Brimstone Dreams: A Horror Anthology
Page 9
No such things as secrets in this town; they lasted about as long as a virgin backstage at a rock concert. "I did. I'm back now."
"They welcome you back in?"
I wheeled down around the waterfront, past the corrugated roofs - past the tramp steamers lolling in the harbor swells. "Well, they didn't waste any bullets on me."
"What the hell's that mean?"
"Means they didn't take too kindly to my going off the reservation. I'm back, yeah. But it's more like probation. They need to feel like they can trust me again."
Joey nodded. "Who knows? You helping me with this might just make you look good enough again."
"Maybe." The tires splashed through a puddle. "You going to clue me in here or do I have to keep waiting for you to spill it?"
"Keep driving over toward Fort Channel. I'll give you the information when we get there."
Fort Channel was a thin strip of nowhere populated by a mass of warehouses slung next to weeds, old oil drums, and rusted car wrecks. The place reeked of low tide, seagull shit, and rotting corpses. Usually, rats. But two-legged bodies had been known to show up on occasion. Looked like we'd be adding to that tally tonight.
I wasn't naive enough to ignore the possibility that Joey was going to stick a couple of Teflon rounds into the back of my head. But I didn't think he was. Still, a healthy dose of cynicism has kept me shambling around longer than most.
"Pull in over there." Joey pointed at the narrow alley nestled between two of the larger warehouses. Ahead of me, a pile of broken toilets and sinks formed a pyramid of busted porcelain.
I slowed the car to a stop and then killed the engine. Joey was busy making sure he'd topped off his magazine. I watched his fingers work pushing rounds down. He smirked. "You're going to like this."
"I am?"
His eyes gleamed, catching the yellow sodium lights overhead. "Trust me."
As if. I slid out of the car and patted the back of my right hip. The USP Compact I carried still hugged me tight.
Joey cleared the car and came around. "You recognize this place?"
"Should I?"
"One of Le Clerc's."
I frowned. The thought of doing something on my boss' territory didn't exactly sit well with me. I usually stayed well away when off doing his bidding. Killing someone here violated that whole "don't shit where you eat" protocol.
Joey didn't seem to mind, but then again, we weren't getting ready to plug someone on Marchand's turf. He could afford nonchalance.
We closed on the closest warehouse and Joey pointed out that there weren't any cameras around. "Probably doesn't think anyone will bother him down here."
"Who?"
Joey just eyed me. "Dude, Le Clerc."
"He's the target?"
"Duh." Joey shook his head and pointed at the door. "You go in first. He sees you, he'll relax."
I put a hand on his arm. "Wait - how exactly does this get me back into good standing with my him?"
Joey smiled. "I never said doing this would make you look good to them. But it will to my people. And you'll need a home after this anyway. Nothing worse than an orphaned killer. You'd just wander around aimless. No sense of purpose. No one controlling you."
He had a point, of course. And Le Clerc hadn't exactly been kind when I'd returned. The idea of killing him didn't make me feel all that awful.
"You ready?"
I nodded and moved ahead to the door. My stomach ached at the thought of Joey being behind me, but I had to trust the situation, not the man. If that got me killed, then so be it.
The door was a pre-fab number, hollow and metal, but suitable for barring entry to the place. I turned the knob and the door opened.
Inside, the place reeked of incense. Le Clerc always had some of that shit burning in braziers hung on chains off the framework. Given the usual aroma of Fort Channel, I couldn't blame him. Even if incense made me want to puke.
I sensed Joey behind me, moving in the shadows. Maybe he expected Le Clerc to have a big welcoming party or tons of guards around him. Fact was, he didn't need them. Unless it was for show.
Joey pointed around my shoulder. "Up there."
I looked and saw the reflection of flames dancing on the walls on the second level. Le Clerc had a fire going. And I could hear something now as we approached.
Chanting.
