All Souls: A Gatehouse Thriller

by Karin Kaufman

  So I couldn’t blame Kath, not entirely.

  I heard water run in the sink. “Sorry,” Kath said, standing in the arched entryway to the kitchen. She made her way back to the couch, sat sideways, and drew her knees to her chest.

  “Are you all right now?”

  “I think so.” She gave me a mournful glance. “Forget me. You?”

  “I think my heart rate is almost back to normal.”

  She chewed on her lower lip.

  “You’re still not sure about me being a Sack.”

  “I don’t understand how they could have made such a mistake. How did it happen?”

  I noticed she’d avoided answering my question, though sitting as she was, knees drawn in, her gun on the coffee table, she was hardly in a position to defend herself if I had been a Sack. I began to relax. “We’ve got a problem. I’m supposed to be dead now.”

  “And I’m supposed to have killed you,” Kath added.

  I considered this. “Were you supposed to do it tonight?”

  “No, it didn’t have to be tonight, and they know I like to wait a day.”

  “You don’t really have a meeting with Vogel tomorrow?”

  “No, my meeting was today.”

  “So for all anyone knows, I’m still targeted and you’re still going to follow instructions.”

  She nodded, slowly at first and then vigorously, getting the picture. “That’s right.”

  “That gives us some time to figure this out.” I stood up and began to pace the room. Kath watched my every move, and she tried valiantly, though unsuccessfully, to appear indifferent as I neared first my umbrella and then my holster. It would take time for us to get past this monumental Gatehouse screw-up. “Vogel had to have known this address. Even with only my so-called Sack name, he knew he was sending you to kill a hunter or porter. No one else, except maybe some Gatehouse members, uses this condo.”

  “But porters don’t make up names for kills. Gatehouse gives them the names.”

  I stopped wandering and sat on the edge of the coffee table. “There are only two possibilities. Either Vogel put my name on the kill list or someone else in Gatehouse did.”

  “Or another hunter claimed you were a Sack.”

  I shook my head. “Hunters can’t just make a claim. Gatehouse investigates any claim. The members trace prospects for months before they’re put on a kill list.”

  Another possibility occurred to me at that moment—a frightening one that if true would have wide-ranging consequences—but I kept it to myself. Suddenly I felt adrift on the sea. I didn’t know who to trust or where to make landfall. I skittered around the disturbing possibility and instead told Kath about Banishment’s strange reaction to my announcement that I was Septimania. I’d only meant to throw the Sack off guard, but Banishment seemed to think I was Septimania reborn. Maybe Sacks and hunters talked about the same rumors.

  “She must have known Septimania,” she said.

  “But she said, ‘Tell me how.’”

  “Tell me how what?”

  “How it is that you, Septimania, shot in the chest and buried in the ground, are standing at my front door.”

  Kath’s lips parted, but no words came out.

  “Banishment was surprised. Surprised and happy, but not shocked. Maybe what some hunters say about Sacks isn’t so far-fetched.”

  “How can so many hunters say the top-level Sacks are more than human unless there’s some truth to it?”

  “Yeah.” Again I stood and paced the floor. “I know this. Gatehouse isn’t being open with us, and not just about Elations and Embodiments. Whatever’s brewing is much bigger than they’re letting on.”

  “But what—”

  “It’s not just increased activity in the West or some Sacks doing spurts or going rampant.”

  “Jane, stop.” Kath lifted a hand and held it there until I stopped moving and gave her my full attention. “What are we going to do? If you were on Vogel’s list, you were on every porter’s list.”

  It hit me like a fist, almost knocking the wind from me. If I was on Vogel’s list, I was on Nathan’s. Maybe not the list he used when he gave hunters their targets, but surely on one of his lists. Porters had full access to Gatehouse lists too, some of which included Sacks’ real names and addresses.

  “Though I’m the only hunter who would know,” Kath added hopefully.

