Redemption Song (Daniel Faust)

by Craig Schaefer

  “Nobody’s going to stop them,” I said, putting it together.

  Gary furrowed his brow. “Huh?”

  “Nobody’s going to stop them, because this has been orchestrated since the beginning. The whole crusade to purge the cambion back east was a scam. Oh, it happened—maybe some token executions to get the cambion scared and angry—but this was the real endgame: to con Sullivan into bringing his whole merry brigade out west, where they’d be out of the Flowers’ hair and making all kinds of trouble for the Court of Jade Tears. It’s a political gambit. And a damn smart one.”

  And I played right into it, I thought. I pressed Sullivan into a corner and forced him to step up his timetable.

  “Yeah, well,” Gary said. “I’m not any happier than you are about it. I thought I was out and done with those guys a long time ago.”

  “Can’t outrun your sins, Gary. Trust me. I know. So is Lars with him?”

  Gary grabbed a dirty glass from the kitchen and poured himself four fingers of whiskey. He tossed back a swallow, leaning against the wall, and let out a deep breath.

  “Hell no. He—not Lars, the asshole using his body—started ranting about cutting up kids for Satan’s glory or something, and Sullivan nearly beat the crap out of him. Made it pretty clear that if the guy wasn’t a useful bargaining chip, he’d be back in hell so fast it’d make his head spin. He’s got Lars stashed under lock and key until he gets back.”

  “Where?”

  “You know the Honeydew? It’s a no-tell motel that rents by the hour, and the management has a permanent case of cash-induced amnesia. Lars is in room seven. Sullivan left a few guys behind to watch the place and make sure he doesn’t leave.”

  That was the first good news I’d heard all day. I kept a poker face, though.

  “What about Lauren?”

  “I called in,” he said. “Second she found out Sullivan has what she wants, she hung up on me. Presumably to get in touch with him direct.”

  “They’ll meet when he gets back, then. When’s that gonna be?”

  Gary shrugged. “Not long. I figure Sullivan will be here sometime in the morning, assuming the drive back from Denver doesn’t turn into a scene from The Road Warrior.”

  It wouldn’t. The Flowers might make a token show at chasing them, enough to keep Sullivan from getting suspicious, but they’d be all too happy to send their biggest headache right into Prince Sitri’s lap.

  “That’s all for now,” I said. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Gary shook his head. “No. No, this has to stop. First Lauren and Sullivan, then Harmony, and now you trying to pull my strings too? I can’t do this anymore, Faust. I can’t remember what lie I told to who at this point. I’m gonna fuck up, and I’m gonna get killed.”

  “Like I told you. There’s only one person in the world you need to make happy. Me. Now be a good boy and drink your dinner. I’ll call you when I need you.”

  I turned and moved for the door. My hand was almost on the knob when I heard the sound. That distinctive slither of chrome against leather.

  Gary’s shape hovered in the glossy-framed Denver Broncos poster on the wall by the door. I could see the smudge of a pistol in his reflection’s grip, aimed right at my back.

  “I’m pretty good at reading people,” I said calmly, not turning around. “Figuring out their motivations. What makes them tick.”

  He didn’t say anything. I could almost hear him breathe.

  “You’re thinking, right about now,” I said, “that I’m the straw that’s breaking the camel’s back. That if you took me out of the picture, your life would be a whole lot simpler and safer. I don’t blame you for that. If I was in your shoes, I’d feel the same way. But I’m going to ask you a question, Gary. Just one question.”

  Still no reply. I imagined his finger curling around the trigger, a gentle squeeze from doomsday.

  “Gary, you know my name. And you’ve read Harmony’s file on me. The crime scene reports. The speculation and the rumors. You’ve seen the pictures of the bodies. Or what’s left of them. Do you believe what’s in that file, Gary?”

  His voice was almost too soft to hear. “I do,” he whispered. “You’re a fucking monster.”

  “Good. Then I want to ask you another question. You’ll get one shot, Gary, just one shot…so what do you think will happen if it doesn’t kill me?”

  His reflection’s arm wavered, then dropped limply to his side.

