The Acceptance s-2

by L. L. Foster

  “Oh, for crying out loud. Stop squirming. I already know what I need to know now, no thanks to you.”

  His gulp could be heard above the normal night sounds.

  Rolling her eyes, Gaby cut to the chase. “I was looking for a place to hole up when I heard a hooker fighting some guy. He’d tried to take the goods without paying, and she wasn’t happy about it.”

  “Oh God.”

  “I made him pay, that’s all.” Given her mood at the time, she’d reveled in the punishment more than she should have. The show had impressed the woman and later her friends, left them awed and feeling empowered. They saw her as their own superhero—and Gaby, in need of cover, hadn’t dissuaded them of that absurd notion.

  To simplify all that, she said, “The woman appreciated my help.”

  Mort’s incredulity hit her in waves. “I’ll just bet she did.”

  “I don’t think anyone had defended her, in anything, for a very long time.”

  “Which is probably why she’s making a living off the streets.” He gave her shoulder a brief squeeze. “Good for you, Gaby.”

  Gaby well remembered the hooker’s esteem that prompted the offer of a place to rest up, and later an introduction to the rest of the girls who frequented that particular flophouse for prurient transactions.

  Other offerings followed the initial gratefulness; fleshy proposals were proffered, some meant to show appreciation, some, oddly, from sincere interest. Most were in the way of a bartering tool for future services rendered.

  Pity for the women, distracting concerns of her own, and a healthy interest in Luther, kept Gaby disinterested in anything physical with the women. They ribbed her, but respected her decision. Instead of sexual exchange, they’d worked out a deal that suited them all: Gaby got her meager rent paid on the upstairs room, and she protected the girls whenever need be.

  “Anyway,” she said, getting back on track, “I stick around and when they need me to, I protect them, or collect for them.”

  “And in the process, learn a few things?”

  “You could say that.” Giving unnecessary attention to her nails, Gaby asked, “So how’s your business been?” Mort’s apartment building abutted a comic store that sold underground graphic novels, some, like her work, in high demand. Mort had no idea that his business kept her in business, and supplied her meager livelihood.

  He accepted the change of topic with a great show of relief. “Slower than usual. I’m waiting for a new Servant novel to bring in the customers. It’ll be here soon, I hope.”

  New to the whole friendship, sharing, chatting business, Gaby searched for more conversation, but came up empty. “Anything else going on?”

  His shoulder touched hers with fond camaraderie. “I have a girlfriend now. I’d love for you to meet her.”

  Gaby’s jaw went slack. No words came to her. Mort and girlfriend were two concepts she’d never envisioned aligned together.

  Her lack of response didn’t slow down Mort. “You might have met her,” he enthused. “She’s a detective who works with Luther, and she’s beautiful.”

  Still blank brained, Gaby waited.

  He filled the silence. “Her name is Ann Kennedy. I really care about her.”

  “Ann Kennedy.” Oh yeah, she knew that name. She’d seen the woman with Luther, and she’d felt . . . jealousy. It sucked big-time, mostly because an emotion like that had no place in her brain, or in her life. She wasn’t a woman fashioned for consociation of any kind, but a romantic alliance was out of the question.

  Being a paladin meant being alone.

  Having Mort as a friend was risky enough.

  Being more than a friend to Luther could risk it all.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Denying it didn’t remove the yearning.

  “Yeah,” Mort said, “Luther knows her.”

  “You said that.” Luther had claimed they were only friends. If the woman had an interest in Mort, then obviously an earthbound seraph like Luther wasn’t her speed.

  Some things in this fucked-up world never made sense.

  “She’s blonde,” Mort continued, “slim, big dark eyes . . .”

  Fashioning a gun with her fingers, Gaby shot herself in the head.

  Mort laughed. “Come on, Gaby. Is it really so odd for me to have a significant other?”

  “Damn straight, it is. But, hey, I’m happy for you anyway.” Unfortunately, she’d have even more reason to avoid Mort if he had a damn female cop hanging around him. But looking at Mort, at the soft yellow aura drifting around him, assured her of his optimism for this new relationship. He was content, if still a little shy, and Gaby couldn’t bring herself to quell his happiness in any way.

