“Good luck, Mr. Pitt.” The image went black.
Franks snatched his laptop back and immediately began scrubbing files.
* * *
I called Julie from the airport. She was glad to hear that I was back safe, but I was afraid to tell her anything specific over the phone.
“That thing my Dad wanted us to watch for? It’s here. And tell everybody that it’s involved in what we figured out earlier.”
There was a long silence. “That’s not good . . .”
“We’ll make it work.”
“We always do.”
All of this secret squirrel nonsense was making me even more paranoid than usual. I told her I’d catch everyone up when I got back to the hotel, but there was something else that I needed to take care of first. I ended the call with a heavy heart and a nervous stomach.
My greatest worry was what to do about my father. My opportunity for procrastination was over. I needed to learn what he knew. His letter was safe at the Shackleford mansion. I could call him on the phone, but I needed to do this in person. Mom and Dad lived hundreds of miles from here, and the selfish, weak, human part of me was thankful that seeing them right this minute was impossible. I’d faced all manner of evil, but I didn’t know if I had the guts to do this one simple task.
I needed to talk to someone who would understand. I needed to talk to family.
The hazardous materials folks at Dugway had given me a large nylon bag to put my armor and weapons in, which enabled me to make it through the airport to hail a cab without causing any freak-outs or calls to the police. I’d already gotten one tour of the Clark County jail, didn’t particularly want another. I gave the cabbie Mosh’s address and then went back to wondering how I was going to tell my little brother that I had to end our father’s life.
* * *
Las Vegas was a nocturnal city by nature, so despite it being late, the traffic still sucked. The cab ride gave me even more time to think, which was the last thing I had wanted to do.
My brother was on the opposite end of the strip from where MHI was staying. This casino was older, more run-down, but he was living there for free as long as he played a few solo shows every week. There was a huge publicity shot poster of him at the entrance, looking all steely-eyed, with his shaved head and really long goatee, wearing a leather vest that showed off his muscular arms and intricate tats. The interior of this casino was dim, smelled like cigarette smoke, and was filled with old people playing nickel slot machines. I asked a cocktail waitress who was too worn down by life to be wearing an outfit that skimpy for directions. Tonight’s show was almost over.
The stage was in a bar in the back of the casino. Once I got past the pings and whistles of the electronic slots, I followed the sounds of a guitar. I paid the cover charge and got my hand stamped by a fat man at the door. I was glad to see there was still a pretty good-sized crowd. It was nothing like the mob he had been able to draw before, but the hardcore loyal fans hadn’t abandoned him. I made my way in, squeezing past a lot of men wearing spikes and chains and women with too little clothing and lots of extra piercings.
The song was a new one. Low key . . . sad. I didn’t think I’d ever heard him sound like that before. I’d heard him play loud, boisterous, frantic, often angry, but never depressed. This was a new development.
I spotted Mosh in the back, on the stage, all alone except for a stool, some pedals, a microphone, and his guitar. I was glad that it was dark and the lights were shining in his eyes. I was worried seeing me in the audience might have screwed him up.
My brother looked rough, worn down, tired. I was used to seeing him with a certain boundless enthusiasm, especially when he was playing. The look on his face was one of concentration, of frustration, not that zen look of this is what I love that he used to have. He’d been the best in the world at something, only that had been ripped away and stolen. The fun was gone.
He still sounded great. He’d never been proud of his vocals, but I’d always thought he had a good voice. Considering that he’d lost most of the feeling and dexterity in his fret hand, his playing sounded remarkably solid. It took me a second to realize what was different. He’d switched sides. He was playing the frets with his right hand. He’d re-taught himself how to play as a left-hander.
Mosh finished his sad song, looked up from his guitar, said “Thank you, Las Vegas.” And then walked off the stage before anyone even realized they were supposed to clap. There were cheers and a chant for an encore, but there weren’t going to be any encores tonight. My brother was done. Life had kicked his ass. When the lights came back on over the disappointed crowd, the stage was empty.
It was a real bummer of a finale.