I took the steps that brought us up and down the catwalk, I could see where Le Clerc had set himself up amid an altar and a blazing hearth. He was dressed the way he usually was in flowing deep burgundy robes and a brilliant yellow sash knotted in three places to denote his rank within his particular order. The glow of the fire made his ebon skin gleam.
He stopped chanting when he saw me. "Ken?"
"Yeah."
"You're early."
I shrugged. "Traffic was light."
Le Clerc nodded. "Who's that with you?"
I stepped to the side and Joey came up from behind me, his pistol - a Smith & Wesson .40 - leveled at Le Clerc's head. The shot was a good twenty feet away and in flickering firelight, but I figured Joey could plug him just fine.
"This is Joey."
Le Clerc smiled. "So…this is him."
Joey frowned and I could see the tug on his mind. He grunted and shook it off, refocusing on Le Clerc. "I'm here to kill you."
Le Clerc chuckled. "Obviously."
Joey thumbed the hammer back, but the sound was lost amid the crackling fire. "No tricks, Le Clerc."
Le Clerc raised his hands. "I wouldn't dream of it. Would I, Ken?"
"You're not one for tricks. Pragmatism, yeah. Tricks? Nah."
Joey glanced at me. "You ready to do this?"
I brought my USP out and shrugged. "Suppose so."
Le Clerc said nothing as I drew my pistol up. I could see the fire dancing in his eyes. I could feel the pull of his will on my own. His power was immense. Not that he needed it with me just then.
I turned the gun and put the barrel flush to Joey's temple - pulled the trigger twice - and heard the gun bark-bark. The left side of Joey's head exploded as the rounds exited, taking most of his cranial cavity with them.
He simply dropped.
Le Clerc advanced on me, his voice low and soothing. "Nicely done, Ken. Very nicely done. Am I correct in assuming he had no idea?"
"I doubt it. He came to me for help, just like you said he would."
"I'm amazed that this is the best Marchand could field." Le Clerc shook his head. "I believe the problem lies in the recruitment method. You do get out what you put into it, of course."
I watched the blood dribble out of Joey's head down to the lower level. His eyes were opaque and lifeless now. "Marchand grabs his guys from a security company. Low-level rent-a-cops. But Joey wasn't as bad as the majority of them."
"Marchand doesn't like challenges. These rent-a-cops as you call them, are easier to control."
I glanced at him. "As opposed to the likes of me."
Le Clerc smiled. "Former government operatives are always preferable to me. Yes, it takes a lot of extra work - and yes, there are…setbacks. Your recent vacation was a bit problematical for me. But overall, the results are far superior to substandard help."
"This your way of telling me all is forgiven now?"
Le Clerc's smile widened. "You want to forget?"
"Worse than you could possibly know."
Le Clerc nodded. "Follow me."
We walked back into the glow of the firelight and I saw that he'd set up a small tripod that dangled a deep pot over the flames. Le Clerc took a long wooden spoon and stirred the contents. From where I stood, I caught the familiar scent and my mouth watered at the thought of it.
"It's easier this way, isn't it?"
My eyes were focused on the bubbling mass in the pot. "Yes."
His voice swam in my head. "I'll make sure the usual amount is deposited into your account."
"Thank you."
"Are you still happy to be working with me?"
"But you will be." He pointed with his spoon. "You will be."
"Yes."
Le Clerc dropped his voice and the words came out of his mouth in a jumble of Creole, Gullah, and other dialects I didn't even recognize. I didn't need to recognize them. Their effect was what was important. The singsong utterances fluttered about my head, distracting, unfocusing, and graying out more and more of my thoughts.
At last, Le Clerc drove the spoon into the liquid and drew it out. He sniffed it once and then passed it to me. Already, my sentience seemed to be dwindling. I took the spoon and slurped up the contents.
Le Clerc, the high priest, fed me three times more.
And my mind vanished. Along with all the horrible memories of things I'd done in the name of God and Country. The bodies, the cries, the blood - so much blood - the terror I'd wrought, the demon I'd been.
