The Night Monster_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [100]
“Ankle holsters?” I asked.
“Uh-huh.”
Our desserts came. The blueberry pie was as good as advertised. I ate mine slowly, watching the room while Linderman watched the action outside. I felt like I’d stumbled onto something, yet still didn’t understand what it was.
“How about some coffee?” our waitress asked.
She stood next to our table, holding a pot and two cups. I glanced across the room at the table with Bledsoe and his wife. He was watching us with murderous intensity. I wanted to buy some more time, and I said, “Do you have decaf?”
“I can brew you a pot,” she said cheerfully.
“That would be great.”
“Two cups?
“Please.”
She left. The restaurant was starting to fill up. A line had formed by the hostess stand, and I spotted a big man wearing coveralls who was also missing an arm. That made five limbless citizens of Chatham and counting.
Our waitress returned with a fresh pot of decaf. She poured two steaming cups with a big smile on her face.
“Those catfish in the window are sure drawing them in,” she said.
“I’m glad they’re not going to waste,” I said.
I blew the steam off my drink and looked at Linderman. The FBI agent had stopped eating his dessert, and was staring out the window at the street.
“See something?” I asked.
“This is really sick,” Linderman said.
I craned my neck to have a look. The sidewalk outside The Sweet Lowdown was filled with people out for an evening stroll. Over a third of them were missing an arm, a leg, or a hand, with some even missing two limbs. They all seemed to know each other, and had stopped to chat or to have a smoke. It was a parade of the maimed.
I quickly counted the number of dismembered standing outside. There were thirty-five. That made forty limbless citizens so far.
“At least half these people are carrying a concealed firearm,” Linderman said.
“Want to leave?”
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
“At least the food was good.”
“You’re a funny guy, Jack.”
I waved our waitress over to the table. She acted sad to see us leave. I had to think she was the only person in the restaurant who felt that way. I asked for the check, and she informed us that the meal was on the house. I threw down a fat tip.
“Ya’all come back,” the waitress said.
We headed for the door. The hostess nodded as we passed, happy to see a table free up. Something about her looked vaguely familiar. Tall and dark-skinned, she was pretty in a reserved way, her eyes lowering when she realized I was gazing at her. My eyes fell on her plastic name tag. V. Seppi.
Linderman and I went outside. The crowd standing outside the restaurant was three deep. I tried not to stare at those who were missing limbs. It was hard. They were everywhere I looked.
Going to my Legend, I popped the trunk. I found the file on Lonnie and Mouse’s victims that I’d been carrying around, and beneath the trunk’s tiny interior light, I poured through the pages.
I came to the missing person reports that my old unit had given me two days ago. My eyes locked on the victims’ photos. Then I knew.
Victoria Seppi had been Lonnie and Mouse’s fourth victim.
CHAPTER 51
dropped the file into the trunk, and slammed it shut.
The dismembered townspeople of Chatham were staring at Linderman and me. They were in their late forties to late fifties, white, and decently dressed. Many of the women wore expensive jewelry, and several men sported fancy wristwatches. Not a single one of them looked poor.
“Have a nice night,” a man in the crowd said.
The words had an ugly ring to them. A number of men in the crowd were resting their hands on the guns concealed behind their shirts. It felt like a posse. I had been in hostile environments before, but nothing like this.
Linderman and I climbed into my Legend. Buster had tuned into the bad vibes and was standing up on the backseat, growling at the crowd. As I pulled away, he started barking. I didn’t slow down until the town was in my mirror.
“Pull off the road and kill your lights,” Linderman said.