Saint Death - John Milton #2 (John Milton Series) by Dawson Mark

Author:Dawson, Mark [Dawson, Mark]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Unputdownable
Published: 2014-01-04T00:00:00+00:00

29

T hree more days .

Jesus Plato reminded himself, again and again, as he stared up at the bridge.

It was Wednesday.

Just three more days and then an end to all this.

It was a fresh morning, a cool wind blowing after the fury of the storm last night. Plato was at the concrete overpass known as Switchback Bridge. The bodies had been called in as dawn broke over the endless desert, ropes knotted beneath their armpits, tied to the guard rail, and the dead tossed over the side. They both dangled there, the rope creaking as they swung back and forth in the light breeze, twenty feet above the busy rush of traffic at the intersection. A small crowd of people had gathered to watch as a fire truck was manoeuvred around so that the ladder could get up to them. Former school busses from across the border, now ferrying workers to and from the sweatshops, jammed up against one another, and behind them, a queue of irate drivers leant on their horns. Just another day in Ciudad Juárez. Another morning, another murder. No one was surprised or shocked. It was an inconvenience. This was just how it was, and that, Plato thought, was the worst of it.

He could see that the bodies had both been decapitated. Hands had been tied behind their backs, and their feet flapped in the wind. He hadn’t had a proper breakfast yet, just a Pop-Tart as he left the house, and he was glad. The bodies revolved clockwise and then counterclockwise, bumping up against each other, a grotesque and hideous display. They were suspended between advertising hoardings for local businesses and the sicarios had left their own message alongside their prey. A bed sheet was tied to the guard rail, and painted on it was a warning: “FREEDOM OF THE PRESS” and then “ATENCION—LA FRONTERA.” A fireman scaled the ladder, and with help from colleagues on the bridge, the carcasses were untied, lowered to the ground, and wrapped in canvas sacks to be taken to the morgue.

Plato was about to head back to the station when he saw John Milton and Caterina Moreno. The girl was crouched down, leaning her back against the side of his Dodge, hugging her knees tight against her chest. Her face was pale, and on the ground next to her, there was a puddle of drying vomit. Milton was leaning against the bonnet, his face impassive and his arms folded across his chest.

“What are you doing here?” Plato asked him.

“She knows who they are.”

“Who?”

“Up there.” He pointed. “She knows them.”

“Even without their—you know—without their heads?”

“They used to write for her blog.”

“Shit.”

“I know.” Milton pushed himself away from the car and led Plato out of the girl’s earshot. “She wanted to see them before I get her over the border. Warn them that they should get out, too. We went to their address, but—well, we were too late, obviously. The place had been turned over. We saw the bodies from the taxi as we were driving back to the hotel.

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