Worse Angels

by Laird Barron

  Even accounting for wading into bureaucratic sloth, I’d earn a princely sum for going through the motions and confirming the ME’s findings. The fact it was a closed case meant zero entanglement with the police; always a plus. The problem? In my erstwhile romantic pining to tread the path of a hardboiled PI, I hadn’t envisioned taking on elite business concerns or ruthless politicians. I knew what dons could do. CEOs and senators can do worse. Smacking around small-time crooks, tailing cheating spouses, and tracking down low-rent scofflaws was always my intended bread and butter. Perhaps dealing with the occasional stiff. I’d done plenty of tracking, tailing, and smacking over the past couple of years. Just not vigorously enough to make myself whole.

  Catch the second? Easy money is seldom by any means easy. The man paying me was a wolf among sheep. Adeyemi’s instincts whispered that something was amiss. I paid grudging heed. He’d climbed his mountain the hard way and made every right choice along the path. That took more than stubbornness or dumb luck. His avuncular cruelty was another of nature’s not-so-subtle warning signs. This one said WATCH YOUR ASS.

  A blue-collar detective is playing a fool’s game to delve into corporate malfeasance. Previous encounters with such entities should’ve taught me to run the opposite direction. Alas, money talks louder than common sense. I accepted Adeyemi’s case because I was short on dough, not because I liked the smell of the proposition. Those hospital stays to treat my busted skull and the numerous follow-ups had ripped a hole in my savings. The sound of an MRI motor is the world’s loudest cash register hoovering a patient’s wallet. Cut-rate health insurance wasn’t built to weather this kind of storm. Another mob perk I’d taken for granted—the Family paid for every bump, bruise, and bullet hole incurred in the line of duty.

  Except . . . this dead nephew case represented more than a chance to bail my leaky financial boat. I’ll admit that pride figured into the equation. I love to challenge authority. Wave a red cape under my nose and I’m liable to react.

  Mostly, however, it was about the dough.

  * * *

  ■■■

  Lionel appeared on my doorstep, staggering and depleted as the messenger at Marathon. He’d competed in an all-night online poker tournament, stopped to check the news, and beheld the red ticker of woe that media runs at the top of the page.

  The Feds nabbed Adeyemi at JFK airport and whisked him to arraignment. There were many counts. Extortion, witness tampering, and obstruction of justice were the trio that received most of the play-by-play analysis from the network and cable talking heads.

  Lionel sat on the couch, beer in hand.

  “I wouldn’t be rushin’ to any conclusions, but I foresee an accident for a certain ex-bodyguard, ex-majordomo-slash-pimp, cum freelance douchebag.”

  “An accident?” I said. “Like that former advisor to the Kremlin who died in a Virginia hotel room. The dude ‘fell’ repeatedly and severed his spine.”

  “What kind of medical examiner signs off on such bullshit? Two-to-one gets you Adeyemi is sleeping with the fishes sooner or later.”

  “Adeyemi is an evil sonofabitch. Even the fish won’t eat him.”

  “Amigo, this deal is extra dicey,” he said. “Possible corporate espionage. Dirty ex-cops. Russian mafia. A rotten senator. Why the hell did Adeyemi sic you on Redlick anyway? Must’ve been pissed off at getting the cold shoulder.”

  “He didn’t sic me on anybody. He asked me to double-check the facts.”

  “Redlick Group and Zircon won’t appreciate your due diligence.”

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re worried digging into the corporate side will jinx your canoodling with Delia?”

  “The way you blunder around . . . I’m probably shit outta luck. Don’t inadvertently ruin my love life, bro. That’s all I ask.”

  “Scout’s honor,” I said.

  “You need the cash,” he said. “I need the cash. Who doesn’t need the cash? Seriously, Delia says her dad has it in for you. The riffraff on his payroll would have no problem taking a shot if he gave the order.”

  “Understood. Anything happens to me, certain papers and videos linking Zircon to the Croatoan will surface. Should keep the wolves at bay until a better plan comes along.”

  “I don’t like it.” His lip curled like a dog that’s scented danger. This meant he actually liked it. He was perverse.

