Pay Dirt (Lost Falls Book 2)

by Chris Underwood

  “Go!” I yelled at her.

  She met my eyes. Other people were shouting. The bad guys by the SUV were threatening to shoot. Early was yelling at Lilian, telling her to wait a few seconds longer. He tugged Isidora the rest of the way into the van and then reached for me.

  “Drive!” I shouted.

  Lilian’s jaw tightened. I heard a gearbox crunching. Lilian broke eye contact with me, and with a roar the van accelerated away.

  I heard Early shout, “No!” before the gunfire started. The guys from the SUV opened fire, peppering the van as it flew back toward the road. Early stared at me from the open door, heedless of the bullets flying around him.

  Then Isidora snarled and threw the door closed. The van skidded back onto the road, spinning around with a squeal of tires. Lilian gunned the engine again. In a cloud of exhaust fumes, the van was gone.

  The bald man released my hand. I tried to raise my gun toward him again, but I had no strength left in my arm. He plucked the gun from my hand and pocketed it.

  I looked down at my hand. It was red and blistered. I could actually make out the imprint of his fingers across my skin. It hurt like hell, which I guess meant that at least I hadn’t suffered too much nerve damage. Lucky me.

  The people from the SUV fanned out to surround me, their weapons raised. I didn’t look at them. I could only look at the bald man. He stared down at me with his milky eyes, a faint smile playing across his lips. He stood silhouetted by the flames tearing through the museum behind him.

  He glanced back at the burning museum, then down at me. “Your hellfire cannot hurt me, heathen, for I am blessed.”

  I groaned. “Why are the prettiest ones always the craziest?”

  His smile widened. He lifted his head.

  “Find any survivors and evacuate the museum. We’re done here.”

  The group holstered their weapons and hurried toward the museum. For a moment I thought I might have a chance to fight my way free, with only the bald man actively watching me. But then shotgun lady came marching toward us, feeding a pair of fresh shells into her shotgun. She snapped the barrels closed and glared at me.

  “Want me to finish him off?” she asked the bald man as she leveled the gun at my head.

  He considered it a moment, then shook his head. “No. He’s coming with us.”

  18

  I lay trussed up like a Christmas ham in the back of the SUV, a bag over my head and a blanket thrown over the top of me. We sped along winding roads that sent me sliding back and forth across the floor of the vehicle. Every bump and pothole in the road set my bones rattling.

  I’m not going to lie. I was terrified.

  They’d stripped me of everything. Not just my gun and my truncheon, but my bag, my coat, and all the vials and talismans and charms they contained. And they hadn’t stopped there. They’d frisked me for anything hidden on my person, made me take off my shoes and belt like I was going through airport security. The only things they hadn’t been able to take from me were my tattoos, but they were more hindrance than help now. Just a few hours ago I’d complained about how difficult it was to magically track Early. Now I was on the other end of it. My tattoos would make it near impossible for Early or anyone else to find me by magical means.

  As I lay on the hard floor of the SUV, I felt very much alone.

  The other occupants of the vehicle didn’t speak. I was pretty sure the bald man was here, along with at least one of the wounded guys they’d evacuated from the museum. I’d seen some of the others climbing into a second vehicle before they put the bag over my head and everything went dark. Isidora and I had given the group a bloody nose, but that wasn’t much consolation now.

  I didn’t know how long we drove for. It seemed like hours, but it was probably only thirty minutes or so. After a while, we began to move more slowly and I could make out the occasional sound of other vehicles over the rumbling of the engine. The winding forest roads gave way to what I assumed were suburban streets. We were somewhere on the outskirts of Lost Falls.

  My muscles were aching by the time I felt the SUV turn off the road. I heard what sounded like a garage door opening, then we drove down a short slope. The quality of the light seeping through the bag changed. By the echoing sounds and the squealing of the tires I figured we were in some kind of underground parking garage.

  The SUV stopped and the engine cut out. My heart started hammering again as I heard doors opening and felt everyone getting out.

  A few seconds passed. I could just make out someone talking in a low voice outside the vehicle. Then I heard footsteps against concrete, and the rear door opened.

  Rough hands grabbed me under the armpits and hauled me none-too-gently out of the SUV. I heard the click of a switchblade and then someone sliced through the duct tape holding my ankles together. A hand shoved me between the shoulder blades. I started walking.

  The silence was getting to me. I wanted to start talking just to break it. But I kept my mouth shut. Talking would only get me in more trouble.

  Someone grabbed my shoulder to turn me around, and I heard a clunk of doors closing. It wasn’t until my stomach felt suddenly heavier that I realized we were in an elevator. It creaked and groaned as it rose, and a few seconds later it let out a bing. My captors started me walking again. Our footsteps echoed down silent corridors.

  Finally, I was stopped again, and a door squealed open. A metal chair scraped against the floor. I was shoved down into it. A few more whispered words were exchanged. Some of the footsteps receded. I heard soft breathing somewhere nearby.

