Konstantine.
Bright eyes. A man in a doorway.
The hot water scalded her hands to the color of raw meat and was now turning cold. She reached up and turned off the faucets, but she didn’t move away from the sink.
But you’d gone to him before you’d ever thought about revenge, a voice reminded her. Something else is happening here.
She reached up and wiped the steam off the mirror, revealing her hard face.
Her compass whirled. Something was pulling at her again, urging her to step into the darkness and follow the current.
The one thing she trusted was betraying her.
And she did trust her compass. Even when she questioned La Loon and why she would ever be drawn to such a nightmarish place, she came to trust the result all the same. The universe—as her aunt would call it—knew her family would be betrayed, knew she would need such a place to do her work. Even as dangerous and violent as her first visit had been, it had been necessary.
And every jump ever since.
She trusted that voice. So why did she feel like she couldn’t trust it now?
“No,” she said to the woman in the mirror staring back at her. She wasn’t going to let herself be pulled around and controlled. “No.”
The compass trembled, telling her it was time to go. There was somewhere she needed to be.
Master this, Lou-blue. Don’t be its victim.
Her resolve solidified at the sound of her father’s voice in her mind and the feel of his heavy hand on her scarred shoulder.
The compass wavered.
“I’m not a victim,” she said, clutching the sink. She held firm to the world around her. “I say where we go.”
26
King stared into the gun barrel, into the gaping black eye of Brasso’s gun. “You little prick.”
Brasso gave a good ol’ boy shrug. “What can I say, Robbie? You’ve always been a little too eager to see action.”
“You didn’t want me to build a case against Ryanson. You wanted me to find Venetti for him.”
“You’ve always been good at finding things. I knew if I set you on her trail she’d turn up sooner or later. But I must admit, this was a quick turnaround, even for you.” Chaz’s eyes flicked to Mel, and King stepped to shield her. “Did you get your pet psychic to read her cards or something? I’d like to see what other tricks she knows.”
Mel huffed. “Why don’t you come over here and pet me and see what happens.”
King said nothing.
Chaz’s smile widened. “You always liked them a little mean.”
King was desperate to turn his head, to look over his shoulder into the dark and see if Lou was there. She would come. She had to come. And when she did, she was going to shove Brasso’s gun so far up his ass the gunmetal would press against the back of his teeth.
King laughed then. The tight sound softened into a hearty chuckle. The damn thing was, once he started, he couldn’t stop.
Brasso’s brow creased. “What’s so funny?”
He couldn’t say how hard the humor had struck him. At 59 years old, he’d been hit with the realization, I’m waiting for a girl to save me! He couldn’t say it. Nor could he make himself stop laughing. His belly began to ache.
Mel arched an eyebrow. “Mr. King, I’m not sure this is the appropriate time to get the giggles.”
Brasso raised the gun. “If you don’t stop laughing, I’m going to shoot you in the gut.”
The little boy voice Brasso used to threaten him made him laugh harder. It had sounded too much like if you don’t give me back my train, I’m going to tell Mom!
Brasso, face furious, pulled the trigger and put a bullet through a cabinet door. Something in the cabinet, a glass or bowl because he kept both there, ruptured. The door popped open with the force and glass was vomited out onto the stove and countertop. Glittering shards cascading over the countertop to the tiled floor.
King stopped laughing, sweat prickling the back of his neck. “You really want to do this?”
“It’s not personal,” Brasso said with another shrug. “It’s business.”
King arched his brows. “Whose business? Ryanson’s?”
Brasso didn’t answer.
“Did you set me up just to kill me?” King said.
“No. I sent Chuck to find out what you weren’t telling me, and when he didn’t come out, then I came to see what the hell happened.”
“Chuck didn’t come,” King said. Mel shifted beside him.
Brasso snorted. “Your fucked-up face says otherwise. Where is he?”
“I want you to say it. Tell me you’re working for Ryanson.” King watched Brasso’s face, searching each micro-movement for answers he knew the man wouldn’t give verbally. “Or is it someone else?”
