I studied the monsters—trawled for them—in my off time, trying to learn as much about them as possible, memorizing their names and habits so I could make cleaner kills and stay alive, finding the patterns and connections that would help hunters and porters track them down if they went into hiding. Those were my skills—a good memory and the ability to make connections and track Sacks. The thought of Sacks working together, even just two at a time, filled me with anxiety. I pushed it from my mind. Banishment worked and lived alone, and she was my focus tonight.
A mile farther north on Bishop’s Lodge, I hung a left on Camino Encantado and headed for Highway 84. Banishment the Desire lived in a house on Otero Street in Espanola, half an hour north of Santa Fe.
As soon as Nathan had told me who the kill was, I’d devised a plan. Banishment, like all other Sacks, wanted to rise in the ranks. Desires hated Alarms, but they wanted to be Alarms. Alarms, in turn, wanted to be Resolutes, and Resolutes wanted to be Festals. They wanted to rise to the next level. It was part of what kept them killing. When Banishment murdered the bride on her honeymoon, her ambition became evident, and that fit with my plan.
Gatehouse had its rules—hunters and porters must never appear together in public in numbers greater than two, hunters must never make an unscheduled return unless absolutely necessary, no solo hunting before age thirty, and hunters must never buzz before killing. Gatehouse had already broken the third rule on my behalf, and I had broken the fourth rule on every single one of my solo hunts. Tonight I’d do it again.
Gatehouse had never steered me wrong on a kill. Their research and tracking was meticulous, and in fact, I’d never heard of any hunter mistakenly targeting an innocent on Gatehouse’s instructions, but I didn’t want to be the first. The thought of driving a bullet, pellet, or knife into an innocent was horrifying. I knew I’d shrivel inside, die, if I ever made such a terrible error.
So I buzzed, the hunter term for goading a Sack into revealing his Sackdom just before a kill. For me, this usually meant verbally jabbing the Sack until he revealed his Sack name and level—something Sacks loved to do anyway. Buzzing, of course, removed some of the element of surprise, at least a crucial second or two of it, so although buzzing guarded my conscience, it put me in greater danger when I hunted. I told no one I buzzed, not even Kath. If Nathan had known, he’d have pulled me from the field in the blood-driven beat of a heart.
My plan also made use of Banishment’s habits. She liked to drink and smoke pot, which no doubt dulled her senses and slowed her reactions. So I timed my drive to Espanola, making sure I arrived there about eight o’clock. An hour after she got home from work, an hour after her first joint and tumbler of scotch.
Banishment had been a snug little ditch for years, hiding in the shadows and doing little harm as far as Gatehouse could tell. As I left Highway 84 and turned left at Bond Street in Espanola, I wondered what had made her do a spurt. Shoving a bride over a hotel balcony was not only vicious but extremely risky. Either she was looking for a promotion or she was doing another Sack’s bidding.
I found Banishment’s house on Otero, a tan-colored ranch that couldn’t have been more than eight hundred square feet. After double-checking the address and the license plate on the Honda outside, I circled the block, getting a sense of how many people were home and if anyone was lingering outside, then parked on the curb directly outside her house. I thought about parking in the alley behind the house, but my gray Pathfinder, though a slightly battered older model, was more likely to draw attention there than on the street.
I slid my umbrella into the hoop inside my jacket, stepped carefully out of the car, and walked to Banishment’s door, my pulse quickening. I hit her doorbell with a knuckle to avoid leaving a fingerprint and took deep, oxygen-rich breaths as I waited for her to answer. I had to look strong and arrogant—as arrogant as a Sack. Most of all, I had to remember what this Sack had done to an innocent.
The front door opened slowly, leisurely, and Banishment—I recognized her immediately—glared at me, intrigued but irritated by the interruption. She pushed her auburn hair from her face then ran her index finger under her beak of a nose. Judging by the odor that now assaulted my nostrils, she’d smoked a joint or two. Bingo. Now I had to find out if anyone else was at home, and if not, I needed to get into the house, fast.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m looking for Marcia.”
