tooth into the cup, he sat back on his heels and tore off the safety glasses. The head rolled a quarter turn, its mouth a snaggly hole. Wesley stumbled to his feet, walked to the nearest bush and threw up.
Mouse chuckled, then picked up the cup of teeth and headed back to the Town Car. “When you’re finished, let’s go.”
Wes wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “What about the head?”
“Leave it. It’s supposed to be a hundred degrees today—the bugs and the birds will take care of it.”
“What about the skull?”
“Hell, if someone does find it, they’ll probably take it home and put it on their bookshelf.”
Wesley walked back to the car to put the tools and gloves in a bucket in the trunk. He stopped for a moment and let the reality of what he’d done wash over him, then he slammed down the lid with revulsion.
“Hey, take it easy,” Mouse called. “Get in.”
Wes crawled into the front seat, hot and sweaty, the stink of rotting flesh in his nostrils.
“Moist towelette?” Mouse asked, extending one of those little foil packets that barbecue joints pass out to customers.
He took it and tore it open, then unfolded the disposable towel and held it against his face, breathing in the antiseptic smell. God, that was the worst thing he’d ever done. He had a feeling he’d be having nightmares about it for a while. He needed a hit of Oxy, bad. He reached for his backpack just as his phone rang from inside. Wes pulled it out and frowned. The screen said he had eight messages and the incoming call was from Carlotta—something was wrong.
“I need to get this,” he said to Mouse, then flipped up the phone. “Yeah?”
“Wes, where are you? I’ve left you a half-dozen messages.”
“Um, I’ve been working. Is something wrong, sis?”
He listened with incredulity as she told him how she’d discovered that Michael Lane had been living in their parents’ bedroom. He shook his head, his mind racing at the implication—the psycho had been roaming around their house at all hours, doing chores? “That’s crazy. For how long?”
“We think since Friday.”
“Jesus Christ, why aren’t we dead?”
“Good question. Michael obviously had ample opportunity to do whatever he wanted.”
He hated hearing the fear in his sister’s voice. “They don’t know where Lane is?”
“Not yet. But at least Jack knows he’s on the run again, so they have an APB out on him.”
“I’m going to install a security system in the town house,” he said. Guilt tightened his chest. He should’ve done it before now, considering all the trouble the pair had been in lately. He wasn’t doing a very good job of taking care of his sister after years of her taking care of him.
“I think that’s a good idea. But meanwhile, Peter invited me to stay at his house until the dust settles.”
He frowned. “You’re moving in with Peter?”
“I’m staying at his house,” she corrected. “And Jack is having a CSI team go over the town house, so you should come, too. Peter has plenty of room.”
He remembered the man’s huge home from when he and Coop had gone there to remove the body of Peter’s wife after she’d drowned in the pool. “Thanks, but I’ll probably crash with Chance.”
“Okay,” she said, although he could feel her disapproval vibrating over the line. Carlotta didn’t like his buddy Chance Hollander—she thought Chance was a bad influence on him. Little did she know that he’d just performed oral surgery on a severed head while Chance was probably watching cartoons.
“Wes, there’s something else. It looks like Michael stole your money before he left.”
His stomach fell. “No…no…. no. Are you sure?”
“I didn’t touch it, so if it’s gone, that only leaves Michael.”
He leaned his head back and groaned.
“I’m sorry, I know you had plans for that money. But in the scheme of things, we’re lucky to be alive.”
“Yeah, I know. But still.”
“So, how’s the courier job going?” she asked cheerfully.
He glanced down at the cup of teeth in the console and his intestines cramped. “Fine and dandy.”
“Good. I’ll have my cell phone with me, and here’s the number at Peter’s.”
“Okay,” he said, taking down the information. “Later.”
He disconnected the call and sighed.
“Trouble at home?” Mouse asked.
“You know it.” Now he really needed a hit of Oxy. Reaching into his backpack, he palmed a pill into his mouth and chewed.
“What’s that?”
“What’s what?”
“Whatever you just put in your mouth, smart-ass.”
Wesley frowned. “What do you care?”
“Didn’t take you for a druggie,” Mouse said, looking almost disappointed.
“Don’t sweat it, man. It’s just something to take the edge off.” He wrapped his fingers around the section of his arm where The Carver had lived up to his nickname by etching the first three letters of his name into Wesley’s forearm after Wesley had humiliated The Carver in a stunt at a strip club. “My arm still hurts, dude.”
“Maybe so, but drugs’ll mess you up.”
Wesley lifted an eyebrow. “That’s rich coming from you.”
“I’m just saying, little man, watch yourself.”
The cool pleasure of the Oxy coursed through his system, making the day’s events a rosy haze. Still, high or not, he realized that he needed cash, and Mouse wasn’t the kind of guy to pass out bonuses. “Are we through for the day?”
“Yeah. I have to go to my niece’s dance recital. Where can I drop you?”
“Not at the house—the police are there.” Wes lifted his hand. “Don’t ask, man, it’s a long story.” On impulse, he pulled out his phone and brought up Coop’s cell number. After a few rings, Coop answered.
“Hey, Wes, what’s up?”
He wet his lips, suddenly nervous to talk to the man he’d let down by conspiring to steal a body they’d been transporting. “I was wondering if you had any work for me tonight?”
The silence on the other end indicated that Coop wasn’t going to be easily persuaded to trust Wesley again. “I don’t know. We need to talk.”
“Okay, where are you?”
“At the morgue, working in the lab.”
“Can I come by?”
Coop sighed into the phone, then made a frustrated noise. “Uh, sure.”
“Great. See ya.” He closed the phone and glanced at Mouse. “Can you drop me at the morgue?”
Mouse nodded. “Sure.”
“Turn at the next street.”
Mouse laughed and put on his signal. “I know the way, little man. I know the way.”
Wesley swallowed, picturing Mouse driving by the morgue and pitching out bodies like apple cores. He leaned his head back on the headrest. What had he gotten himself into?
3