“That’s your problem, Robbie,” Brasso said. “You ask too many fucking questions. I should’ve known you wouldn’t find the girl and hand her over. You’d have to ask fucking questions.”
King thought he would pull the trigger then. His face tightened, and the gun centered on his forehead. And King had time to think about two sets of brains hitting the walls in one night when he saw her.
She appeared behind Brasso, raising a cast iron skillet over her head. He kept his eyes on Chaz’s, so the girl and the skillet remained in the soft focus. He hoped Mel was as unreadable as he was.
Piper brought the skillet down on Brasso’s skull, and the man crumpled. The gun fell from his hand and didn’t go off. But the clatter along the kitchen tile was as jarring.
Mel threw her hands in the air. “Sweet Jesus, Mary and Moses.”
She placed his kitchen rug over the broken glass as if bloody feet were their priority.
“Is he dead?” Piper asked. She touched the hemp necklace around her throat. Her eyes were the size of half-dollars. “Oh my god, am I going to go to prison for killing a dude?”
King bent and pressed a finger to his throat. “He’s not dead. And you won’t go to prison.”
King pulled out his cell phone and Lou’s card. He punched in her pager number, and a robot confirmed his page. Press # if this is an emergency. King smashed the # with his thumb twice. The robot thanked him. He slipped the phone back into his pocket.
“What are you doing here?” Mel asked. She turned all her fury on Piper.
“Uh,” she bit her lip. “I was going to give you this.”
She tiptoed around Chaz’s collapsed body and passed over a handful of printed pages to King. At a glance, it was the information he’d sent her looking for. Everything the internet could provide on Ryanson and his dealings.
He arched an eyebrow. “You always deliver info at 2:00 in the morning?”
Piper forced a smile.
King stuffed his hands into Brasso’s pockets, searching for a phone. Keys. Anything useful. Clues that might let him know the true depth of this rabbit hole.
“Forget Piper.” Mel turned her finger on him. “Who the hell laughs at a man pointing his gun at you?”
Piper snorted.
They both turned and looked at her.
“His gun,” she said with a crooked smile. Then she frowned. “Never mind. Who knew getting shot at made people so grumpy?”
“Why were you here?” Mel and King demanded in unison.
Piper held her hands out in front of her in surrender. “Oh, my god. Calme-toi! Okay. I was outside creeping. I admit it.”
“Why?”
“I was hoping I could bump into King’s friend.”
They blinked at her. King slipped a hand into Brasso’s pockets. Anything. He needed anything to go on.
Piper sighed. “You know. The girl.”
“Why would you want to meet her?” Mel’s eyes were twice as large as normal.
Piper pursed her lips and tilted her head. “Really, Mel? You can’t guess.”
“It’s two in the morning,” King said.
“Puh-lease!” Piper cried. “The bars aren’t even closed. But then I he
ard the gun go off and so I wanted to check on you.”
“You’ll get your wish.” King pulled a green poker chip, a folded piece of paper, and a pen out of Brasso’s pockets. “She’ll be here any minute.”
Piper pumped her fist in the air. “I knew it! Good things come to those who wait!”
27
Lou’s watch buzzed on the island countertop. She leaped off the sofa and snatched it before the third buzzy chirp. A New Orleans number flashed on the screen followed by 911.
King. No one else in New Orleans had her number.
She took 911 to mean guns. She threw open a closet. Not that closet, and grabbed a shoulder holster. She put it on and holstered her twin Glocks, one on each side. She put a Beretta in the thigh holster.
She was about to duck into that closet when the watch buzzed again. She stopped, hand on the cool handle. This number was from San Diego. Also, a 911 page.
The internal compass was whirling, trying to decide which situation was more dire.
“Fuck,” she said and threw herself into the dark. She pulled the closet closed behind her.
It was the second time that night she appeared at King’s to find a body on the floor.
