The gravel road was quiet, with only the occasional bump from upturned bits of soil or rock. The trees extended around them, their branches forming a kind of tunnel. Little shafts of sunlight came in. It reminded Roscoe of the olive groves Carmine had loved.
“But running off alone―” Betty started.
“Walt was with me.”
“The shamus doesn’t count. He’s not part of Donovan Motors.” Betty clenched her fists. “And you didn’t even want him along. He mentioned that in his note.” She turned away and glared out the window. “Angel would have gone with you as back-up. So would Wooster, even though he’s still recovering from the battle last night. I would have gone with you.” Betty folded her arms. She seemed younger than she was―a little girl pouting. “Instead, you ran off and left us terrified. Poor Felix was out of his mind with worry.”
“How’s he doing?”
“The Captain’s reassured him. Now, he’s working on odd arcane theorems, trying to perfect his entropic engine, which he thinks will help. I don’t know if it will, but it gives him something to do. The little guy is just hurling himself into his work.” Betty sighed. “And you running off like some lone cowboy heading out to duel the bad guy isn’t helping.”
Roscoe gripped his wheel and didn’t say anything. The hollowness in his chest began to grow. He didn’t know what to say because Betty was right. The drivers of Donovan Motors were a team. Running off solo had been a bad idea that had nearly gotten him killed. He had dragged Betty, Angel, and even little Ace Arkin into danger.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“Oh―you’re sorry. That makes it better then.” Betty looked at Roscoe, studying his features. “It’s this Carmine Vitale thing, isn’t it?” She stared for a moment. “You’re letting his memories get to you, trying to act like he did and recover some part of your vanished life. Or maybe that’s what you’re afraid of, so you’re trying to run from it, to throw yourself into battle so your past can’t catch up with you? Is that it?”
“Maybe all of the above.”
Betty put her hand on his shoulder. Her grip was light. “You’re not like Carmine Vitale. I saw the care you showed Ace, the fear for his safety. I can see your love of this town and its people―and of your friends. You’re not Carmine Vitale. You’re Roscoe. You’ve always been Roscoe. I am proud to call Roscoe my friend.”
Her words made Roscoe smile. He looked at Betty over his sunglasses. The college girl might be naive―but she could always improve his spirits. Roscoe eased up on the gas. The ride went a little smoother. He fiddled with the radio, looking for a good tune to play as they drove back to Los Angeles.
They reached Walt Weaver’s Silver Lake apartment in the early evening. The sun was beginning to droop in the distance, adding a golden touch to the palm trees lining the broad and hilly avenues. Roscoe and Angel parked their automobiles in the small lot and then headed up the stairwell to Walt’s home. Roscoe stared inside. The Captain was on the couch, next to Felix. The boy scribbled madly on the glass coffee table, a pillar of paper as big as his head resting beside his current work. Snowball curled up at his feet, occasionally making a little whine. The Captain reassembled reassembling a rifle while Wooster sat on a chair in the corner, fiddling with the radio and cursing under his breath at the barks of static.
The Captain looked up at Roscoe and then flew out of his seat. He crossed the room and stood in front of him as Angel and Betty walked inside and Walt knocked the door. “What were you thinking―abandoning your post like that?” the Captain bellowed. “And heading into enemy territory? Without any means of support, any means of getting help?” He rested his hands on Roscoe’s shoulders. “I expect better from you. I need better from you.”
“I did what I thought was right. It beat being cooped up in here,” Roscoe said. “I guess I did make a mistake―but I needed to see what was happening to La Cruz. It’s not pretty. Not at all.” He walked across the room and sat down next to Felix. Snowball clambered up into his lap. Roscoe ignored the infant yeti. “I saw some of our friends. They’re wondering when we’re gonna help. I’m wondering the same thing.”
Felix gently scooped up Snowball and moved him away from Roscoe. “Are they well? Ace and Stanley and Penny―as well as Mr. Swann and the Deadbeat and the other citizens?” Pure terror filled the boy’s voice.
Roscoe wanted to lie to him―but he couldn’t. “They’re scared, but they’re okay.”
