The Mighty T

By Everett Powers

Reviews:

A man stands on a rooftop and, using a high-powered rifle, guns down nine innocent people. That's how this eco-terror thriller begins, with high intensity action that will keep you on the edge of your reading chair until the last page is turned. Detective Grant Starr catches the case; he and his team desperately chase after the ring leader of a group of eco-terrorist mercenaries, a man named John Lightfoot. Lightfoot, who has adopted a Native American persona, complete with headdress and buckskin pants, is bent on destroying two local dams and returning the land to nature. The writing here is superb, Powers brings the action and he brings it hard. Every page forces you to turn to the next.
The characters in this book are unforgettable and fully engaging, and the writing is clean and crisp. Powers is a writer to watch, you’ll be hearing more of him I have no doubt. If you enjoy thrillers then you should get your copy of The Mighty T. You’ll be glad you spent some time with this extraordinary writer. -- Jay Krow, Author and Blogger

The Mighty T’s main character, Detective Grant Starr, had plans to watch Hall of Fame pitcher Randy Johnson throw lasers. Instead, he catches a multiple homicide case that has him chasing domestic eco-terrorists.

I won’t leave spoilers here, but I will say Grant Starr has the makings of the next great book hero. Everett Powers did a great job penning this story; it’s totally believable. Seemingly out of the blue, a plot so destructive takes shape in a worn-down town in California. Involved in the plot is a crazed serial killer, the likes of which I’ve never seen in books before.

Most importantly, The Might T is a blazingly fast read, and there’s something for everyone between the covers. Explosions and shoot em’ ups? In there. Love interest? In there. Great plot and story pace? Absolutely. And if you’re the type that likes suspense, this book is definitely for you.

I found it difficult to put my e-reader down, which is why I downloaded Kindle for my PC and my Android phone as well. The Mighty T IS THAT GOOD and I believe the writer is just getting started. -- A.T. Russell, Author.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Everett Powers
• Release date: Apr 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452439174

Everett Powers

Everett Powers is the author of THE MIGHTY T, DEATH OF A MATADOR, SUNSET HILL, and THE KING OF ROUND VALLEY, Grant Starr thrillers, and CANALS, a horror novel. He's currently working a new novel set in the future. He lives in Utah with his wife. The kids are close and the mountains are beautiful.

Book preview

Chapter 1

SHE WASN’T DUE for at least twenty minutes, but Danny peeked over the four foot wall anyway. He didn’t see her, so he sat and gazed at the sky, and counted the clouds again: Four, five, six, eight...

You reckon she’ll be early? a voice said.

Danny shook his head and closed his eyes, and said, Not there ... Not there ... Not there...

I think it’s going to rain, a second voice said. Don’t you? We’d better get off the roof. It’s not safe during an electrical storm. Ben Franklin told me that once.

Violently shaking his head from side to side, Danny continued his mantra: "Not there ... Not there ... Not there..."

He knew this would happen, that they would try to screw this up for him, for them all. John wouldn’t be happy. He had to get it done, so he opened the gun case, pulled out a Tac-Op Bravo 51 rifle and fingered the textured fiberglass stock, savoring the feel, removed the suppressor and screwed it onto the twenty-two-inch barrel, took the Leupold 10x scope out, fiddled with the dials, looked at his watch.

Sucked in a breath and held it, peered over the wall, focused the scope on the front door of Anderson, Briggs & Baines, sat back down. The setting wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t need to be: the rifle was deadly to one thousand meters, the target would be less than two hundred.

A third ghost looked like the man on the Quaker Oats box. He appeared four weeks ago and was now making daily appearances, but so far had been mute. He would speak one day — they all eventually talked — and then there would be no shutting him up.

Danny put the scope on the rifle and attached a magazine loaded with ten Federal Gold Medal 175gr. cartridges — John wanted him to have the best. The gear was good to .25 moa under ideal circumstances, which wasn’t what he had, but .75 moa was all he needed, and he had better than that. Shooting her would be easier than shooting cans in the old quarries; a head was bigger than a can.