“Huh?” Her mouth opened an inch and stayed open, as though she hadn’t the energy to snap it shut.
“I saw Marcia come in here and I need to talk to her.”
Banishment put her hand on the doorknob and leaned on it. The door swayed and she let go. “Look, bitch, there’s no one named Marcia here.”
“Then please let me talk to Emily.”
“What the hell? Look, there’s no one here but me, got it?”
I took one small step forward. Banishment’s eyes narrowed. “I am Septimania,” I said, “and I am now Elation.” The perfect buzz.
Banishment backed from the door. “Is it really you?” She held out her hands, imploring. “Tell me how.”
I stepped inside, pushed the front door closed with my right foot, and glanced about the room to make certain the drapes were closed and there were no dogs in the house. How did she know Septimania and why did she think that Sack was still alive? What did she know about Elations and Embodiments? I wanted to stop, to put off my kill and demand she tell me, but every moment I delayed, the more likely it was that something would go awry. A neighbor might knock at the door, the phone might ring.
She touched my forearm and I pushed her back, briefly throwing her off balance. I reached into my jacket and removed my baton. Her eyes registered my movements, but my actions made no sense to her. She tilted her head. With my thumb I pushed the release button on the side of the baton then drove the end of it into her abdomen, where only a thin blue T-shirt came between her skin and the umbrella’s blade-like syringe.
She clutched her belly and gave a throaty groan.
“That’s for the bride,” I said.
Her face became a mask of rage. “I am Banishment and—”
I raised a leg to her stomach and kicked her backward. She never finished her sentence.
I stood over her, watching as she took her last breath, her lips dribbling saliva. Pressing two fingers to her neck, I checked her pulse, then I searched her for a tattoo and found what I was looking for on her right shoulder—the head of a roaring tiger encircled by the word “Banishment.” Most Sacks tattooed their names on their bodies, usually on their abdomens. That ego thing again.
I slid my umbrella back into its hoop and let myself out the front door, shutting it using my jacket sleeve. Taking care to keep my expression neutral and my pace unhurried, I got back into my car and headed east on Otero Street.
Nathan was going to have to cut me a break, I thought, my hands clutching and unclutching the steering wheel. No way was I prepared to do this again in two days. In a futile attempt to wipe Banishment’s face from my mind, I concentrated on the traffic ahead as I came to a stoplight at Bond. Tears welled in my eyes and I rubbed at my nose, pretending to have a cold in case anyone was looking.
God, what hell this job was. But I needed to do it and it had to be done. I thought about a hunter I once knew, a man in Wyoming who glamorized Sacks, who said they’d be the subject of songs and rallies if only people knew about them. He was wrong—or at least he should have been. But who knows? In this world, all sorts of bastards are romantic in people’s eyes.
Sacks aren’t lonely, tortured souls. They’re not misunderstood misfits, the outcasts of society. They’re gleeful—happier than many—and they chose their way of life. Chose it. Like innocents choose what socks to wear in the morning. First they become willing, then they turn. Then they kill and spread misery.
Heading south on Highway 84, a few miles south of Espanola, I wiped my cheeks with the sleeve of my jacket, cleared my throat, and considered what I’d heard a
nd seen. Banishment’s expression, the longing and awe that played over her face on hearing the name Septimania and the word Elation, bewildered me. “Is it really you?” she’d said.
The Elations were beyond talented—that’s what Gatehouse told its hunters. And the Embodiments? They were beyond the Elations. We weren’t supposed to talk about the highest level Sacks, and hunting them, or even searching for their names using Gatehouse’s lists, would result in losing your status as a hunter. To Gatehouse, you would no longer exist.
Hunters talked about Elations and Embodiments among ourselves, of course. Kath and I did all the time. Zack Lowell said he’d heard they were human but that years of training and of freely giving themselves to evil had wrought physical changes in their brains, in much the same way learning a second language or practicing a musical instrument can rewire your brain. But Connor Doyle, another Colorado hunter, said those changes in the brain eventually produced changes at the cellular level. Zack’s position seemed more reasonable to me, but Gatehouse’s silence on the question fueled endless speculation.