  I let myself out.

  Thirty-Four

  I wanted a hot shower and a cool pillow, but neither one was in my immediate future. Sullivan hitting the road had given me a window of opportunity I’d never have again. Sleep would wait.

  I drove out to the Honeydew Motel, killing the Barracuda’s headlights as I rumbled into the parking lot. The place was a dump, lousy with rusted-out pickup trucks and mismatched lawn furniture on the concrete patio. I didn’t imagine many tourists came out this way, but if you needed a place to cook meth or stash a hostage, they were open for business.

  I backed into a parking spot so I could sit low and give the motel a good once-over. One of the street lamps closest to the facade was busted. Another cast its sickly yellow finger across curtained windows and dusty doors, leaving me just enough light to see by.

  An old man with white whiskers and a stained T-shirt sat on a folding chair by the manager’s office. He was halfway through a six-pack of Coors and contemplating the moon. I didn’t figure him for a threat. The hard-eyed skinhead pacing the sidewalk, though, was another story. I let my eyes slip out of focus, calling up my second sight. Now the kid had glowing yellow veins of demon blood to go with his muscles.

  I looked over to room seven’s window. A faint light glowed behind the curtains. Gary had made it sound like Sullivan left more than one guard on duty. Were the others holed up in there with Lars, or had they gotten tired and knocked off for the night? Only one way to find out.

  I made a phone call. When the other end picked up, I said one word.

  “Now.”

  I hung up and swapped the phone for my gun.

  I didn’t like my chances in a fair fight with the cambion out front, so I didn’t give him one. I got out of the car and ambled toward the manager’s office, making like a weary traveler looking for a place to rest his head. As soon as the skinhead reached the edge of his stroll and turned around, I charged him. He heard my running footsteps and turned just in time to get the barrel of my gun jabbed under his chin. I shoved him backward, hard, sending him stumbling into the wall.

  “You stay cool, you live,” I hissed. “You fight, you die.”

  He nodded, wide-eyed. The nod bumped his chin against the barrel of the gun.

  “How many?”

  I didn’t have to specify. He stammered, “Just me.”

  “Just you. Nobody in the room?”

  “With him? No way, man. Nobody wants to be alone with that freak. There were a couple of other guys here, but they went to get some sleep. It’s just me for another couple of hours.”

  “Not a fan of Sullivan’s new buddy, huh?”

  “He’s nobody’s buddy,” the cambion said, his pale lips twisting into a scowl. “That guy’s pure evil, man. That’s not what we’re about. Sullivan’s using him as some kind of collateral. I don’t know the details. My job’s just to babysit him and make sure he doesn’t get a chance to hurt anybody.”

  “Then it’s your lucky night. Making sure he doesn’t get to hurt anybody is exactly what I’m here to do.”

  His eyes flicked downward, toward my gun hand. “What are you gonna do, shoot him? He’s a ghost, man. He’ll just jump into somebody else’s body.”

  “I’ve got something a little more effective in mind. Now you’ve got a choice to make. You gonna try to stop me, or are you gonna go and get yourself a late dinner so you can be far, far away when this goes down?”

  “I promised Sullivan I wouldn’t leave my post. I promised.”

  I jabbed him with the g
un barrel, hard enough to make my point.

  “You can walk away, or I can shoot you dead,” I told him. “Either way, same ultimate outcome. Only difference is whether or not you’ll be alive when the sun comes up. You think Sullivan would want you to die for nothing?”

  He shook his head, as much as he dared to. “N-no.”

  “Then make the smart play. Take a walk.”

  I eased off enough to let him slowly slip to one side, backing away from me. He paused for a heartbeat, and I could see him working up the courage to go for the gun. Then the moment passed. He took a couple of long steps backward.

  “Keep walking,” I said. “In about five minutes, you are not gonna want to be here. Trust me on this.”

  I watched him go, long enough to make sure he wasn’t thinking about doubling back and becoming a dead hero. Then I went and listened at the door of room seven. A light was on, I could see it through the water-stained curtains, but Gilles’s room was silent as the grave.