A security guard wouldn’t let me backstage. There was no need to complicate things so I didn’t push it. I knew where he was staying. It had taken Melvin less than five minutes to get the room number for me.
There was another poster of Mosh in the elevator. This one was more recent than the older publicity poster in the entrance. I know it isn’t cool for rock stars to smile in pictures, but here he just looked grim. No surprise. This was the best job he could find after getting kicked out of the band that he’d founded and dragged to the top. They’d said they didn’t need his baggage. They were idiots. Sure, I was biased, but Mosh was a musical genius, brilliant performer, and sharp businessman. He had built Cabbage Point Killing Machine. They were nothing without him.
“Quit staring at me,” I muttered at the poster.
Even though they’d been surgically reattached with relative success, having his fingers cut off by the cultists had ruined him. His guitar playing had gone to hell, and his life had followed along. Myers’ cover-up had pinned the blame for the destruction in Montgomery on my brother’s supposedly drug-addled misadventures. His name was mud, even by rock-star standards. Trashing a place was one thing, having several innocent people die because you’d gone crazy with the special effects and crashed a tour bus into a fuel tanker was something else entirely. He’d avoided criminal charges—only because the MCB didn’t want anyone saying anything too crazy in court about two rampaging oni—but the avalanche of lawsuits had bankrupted him. Their record label had gotten sick of the bad publicity, and now CPKM was floundering along with a new guitarist who couldn’t hold a candle to my brother.
So Mosh was reduced to washed-up celebrity status, playing at a shitty casino to pay the bills, and it was entirely my fault. When they couldn’t get at me, the Condition had targeted my family instead. I was the one they’d wanted, but Mosh had paid my price. It made me wish that I could bring Hood back from the dead so that I could kill him over again. Only this time I would make it hurt more.
I got off the elevator at the penthouse suite, still going over what I was going to say. Hey, dude. Sorry knowing me absolutely ruined your totally awesome life. Oh yeah, and now I’ve got to kill Dad. So how you been?
The hotel had probably been very nice when Sinatra was still singing here, but it hadn’t been remodeled since then. The carpets were dingy. The wallpaper was cracked. I’d heard they were talking about knocking it down and putting up a new casino on the valuable real estate. Many of the traditionalists wanted to save this place out of a sense of nostalgia. Those people probably hadn’t been inside recently, because this dump was ready for the wrecking ball. I knocked. Nobody answered the door. He probably wasn’t back yet, so I settled in to wait.
Just what I needed, more time to think.
Ten minutes later the elevator returned, and when the doors slid open, my brother came out with a girl under each arm. The women weren’t exactly dressed for the church choir, were medium attractive, seemed a little tipsy, and Mosh already had lipstick smears all over his neck. Even being a washed-up rock star had its perks.
“Hey.”
Mosh looked up from his distractions and saw me. Surprise registered on his face for just a second before he forced a smile. “Hey, bro.” The greeting was awkward. “What’re you d
oing here?”
“In town for a convention . . . I’m staying at the Last Dragon.” I nodded at the party girls. “Bad time?”
His thick eyebrows drew together into an angry V. “It’s all bad times now.” His left hand was resting on one woman’s bare shoulder and his fingers twitched inadvertently. “Ever since . . . you know . . . Ladies, this is my big brother Owen. I owe him so much.”
“Your brother?” Even the groupies sensed the sudden tension. “You guys do look kind of alike.”
“He looks more like Mom,” I said. “Sadly, I take after our Dad.”
“I always was the lucky one.”
This had been a bad idea. I looked at the ugly carpet. “You know, I’ll just come back later.”
“Naw, it’s cool,” Mosh said, sounding resigned. “I can’t avoid you forever.”
“We’ve got some more girlfriends downstairs. We can call them and throw a party,” suggested one of the aspiring brain surgeons. “Your brother’s sort of cute.”
Now she was just lying. I was a lot of things, but cute wasn’t one of them.