If evil thoughts and actions rewired Sacks’ brains, I wondered, couldn’t Sacks be restored? Couldn’t choosing good over evil, deliberately and continually, rewire them again? I told Kath once that I’d heard rumors of restored Sacks—just a handful. She looked doubtful. Then she told me to get the stars out of my eyes because one day those stars, that naïveté, would be the death of me.
Chapter 4
Back in Santa Fe, I drove once around my block before pulling the Pathfinder into the garage alongside my Forester, which I’d driven down from Colorado. Circling the block before and after a kill was a habit I’d developed, an additional, easy step of safety. At nine o’clock all the neighbors’ lights were on, their drapes drawn, TVs flickering like flames behind them, but there wasn’t a soul on the streets. Gatehouse had purchased the townhome-style condo in a quiet neighborhood, which suited me. Kath and I could sip wine and talk for a few hours. And then maybe I could fall asleep.
I entered the kitchen through the inside garage door, tossed my keys to the counter, and called out that it was me, job done, time to relax.
“Kath?” Moonlight streamed through the white cotton curtains over the kitchen sink. The condo was dark, and music played softly from the iPod dock in the bedroom. “Did you fall asleep already?” I whispered, moving from the kitchen to the living room.
Two steps into the living room I felt something jam against my left temple.
“Don’t move, damn it.”
Instinctively, my hand went to my holster.
“Not one inch.”
I froze. Oh, hell, I knew that voice. “Kath?”
“Don’t say a word. Don’t.”
“Kath, what the hell are you doing?” In my peripheral vision I saw her, two feet from me, her arms outstretched, cupping a gun in her hands. The barrel seemed far too long and I knew she had fit her 9mm with a suppressor. To counter her shaking arms, she pressed the gun more forcefully to my head.
“How could you?” she asked. She sniffed—a thick, swollen sound—and I could tell she’d been crying. “One of them. Those bastards.”
“Kath, I don’t know—”
“You betrayed us. There’s nothing worse. How many have you killed?”
My thoughts went wild. There was no way I could reach my gun in time. Could I knock her gun aside before she could pull the trigger? Did she even have her finger on the trigger? Or was it resting on the gun’s frame? My bet was the former. I had to talk my way out of this.
“I’m your friend,” I said. “You have to trust me and tell me what’s going on.” I looked as far to the left as possible without turning my head. Kath’s breathing was so erratic I was afraid she’d shoot without meaning to.
“You damn liar. We’re not friends.” She sniffed again.
My stomach pitched. I needed to move. “Back away from me, Kath.”
“Hell no.”
“You can keep the gun on me, but back away from me. I need to move my head.”
She was silent a moment, then said, “If you move an inch before I tell you to, I’ll shoot.” She backed away slowly, moving first to my left then taking sideways steps until she stood six feet away, directly in front of me. Drawing her arms inward to steady them, she trained her Ruger 9mm on my chest. She had indeed rigged it with a suppressor, and her finger was on the trigger, not resting safely on the frame. I struggled to take my eyes off her gun and look her in the face. The fact that she hadn’t shot me yet meant there was still a way to talk myself out of this mess, whatever mess it was.
“Kath, why are you doing this? What is it you think I’ve done?”
Tears ran down her face. “I was going to kill you before you went hunting tonight, but I couldn’t do it.”
Slowly raising my hands, palms outward, I said, “Something’s very wrong here. You were given an order to kill me?”
“Yes.” Again her arms began to quiver. I had to get her to relax.
“Who gave you that order?”
“Who do you think? Gatehouse, you damn Sack.”
“What?” My right hand flew to my collarbone.
“Stop!” Kath said, extending her arms.
I froze again. “Take your finger off the trigger, Kath. Now, for God’s sake. Do it!”
At that moment the enormity of the situation seemed to sink in and she took her finger from the trigger.
“I’m lowering my hands now,” I said.
