by Chad Huskins
“What was it, exactly?”
For a moment, she considered, and he thought he might have to press her again. Then, she answered him frankly. “Have you heard about the baby kidnapping scandal in Spain?”
Spencer searched his memory, found the article. “Yeah. A fifty-year operation. Somethin’ like two hundred thousand babies were stolen and sold for adoption by nuns. The mothers were all told that their babies had died, and the babies were shuffled around and sold. The Catholic church in Spain was behind the whole thing, right?”
“The number of babies was more like three hundred thousand. But yes, that’s the one.”
“You had some information concerning that?”
“We knew the name of one nun who was part of the operation twenty years before, and had since changed her name and was working at a small orphanage outside of Madrid.” Rideau looked down at her hand, and touched the wedding band around her finger. “I offered the information for their help in a separate matter. As it turned out, Patricia had a special vested interest in that scandal—”
“Let me guess,” Spencer said, intrigued and leaning forward. “A member of her family was a victim, or was one of the babies sold?”
Rideau nodded. “Her grandmother was one of the children sold. The operation had been going on since 1939.”
Spencer nodded. “Now I remember. It started as a system for removing children from families that were designated politically dangerous to the regime of…um…um…oh, what’s-his-fuck?”
“General Franco.”
“Yeah, that asshole. He was dictator until, um…wait, don’t tell me, don’t tell me…um, it was like 1974? No, ’75!”
“Yes.” Rideau’s gaze was still on her wedding ring. She was spinning it around and around her finger now.
Spencer leaned back in his chair, thinking on that. “S’funny, ain’t it? You an’ Patricia, in love and married now, all because of some assholes back around World War Two. Heh. They fucked Patricia’s grandmother over, but they brought you two together. Guess you both owe those corrupt nuns a thank-you. Or really, if her grandmother hadn’t been switched around like she was, she probably wouldn’t have met Patricia’s grandfather and Patricia wouldn’t even exist. Funny how evil and good are so intertwined. It’s like…maybe we need the evil in the world to do good? And the good to do evil?”
Rideau looked up at him. She was still twirling her ring. “I don’t think of it like that.”
“How do you think of it?”
Another heavy sigh. “I don’t know…”
“You don’t know how you think?”
“I…I believe she would’ve come into existence anyway. I would’ve met her and it would have been the same—”
“So then, nothing we do has any effect on the world?” he posed. “If you believe that Patricia’s grandmother would have met her grandfather anyway, and that she would’ve been born regardless, then you must also concede that girls like Shannon Dupré were going to be raped no matter what?” He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “I trust you know who Shannon Dupré is? You’ve read my profile.”
“I know who she is.”
“And?”
Yet another sigh, this one more exasperated that the others. “And what?”
“Was she meant to be raped?”
“No!”
“Why not?”
“Because…because I believe bad things are preventable!”
“How very convenient for you. What if I said only good things are preventable? How would you prove me wrong?” She opened her mouth to respond, but Spencer held up a hand. “But I digress. We could go on an’ on like this all night. What I’m really interested in knowing is, what do you think about this gun?”
Rideau looked at him warily. “What do you mean? The gun…”
“This gun. In my hand. What do you think about it?” he said. Spencer watched Rideau open and close her mouth, searching for a response. He chuckled. “I’ll tell you what I think about it. It’s a Makarov. Somebody made it somewhere in Bulgaria. I’ve never even been to Bulgaria, but somebody over there reached out an’ touched me. I mean, right? They went into work one day, clocked in at the factory, and started putting the parts together that made…this. This gun traveled halfway across the world to be the deciding factor between you and me,” Spencer said. “And here we are. You have a fear of it, a knowledge of what this pistol can do, and so do I. Your fear of it, and my willingness to use it, imbue this object with the word ‘weapon’ and ‘gun.’ Words that have a certain psychological schema to each of us. If I put this gun down,” he said, setting it on the table beside him, “it’s just an object. It’ll sit there forever, never firing again, never hurting anybody, unless acted upon by another sentient being such as ourselves. If I pick it back up,” he said, lifting it off the table again, “it’s a gun again. My willingness to use it and your fear of what it can do have imbued this with a purpose, and we give it a name—gun, we say. If I set it back down,” he did so, “it’s just an object again. It’ll sit there forever unless acted upon. If I pick it back up,” he did so, “it becomes a gun again. It now has purpose, but only right now. If I set it back down,” he did so, “then it’s just an object again. It’s meaningless to you, and the threat is possibly gone. You might even be thinking about darting for the door since the gun’s not in my hand anymore. It’s no threat whatsoever. But if I pick it back up,” he did so, “you an’ me just imbued it with gun-ness and you’re not going anywhere. If I set it back down,” he did so, “it’s harmless, just an object. If I pick it back up—”
“I don’t mean…to interrupt you,” she said, slowly. “But where…the hell…is this going?”
