Chaser Page 3

One of the perks of marrying money.

  Tom managed to keep up with his buddy without conveying the pain in his legs.

  Roy stopped at the front door and frowned at the lower half. He pushed on it with his toe. “You really think this doggy door is a good idea?”

  “We got a guard dog so he can guard the property, inside and out. If he can’t get in and out by himself, there’s no point.”

  “Aren’t you worried some creep is going to crawl through it?”

  “He’d have to be real skinny.”

  “Cissick was pretty skinny last time we saw him.”

  “And he’d come face-to-face with a ninety pound Doberman Pincer.”

  “What if he’s armed?”

  “I’m armed. So is Joan.”

  “How about Stallone? The dog packing?”

  “Forty-two teeth, three hundred pounds of force per square inch. I feel sorry for anyone who messes with our dobie.”

  Roy shrugged, then pushed the door open and they walked outside. Tom waited for Roy to go through the usual farce.

  “You driving, or me?”

  Of course it would be Roy. Tom feared driving, because he didn’t trust his knees to slam on the brakes if needed. But Roy always asked, and Tom always deferred in the same way.

  “Never rode shotgun on a hearse before.”

  Because any time you can quote The Magnificent Seven, you should.

  They got into Roy’s Cadillac CT6, Tom taking a little extra time to ease himself down into the deep passenger seat, and Roy pulled out of the driveway, using his thumb print on the security panel to open the gated entrance. Roy also smiled and waved into the camera, because; Roy.

  “For your birthday I’m editing together ten hours of you waving at our surveillance cameras.”

  “Release it in theaters. Be a goddamn blockbuster. It’s what everyone wants to see.”

  “A black guy in a Cadillac?”

  “Envy is an ugly thing, Tom. Makes you look petty.” Roy snorted. “Heh. Tom Petty. I really oughta be in movies.”

  “I’ll talk to Joan, see if I can land you an audition.”

  “You think you got that kinda pull?”

  “I am sleeping with her.”

  Roy made a face. “I think that hurts my chances. I’ll land my own audition.”

  They left the property, and habit made Tom peek at the rearview to make sure the gate closed. On her days off, Joan didn’t have a bodyguard, and Tom always hated leaving her.

  She’ll be fine. Security is good. Stallone could rip the throat out of an elephant. Joan knows how to fight, and how to shoot.

  Plus, Erinyes is after me, not her.

  “She can handle herself.” Roy, the mind-reader. “Our wives are tough.”

  “How’s married life, partner?”

  “Trish wants to adopt.”

  “She’d make a great mother. You’d suck as a father.”

  “I told her that. But she’s convinced that my ability to be superior at everything would translate to fatherhood. We looking at China right now. Trish got some things going on. You plant one in Joan yet?”

  “I haven’t planted anything in three weeks, man.”

  “Day-am! Three weeks? Should I be worried your nuts are gonna pop and get your nasty spooge all over my Caddy?”

  “Naw. I carry a napkin in my pocket for when that happens.”

  “Three weeks? For real? My dick hurts for you. I’m having sympathetic dick pain.”

  “Joan’s been really busy with the movie. And…”

  Tom stared off into the carefully manicured beauty of Beverly Hills, not wanting to think about it too hard.

  “Erinyes. Right. You think Loot will help?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Lieutenant Jack Daniels has a lot more experience with this kind of thing. But, like me, she’s a wounded warrior.

  And Loot has enemies of her own.

  HARRY

  So it wasn’t an STD, even though the pictures look like it is,” I said into Camera 1. “I just spanked it too hard with the tiger balm, and chafed. But big megathanks to all of my followers for voicing your concerns, and also thanks for the lewd comments. You guys are the best. I got time for a few questions.”

  I hit the pad, switching to Camera 2 for the close-up.

  Yeah, this is me in first person. Deal with it.

  Sitting at my desk in my home studio, the green wall behind me keyed to look like endless explosions, I scrolled through the text comments on my tablet, looking for one to reply to.

  “Okay… this question is from Mcgladelover6969. Awesome name, by the way.”

