This chapter may well be a too radical departure in style from the prior chapters. There's no Henry James here at all, only Raymond Chandler. It's Bud's voice as a writer that is heard here, with only a few revisions from me.

(co-written with Bud Quinlan)

7.

Officer Steuben chewed his lip.

Stubs was sure it was a gun and the punk was pointing it at him. To approach the crumpled mass in the road, his weapon still drawn, only to discover he'd killed a young kid with a Super Soaker made Stubs literally sick—but not from fear. It was the thought of the media circus that would follow, with reporters hinting he was a racist, and the damn DA preening for the camera and talking about justice for this stupid, disrespectful kid, that made him queasy. It meant the end of his job, the end of his marriage, the end of the good life he'd known, all because some little animal—

If only it could all go away, the kid's body just vanish into the night (and what kind of parent lets a little kid out this late in this part of town?) and have this just be another uneventful night, then nobody would care. Hell, it would probably be weeks before the kid's parents reported him missing.

He holstered his Glock, took out the burner cell phone that had served him so well in the past, and dialed that same number. There still had to be someone on the other end—all that mess in Sacramento couldn't have taken down the entire organization.

There was only one ring before someone answered the call. There was no hello, not even a yeah, just the faint sound of breath that showed the mighty organization still existed and filled Stubs with the relief he'd craved.

"Tiger, tiger," he said.

(* * *)

It was less than five minutes until the black SUV rolled up. Stubs would have been another casualty of the night if the driver hadn't flashed the lights. Driving in the dark in this part of town with no lights on? This guy was good.

He stood on the passenger side as the SUV came to a halt and the driver's side door opened. "Tiger, tiger," he called, and the hopefulness he'd felt turned to rancid disappointment when he finally saw the driver.

What the hell did they send him, a faggot? The cop was wearing a flashy suit, had cufflinks that shone even in the darkness here, and moved…well, like a dancer. He backed off as the man approached, almost ready to pull his gun again. The Blake Association had come to this?

Then the man's face came into what little light there was, and Stubs felt relieved again. He may have pranced, but the guy's expression was granite, all business, and here (Thank God! Stubs thought) to take care of business. He wondered who his savior worked for. He might even be a Fed, somebody with resources to fix this mess, somebody who wouldn't just be driving them to the edge of the Hill Country with a couple of shovels.

"Tiger, tiger," he repeated, now with a bit of deference, even obsequiousness.

The hoped for reply didn't come. Instead, the rock-faced man seemed to pirouette around the kid's small body, and then turned that solid, solemn expression on Officer Steuben.

"Stubs, Stubs, Stubs," he drawled, "what have you done now?"

How did-how could he know who he was? "You're Austin PD?"

The strange man nodded. "What is this, the third bad shooting you've had this year? It's certainly the worst, and you did the right thing to call, but I'm puzzled: why did you just accept the consequences for the other two? Was it because those victims could still talk? We could have taken care of them too-oh, but I see-then you'd owe the Association favors." He walked close to Stubs, literally getting in his face. "You think you're too important to help out a fellow cop? You didn't want to be called on to, say, retire a perp, is that it? Are you by the book, except when that book is going to get thrown at you?"

Steuben was almost out of his mind with fear. Was the Association really dead, and instead of a getting a helping hand, he'd walked into an Internal Affairs trap? "Look, uh, detective-it's detective, right? You're Austin PD, you know my name-it's not like that, not at all! I just wanted to, wanted to-I mean, of course I played the others by the book, but-"

The lithe man knocked his shoulder against Stubs', and began to laugh. "I'm just breaking your balls, Stubs! I'm here to help, absolutely-and really, you should have called us on those other two shootings. They were just like this one-animals, am I right?"

Stubs laughed weakly and passed his hand over his brow; he was sweating uncontrollably. "Yeah, I just didn't know what the status was with the organization," he babbled. "It's been more than a year and we're still hearing stuff coming out of California about the Association-"

"Stubs, look around! Are we on the West Coast?" He pointed into the black night. "Are those L.A.'s lights you see there, or is it the Texas Hill Country?" He drew back, and lifted a corner of the kid's body with a designer shoe. "It's still Austin, Stubs, and the Association is as strong here as it ever was." He turned, clapped Stubs' shoulder with one surprisingly strong hand while holding out the other. "Let me hear it again."

At first Stubs had no idea what the detective meant. Then he realized and finally relaxed and grasped the outstretched hand with both of his. "Tiger, ti-"

The impact of the first gunshot wound, especially at so close a range, would have pulled Officer Steuben from the handshake of most men, but Mark Johnson was so strong, he was able to pull Officer Steuben even closer to fire a second shot with the tip of his Glock 20's silencer placed directly on the drooping flesh immediately beneath Officer Thomas 'Stubs' Steuben's chin, a double chin that had been tending towards triple from the generous portions of barbecue he had taken to eating on duty since the first bad shooting this year that Mark Johnson had mentioned.

"It's 'Little lamb, little lamb,' now, you obese dinosaur." Johnson practically spat the words at Steuben. He had a police cruiser and two bodies to dispose of in a short period of time. The car wasn't a problem; he'd even brought an IED he could trigger from his cell once he and the bodies were well out of the area. It was how far he'd have to drive before he could bury Steuben and this nameless kid that inflamed his rage. The Blake Association was rebuilding, and it was a good thing that Steuben hadn't called on them for help with his prior shootings; he would have been read into the new rules, from "Little lamb, little lamb" replacing "Tiger, tiger," to eliminating Blake members who had not bothered to help the Association when it most needed them. Steuben was obviously someone who wanted someone else to clean up his messes, but could not be bothered to help others with their messes. In the old days, Johnson could have had two other officers to deal with the bodies, but now it was just he himself and a shovel, driving at high speed to one of Travis County's fast disappearing rural patches. But what made this all the more maddening was that tonight was his first date with Teresa Lisbon, and he liked to be early, well-dressed (and not exhausted from impromptu burials) on his first dates.

He checked the time and decided he would have to delay burying Steuben and the kid until later. He would have to come up with an excuse for not having Teresa to his place should their date go well, but that would be a plus: a woman like Lisbon wouldn't be above sport sex, but a serious relationship with her would take time. And what better way to avenge Red John and take revenge on the man who so damaged this great and secret brotherhood than to have Teresa Lisbon love him? It almost made him sorry he would have to kill her.