the woman had her heel poised over the kitten, ready to stomp on it.

  “Squeamish, Lieutenant?” said Jeckle.

  “You’ve seen a lot worse than this,” said Heckle.

  For the moment, I ignored the fact that they knew who I was. Instead I concentrated on not showing any emotion at all.

  I watched.

  I didn’t wince.

  They were right. I’d seen a lot worse.

  But the terrible things I’d seen didn’t make watching some faceless woman stomp a kitty to death any more pleasant.

  Rather than react, I tried to glean what I could from the production. The mewing sounds. The squirting blood. The quick cuts.

  Hmm. Quick cuts.

  “Is this real?” I asked.

  They exchanged a glance, then Heckle reached into his pocket and took out something small and white and furry and wiggling.

  A mouse.

  A moment later, he had the mouse next to his mouth.

  Heckle smiled big—

  —and bit it in half.

  I stared as blood pumped out of the mouse’s lower half, arterial sprays that almost reached the roof of the Crimebago Deux.

  I gave them blasé. “So this is your thing? Pretending to kill little furry animals?”

  “Pretending?” said Jeckle.

  I waited.

  They waited.

  The blood continued to pump, staining Harry’s rug.

  I sighed. “The blood tube is up your sleeve, running to your other pocket. What’s in there? A squeeze bulb?”

  “A syringe,” said Heckle, taking it out and showing me. If I’d spoiled his trick, he didn’t seem

  upset about it. “How did you know?”

  “That’s about fifty times more blood than a mouse has in its body. Its little heart couldn’t spray it that far. And when an artery is severed, it jets out in spurts, not a steady stream. Plus, you bit off the top half. The part with the heart in it. The bottom half wouldn’t be squirting anything.”

  “How about the movie?” asked Jeckle.

  “The effect was good. But there were edits. Why have edits? If the actor is stepping on a cat, why not show it all in one take? Prove it’s the real thing? There were different takes, and you substituted a real cat for a fake one.”

  “Did it look realistic?” asked Heckle.

  I had zero inclination to praise their weird kink. “People actually buy this stuff?”

  They didn’t answer.

  “What’s the difference between soft crush and hard crush?” I asked.

  “Soft crush is invertebrates,” said Heckle. “Worms, spiders, roaches. Hard crush is animals with bones.”

  “Bones make noise,” said Jeckle.

  “And there’s an actual market for that?”

  Heckle answered, “You should know the depths of human depravity better than we do, Lieutenant. You tell us.”

  I did know something about depravity. I also knew I was supposed to be anonymous on this little expedition.

  “Did Harry tell you who I was?”

  They shook their heads.

  “Serial killers are our hobby,” said Jeckle.

  “Serial killers, and those who hunt them,” said Heckle.

  “Serial killers, and those who hunt them,” repeated Jeckle.

  They leaned forward, in unison.

  “We know all about you, Lieutenant Jacqueline Daniels,” said Heckle.

  Again, I kept my face neutral. But inside I was cursing McGlade for bringing these idiots along and blowing my incognito, and cursing Phin for being right about me inviting trouble back into my life.

  “What is it you know?” I asked, keeping it light. Conversation, not interrogation.

  “We read all the books,” said Jeckle.

  “The Korks,” said Heckle. “Brother and sister, both psychopathic serial killers. They worked separately, and as a duo. How often does that happen? Crazy scary.”

  “Scary crazy. We dig this stuff. That’s how we got this gig,” said Jeckle. “Private Dick McDude did a Craigslist, and we knew him because he was married to one of them.”

  “Crazy scary,” said Heckle.

  “Scary crazy,” said Jeckle.

  “We’re also fans of the other killers you chased,” said Heckle. “Fuller. Mr. K. Donaldson. Kite. Schimmel.”

  “Though, technically, Schimmel was more of a mass murderer,” said Jeckle. “Wouldn’t you say?”

  “I’d say,” said Heckle. “But our personal favorite is the Gingerbread Man.”

  “Whatever happened to those viddies he sent you?” said Jeckle.

  They were going back and forth so quickly it was like watching a tennis match on a very small court.

  “They were destroyed,” I lied.

  “We’d really like to viddywell those viddies,” said Heckle.

  “Did you make any personal copies?” said Jeckle.