  Shock and awe was working well for me tonight. I decided to double down and try the same trick twice. I knocked firmly on the door, then put my thumb over the peephole. The Judge rested in my opposite hand, aimed at gut level. I heard shuffling feet, a long pause, and the rattle of the security chain.

  I planned to jump Gilles the second the door opened, rushing in and forcing him to the floor at gunpoint. Funny thing about plans is how they fall apart without warning. The door swung inward, and the next thing I saw was the blur of Gilles’s hand clamping down on my wrist. He hauled me in, twisting as he used my momentum against me, and I went flying over the huge Norwegian’s shoulder. The motel room floor wasn’t much more than a quarter-inch of cigarette-burned carpet over cement and I hit the ground hard, landing on my back and elbow.

  Lars’s possessed body loomed over me with an amused smirk on his lips. He tossed my gun onto the bedspread. I clambered to my feet, trying to scramble backward, and he responded by lashing out with the sole of his boot. I went down again, gasping for breath and clutching my stomach.

  “I fought in the Hundred Years War, stripling!” he said with a giddy laugh. “I’ve sliced and squeezed the lifeblood from men of ten times your valor, and I didn’t have a body like this to do it with. When you dare to face a Knight of Hell, you’d best have an army at your back.”

  I tried to speak, but it burst out in a gasping wheeze. My breath came back slowly, escorted by a flood of black spots in my vision. Gilles drew his own pistol from his shoulder holster, studying it curiously.

  “War has become the province of peasants in this day,” he said with a tinge of regret. “The sword, the lance, those are a real man’s weapons. Weapons of skill and courage. Now you forge portable cannons and allow any fool to carry one in his pocket. Is it any wonder that the right of kings is a distant memory?”

  “We like our violence democratic these days,” I said. “It’s fairer to everybody that way.”

  He tossed his gun to the mattress, joining mine. Still on the floor, propping myself up with my arms behind me, I knew I didn’t have a chance of getting past him to grab either piece. He knew it too. Gilles pulled a stick of polished bone from his back pocket, unfolding it to reveal the blade of a serrated hunting knife.

  “In Baron Naavarasi’s hell I learned new appreciation for the blade,” he said. “Do you know that it’s possible to dress a man like a deer? And that in skilled hands, the entire process can be accomplished in less than ten minutes?”

  “Didn’t know that. Then again, didn’t want to.”

  He tested his thumb against the blade’s edge, gently running skin across the steel. He nodded approvingly.

  “The true mark of a master, though, is the ability to skin a man while keeping him alive, awake and screaming. Blood loss kills quickly, you see, and the victim’s thrashing can mar or ruin the pelt. It’s a technique I’ve always wanted to try, and now that I’m back in the land of the flesh…”

  I thought fast, grasping at straws.

  “I know Naavarasi,” I said. “We’re on good terms. She’ll be cross if you kill me.”

  He shrugged. “She’s not my mistress anymore. My contract is in Sullivan’s hands. I don’t answer to the rakshasi.”

  “Pretty sure Sullivan wanted to kill me himself. He’s gonna be pretty unhappy with you.”

  “And yet he gave no orders on the matter.” Gilles took a step closer and brandished the knife. “And without a direct order, I am free to do as I please. You should be honored, you know. You will be my first mortal victim in centuries. You may be a filthy peasant, but you will die at the hands of a true nobleman. There is honor in that.”

  My ears perked. A sound in the distance, rising with the pounding of my pulse. Just in the nick of time.

  “One last thing,” I said.

  He paused, poised above me and ready to cut.

  “What you said back there, about needing an army to take you on?”

  “Oui?”

  Scarlet lights strobed across the curtains, and sirens wailed like banshees in the dark. Squad cars flooded the parking lot, rolling in one after another. I heard doors rattle and slam as the local population of roaches tried to cut and run, charging headlong into the dragnet of a full-on police raid.

  “I brought one,” I told him.

  Gilles blinked and looked stupidly over his shoulder, trying to parse what was happening. That was when the door burst in and Harmony stood on the threshold, flanked by a pair of Metro cops in uniform.