  “May not even be a case with this development. I’ll have my guy call Adeyemi’s lawyer and verify.”

  “With your luck? The case is on like Donkey Kong.”

  I changed the subject and jokingly asked if he’d blown his “riding west” bankroll. Over the past months, we’d spoken in desultory fashion of moving on from our halfway house existence—me tying the knot with Meg, him touring west into Northern California.

  “The West Coast isn’t ready for you,” I said. “Wyoming, Montana, maybe Alaska. Be a cowboy, a drifter. They like cowboys in all those bass-ackward states. You’d have to wear a ball cap or a cowboy hat and learn to ride a horse.”

  “California or bust. Pot growers’ mecca over there. Mexican cartels are moving in, putting the clamp on the locals. Getting to be a violent business with traditional growing families on the losing end. Home team could probably use some help. A sniper. A combat engineer. A fuckin’ ninja who knows his way around booby traps.”

  “Do you really, truly, sincerely want to get involved in a guerilla war between pot plantation owners and the cartels?”

  He sipped his beer and smirked.

  “What about Delia?” I said. The couple were hot and heavy or estranged depending upon the day of the week, the weather, or the alignment of the planets.

  Gloom wiped away his smile.

  “Don’t think she’d be much help setting claymores,” he said.

  * * *

  ■■■

  I rented an office a few miles northeast of Hawk Mountain. Stone Ridge is a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it hamlet located north of the Shawangunks and south of the Catskills. Business had steadily improved (thank the gods or I’d have been a permanent resident in the poorhouse instead of a frequent guest), so I hired a receptionist to answer the phone and keep my affairs organized. Theodora Nowakowski—late twenties, brunette, kind and sweet-natured, but terse in the finest New York tradition. I gathered from the interview that she was a long-suffering Islanders fan who liked scotch on the rocks, dogs, and hiking the Shawangunks. She answered to Ted. Not Teddy, Dora, nor gods pity the wretch, Theodora. Her dad called her Ted because he’d expected a boy, and that was all she’d say in regard to family.

  To break the ice, I asked her to name a favorite fictional detective.

  She regarded me blandly.

  “I’m thinking Columbo.”

  Lastly, how did she feel about guns? She opened her purse to flash a petite Smith & Wesson Airweight revolver. I didn’t pry into how she’d acquired a carry permit, which is tough to get in New York. After I hired her, she kept the gun in the top shelf of the reception desk during work hours. She hung photos of Ruth Bader Ginsburg and her Bernese Mountain dog, Valentino. Ted stamped her imprint on the office from day one.

  I walked in the Monday following Thanksgiving weekend. Primarily to make an appearance, but also to double-check my emergency stash in the office safe. Clear and cool on the heels of the weekend snow. An excuse to tromp around in a fur-lined Levi’s jacket and insulated Wellingtons.

  “You have a noon meeting with McLaren at the GG.” Ted didn’t glance up from her monitor. She raised her hand with a piece of memo paper and I plucked it on the way by.

  “I hope he’s buying.”

  “He’s a lawyer.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means, bring your wallet.”

  A detective’s safe should contain a spare gun, unspecified documents, some glossy photos of a dodgy nature, at least two rolls
of hundred-dollar bills, and a hideout pistol. I’d hocked the automatic and was down to a fifty and loose fives and ones.

  I slipped the fifty into my pocket. Before shutting the safe, I promised the remaining scrabble of cash I’d bring it some company soon.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Chris McLaren, Esquire, awaited me in Rosendale at the Green Goddess, an upscale dive in the alley-side cellar of a converted church. GG qualified as a speakeasy in the contemporary sense because it blithely ignored state no-smoking laws. Edgar Allan Poe’s spirit mingled with clove and cigar smoke. The chef fixed a mean turkey club. I ordered one of those and a bottle of stout.

  Red (his nickname when he played offensive tackle for the Orangemen) handled general legal matters for Coleridge Investigations. Mainly that amounted to negotiating contracts, composing threatening missives on my behalf, or apologizing for my behavior, as the situation warranted.

  “Okay, yeah, right, so look,” he said. “I spoke with the stuffed suit, Tampon, Tamblin, what-the-fuck his name is.”

