Wolfkind

by Stephen Melling

  Perfect. The drop from the balcony was roughly fifteen feet. And if she climbed over and hung by her fingertips she would reduce the distance to less than nine feet. So long as no one saw her Spiderman impersonation, she would have perhaps five seconds to recover from her landing and scramble into a car. Surely her father’s men would not open fire on her. She imagined herself accelerating toward the exit, grinning demonically over the wheel, scattering gangsters like bowling pins.

  She dropped to her knees and probed the keyhole with the penknife. The workings appeared clunky and outmoded; not like the newfangled five-lever mortise locks that were virtually un-pickable. Her father’s security advisors obviously believed replacing this lock unnecessary.

  Through the window behind her the daylight faded fast, leaving the western horizon a fiery orange, which was gradually turning purple, for sweeping in from the southwest were colossal thunderheads. The heavens swollen and angry, the color of gunmetal. A stiffening breeze stirred the tree tops and whistled under the eaves.

  As she worked the lock, Genna thought of the incident at the Cabin. Suzanne’s car burning with Joshua trapped inside. Blame rested squarely on her shoulders; of that she was under no illusion. They killed Joshua. Killed him because of her.

  Thunder rumbled distantly and the very noise seemed to strain daylight from the sky. Beyond the barred windows, one after the other, several light-sensitive floodlights flickered on, illuminating the grounds brightly as a ball park.

  Genna stood and gazed through the bars. The floodlights burned so brightly the men stationed below resembled extras on a film set, practicing their actions, retracing their steps until they attained perfection. If they knew the horror awaiting them Genna doubted they would risk their lives so readily.

  A sudden bolt of purpose jolted her and she got busy with the penknife again, angry with herself. She owed it to those who died for her to stay alive. “Come on, Genna,” she said.

  Outside, the sky dimmed and the shadows grew as the dark clouds drifted inexorably inland. Genna threw a look over her shoulder at the dying light. The clock was ticking for both her and the others in the building. She needed to be out of Stromboli Mansion by nightfall.

  Thunder rumbled again. The Dobermans barked and howled.

  The thunderclap Genna heard echoed inland toward the San Gabriel Mountains, reverberating off the sheer ramparts of rock and canyon walls, gradually fading into low frequency rumbles. The land appeared to shiver and cower beneath the storm’s threat.

  Dressed in a blue jogging suit he found in one of the wardrobes, looking nothing like the barbecued lamb he did before, Joshua leaned against the kitchen worktop, eating a chunk of part-cooked steak. No gastronomic delight, but taste was not the issue. Though he had regained much of his former strength he would not be at his peak for maybe twenty-four hours.

  Nathaniel and his troop must have done this countless times, Joshua thought as he chewed. Performed assassinations, taken repeated hits, and then limped home to gorge themselves and heal.

  Benji sat patiently at Joshua’s feet, drooling, repeatedly offering a perfectly good paw in return for the half-cooked steak. Although Joshua needed the food, he gave the remaining meat to the begging dog. After a token attempt at chewing, Benji swallowed the chunk whole. Up came the paw.

  “Selling me the same paw, there,” he said.

  Benji grunted, withdrawing his offer.

  Still suffering the heady effects of his ordeal by fire, occasionally struck by bouts of dizziness, Joshua left the kitchen. In the hall he found a hiker’s knapsack, which he loaded with food supplies, then slipped the straps over his shoulders.

  In the conservatory he stood over the smashed table. Half buried amongst the glass, the Beretta waited for him, silent and enigmatic. Knew you’d be back. The weapon lay where Genna had thrown it last night, pointing directly at Joshua.

  Benji trailed him into the room, sat near him and followed his gaze out of the large picture window at the western horizon. An orange bank of wispy cirrus clouds hid the sun. Inky black nimbostratus bubbled in from the southwest. A thunderstorm, still several miles out over the Pacific, gathered momentum as it barreled inland.

  Joshua hitched up the knapsack. “I gotta go, fella,” he said to the dog. “Going to bring her back.”