Replaced.
By the zombie I'd chosen to become.
I was still a tool.
In more ways than one.
But now I had something I'd never had before.
Peace.
Jon F. Merz
As a writer, Jon has published over a dozen novels including five Lawson Vampire adventures (2002-2011) with Kensington's Pinnacle Books and St. Martin's Griffin, the Jake Thunder mystery/thriller DANGER-CLOSE (2004) with Five Star Mystery/Thorndike Press, and eleven installments in the internationally bestselling adventure series Rogue Angel (2006-present) with Harlequin's Gold Eagle line. His latest thriller PARALLAX debuted in March 2009 as an exclusive ebook. You can visit him online at www.jonfmerz.net
One With the Music
by Nate Kenyon
As soon as she glimpsed it, sitting back there among the dust and clutter, she knew she had found something special. Though if it was the one, if it was the very one she had been searching for, she heard no sudden voice from the heavens, felt no chill, no spark of recognition. Of course I wouldn't, she thought, how could I? I've never seen it before in my life…
Though she had seen it, in a way. She had seen it in her dreams.
"Ah," the old man said, coming toward her through the darkness of the little shop. "You've found it, then. Wasn't sure it was still around." He hobbled by her, past an ancient oak bed and headboard carved with tiny figures and designs and standing on its side like a gnarled old tree growing up out of the floor. Next to that was a lamp with a yellow paper shade, a rolled up rug that smelled of dust and mold, and a bird's nest of kitchen chairs stacked on and in and around each other. The old man reached up, leaning over a bunch of rotting cardboard boxes, leftovers of someone else's life, the dust swirling around his legs like a tiny, yapping dog at his master's feet.
"No," Laura said. The sight of him there, his withered fingers about to touch the precious wood, brought bile to her throat. "Please. I'll get it." He stepped back obediently, hawk nose dripping clear fluid, thin gray lips rimmed with white crust.
The violin sat on the second shelf from the top and she had to get up on tiptoes to reach it. When she brought it down the dust flew into her faces and down her nose and throat. "Yep, that's the one," the old man said as she dissolved into a fit of coughing. His voice was rough and high-pitched, as old and unused as the clutter that surrounded him. "Been here for two years at least. Young fella brought it in, as I remember. What his grandfather's, he said."
"Giovannetti."
The old man looked at her in surprise. "That's right. A famous musician in his time, I guess he was."
A famous musician indeed. Laura held the violin gently in her hands, rocking it like a baby. It seemed she felt a tremor run through the wood, like a distant memory of forgotten music.
She had found it. She had found it at last.
*** ***
After making the purchase she left the tiny second-hand shop and walked through the streets of Soho, ignoring the crowds as best she could. The gunmetal sky hovered just above the rooftops. It would rain soon, and with the rain would come the steam and the rush of dirty water through the gutters, fractured reflections off car windows and wet pavement, the sound of umbrellas flapping in the wind. How she had grown to hate this city, the noise and people rushing everywhere at all hours of the day and night. But here, she thought, only here could she pursue her dreams of becoming a star. Only here had she found the resources to finish the search that had come to consume her every waking moment. She clutched the paper bag closer to her chest and thought of all the hours that had led to this day, hours crouched over history books in silent library rooms, smelling the dusty pages, the phone calls overseas to more old men who sometimes spoke broken English, and sometimes spoke none at all. After all this time, and all this work, who could have known that she would find it here, in New York, not ten blocks from her apartment! Almost as if it had been waiting for her. She shivered and felt the tingle go all the way to her toes.