  “How did this happen?” I raked my fingers through my hair, my mind racing. The longer this screw-up remained a screw-up, the less chance there was of repairing it and the greater chance there was that my name, real and Sack, would filter down to other porters and even hunters.

  “I’ve got to talk to Nathan,” I said.

  Kath’s eyes grew wide. “No, don’t. What if ...”

  “What if Nathan’s involved?”

  “I don’t think he is,” she said quickly. Kath knew how fond I was of Nathan. She knew I trusted him.

  “Maybe Vogel put my name on that list,” I countered. “He had to know I was staying here tonight.”

  Kath didn’t look convinced. “We should get the hell out of here, go to Colorado.”

  “If I run, I’ll look like a Sack. You’re safe for now, so just stay here until I contact you.” I started for my holster but came to an abrupt stop. “If you don’t hear from me, tell them I never came back from my kill tonight. Tell them you’d planned to kill me tonight, while I slept, and you never got the chance. There’s no way anyone could blame you.”

  “Oh, God, Jane.”

  She looked like she was going to cry again, and to tell the truth, except for the adrenaline and anger coursing through me, elbowing out my fears and my sense of betrayal, I would have cried myself. We were in serious, deadly trouble. “We’ll straighten this out,” I said, having no idea at all how we would do that. But I was certain I had to contact Nathan—and do it now, before the situation became irreparable.

  Kath didn’t blink or twitch as I snapped my holster onto my belt and hung my umbrella inside my jacket, her fear of Gatehouse, Vogel, or whoever was responsible for using her and targeting me having superseded her fear that I might be a Sack.

  From my bedroom closet I took out my black nylon backpack of get-out-fast essentials—a change of clothes, an untraceable burner phone, fake IDs, cash, and more weapons, including my HK 9mm and more pellets for my umbrella.

  “Don’t use your cell phone unless Vogel rings,” I said, returning to the living room. “In fact, keep it off. No need to volunteer any information about where you are. And don’t answer the door to anyone but me.” I tucked my cell into the back pocket of my jeans and grabbed the driver’s license for my Forester from the kitchen counter. I wasn’t going to chance driving Gatehouse’s rental.

  “It’s not like they can’t get in if they want to,” Kath said weakly.

  “Remember, they’re not looking for you. You haven’t made your kill yet, that’s all.”

  “Do you even know where Nathan is?”

  “At his brewery, I’m sure. The pub stays open until eleven o’clock.”

  “Be careful, Jane. We don’t know what’s going on or who’s behind it.”

  Backpack in one hand, I laid my other hand on the knob and looked back at Kath. “With any luck, we’ll be back to normal by tomorrow morning.”

  Chapter 5

  I drove south on Bishop’s Lodge Road and hung a left onto Highway 475. A mile down the road, I pulled my car to the shoulder, tossed my cell as far as I could into the piñons and rabbitbrush, then doubled back and made my way to El Tirador.

  Traffic was heavy on Cerrillos Road, a major Santa Fe thoroughfare, even at ten o’clock.

  Driving slowly around the block, I tried to peer through the windows that ran along the front of the one-story pub to see if I could spot Nathan, but all I saw were customers. It looked like a busy night, and I figured that would play in my favor. It’s not easy to kill someone in the middle of a busy brew pub, even with an umbrella.

  Nat
han, still wearing the suit I’d seen him in at the Hotel St. Michael, was surprised to see me, though happily so, it seemed. He grinned at me from behind the L-shaped bar and motioned for me to join him in his office, but I shook my head, mouthed “No,” and pointed at the short part of the L, the part nearest his office door.

  Standing well back from the bar, I watched him thread his way through the bartenders and waitresses until he stood directly in front of me, the bar and an additional three feet of space between us. I refused to step up to the bar. A look of confusion, followed closely by concern, spread across his face. He motioned me forward. “Are you all right?”

  I took a step toward him but still stood back from the bar. Far enough, I thought, that he couldn’t touch me without taking a sudden, ninja-like leap. Not that such a leap was physically beyond his capabilities, but he wasn’t likely to call such unwelcome attention to himself in his own brewery.