She stepped into the kitchen with her gun in her hand. Three faces watched her. The landlady was here in her bathrobe, one hand on her hip. Her eyes were narrow. She even shook her head. The girl, the blonde with dark eyebrows and wide, glittering eyes smiled at her. She gave a little wave. Lou humored her with a hey. Then her eyes met King’s.
She looked from King to the body, to King again. “You’re worse than me.” She meant the body count. For the last several years she’d thought she was the only one who piled bodies the way others piled laundry.
“Paula isn’t safe,” King said by way of introduction.
“I know,” she said and tapped the beeper tucked into her pocket. “She just paged me.”
“Fuck,” King said. “We have to go.”
The landlady’s voice went high. “What about him?”
“I need to question him,” King said. He cut his eyes to Lou. No one had ever looked at her that way before. Part apology. Part desperation. His lips pursed with a question, but when he looked back at the blonde who was still smiling, the question died on his lips.
Lou took a breath before saying. “You want to save Venetti or question the man? Even I can’t be two places at once, King.”
King mulled it over. He ran his hands through his hair as if this would help him prioritize.
Lou looked at the girl again, because it was hard not to. She was staring. And when someone’s gaze was that heavy, you couldn’t ignore it.
“What?” Lou asked, scowling at her.
If the girl sensed Lou’s irritation, she was not discouraged. “I’m Piper. I’m King’s assistant.”
The landlady muttered something under her breath.
The beeper buzzed again. Frantic vibration rattled Lou’s wrist. It was as if Venetti herself were frantically shaking it. “King?”
“Fuck,” he swore. He hissed his disappointment through clenched teeth. “Go without me. Move her somewhere safe and then come right back. I’ll need your help with him.”
“Bye,” Piper said with a pout.
Lou was already stepping toward the closet cut into the bedroom wall. Only when she entered the closet, she stepped out of the world. It spun like a slot machine. Another time and place lining up in the dark.
She would worry about what to tell King’s friends later. Then maybe they wouldn’t see her at all. She was hidden by the wall. It would be easy to say she’d exited through the bedroom and leapt down off the balcony. Like a cat.
Lou stepped out of the dark into a park. She frowned.
A sidewalk stretched in both directions. Lined with street lamps made to look like antique lanterns on black posts. Her eyes skipped from orb to orb. But the tangerine-colored spotlights were empty, and the trees on either side of the red brick path were still. Not even a cool breeze disturbed the leaves.
A woman screamed. “Help me! Please, somebody, help me!”
A gun fired. Not the enormous boom-blam of a handgun. It was the compressed sharp torpedo of a bullet passing through a suppressor. The tree ten feet to Lou’s right exploded in a spray of wood chips.
She dropped into a crouch, pulling her gun as she went down. The movement to her left drew her eye. Paula tore past her, running at full speed through the trees. Another bullet struck a tree, another explosion of wood splinters sprayed out into the night. Paula screamed again.
Lou pivoted on her heels toward the source of the bullets and spotted her target. A man, lean like a starving cat, kept shuffling forward. His arm was outstretched, moving in a slow arc as he tracked the woman running through the trees. He wore a baggy black T-shirt that stretched to his knees and dark jeans. His breath came in strangled pants. Tattoos snaked around both arms and up from beneath the collar of his shirt. His jaw clenched as he pulled the trigger again and again.
Paula howled.
Lou put a bullet in his knee. He screamed as blood bloomed on his right leg. His other knee buckled and he went down hard. The gun clattered against the red brick walkway as his palms hit the dirt, breaking his fall.
He moaned and cursed as blood poured from a hole above his knee. His eyes met hers across the walkway, and he snarled. Snarled, like a jungle cat in a zoo.
Lou put a bullet between his eyes and the snarl softened to an open, slack-jawed O. The eyes went unfocused, rolling up into the back of the shooter’s skull at the same moment he fell back onto the grass, limp. She noted the tattoo on his arm, before she ran in the direction of Paula’s screams.