  The bag was lifted off my head. I squinted, my eyes adjusting to the harsh fluorescent lighting. I was in a small bare room, not much more than a supply cupboard. Shotgun lady stood in the doorway, eying me carefully. Sitting on another chair in front of me was the bald man. He leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, his hands clasped together. That same goddamn permanent smile remained stuck to his face.

  “What is your name, heathen?” he asked.

  “You tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine.”

  “A fair trade,” he said. “My name is York. Nathaniel York. I am the leader of this group.”

  “Figured that much.” I licked my lips, trying to conceal the fear gnawing at my guts. “And what exactly is this group?”

  “We had a deal. Your name?”

  I didn’t have much to lose. “Ozzy.”

  “Ozzy.” He nodded. “You are a friend of the old man who came investigating us.”

  It wasn’t a question, but I answered anyway. “The guy you kidnapped and roughed up? Yeah. I didn’t much appreciate that.”

  “It was necessary,” he said, as if it barely mattered at all.

  “Who the fuck are you people? What are you doing here?”

  His smile grew wide and proud. “We are the Called.”

  “The Called?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Called by who?”

  York just looked at me with his milky eyes. Instead of answering the question, he asked me another one.

  “Are you a witch, Ozzy?”

  “No.”

  “I have seen the magic you work. I have seen the things you carry with you. They are the tools of the witch.”

  There was no point playing dumb. Whoever this guy was, he knew at least a little about what I could do and the secrets this town concealed.

  “I’m a cunning man,” I said. “There’s a difference.”

  “Is there?” He cocked his head to the side. “The old man called himself a cunning man as well. That didn’t stop him casting a curse on my second-in-command. That man now languishes under the effects of your friend’s cruel magic. I fear it will not be long before he succumbs.”

  “Untie my hands and find me a piano. I’ll play him a funeral dirge.”

  “Your friend refused to lift the curse,” York said. “Attempts to force him to do so only resulted in a worsening of the curse. He’d tied his own fate to the fate of my man.”<
br />
  “He’s a smart guy.”

  “You, on the other hand, are not in as advantageous a position,” York said. His tone was calm, neutral, which only made it all the worse. “You will break the curse. Or youwill be made to suffer.”

  One look into his semi-blind eyes told me he wasn’t lying. I swallowed.

  “I can’t do anything without my things,” I said. “Even then I might not be able to break the curse. My friend knows his stuff. And it’s not like I brought my whole lab with me.”

  “We should be able to provide you with what you need.”

  I licked my lips. “Then I guess I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

  “I hoped you would see it that way.” He stood and gestured to the woman in the doorway. She stomped into the tiny room, grabbed me under the arm, and hauled me to my feet.

  They led me out into the corridor. It was poorly lit. The whole place had seen better days. Seemed like some kind of office or small factory, but it had obviously been out of commission for a while. The floor was bare concrete and only about a third of the fluorescent bulbs overhead were working. With York in the lead, we headed down the corridor toward the sound of quiet conversations.

  “Can I ask you something?” I said to York.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Of course.”

  “Did you kill Habi?”

  “Who?”

  “The ghoul.”

  “We’re not in the business of killing ghouls, Ozzy.” He turned to face forward. “Not yet, anyway.”

  We emerged into a large open room with a high ceiling supported by concrete pillars. A little light filtered in through the narrow security glass windows set high in the walls. The rest came from a few flickering bulbs on the ceiling. There was a large clock at the far end of the room that had stopped at exactly one o’clock. Below it was a door that looked like it led to some kind of office. Tables were lined up throughout the room, some of them still holding what looked like rusted industrial sewing machines. Seemed like this place had once been some kind of clothing factory.

  I immediately recognized some of the people scattered about the room: the ones we’d encountered at the museum. Several of them were patching up burns and injuries while they talked to their buddies in low voices. The others I didn’t recognize, but they all looked cut from the same cloth. There were more than a dozen of them altogether. Most sat in groups of two or three on tables and uncomfortable-looking steel chairs. As York led me into the room, their conversations fell silent. Cold eyes turned to face me.

  They did not look particularly happy to see me.

  The blond Viking threw back his chair and stomped toward me, violence in his eyes. His wrist had been splinted and bandaged. A nasty purple bruise had spread like an alien fungus from beneath his hairline where I’d given him a taste of my elbow.

  He curled his good hand into a fist. “You little fuck—”

  Raising a hand, York stepped between me and the Viking. “Easy, Brother. Once, you were as ignorant as this heathen. He may yet be turned to the light.”

  “Two of our people are in critical condition. It’ll be a miracle if Hanson survives the night.”

  “You all knew when you came to this town that we were entering a hostile environment.” York raised his voice so that everyone in the room would hear. “This town is a den of monsters. A haven for those who fear the light. If any of you fear your faith is not strong enough to face them, you are free to leave.”

  The Viking scowled but kept his mouth shut.

  York cocked his head to the side. “Hanson was willing to risk himself for our cause. Are you, Brother?”

  “Of course.” He practically spat the words. His eyes were still fixed on me.

  “Then leave the heathen to me. Tend to your wounds. And harness that anger. The time will come when it will be needed.”