  —H-dawg you say anything cool when you dropped the G-man?

  “I’m obviously H-dawg, and the G-man is the Gingerbread Man. For all you millennials and plurals and Gen Z’ers who never saw my TV show, Fatal Autonomy, Netflix just picked it up. Binge it and catch up on your McGlade history. Gingerbread Man is in the first season. So… yeah, I did say something cool. Right before I pulled the trigger I told him, ‘You know that subscription you have to I’m Still Breathing Magazine? You won’t need it anymore.”’

  That was hella cool.

  Only one problem; it wasn’t true.

  I’d been scared out of my mind in the sewer. It had been a life-or-death situation. I wish I’d been brave enough, or clever enough, to say something badass, but it took all I had just to hold the gun steady and shoot him from the sidelines.

  My followers didn’t want to hear that shit, though. You can’t hero-worship someone who shows weakness. I had to be the wisecracking, fearless, larger-than-life social media gigantazilla.

  Bias confirmed as the comments lit up with laughing emojis and likes and high-fives and thumbs-up, giving me crazy love.

  I wish I was as awesome as they think I am.

  Don’t get me wrong. I know I’m pretty awesome. You read the part earlier about me having three swimming pools? Who else has three swimming pools? I’m like the USA’s Homecoming King. During the live stream I had 26,521 people watching.

  I’m H-dawg.

  I’m the man.

  Or the dawg.

  But I know there’s always room for improvement. Fact is, I hadn’t been really tested in a while. No one-on-one/mano-a-mano with a really bad guy in a long time. The last one, years ago, was Luther Kite, and that one really doesn’t count because it wasn’t all me. I helped out with some stuff, like rescuing my bro Herb and that sociopathic He-Man doll, Tequila. But when was the last time I had a nemesis?

  Jack had the Cowboy, still out there somewhere, probably shooting bunnies or kittens from eight hundred meters away.

  Phin had his ginormous brother, Hugo, currently in prison but still alive and no doubt raping someone smaller, and everyone was smaller than Hugo, who looked like a white supremacist Hulk.

  Tom had Erinyes, and, honestly, that guy was creepy as hell, all disfigured and scarred and crazy.

  My spy buddy, Chandler, had her lethal sister, Hammett. And my spy buddy, Hammett, had her lethal sister, Chandler. Sworn enemies, and one was gonna kill the other eventually.

  But your humble narrator, H-dawg?

  No nemesis.

  No one-on-one potential.

  No opportunity to say something awesome right before I blow the bad guy away.

  But maybe Plastic would change that.

  Maybe Plastic would be the challenge I’ve been looking for.

  I found another comment.

  “TellMeYourCockSize asks, how big is your cock? Good question, although you kind of telegraphed it with your screen name. Any of you over the age of 18 can go to my website and pay just $3.99 A.M.nth for the exclusive Members Only section and see my dick pics, none of which have been digitally altered.”

  They’d all been digitally altered. Welcome to the Internet. It lies about everything.

  “Here’s another, from FlyHunny60194, who asks, What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done? There are so many things, FlyHunny. But I’ll
give you the most recent. Three days ago, I paid a circus clown to give me an enema.” I waited two beats, letting the suspense build. “I did it for shits and grins.”

  The comments went nuts.

  I’m an unappreciated genius who doesn’t get paid enough.

  —R U OK? U look pale.

  I wasn’t going to answer that, because I wasn’t okay. But being called pale was better than being called old. I had some trolls who seemed to get off on saying how badly I was aging. Happily, none had shown up to chat today.

  “Okay, time for one more question. I saw one earlier, lemme scroll up. You guys are too fast for me. Here it is, last question and then I gotta run, from MoshMania4Evah.

  —Do you miss your BFF Jack Daniels?

  Yeah. I do miss her. Even though she’s right there in the other room.

  I cleared my throat, lowering my voice for the gravitas.

  “Jack Daniels was the best cop to ever live, and a day doesn’t go by where I don’t mourn her premature death. If I could trade all my wealth, all my fame, and all the booty I slay—women and men and every gender in between—for one more day with Jackie, I’d do it. Wouldn’t even hesitate.”

