Shadows in the Water

by Kory M. Shrum

  She flashed him a weak smile. “I want you to promise that you won’t go to the police with this. Hear me out and if you don’t like what I tell you then forget I said anything.”

  “Kids make mistakes.” He immediately drew up a list of twenty or thirty of his own fuckups. Some of them committed in the last few months.

  “Do you remember Gus Johnson?”

  “He disappeared.”

  Lucy gave him a look. “And the crime family who killed Jack and Courtney.”

  “Wiped out one by one,” King said. “But they never found a body. Or a weapon.”

  Lucy’s hard look lingered.

  A pinpoint of surprise dilated in his mind, expanding into full-blown awe. “You’re saying Louie’s working with a team? She fell in with some mercenary group or gang—”

  “No.” Lucy shook her head. “Lou works alone. She’s not...a people person.”

  “Lou.” He laughed. “A girl named Lou single-handedly destroyed an entire crime family? You’re fucking with me.”

  Lucy’s face was disturbingly calm.

  “When you took her in, did you send her to ninja school?” He couldn’t believe this. There’s no way she pulled off those jobs alone. When King himself had heard about the Martinelli’s destruction, he assumed it was a rival crime family. There were enough of them out there, vying for supremacy. And he knew some thought Martinelli’s iron-clad rule had gone on for too long.

  If Lou killed even one of the Martinellis, she had combat skills. Intel gathering skills. Espionage. A fuck ton of guns. Not to mention balls, or in this case ovaries, the size of Texas.

  How did she come by that training? Certainly not from her Buddhist aunt who wouldn’t even eat a bacon cheeseburger for fear of the animals’ suffering. Lucy wouldn’t have even let the girl kill the flies in her house, he was sure of it. Unless she was carting the girl off to some shaolin temple on the weekends...which begged a lot of questions.

  So how was she trained? How did she pull it off?

  No one person had it all. It’s the reason mercenaries often worked in teams. “Logistically, what you’re saying is impossible.”

  Lucy’s face hardened. “She’s Jack Thorne in miniature, with Courtney’s cold heart. And she got a little something from me too.”

  His humor dried up like a creek bed in July.

  She placed the empty glass on the table and leveled her gaze on him. “Do you remember?”

  “No,” he said. Doors in his mind began to slam shut. Memories tried to surface, and he shoved them down with a rough hand.

  “The night those men came for you...?” she probed gently. As if she knew he was lying to himself as well as her. “She’s hurt. She’s angry. I think Lou hunts these men as a way to pay homage to Jack.”

  “I don’t know what you think I can do.” He grabbed her glass off the coffee table and dumped the rest of the ice into his mouth.

  “Give her a case, anything that’ll help her see there’s another way to use her abilities.” Lucy slid off the couch and knelt in front of him. She took his free hand in hers and squeezed it. “Please, Robert. Please. I’ve tried everything. I’ve lectured. I’ve chanted. I tried to get her into yoga.”

  “Yes, that’s how we tame all the would-be assassins.” The empty tea glass grew warm in his hand. “Down dog.”

  It was Lucy’s turn to pull at her face in exasperation. “If she keeps going on like this, she’s going to end up dead, and she’s all I have left.”

  You could have me.

  “I promised Jack.”

  We all made promises to Jack we couldn’t keep.

  “It’s too much to expect her to stop...” Lucy searched for a word. “...hunting. I can accept her nature but she needs guidance. Please.”

  So will you do it?

  He knew his answer. He would do it. For Jack. For Lucy. And tomorrow he knew he’d tell Brasso the same thing. I’ll do it.

  And just like that King found himself with not one but two jobs in less than twenty-four hours. Two faces from his past surfacing. What was it his mother loved to say? Some old proverb?

  Trouble travels in threes.

  What could he expect next?

  King took Lucy’s hand and squeezed it. It was as cold as a corpse’s hand, sending a chill through his body. “When do I meet her?”