Spencer looked at her seriously. “Never interrupt me.” He let that hang in the air, and watched the woman quail just a little. After a while, he said, “I think names are interesting. They give people power over their environment. Names are like little spells we can cast on things, owning them.” He watched her for a moment, then sighed. “The point is, I have a weapon and it is now. You have a wife, and you care for her very much, don’t you?” He eyed her. “Don’t you?”
Rideau nodded. A tear escaped her. “Yes,” she said, barely above a whisper.
“And I have her name.”
Rideau swallowed.
Spencer stood up. He looked down at her cell phone, and made a call to his phone in his pocket. He would check it later, memorize Rideau’s number, then discard Zakhar’s old phone for a new one. He tossed her phone onto the bed beside her, and pointed down to her hands. “You know why you do that?” Rideau looked up at him. “Why you people put the wedding ring on that particular finger, I mean.”
She cleared her throat, and found her voice. “It’s because…because it’s the only finger with a vein running to the heart.”
“Wrong. Well, you’re kind of right. It started with the Greeks, third century B.C. With their misguided interpretation of human anatomy, they erroneously believed that that finger was the only finger with a vein leadin’ to the heart. That’s been debunked for centuries now, but people still do it, and they still explain it exactly the way you just did, even though they’re wrong.” He snorted. “Makes ya wonder what else you people are doin’ that’s wrong an’ ya don’t even know it. Like, maybe, the way you go after these organized criminal syndicates?”
Rideau opened her mouth, but obviously didn’t know what to say to that. Spencer took the handcuffs he’d retrieved from the woman’s coat and motioned for her to step over to a closet with a water heater. She did as bidden, and cuffed herself in at his order.
Spencer gave the room a once-over, then gave Rideau a final look. He turned to leave. At the door, he paused and looked back at her. Something was bugging him. “What’s your middle name?”
Teary-eyed and trembling, Rideau looked at him. “Why do you want to know, you fucking maniac?” It was obvious she was getting tired of his questions and his rantings.
“Just answer the question
.”
“Renée.”
“Aurélie Renée Rideau?” Spencer took the slip of paper he’d gotten from Shcherbakov’s pocket, looked at the two initials and the addresses, one of which was here, this very hotel. There was a room number beside the initials V.R.R. “Like I said before, names have power. You had a room here, in this hotel? Room 412?”
“Yes.”
“I think you were on his hit list.” Rideau nodded. “You sussed that out for yourself already, huh?” Another nod. “Ever heard the expression, ‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer?’ I can almost guarantee you the vory have heard it. I’d check inside your ranks. Somebody set you up, told them you were comin’. They had people inside Atlanta PD, too. Think real hard about the ones you trust.” He pointed at her. “You’re the enemy they kept close.”
Rideau shook her head. “Y-you have proof? Or is it just…speculation…or…?”
He smiled. “No. But I’m never wrong about people. They must reckon you some kinda threat.” He nodded appreciatively. “I can dig it. But here’s another expression: The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
“M-meaning what?”
“You ever work Bangladesh?”
She shrugged. “I’ve liaised with various agencies there—”
“At-ta Biral. You know ’em?”
She nodded. “I know of them.”