She found the girl leaning against a tree, crying. Light cut across her face revealing dirt smudges and sweat gleaming. Her hands were covered in dirt, too. She must have fallen at least once when trying to escape.
Lou grabbed her, and Paula whirled, a large blade flashing in the moonlight. Lou caught her wrist and took the knife away.
“Easy,” Lou said, releasing the other woman’s hand before she broke it. “Easy does it.”
As soon as Paula saw her, all the strength went out of the arms that had been resisting Lou and visible relief washed over her face.
“Thank god,” Paula grabbed onto Lou’s forearms. “I’ve been shot.”
“Come on.” Lou pocketed the knife so she would have her hands free to carry Paula.
Lou pulled her to her feet, and Paula cried out. It was the arm Lou had grabbed. Blood oozed from the deltoid, and because Paula wore a cut-off flannel with no sleeves, Lou could see right into the wound as she pulled the arm. The fleshy mouth puckered as the skin was stretched, pulpy tissue jutting in all directions around the gaping wound. It hadn’t been a clean shot.
Lou’s stomach hitched, but she didn’t let go of the girl. She stepped left, away from the walkway lights and into the cover of the tree’s shadows. In a heartbeat, they emerged from the closet of her aunt’s Oak Park apartment.
The closet banged open, and Lou fell out into slivers of moonlight. She noted first the temperature change, the way the warm apartment differed from the cool night. Second, her aunt’s surprised squeal.
“What in the world?” Lucy stood from the kitchen table and came forward, her mouth opening in surprise.
Lou had counted on this. Counted on the nocturnal habits of her aunt to work for them.
“Are you hurt?” Lucy demanded. Her fear had made her angry.
“I’m fine.” Lou rotated her shoulders to alleviate the ache of supporting Paula’s weight. “But she’s been shot in the arm. Fix her up. She can’t go to a hospital.”
Lou handed Paula over as if she were nothing more than a bread basket. Paula didn’t even protest. She went as easily from Lou’s arm to Lucy’s, as if forsaking one bit of flotsam for another in a turbulent sea.
Lucy eased her into the kitchen chair. “I’ll get my kit.”
Lou felt her pager buzz. King. No doubt
he was wondering what the hell was going on.
“What have you gotten involved in now?” Lucy whispered as she shouldered through, her voice went high with panic. Again, twice in the same night, Lou found herself thinking of her first kill, of taking down Gus Johnson and all the blood that had been on her hands ever since.
“You got me in this,” Lou snapped. Her eyes fell on the six or seven pill bottles beside Lucy’s laptop on the kitchen table. Too many pill bottles. Lou couldn’t see the names of the drugs because the type was too small.
Lucy placed a hand on her chest. “She’s King’s case.”
Lou didn’t offer an explanation. By way of avoidance, she pulled her gun, counted the bullets, and holstered again. She was searching for what to say. With an irritated hiss, she issued her last order. “Clean her up. Stay indoors. Keep the doors locked.”
Her aunt’s frown deepened. “Louie, this is too dangerous. God, why did I think I could trust him?”
Lou was already opening the empty linen closet, so much like the one she had back home. Aunt Lucy’s closet smelled of lavender and cedar sachets. Lou’s smelled of gunmetal and grease.
“Just keep your eyes and ears open.” Lou paused with her hands on the linen door. She pulled the knife out of her pocket and shoved the handle toward Paula. “Don’t hesitate.”
28
Mel dragged a pleading Piper from the room, while King stood vigil over Brasso’s unconscious body. Looking at the man turned King’s stomach sour.
He tapped his service revolver against his thigh and sighed. “You ambitious fuck.”
Because King had no doubt ambition was to blame for this. Brasso had become Ryanson’s lap dog in exchange for money or promotions. Did he party on the same yacht the girls were thrown from? Expensive gifts? Luxuries above a DEA agent’s pay grade? King tried to think back, searching every memory of his partner for clues. Suggestive conversations.
Shadows in the Water Page 21