Four new specters joined the argument about the weather. They’d soon ask Danny to settle the issue for them, to tell them if it was going to rain or not, but no matter what he said they would continue their incessant infernal discussion, and he would be dragged into their madness, forever trying to get them to shut the hell up.

It’s starting to rain! You’d better go inside or your musket will rust.

They’d followed him up the stairs to the roof that morning. At first he saw three, but he could sense the others, and could hear them bickering. How many steps to the top? One hundred. No, two hundred. Will he be firing his musket today? Of course he will. No, he won’t. Will it rain, and will the rain be good for the corn? It looks like rain to me and the cornfields are dry. No, the sky is clear. He tried shushing them in the elevator, but they ignored him as usual. They never shut up. Ever.

Danny shook his head again and splashed water on his face, checked the time, ten minutes, removed the small beanbag from the backpack and took a long hit from his water bottle. Modesto is hot in June; it was 8:50 a.m. and already eighty degrees. The dark army fatigues didn’t help.

John wanted him in sweats or jeans because he thought fatigues would attract unwanted attention. But this was war and fatigues felt right, so Danny had ignored John. It didn’t hurt that the silent Quaker Oats man had nodded slightly when Danny had picked them up at an army surplus store. No one in the hotel had paid him any mind anyway; the roof had been surprisingly easy to access. The DoubleTree Inn apparently wasn’t worried about someone sniping from the top of their twelve-story building.

Still, he would change before returning to the shack; it would piss John off, which would likely lead to violence. And pain. He would change even if Mr. Quaker Oats disapproved.

Checked the time again: 8:55 — showtime, in case she was early.

Diane Everest left her BMW 725i on the street, fed the meter some quarters, grabbed her stuff from the trunk and hit the sidewalk with long strides. She’d left home too late and had to hustle to be on time. Her position as general manager of the San Francisco Public Utilities Commission brought her to Modesto several times a year, mostly to meet with attorneys. She had a 9:00 at Anderson, Briggs & Baines.

She checked her watch: no time for a latte, and ran into someone. Knocked hard, she grabbed a parking meter and prevented a nasty fall, said, I’m sorry, I guess I wasn’t looking—

The wall to her left puffed; shards of brick bit into her arm. Her face exploded.

Danny spotted her on the sidewalk, sited her through the scope, squeezed the trigger the moment someone ran into her: the round missed by inches.

Good God man! You missed! Six or seven ghosts were leaning over the wall, peering down at his target. They held their hats in their hands, as if afraid the wind would blow them away.

Shut up! he shouted at them. You’re gonna fuh ... fuh ... fuh ... screw this up!

He worked the large bolt handle and expelled the shell, was ready to shoot in three seconds. Sited, fired: target down. He pumped his fist and shouted, Guh ... guh ... got her! Guh ... guh ... got the River Bitch!

The apparitions applauded. Danny smiled, wanted so badly to turn and take in their approving looks, soak up their adoration, but he had a job to do — John would be upset if he didn’t get it done.

Still smiling, he worked the handle again, picked another target — the man who bumped into the River Bitch — squeezed: another hit to the head. Seven rounds to go, just for fun John said, just to confuse the cops. Between the suppressor and the distance, no one would think to look up until he had emptied the magazine. By then he’d be gone, rolling out of town.

He pivoted the rifle barrel and sited up a man on a bicycle, and the man went down. John said it was okay to kill these people because they were responsible; they had done nothing to stop the slaughter of twenty million salmon. He cited a woman in the plaza.

Six-for-seven, the one miss the bumped target. Danny fired the last three rounds, choosing his victims at random, killing whomever was unfortunate enough to be on the north end of Tenth Street Plaza in downtown Modesto, at a little after 9:00 in the morning.