  After jogging for a hundred yards he passed the gutted wreck that a few hours ago had almost become his steely sarcophagus. Wisps of smoke snaked out of the rusted, creaking hulk. Jogging down-wind of the burned out BMW, he could smell the acrid stench of charred leather and vinyl and, he thought grimly, his own flesh.

  Though he moved quicker than a human, an hour and ten minutes raced by before he reached the valley floor, macadam roads, white lines, and the outer limits of civilization.

  Darkness snapped at his heals. Yet he was still many miles from his destination. Fear gnawed at him. He knew that at this pace he would not reach Stromboli Mansion before nightfall.

  Headlights appeared behind him on the eastward horizon. Joshua stepped into the road and waved his hands. But the driver did not slow. During the next fifteen minutes several cars passed, but none pulled over. He recalled Genna’s grim opinion of Los Angeles’ seedier denizens, and realized the likelihood of hitching a ride was slim to zero.

  His frequent efforts coaxed no sympathy at all from the motorists. So he continued westward on foot, chasing the setting sun. Minute by minute the encroaching night sucked the light from the sky. Banks of pitch black cloud bubbled and roiled along the horizon, rolling in off the Pacific like troubled surf.

  An unexpected a wave of dizziness fell over him; he stumbled on the road, pin-wheeling his arms to stay upright. Still running, he unhooked his knapsack and fished inside. He grabbed a chunk of meatloaf, re-shouldered the pack, and ate while he ran.

  Stromboli Mansion, even as the crow flew, stood thirty or more miles from his present position. On foot he would take an hour to complete the distance, which in itself would take too much out of him. By then night would have fallen, the storm upon them, the assault under way.

  He needed a ride.

  Another car appeared on the road behind him, headlights winking on as the vehicle topped the gentle rise. Stuffing the last chunk of meatloaf into his mouth, he stepped out into the middle of the road and waved his arms, ready to leap to safety should the driver decide to hold his course.

  Luck finally smiled at him. Twice in quick succession, the driver flashed his high-beams, slowed, and pulled over to the roadside.

  Momentarily blinded by the headlights, he could see neither the driver nor how many passengers there were. But that was unimportant – he just needed a ride. As he neared the stationary vehicle, listening to the engine ticking over, he noticed the familiar shape.

  A strident metallic voice ordered. “Approach the car and put your hands on the hood.”

  A police car.

  Hands held high, Joshua approached the cruiser. As instructed by the disembodied voice, he placed his palms on the hood. For a moment nothing happened. Then the driver’s door swung open and a tall, handlebar-moustached, black-haired Hispanic deputy climbed out. When he planted his feet on the blacktop and eased out his considerable bulk, the cruiser’s suspension sighed with relief. He sniffed, hitched up his trousers, pushed at his hat brim.

  “Spread your legs,” he instructed, and proceeded to pat him down. With his other hand he reached into his pocket and took out a penknife, cut the straps at Joshua’s shoulders and tossed the knapsack to one side. “I said spread ‘em.”

  “I’m in a hurry, officer.” Joshua said, turning. “If you’ll tell me what the problem is-”

  “I’ll ask the questions,” the deputy said. “Keep your eyes front and your noise down. Stand with your feet wider apart.”

  “I’m not breaking any laws.” Joshua said. “I needed a ride...” He glanced down at the cruiser. What vehicle could be more appropriate than a police car to scoot unchallenged through downtown traffic? Other road user
s made way for sirens. It was ideal.

  Meanwhile, the deputy’s hand froze when he touched the Beretta tucked in Joshua’s waistband. “What have we here?” he removed the gun and tucked it in his own belt. He unhooked his handcuffs: “Okay, my hitch-hiking friend. You give me no trouble, and you’ll get none back.” He grabbed Joshua’s wrist and started to cuff him.

  Joshua peered at the road between his feet, noting precisely where the cop stood. He needed to make a move. At the touch of cold steel on his wrist, he grabbed the deputy’s forearm and in a wrestler’s move, slammed him against the hood. The element of surprise allowed Joshua the opportunity to snag the guy’s hands and bring them together. In less than three seconds he had secured the deputy in his own handcuffs. The deputy struggled hard but Joshua held him fast against the hood. He retrieved his Beretta.

  “I just need your car,” Joshua said.

