by Brian Hodge
Classified? But then, what else could they have done with the reality of which Tony Mendoza’s corpse would have spoken last year?
He laughed. “That makes sense.”
“Just what the hell happened when you moved to Tampa?”
“I snorted the absolutely worst thing in the world up my nose,” he said. “It opened up a whole new world.”
Which had been bad enough in itself. But worse, really, was that once you’d walked in a new world, you could never truly walk away from it.
April kicked the worst of the dirt from her damp feet before going back inside the house. No palace, this, but it bordered on spotless, and she would do nothing to sully it.
Through the kitchen, its air still rich from a meal quickly prepared for the unseen man in seclusion. A quiet prayer, then, formed less from words than longings. May this night never leave her, may she always carry something of it into tomorrow…
And may it truly mark the end.
April rounded out of a short hallway from the kitchen into the dining room, going for the stairs, when there came a movement from around the corner and she nearly collided with him—
So imposingly tall, so slender, white as bones. Startled, she twitched, even before the cold grip of fear. As one of his hands lifted toward her face, she heard what for all the world sounded like the whisper of a perfume atomizer.
Mist upon her face, clinging like a fine rain, and vision blurred. A vile scent heavy with complex layers of shadow worlds into which she could fall, never to find her way out again for fear of making a wrong turn into nowhere, or torments without end.
Aflame beneath the skin, like a swarm of ants. Gentle sounds, below, her clothing and shoes slipping from nerveless fingers to the hardwood floor, and then a louder thud, shoulder meets wall, she had no control over her legs
nor arms
nor voice—
Warm floodrush, she had peed herself, and when she hit the floor and its burnished shine seemed to yawn and take part of her away, April understood that she had indeed received an answer to her prayers…
But from the wrong side of the veil.
Eel looked down upon the woman collapsed to the floor amid the rubble of her belongings. Studied her face, some subtle blend of Amerasian, and she would definitely tell no tales at this point.
“Where the fuck did she come from?” A question from behind, from Stockton, he of the midlength leather jacket.
“Out back,” said Eel. “Stay clear of the windows.”
He capped and pocketed his spray, then drew his pistol. There would be no second chances with another surprise dropping into their laps.
Kid back at the shop on South Rampart, he hadn’t said word one about the mambo having anyone else here other than Napoleon Trintignant. It was bad business already, he knew that deep inside. The need to eliminate one witness leading to two more for sure, maybe others. The transvestite whore was doing time in an empty oil drum, on the way to an unceremonious swamp dumping; a cleanup crew had been called to the warehouse to scrub up the mess.
Same story for the South Rampart Street shop. The kid minding the store had been eager to talk and draw a map with his right hand once his left was nailed to the counter.
And now this. She had at least been taken out quietly, no time to cry out in pain, raise an alarm. Quick dose, throw her into a coma, and if need be he could always double back later and take whatever he needed. Life, or soul, both would be waiting.
Eel motioned to Stockton and the other, Rigaut, to follow. “Out the front door. We’ll flank the back from both sides.”
Leaving the house as quietly as they had come.
Justin told the story of last year with minor editing. There was only so much he could expect Moreno to swallow, without having seen the evidence for himself.
But by the time he approached the end of the tale, there came an abrupt shift in Moreno’s eyes, face, whole body. In the shadow of the sanctuary, leaning against rough wood, Justin saw Moreno change as if taken over by something else entirely.
Moreno lowered, one hand in a quick arc to his waistband and back out it came, not empty, dull moonlit sheen on gunmetal.
“What is—”
Moreno slapped his free hand across Justin’s mouth, and he still hadn’t heard a thing.
The trees before them, theater of shadows; all Justin saw was a pale face in the night, one flash of understanding in that it appeared every bit as determined as Moreno’s.
“Motherfuck!” Moreno screamed, dropping into a two-handed shooter’s stance, and he let go into the trees. Sudden harsh volley of gunfire — you could never be prepared for how devastating the sound was — and the night strobed with muzzle flash.
