Dark Heart

by Margaret Weis;David Baldwin

  Nick’s gaze leaped from Sandra to Mac and back again. Suddenly he licked his lips. “Wait a minute…”

  “Naw, no more waiting, Nicky. We thought maybe you knew something, maybe you’d wanna help us like any fine, upstanding citizen would.” He shrugged. “But if you don’t feel that way, well…just stick ’em out.” He grinned. “You can be one of the thousand tales of the big city.”

  Nick’s face crumpled suddenly.

  “Okay, okay, wait just a minute…” Nick held up his hands in front of him. “Maybe we can cut some kind of a deal?”

  “Now you’re talking,” McKenzie said, moving so close to Nick’s face that the bartender had to take a step backwards. “Let’s just go back to the station house, and you can tell us everything you know. You know enough—maybe we can talk deals.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean! I just mean, well, maybe I might know something.”

  “Then you’d better tell us.” McKenzie smiled, but it wasn’t a happy face.

  “No way. I’m not telling you something and then having you take me in for drugs anyway. Forget that.”

  Sandra moved forward again. “You talk to us, we forget this ever happened. We don’t even know you.” She glanced at Mac. “Is that right, Mac?”

  “Nicky who?” Mac said, grinning.

  Nick blew a blast of breath out of his mouth and looked at his shoes. “I can’t believe I’m trusting a couple of cops,” he muttered.

  “Listen, you cockroach,” Sandra said, “I don’t give a shit whether you trust us or not. You’re not in a good bargaining position here. Or are you too stupid to figure even that much out?”

  “All right, all right!” Nick looked at each of them in turn, and then began.

  “You said Wheeler, that lawyer, right? That’s what you want?”

  “Yeah,” Sandra told him. “That’s what we want.”

  Nick chewed on his lower lip a moment. “Okay. It was a couple of weeks ago, I think. In the bar. This guy came in and was drinking. It was pretty late. Close to closing time.”

  “This guy? What guy?” Sandra asked.

  “Omar something.”

  Sandra nodded.

  “What did he look like?” McKenzie asked.

  “Short. Black hair. He looked Libyan or something. Really dark black eyes. He had a wide mouth and he seemed kind of paranoid, you know, freaky?” Nick paused, thinking. “But kinda like he could take care of himself, like he didn’t give a shit. Like, I dunno, like nothing could scare him, he could handle it all. He knew he could handle it.” He paused again, then shook his head. “Hard to describe, I guess.”

  Actually Sandra thought Nick had described him pretty well. Omar just kept cropping up all over the place. She wondered what he would look like in a lizard suit. But even as she thought that, she knew she was missing something.

  “Is he a regular?” she asked.

  “He comes in often enough.”

  “So what did he say about Wheeler?”

  Nick shrugged. “He didn’t say much but he laughed really loud. Since it was pretty quiet, I looked over to see what he was laughing at, and it was the TV. There was something on about the Wheeler guy. Some big case he’d won just before he was killed. How he was supposed to be some kinda champion of justice or something. Anyway, I mostly remember this Omar dude laughing—he sounded sort of weird, y’know?—and so I asked him what was so funny.”

  “‘Big guy, big man,’ he said. ‘Champion of the downtrodden.’ Or some shit like that, and he laughed some more. ‘He pissed in his underwear and all over that stupid kimono when he was looking down the barrel of a gun. Some fucking hero.’”

  Nick paused, looked down at his shoes. He shrugged. “I wouldn’t have thought anything of it. Just some guy talkin’ shit, except I knew a girl who was Wheeler’s girlfriend for a while before he got famous. She came into the Flight a lot. When he first started hittin’ the news, she used to brag about it, a little, how she shouldn’t have let him go, and all that. I asked her what he was like. She said he was a really nice guy, not like some of the celebrities you hear about. She said he was pretty normal except he had a few eccentricities.” Nick paused. “Like wearing silk kimonos around the house. It was just another story. I’m a bartender. I hear stories all the time. But it stuck in my head because I thought the kimono was weird. I mean, isn’t it a Japanese woman’s dress?”