  The Viking gave a jerking nod, then spun on his heel and stomped away. One by one, the other occupants of the room turned their attention back to their duties.

  “Great bunch you’ve got here,” I said to York. “So what is your cause, anyway? You’re, what, some kind of doomsday cult?”

  The bald man smiled. “Far from it. We don’t want to destroy the world. We want to save it. We are the bringers of light. We are the cure for the sickness that corrupts us all.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, doomsday cult. Got it. You guys have been drinking too much of the witch-finder Kool-Aid, haven’t you?” I glanced around at the other cultists. “You’re sure as hell not organized enough to be real witch-finders. You’re just a bunch of wannabes. This town has dealt with worse than you.”

  “Oh, of course.” He turned and fixed me with his pale eyes. His smile turned cold. “But we’re not the ones you have to worry about.”

  Before I could ask him what the hell that was supposed to mean, York turned away and strolled toward the corner of the room. Shotgun lady nudged me in the back to get me moving.

  We made our way past tables and a couple of large bins on casters toward a long bench on the other side of the room. As I got closer, I saw that a couple of dozen vials and jars were stacked up on the bench, most of them labeled with tags tied around the necks of the bottles. Even before I was close enough to read the tags I could make a pretty good guess at some of the ingredients. I had several of the same liquids and powders and dried animal parts in my lab at home.

  York gestured to one of his cultists, and the man reached into a cupboard that sat alongside the bench and pulled out a bag. My bag. York took it and laid on the bench alongside the vials already there.

  “We gathered these from another heathen some time ago,” York said, gesturing to the vials. “I thought it was prudent to keep them, rather than destroy them. One must be willing to use the tools of the heathen if one is to defeat them.”

  “Yeah, so I see.” I clenched my burned hand behind my back. “You’re sporting some powerful magic yourself. Must’ve come at a high price.”

  “Oh, no,” he said. “It was a gift.”

  “A gift from who?”

  Ignoring the question, he gestured to the bench. “Will you be able to break my associate’s curse with these?”

  “Well, I’m guessing you’re not going to let me run out and pick up some more supplies, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Then I suppose this’ll have to do.”

  I cast my eyes over the selection. It was a small collection compared to what the hag had, or even what I had in my lab back home. But if I got a little creative I thought I might be able to pull it off. Early was better than me at this sort of thing, but I’d picked up plenty from him over the years.

  I looked back at York. “I need to know what kind of curse I’m dealing with. I’ll have to examine him.”

  He considered for a moment, then nodded. “Very well. Come with me.”

  With shotgun lady making sure I didn’t do anything stupid, York led me across the room. The eyes of the cultists followed me as I walked.

  York reached the door below the oversized clock and threw it open. Stepping back, he ushered me inside.

  The office had probably once belonged to whoever ran the factory. There were no windows, but it was a decent size. It even had carpet—faded and threadbare though it was. A heavy desk and a filing cabinet were the only pieces of furniture left in the room.

  But that’s not to say the office was empty. Far from it.

  A half dozen cardboard storage boxes lay dotted about the room, standing like islands in a sea of scattered documents. Some of the pages looked like photocopies of old typewritten documents, while others seemed to be hand-drawn sketches.

  The far wall of the room was almost completely taken up by a huge map made of several dozen sheets of paper pinned in place. It had been scrawled all over with a rainbow of permanent markers. It wasn’t a geographical map, with topography and roads and all that. It looked more like a subway map: lines of different colors coming together at node points and separating
again, all labeled with some kind of alphanumeric notation. Other scraps of paper had been pinned to the map in several places—some of them photocopies from the pile, while others were handwritten notes. The whole thing had a real serial killer vibe.

  Only one corner of the office had been saved from the obsessive mapping. There, on a bed made from a thin pile of blankets, lay the man Early had cursed. Someone must’ve dragged his ass out of the burning museum. A thin coating of black soot clung to his forehead and cheeks. They’d stripped him out of his shirt, giving me a good look at his sweat-covered body. As he murmured and groaned in his sleep, he tried to scratch at his skin through the oven mitts someone had duct-taped to his hands. A female cultist leaned against the wall beside him, her arms folded across her chest. She wasn’t nursing him—this was a death watch.

  There was one other person in the room. He wasn’t lean and tough like the rest of the cultists. He was short and dumpy and well past his prime. The hair he still had was dirty and untamed. He’d grown a thin beard since I’d last seen him. It didn’t suit him.

  He spun toward us as we came into the office, his eyes wide like a rabbit waiting for the hawk to strike. Unlike me, he wasn’t tied up in any way, but one look at his face told me he was no less a prisoner.

  Stuckey locked his wide eyes on me. He licked his lips.

  “I know you,” he whispered.

  19

  I stared at Stuckey. He had to be mistaken. I’d only seen him that one time, on that school trip, when I was one kid among three dozen. And that was years ago. There was no way he remembered me.

  York strode past me into the room. Behind me, I could feel the sharp eyes of shotgun lady boring into the back of my head.

  There was no menace in York’s face, but Stuckey shrank away from him anyway. He backed up until he hit the desk, then stood frozen as York approached.