Return fire from the trees ahead, the crack of bullets plowing into wood behind him. Justin dropped to the ground. If Mama Charity and Granvier had any presence of mind they would be doing likewise. The guy in the trees went shooting wild, and Justin saw him twitch as if hit.
More shots, and guns all had their own distinct voices, didn’t they, one, possibly two more joining the chorus. Fuck this — the guy ahead in the trees had gone silent … he would risk it. Stay here by the sanctuary and he would die for sure.
Barefoot, shirtless, he sprinted into the trees while Moreno screamed for him to get down, but if there was a fallen weapon beside a dead man, they needed it. His feet fell prey to sharp sticks while weaving between tree trunks, ten yards, and the things stark panic sometimes made you do, twenty, when chaos reigned and the only way to stave off madness was to move, twenty-five—
He saw some big guy in a leather coat sprawled on the ground, trying weakly to prop himself up against a tree. Reaching with a palsied hand for a dull gleam on the ground and falling short. Justin went rubbery, slipping, falling into grass and dried leaves, scrambling to win the race, like swimming against the current of his own failure. When he saw the glazed stare of the man, blood black in moonlight, heard the wheeze of a punctured lung, he knew he had won, and if panic overrode mercy he would not blame himself—
He snatched up the gun and rolled upon his side and fired twice into the man’s head.
Moreno far behind him — he could distinguish the crack of the SIG Sauer. Why these hunters had come never crossed his mind, nor how, only that they were here. He bit his lip and crawled toward the distant beacon of Mama Charity’s house, for something seemed wrong there—
He could see lit windows with nothing in them, not even a small half moon of head, as if someone inside were peering out to see what was happening.
Just as he knew April would be doing.
Were she able.
April
He pushed up off the ground and weaved for the house.
The truth was painfully obvious just as Eel saw Stockton go down in the trees: He had underestimated. Who were these people?
Napoleon Trintignant and one fat old mambo were the only ones supposed to be here tonight, and given the way the balding guy by the temple was handling himself, he was a definite professional who knew how to keep cool in a firefight.
Rigaut, though, had come flanking around the other side of the humfo, blindsiding, and Eel lifted his gun once more. If they were going to take this guy out it would require teamwork…
Crossfire.
The sky was raining tree bark.
Moreno wedged himself against the biggest trunk he could find, pinned down well and quickly. He had tried to count shots, hoping to anticipate when somebody would lock on an empty chamber, but it was no good. Like trying to count cards in a fast deal game, with everything wild and too many players.
He chanced a glance out from around the tree, bathed in chillsweat, saw the flicker of a shadow, lengthening in the diffused lights from the house. Footsteps, on the run, somebody was coming around from the far side of the temple.
He dumped into a roll. They must have been fifteen feet apart when each opened up, both scoring points, and Moreno felt himself take it through the side. M
ore like a hammer blow than anything, dull and deep, no real pain to speak of; he had been shot twice before and it felt exactly like this. He’d been trained to shut himself off to wounds, reduce everything to pure autonomic survival. Old lessons, deeply ingrained, never left.
Moreno rolled up onto one knee, wobbly, saw the man he’d shot pulling himself back into the shadows of the building. Leave him there for now, he couldn’t afford to waste bullets.
No way had he come into this stocked for a three-on-one firefight, nor could he get to his car’s trunk for the rest of the firepower, and what the fuck had happened to Justin, he could use a little backup here.
Two more shots winged by his head — the third guy who’d come down the middle, from behind the house. He’d seen white clothing; this had to be the creepy fucker who had sent them out here in the first place, the one Christophe had called the djab blanc.
This guy was the most dangerous, and above all others deserved to die. To take care of him, Moreno shut out everything else, a calculated risk—
He heard metal on metal, djab blanc ejecting a spent magazine. Moreno broke cover and burst into the open. If he was lucky, maybe he could take this guy out before he had a chance to finish reloading. Moreno fired on the run, the first shot going wild. With the second he found his mark, and there would be no third, for the SIG’s slide locked open, empty.
