Sawbones: A Novella. Stuart MacBride
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Sawbones
by
Stuart MacBride
Copyright
This novella is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Harper
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
Copyright © Stuart MacBride 2008
First published in 2008 in Great Britain by Barrington Stoke Ltd
This edition published by HarperCollins 2011
Stuart MacrBide asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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Ebook Edition © 2011 ISBN: 9780007447107
Version: 2015-09-15
Dedication
For Tammy, Bill and the
Original Issue Kid.
With many thanks to Rick, Mike and Pat.
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
From the Author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3 - Laura’s Ex-Boyfriend
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8 - Laura Jones – Not quite dead yet
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
About the Author
From the Author
A couple of years ago I stayed with some friends in Iowa, eating too much barbecue and learning how to shoot the kind of guns you only get to see in movies. Ever since then I’ve wanted to write something dark and twisted set in the USA, and Sawbones is my first stab at it.
Barrington Stoke said they’d never had a serial killer book before (as it’s not easy to make one work without turning the thing into a doorstop-sized lump of paper) but would I have a go? Woo-hoo! Damn right I would. This book was the result.
Most of my crime novels are set in my home town of Aberdeen. The cops are the good guys and everything has to be done by the rules. So Sawbones was a great excuse to throw all those rules out of the window and just have fun.
If every book was as much fun to write as this one was, I’d be a much less grumpy sod than I am.
Hope you enjoy it,
Stuart
Chapter 1
Soon as I see the police cruiser in the rear-view mirror I know we’re fucked. Friday morning, fifteen miles out from Bloomington, Illinois and pouring with rain. Bouncing back up off the grey tarmac in the early dawn light. The cruiser holds back – must be running a check on our out-of-town number plate. I knew it was a bad idea to steal something with an ‘I
Henry’s sitting beside me in the passenger seat. He hears me swearing and turns to stare out the back window. The cruiser’s lights swirl red and white through the rain. The cop wants us to pull over. “God-damn it, Mark,” Henry says to me. “What did I tell you?”
“Hey, don’t look at me, I been driving like an old lady all the way from New Jersey. No speeding, no nothing.”
“Son-of-a-bitch.”
For Henry, that’s pretty mild.
He runs a hand through his long, grey hair and scowls at Jack in the back seat.
“Listen up,” he says. “You don’t do shit unless I tell you. Understand?”
Jack isn’t listening. He’s checking his Glock nine mm, making sure it’s loaded and ready to blow some poor bastard’s head off.
Henry glowers at him. “I said, do – you – understand?”
Jack shrugs, then winces. He looks like shit with his nose all broken and two black eyes, but he’s a fucking super-model compared to Brian, the guy he’s sitting next to.
Henry reaches a hand back between the seats as I pull over onto the hard shoulder.
“Give me the gun.”
Jack doesn’t look at him. “Fuck you.” He doesn’t sound nowhere near as cocky as he did when we started this thousand-mile-long road trip. But he’s still trying to be the hard man. He peels back a chunk of torn seat cover and slips the gun in under the dirty-yellow padding. “Happy now?”
Henry looks at him. “You and me going to have another problem?”
I kill the engine – now the only sound is Jack’s wheezy breathing and the rain drumming on the roof. I look in the mirror again and see the State Trooper climb out into the storm. He’s on his own – no partner sitting in the car. Maybe we can talk our way out of this after all?
He clumps his way through the rain till he’s standing at my window, water dripping from the round brim of his big brown hat.
“Mornin’, officer,” I say, keeping it light and friendly, “horrible weather, eh?” I give him my best smile.
“Long way from New Jersey,” he says in his shitkicker drawl. The guy looks like death warmed up. Bags under his eyes, blue-grey stubble on his chin.