sporting a fresh dent, pink blood leaking from his nose, red blood streaming from his mouth, a carving knife lying beneath his twitching right hand.
Patrick Kenzie brandished a baseball bat. He raised his eyebrows up and down and twirled it. “Signed by Shea Hillenbrand.”
“I don’t even know who that is.”
“Right,” Patrick said. “Dodgers fan.”
Bosch went to work on the bungee cords and Patrick joinedhim and they pulled back the tarp and there she was, Chiffon Henderson. She was curled fetal in the crate because there was no room to stretch into any other position. Patrick struggled with the door until Bosch just took the roof off the crate.
Chiffon Henderson had electrical tape wrapped around her mouth, wrists, and ankles. They could tell it hurt her to stretch her limbs, but Bosch took that as a good sign—Paisley had kept her caged but possibly unmolested. Bosch guessed that was supposed to commence today, an appetizer to the murder.
They bickered as they removed the tape from her mouth, Bosch telling Patrick to be careful of her hair, Patrick telling him to watch he didn’t tear at her lips.
When the tape came free and they went to work on her wrists, Bosch asked, “What’s your name?”
“Chiffon Henderson. Who’re you?”
“I’m Patrick Kenzie. And this other guy? He was never here, okay, Chiffon?”
Bosch cocked his head.
Patrick said, “You’re a cop. From out of town. I can barely get away with this shit, but you? They’ll take your badge, man. Unless you got a no-knock warrant in your pocket I can’t see.”
Bosch worked through it in his head.
“He touch you, Chiffon?”
She was weeping, shaking, and she gave that a half nod, half head shake. “A little, but not, you know. He said that was coming. He told me all sorts of things were coming.”
Patrick looked at Paisley huffing into the cement, eyes rolled back into his head, blood beginning to pool.
“Only thing coming for this shithead is the strokes that follow the coma.”
When her hands were free, Patrick knelt to get at the tape onher ankles and Bosch was surprised when the girl hugged him tight, her tears finding his shirt. He surprised himself when he kissed the top of her head.
“No more monster,” he said. “Not tonight.”
Patrick finished with the tape. He tossed the wad of it behind him and produced his cell. “I gotta call this in. I’d rather be bullshitting my way free of an attempted murder charge than an actual homicide rap, if you know what I mean, and he’s turning a funny shade.”
Bosch looked at the man lying at his feet. Looked like an aging nerd. Kinda guy did your taxes out of a strip mall storefront. Another little man with soiled desires and furious nightmares. Funny how the monsters always turned out to be little more than men. But Patrick was right—he’d die soon without attention.
Patrick dialed 911 but didn’t hit SEND . Instead he held out his hand to Bosch. “If I’m ever in LA.”
Bosch shook his hand. “Funny. I can’t picture you in LA.”
Patrick said, “And I can’t picture you out of it, even though you’re standing right here. Take care, Harry.”
“You, too. And thanks”—Bosch looked down at Paisley, on his way to critical care, minimum—“for, um, that.”
“Pleasure.”
Bosch headed toward the door, a door only accessible from the front of the cellar, not the back. Beat the hell out of the way he’d entered the room. He was reaching for the doorknob when he turned back.
“One last thing.”
Patrick had the phone to his ear and his free arm wrapped tight around Chiffon’s shoulders. “What’s that?”
“Is there a way to get back to the airport without going through that tunnel?”
IAN RANKIN
VS. PETER JAMES
C ombing characters from different fictional universes into the same story is something writers often contemplate, usually after one drink too many late in the evening at a conference or convention. The technical difficulties of
Patrick Kenzie brandished a baseball bat. He raised his eyebrows up and down and twirled it. “Signed by Shea Hillenbrand.”
“I don’t even know who that is.”
“Right,” Patrick said. “Dodgers fan.”
Bosch went to work on the bungee cords and Patrick joinedhim and they pulled back the tarp and there she was, Chiffon Henderson. She was curled fetal in the crate because there was no room to stretch into any other position. Patrick struggled with the door until Bosch just took the roof off the crate.
Chiffon Henderson had electrical tape wrapped around her mouth, wrists, and ankles. They could tell it hurt her to stretch her limbs, but Bosch took that as a good sign—Paisley had kept her caged but possibly unmolested. Bosch guessed that was supposed to commence today, an appetizer to the murder.
They bickered as they removed the tape from her mouth, Bosch telling Patrick to be careful of her hair, Patrick telling him to watch he didn’t tear at her lips.
When the tape came free and they went to work on her wrists, Bosch asked, “What’s your name?”
“Chiffon Henderson. Who’re you?”
“I’m Patrick Kenzie. And this other guy? He was never here, okay, Chiffon?”
Bosch cocked his head.
Patrick said, “You’re a cop. From out of town. I can barely get away with this shit, but you? They’ll take your badge, man. Unless you got a no-knock warrant in your pocket I can’t see.”
Bosch worked through it in his head.
“He touch you, Chiffon?”
She was weeping, shaking, and she gave that a half nod, half head shake. “A little, but not, you know. He said that was coming. He told me all sorts of things were coming.”
Patrick looked at Paisley huffing into the cement, eyes rolled back into his head, blood beginning to pool.
“Only thing coming for this shithead is the strokes that follow the coma.”
When her hands were free, Patrick knelt to get at the tape onher ankles and Bosch was surprised when the girl hugged him tight, her tears finding his shirt. He surprised himself when he kissed the top of her head.
“No more monster,” he said. “Not tonight.”
Patrick finished with the tape. He tossed the wad of it behind him and produced his cell. “I gotta call this in. I’d rather be bullshitting my way free of an attempted murder charge than an actual homicide rap, if you know what I mean, and he’s turning a funny shade.”
Bosch looked at the man lying at his feet. Looked like an aging nerd. Kinda guy did your taxes out of a strip mall storefront. Another little man with soiled desires and furious nightmares. Funny how the monsters always turned out to be little more than men. But Patrick was right—he’d die soon without attention.
Patrick dialed 911 but didn’t hit SEND . Instead he held out his hand to Bosch. “If I’m ever in LA.”
Bosch shook his hand. “Funny. I can’t picture you in LA.”
Patrick said, “And I can’t picture you out of it, even though you’re standing right here. Take care, Harry.”
“You, too. And thanks”—Bosch looked down at Paisley, on his way to critical care, minimum—“for, um, that.”
“Pleasure.”
Bosch headed toward the door, a door only accessible from the front of the cellar, not the back. Beat the hell out of the way he’d entered the room. He was reaching for the doorknob when he turned back.
“One last thing.”
Patrick had the phone to his ear and his free arm wrapped tight around Chiffon’s shoulders. “What’s that?”
“Is there a way to get back to the airport without going through that tunnel?”
IAN RANKIN
VS. PETER JAMES
C ombing characters from different fictional universes into the same story is something writers often contemplate, usually after one drink too many late in the evening at a conference or convention. The technical difficulties of
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