“I would have arranged a scouting mission. I was planning to search for Strickland’s weaknesses.” The Captain’s fury faded. “ I wanted to do this right, not charge over the top and run straight into machine gunfire, like I’ve seen happen so many times.”
“Could be we don’t got time for that,” Angel said.
Betty nodded. “It’s bad over there, sir. Strickland has zombie patrols running up and down Main Street and Butcher’s Row is practically taken over by Don Lupo and his Mafia goons. I bet they’re gonna start breaking ground on the factory soon―and they’re going to start making a move for the Crimson Cross, too. Our friends in the Mission can’t hold out against an army, especially an undead one equipped with military-grade weapons.”
“All the more reason to form a plan of attack,” the Captain said. “And not go―”
Wooster stood back from the radio. “I got it. I found that Deadbeat fellow’s show, like you asked me to. But it’s not music tonight, no sir.” He adjusted the volume dial. “You’re gonna want to hear this, Captain. I think we all will.”
Everyone gathered around the radio. The volume rose, and soon the Deadbeat’s low, dark voice filled the room―as smooth and flowing as ever, but now spiked with fear. “Evening, night cats,” the Deadbeat said. “Got a bit of an announcement for you, you dig? It’s not one I’m happy to make. But I’ll say it and I’ll say it again, just like I been saying it, so interested parties can listen in.” He cleared his throat. “The Deadbeat’s Witching Hour of Tunes and News is going to go off the air. Permanently.”
“Oh, no,” Felix whispered. “I did so enjoy that American rock and roll music, though it was perhaps a little abrasive.” He looked nervously at Roscoe and held Snowball close. “But why would a man like the Deadbeat―who seemed so assured in his place―want to stop his show?”
“He’s got more problems than his radio program,” Wooster said.
The Deadbeat continued. “I’ve always walked the line between the worlds of the living and dead―and serenaded them both. But now it seems I’m in danger of slipping away from the living for good. I can’t say who’s behind it, though if you’ve been listening to the program for the past couple days, I bet you can probably guess.” He paused and the sound of silence filled the radio. “Let me just say no death can really last. I hope mine don’t. If everything goes well, I’ll be crawling out of my own grave to play you just one more song. Until then, this is the Deadbeat saying a final adios―and signing off.” The radio went dead.
Before any of them could wonder what had happened, they heard a knock at the door. Walt crept toward it. He drew his revolver, holding it one hand and pulled the door open, just a crack. Roscoe peered outside. Reed Strickland stood there, his jacket pressed and his tie straight. He looked like he had strolled off a showroom floor. Detective Burns was with him, fedora in his hands. Neither man appeared armed.
Strickland folded his hands. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“I was considering inviting you to go to Hell,” Walt said. “But letting you in my house will do in a pinch.” He pulled open the door, still keeping his revolver trained on Strickland. “Sure. Come on in and make yourself comfortable. Maybe you can explain what the Deadbeat was talking about.”
“Or give me a reason I shouldn’t cut both your throats right now?” Wooster demanded. He had drawn his Bowie knife, pulling the shining blade from its snake-skin sheath. Angel had his pistol out and Roscoe’s hand darted to his crowbar. Betty hurried to Felix’s side, ready to shoo the boy away if vi
olence broke out. Only the Captain didn’t make a move for a weapon.
Detective Burns smiled at Wooster. “Sure thing, you smartass Okie. How about the three LAPD black-and-whites I got patrolling the block. Soon as they hear anything suspicious, they’ll surround you and arrest you all. I’ve got friends in the department who will make sure you all suck gas at San Quentin.” He pointed to Walt. “We know this is your apartment from your prior dealings with the police―and we know you’re friends with the circus from La Cruz. You’re slippery―but you won’t slip out of this one, Weaver.”
“And all I want to do is talk,” Strickland said.
“So talk,” Roscoe snarled.
“Very well. I’m sure you’ve heard the Deadbeat’s last broadcast.” Strickland walked across the room, moving past Roscoe to face the Captain. “The reason he sounded so, ah, lugubrious was because he had my associate Mr. Roach breathing down his neck. A word from me, and Roach will start to eat―and I guarantee the Deadbeat won’t be the only one to die.” Strickland began to count on his fingers. “Your friends in the graveyard, Basil Barrow and his hellcat of a daughter Penny, were apprehended before I left La Cruz. They put up quite a fight, but, as soon as we endangered the girl, Mr. Barrow wilted away. We’ve picked up a budding juvenile delinquent named Alexander Arkin―I believe you know him as Ace. We captured Eldridge Swann just a few moments ago. And the Deadbeat, of course.” Strickland’s smile was a mix of smugness and hunger. “Tomorrow evening, they’re all going to die.”