  “No, I’m not all right. Do you know Kath’s boss?” I fixed my eyes on his, looking for tells. The expression shifty eyes wasn’t just a cliché.

  He paused, leaned his forearms on the bar’s brushed metal surface, then said, “You mean Brent Porter?”

  Porter, not Vogel. He was being careful. “Yup.”

  “Yes, I know him. Why?”

  “It seems he has me on a list.”

  Two seconds later my words sank in. Nathan stood straight. “How do you know?”

  I crossed my arms, giving him a How do you think I know? look.

  “Stay right there.” He made his way toward me, and as he approached I backed away again, keeping several feet between us. Turning his back to his pub’s customers, he said, “Jane, talk to me.”

  “My best friend just put a gun to my head.”

  “Kath?”

  “She was told to by Mr. Porter.”

  He shook his head, more in confusion than disbelief. “That’s not possible.”

  “Porter gave her my photo and my condo address. If Kath hadn’t hesitated so I could talk her out of it, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

  Nathan stared down at the wood-plank floor, rubbing his thumb and forefinger along his jaw. When he looked up again, he spoke firmly. “In my office.” He gestured with his head toward his office door and led the way, expecting me to follow. After a moment’s hesitation, I did. I had no choice.

  He took several long strides to his desk on the far wall and turned to face me. I shut the office door behind me but stood next to it, ready to exit at any second. He realized what I was doing—I could see it in his face—but he understood. He asked me to tell him everything that had happened that night, and I did, from my encounter with Banishment to Kath putting her Ruger to my head and telling me I was a Sack named Falter.

  He stood with his hands in his pants pockets, riveted in place while he listened, and spoke only when I finished, telling me how sorry he was about what had happened but that he couldn’t believe Brent Vogel was aware of what he had done. He’d never heard a whisper that the man was an infiltrator. “He’s been a porter longer than I have,” he said. “And before that he was with Gatehouse.”

  “When you were there?”

  “For about a year, yeah.”

  “Does he know the address of Gatehouse’s Santa Fe condo?”

  “He must.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “No, this isn’t right.” Baffled, Nathan rubbed the palm of one hand across his forehead, trying to process what he’d heard. It wasn’t jibing with his knowledge of Gatehouse. “Not Brent. Something else is going on.”

  “In the meantime, Gatehouse has me down as a Sack.”

  “Is Kath still at the condo?”

  “I told her to stay there.”

  Nathan dropped his hand. An expression of determination washed over his face. “Right. We’re going to my house.”

  He strode for the door and I backed against it, suddenly frightened. “What? Why?”

  “Because you’re not safe. You need to trust me, right now.” His tone was compassionate but no-nonsense. My indecision was wasting precious time. I stood back from the door and let him exist first. He signaled one of the bartenders on his way out the door—making sharp me leaving, you take over movements with his index finger—and I followed him to the parking lot.

  “Have you got your car or the rental?” he asked.

  “Mine.” I pointed to where it was parked.

  “Good. Follow me. Stay right behind me and don’t let any cars in between.”

  “I know the address. Carson Street.”

  “Stay behind me anyway. Where’s your cell phone?”

  “I tossed it.”

  “I’m over here,” he said, motioning to the side lot. “I’ll wait for you to pull in behind me.”

  My paranoia growing by the minute, I checked the backseat of my car for an unwanted passenger before hopping in and backing out of the space. I edged behind Nathan’s white Ford Explorer, and he waited until we both could pull from the parking lot onto Cerrillos and head south. At St. Francis Drive, he stopped at a yellow light he knew I couldn’t make, and as he waited for the light to turn green, he watched me from his rearview mirror. I took the opportunity to take the empty umbrella from my jacket—it had been poking me in the side—and drop it to the car floor.

  We turned left on St. Francis and took it a mile north before Nathan headed into the foothills, turning left then right, left once more, then right again. I had forgotten how dark the area was, even in the moonlight, how look-alike the winding roads could be, and how most of the houses were hard to see from the roads. Finding his house might have taken hours if I hadn’t followed him.