“Then it means I’ll be in touch.” He raised a finger of warning. “I memorized Patricia’s phone number from your phone. I can get an address. Tell anybody I was here, and I won’t hesitate. Be content that Shcherbakov is gone from the earth. Focus on that, and Patricia’s safety. This day has been a good one if you let it be.”
He opened the door to leave. Rideau said, “Even if I don’t say anything…h-how long can you run?”
“Until the stars all wink out,” he muttered, smiling to himself, and then stepped out. “Remember Patricia.” He shut the door behind him, leaving her to deal with that. Names were power, and Patricia’s name was the right spell to cast on the Interpol woman.
Spencer walked to the end of the hall, eyes scanning all around for an ambush. He punched a button on the elevator, and while he waited he rooted around in his pocket, pulled out one of the Wolf’s cigarettes. He put one in his mouth, and hummed “Tainted Love” while he lit up. The doors parted, he stepped inside, and leaned against the far wall. He looked at Shcherbakov’s fake IDs, which he’d also purloined from his corpse. Spencer imagined that, with a little reworking, and with a visit to a local Kinko’s-style shop, he would be able work a picture of himself in Shcherbakov’s place.
“Once I ran to you,” he sang, exhaling smoke. “Now I run from you…”
Spencer stepped out of the elevator and left a different way than he came, down a back hallway, through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY and into a kitchen area. A man with sweat-stained armpits was pushing a broom, and looked up at him, but Spencer just smiled at him and waved like they were old friends. The sweeper waved back, and went back to his work. Spencer dipped out a back door, moved across the snowy parking lot where employees parked, and jumped a small fence. He crossed the street, moving through another alley.
He reached into his pocket to retrieve the cell phone, and checked the time: 12:55 AM. Nine hours of hell. Nine hours of running and gunning. Nine hours of pure adrenaline. Nine hours of heaven. Too bad it was all over.
When he made it to the mouth of the alley, Spencer checked up and down the street. The Acura was still parked where he’d left it. He saw no sign of a squad car, nor any questionable vehicles that might hold some of Zverev’s people. There was a Lada parked up the street, and a Civic parked a bit farther down. Besides that, no sign of activity, not even a salt truck or a late-night wanderer. Nothing.
He started across the street, towards the SUV. Halfway there, he thought he heard crunching snow behind him. He turned to look, hand moving reflexively for the Makarov, but nothing and no one was behind him.
Spencer turned back to the SUV. He was a couple steps away when he heard loud panting, some grunting, and finally a low, low growl. He turned slowly, and standing just beside the Acura’s rear tire, impossibly large and defiant, was the dire wolf. Its dark-gray fur was standing on end. A deep, guttural noise was emanating from its chest, like no growl that Spencer had ever heard before.
Spencer heard panting behind him. He turned, saw four more sets of eyes approaching from the alley behind him. He looked back at the dire wolf. “Been wonderin’ when you were gonna show up,” he said, conversationally. “I was startin’ to think you’d just let me leave without sayin’ goodbye first.”
Spencer had half expected it to reply, but the dire wolf said nothing. It’s not one of Shannon’s creations or one of the Prisoner’s pals. The animal, though twisted by some dark voodoo or science, was from right here in this world, a monster as real as the Rainbow Room, as real as Shcherbakov and Zverev and Dmitry. Some monsters were just what they appeared to be: predators. And yet, like so many others, attracted to the darkness.
The wolf peeled back its upper lip, grinning as before, only now its gums were bleeding, and the tongue that licked its jowls was covered in green sores, each one leaking pus. And unless Spencer was mistaken, the teeth themselves were crooked and twisted around one another. The eyes had a sadistic humor burning inside, of a kind that Spencer recognized whenever he looked into the mirror.
The wind picked up, and he heard other howls on the wind. The snow was collecting on the dire wolf’s dark fur, even as it remained stationary and grinning. “So, it’s like that, huh?” Once again, it understood none of this banter.
Words had great power for Spencer, and were typically his allies, but just now they were useless, impotent things. The dire wolf had no appreciation for words; in many ways, this made it immune to deceptions.
Very quickly, Spencer weighed his options. He knew he had the Makarov at his side, but he would not be able to draw it fast enough. Even if he did manage it, he was somehow convinced that bullets wouldn’t be enough, not for all of them.