  “We’d be very interested in seeing them,” said Heckle.

  My creep radar was beeping, and I chose to deescalate.

  “Let’s set a few ground rules,” I told them. “I’m just here to help some friends. I don’t want to discuss my old job. In fact, I don’t want to be a part of this movie at all.”

  “It’s a live webstream.”

  “Whatever it is. I’d appreciate it if you don’t point the camera at me.”

  “Private Dick McDude said we can pixilate your face and alter your voice.”

  I almost said, Private Dick McDude won’t break your camera over your head and make you eat the pieces. But if you want to make nice with a stray dog, you talk soothing and offer it a bone. You don’t scream at it and throw rocks.

  “I may know someone who has a copy of those Kork VHS tapes,” I said. “If you guys keep my identity secret, I may be able to get you a screening.”

  They looked at each other.

  “Deal,” they said at the same time, both of them offering their hands.

  Jeckle’s hand was like grabbing a cold, dead fish. Heckle’s was warm, moist, and wiggly, reminding me of the kitten in their crush video.

  Ugh.

  I considered my first impression, and how I’d gotten a bad vibe from the duo.

  The vibe I currently had was a whole lot worse.

  DAYS AGO

  HERB

  We’re slowing down.”

  It was Herb talking. Tequila hadn’t said more than a few words since they’d been thrown into the van. He’d always been a man of few words, but he’d been especially quiet for the hours (days?) they’d been in transit.

  In the darkness, drifting in and out of sleep, Herb had been in a kind of twilight consciousness, sometimes dreaming, sometimes hallucinating. The heat added to the disorientation. So did the thirst.

  Tequila tapped Herb’s leg, acknowledging he’d heard him speak, and confirming he was still alive. Smart to stay silent. Herb’s throat was as raw and dry as a dead armadillo baking on Arizona asphalt, and talking felt like swallowing hot coals.

  He was pretty sure they’d stopped at least twice. For gas, he guessed. But no one had opened the door, regardless of their banging on the side panels. They’d long ago finished their plastic jug of water, and the toilet bucket was nearly full.

  The van stopping gave Herb a smidge of hope that the rear doors would open. But it was a false hope, like a dog watching his abusive owner eat pizza, knowing there wouldn’t be any for him.

  Hope was a terrible thing. It didn’t keep you going, like you’d guess. In fact, it did the opposite.

  Each poisoned hope made the concept of death a little bit sweeter.

  Herb thought about prison. He’d been thinking about it a lot lately. Confinement changed a person. And not for the better. The hustle and bustle of a busy work week—the job and bills and trying to keep a marriage going while dealing with the worst of society—had taken its toll on Herb’s mind and body. Overeating, high blood pressure, heart disease, ulcers, pre-diabetes; stress had been killing him. Herb’s favorite part of the day had been his morning toilet ritual. For five minutes, he was all alone, and all the stress was gone.

  Herb used to envy the many criminals he’d put away. Three square meals a day, no work, no responsibility. Even solitary confinement didn’t seem like real punishment. Herb would have paid good money to be thrown in a dark cell without any contact with the outside world.

  Well… like most fantasies, the reality was different. Since his imprisonment, all of Herb’s physical ailments had reversed. No more angina or heartburn. No more stomach pains. Skin hung on him where fat used to be. Herb would bet his cholesterol had never been better.

  But being locked up was far more brutal than the stress of everyday life. The loneliness. The hopelessness. The boredom. The longing. It was turning his brain to mush, and scrambling his emotions to near-insanity. Herb would laugh for no reason. He’d cry so hard he had to bite his fist to stop. Months ago, he’d plucked out every hair on his chest, making some kind of crazy game out of it.

  But these last few dozen hours, locked in a hundred-plus-degree van in complete darkness, was a type of torture worse than the times Herb had actually been tortured.

  He’d had a few fleeting suicidal thoughts during his captivity. But being in the van made him long for death. It was a never-ending, hellacious fever-dream of heat and dehydration and crazy ideas.

  At one point, Herb thought he heard his mother. She’d died decades before, but had returned as a disembodied voice to tell him to wear his mittens.

  Another time, he swore he saw his friend, Jack Daniels, glowing pale green and hovering above him, staring. The image was so real Herb slapped himself—a useless movie trope that turned out to be ineffective at separating fantasy from reality.