“Don’t waste your time. My brother here’s not the party type. Owen is married to an absolutely stunning, beautiful, loving, completely homicidal woman. Did you girls know that my brother is a professional Monster Hunter? For real . . . He kills monsters for a living. Dude’s like a superhero. He’s killed werewolves, zombies, vampires, you name it.”
“Mosh, please . . .”
“Nuh-uh.”
“No way.” Giggle.
“Yeah, way. All that stuff is real. See, but this one time Owen pissed off this ancient squid god from outer space. That’s how I really lost my fingers. Asshole death cultists kidnapped me and took them off with a hacksaw blade. That bus accident was just a bunch of lies. Huh, Owen? Tell them.”
MCB would drop him like a hot rock if he kept this up. “You trying to get in trouble? You know how the system works.”
“The system? Oh, yeah, I know all about the system. The system is why I’m here now. Yeah, ladies, monsters are real. Straight from your worst nightmares, things you can’t even imagine, but my big brother protects us from them. Huh? Tell them, Owen. Let us hear your tales of glory.”
“Shut up.”
He pointed at the nylon bag I had over one shoulder. “You got Abomination in there? Going to go save the day, dispense some monster justice? That’s what really happened in Montgomery. This giant red monster and his purple bitch sister, they killed those people, not me.”
One bimbo was giggling hysterically, but the other one was actually paying attention, eyes wide, looking between me and my brother. She actually seemed rather perceptive for someone with a nose piercing.
“You keep talking like that in public and the MCB—”
“The MCB will what? Ruin my life?”
“They’ll end your life, dumb shit.”
Mosh let go of the girls. He couldn’t hide the anger anymore. “You—”
“We need to talk.” I cut him off. If he wanted to have a fight, we should at least do it someplace private. “It’s important.”
“Oh, really? Whose life are you planning to wreck this time?” Mosh sneered.
“Dad’s.”
He stopped, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then rubbed his face with both hands. Knowing Mosh, he’d either calm down or take a swing at me. I got lucky. Once he composed himself, he addressed the groupies. “Diane, Cindy . . .”
“Cathy.”
“Yeah, whatever. I’ve got to jet. Family business. Sorry.” He pulled two red tickets out of his vest. “These are good for drinks on me at the bar downstairs. Enjoy yourselves. I’ll catch you ladies after another show.”
The groupies made disappointed noises. “Do they validate parking?” Cathy asked, but Mosh was already steering them back toward the elevator.
He roughly bumped into my shoulder as he passed. “Thanks for ruining my evening.” He unlocked his door, I followed him inside, and he slammed it shut behind us. “You’re an asshole.”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt your date.”
“How’d you find me?”
“Your show isn’t a secret. Big sign out front. I even saw your face on a taxi.”
“How’d you know my room number?”
“If you would’ve returned my calls, I wouldn’t have had to have my IT troll hack into the hotel computer.”
Mosh just shook his head, stomped across the suite, and flopped onto the couch. “Make it quick. I’m busy.”
I took in the surroundings. The place was a mess. Mosh had never been what I would’ve described as tidy, but this was the room of someone who just didn’t care. There was a pink bra hanging from the ceiling fan. Discarded takeout boxes were piled on the counter, and the coffee table was covered in many empty and partially empty liquor bottles. “This place doesn’t have maid service?”
He put his gigantic leather metal-studded boots on the table. “I put out the sign. Do not disturb. Been disturbed enough lately.” Mosh sighed. “Sit already. You standing there just pisses me off more. All looming like that.”
Abomination’s bag went on the carpet. I sat on the loveseat across from him. “You’re just bitter that I got the tall genes.” I had him by a few inches.
“You got the stupid genes too . . . What do you want?”
“I’ve been trying to get a hold of you.” This was worse than I’d expected. Him sitting there glaring at me wasn’t helping. We hadn’t talked much lately. He’d been pretty charged up at first, thinking he was going to overcome adversity and all of that type of thing. He had even joked around about applying for MHI, but then the constant smears, negative publicity, and avalanche of lawsuits had slowly ground him down. “I’ve been worried.”