Damage assessment while on the move: He saw blood on white, a left shoulder wound, and from ten feet watched him drop his gun, deliberately. Figure him right-handed, he’d probably lost the fresh magazine when shot, and this made them even—
Wait.
Djab blanc, right hand reaching behind, and just before Moreno got to him, out came the knife.
There was no time. Too much adrenaline, too much momentum. Moreno cursed himself, must really be getting sloppy, life too easy down in Miami. The albino was no trained knife-fighter, that he saw in a glance — no thrust from below, nor lateral sweep across the viscera — and that could have been what saved his life.
As the albino raised the knife, overhand, Moreno flashed on old training, lifting his arm to block the downward stab, wrist-to-wrist, as the blade plunged for his chest—
Timing, position, something went wrong, and Moreno took the tip of the knife on the flat of his forearm. The point driven through his outer arm, emerging from the inner, the impalement so sudden it seemed surreal. Again, training kicked in, down another level, hardcore survival and disarmament. He spun his wrist back, the radius and ulna shifting into a vise to trap the blade, and no training could have conditioned him to ignore this kind of pain. He bellowed, long and loud and full of hurt.
Combatants, they tumbled to the ground, each bleeding on the other. Rolling, the albino losing his grip on the knife and Moreno clawing for his face. The lanky bastard straddled him and bore down hard, trying to get the knife back, and Moreno could have found it very easy to pass out for the sensation of the blade grating between locked bones.
Moreno shrieked again, with equal need, when his fingers raked down one alabaster cheek above him, middle finger slipping past a bloodless lip and into the mouth. That bit. Hard.
Mistake, mistake, fierce new light shining from those savage eyes, and he bit harder. Harder. Moreno’s finger screamed with the crushing agony he had always imagined would accompany thumbscrews, and his blood began to leak from the corner of the guy’s mouth.
Albino, thrashing his head like a wolf with prey, tendons cording in his neck while keeping one hand on the knife haft — if he couldn’t use it, then Moreno couldn’t either. Teeth grinding, grinding, and when they met, and he yanked his head back with a ferocious tug, it became the moment of ultimate agony—
The top third of his finger was gone at the joint.
The weight suddenly lifted from Moreno’s chest as the guy rolled off, severed finger wedged in the corner of his mouth like a cigar butt. Moreno groped after him, weakly, equilibrium all but gone. The final indignity came next, not as excruciating, but there was still something shameful about having a handful of your remaining hair yanked out by the roots.
Moreno staggered to his feet while the white shape went loping off through trees and shadows. Son of a bitch, why didn’t he stick around to finish the job, he’d gained a solid advantage—
And then Moreno dropped back onto his knees when he realized that he could, safely, for he saw what had chased the djab blanc away.
Christophe was coming at a run from the temple, naked, long lean body gleaming wet in the moonlight. In both hands was the sanctuary’s ceremonial sword, and maybe the loa hadn’t minded loaning it out, given the occasion.
Beyond Christophe, Moreno could see what had become of the second man he had shot, and neglected to finish. Sprawled upon the ground near the temple’s door, he lay perfectly still, the job done after all.
Moreno wondered where his head had rolled to.
He swayed on his knees, no, he wasn’t going down again. Then Christophe was there, the sword dropped to the ground, and his arms went around Moreno to help him the rest of the way up.
“I have you,” he said in Moreno’s ear, “easy, I have you.” He then touched a finger to the haft of the knife. “Do you want me to pull it out?”
Moreno shook his head. “Inside. So you can pack it. It’ll bleed more with the blade out.” Glancing around, just the two of them back here, and a pair of corpses.
“Mama Charity?” he asked. Fearing the worst; thin wood walls of that temple, you might as well take cover behind a newspaper.
“Fine, she is fine. In prayer now.”