Not all were head shots, but all were kills: nine dead. The crowd of ghosts had applauded each one.

Danny was thrilled knowing John would be happy.

The ghosts lost interest when he stopped firing. Now some danced — or frolicked, he thought they would say — while others huddled in small groups, debating some idiotic matter they would never resolve. A couple boxed, their fists passing through each other. One stood on the wall weeping, as if contemplating a suicidal leap.

Danny set the rifle down and heard footsteps crunching on the gravel rooftop. The apparitions made no noise when they walked so he looked to see who was coming, saw who it was and said, smiling, Guh ... guh ... got the River Bitch, and eight others. The man shoved a handgun into Danny’s mouth and blew out the back of his head.

Just puttin’ you outta your misery, you crazy sonofabitch.

In baggy shorts and a Save the Whales T-shirt, the man wiped his prints off the gun with a handkerchief and placed it in Danny’s hand, quickly searched Danny and his gear, careful not to touch anything that would leave a print. Finding nothing, he walked to the door while dialing a number on his cell phone. Someone clicked on and he said, The River Bitch is dead. Danny, too.

He entered the staircase, wiped down the door and descended twelve flights, softly whistling. Exiting the hotel, he walked three blocks to an old Volkswagen van, the original yellow paint faded and rusted through in places, and drove away.

Detective Grant Starr had his six-six frame folded into a booth, reading the sports page and occasionally picking at his breakfast. Sitting across from him, Detective Ralph Bensen stirred cream into oatmeal. The diner was new but built to look like the 50s: a horseshoe-shaped counter with backless stools bolted to the floor, high-backed booths, bright vinyl, lots of shiny chrome, signs written in swoopy retro fonts, and waitresses in hoop skirts.

The Giants are off to a good start, Grant said to Bensen.

Bensen gave his oatmeal another shot of cream. So what? The Dodgers will still kick their ass, I’m sorry to say. He looked at Grant’s plate. That stuff’ll kill you, you know. Ever heard of cholesterol?

Never been above one-eighty-five, and isn’t that cream you’re dumping in your oatmeal? Grant flipped the page. You do know where butter comes from, don’t you?

Yeah, yeah, Bensen said. But I only put a tablespoon in. Your eggs are swimming in half a cup of grease.

Tablespoon my ass.

Friends for years, the two detectives were a study in opposites. Bensen was short and heavy and worried about his health constantly, downing handfuls of vitamin supplements but rarely exercising. His sandy hair was thin to the point he was considering shaving it off and his ruddy complexion made him look continuously embarrassed, or frustrated.

Grant had been a high school and junior college basketball star. He still held scoring records at both schools and people recognized him around town. His full head of black hair had a touch of silver coming in on the sides, and he tanned walking from his car to the house.

They talked baseball while Bensen popped pills between spoonfuls of oatmeal, talked about wives and kids — Bensen’s, Grant had neither — and co-workers, and a little about women because married men like to probe into the lives of the single to see what they were missing, to remember what they gave up.

A squad car sped by, sirens and lights going. Their heads went up, out of habit, but returned to their papers and food. They had the day off and were going to see the Giants play the Phillies in San Francisco. Randy Johnson was pitching and they hoped to see the Big Unit shut the Phillies down. The waitress cleared their plates and left the check. They glanced at the wall clock, bored, passing time.

Grant’s cell phone chirped, then Bensen’s. Bensen frowned and checked the number: headquarters. He shook his head and said, Day off, and sent the call to voicemail.

Grant answered, Starr here. His face immediately changed. What? Where? He clicked off. We gotta go.

Bensen said, Day off!

Not anymore. Something’s happening downtown. Somebody’s shooting people.

They threw money on the table and left.

Ditching Grant’s blue 1970 Ferrari Daytona three blocks from Tenth Street Plaza, Grant and Bensen drew their weapons and ran toward a cluster of uniforms who had taken up positions behind patrol cars, and were pointing guns at the plaza.