  5

  Konstantine stood in the alley with blood drying in the hairs on his arms. His chest heaved as he struggled to catch his breath. A wind rolling through the narrow alley hit the back of his neck and the sweat beading there. It itched, and when he reached back and raked his nails along his occipital bone, his fingers came away wet.

  Now that the excitement was over, the .357 in his hand doubled its weight.

  He pulled a purple rag from his back pocket and wiped his face and neck. Then he tucked the gun into the waistband beneath his black shirt and the cloth back into his pocket.

  Konstantine turned away from the body and searched the alley. A gray cat with white paws washed its ears on a stone stoop. Otherwise, no witnesses. No allies either.

  The bells of the Duomo began to ring, loud clangs vibrating through the city center.

  Where the fuck are they? Konstantine looked up between the buildings but saw only the clear blue sky. Then a sound caught his attention. Speak of the devil, and he appears.

  A red Fiat 500 rolled past the alley and then the brakes squealed. The car whined as it reversed, backing into the tight space between the two stone buildings where Konstantine stood over a dead man.

  It backed over the cobblestones, tires bumping as Konstantine used his hands to direct the driver. Left, a little to the right, and then a fist. Stop. The brake lights flared red.

  The doors on both sides popped open, and two men climbed out, one with obvious difficulty. The passenger had to grip the roof and haul his massive body out of the small seat. Once he’d cleared the door, his enormous belly flattened against the wall, causing him to sharply inhale until he could squeeze through. Calzone was what they called him, at least amongst the Ravengers. His mother, whom he still lived with, called him Marcello.

  Vincenzo, the driver, was rail thin and his limbs twitchy like a rat’s. He jerked himself from the car, stopped toe-to-toe with the body bleeding out on the stone walk.

  “O Signore, what a mess,” he whined and turned his head away, puffing his cheeks. He grabbed a cigarette from behind his ear and a white plastic lighter from his front pocket. He didn’t look at the body as he lit the cigarette, indulged in a slow drag, and blew the smoke skyward in a long dramatic exhalation. Then Vincenzo’s eyes slid to the corpse again. “A fucking mess.”

  “You bitch like a woman,” Calzone said. His fingers disappeared into one of his many chins, and the fat jiggled as he scratched himself. “Hurry up, I’m hungry.”

  “You’re always hungry,” Konstantine said, but he tempered the words with a good-natured smile. Now that they were here, filling the alleyway with meaningless prattle, the knot in his chest loosened.

  Another squeaking sound caused all three men to freeze and turn toward the opposite end of the alley. An old man with a shopping cart full of plants shuffled past. He wore an enormous hat and round spectacles with thick lenses magnifying his surprise. The old man froze under their gaze and his mouth opened in question.

  Then he saw the purple rags hanging from back pockets. The old man howled like a theatrical ghost and threw his cart into traffic.

  Calzone started after him, but Konstantine reached out and barred his path with a straight arm. Let the old man get away. What could he do?

  Konstantine nodded toward the corpse. “You’ll never get lunch if you waste any more time.”

  “You’ve got to be heading out too,” Vincenzo said. He pushed a button on the Fiat’s fob, and the trunk popped open. The interior was lined with a thick plastic, not unlike the kind one might place along the floor before painting. “Padre’s asking for you.”

  Vincenzo’s black hair
fell into his eyes as he squatted down to grab the dead man’s arms. Still stooped, he looked up at Calzone. “You gonna help me or stand there looking pretty?”

  Calzone grunted and bent to grab the dead man’s legs. The jeans slid up revealing cotton socks. One shoe, an American sneaker, wobbled, threatening to fall off. Then it did.

  They dumped the body onto the plastic without ceremony, and the Fiat bounced under the weight before the rubber tires settled. Vincenzo was forced to pretzel the dead man’s limbs into the trunk. Calzone had one enormous hand on the trunk lid, waiting.

  “Hold up,” Vincenzo said and scooped up the sneaker. “What do you think this is, an 8 or 9? I bet I could wear these.”

  Konstantine turned in the direction of the fleeing man. He didn’t want to watch Vincenzo strip the dead man of his shoes. And he wanted to wash his hands and face before seeing Padre.