  “Sure,” the deputy said, and then, perhaps fearing a bullet in the back of the head, he grunted and horse-kicked at Joshua’s crotch. He missed, brought back his knee to try again, but succeeded only in barking his shin against the wheel arch. He grunted and slumped on the hood. His shirt pulled out of his trousers and his exposed belly squeaked against the cruiser’s paintwork. His hat rolled off his head onto the floor. “Okay, okay!” The deputy yelled. “Take it easy. Take it easy – you don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  Twin headlights appeared half a mile distant along the highway, carving bright slashes in the darkness. Joshua snapped his head in that direction, calculating the distance. In a few seconds the car would be upon them.

  Holding onto the cuffs, he steered the cop to the rear of the car, pulled open the door and bundled him in.

  Joshua hurried to the driver’s side, snatched the lawman’s hat and planted it on his own head. He slipped nimbly behind the wheel, brim pulled low, pretending to read. The car passed by without slowing.

  Okay – now he was mobile – but time was still short. He didn’t know for sure where Genna was – but the smartest money was on Stromboli Mansion. Where else would they take her?

  The police-band suddenly piped up with a static-ridden voice from dispatch. “Unit seven – how’s it going with the hitcher? Come back…Eduardo, you there…” Joshua switched the radio off and punched the accelerator, quickly climbing through the gears, the engine racing, the tires churning up roadside grit.

  “Wha...what are you doin’?” Inquired a dazed voice from the back. Eduardo struggled to sit upright. He pressed his face against the mesh partition, the squares of steel digging into his skin.

  “Lie down flat on the seat.” Joshua said. “If you keep still and don’t make a sound I promise not to hurt you.” In the mirror he saw the guy’s mistrustful eyes.

  “Sure kid. Whatever you want,” Eduardo said. “You take it easy, okay?”

  Joshua said nothing. The light on the westward horizon had shrunk to a slender orange strip separating the land from the sky. He floored the accelerator.

  By the time Genna performed the twist of the penknife that finally disengaged the locking levers inside the keyhole, none of the sun’s rays showed above the horizon. Black clouds boiled in off the Pacific, gaining momentum and volume, blotting out the meager vestiges of remaining light. With the darkness came higher winds, pushing against the side of the house, whistling over the roof tiles.

  With a firm click, the tumblers fell and the lock tongue retracted. Genna held her breath, astonished she had actually picked the lock. She tossed the small blade aside and grabbed the handle, pausing briefly to peep through the keyhole again. She saw only vague shapes in the semi-darkness, the only light source the ambient glow coming through the French windows.

  Her heart thudded as she turned the handle and quickly slipped through the door. Nothing in the room seemed to have changed since the days of her short childhood when she and her sister used to hide in here. Ironically, she had reassumed that roll – but the punishment for getting caught considerably worse than just a verbal bashing. If she blew this escape…

  She pushed the thought away. How much time she had before they noted her absence she could only guess. But she assumed minutes rather than hours. Right now a technician could be on his way to replace the camera she had smashed.

  Genna sidled along the wall and peered through the French windows onto the narrow balcony. The balustrade was composed of decorative stone pillars and an ornate stone rail. Bolted to the rail, angled down at forty-five degrees, shone a large floodlight. All the fixtures shiny and new – obviously recently installed. She realized if she stood behind the floodlight the glare would make her invisible to anyone down below. So long as she didn’t jump around waving her arms, the glare should hide her outline.

  Safe in this knowledge, she opened the catch and stepped out, hunching low. A gust of wind almost tore the doors from her grasp.

  Distant lightning flashed, followed by a peel of thunder that echoed into brooding quiet. Inky cloud filled the heavens east to west. The sky’s underbelly, bruised and black and swirling, swelled to bursting point. The hairs on her arms prickled.

  Below, the grounds were bright as a floodlit tennis match. Left of the main entrance she saw the gun emplacements. Inside them, wrapped tightly in combat fatigues and huddled behind the weapons, were the gunners. To her right she saw a second emplacement. Two guards watched the main steps; many more patrolled the fences, each of them bearing the solemn expression of the reluctant soldier.