What’s happening? Grant said to a cop, who said, A bunch of people got shot!

Where’s the shooter? Bensen said.

I don’t know, man. The vics were down when we got here and we haven’t heard or seen shit. Sonofabitch!

Grant said to the cops, We’re goin’ into the plaza, so everyone take it easy. Nobody shoot us.

Grant and Bensen ran into the plaza, their eyes darting everywhere, their guns leading them. A clump of people were cowering in the theater’s entry, on the west, and dozens more looked through the glass doors and windows of City Hall on the east. Grant waved and shouted at them, but few moved.

Those idiots think plate-glass will stop a bullet! Grant growled. How many down?

I see four, Bensen said. Where’s the shooter? We’re sittin’ ducks out here!

They kept moving, zig-zagging through the plaza.

Grant heard screaming coming from the Starbucks at the northeast corner of the plaza and from somewhere ahead, on L Street.

Shooter’s gotta be across the street, Grant said. Maybe the convention center or the hotel.

Bensen looked up at the hotel; hundreds of windows reflected the morning sun. Ah ... I can’t see a thing!

They saw four cops run into the convention center across the street with guns drawn. Sirens echoed and amplified off tall buildings.

Grant shouted, Let’s check the parking garage! He ran toward the garage, to their right, past a fountain and past the window gawkers. Bensen followed.

An hour later.

There were nine dead: three on L Street next to an attorney’s office, one in Starbucks, a man lying next to a bicycle in front of Starbucks, and the four in the plaza.

Grant and Bensen were in the Starbucks, talking to a cashier with multiple lip piercings and a red stone in one nostril. She was crying.

The window shattered, she said, her hands shaking. I ran around the counter thinking someone crashed into the store, and saw the guy ... and his head... She clutched herself and rocked back and forth, and shut down. They couldn’t get anything else from her and she left with a paramedic.

The Medical Examiner hadn’t arrived so the victim lay where he had fallen. The right side of his head was gone and his brains were splattered across the floor, mixed with blood and shattered glass.

Grant winced and said, Just like the other vics. Guy had to be shooting a high-powered rifle. Trying to stay out of the mess on the floor, he looked at the wall opposite the window. A big round like that should go right through his head and lodge in the wall.

They studied the wall for a minute, then Bensen said, No blood spray on the wall. No bullet hole, either. There could be a hole in the floor but...

Grant looked through the window, to the top of the DoubleTree across the street. The splatter would be low like this if the shot came from up high. They find anything in the hotel yet?

Not that I’ve heard.

Wonder if anyone’s looked on the roof. Let’s go see.

Across the street and at the top, a custodian stuck a key in the door that led to the roof of the hotel, and it creaked open. He jerked his hand back and said, It ain’t supposed to be open.

Grant and Bensen drew their guns, and Grant said to the custodian, Get outta here. The man left in a hurry, muttering, Don’t hafta tell me.

Grant glanced outside, ducked back in and said, There’s a guy with a rifle, by the wall.

He pushed the door open a few inches with his gun and yelled, Police! Drop your weapon! Hearing nothing, he peeked out again, got a better look and said to Bensen, Looks like he ate his gun.

He ate a rifle?

Not the rifle. He’s got a handgun, too. Let’s go. Cover our backs.

They crept through the door and inched their way to the wall. Grant checked for a pulse, didn’t find one, and they cleared the rest of the roof.

Bensen put his gun away. That’s some serious firepower. Is that a Tac-Op? Looks new. He began pawing through the shooter’s stuff with gloved hands.

Grant pulled out his cell phone, looked over the wall into the plaza and said, All those people...

He only brought one clip, Bensen said, looking in the gun case. Think what coulda happened if he’d brought a few more.

City Hall’s windows were still packed with faces. Grant said, He had a silencer; he coulda shot thirty people before someone figured out where he was. Find anything in his pockets? Did he leave a note or something?