  Herb held out hope that Jack, and the others, had escaped. But the hope had dimmed as the months passed. If Jack had survived, she would have come for him by now. No other possibility could exist.

  Jack. Indestructible, formidable, unstoppable Jack… was dead. And the world was darker for it.

  Yet, somehow, Jack floated a few feet above him, almost close enough to touch. She didn’t say anything. Just stared at him, a sad expression on her face. Something like pity. Or disappointment.

  Herb and Jack’s relationship was hard to explain to anyone. Bernice, Herb’s wife, had some jealousy issues when Jack had first been assigned as Herb’s junior partner. But there hadn’t ever been anything sexual between Jack and Herb. They didn’t have that kind of chemistry. It was more like some combination of brother and sister, work friends, and soldiers in the same platoon. They liked each other, tolerated each other, forgave each other, and counted on each other when the heavy shit went down.

  Herb had never seen Jack naked. Never even thought about it. But she knew things about him that Bernice didn’t even know. They’d saved each other’s lives. Risked their lives for each other. And had developed a trust that was somewhere beyond work or friendship or intimacy or even love.

  Herb felt the same way, maybe even more so, about Tequila. Something about fighting in the foxhole together took human relationships to a whole new level.

  Was the bond Herb had with Jack the reason she was floating above him?

  Was the afterlife real, and Jack’s ghost had come to escort him away?

  “I’m ready,” he rasped at the apparition.

  But then Jack was gone. And she didn’t bring him along.

  The van came to a halt. Another gas stop? Previously, they’d pounded on the walls and yelled for help, but none came, and the drivers seemed unconcerned. Either the van was soundproof, or they were nowhere near civilization.

  Maybe they were being driven to the moon. Or Mars.

  Mars wouldn’t be a bad place to die.

  The rear doors abruptly opened, and the outside spilled in with cool air and shocking silence and a clear, sunny sky that was so bright it stabbed Herb’s brain through his pupils.

  Tequila launched himself at the merc standing there, and was met with a blow to the side of the head. He fell to the ground on all fours, and the man raised his club again.

  “Enough,” said a voice. A low, soft voice, and Herb couldn’t distinguish if it came from a man or a woman. As Herb squinted in the blinding sun, a figure seemed to materialize out of the glare, and he saw…

  A cowboy. All in black. Black hat. Black boots. Black duster jacket. With a scarf covering the nose and mouth, in a pattern that looked like a skull.

  Behind the figure, stretched out immobile against the infinite grassy plains, was—

  A truck?

  No, it’s far too big. And at least two hundred meters long.

  A train of some sort?

  What kind of train has giant wheels?

  The wheels are twice as tall as me…

  Herb was mesmerized by the vehicle, which was painted brown like the plains around them, and consisted of thirteen, no, fourteen enormous, linked cars.

  Then he heard a musical jangle.

  Spurs. The silver spurs on the cowboy’s black boots.

  “We won’t pay for damaged goods,” the cowboy said to the merc, in an emotionless, sexless monotone.

  The merc lowered the club. Tequila lashed out a hand at the man’s ankle, quick as a rattlesnake strike, and then the world exploded.

  Herb recoiled from the gunfire, from the searing muzzle flashes and thunderous cracks of the shots, the ground in front of Tequila coughing up dirt as the bullets struck.

  The cowboy had drawn and fired so fast, Herb hadn’t even seen it. As Herb’s eyes adjusted to the gun currently pointed at Tequila, he noted it was a single action revolver.

  Single action meant the hammer had to be cocked after every shot.

  So the cowboy had not only fired fast as a machinegun, but had done it manually.

  The merc backed away. Tequila raised his hands over his head.

  The gun zeroed in on Herb.

  “You. Out of the van.”

  Herb had no idea if science could calculate the speed of thought, but in just the briefest of moments, a whole fantasy played out in his mind.

  I can lunge, reach for the cowboy’s gun.

  The cowboy, acting on instinct, will shoot.

  Chances are good I’ll be killed.

  No more hope.

  No more pain.

  Just nothingness.

  Beautiful, blessed nothingness.

  It sounds so lovely.

  Being shot was horrible, Herb knew from experience. But whatever was happening now was probably worse.