Mosh snorted. “I’m a nobody musician. I’m a has-been. Why worry about me? You’re Mr. Dangerous. You’re the Chosen One.”
“Yeah, it’s a real picnic. Look, man, you know I’m sorry about—”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
We sat there in an uncomfortable silence. There was an acoustic guitar leaning on the arm of the couch. Mosh picked it up and began to strum it absently.
I looked at the bottles. There were a lot of them. “Drink all that yourself?”
“None of your damned business. Is this an intervention? Is that why you’re here, Owen?”
“Two things . . .” I would tackle the easy one first, I’d get to killing Dad in a minute. “You dropped off the face of the Earth. You haven’t talked to anybody. We’re worried—”
“I’m fine.” Pitts are such terrible liars.
“I know you’ve been through a lot. I can help out.”
His face turned red. “I don’t want your money.”
He had taken that entirely the wrong way. “That’s not what I meant.” Mosh watched me for a bit, trying to decided if I was intentionally trying to offend him or not, then turned away from me and started playing a song, something familiar, from when we were kids and he’d been taking classical lessons. It sounded amazing. Almost as good as before. “I heard you play tonight. You sounded good.”
“It was pathetic.”
“Naw, it was great.”
“You’re deaf. Always have been. It’s from all that shooting. This? This is trash. This is embarrassing.”
The tune he was playing now was incredibly complicated, and his fingers were flying back and forth with blinding speed. It was amazing, and he was doing it all with the wrong hand. I didn’t try to talk, I just listened, hoping that he would open up. I watched the scowl of concentration on his face grow deeper, and then I understood what was wrong.
It was beautiful, haunting, better than anything almost anyone else would ever be capable of producing, but it wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t now, and probably never would be, as good as he’d once been. And that was killing him.
“I’m impressed,” I said quietly.
Mosh struck one last harsh, discordant note, then took the acou
stic guitar by the neck and swung it against the table. Bottles bounced across the room. The guitar flew away in pieces. He stood up, fists clenched, veins popping out in his neck, and shouted, “I don’t want your pity!”
I got up and got in his face. “Then stop being pathetic.”
Mosh’s teeth were clenched and I got ready for him to hit me. “You ruined me, Owen! Is that what you want to hear? You want to rub it in? I had everything. Now I’m nothing, and it’s all your fault!”
“I know.” I had also tried to trade my life for his, but now wasn’t the time to bring that up. “I was the target, not you. I’m sorry.”
He glared at me for a long time, nostrils flared, and I wondered if that was how I looked when I got mad.
“I’m sorry,” I repeated.
“I wish it was that easy. It’s not just you.” Mosh broke away and began pacing. “They wrecked me. They wrecked my name. They wrecked my career. Everyone thinks I’m a scumbag. Sure, I’ve done some crazy things. I’ve had some fun. But I never hurt anybody. Now everyone thinks I’m the kind of guy that can just negligently kill a bunch of people, but I’m not going to go give some public, weepy apology for something I didn’t do, so now, even worse, I’m a heartless bastard negligent murderer. MCB’s happy. The bunch of lying bastards.”
“That’s what the MCB does,” I agreed.
“Like you can talk. You’re a liar too. You lie about everything you do! Your whole life is one big lie.” He continued pacing and yelling at me, calling me every name in the book, but I just took it. He needed to get it out. I could tell he was starting to cry a bit, but trying to hide it. “You play their game. You take their money. How are you any better than them?”
I didn’t have a good answer. Like he’d believe me if I told him I’d do this for free anyway. I shrugged. “Someone has to do it.”
“Thought so.” Once he’d railed against me and the government, he got to the Sanctified Church of the Temporary Mortal Condition, the entity that had physically dragged him into this world to begin with. “And the cult. They’re still out there. You know it, I know it.” The pacing stopped. “It was awful. They tied me to a chair. Then that evil psycho British chick sawed my fingers off! She laughed while I screamed! She thought it was fun. She thought it was fucking hilarious.”
Monster Hunter Legion Page 14