So his mind went to the possibility of running. No way, they’d catch me before I got three steps away. His mind went to the SUV, which was two steps away. I could make it, but the window’s busted open. Intuitively, he knew that the dire wolf would jump through it, grab him by his neck or arms or head, and pull him out into the street—those massive jaws could do that easily. But if he jumped inside, and dove into the back seat? That would only give me a temporary reprieve. This big honkin’ beast could easily…
Then, Spencer’s mind-map suddenly recalled the contours of the SUV’s interior, and his mind leapt at possible salvation. Chainsaw.
The side of the work van said it all: Обслуживание дерево удаления. Tree Removal Service.
The dire wolf snarled.
Spencer looked back at it. It knows. It smells the idea on me.
It all happened very quickly. Spencer turned and ran. He only got one step before the dire wolf was in midair. He didn’t go for the door, instead he leapt through the open window and kicked his legs up, knowing they would be the only things hanging out, and the dire wolf would clench them in his jaws and never let go, not until Spencer was torn and eviscerated in the middle of the street.
The wolf missed, and Spencer clambered into the back seat, drawing the Makarov. Not a second later, the wolf’s massive head came in through the window, snarling and biting at the door’s perimeter, gnawing at the steering wheel, its paws clawing at the seat as it tried to pull itself through. Spencer sat in the passenger seat and put a foot against the wolf’s muzzle, pushed its head against the ceiling, and fired repeatedly into its neck and body until he was empty. Blood spattered against his face, the seats, and the windshield, but the dire wolf only became more incensed.
Spencer fell into the floorboard in the back, knocking over the boxes of hacksaws and the one hatchet. The dire wolf fought hatefully against the confines of the window, raping its way th
rough the small opening. He lifted the hatchet, and began beating against its head even as it advanced, a foot at a time, into the front seat.
Two other wild hounds leapt onto the SUV’s hood, and started snapping at the windshield. Another one was clawing at the back driver side door.
Spencer’s foot touched the chainsaw. A Husqvarna, with a good solid bar, a sixteen-incher. In one move, he snatched it up and dove out the back passenger side door, and onto the snow-covered sidewalk. He didn’t even bother to stand up—it would have wasted a precious second—he merely grabbed hold of the handle, jerked once, twice, and brought the angry saw sputtering to life. It roared over a hundred decibels, and summoned every other wolf around him.
He caught the first one leaping on him, put the blade right to its belly and squeezed the trigger. It was a large black creature, about half the size of its pack leader, and the blade went through it like butter. Blood splashed across Spencer face, and viscera splashed into his lap. He rolled over, kicking the wolf free of his blade, and stood up, turning a circle and spinning the chainsaw around to create a clearing between him and the other wolves already surrounding him.
The pack leader was still inside the SUV, thrashing madly at the interior, tearing across the back seats to get at him.
Six others swarmed all around him. Spencer backed away, into the street, revving up the chainsaw and shoving the blade at each of them. One of them nipped at his foot, and he slashed at it and sawed the top of its head, sending it yapping and scampering away. The others backed away, reassessing him.
Howling.
Spencer turned. Up the street, there came at least a dozen more—he didn’t bother to count—and all of them running towards him. Some of them looked like normal strays, a couple of Labradors, a German Shepherd, a Collie, but for the most part they were all mutts, and some of them had the distinctive wolfish form and grin. They ran at him like eager children for the dinner table, and once they had gathered around him, they just barked and snapped at him, while the Husqvarna barked and snapped back.
Then, the dogs suddenly backed away from him. He knew why. He felt it in his hair follicles. Spencer turned and met the dire wolf eye to eye again. It had finally torn its way free from the Acura, and from its jaws clung pieces of stuffing from the seats it had ravaged. Its face and neck were gushing blood from the multiple gunshot wounds. The others made a hole for it, and it approached him, snarling and lowering itself and adjusting its shoulders for a possible pounce. Spencer circled it, revving up the chainsaw, and the dire wolf did the same. Its nose wrinkled, sniffing the air, savoring the meal to come.