Crime-scene techs were crawling over the roof with tweezers, picking potential evidence out of the gravel and dropping it into tiny paper envelopes. Grant did his best to stay out of their way while Bensen, who was afraid of heights, stayed as far from the wall as he could without going into the hotel.

Grant said to the senior guy, who had just finished examining the sniper, What’d you find, George?

Not much. We’re not done yet but it looks like he just came up here and went straight to the wall. George wiped his face with a sleeve. Hellofa shot, though. The clip holds ten and I hear he got nine.

What about the guns? Any serial numbers?

George shook his head. Filed off. You might get lucky with the rifle, though. They’re expensive, I can’t imagine Tac-Op sells thousands of them. No ID on him, no cell phone ... No note or anything. Don’t nuts like this usually leave notes?

Sometimes. Sometimes they wait a day or two, then call a TV station. If we can ID him, maybe we’ll find a note explaining everything taped to his fridge. Does it look like he had company?

Gravel’s shit for leaving tracks but we’ll dust for prints. Something could turn up.

Let me know.

Grant and Bensen returned to the Plaza.

Which was packed; a beehive of activity.

The media had arrived and were being kept out of the plaza by uniformed cops and yellow crime-scene tape. At least a hundred people had wandered out of the DoubleTree, and were gawking and snapping photos with cell phones.

In the plaza, police photographers were busy shooting the victims from every conceivable angle and a videographer was slowly making her way around and through the crowd. There were cops everywhere, some busy, some standing around.

Grant saw the police chief, Randall Cook, and the chief saw him and waved him over.

Chief Cook, a boxer gone soft, his jaw muscles bulging, said to Grant, The shooter was on the roof of the DoubleTree?

Grant nodded. He had a sniper rifle with a scope and silencer. We caught a break, though. He only brought one clip.

A break? You call this a break? A vein throbbed on the chief’s forehead. Did you find anything useful up there, like who the asshole was and why he killed all these people?

He didn’t have any ID and we didn’t find a note or anything. He had a high-powered rifle and a handgun, but the serial numbers had been filed off.

My God! Cook said. Look at this, look at what he did! You were the first detective here, weren’t you? He didn’t wait for Grant’s response. You’re in charge of the investigation. I want reports and updates every hour. Get all the people you need and don’t worry about overtime. Find out why these people were killed, Grant. Cook left, moving toward a crowd of reporters and TV cameras.

Bensen tore the Giants tickets up and threw them in the trash, said, No Big Unit today.

Five detectives huddled in front of the theater: Grant, Bensen, Bill Hanks, Raul Jiminez, and Amber Whitehall.

Grant said, Chief Cook wants me to run point on this. Everyone nodded. We gotta move fast. Someone had to see something, so let’s find them.

He divided the detectives up between the hotel, city hall, convention center, and the streets. Take two or three uniforms. Chief wants hourly updates so if anybody saw anything, I want to know about it immediately.

Grant grabbed a couple of cops and went to the DoubleTree, talked to the manager for a few minutes, then asked for head of security. He sent the cops to interview employees.

The security guy’s name was Fredrickson. Fredrickson was reedy with stick-like arms and legs, and was as pale as a block of cream cheese.

We got a security room where we can look at tape, he told Grant. The guy really shot seven people?

Nine, Grant said. How’d he get on the roof? Don’t you keep it locked?

Fredrickson nodded vigorously. Oh yeah. SOP. It’s rare anyone needs to go up there so it’s always locked. He continued nodding and wiped his brow with a checkered handkerchief. Worst thing I ever get is break-ins and fights. His right eye twitched.

Fredrickson led Grant to the security room and sat at his desk, asked, What time you want?

Start at 7:00. Where do you have cameras?

Fredrickson started twisting knobs with shaky hands, cuing up 7:00. Lobby, out front, elevators, front desk, hallways.

What about the emergency stairs?