  McKenzie shrugged. “Beats me.”

  “Well, anyway, that’s why it stuck in my head, and when this guy said that, my blood kinda froze, and I looked at him, and I knew he’d done it. I knew he was the murderer and he was sitting right there at my bar, bragging about it. I must’ve looked weird, or he must’ve realized he was talking stupid, ’cause he shut up all of a sudden. I didn’t say anything or let on that I believed him. I think I just said something like, ‘Yeah, sure buddy. You want another one?’ So he looked at me really hard for a second, and I played like stone dumb, ’cause I didn’t want him thinkin’ that I thought I’d just heard a confession. The guy was creepy, you know? I mean, I didn’t want to have him following me home and putting a bullet in my brain. No way. He was so twitchy you’d think he’d do something like that. Like maybe he wanted to do that, and was looking for any excuse.” Nick shrugged. “Well, that’s all I know. But if you want my opinion, he wasn’t lying. He did it.”

  “You see him around a lot?” Sandra asked. “Does he come into the bar on any kind of schedule?”

  “Naw. Not recently, anyway. He used to come in almost every night, but he and the owner got into a fight or something. Mr. Sterling doesn’t like him. I haven’t seen him in the last week or so.”

  Sandra gave a small sigh of relief. Reassurance splashed over her. Justin had recognized an asshole when he saw one, and had kicked him out of his club. Good. She was glad of that…

  “Anything else?” McKenzie asked.

  “No, that’s it. I didn’t follow the guy or anything. I didn’t ask him over to play poker. He was creepy. I just wanted him out of the bar. I was glad when Mr. Sterling told Rocky not to let him back in. There’s another one of ’em, though. I think it’s his boss or his brother or something. He still comes in.”

  “Another what?”

  “Another one of them fucking Arabs. We get a lot of them, but these two, Omar and the other guy, they were together a lot. And the other guy treated Omar like a flunky or something, always made him come to the bar to get the drinks, like that.”

  “So, you know the other guy’s name?” Sandra said.

  Nick chewed on his lip some more. “It’s uh…I dunno for sure, some weird name—begins with a K, I think. I didn’t go up and introduce myself to them.”

  “Why didn’t you go to the police?” Mac said.

  Nick stared at him. “You kidding? Me, go to the cops?”

  “Okay,” Sandra said. “That’s it? That’s all you got?”

  “That’s all I got,” Nick said.

  Mac and Sandra glanced at each other. Mac shrugged.

  “See you around sometime, Nicky,” Sandra said.

  “Hey, wait a fucking minute!”

  Mac paused, then turned. “What? You just remember something else?”

  “My shit. You got my shit. You took it off me, and it’s mine.”

  He was almost crying.

  And Mac grinned at him. “Shit? You know anything about any shit, Sandra?”

  “Only the asshole I’m looking at right now,” she replied.

  “Oh, you fuckers,” Nick breathed softly. “You thieving fuckers.”

  Mac stared at him. “Don’t you need to be getting to work, Nicky? Instead of standing out here in the hot sun, giving me shit?”

  Nick’s eyes went slightly wild, and Mac shifted his weight on his feet. “Don’t even think about it, asshole,” he said softly. “You can’t even begin to imagine what a pleasure it would be.”

  After a moment, Nick’s gaze dropped and his shoulders slumped. Without another word he turned, open
ed the door, and stepped on through.

  “Nice guy,” Sandra said.

  “Asshole,” Mac replied.

  Sandra stared at the back doors of the bar. Two doors. One door was large and one was just ordinary sized. She’d worked in a few restaurants when she’d been married to Chuck. None of them had had more than one back door. Despite the difference in size, the doors both looked like utility doors, except one was caked with grime, like any well-used back door to a club or restaurant should be. The other door was polished metal. Why would anyone polish a stainless steel utility door?

  For no reason, she stood before the door, staring at her reflection until McKenzie touched her shoulder. “Hey, Bruce? You okay?”

  She gave a slight twitch, caught herself, forced a grin. “I’m good, Mac. I’m just fine.”

