The Devil Next Door

22

For the longest time, there were only the sounds of shovels scraping concrete, of things popping and snapping and dripping. The kid was stuck to the concrete and it took some work for them to shovel him free. It was back-breaking labor, all right, messy, dirty, stinking work. But under Warren’s direction, they finally got the kid’s body into the wheelbarrow and by then they were sweating and filthy and not in the best of moods. Then they stood there in sweat-stained and gore-streaked uniforms, not saying anything, just looking at the stain on the sidewalk and the red sprawl of arms and legs spilling over the sides of the wheelbarrow.

“That’s it,” Warren said, studying his pink-stained hands. “That’s it.”

“Now what?” Shaw said to him, his fat face beaded with sweat.

Kojozian smeared blood over his chest.

A crowd had gathered to watch—men, women and even children—and they pressed in close as they dared, not really amused or horrified or suffused with any other emotion you would readily expect. Others had came, sure, but they got out of there right away when they saw what was going on and maybe when they saw how that crowd looked, what was in their eyes and, more importantly, what wasn’t. Their eyes were dead, distant moons that looked and watched, but did not seem to see. Some of the men pulled off cigarettes and a few of the women held babies. Many were naked. Many had painted arcane symbols on their chests. They admired the X on Kojozian’s face. One old lady had brought her knitting. A little boy had a sucker in his mouth that he slurped on.

“Our uniforms are a mess,” Shaw said. “They smell.”

Warren scratched his head, wondering why that mattered. They were cops. They had to keep the uniforms on, especially the shiny badges. People would know them by these things. Symbols of office, of authority.

Kojozian said, “What do we do with this kid? We just gonna wheel him around all day?”

“Why don’t you dig a hole,” one of the crowd said.

“Sure,” said another. “A hole is where something like that belongs.”

“Plant flowers on top so it looks nice,” said the old lady with the knitting.

But Warren explained to them that this was police business, official business, and you just couldn’t go burying a dead kid anywhere you wanted. There were rules and regulations to be followed. Rituals. Yes, rituals that must be observed. They just didn’t understand.

“I say we find out where he lives and bring him over there,” Kojozian suggested.

Warren shrugged. “Yeah, that might be the thing to do. Whoever he belongs to will like that, don’t you think?”

Kojozian grinned. “It’s the least we can do.”

The kid who was working the sucker stepped forward. “That’s Ryan Soames. He delivers our paper. I know where he lives. It’s just a block over.”

“Okay, kid,” Warren said, “lead the way.”

Kojozian pushed the wheelbarrow down the sidewalk, the kid out in front, marching like he was in a parade. Behind them, the crowd plodded along. They were all excited to get to the kid’s house. This was really gonna be something…