  When she kept her visits few and far between, he’d figure out the situation on his own.

  Obtuse to the inner workings of her mind, Mort put his hands to his knees and turned to her with buoyant exuberance. “Maybe we can double date sometime.”

  Gaby’s wide eyes zeroed in on him and she nearly choked. He had to be joking.

  “You know,” Mort prompted, taking her expression for confusion. “You and Luther, and me and Ann . . .”

  “Ain’t happening, Mort. Not ever.” Shoving to her feet, anxious to get away, Gaby said, “Look, I gotta go.” She needed to be by herself so she could digest all the frivolous changes pervading her structured and severe existence.

  “Already?” He hovered close, as if by his mere proximity he could keep her there.

  She stepped away from him—away from temptation. “Yeah. I just wanted to drop by to—”

  His solemn gaze caught hers. “To tell me you thought I was dead?”

  “Well . . . yeah.” Her brows beetled. “Usually word on the street is reliable, but I haven’t heard shit about you, so I had no reason to believe that you’d survived.”

  He kicked at a small rock by his feet. “I’ve been busy with Ann, but we mostly stay in. I figured it was best to lie low for a while.”

  “Lie low?”

  He shrugged. “I wasn’t sure if anyone was looking for you or not. Other than Luther, I mean. He’s been going nuts looking for you.”

  “Yeah?” Not that it mattered, but still . . .

  “He’s grilled me a dozen times. That was bad enough—I didn’t need anyone else questioning me. I didn’t want to take a chance on screwing up our story or anything.”

  A shifting shadow caught Gaby’s attention, and she looked across the street at an abandoned, tireless car in the unlit lot of a failed business. It looked as if it had been there some time. “Well, it’s old news now, and Luther already found me. If anyone else bothers you, send him my way.”

  A faint shift in what should have been a stationary shadow made her eyes narrow. Someone lurked there. She sensed it.

  Given she had no divine warnings raping her body, Gaby decided it wasn’t the worst of corruption, not the truest of evil.

  Not the evil she hunted.

  But all the same, she sensed a malicious cretin. Through the onerous years, Gaby had learned to trust her prescience, and knowing she was about to engage intoxicated her.

  To protect Mort from any fallout, Gaby moved in front of him. “Stay back.”

  With panic filling his voice, Mort asked, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Don’t know yet.” Going still inside, collecting her sui generis abilities around her, Gaby stared across the way into the aphotic lot. She willed the vague shapes of re-fuse into recognizable forms. The car was a good distance from them, but after a time of concentration, Gaby picked out a hunkered, human form.

  Before the thought had finished forming, she had her knife in her hand. “Something is about to happen, Mort.” Her heartbeat thickened with excitement. “Maybe you should go.”

  He stunned her by saying, “Not on your life.”

  Lacking time to argue, Gaby said, “Then stay the fuck out of my way. I’ll try not to hurt him, but he doesn’t share the same intent toward me, and this could
get vicious.”

  Moving the threat away from Mort the best she could, Gaby stepped out to the street just in time to meet the nigrescent apparition charging toward her. A macabre mask of sunken eyes and distorted, gaping mouth concealed the attacker’s face. Dark clothing obscured the body type.

  A stray beam of moonlight reflected off a long, heavy pipe swinging from one substantial arm.

  Oh yeah. This fellow meant business.

  He meant to maim her—or more.

  Perfect.

  Satisfaction aggrandized, sending a flow of torrid anticipation through Gaby. She braced her booted feet apart, flexed her rock-steady knees, and whispered, “God, I needed this. Thank you.”

  In the next instant, the pipe came crashing down toward her with thunderous force. Reflexes on automatic, Gaby ducked the pipe before bringing her elbow back hard and fast. She smashed it into the masked face, heard the crunching of nose cartilage, and waited to see if that would end the fight.

  A rank curse brought a brief pause, but didn’t quell the attack. The pipe swung again, and again missed her. She was too fast, too agile for the likes of this cretin.