  That’s right, Jack. I’m out here, perpetuating the myth of your death, so the Cowboy never finds you.

  You’re welcome.

  THE COWBOY

  Somewhere in Nebraska

  The walnut balances on an empty beer bottle, forty meters of prairie away.

  The Cowboy squints at the nut, hand poised above the hip-holstered Ruger Bisley Vaquero.

  It takes .455 seconds to draw, fire, and shoot the walnut off the bottle.

  The bottle remains untouched.

  Not the Cowboy’s fastest. But getting better every day.

  Heckle and Jeckle walk through the brush, toward the Cowboy. Heckle carries a laptop.

  The Cowboy waits.

  “We found them,” Heckle says.

  “Actually, our spider did,” Jeckle says.

  “Facial recognition software scanning police databases. She was arrested in Ft. Myers. Assault and battery charge reduced to disorderly conduct. Using the name Jill Johnson.”

  The Cowboy squints at the mugshot on the screen.

  It’s Lieutenant Jack Daniels. No mistaking it.

  “Her husband was arrested at the same time.” Heckle presses a button and another mug shot appears.

  The Cowboy’s stomach clenches.

  “Ft. Myers PD ran his prints, but he isn’t in the national database. But we cross-checked with Chicago. His name is Phineas Troutt.”

  “Where are they?” The Cowboy asks.

  “They had a house in Ft. Myers, but it sold yesterday. Cash. We don’t know where they went,” says Jeckle.

  “But we found someone who might know,” says Heckle.

  “We have to go to Illinois,” says Jeckle.

  The Cowboy holsters the Vaquero.

  “I’ve been waiting a long time to find these two. When’s the next flight?”

  “Four hours,” says Heckle.

  “We already booked three tickets,” says Jeckle.

  “Nice work, boys.”

  The Cowboy offers a rare smile.

  After more than a year of searching, revenge is finally within reach.

  And it is going to be beautiful.

  PLASTIC

  Prominent chin work with a bone rasp; check.

  Silicone injections; check.

  Eyebrows; check.

  Ears; check.

  Bandages; check.

  Five hours of surgery, but it’s a masterpiece.

  Like Quasimodo’s homlier brother.

  “Welcome to the world of ugly,” he tells the Chad, caressing his puffy face. “No one will ever find you appealing again. You’ll have to pay for sex. You’ll have suicidal thoughts. You’ll visit countless plastic surgeons, but they’ll never be able to repair the harm I’ve done.”

  He checks Chad’s vitals, throttles down on the sevoflurane and removes the tracheal tube, adjusts the propofol drip, then wheels him out of the operating room and into the adjacent recovery area.

  The Stacy is awake, watching TV through the eyeholes in her facial bandages. Her hand, cuffed to the reinforced gurney frame, is holding the remote control, changing channels.

  She glances up, surprised, and then pissed off. “What the shit? Some other victim?”

  Stacy still has some spunk because she hasn’t seen a mirror yet.

  That will change when she does.

  “Didn’t you say you were bored? I’ve given you a roommate.”

  “You said you’d let me out of here, you crazy prick. When am I getting out?”

  “I told you, Stacy. You still have a few days of healing left. I couldn’t, in any good conscience, let you leave before that.”

  “In any good conscience? That’s a laugh, you misogynist, incel prick.”

  Incel? Where’d she pick that up?

  “That’s right, I know who you are.”

  Plastic doesn’t react.

  She can’t possibly recognize me.

  “I saw it on the news. You’re Plastic.”

  Plastic lets out the breath he’s been holding.

  She’s clueless.

  And stupid. If she knows I’m Plastic, and knows what I do, why would she risk antagonizing me?

  Of course, Plastic knows the answer.

  She has AP.

  Aesthetic Privilege.

  She’s been pretty her whole life. Comfortable with pushing people around. Getting her demands met.

  Well, those times are gone forever, Stacy. No more getting your way when you act petulant. No more manipulating people.

  You’ll see once I let you go.