  Sandra sat quietly in a corner booth near the front door of Gwendolyne’s Flight. The place was hopping. Colored lights splashed across the crowd. A smoke machine sent billowy white clouds snaking around the dancing bodies. The smoke’s slow, sinuous movement accentuated the frenetic pace of the dancers. The club was packed and she was keeping a low profile. She did not want to alert Justin to her presence. If tonight was the night they nabbed Omar, and Omar turned out to be the killer, then she could relax into Justin’s arms after it was all over.

  She had been tempted to let Justin in on the deal. He could have made things easier for her and McKenzie. But as much as she hated to admit it, there was still a nasty, lingering doubt about his involvement in her mind. Omar had been a regular in his bar. The redhead had bought drugs from Nick in his bar. Maybe it was coincidence—this was a big, popular place. But she couldn’t guarantee it. One of the first cop rules was that coincidences usually weren’t. So she wouldn’t risk the entire case by telling him anything. Because if Justin were involved…

  Don’t think about it, she told herself. He’s not involved. Just focus on this Omar sonofabitch. Let the rest take care of itself…

  Moments later she watched a guy cross to the bar and order a drink from Nick. The guy reminded her of Omar, but he wasn’t Omar. Nick made the drink and handed it over. As the guy turned away, Nick caught Sandra’s eye and nodded.

  This one did look very much like the man who had mopped up the floor with her in California and then vanished into thin air, the man who’d tried to dance with her at the blues club. But it wasn’t Omar. This character was very well dressed. He acted like a wealthy snob, watching the dancers with a detached air of amusement, like someone thinking about ordering one of them from a menu. When the cocktail waitress arrived at his table to see if he needed another drink, he barely acknowledged her existence.

  McKenzie showed up soon after. His bald spot was slick and his coat was splattered. The rain must’ve started up again. He did not come to join her, but glanced at her. She nodded toward where the Arab was enjoying his drink. McKenzie nodded back, shook off some of the rain, and headed straight for the guy’s table.

  Deep down inside, despite his formidable appearance, McKenzie was a teddy bear. Nonetheless, McKenzie could be very intimidating when he put his mind to it. When he didn’t smile, his face looked stony. With his steely gaze and his immense bulk, he was a much more effective intimidator than Sandra was. They had used this routine before. McKenzie was the front man. Sandra was the backup nobody expected, just in case things got out of hand.

  McKenzie approached the man and Sandra watched them exchange words. The Arab shook his head. McKenzie leaned over the table and said something else. The Arab stood to leave, obviously not with McKenzie.

  Putting his big hand on the Arab’s shoulder, McKenzie started to shove him back into his seat. The man didn’t move. Instead, he reached up, grabbed McKenzie’s wrist, and did something to it. Sandra saw the pain lance through McKenzie’s face as he stumbled backward.

  She was instantly on her feet. McKenzie staggered to his knees against an adjacent table, scattering the people seated there. He shoved his good hand into his coat and pulled out his gun. The people at the table jumped up and scurried away, as did several others nearby. The commotion caught the attention of the bouncers, who started pushing through the crowded bar in Mac’s direction.

  The Arab walked calmly but quickly toward the kitchen doors.

  McKenzie’s eyes caught hers. She could see the pain in them. The Arab must be devilishly strong! Mac was cradling his arm close to his body and looked hurt, but not in any real danger.

  He nodded at her and she saw him say “Go!” though she could not hear a thing over the music and club commotion. She hesitated only long enough to see the Arab push open the kitchen door, and then she bolted for the front door.

  There was only one place the Arab could hope to escape to, and that was the alley. She burst past the startled doorman and sprinted out into the pouring rain. She skidded a little as she rounded the corner of the building, then she poured on the speed.

  She stopped at the mouth of the alley. There was no one there. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears.

  The falling rain muted the streetlights, so the alley was darker than she’d have liked. She crept closer to the Flight’s back door. Their guy might’ve already emerged and hidden. She drew her gun and looked carefully in every direction. With each step, she looked over at the two back doors, the big grimy one, the small shiny one. Soon she was soaked to the skin.

