“Yeah, about a hundred different people. Barnett wasn’t exactly Mr. Popularity. One theory is he tried to rape the wrong girl. But more likely, Hammerhead itself did the hit. Barnett’s last trip to Monroe caused them a lot of headaches. Good chance they decided they didn’t want any more of his bullshit.”
Suzanne laughed. “Always good when the garbage takes out the garbage.”
There was a generalized murmur of assent to that. Then Donna said, “There’s a third possibility, and it’s one we need to be aware of. Another gang might have been behind this. If so, there are apt to be reprisals. So work your CIs. If there’s going to be trouble, we want to spot it in advance. Speaking of which, Barnett was a Texas native, but G thinks Hammerhead is going to bury him locally, at Crown Hill. If so, all of Hammerhead’s going to be there. Now, the G guys will be all over the periphery—high profile, as a deterrent in case Deuce 8 or the East Union Street Hustlers or whoever decides to show up looking for trouble. But we’ll want to look sharp, too. A Hammerhead white power funeral is like a full moon on a hot, humid night. It just gets people riled.”
Livia raised her hand. “If there’s going to be a funeral, Lieu, I wouldn’t mind swinging by. Check out a Gossamer, get a little intel about who’s who. We know Barnett didn’t always rape by himself, and most of his vics were afraid to come forward once they learned they were dealing with a gang. I want to know who he was close to. With Barnett dead, if there’s another Hammerhead rape, chances are it’ll be one of his good buddies.”
The Gossamer was a handheld cell phone tracker that could place a mobile phone to within less than a yard of its actual location. SPD had a half dozen of them, all purchased with a grant from the Department of Homeland Security. The public knew about the location-tracking function, of course, but what wasn’t as widely understood was the technology’s versatility. The devices could track dozens of phones simultaneously, and could be programmed to key on the proximity of any two cell phones, or five, or ten. The G-unit used them to head off gang battles, setting their Gossamers to sound an alert if phones known to be carried by members of rival gangs were converging in a way that suggested a street fight was imminent. Narcotics used them to map the movements and associations of known traffickers, and to eavesdrop on their conversations. And High Risk Victims used them to uncover networks of pimps, their suppliers, and their customers.
Because of the DHS grant, inventory was monitored closely. But Livia had thought of a way around that. She’d only been waiting for the right moment to act, and if Barnett’s funeral was going down in a day or two, the moment was now.
Donna nodded. “Makes sense. I’ll send the paperwork to the Tool Shed.” She took a moment to look around at the assembled detectives, then said, “All right, everyone. Let’s go get ’em.”
Livia’s expression remained perfectly neutral—a routine request, a routine permission granted. But inside, she felt the familiar stirring. The heat. The power. The dragon.
Go get ’em, she thought. Oh yes, I will.
8—THEN
Every night after, it was the same. The second time was nearly as bad as the first. But by the third time, Livia at least knew what to expect—what the men wanted, and more or less when and how it would be over. The men must have loved curry, because they always stank from it. And when they smelled like alcohol, too, they were rougher with her, like they were trying to hurt her, and they laughed when she gagged or threw up. But she was able to endure it because she knew doing so was protecting Nason.
After that, time didn’t pass so much as it blurred. She sat in the box with the other children, and knew it was day from the light coming through the airholes, and knew it was night when the light faded and they needed the blankets to stay warm. The only breaks in the monotony happened each morning and evening, when the men brought food and water and changed the buckets. After each evening feeding, Livia would go outside the box with the men and numbly do the disgusting thing, then come back and hold Nason, allowing herself to cry noiselessly only after Nason had fallen asleep.
By now, she knew there were no “jobs.” As hard as she searched for a way to explain it away or alter it, she couldn’t deny the essential truth. She and Nason . . . their parents had simply sold them, the way they would sell a chicken or pig.
One night, the alcohol smell was especially strong. Livia’s stomach sank at the realization that outside the box it was going to be even worse than usual. But there was nothing she could do. She would have to endure it for Nason.
When she had finished her food, she stepped toward the door to go out with the men. But Skull Face smiled and said, “No. You stay.”
Livia watched him, uneasy. It would be a relief to not have to do the disgusting thing. But she sensed something dangerous in Skull Face’s smile, some trick.
“Why?” she said, hating that she had to ask, but needing to know.
“You no fun anymore. We want new fun.”