  Genna leaned over the wall, her belly pressing against the rough stone, and looked down. Directly beneath her was the car in which she’d been abducted. Ankles permitting, she could drop from the balcony and slip behind the wheel before anyone saw her – provided that the keys were indeed still in the ignition. A risk she’d have to take.

  “Come on.” she whispered intensely. She was stalling, doing precisely what she had done in the restaurant a year ago; allowing her nerves to get the better of her. What on earth was she waiting for? Someone else to rescue her?

  She raised herself to full height and swung one leg onto the rail. Glare from the flood-light washed the ground below with the brightness of a flashgun. She realized that the moment she let go of the rail she would become California’s most conspicuous escapee.

  Move your ass, she urged herself, and hooked the other leg onto the rail. She balanced precariously across the top, the concrete cold and rough against her chest. She needed only to slide her legs over, take her weight, hang for a moment...and then let go.

  She heard voices. Directly beneath her.

  She tightened her grip on the stone, the cuts from the knife blade chaffed on the rough edges, further tearing them open. She teetered, using her fingers and the toe of one boot to steady herself. With the left half of her face pressed against the stone, she looked straight down at the cars. She heard shoes crunching gravel, the click of a Zippo lighter; a moment later she could smell tobacco smoke as the wind tore it to ribbons. She looked down and saw two men.

  “Storm front’s here,” one of them said.

  “I got a bad feeling about this,” the other replied.

  “You and everyone else.”

  Genna clung to the wall, only the floodlight’s glare preventing her discovery. The stone rail dug into her breastbone. The backs of her knees tingled madly. Move, she silently urged the men below her. Get out of the damn way. And then, looking down, she saw a drop of her blood dangling from her grazed knuckle. At that moment it fell, gravity turning it into a perfect crimson sphere.

  Splat!

  The drop landed plum in the middle of the guard’s balding head. He looked up, straight into Genna’s eyes, held her gaze for a second - or so she feared - until the brightness forced him to look away.

  As she was preparing to retreat to the room, the first heavy raindrop smacked shockingly onto the back of her neck. Dozens of heavy splats plinked against the cars below her. The guard below, apparently mistaking the splat of blood for a raindrop, backed into shelter bene
ath the balcony.

  A deafening crack of thunder smote the earth; several of the patrolling guards cowered, as though the sky itself had taken a swing at them. Rain fell now in steady squalls; fat drops that left marks the size of quarters. Hundreds of icicle fingers poked at Genna’s clothing, seeping through to her skin, stinging her wounded hand.

  She clung to the wall and squeezed her eyes shut, willing the men below to move on. Escape became less and less likely.

  Alone and sequestered in the panic room, Salvatore Durant shuddered at the sound of thunder. His whisky glass skittered across the table, spilling its contents, finally coming to rest balanced precariously on the edge. “Damn it,” he whispered to himself. He closed his eyes and squeezed his hands together, the tension reverberating in his teeth. Nothing he did stopped his hands from trembling. The illusion of control had all but disappeared. Only now did he realize how greatly he had depended on it.

  Tic-tic-tic went the tiny muscle beneath his left eye. Careful not to poke out his own eye, he slapped his cheek with his fingertips until the twitching finally stopped. But he felt the snake of fear coil around his windpipe.

  He determined that if he survived the next twelve hours he would leave Los Angeles – perhaps for good. He had screwed this town for years, suckled on the spoils from day one, but the bitch had grown mean and finally turned on him. Fortunately he’d already salted away over eighty-seven million dollars from his one-sided courtship. With such a balance he could travel anywhere he wished. Europe perhaps the safest option. Maybe Paris or even Timbuktu. Anywhere but Los Angeles.

  If perchance security suffered a breach tonight, he would remain in hiding and ride out the attack. Get under the damn table if need be. Not all the guards knew of the panic room, and those that did would be too busy to divulge its location. Should any of his men try to enter the room during an assault, he would shoot them.

  Someone rapped on the door. Durant nearly jumped out of his chair. He looked up at the monitor and saw it was Serefini. Durant turned to the mirror and looked at his face, swept a hand over his hair, straightened his collar. Then he hit the door control.