Nope. None in the stairs.

A thirty-two-inch widescreen monitor was split into six images: valet parking, the lobby, the entrance to the elevators, the front desk, and inside the two elevators. The cameras shot an image every two or three seconds, so the video flickered. After five minutes, Grant was nauseous.

When the time hit 8:30 and they had nothing, Grant said, Go back to 5:00. Fredrickson worked the knobs and cued up 5:00.

At 5:57, Grant jabbed a finger at the screen. There he is! A man in army fatigues, a backpack slung over a shoulder, walked through the front door into the lobby carrying the gun case Grant saw on the roof. He entered an elevator, got out on the top floor and disappeared.

Grant had Fredrickson replay the video, saw something and said, Did you see that? It looks like he’s talking to someone.

I seen his lips move, but no one followed him out of the elevator.

Grant watched the video again, saw the man’s mouth move but couldn’t tell if he was talking to someone or to himself. He had Fredrickson play it one more time, same result. Frustrated, he said, He just walked in with a gun case and rode the elevator to the roof?

Fredrickson was trembling. "Well, sure, now you know there was a gun in that case. Coulda been carrying an instrument or something. We can’t stop guests and ask to see what’s in their luggage."

Grant spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon in the plaza, assisting his team while keeping Chief Cook apprised.

At 2:00, he and the other detectives huddled in front of the theater again, in the shade; it was pushing ninety-five degrees.

Bensen, red-faced, assigned the three victims near the attorneys’ office, went first.

He consulted his notepad and said, I got a 57-year-old female victim, Diane Everest. ID says she was general manager of the San Francisco Public Utilities Commission. Her planner shows she had a 9:00 at Anderson, Briggs & Baines, with Howard Baines himself. Baines said Everest was there to discuss business San Francisco has with the Modesto Irrigation District; MID’s a client of Baines. We found her BMW a block down on L.

He flipped a page and cleared his throat. "The round entered the top of her head and left a big hole where her face used to be. Near the outside of the splatter pattern, I found what looks like the tenth round, the shooter’s only miss. He might have been aiming for her when he missed but I can’t be sure because there were two other victims next to her.

The other vics were males: Frank Sampson, 42, and Joseph Brittler, 55. Sampson was wearing a suit so he might have had business here or was meeting someone. Both shot in the head.

Bensen closed his pad. That’s all I got so far.

Grant nodded at Bill Hanks, who had two of the plaza victims. Hanks was rake-like and had a long, pointed ferret face.

Hanks also consulted his notepad. I got Mark Jensen, 25, and Melanie Smith, 21, shot in the back but through the heart. Guy was a helluva shot. There were Starbucks cups on the ground nearby so they were probably leaving when the guy shot them. Smith was wearing an engagement ring.

Raul Jiminez opened his notepad. Jiminez was everyone’s favorite uncle, the one who would always give you a twenty if you asked, was a little heavier and a bit taller than Bensen.

I had the other two plaza victims: Shauna Banks and Lawanda Jackson, 28-year-old African-Americans dressed in running outfits. They were found near Jensen and Smith, like maybe they had come to their aid when they went down. Both were head shots.

He jammed his notepad into a suit pocket and said, Sucks, getting killed like that.

Detective Amber Whitehall drew the two Starbucks shootings. In her late-twenties, most cops thought she should have been a model. A brunette with a stern manner and plain attire. Austere. Amber said, Juan Diaz, a 21-year-old JC student, was found on the sidewalk in front of Starbucks. He was riding a bicycle when he was killed. Another head shot. The vic inside the store was Douglas Embers, a 68-year-old retired air force man, according to military ID found in his wallet. He was working a crossword puzzle.

Good work everyone, Grant said. Anything else before I meet with Cook?

Everyone looked dejected, and Jiminez said, Any idea why he did it?