  Nathan stopped before turning onto a dirt driveway, rolled down his window, and clicked something that looked like a TV remote. His security measure. Having visited before, I knew he’d wired his entire property. We started up the long drive, his western-style house, with its high-pitched metal roof and wraparound veranda, coming into view about a third of the way up.

  As I parked next to his Explorer, I wondered if I’d made an error in judgment. The nearest house had to be a football field away, maybe more. But if Nathan wanted me dead, he could have killed me, or had me killed, earlier. It pained me that I didn’t trust him fully, and it occurred to me that he too had reason to distrust. He had no way of knowing if my story about Kath was true, though he must have believed me since he was risking bringing me into his home.

  He unlocked his front door and dropped his keys on a console table in the foyer. “It’s me,” he called out, ushering me inside. “I brought someone with me.”

  Wiping her hands on a dish towel, Lydia Tennant strode into the foyer. “You’re home early,” she said, giving Nathan a peck then looking my way.

  “Lydia, you remember Jane Piper,” Nathan said, taking off his coat.

  “Of course,” Lydia said, smiling and extending her hand. “We’ve met several times.”

  “Last time was in April,” I said, shaking hands. “The best pineapple chicken ever.”

  Lydia smiled broadly, her cheeks making apples below her blue eyes. “You’ve got quite a memory. Thank you.” She turned to Nathan. “Is everything all right?”

  “I’m not sure.” He gave his wife an apologetic look. “There might be trouble.”

  “Give me your coat.” Lydia took hold of Nathan’s coat and started for the closet at the end of the foyer. “I’ll bring coffee,” she added as she disappeared around the corner. It struck me that she had to know about Nathan’s job as a porter for her to leave hanging his vague comment about trouble. I’d never asked her, but of course she knew. As a former member of Gatehouse, Nathan was no simple porter, and if he hadn’t told her, back in his Gatehouse days at least, about work, it would have destroyed his marriage.

  Then there was this house, I thought, as I followed Nathan down another hall and toward his office. The oak and tile floors, the floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace and exposed beams—this house had not been bo
ught with El Tirador Autumn Ale and Coyote Lager money.

  Nathan walked around his desk and stood, hands on his hips, silently staring down at a large map. “Let me show you something,” he said, gesturing with his chin at the map. He stepped to the side, making room for me at the desk. “Northern New Mexico and all of Colorado. The red circles are incidents over the past six months. Murdered innocents.”

  I did a quick count. There were almost a hundred red circles on the map, Sack killings from just south of Santa Fe up to Virginia Dale in far northern Colorado. “My God, what’s going on? All this in six months?”

  “Half of those in just the past two months. The green circles are murdered porters, hunters, and Gatehouse members.” He stuffed his hands in his pants pockets, contemplating the map and, judging by the familiar body language, wondering whether he should tell me more. I counted seven green circles. The skin at the back of my neck prickled.

  “How many returns have hunters made in this region in the past six months?” I asked.

  “Including your return tonight, twenty-one.”

  I stared at Nathan. Something was very wrong. “Aren’t those numbers more than a little lopsided? What has Gatehouse been doing?”

  “They’ve tracked about a third of the murders on the map to Desires, Alarms, and Resolutes who recently moved to New Mexico or Colorado.”

  “They’re moving here.” My eyes were glued to the map, horrified by the colored circles. “Swarming.”

  “So what’s happening is not just an increase in activity, it’s an increase in numbers.”

  “Coffee,” Lydia announced, appearing in the doorway with a tray. She glanced at the map as she placed the tray on top of a low bookcase behind the desk, her eyes registering no surprise. She’d seen it before.

  “Thanks, honey,” Nathan said. They brushed fingers as she walked around him. I’d only seen Nathan and Lydia together a handful of times, but if subtle body language, the kind not meant for public consumption, meant anything, theirs was a good marriage.