  “Adeyemi’s lawyer.”

  “More like executor now that Adeyemi is in lockup and either headed for witness protection, the big house, or the grave. Tambour. Tambour, right. Overeducated chode. His money spends, so fuck it.”

  “The investigation is a go?” To say I had mixed emotions would be underselling it.

  “Adeyemi, being a paranoid motherfucker, planned for this contingency. You are green-lighted.” Red wrote several figures in his memo book, tore the paper out, and pushed it across the table. His hands were as big and blocky as the rest of him. “One-month retainer plus basic expenses. Be in your account by tomorrow. Tambour says to hit him with a biweekly report. Run dry on funds, he’ll discuss bumping up the retainer. I doubt it, so plan accordingly.”

  “Okay, tell him I’m on the case.”

  He removed a thumb drive from his pocket.

  “The insurance investigation, police report, and incidentals. A shitload of incidentals.”

  “Incidentals?”

  “Adeyemi included a bucketload of info about the Jeffers Project. Documents are diamond-heist-thorough. Must be swell to have pals in the federal government. Some personal material . . . videos of Sean Pruitt’s wedding, public speaking engagements, interviews he did in high school. Off the wall, huh? Help you build a profile.”

  “Highlights, please.”

  “Didn’t you and Adeyemi go over this?”

  “Time to earn.”

  Red gestured placatingly.

  “Right on. The deceased, one Sean Miles Pruitt. Aged thirty-one and getting no older. Youngest of three. Brother and sister live in Canada and England, respectively. Both flew the coop while he was in middle school. Sean graduated Sonoma State U, cultural anthropology with a side of sociology. Two traffic infractions and nary a blip on the radar otherwise. Happily married, on the surface, at least. Bounced around various jobs until he landed a gig with Diogenes, subsidiary of the Redlick Group. Worked his way from their equivalent of the mail room to Special Operations, security team. Three years after that, he’s a goner.”

  Red went on to explain that the toxicology report indicated several active drugs in Sean Pruitt’s system. An over-the-counter allergy medication, clonidine for hypertension, a prescription antidepressant, and a synthetic hallucinogen derived from a strain of peyote. The body was clothed in a sweater, linen shirt, linen pants, and sandals. Pathology indicated Pruitt had undertaken a thorough cleaning, possibly by steam, prior to death. His pores and hair contained copious remnants of a mineral oil treatment.

  I took the thumb drive.

  “Squeaky clean. Dressed, but not for official duty. Under the influence of a hallucinogen and a combo of drugs that could’ve impaired his ability to function. The ME concludes it’s a suicide case from the decedent’s use of antidepressants and the fact he drove to a remote site and unlocked the shaft. If his intention wasn’t suicide, what else? No mention of a note, though.”

  “Suicides don’t always drop the keys off at the desk when they check out,” he said.

  “Well, that’s kind of dark.”

  “Our stories gotta end somewhere. Old age, heart attack, a twelve-floor swan dive into the abyss. You don’t retain me for my bedside manner.”

  When a man is right, he’s right.

  “It’ll take several days to lay the groundwork,” I said. “I’ll organize an itinerary and get myself over to Horseheads first thing next week.”

  Red queued a video on his phone and set it on the table between us.

  “Wanna peek at the prime mover behind the Jeffers Project? The government ponied up a staggering amount of cash, it is a fact. However, it blew my mind when I saw that over sixty percent of the capital was raised by private investors. The Redlick family agitated to build the project, financed the land grab, then hired subsidiaries of their own corporation to provide security and infrastructure. Sweet deal. Ain’t America grand if you’re a fat cat?”

  He pressed the pad and we watched a six-minute infomercial filmed on behalf of the Redlick Group. The narrator who escorted us on our journey of discovery was a relatively young, angular man with shiny helmet-hair and a plastic smile; his motions and expressions were those of a cold, stiff action figure warmed into a facsimile of a human being. Bold script identified him as Thomas Mandibole, Redlick Group spokesperson. I made note.