  She checked the two Dumpsters as she passed, but no one was hiding there. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light, and she started to wonder if McKenzie had grabbed the guy in the kitchen.

  She abandoned that thought when the large, dirty utility door rattled sharply, then burst open. The expensively dressed Arab stepped out. His white silk shirt was instantly plastered to his dark skin. He did not have a chance to look around before Sandra yelled.

  “Freeze, asshole!”

  He looked at her, mildly startled, then smiled. It was that same supercilious, amused smile he gave the dancers inside.

  “Hands in the air,” she commanded, walking slowly closer, keeping her weight centered and her arms rock steady, the pistol leveled at his chest.

  His grin widened…and he disappeared.

  “What the hell?”

  Shocked, she dropped her arms, then snapped them back up, pointing all around, scanning the alley. She heard a strange noise, a kind of cracking sound.

  Then there was nothing. Only the sounds of rain and traffic slogging through the Chicago night.

  “Where the hell did you go, you bastard?” she said, moving to the doors, her gaze still jumping from shadow to shadow. Nobody there. She opened the dirty door and looked inside. The light from the kitchen flooded over her and she squinted.

  “McKenzie!” she called. “McKenzie! Talk to me! Where are you?”

  No answer. She was about to step inside when a hand clamped on her shoulder.

  She gasped at the strength of it. Pain shot through her, but her training came to the fore and she spun. She could not see her opponent, but she centered her balance and sent the force of the attack beyond her. The grip on her shoulder faltered and she slid out from under it. But whatever had grabbed her had claws, and it ripped her shoulder as it tore loose.

  Sandra gasped and gritted her teeth, raised her gun. What was this thing? Invisible? With claws? Her heart started pounding faster. Sandra felt as if she’d stepped into some weird nightmare. No one could just become invisible!

  A whisper of air warned her that she was under attack again. Claws raked her hand, knocking away the gun. Blood flew and she cried out, pulling her wounded hand against her stomach and cradling it.

  The silence fell again, but she could feel the thing there, somewhere very close. Her mind reeled. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening!

  She backed away, looking desperately for her gun, not knowing where her attacker was, frantic to find someplace to take shelter, someplace she could defend herself. But her mind wouldn’t function right. Should she run? Where? How could she escape
something she couldn’t see?

  A claw scraped blacktop to her right and she spun to face it, almost falling. It scraped again, and then it had her.

  “No!” she screamed, trying to roll with its weight, but it had picked her up off her feet, giving her no leverage whatsoever. Its arms squeezed her until she thought her ribs would break. Something like a tentacle wrapped around her legs, muffling the kicks she launched.

  She gasped for breath, hoping to force air into her lungs. At this rate, she would pass out in seconds. She tried to scream and couldn’t. Terror gripped her.

  Helpless again. Just like with Chuck. All her cop training, all the martial arts, and she was helpless once again. Her furious tears mixed with the rain.

  A fetid smell surrounded her, and she felt something smooth, hard, and wet against her ear. Was it a tooth? Teeth? A quiet, gravelly voice began speaking.

  “You look just like all the other women in Justin’s drawings. I’m surprised how many of you he finds, women who look so much like his dead wife. But you. You’re different, aren’t you? He must really fancy you. He defies the master to keep you alive. That’s sacrilege. It will cost him everything he has. He knows it will, and he does it anyway. He need not worry anymore, though. I’ll do him a favor tonight.”

  A rough hand closed over her left breast. She could feel the points of his claws digging mercilessly into her chest.

  “I’ll kill you now—his way,” the voice continued. “That will make him feel much better about the whole matter, I’m sure.” Throaty laughter from the shadowed, invisible creature holding her vibrated through her entire body.

  Suddenly the monster’s body rocked and she heard the sound of flesh ripping. Its grip went slack and she fell to the blacktop. A great cry burst from the beast and she realized that the ripping flesh was not her own. There was another low growl and a new voice that seemed vaguely familiar.