Page 24 of Under Cover
“Gitting,” Carlyle said, conceding defeat and sliding out of the passenger seat so he could get in the back. As they were getting situated with seatbelts, he added, “I probably just added years to my life anyway. He’s driving like we can pass through solid objects while vibrating like the speed of sound.”
“Sweet,” Garcia told him. “Get us there fast, partner.”
Crosby did his best to oblige.
He may have done his job too well, he thought fretfully as they exited the interstate and hit the Old Country Road. Garcia had finished his muffin—and started on his sausage biscuit—in grim silence, using one hand and practically strangling the chicken stick, and Carlyle had been uncomfortably silent as Crosby had driven.
“I didn’t mean you were supposed totryto pass through solid objects,” Carlyle rasped as Crosby slowed down for Holy Rood Cemetery.
“Crosby, you there?” Gideon Chadwick crackled over his radio, and he pulled up the receiver.
“Roger that. We’re here by Holy Rood. Do you know where the suspect is?”
“Natalia and Harding almost caught up with him in Westbury, but he lost them. We caught up with him here using GPS, but we don’t know what he’s doing. He’s armed, and he’s got the two little kids. We’ve got his Dodge Charger in the parking lot, but we don’t know whereheis.”
“Does he have family in Holy Rood?” Crosby asked, frowning.
“No, but….” Chadwick paused for a moment, probably scanning all of the information as it arrived. “Okay, bear with me here.Copsjustfound the guy’s wife, whom he killedyesterday, after her ob/gyn appointment. Then he grabbed the two little girls, spent the night in the car, and then left the girls in the car while he ran into the clinic to kill the doctor. Then he took off for Holy Rood. You follow?”
“People suck,” Crosby said flatly. “Yes, I follow.”
“Holy Rood is an old Catholic cemetery. One of the things it’s known for is the Island of Hope,” Chadwick told them, and Crosby frowned, because now he was lost.
“That’s sick,” Garcia said, getting it before Crosby, because apparently Crosby lost points for not growing up in New York.
“I don’t get it,” Crosby said. “Explain it to me.”
Carlyle spoke from the back. “The Island of Hope is where they bury victims of neonaticide—babies killed right after birth. Think about it. What if his wife had a miscarriage or, God forbid, an abortion. This guy’s finances are in the tubes”—he raised his voice—“right, Gid?”
“Nailed it,” came the voice from their console. “Yes, his financial penis has been cut off.”
Carlyle picked up the thread again. “So his wife does something at the ob/gyn that he disapproves of or, hell, doesn’t understand. For all we know he thinks getting a pap smear is the mark of the devil—these fucking tools and women’s bodies. Whatever. That’s his tipping point. Somebody is lord and master over his woman’s body, and he’s not going to take it. Kills the wife. Kills the doctor ’cause he’s a fucking tool. He’s a… whatyacallit?”
“Family annihilator,” Garcia said, his voice flat, and Crosby was with him because damn, those were some of the worst.
“Yeah, that brand of asshole. And ’cause that’s his brand, he wants to kill the kids, but he’s a good Catholic, so he’s got to do it someplace where they’ll be close to God.”
Crosby’s stomach roiled. “That’s… ugh. It’s fucked up and twisted, but it’s good Catholic logic.”
“You in recovery?” Carlyle asked.
“From being a Catholic? Isn’t every cop in Chicago?”
Carlyle snorted. “Protestant. My great-grandparents lived in Ireland as British citizens before coming over here and exploiting the natives. Apparently this sucked ass and made that whole branch of the family bitter, which is funny because all the men are still misogynistic fuckheads. But what I’m saying is we’ve got to put on our body armor and give our boy here a sniper rifle or this could get….” His voice dropped, and Crosby could hear his audible swallow from the front of the car. “Ugly. This could get ugly.”
“Fuck.” Crosby’s stomach wasnotgetting any better. Kids. Being taken to a place where babies were buried. And fuck him, they were not prepared.
“’Sup?” Garcia was looking at him, those fathomless brown eyes not missing a thing, and Crosby felt sweat popping out on his forehead.
“This shop,” he said, gesturing with his chin to the standard agency-issued SUV. “It’s got limited tactical in the back. Harding drove his agency issue home last night, so they’ve got the sniper rifles and the semiautos.”
“So what do we have?” Garcia asked, alarmed.
“Beanbag guns and tasers. And our personal weapons, of course.” He was keeping both hands on the wheel, but he felt the reassuring weight of his holstered Glocks at his sides and the extra at his ankle.
“That’s unfortunate,” Carlyle muttered. “I mean, you gotta admit, that’s unfortunate. I mean, what are the fuckin’odds?”
“About the same that our boy here would be awake to catch the case early as it came down the wire,” Garcia said perceptively. “What were youdoingin the office at fuck-you in the morning, Crosby, that would make you catch this case?”