In her studio she closed the door and locked it, throwing the three bolts and slipping on the chain. Before she had thought the locks to be a bit of overkill, even in a city like this, but now they were a godsend. If anyone knew what she had…
She unwrapped the violin by the big bay windows and sat on the couch to examine it more closely. The wood had been dulled by time and neglect, but the grain was still visible, the quality of craftsmanship undeniable to anyone even vaguely familiar with the subject. And she, of course, was an expert. She wiped her palm gently over its surface and it was like wiping a clean spot on a foggy window, the smooth wood seeming to breathe under her skin, the beat of life there, faint but audible. She picked up the bow and felt along its length; the horsehair was in decent shape. It would be possible to play.
Faced with the reality of it at last, she almost lost her nerve. Who was she to think that she could walk in the footsteps of genius? Just an ordinary, average music student of mediocre talent, who worked hard but would never be a great musician, a girl who hadn't played in front of a crowd of over twenty in her life (and that at her seventh grade recital back home in White Falls). A girl with a dream, sure, but why should that make any difference? Everyone had dreams. Those who were truly great had something more, something she had always searched for but could never find. She couldn't remember when she had first realized it would remain forever out of her reach, but she remembered the terrible depression that descended like a black cloud over her life. Until now.
Laura Barnes, she thought. An average, ordinary name. She thought of her face, plain and broad, dark hair more like oil than the kind of coal-black she had always admired. She imagined the name up in lights in front of Lincoln Center and on posters plastered across the city, and almost laughed aloud. Did she really believe that a simple wooden instrument could bring her all this?
Still…
She lifted the violin to her throat and settled her chin against the soft leather rest. Raised the bow and placed it gently against the strings. Tuned each one as best she could.
And then, closing her eyes, drew the bow as her fingers found their places almost by their own accord.
A single deep, thrumming note leaped from the belly of the violin, and her heart jumped in her chest before a string let go with a loud ping! and the music stopped abruptly. Disappointed, she lay the instrument down on the couch next to her and sighed. What did she expect, anyway? After all, it had remained on a shelf in that crummy little shop for over two years, and if the old man had so much as dusted in its general vicinity she would be very surprised.
But that one note she had heard before the string let go had sent chills racing down her spine, her fingers tingling from their contact with the wood. She would replace the string, replace all of them. She would polish the wood until it shined, every last speck of dust and grime lifted from its precious surface.
And then we will see.
*** ***
"But Paganini played a Guarnerius. Everyone knows that. It's still in Genoa, on display.
"
"That's what everyone thinks. And they're right, of course."
"So what are you saying?"
"That's only part of the story."
They sat hunched over a small table in the rear of a crowded Soho bar. Danielle Aniston's face reflected the pulsing red, green and blue lights from the dance floor. Normally she was beautiful, with the sort of delicate china-doll features Laura has often wished she possessed. But now the lights and the noise and the skeptical expression on Danielle's face hardened her looks, making her appear as if she were carved from wood.
"I don't understand," she said. "You mean the one in Genoa is some sort of fake?"
"Of course not." Laura curled her fingers around the cool bottle of beer and found the smooth, slick glass repulsed her. Had she done the right thing, meeting her friend here? But she had to tell someone.
She wiped her hand on a napkin. "How much do you know about him?"
"Nicoli Paganini? Born in 1780-something, wasn't he? Italian virtuoso on the violin. Brilliant composer and musician. Traveled all over the world and died a very rich man."
"But what do you know about him? The person?"
"Oh," Danielle said, waving a hand. "I never pay too much attention in class. You know that."
"Maybe you should start."
"Spare me the lecture."
A young couple passed by on their way to the dance floor, two men holding hands. One of them bumped the table with his hip and sent the beer bottle into a drunken wobble. Laura steadied it with her hand (that slick feeling making her stomach lurch) and then continued, her voice softer now, so that her friend had to lean closer to hear her. "He was a gamble," she said. "Early in his career, he lost everything. They were coming after him to collect and he didn't have a penny to his name. How would it look if such a young, rising star was found with a couple of broken legs? Or worse, broken fingers? His career would be over. So he did the only thing he could do. He pawned his violin."
So then he bought it back when he had earned some money?"