Swierczynski Secret Dead Men

1. Auflage 2024
ISBN: 978-1-83541-057-8
Verlag: Titan Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 304 Seiten

A smart-talking supernatural noir, full of twists and turns, delivered at a whipalong pace about a dead investigative-journalist-turned-soul-collector on the trail of his nemesis - and murderer. Perfect for fans of Ben Aaranovitch and Richard Kadrey. Del Farmer isn't your ordinary hardboiled private eye. Instead of collecting fingerprints or clues, he collects souls of the recently dead. His latest dead guy, Brad Larsen, might just be the key to destroying Farmer's long-time nemesis, The Association. Of course, Farmer is sadly mistaken. An FBI agent unstuck in time is toying with him. A mysterious couple keeps trying to kill him. Another job-a mundane babysitting gig that pays the bills-is threatening to steer him way off course into a violent hell of sexual deceit, fractured identities, and cheap apartment toilets. With only a head packed full of nagging ghosts, Farmer realises this case might just drive him out of his mind, literally.

DUANE SWIERCZYNSKI IS THE TWO-TIME EDGAR-NOMINATED AUTHOR OF 15 NOVELS INCLUDING REVOLVER, CANARY, THE WHEELMAN, THE BLONDE AND SEVERANCE PACKAGE. Duane's short story 'Lush' was included in The Best American Mystery Stories 2019, and is currently being adapting into a feature by director Chad Stahelski (John Wick) for Lionsgate. Duane also has written various bestselling comics for Marvel, DC, Dark Horse, Archie and Valiant, including Cable, Deadpool, The Immortal Iron Fist, Punisher MAX, Birds of Prey, Star Wars: Rogue One, Godzilla, Bloodshot as well as his creator-owned Breakneck and John Carpenter's Tales of Science Fiction Presents: Redhead. Duane has also collaborated with bestselling novelist James Patterson on three Audible Original radio dramas. The first, The Guilty, starred John Lithgow, Bryce Dallas-Howard and Aldis Hodge. He also co-wrote a series of bestselling 'digi-novels' with CSI creator Anthony E. Zuiker. Duane is also the author of six nonfiction books about vice and crime, including The Perfect Drink for Every Occasion, The Big Book of Beer (Quirk), and This Here's A Stick-Up: The Big Bad Book of American Bank Robbery (Alpha/Penguin). Earlier in his career, Duane worked as an editor at Details, Men's Health and Philadelphia magazines, and served as the editor-in-chief of the Philadelphia City Paper. A native Philadelphian, Duane now lives in Southern California with his family. Twitter/X: @swierczy; Instagram: @swierczy; Facebook: facebook.com/swierczy; website: gleefulmayhem.com

Autoren/Hrsg.

Swierczynski, Duane

Leseproben

1

ONE AND A HALF DEAD BODIES

Alison Larsen’s body went undiscovered for about six hours. Local children found her first. The paper never reported this, but a couple of the kids organized an impromptu club with a mandate to “experiment” on her corpse. What will happen if we put rocks in her mouth? Can her eyes still see? If we cut her, will she still bleed?

Twisted bastards. Did they think to call an ambulance? Scream for a neighbor? No. The first thing they did was grab a rock the size of a softball and shove it into Mrs. Larsen’s mouth. According to the report, her teeth were chipped where the rock made contact. Alison was a petite woman. They had to push hard to shove that hunk of granite into her face.

There was no official effort to prosecute the children. Big mistake, in my book. This kind of behavior, left unchecked, often results in severely disturbed adults.

Then again, what do I know? At the time, I was a dead man impersonating an FBI agent.

*   *   *

Ten hours after the discovery, top brass—in other words, me and a bunch of agents from the Chicago office who I’d just met—sped through the weedy flatland somebody once decided to call “Woody Creek” and arrived at the Witness Protection house. The “safe” house. What a joke. If we cut her, will she still bleed?

After we pulled up, somebody handed me a doughnut and a Styrofoam cup. I thanked him and peeled off the lid. The coffee was lukewarm and milky. I prefer my coffee hot and black. But it’d been a long day—flying from Vegas to Chicago, and then this drive. I was grateful for any kind of stimulant. We all started up the front driveway.

The local clean-up crew had arrived a few hours before us, so I didn’t see any of the corpse mutilation firsthand—I only read the report. The crew had checked Alison Larsen’s body for vitals (as if there were any to be found), made the requisite notations, zipped her up in a plastic bag, and loaded her into the van.

Mrs. Larsen’s body may have no longer been here, but her blood certainly was. It was splattered on the tan shag carpet at least three feet in every direction. “Shit,” somebody said. I stepped over the soiled area and walked into the living room. There was a cluttered desk with its chair tipped over, one leg broken. A fat book was split open on the floor. I walked into the kitchen. Glass cupboard doors were shattered; broken pieces littered the hardwood floor. I noticed a smear of dried blood along one wall. The radio was playing “The Air That I Breathe,” a Hollies tune from a couple of years ago.

“Who turned this on?” I asked.

“Nobody,” replied an agent. “It was on when we got here. We left it.”

“You think it might cough up some evidence?” I joked.

“Possibly,” the agent said, all poker-faced.

A dark-haired man with a thick neck and clothes that were supposed to be stylish approached me. “Agent Kennedy?”

“Yes,” I replied. I flashed the temporary photo id I’d received upon arriving at the Chicago office. I’d told them I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten it, but I’d been in such a hurry to make the plane I must have . . . blah, blah, blah. They’d bought it.

