“Can you walk?” Callahan asks, starting to set her down.
“Yes, but not well,” the girl says, her English perfect. She’s very petite, like a Latina version of Rachel. She glances nervously at the house. Good. That means she doesn’t realize everyone inside is dead.
Callahan watches her try to take a limping step, then shakes his head and picks her back up.
I signal to Callahan that we’re going, and Miller and I move to the side of the house. We hop the fence and cut through the nearest yard. We’re headed east to where Anvil’s waiting.
“We’re a minute from the corner,” I say.
“I’m here,” ‘Vil responds.
When we reach the Rover, I open the back, and Miller and I roll in, staying low. When the back’s closed, Anvil drives away.In the distance, I hear the explosion of the windows blowing out from the heat of the house fire that must be raging by now.
Miller lies still, not touching his mask or gear until I pull mine off. We’re lying on a piece of painter’s tarp. I doubt it’s necessary. The most blood we probably caught was microscopic high velocity spatter. The clothes need to be burned as a precaution, but the tarp’s more than enough protection for the Rover’s carpet.
We stay out of sight until we’re in the woods on C Crue property. Then I sit up, and Miller follows suit. It’s like he’s my shadow, which is weird, but it’s appropriate given the circumstances.
When the truck stops, we climb carefully from the back, sliding the tarp onto the ground before rolling it up. Anvil pours some lighter fluid into a metal barrel. I strip, and again Miller mimics what I do. All our clothes go into the barrel to burn. The tarp is next. Anvil adds more lighter fluid and the flames crackle and rise. We dress in clothes that are waiting for us in a duffle bag.
It’s time to test Miller’s recall. I say, “The cops pull you in and ask, ‘Have you ever been in the house at 1611 Mulberry?’”
“Probably,” Miller says. “I go to parties all over Boston.”
Good. He remembers what I told him. The police or the feds will try to get us to say we’ve never been in a place. Then if DNA’s found at the scene of a crime, they can say we must have been there on the night it happened. That’s why my standard answer now is to say I might have been in a place, but can’t remember for sure.
Anvil feeds the fire.
I drop the interrogation voice. “How do you feel, Mill?”
“Fine.”
“Not even a little pissed?”
“Pissed?” Miller asks, sounding confused.
“Well, Callahan basically stood around and did nothing, and still got custody of the pretty girl you rescued.”
Miller smirks. “Yeah, that part wasn’t great.” He shrugs. “She’s too young anyway. Not eighteen yet. Few months to go.”
“How do you know?” I ask.
“I recognized her.”
“From?”
A beat passes, and then he admits, “I made a chart of the Lobos de Rio and Sosa gangs.”
“Lobos de rio, not Rio Lobos?”
“It’s Rio Lobos now. The name got switched in the late eighties.”
I grin. “Are you hearing this, ‘Vil? I go on vacation for a week, and Miller starts gunning for my job.”
“Right,” Miller scoffs. “Because I’m gonna level-up until I can do calculus in my head when I’m five Jack and Cokes deep. That’s in the cards for me.”
A burn phone buzzes, and Anvil hands it to me.
There’s a two-word message from Callahan’s burner.Girl home.
