to their grilles to bust through claptrap roadblocks. The roadsides were littered with the hulks of flame-eaten, bullet-riddled vehicles.
The air was clean and bracing as I stepped from the car. I hadn’t been this far outside the city in a long time. The breeze shifted and a new smell hit me, raw and ripe and bloody: as if I’d stumbled downwind of a slaughterhouse.
Dr. Calvin Newbarr, an old saw with the CSI team, had beaten us to the scene. Now in his late sixties, Newbarr had been a county coroner in the days before the Republic. A genteel throwback, he always dressed impeccably: crisp dark-sable suit, Windsor-knotted tie, a brushed felt hat. His unkempt eyebrows hung like silken draperies before his eyes.
“Prophet’s blessings,” he greeted us.
“From the Lord’s lips to His,” I said. “You shouldn’t be out here on your own.”
He shrugged. “What would a highwayman want with an old string like me?”
The legs sticking out from the back of the rig belonged to the trucker himself. He was fully clothed and lay facedown on the road. His head had been run over. The pressure of the five-ton truck had flattened his skull. His scalp had been lifted off and was stuck in the tire treads. His stark white skull had the look of a plate that had been stepped on and broken into pieces.
Newbarr removed his hat and held it at his belt buckle for a moment before replacing it on his head.
Garvey said: “You got a spatula, doc?”
The coroner unsnapped his medical kit. “Poor taste, son.”
“Lighten up.” Garvey spat into the nettles. “Not like he’s bound to register the insult.”
Garvey wandered up the road to reconnoitre the outlying scene. Newbarr tugged on latex gloves and did some exploratory feeling around. He made notes into an old-style Dictaphone. I heard: “Massive depressed skull fractures.” I heard: “Cranial epidermis removed as a result of blunt force trauma.” I heard: “Identification via dental plate match not feasible.”
“Wipe my brow?” Newbarr held up his bloody hands as a plea. With my handkerchief I dabbed sweat from under his hat brim.
“I heard what happened with The Prophet’s daughter,” he said. “I’m very sorry to see you in such poor shape.”
I waved it off and said: “Doesn’t it seem a lot of needless trouble?”
“Meaning?”
“This trucker was a big guy. Liable to put up a fight. Why not just shoot him? As it stands, must’ve been one guy driving the rig and two-three others holding the guy down so they could run over his head—why bother?”
Newbarr pushed his hat up to expose a liver spot. “You’re saying it was a gang?”
I shook my head. “Highwaymen generally act alone. It’s their misanthropic nature that drives them out here in the first place.”
Newbarr nodded. “Even if it was only two men, one of them had to be freakishly big and strong.”
“What I’m saying is, what if it wasn’t a highwayman at all?”
“Who else?”
I came back with another question: “Sacrificial animals? How do you offload them? It means heading into the city, exposing yourself. Any licenced shrine requires paperwork, too. It’s hardly worth the risk.”
I clambered into the cab while Newbarr chalked an outline. A ragged hole was blown through the passenger-side floorboard. I spotted a hand grenade in the cup holder.
In the glove box I found insurance papers with the trucker’s name: Irvine B. Coughlin. Address in New Nazareth, 1,500 furlongs southeast. I flipped the visor down: smiling photos of a boy and girl paper-clipped to the sun-bleached felt. Above them a snippet of Matthew 28: I am with you always, even to the end of the age .
When I swung down from the cab, Garvey was making his way back.
“The driver’s side door is back over that hill. A pair of punctures in it.”
“Bullet holes?”
Garvey shook his head. “No, punched from the inside out. I’m guessing someone chucked a grappling hook through the window and ripped the
The air was clean and bracing as I stepped from the car. I hadn’t been this far outside the city in a long time. The breeze shifted and a new smell hit me, raw and ripe and bloody: as if I’d stumbled downwind of a slaughterhouse.
Dr. Calvin Newbarr, an old saw with the CSI team, had beaten us to the scene. Now in his late sixties, Newbarr had been a county coroner in the days before the Republic. A genteel throwback, he always dressed impeccably: crisp dark-sable suit, Windsor-knotted tie, a brushed felt hat. His unkempt eyebrows hung like silken draperies before his eyes.
“Prophet’s blessings,” he greeted us.
“From the Lord’s lips to His,” I said. “You shouldn’t be out here on your own.”
He shrugged. “What would a highwayman want with an old string like me?”
The legs sticking out from the back of the rig belonged to the trucker himself. He was fully clothed and lay facedown on the road. His head had been run over. The pressure of the five-ton truck had flattened his skull. His scalp had been lifted off and was stuck in the tire treads. His stark white skull had the look of a plate that had been stepped on and broken into pieces.
Newbarr removed his hat and held it at his belt buckle for a moment before replacing it on his head.
Garvey said: “You got a spatula, doc?”
The coroner unsnapped his medical kit. “Poor taste, son.”
“Lighten up.” Garvey spat into the nettles. “Not like he’s bound to register the insult.”
Garvey wandered up the road to reconnoitre the outlying scene. Newbarr tugged on latex gloves and did some exploratory feeling around. He made notes into an old-style Dictaphone. I heard: “Massive depressed skull fractures.” I heard: “Cranial epidermis removed as a result of blunt force trauma.” I heard: “Identification via dental plate match not feasible.”
“Wipe my brow?” Newbarr held up his bloody hands as a plea. With my handkerchief I dabbed sweat from under his hat brim.
“I heard what happened with The Prophet’s daughter,” he said. “I’m very sorry to see you in such poor shape.”
I waved it off and said: “Doesn’t it seem a lot of needless trouble?”
“Meaning?”
“This trucker was a big guy. Liable to put up a fight. Why not just shoot him? As it stands, must’ve been one guy driving the rig and two-three others holding the guy down so they could run over his head—why bother?”
Newbarr pushed his hat up to expose a liver spot. “You’re saying it was a gang?”
I shook my head. “Highwaymen generally act alone. It’s their misanthropic nature that drives them out here in the first place.”
Newbarr nodded. “Even if it was only two men, one of them had to be freakishly big and strong.”
“What I’m saying is, what if it wasn’t a highwayman at all?”
“Who else?”
I came back with another question: “Sacrificial animals? How do you offload them? It means heading into the city, exposing yourself. Any licenced shrine requires paperwork, too. It’s hardly worth the risk.”
I clambered into the cab while Newbarr chalked an outline. A ragged hole was blown through the passenger-side floorboard. I spotted a hand grenade in the cup holder.
In the glove box I found insurance papers with the trucker’s name: Irvine B. Coughlin. Address in New Nazareth, 1,500 furlongs southeast. I flipped the visor down: smiling photos of a boy and girl paper-clipped to the sun-bleached felt. Above them a snippet of Matthew 28: I am with you always, even to the end of the age .
When I swung down from the cab, Garvey was making his way back.
“The driver’s side door is back over that hill. A pair of punctures in it.”
“Bullet holes?”
Garvey shook his head. “No, punched from the inside out. I’m guessing someone chucked a grappling hook through the window and ripped the
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