“I’m Agent Nevins. Welcome to Illinois.”

Dean Nevins, sac—Special Agent in Charge. I’d heard a bit about him from the boys on the two-hour drive down from Chicago. One-word descriptions flowed freely: territorial, obtuse, egotistical. Only hears what he wants to and beats the piss out of anyone who says different. When you’re on a Dean Nevins case, they told me, you’re in Dean Nevins’ world. Keep your head down and your questions to yourself. He loved murders, too. Couldn’t get enough of them.

“You have the name of a great man,” Nevins told me.

“Yes, I know.”

I told Nevins I wished I was here under better circumstances, it was a beautiful state, and all that. I wanted him to point me to Brad Larsen’s body right away, but I thought to do so might seem weird. Instead, I asked him to walk me through what had happened.

Nevins gave me a funny look, as if I’d ask him what brand of underwear he wore.

“Well, this all went down yesterday,” he said. “Early Sunday afternoon. We assume the gunman took her by surprise, at the door.” He led me deeper into the living room. “The guy knocked, and Mrs. Larsen went over to answer it.”

I shook my head to indicate my disgust.

“Next thing you know,” Nevins said, punctuating his words with a thumb-and-index-finger pistol, “blammo. Hubby stands up, and somewhere in here”—he paused to point to the middle of the room, in front of the desk—“hubby makes a break for it. It’s typical. These WP guys are almost always Grade-A, USDA-approved pussies.”

I nodded as if I agreed. “The body was out back?”

“No.” Nevins continued into the next room—a small kitchen, done over in way too many earth tones. He pointed at a puke-green wall. “The perp nailed hubby here and smacked his head into a glass cabinet.” I saw the blood. “They must have scuffled and backed into this table.” Or what was left of it. “Then hubby runs for it again and skips out to the back door. The perp follows.”

We walked past a bedroom to a flimsy aluminum door through which I could see outside. The porch overlooked a thin stretch of Woody Creek. Agent Nevins led me out onto the back porch deck, but a nervous-looking member of local law enforcement interrupted the agent’s compassionate, insightful description of the Larsens’ double murder.

The man’s face lit up. “Was it the Mafia?” he cried. “One of dem Manson cults? C’mon, you gotta tell me!”

“I’m sorry, Sheriff . . .” Nevins started, then paused to look down at his notebook. “. . . Alford. This thing is ours now. Nothing to worry you.”

“Hey! I found the body! I knew she weren’t creek folk, I called you guys . . .”

“We appreciate your cooperation,” Nevins said, “but it’s better you leave it to us now. We’ll take care of her. I promise you.”

The sheriff shuffled off to another part of the house. I looked at the water for a few moments, waiting for Nevins to continue his story. But then a junior agent—Fieldman, I think his name was—approached with a clipboard. “You were right,” he told Nevins. “Blood type matches Larsen. Wit Protec number two-three-three-oh. How did we let this happen?”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “You haven’t found Larsen’s body yet?”

“His blood’s all over the deck,” said Fieldman. “We think he’s in the drink, but nobody’s spotted him yet. We found another blood type, too—probably our suspect.”

“Aw, fuck a duck,” Nevins said. “Okay. Call in the cleaners, take our samples, then strip the house. Leave nothing but a shell. And have some guys out to check the creek already. I know they don’t like getting their Thom McAn specials all wet, but it’s part of the job.”

Fieldman nodded.

“And another thing,” Nevins said. “We’re not going to file a report today.”

“What? Agent Nevins, you can’t be serious . . .”

I asked myself a similar question: what the hell was going on?

Nevins enunciated each word: “We. Don’t. File. Which part of that did you fail to comprehend?”

Fieldman didn’t breathe for a moment. This clearly boggled his mind, and/or sense of how the world should work. Then he cautiously ventured: “Don’t you want to—”

“You want to be the one to tell the world this program can’t be trusted?” Nevins said. “That some of our esteemed colleagues sell addresses to hired guns? That the fabric of our judicial system is routinely ripped open like the panties of a whore?”

Fieldman looked around to see if anyone else was hearing this. When he saw we were alone, he turned to me. I kept my face blank. This was not something I wanted to be in the middle of—at least, not right now. Finally, Fieldman turned back to his boss. “No, sir,” he said.

“Fine, then. Raze the house. And take care of the sheriff. His name is . . .” Nevins glanced at his notebook. “Daniel Alford.”

“Daniel Alford,” Fieldman repeated.

I looked over the creek again. It looked like the water in a backed-up bar toilet.

As Fieldman was walking away, Nevins called out to him, “Shoot the bastard if you have to.”

Now that was gratuitous. But so what? Everything was gratuitous this morning.

I turned to follow Nevins back into the house, and my foot bumped against something. A book. John Donne, the spine read. Standard Edition. I picked it up, flipped through a few pages. Daubs of dried blood speckled the orderly lines of verse.

Damn. Nobody should read poetry right before they die.

*   *   *

Twenty minutes later, when nobody else was looking, I walked back outside and climbed over the porch railing. Hanging on the framework below, I swung hand over hand until my legs dangled over the choppy, muddy ground. I let go and miraculously landed on both feet.

I took the time to breathe, then listened to make sure nobody had stepped out onto the deck. I started along the shit-mud bank as quietly as possible. It wasn’t much of a creek—not much to feed it except freak storms and floods. When I got further out, I craned my head up to look back at the...