  “Well arrivederci to you too,” Vincenzo called after him.

  Konstantine didn’t stop. He marched to the Piazza six blocks away. There had not been much blood spray from the gunshot, and what little there had been was hidden by his dark clothes and shoes. A thin mist of blood had dried on his forearms, but no one in the streets looked too closely at him. It could be the purple rag in his pocket. Or it could be the way he walked the streets as a man who was not to be deterred in any way. Shoulders high. Chin tucked and eyes hidden behind dark shades.

  Three guys lingered on the cathedral steps, smoking. Only one, Michele, greeted him before he ducked into the church. At the nave, he went right and stepped into a modern bathroom with a faucet. He’d seen no one in the church at this hour. No one on their knees asking for forgiveness.

  He washed up without looking in the mirror. If he could help it, he went weeks without looking at himself in the polished glass, afraid of what he might see.

  He would find Padre Leo in the basement.

  In the chapel, the urge to kneel before the Blessed Mother overwhelmed him like a rising choir. He kneeled, crossed himself, and kept his eyes lowered. He had no problems worshipping Mother Mary. The idea of a mother goddess rang true. Mothers were love. Peace. Fierce protection. It was the heavenly Father he could not believe in. There was no such man in his world worthy of such reverence. Except perhaps Padre Leo. But Padre Leo was only a man as flawed as the rest of them.

  Konstantine ducked into a stone stairway leading to the basement. Unlit torches hung on the wall, long ago rendered obsolete with the installation of electricity. His boots scuffed along the steps until the narrow passageway opened to the lowest level.

  Men stood in groups of three or four. Some were laughing, oblivious to Konstantine’s presence. Others had placed their hands on their guns, eyes sharp.

  He waved a hand, and they relaxed. Shoulders slumped. Breath exhaled.

  “He’s in there,” said Francesco. His new buzzed haircut made his ears look twice as large.

  Konstantine fell on heavy doors made of redwood and stained-glass windows. The brass handles turned, and the hinges creaked open under the weight of his body. Slowly, an inner sanctum was revealed. Straight ahead, a desk sat with high bookcases behind it. The wood of the bureau, doors, and furniture was all the same rich wood. Cherry perhaps. Or oak with a sangria finish. The room was messy, looking more like the enclave of a professor than the head of one of the most notorious gangs in the world.

  But Konstantine’s lord and master was not at his desk.

  A deep, whooping cough echoed from the bathroom. The door stood ajar. From Konstantine’s place on the dusty rug, an outline of a man hunched over the sink was clear enough.

  “Padre?”

  Leo opened the bathroom door, and his lips pulled back in a grimace. “Close the door.”

  Konstantine leaned on the heavy doors again, sealing them up in the enclave.

  Padre Leo shuffled across the dim room toward the desk and collapsed in the high-back chair, a hacking cough shaking his thin frame. He held a purple, silk handkerchief over his pockmarked face.

  It was a long time before Padre caught his breath. Konstantine kept looking to the bathroom, wondering if he should fetch a drink or wet rag.

  “Should I—?” Konstantine began.

  “No need,” Leo said, his face red with exertion. “This will not take long.”

  Konstantine felt as if he had been slapped across the face. The man owed him nothing. If he had decided Konstantine should stand on one foot from dawn until midnight, it was expected he would do so without question or protest.

  The muscles in Konstantine’s back twitched. “I am not in a hurry, Padre.”

  The man wiped at his mouth with his purple silk, and it came away wet with blood.

  “Are you okay?” Konstantine’s heart hammered at the sight of blood. It always did.

  The man smoothed bony fingers over his gray hair and gave a snide snort. “I am not. Or so the doctors tell me.”

  “Is it serious?” Konstantine asked. Then seemed to catch himself and the absurdity of the question. “It’s none of my business.”

  Leo waved him off. “Drop the ass-kissing. Frankly, we don’t have time for it. I need to make my wishes clear while I still have the breath to do so.”