Moreno nodded, took one more look around. Justin was nowhere to be seen, vertical or prone. Worry about that later, and they began to make the long bloody walk back to the house.
Justin had doubled around the far side of the house while gunfire was still puncturing the night, came through the front door with the gun steadied before him in both hands.
And found her on the living room floor.
Everything going out of him in that moment, all the fight, even the panic, leaving in their stead something far worse. Some dread too fundamental to name.
Justin fell beside her, the gun dropped, forgotten, and had someone burst in, intent on doing him harm, he could only have watched, let it happen, maybe even welcomed it. Right here, pointing to his heart or forehead, shoot me here.
But such an easy release would have been cheating, because fate had crueler plans in store: Here, see her, hold her, try to rouse her without getting a response; feel the raw cleaving of separation and know just how unbearable life can become.
And the worst of it? Not knowing whether April was dead or alive. He could find no reliable evidence of either. Just the robe, wet beneath her, and a strange discoloration along one side of her face.
Justin held her to his bare chest, speckled with the blood of another, and stared into her face, stroked her cool cheek with fingertips gone numb. He began to realize the world was quiet again, gunshots and cries of pain conspicuous by their absence. Better, perhaps, to have them back, they lent this moment its proper mood. He heard nothing until the back door slammed open, and here it would come, damnation or salvation. Bring it on.
Granvier. And Moreno. Justin stared down the hallway into the kitchen, wondering how Moreno could even be walking. The man looked extensively fucked-up.
They noticed him and April, did some staring of their own, and there ebbed new pain in Moreno’s eyes, that had nothing to do with his ravaged body. Some deepened sense of failure.
“Is she…?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Justin answered, empty man of hollow voice. “There’s not a mark on her … but … look.” Lifting her, as he might a drowned child.
He bore her down the hallway while Granvier and Moreno tended to the latter’s wounds. Impaled left arm held over the sink while Moreno gritted his teeth and Granvier, naked and wet, took hold of the knife and drew it out. Blood drizzled anew and Moreno made a visible effort at k
eeping himself propped aloft, using a hand missing part of one finger — and what other atrocities were awaiting discovery?
Justin sat in a chair, holding April’s deadweight balanced in his lap, disheveled robe twisted and bunched open as she sagged against him. That her breasts were exposed didn’t even register; no such thing as modesty under fire, nor in the aftermath. This fractured world went on around him, bandages hurriedly made for Moreno’s wounds; even an ugly raw patch on his scalp was oozing blood.
When Mama Charity came back, another grim survivor, Justin could feel only a stunted relief that he would not have to mourn her too. She had powders and salves in aged glass jars, doctoring Moreno with the efficiency of a triage nurse. With every moment that passed, Moreno seemed to be putting himself back together from the inside out. If a few of the pieces no longer comfortably fit, he forced them anyway.
What about April? he wanted to shout. Look at her, look at her and tell me WHAT’S WRONG WITH HER.
When April’s turn came, Mama Charity felt for vital signs, looked for pupillary response and appeared neither distressed nor encouraged. She lowered her head to press an ear to April’s bared chest, held it there for a maddeningly long time.
“Well, she got a heartbeat,” Mama Charity said with a frown. “Pulse too faint for me to feel, but I hear a heartbeat, slow as can be.”
“What did they do to her?”
“Don’t you be touching that stain on her face. She been poisoned.” She looked knowingly at Moreno and Granvier, who, sometime in the past minutes, had wrapped a towel around his waist. “You know the kind I mean … don’t you?”
They both nodded. Granvier looked down at him, said, “And so do you. We spoke of this Saturday, Justin.”
Mama Charity touched his arm. “She’ll be like this for three days, maybe a little less.”
Three days. On the third day she shall rise. And then? The realization was brutal, what April might be like upon awakening. The last one to whom they’d done this had been framed for a burglary he didn’t commit, couldn’t commit, and he had been too much of a wreck to even defend himself. Just lapsed away into a convenient suicide.