  This time Gaby kicked out a knee, and watched the attacker’s leg buckle. He almost fell, stumbled instead, and took another vicious swing at her head.

  An enthusiastic opponent, for sure.

  Determined and stupid.

  Leaving her few choices in the matter.

  The weapon hit the paved street with a deafening clash. She thought she might have heard Mort scream, but she tuned out all distractions to get in the zone, to deal with this threat.

  To . . . destroy it.

  Taking advantage of the assailant’s bludgeoned state, Gaby brought her blade straight up—and felt it burst through vessels, fat, and muscle.

  She joined her hands together, pushed hard and deep, and experienced the satisfying sensation of deflecting off a bone.

  An agonized scream rang out, this one from the man pierced by her blade.

  Thanks to his persistence in trying to do her harm, it was even easier to ignore than Mort’s distress.

  Tugging out the knife against the natural resistance, the suck and drag of wet, fibrous flesh, Gaby stepped to the side and, for only a heartbeat, waited.

  As she assumed, her strike ended the fight.

  The clunky pipe dropped to the ground with a clattering echo. Her adversary’s knees buckled. The body slumped.

  Disappointed that she’d had to use such extreme measures, Gaby muttered, “That was hardly worth the effort.”

  Gigging this son of a bitch had done little to alleviate her burgeoning belligerence.

  The recondite disguise served no purpose now, but what did she care who her attacker might be? Craven souls, both insignificant and exalted, crawled over the surface of the earth with annoying sedulousness.

  The more Gaby accepted her life’s duty, the more she relished taking on them all, with or without God’s specific mandate.

  No, she didn’t care who this inconsequential gnat might be.

  But Mort did. Creeping closer, he asked, “Good God, Gaby. Who is that?”

  Knife still in her hand, now crimson with gore, Gaby shrugged her tense shoulders. She kicked the fallen figure with the toe of her boot. “Hey, my friend wants a name.”

  She said it, and then it struck her all over again.

  Her friend.

  Would she ever get entirely used to the concept?

  Mort wanted details on this attack because he cared for her. She sensed his misguided tendency to protect her—never mind that, moments before, he’d screeched like a little girl.

  As a dark puddle of blood blossomed around him, the assailant slumped to his side in a protective curl more appropriate to the womb than a dirty street.

  Voice shaking, faint, he said, “Carver hired me . . . to kill . . . you.”

  “Yeah?” Gaby knelt down, curiosity now piqued. “You failed big-time, huh?”

  In a barely audible whisper, the man said, “He’ll kill me now.”

  “Nah, I doubt it. You’ll be dead before he can get to you.”

  Mort said, “Gaby,” with a lot of worry. “Why would anyone want you dead?”

  “I don’t know.” She nudged the man. “How come he sent you after me?”

  There was a strange gurgle, then the body went flat, sprawled on the pavement, limp and still.

  She looked back at Mort. “Think you ought to call someone before he really does expire?”

  Mort chewed his bottom lip, his brows pinched. “I suppose.” But he didn’t rush to do it, further surprising Gaby. “He wanted to kill you, Gaby. He tried to cleave your head open with that pipe.”

  “Shake it off, Mort. The clown wasn’t even close.” She stood again and held out her hand. “Give me the phone.”

  With grave reluctance, he said, “No, I’ll do it. You need to clean that knife.”

  “True.” Bending at the waist, she jerked off the man’s ridiculous mask, saw a face gone slack in near death, and said, “I don’t recognize him. You?”

  Shaking his head hard, Mort said, “No.” He looked at Gaby. “Who’s Carver?”

  “No one important.” She used the mask to clean off as much of the blood and gore as she could. To the naked eye, the knife looked spotless. The naked eye wasn’t good enough. Soon as possible, she’d do a thorough job.

  She slid the weapon back into her sheath.

  “You should probably go,” Mort told her.

  Not a bad idea, really. As he punched in 911, she asked, “What will you say?”