  As if to emphasize this, he began coughing again. The sound was wretched, shaking the man like a toy in the jaws of a great dog. The cords in his neck stood out. Sweat gleamed on his forehead even in the chilled basement of the old church. The purple rag was darker still with his bloody spittle by the time he caught his breath.

  As Padre drew in a few shaky breaths, he motioned for Konstantine to sit in the leather armchair beside the desk. Konstantine understood and obeyed. He pulled the .357 from behind his back when he sat and laid it on the desk, pointing away from his boss.

  “As you can see,” Leo said at last. “It is challenging for me to talk. In truth, it’s difficult to do anything. I’ve stopped eating. I’ve stopped sleeping. It is too painful to lay down. Even my mattress hurts my chest. The doctors say I have a month at most.”

  “What could act so quickly?” Konstantine asked. A red-hot flood of shame washed over him, but per Padre’s wishes, he didn’t apologize again.

  “It wasn’t fast. It’s only I can’t hide my illness any longer.” He snorted, threatened a laugh but then pressed one hand hard on his diaphragm to stop himself, as if the cost of laughing was too high a price to pay now.

  Padre fell back against the chair. He slumped like a child at the dinner table. Konstantine sat up straighter as if to compensate.

  “This organization is my lifeblood, Konstantine. I believe you understand.”

  “Yes, sir.” Konstantine expected some important task. Some last command or dying wish. He would honor it as he had every other request from Padre Leo since he joined the Ravengers fifteen years before.

  Leo’s breath remained shallow. “I have bled and dreamed and built this empire from the ground up.”

  “I know.”

  “When I am no longer in this world, I want to know my legacy is preserved, my ambitions honored. Change of power is a turbulent time for any group, but the right man can make the transition easy. A steady hand can take the ship’s wheel and steer her fine.”

  Konstantine’s heart sped up. “I will support whomever you choose. If others object—” because Konstantine knew that no matter who was selected, someone would object. The most ambitious would see themselves supreme. Others would consider their loyalty to the Ravengers finished, their contracts terminated upon the death of the man who had recruited them. “If others object I will persuade them.”

  Padre wiped at his brow with his bloody rag, seemingly unaware of the blood he smeared across his forehead. Konstantine leaped up, wet his own cloth with fresh water from the sink and offered it to the man. Leo’s fingers trembled when he took it.

  “I will name you as my successor, Konstantine.”

  “Me? Why in god’s name? I am no one.”

  “You want my reasons?”

  H
e knew he had no right to ask them. And already the older man’s face was burning red, his breath shortening again. Padre spoke anyway.

  “You understand this new age in a way most Ravengers do not. You are strategic. You are futuristic. You are adaptable. Who better to leave my empire to? You do things with computers most of my men cannot even fathom.”

  Leo pulled up his dress shirt and revealed his left forearm. He placed the arm, belly up on the desk so Konstantine could see the tattoo clearly. Not that he needed to see it. Konstantine bore the same mark on his own skin. A crow and crossbones. The crow, wings spread as if in flight and the two bones crossed beneath.

  “The raven is a symbol of longevity. Of intelligence and stealth. It is why I chose it as my emblem.”

  Only Konstantine did not see a raven. He saw a crow with blunt and splayed wings rather than a raven’s pointed tips. He saw the small flat bill without its tuft. They called themselves Ravengers—a poetic condensation of raven and ravager. But Konstantine alone seemed to see the difference between the cousin birds. He knew that while a raven could live for thirty years or more, a crow was lucky to see eight.

  “You have the global perspective and technological comprehension to take us into the new age. Furthermore, I trust no one else.”

  “Padre—”

  “Would you reject me?”

  “No.” He did not hesitate. “Never.”

  “Because I have already contacted those people whom I believe will be most beneficial to you during the transition. I will give you their names, and I want you to reach out to them immediately and make your intentions clear. Despite your reservations, sound sure of yourself and your plans for the Ravengers. It is easier to support a man who is sure of himself.”

  Your plans for the Ravengers. Konstantine had none. His heart pounded. He wet his lips with his tongue but still found no way to express his thoughts.