Kath once more drew in her arms, but she kept the gun pointed at my chest. Tears continued to fill her eyes and spill onto her cheeks, so much so that I wondered how well she could see me.
“They shouldn’t have asked me,” she said. “Not me.”
“Are you telling me Gatehouse thinks I’m a Sack?”
Kath let out a small sob. “You were my kill today.”
I stared at her in disbelief. This was madness. Gatehouse had sent my best friend to hunt me? As my stomach did fewer flip-flops, my anger grew. “Who exactly? Who in Gatehouse?”
Kath lowered her gun an inch or two but continued to point it my way. “Brent Vogel, my porter. I didn’t know you were the target until I got back in my car and saw your photo. By then he’d gone.”
“What does Vogel think I’ve done?”
“You’re a Sack.” Her voice cracked.
“The hell I am. You know me. Why did Vogel tell you that?”
“He’s just a porter.” She wiped her face with her fingers. “Someone else gave him your name.”
“But he didn’t tell you my real name.”
“He didn’t have your real name, you know that. That’s how it works.”
“What did he say my name was?”
Kath’s mouth tightened. She was hesitant to speak but soon relented. “He said your name was Falter. You’re a Desire.”
“Falter? Who the hell came up with that?”
“But you’re not?” Kath said, half asking, half telling.
“Of course I’m not.” Questions popped into my mind one after another, no time to consider one before the next appeared. “Wait a second. Did Vogel give you this address?”
She nodded.
“You didn’t recognize it?”
“Yes, but I recognized your photo too when I stopped to look at it. If they have your photo, how can it be a mistake? Brent said things are changing. Sacks are killing more hunters and porters. I thought maybe—”
“Didn’t Vogel recognize this address?”
Kath shook her head. She was beginning to look thoroughly confused. “Would he?”
“I’d think so.”
“But he’s in Albuquerque.” She lowered her hands.
“I’m sitting down,” I said, moving for the couch. “Take that damn gun off me.”
She followed me but kept her distance. “Take your holster off,” she said. Her arms hung at her side, but she kept hold of her Ruger. “Do it slowly, please.”
I glared at her, my emotio
ns alternating between anger and relief, but did as she said. I set my umbrella on the coffee table, threw my jacket over the back of the couch, and laid the holster on a narrow console table several feet behind the couch and against the far wall of the living room. “OK if I sit now?”
“Yes.”
Tucking a leg beneath me, I dropped to the couch. “For all I know, Kath, you’re a Sack and you planned this.”
“Jane ...”
“You didn’t think for one second that maybe Gatehouse made a mistake?” I was angrier now, and hurt that Kath had so easily believed Vogel and I was left with the job of trying to talk her down from her crazy perch.
“Since when does Gatehouse make mistakes?”
I’d already considered that. To my knowledge Gatehouse had never made a mistake. Its members were scrupulous because they had to be. One terrible error, one innocent killed, and the whole operation would be in jeopardy. If hunters doubted Gatehouse’s judgment in targeting Sacks for kills, not a single one of them would pull the trigger. “What do you know about Vogel?”
Kath moved to the other end of the couch and sat. It bothered me intensely that she still kept a firm grip on her Ruger, and I let her know it with another glare.
“He’s been my porter for both my kills,” she said with a shrug.
“And your third kill was supposed to be your best friend.”
She shut her eyes briefly then reached out to lay her Ruger on the coffee table. “I didn’t want to believe it,” she said, straightening in her seat. “I didn’t really believe it.”
“Otherwise I’d be splattered all over the living room?” I exhaled loudly and felt the strength drain from my muscles. “Christ.”
Kath sprang from the couch and ran for the kitchen. A couple seconds later she vomited into the sink. I let her be. She didn’t need me hovering while she puked, and the truth was I still felt angry. Unreasonably so, maybe—after all, what should she have done, casually mention her kill order over a nice pinot noir? Sacks were experts at hiding among innocents, and I wouldn’t have been the first Sack to infiltrate the ranks of hunters and porters.
All Souls: A Gatehouse Thriller Page 3