Damnable

by Hank Schwaeble

  “And my role in all of this?”

  “You are the one who is fated to wield it, Mr. Hatcher. You are the one spoken of in the prophecies. It all depends on you.”

  “Lady, you are several slices short of a loaf. I may not understand everything, but I certainly know I’m not some chosen one. I ain’t Moses. Or some character from The Matrix.”

  “And what makes you so sure of that, Mr. Hatcher?”

  “The whole idea is ludicrous. I don’t believe in that kind of stuff. And even if I did, you obviously haven’t thought this through. I can’t be your guy.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you said the person who wields this thing is destined to kill his brother. Last I checked, I don’t even have a brother. And if I did, well, you already took care of that, didn’t you?”

  The puff of a tiny laugh seemed to escape her nostrils. “You disappoint me, Mr. Hatcher. I took you to be more astute. Just because Garrett is dead does not mean you are not destined to kill your brother.”

  “You’re starting to sound like a sphinx. What are you saying?”

  “I am saying, one brother is dead, yes. Another still lives.”

  “Another what? Brother?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t have another brother. I’m not even a hundred percent certain I had one to begin with.”

  “Oh, you did. And you do.”

  “Who is this other brother, then?”

  “I can’t believe you haven’t guessed yet. The man I’ve been talking about, Mr. Hatcher . . .” Soliya tossed the dagger to him. He wasn’t expecting it but managed to get a hand firmly on it, feeling the blade through the leather.

  She waited several seconds before finishing the thought. “Demetrius Valentine. He’s your brother.”

  CHAPTER 20

  IT WAS STILL DARK WHEN HATCHER STEPPED ONTO THE sidewalk, self-consciously wedging the dagger between his arm and ribs. The long piece of metal was heavy and awkward. The thick binding around it seemed almost as old as the blade itself. Or almost as old it was supposed to be.

  He felt like he was crashing, the foggy remnants of a drug that was wearing off. The weight of the dagger tucked at his side was tugging at his mind, forcing him to wonder what the hell he was doing. Was he actually carrying some legendary weapon? Entertaining the possibility of using it? To fulfill a prophecy? Jesus, he thought. I need help. His grasp on reality felt strained, and the dagger wasn’t the only thing. He was having trouble believing most of what he’d just witnessed. Some sort of supernatural Maxim party.

  The cool of the night chilled his nostrils and he breathed deeply, as if trying to exhale what air lingered in his lungs from where he’d been. The feeling of a crash made him think. Had he been drugged? He doubted it. In some ways it felt a bit like it, in other ways it didn’t. More like he had inhaled fumes that gave him a mild buzz. It took several blocks for his head to feel clear, even if his thoughts were jumbled, coming too many at a time.

  Why hadn’t he just said no? He knew the answer. Because those gals were literally irresistible, and even now he had an erection that could bead water. The extent of his self-control was to not throw himself on top of any of them.

  And the other reason was because he wanted to know what the hell was really going on.

  The streets were quiet, but not quite empty; the splashy sound of tires lightly spraying water occasionally came and went. It was the time of the night that was really early morning, too early for business, too late for recreation, when most cities would be completely devoid of life. Hatcher realized New York was different. It wasn’t that it never slept, it was that it always kept moving a little even when it did, as if its existence depended on it, like a shark.

  But even in a city like Manhattan, Hatcher figured a guy walking by himself at that hour was suspicious, probably up to no good. Especially when there were two of them, one across the street, one a block behind him. Shadowing him.

  Hatcher turned at the cross street, then cut diagonally to the other sidewalk and waited at a bus stop. The one who’d been across the other street followed unsteadily after him, almost getting grazed by a taxi before stumbling forward. His clothes were ragged, a threadbare navy peacoat over several shirts and a dark pair of pants that seemed stained with even darker patches of moisture and specks of gray paint. He wore a cheap yacht cap, dingy white over a scuffed black brim with a little gold anchor on the front, and black gloves with no fingers. He looked homeless and drunk, the thick neck of a bottle sticking partially out of one of the side pockets of his coat.