  Mandibole stepped from a helicopter onto the roof of a skyscraper and walked toward the camera. He wore an ivory jumpsuit blazoned with the Redlick logo—a fiery oval reminiscent of a Catherine wheel, except the inner spokes extended beyond the wheel and became spearheads.

  Redlick Group: the bedrock beneath your feet. Real Estate. Development. Management Solutions. Infrastructure. Construction. Human Resources. Redlick Group can meet your needs through acquisition, design, attraction, training, supply, building, and staffing, here in the USA and globally. As Mandibole gave his spiel, he strode along heavily populated corridors, glancing at clipboards and signing papers thrust at him by grinning functionaries. After a quick cut, he reappeared in an ivory tuxedo, seated at a banquet table. He raised a toast to an assembly of elegantly attired clients.

  Our partners receive nothing less than first-class care, from consultation, through negotiation, and during post-project assessment. He winked and tossed back a flute of champagne into his overly generous mouth. A platinum blonde, baring a stainless-steel smile and most of her torso, poised to refill his drink.

  A succession of rapid scene changes occurred—Mandibole dipping the ravishing blonde on a ballroom floor; Mandibole at the wheel of a Jaguar zooming across a plain, trailing a red dust plume; Mandibole golfing; Mandibole, again in the ivory jumpsuit, on a futuristic factory floor surrounded by robots and harried human workers; stars and planets shone beyond a transparent dome, lending the impression that the Redlick Group would soon be opening factories on an alien moon.

  The man continued his unctuous patter, bolstered by a discreet yet stirring symphony orchestra.

  “So fucking weird,” Red said. “A real live song-and-dance man delivers the song and dance. Goddamned repertory theater Fred Astaire.”

  Redlick Group: the bedrock beneath your feet. Today, tomorrow, the future. A glitch caused the video to disintegrate, Mandibole’s voice dragging at reduced speed like the devil emoting in a cheesy ’70s horror flick. Dark static flowed and might’ve gone on forever if Red hadn’t shut off the video.

  “Well, that’s a trip into the uncanny valley,” I said. My hackles were hackled.

  Red enjoyed my discomfort.

  “You’re an innocent, hailing from some igloo in Alaska, so let me be the first to give you the scoop—these Redlick peeps are fucking loony.” He counted off his fingers. “Redlick Group, Sword Enterprises, Zircon Corp, and Spencer Industries were the main players in the Jeffers Project. Behind the scenes, it’s as debauched
and corrupt as a Roman court during the crash and burn of the empire. Even got their own Adirondacks annual retreat. Call it the Fete of the Void.”

  I wondered if Delia had mentioned this soiree to Lionel.

  “To be a fly on that wall.”

  “It’s a Northeast version of the Bohemian Grove,” Red said. “Twenty-two-foot-tall effigy to some Bronze Age deity; old flabby rich white guys in togas. Lots of booze, lots of filthy secrets. I’m afraid you’d stick out.”

  “Give me a white jacket and a trayful of drinks. I’d be the Invisible Man.”

  He pretended to chuckle while casting around for his wallet.

  I paid the tab as was foretold.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Twice a year, in spring and winter, I seized a bottle of whiskey and visited Reba Walker’s grave at the Pine Hollow Cemetery in Kingston. Granddaughter of Virgil and Jade; my first missing person case and first failure. Recent addition to a lifetime assortment of bitter regrets. I apologized to her headstone, then drank up. Per custom, Lionel fetched me to Meg’s to recover.

  The night after my graveside vigil was a humdinger. Guilt and residual brain damage make for an inadvisable combination. Add a fifth of eighty-proof and let the horror show commence. Routine nightmares mutated in new and disturbing directions. Achilles, companion dog of my bellicose youth, fell from a mountainside, as he had in the waking world, and dashed upon the rocks. Fire devoured a lush, subtropical forest. Extinct moa birds thundered around me, fleeing the inferno. Dad pursued child-me with an oar raised overhead. The sharp, chipped oar he’d struck Mother with and split her skull. His face boiled and dissolved into an inky well. Mom floated behind him in silhouette, arms spread, wailing like a banshee. Soundless, though. A slap in the face without the whip crack.