  “That I couldn’t see much, but after the fight broke up and a body was on the ground, I figured I’d better call.” He held up a finger, and spoke into the phone. “Hey, yeah, I have an emergency. Yeah, a guy’s been stabbed. He’s hurt real bad, might even be dead.”

  Gaby marveled at the lack of emotion in his tone. Sure, he’d screamed out during the attack. But after that, he’d quickly gathered himself.

  The Mort she used to know would have been a nervous wreck after witnessing an altercation that resulted in a limp, bleeding body.

  This Mort took charge, accepting that some things were inevitable—and necessary.

  After giving the police their general location, Mort disconnected the call.

  He’d impressed her, and it took a lot to do that these days. “Thanks, Mort.”

  “Thank you. For coming back. For being my friend.” He turned solemn, distraught, far too grave. “Thank you for doing what others won’t. What they can’t.”

  “If you get maudlin, I’m smacking you.”

  The corner of his mouth kicked up, and for the very first time since meeting him, Gaby thought he might not be such a slimy-looking little guy.

  Confidence, control, changed his appearance as much as a summons changed hers.

  “No, I won’t,” he said. “But I’ve thought about you a lot, Gaby, about the burden you bear.”

  She reared back, threatening him, and Mort laughed before holding up his hands in surrender. “Fine. I know you don’t need my thanks. Now go before they get here. And make sure you scrub that knife clean.”

  Bossing her? He really had changed. “I know what to do.”

  Silent, he walked beside her toward an oppressive alley no doubt filled with more human vermin. “We need to know why Carver wants you dead.”

  What the hell? Gaby glared at him. “Wrong, Mort. We don’t need to know anything. Go back to your place and visit with your girlfriend. Forget about this.”

  His sigh was loud enough to send a rat scurrying away. “Gaby—”

  “I can take care of myself, and you know it. As for Carver, you can leave that numb-nut to me.”

  Drawing back, Mort stared at her with disapproval. “You know why he’s after you, don’t you?”

  Good God. Bossing, questions—was there no end to his intrusion? “You want me to go, or stick around to chat with the cops?”

  Frustration put back his sc
rawny shoulders. “Go. But, Gaby? Promise you’ll come to see me again.”

  “Yeah, sure. Eventually.” It wasn’t a lie. She’d be back.

  After she wrote the rest of the newest Servant novel.

  And had a little one-on-one chat with Carver.

  And met again with Luther . . .

  “Damn,” she said, only half under her breath, “having friends can be a pain in the ass.”

  Mort smiled, lifted a hand to wave, and when she was almost out of range to hear, he said, “I love you, too, Gaby.”

  She nearly tripped over her own feet.

  A masked man with a pipe hadn’t fazed her.

  Mort’s affection, on the other hand, scared her half to death.

  Chapter 4

  Oren travelled up the clean, wide street to the stately mansion. Unlike the area he’d just left, in this community the crime rate was almost nonexistent. Money had its uses, and in these aloof environs it ensured privacy and well-being, forming the perfect purlieus to the atrocities committed in the basement of the mansion.

  Oren unlocked the front gate with a passkey and, forgetting himself for only a moment, practically skipped up the long, paved walkway to the curved stairs leading up and into his lavish world.

  Beneath the high, covered porch, no light penetrated, and he let the giggles escape. Before long, he’d have a new one—but for now, he’d make do with the slut they already had.

  Except for prominently displayed paintings and sculptures, the cavernous foyer was empty when he let himself in. To his left was the massive formal dining room. Aunt Dory sat at the end of the long mahogany table, nursing a whisky and talking to herself.

  Oren detected blood on her hands, and worry wormed through his deranged giddiness.

  What had the stupid cow done now?

  To his right was the study, and through the open door, Oren saw Uncle Myer sprawled in a leather chair, his close-cropped graying hair standing on end, his shoulders slumped. He wore only dirty boxers, gaping open to expose his withered member.

  Lip curling, Oren let the rage boil. God, he despised their ignorance and slovenly ways. They sickened him—but they were his cross to bear.

  And they afforded him the life he craved. The power. The salacious immorality.