Deadeye: The Mutant Files by William C. Dietz

Author:William C. Dietz
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group, USA
Published: 2015-01-07T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

Lee had been clutching the dead man’s hand for more than an hour before a bomb-disposal expert finally arrived. Then it was another ten minutes before she could let go. “Thank you,” Lee said as she got up off the floor. The Tec had emptied his bowels seconds after his death, and she was sick of the foul odor.

“I’m the one who should thank you,” the deputy said soberly. “My wife works in this office.”

Omo was waiting, and together they made their way down the stairs, past the triage center that had been set up in the lobby, and out onto the street. Cruisers continued to pour in from neighboring counties as they crossed the parking lot. And a good thing, too, since it sounded as if 10 percent of Arpo’s officers had been wounded or killed. Other cities had been hit as well including Tucson, Yuma, Las Cruces, Carlsbad, Laredo, and McAllen.

Those attacks had not gone unanswered. According to news reports, the army and air force were launching retaliatory strikes into the Aztec Empire, and a formal declaration of war would be made soon. “So what happens now?” Lee inquired as she entered the truck. “Am I about to lose you?”

Omo shook his head. “Nope. Not yet anyway.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Lee replied.

“What?” Omo demanded. “You want me as a partner?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I’m hungry,” Lee said, in a transparent attempt to change the subject. It was midafternoon by then, and they hadn’t had lunch.

“I’ll take you to dinner,” Omo offered. “Assuming that Lonigan’s wasn’t struck by a missile.”

“Lonigan’s?”

“My favorite steak house.”

“A steak sounds good. But we’ll have to use the phone trick again.”

Lonigan’s was mostly empty due to the missile attack and the relatively early hour. So they were able to get two tables back in a corner well away from everyone else. Conversing by phone was awkward, but necessary, and even with that, Lee knew she was taking a chance.

The ceilings were low, the walls were a dark red color, and the tables were covered with white linen. And somewhere between drinks and their desserts the conversation turned to things other than work. That was when Lee learned about Omo’s interest in painting. And by the time they walked out into the cool night air, something was different. “So,” Omo said. “Would you like to see them?”

“See what?”

“My paintings.”

As always, Omo’s features were hidden by a mask. “Your paintings?” she inquired. “Or your bed?”

Omo looked away. “My paintings.”

“I’m sorry, Ras. That was stupid.”

“No,” he said. “I know how men look at you. It must happen all the time.”

“That’s a crock,” Lee said. “Let’s go. I want to see your paintings.”

It was a short drive to a slightly seedy area and the flat-roofed adobe two-story that Omo lived in. The front of the building consisted of two garage-style doors. One of them rumbled up out of the way as Omo thumbed a remote. “This was a small garage back before the plague,” he explained.

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