The Captain stayed quiet. “Unless?”
“Right now, they are in Cowl Canyons, near the old Spanish Mission. I believe you know it? The Mission houses a certain old relic a friend of mine dearly wants.” Strickland’s eyes flashed. “The Crimson Cross. You know of it, I’m sure. You will call up your allies among the Mexican brothers there and arrange for the Cross to be handed over. I know you can do it. You’ve helped them so many times in the past. And if you do not.” He clasped his hands together, squeezing until his knuckles seemed to whiten. It was like he was clutching a throat―and beginning to strangle. “Your friends will die, and they will die badly. They will curse your names as the life drips out of them. Any questions?”
Felix nearly flew out of the couch. He rushed for Strickland, his hands balled into fists and his face a pale mask of fury. “You monster!” he roared. “You monstrous man! You demon! You will not hurt my friends! You will not hurt my friends!” Betty grabbed his shoulders and held him back. Snowball barked excitedly and darted around. Felix finally breathed and managed to calm himself. “Why? Why are so relentlessly cruel?”
“It’s worth it,” Strickland said. “The world’s cruel. It took my fortunes in an instant, wiping them away with the crash of the Stock Market. It made my wife, such a fragile and beautiful woman, take a pistol and blow her own brains out in front of me. I wiped away her blood and my tears, and I realized that I had to force the world to be what I wanted.” His smile began to fade. “The Crimson Cross will accomplish that. A holy world―forged by unholy power. That’s what I’m fighting for.” He pointed at the Captain. “It’s more than you freaks ever dreamed of.”
Roscoe looked at Detective Burns. “What about you? What’s your angle?”
“Money.” Burns answered calmly. “It used to be your angle, too, Carmine.”
“That’s not my name,” Roscoe said.
“Sure.” Detective Burns looked over at Strickland. “We done here, sir?”
“In a moment.” Strickland stepped around the coffee table closer to the Captain. “I don’t need your answer right away. In fact, I’m only asking as a favor. The monks inside the Mission don’t like bloodshed. After Roach guts the little girl in front of them, I’m sure they’ll hand over the Crimson Cross with all due haste. However, I want to give you the opportunity to stop a little bloodshed. You make the monks hand over the Cross, stay out of La Cruz, and you won’t be bothered again.” He held out his hand. “It’s a square deal, Captain. The best offer you’re gonna get.”
The Captain remained motionless and silent.
Strickland retracted his hand. “I’ll let you think about it.” He turned away. “Come along, Detective. Now we’re done.” They walked outside together. The door swung shut behind them.
After they left, Roscoe looked at the Captain. “What happens now?”
“You were right.” The Captain’s voice quaked. “By God, you were right. We should have killed them all. We should have killed them all at the beginning.” He looked up at Roscoe, his eyes hollow. “Now it’s gotten worse than I could have imagined. But there’s time to act. Still time to play it your way. Strickland and all his allies are going to have to die. We’re going to have to make that happen.”
“Yeah,” Roscoe said. Maybe part of him was looking forward to this moment, dreaming of the time when the Captain would finally let him off the leash. But part of him was afraid of it―frightened of what would happen when he got his hands dirty. He folded his fingers into fists and stared at the polished wooden floor. The radio crackled, filling the room with quiet static.
hey planned strategy and talked tactics late into the night, while Felix slept on the couch with Snowball folded up alongside him and using his white suit coat for a blanket. The kid still hadn’t finished his calculations for the entropic engine, though bits of scratch paper blanketed in equations, Latin incantations, and Germanic runes lay in a disorderly blizzard on the glass coffee table. Roscoe and the rest were in the kitchen, looking at maps of La Cruz and trying to plan. Roscoe stayed back and kept quiet as the Captain used an old bayonet to draw out potential means of entry. Nothing seemed to be working well. As Angel pointed out, Strickland and his pals had the whole city locked down. There was no way into La Cruz that wouldn’t put them straight against superior zombie firepower. Roscoe felt uneasy. Something gnawed at his guts, and he couldn’t stop it. A knock clattered on the door.