Grant shook his head. Nothing yet, Raul. Why don’t you guys take a break, get a sandwich or something. Then notify the families. See if you can find out why our vics were here today. There’s gotta be a reason the shooter was here and not in Frisco or L.A., where he would get more media attention. If that’s even why he did it.

Grant found Chief Cook talking to Mayor Roger Wiseman. Modesto had a population of 220,000, yet the mayor worked part-time and received part-time pay. Wiseman’s day job was teaching high school history, which he had done for twenty-eight years.

Cook asked, Anything new?

Grant shook the mayor’s hand and said to Cook, We’ve identified all nine victims. He handed the chief a list of their names. Next of kin will be notified this afternoon.

Mayor Wiseman said, What about the killer? Who was he? The mayor looked bad, like he was going to cry.

Grant shook his head. Don’t know yet. His fingerprints weren’t in the system.

What about DNA? the mayor asked, pleading. Can’t you run his DNA?

Sure. But it takes a week or two, and if his fingerprints aren’t there it’s not likely his DNA will be there either.

A week or two? The mayor winced. I thought that took an hour to do.

On TV, Mayor; DNA takes longer in the real world.

Cook was looking at the list. He said to Grant, We can’t release the names until the next of kin are notified, but at least I can tell the media they’ve been identified. I want you to concentrate on the shooter, let the others handle the vics’ relatives. I want to know who this bastard was and why he shot up my town.

The mayor began wringing his hands, and Grant felt a little sorry for him; this was a long way from the classroom.

He touched bases with the group of detectives, who were eating sandwiches at a Quiznos, and left for the station.

The man in the yellow VW van, Eric Donaldson, gassed up at an ARCO near Highway 99, went east on 9th to B Street, north to Yosemite Boulevard, which is State Route 132, and ordered at a Burger King drive-thru window. He ate the greasy food while driving through farmland to Waterford, through more farmland to La Grange, a tiny spit on a bend in the Tuolumne River.

He took a left on an unnamed and unpaved road that rambled through a ratty trailer park, followed a dirt driveway to a shack two hundred yards from the Tuolumne, parked behind the shack, put the fast-food trash in the garbage can, carefully burying it under other trash, and went in through the back door.

Samuel Raimes, III, who called himself John Lightfoot, sat at the kitchen table; a big broad-shouldered man with brown hair that hung to his shoulders, fixed in a pony tail. He was eating a salmon he had pulled from the river an hour before and cooked over hot coals.

Donaldson said, The River Bitch is dead.

Danny did good? Lightfoot said, without looking up.

Danny was, you know, Danny. But he got her. I think he got seven or eight others, too.

Lightfoot nodded. I knew he’d come through. He pointed at a chair. Sit down and have some salmon, while it’s hot.

Donaldson, stuffed from the fast-food and sick to death of fish, sat and ate fish.

Two men and a woman, in their mid twenties to early thirties, came into the kitchen. The woman, Mindy Edwards, looked like a pin-up model from the 60s or 70s. Mindy said, Did she suffer?

Donaldson, with fish in his mouth, said, No, she died instantly. Danny blew her brains all over the wall. He made a sound in his throat, a chortle.

Mindy wasn’t pleased. She went too fast. You should’ve let me have her, John.

It doesn’t matter, Lightfoot said. We’ve gone over this. The River Bitch is dead and the war’s started, that’s what matters. Have some salmon.

I already ate, Mindy said, a faraway dreamy look on her face. She hadn’t eaten a thing but she, too, was sick of fish. I woulda cut her up, like she cuts up the fish in her big pumps. She produced a large hunting knife and stroked the blade.

"She cuts the salmon up in her pumps," Lightfoot said, glaring at Mindy.

Sorry John, Mindy said, quickly. The salmon, she cuts the salmon up in her pumps.

Lightfoot said, "In a way you’re right, though. You cutting her into tiny pieces with that big knife of yours woulda been poetic justice. And you coulda took your time, made her scream for hours. Considering all the