  “Let me check your stitches, Stacy.”

  “My name isn’t Stacy.”

  “I’ll come back and check later, since you seem irritated. But maybe you’re farther along than I think, which means I’ll free you sooner.”

  Plastic can’t see through her wrapping, but he can tell she’s pouting. “I want to see my face.”

  “You can see it when healing is complete.”

  “I want to see it now.”

  Or else you’ll hold your breath until you turn blue?

  She’s just a bit younger than I am. Twenty-nine.

  How can adults still act this way?

  And it’s always the same.

  If I awoke chained to a hospital bed, bandages on my face, I’d be terrified.

  But every patient I’ve had has been more petulant than frightened.

  AP.

  “I’ll come back later.”

  “Tell me what you’ve done to my face.”

  Plastic turns to leave.

  “Fine,” she calls after him. “Check the healing. Do you need to dope me up?”

  “Yes.”

  “It makes me sick.”

  “I’ll leave you some antacid.”

  “And you need to take away my bedpan. You can smell it I’m sure.”

  Plastic nods, then approaches her from behind with a prepared fentanyl syringe, dosing directly into her IV, waiting for her eyelids to close.

  When they do, Plastic unwraps her facial bandages.

  Oh, my. It’s lovely.

  She can leave tomorrow, for sure.

  He puts on clean bandages—like all patients, Stacy has been warned to never touch the bandages—and gives her a fresh pitcher of water and a cimetidine pill. Then he makes sure the Chad is properly settled in. Before he leaves, he takes Stacy’s bedpan.

  Tomorrow, she’ll finally get to see what I did to her.

  It’s my favorite part of the whole process.

  Watching them realize that their beauty is gone.

  Watching it sink-in how bad life is going to be for them from now on.

  Worth all the work.

  Worth all the time and money.

  Worth all the abuse.

  He stares at them for a moment, and smiles.


  From Barbie and Ken, to the bride and groom of Frankenstein.

  We’ll see how much they like the black pill.

  Thank you, modern medicine.

  Time for the afternoon shift…

  PHIN

  I shook hands with Tom, then Roy.

  Solid guys. I didn’t know either of them well, but I understand why Jack liked them. My wife gravitated toward certain traits. Loyalty. Bravery. Stoicism. And the biggest of all, inner-strength.

  Even Harry is strong, in his own odd way.

  I watched the former cops introduce themselves to Sam, and could tell neither had much kid experience.

  “I like your shirt,” my daughter told Roy.

  “Thank you. That’s a pretty dress.”

  “I got it at Walmart because all my clothes blew away.”

  “Was the hurricane scary?” Tom asked her.

  Sam shrugged. “Not really. My dog, Woof, was scared. Daddy doesn’t get scared. Mom says he’s a macho a-hole. I guess I’m a macho a-hole like Daddy.”

  “Your Mom is a macho a-hole, too,” Harry said.

  Sam nodded, serious. “I know. She perseveres.”

  Indeed she does. I glanced at my wife, who was propped up against the back of an overstuffed leather couch, leg braces locked upright, her mind elsewhere.

  She’s the strongest of us all. But she hasn’t been the same since the Cowboy.

  I wanted more than anything to get the old Jack back. The one who wasn’t constantly looking over her shoulder. Who swam into the current, rather than away from it.

  I miss that cocky bitch. It’s like being married to a stranger.

  “Before we get started, I want to show all of you my new pet. Are you ready?”

  Sam clapped her hands together. “I’ve been waiting for this for years.”

  “Follow me, everyone. Jack, try not to scratch the hardwood floor.”

  I stuck around, giving my wife my arm, following the group through a house so decadent it proved Western Civilization needed to be destroyed. Harry had TVs and speakers hanging everywhere, interspersed with artwork that had no unifying style or medium, other than it all depicted naked people. Name a luxury, McGlade had it. From a smart fridge with a touch screen, to four fireplaces (who needed fireplaces in LA?), to assorted marble pillars and arches, to an indoor concrete fountain, the center of which had the statue of a buff young man peeing.