“Reckon I’ll handle this one,” Wooster said. He had his tommy gun in his hands, the strap over his shoulder. He walked over to the door and stood beside it, one hand on the trigger of the Thompson. Roscoe’s fingers closed around the handle of his sawed-off as well, as his gaze went to the door. Wooster pulled it open.
Mayor Clinton Corrigan and Sheriff Leland Braddock stood in the doorway. They were framed against the night sky and the palm trees and looked like cats hauled out of water. Both men were shivering and afraid. They said nothing but stared at Wooster and then their eyes went to the submachine gun in his hands. Sheriff Braddock made no move to go for his service revolver. They just stood and stared.
The Captain walked from the kitchen. “Hello, Mr. Mayor, Sheriff Braddock. The Captain kept his voice low for Felix’s sake. “Would you like to come inside? We’re having a briefing before we begin the assault on La Cruz tomorrow. I would appreciate your advice and assistance in planning the operation.”
But Angel wasn’t having it. “Or maybe you come to arrest us, slap on the cuffs, and drag us back so Strickland can gut us slowly and then steal that Crimson Cross. Is that how it is?”
“Not at all!” Mayor Corrigan cried. He shuffled inside, and Sheriff Braddock closed the door. “Believe me, gentlemen, we come with the best intentions and―”
“Quiet.” Betty raised her finger, motioning for them to be silent. “The kid’s sleeping.”
Mayor Corrigan looked at Felix and nodded nervously. “My profuse apologies, miss. He and Sheriff Braddock walked to the living room. Wooster followed them, still covering the two La Cruz dignitaries with his submachine gun. “As I was saying, we want to help. La Cruz needs you.” He lowered his eyes and then squeezed them shut. “I think we all regret our various decisions and the conclusions that we jumped to. Now we need your help.” He took off his fedora and held it in his hand. “I’m asking you, as mayor, to intercede in events in La Cruz.”
Roscoe watched them both and said nothing. “So, I take it you changed your minds about the Reedster?” Walt Weaver wondered
.
“Yes,” Sheriff Braddock said. “Absolutely.” He hooked his thumbs into his belt as he talked. “Reed Strickland is a monster, commanding a legion of monsters. He’s permanently suspended all of my officers, keeping them in their houses while his security guards patrol the city. They’ve attacked citizens for flimsy reasons, shut down the La Cruz Lacuna and every other local paper and publication, closed the library, and the church, and God knows what else.” He glanced up at the Captain. “He has to be stopped, sir. And you know as well as I do that I’m not the one to do it.”
All eyes went to the Captain. They were waiting for his decision. He nodded stiffly. “So, I trust the warrant for our arrest will be rescinded?”
“Absolutely,” Sheriff Braddock said. “As soon as I return to the La Cruz Police Station.” He paused and stared at his boots. “It’s currently, ah, occupied by Mr. Roach and his security people. He’s even brought in his own prisoners, keeping them in our holding cells.” They have the place secured and guarded, extremely well.”
That must be where the Deadbeat, Eldridge Swann, Basil Barrow, poor Penny, and Ace were being kept. “And where’s Strickland himself?” Roscoe asked.
His voice made Sheriff Braddock shake.
Mayor Corrigan raised a hand, like he was a boy in a classroom. “He’s traveling around, staying in the best hotels in La Cruz and doing a lot of planning and so forth at city hall. He sleeps at the Playa Roja Beach Club and is surrounded by bodyguards at all times.” Mayor Corrigan’s eyes swiveled around the table. “You’re not going to attempt to, well, murder the fellow, are you?”
“That’s the idea,” Roscoe replied. His temper rose. He hated Sheriff Braddock and Mayor Corrigan almost more than Strickland. The tycoon was twisted and evil, but these reasonable, middle-class authorities had sold out the city to him and turned on their guardians. Roscoe wanted to scream out “I told you so” until the mayor and the sheriff went deaf.
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