Power and Empire

Technically, Clark was holding the girl against her will, but compared to the other crimes he’d committed — and those he intended to commit in the very near future — kidnapping a juvenile for her own safety seemed like a minor offense.

A quiet voice drew Clark’s attention back to the bathroom door.

“Jo,” the girl said. “My name’s Jo.”

She stared, eyes locked on the screwdriver jutting like a gruesome goatee from under Parrot’s chin.

“Hi, Jo,” Clark said softly. He moved quickly to cover the dead man with a sheet and then held the heavier bedspread out for the girl. The blood-soaked towel slipped off her shoulders as she took it, revealing an angry burn on her neck. A brand.

“You want to call your mom?” he asked softly.

“My mom’s dead,” the girl said. Her chin quivered as she spoke.

“Your dad?”

The girl shook her head. “Oh, hell no!” she said, sounding heartbreakingly like someone twice her age.

“The police, then,” Clark said.

Adrenaline from the fight began to ebb, leaving him suddenly sore and exhausted. His eyes misted over as he imagined the horrors the poor kid must have endured.

“Are you a policeman?” the girl asked.

“Not exactly.”

“The police stopped Parrot’s car twice, you know,” Jo said. “But they was always lookin’ for drugs.” She closed her eyes, starting to tremble at the memory. “Parrot, he just hug me in close to him and say in my ear, ‘You my drugs, Jo. You my drugs.’ Them cops didn’t ever even notice me, I don’t believe. Maybe they think I was his daughter or somethin’.”

Clark put the back of a hand to his eye, wiping away a tear, and realized he still had the black balaclava pulled over his head. “Don’t be scared.”

Jo shook her head. “You ain’t scary, mister,” she said. “Nobody looked at me and cried in an awful long time. Nobody at all…”

Jo went into the bathroom and put on a pair of shorts and a loose T-shirt while Clark examined the camera and computer setup.

By the time she came out, he had Dorian sitting upright, hands behind his back, a piece of duct tape across his mouth. On the other side of the bed, as far away as humanly possible without falling off, the purple-haired girl breathed peacefully, fear or embarrassment making her keep up the unconscious act.

“You like music?” Clark asked.

Jo nodded.

He’d pulled up some music his grandson liked on his cell phone and connected the earphones he carried for backup communication with other Campus members.

“How about… Imagine Dragons… or… Maroon 5?” In truth, Clark was just reading off a playlist. He had no idea what either of the bands sounded like, but if his grandson liked them, maybe the girl would, too. He imagined she hadn’t gotten to make a choice about anything in some time.

Jo almost smiled.

Clark pulled the only chair in the room away from the wall.

“How about you listen to the music,” he said. “I have some things I need to talk over with Dorian.”

Clark put the purple-haired girl’s earbuds back in her ears. Hopefully, her music would blot out what was about to happen. He was beginning to fear that something might be physically wrong with her, but she opened one eye, chickenlike, and shot a quick look at him before slamming it back shut again.

Across the room, Jo slumped low in the chair, suddenly a teenager again. She looked up suddenly and took out one earbud to give Clark a quizzical look. Her voice was calm now, matter-of-fact.

“You gonna kill him, mister?”

Dorian gave a muffled cry behind the duct tape. He began shaking all over, eyes wide as saucers.

“No,” Clark said. “We’re going to use his computer to let him call the police.”

“Cool,” Jo said, and went back to her music.

Clark ripped the tape from Dorian’s mouth and then walked back across the room to retrieve the screwdriver from Parrot’s jaw. It came out with a sickening croak, which only added to the psy ops. Palmetto was used to being in charge — the one calling the shots over kids like Magdalena Rojas, Jo, and the girl with the purple hair. Finding himself at the mercy of a determined killer like John Clark had him completely unglued.

Dorian’s chest heaved with sobs. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Oh, I know that,” Clark said, leaning in close so the girls couldn’t hear. “What I’d really like to do is put a bullet in your brain pan. And to be honest, I still might. But I need some information first.”

All the air seemed to leave the man. “What do you want? I mean, just take the girls. They’re yours, man.”

Clark didn’t bother to wipe Parrot’s blood off the blade, but held it in plain view while he quizzed Palmetto in a harsh whisper about Matarife and Zambrano. Palmetto held nothing back, giving the location of Emilio Zambrano’s ranch as well as an address west of Dallas where Matarife might be hiding out.

Clark cocked his head to one side, holding the bloody screwdriver like he hadn’t decided what to do with it yet. “So you’re the one who found Magdalena?”