  “You caught him!” Harmony said, giving Gilles an approving nod. “Good job, Agent Jakobsen. This scumbag isn’t getting away again.”

  “Wait,” Gilles said. “What…what is…?”

  One of the uniforms hoisted me to my feet and tugged my hands behind me. Cold steel ratcheted shut around my wrists, tight enough to squeeze. Harmony plucked my gun from the mattress. A cacophony of shouts and stampeding feet echoed from outside the motel room. I saw a rail-thin junkie with a swastika tattoo on his neck streak past the doorway, only to meet the wrong end of a Taser and go down in a twitching heap.

  “You’re Agent Lars Jakobsen of the DEA,” Harmony said to Gilles with a cold smile. “And you just masterminded a major drug bust. I bet this perp over here is the leader of the whole meth ring.”

  Gilles leaned close to Harmony, looming over her.

  “What are you playing at, woman?” he whispered hoarsely.

  “Remember that little stunt at the parking garage?” she whispered back. “Now it’s your turn. You can play along, or you can show all these heavily armed officers what you really are. Your choice.”

  He straightened, looking from me to her with narrowed eyes. He knew he’d been set up, but he couldn’t figure out the how or the why.

  “Fine,” he grumbled. “You can take him in. I have…paperwork. Police paperwork.”

  “Nonsense,” Harmony said. “This is your collar, your interrogation. I’ll be right there to help, of course, but you should really see this through to the end.”

  That was how Harmony, me, and the spirit of Gilles de Rais ended up in an unmarked police car, with a clueless uniformed rookie riding along for support.

  The night was just getting started.

  Thirty-Five

  The raid hadn’t been subtle. I counted four patrol cars riding convoy with us, and every one had at least two ragged-looking skells in the backseat. Eventually we arrived at the nearest precinct house, an imposing block of weathered granite behind a barbed-wire fence. I ducked my head as Harmony hauled me out of the car.

  Past the concrete crash barriers and the reinforced Plexiglas doors, the seal of the State of Nevada adorned the dirty and scuffed tile floor. The room was a human zoo. The takings from the raid on the Honeydew only added to a chaotic whirlwind of surly, handcuffed perps, frantic public defenders, and a handful of third-shift cops just trying to keep their heads above water. Harmony walked me past the front desk and over to a side door, pausing to flash her badge at an attenda
nt.

  “Federal prisoner here,” she told him. “Can we use one of your interrogation rooms?”

  He checked a clipboard and nodded. “Four should be open. Down on the end, left side.”

  We paused at a hard plastic box set into the wall. Harmony drew her gun and turned her back to us. I heard the box rattle and clank. She looked expectantly at Gilles.

  “What?” he said.

  “You know the rules, agent,” she said. “No weapons in the squad room. Stow your piece.”

  He nodded slowly, shouldering past her and stashing his gun in the secure box. It rattled and clanked once more, and Harmony nodded for him to lead the way inside.

  “So now I don’t have a cannon,” he muttered at her. “Neither do you. A feeble woman and a shackled man against a Marshal of France. That was your grand plan?”

  Harmony half smiled. “Do you have a problem with women in authority, Gilles? I thought you fought under Joan of Arc.”

  He grumbled something in French. I didn’t understand a word of it, but the tone came across loud and clear.

  We walked past cluttered desks and a broken coffee machine, turning left down a cinder-block hallway. The door to interrogation room four hung open. The empty room looked just like the last one I’d been in: steel table, steel chairs, cold and sterile behind a one-way mirror.

  I walked in first, standing off to one side. Gilles came next, smirking as Harmony pulled the door closed.

  “I see,” he said. “A soundproof box. Cunning. Now which of you shall I murder firs—”

  I lashed out my fist, whipping him across the eyes with the steel handcuffs I suddenly wasn’t wearing anymore. His hands flew up to protect his face. Harmony gave him a vicious kick to the back of his knee. His leg buckled and he crashed to the concrete floor. He reared back, roaring with anger and surprise, and I stuck a gun in his face.