  The one who’d been tagging directly behind Hatcher arrived at the corner and stopped. He was a large black man, wearing a gray hoodie and matching sweatpants, the hood of his sweatshirt lipped back and bunched up behind his neck. He stared in Hatcher’s direction, but didn’t move.

  The guy dressed like a bum stopped once he reached the corner, just like the other one. A pair of bookends, one on each side.

  Weird, Hatcher thought. They weren’t trying to be inconspicuous, weren’t pretending not to notice him. He walked back across the street toward the homeless sailor. Just out of curiosity, to see what the man would do.

  The answer was, nothing. The man just stood there, looking blankly at Hatcher as he walked by. On the other corner, the guy in the hoodie waited until Hatcher turned and resumed his prior course before starting to follow again. After a dozen yards or so, Hatcher looked back and saw homeless guy had fallen in a few yards behind. Hoodie and homeless, both looking right at him, staggering a bit.

  They weren’t planning to rob him or kill him. At least, Hatcher didn’t think so. If they were going to make a move, they would have done it back there. They were just tailing him.

  Hatcher walked a few more blocks, checking randomly to see if they were still there, then pulled the cell phone from his pocket. Having a tail had managed to stop his mind from swimming, and that was a good thing. If you didn’t master your thoughts, they’d run amok, drown out your ability to reason, to problem-solve. That kind of lack of focus cost many men their lives. He’d seen it happen. But tail or no, he had a lot of questions to answer, and if Soliya was to be believed, time was a factor.

  Deciding whom to call first proved unexpectedly difficult. He knew he needed to check in with Fred, see if anything had happened in the past few hours. But he really wanted to speak to his mother. A few days ago, he knew he was an only child. Now, he was being told he had two brothers, one dead, one living. He looked at the time on the phone. Four forty-five a.m. He had no compunction about waking his mother up, but Carl would probably answer and refuse to put her on the phone. Waiting a few hours was impractical. He had a feeling there wasn’t much time.

  The phone made the decision for him. It chimed out a sharp ring. He glanced at the number and flipped it open.

  “Hello.”

  “Hatcher? It’s Fred.”

  “I was just about to call you.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry. I know you wanted me to wait to hear from you, but this is important. I’ve been trying to reach you for a while. Where are you?”

  “I’m a few blocks from Hugh Hefner’s place in the twilight zone.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll explain later. I’m not far from where I was before.” He twisted his shoulders to glance at the two men. They were standing a block back, swaying a bit from side to side, watching him. “And I seem to have attracted some company.”

  “You mean, you’re being followed?”

  “Yes, and they’re not trying to pretend otherwise.”

  “Are you in danger? Can you talk?”

  “I’m fine.” He turned away from the men. “I’d like you to look up something else for me, find out what you can about women who call themselves ‘Carnates.’ ”

  “I, uh, okay, but, Hatcher, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “You sound like something’s wrong.”

  There was a hiss through the line; Hatcher realize
d it was a heavy sigh. “Well, like I said, I’ve been trying to reach you. I got a call—”

  “Does this have something to do with Am—with Detective Wright?”

  “Well, not . . . there is that, yes. Lieutenant Maloney has been looking for you about her, too. He said she’s missing.”

  “Missing? As in, she’s disappeared?”

  “He said she’s not answering her cell phone, not on the radio, and not at home. He was quite anxious to speak to you. There’s that, and—”

  “And he thinks I’m responsible?”

  “Well, I’m not sure about that, but he said they can’t find her, her or a Detective Reynolds. I think he was the one with her earlier, at Garrett’s office. That Lieutenant Maloney fellow sounded agitated. I don’t think he believed me when I said I didn’t know where you were. I was surprised he didn’t threaten to arrest me. He left a number.”

  Hatcher listened intently, committing the number to memory. “Okay, I’ll try her myself, and if I have no luck I guess I’ll give Maloney a call.”

  “There’s something else, something more important. I—I was trying to tell you . . . the reason Maloney called wasn’t just about Wright. Hatcher, your father . . .”

  “What about him?”

  “There’s been some kind of complication. Maloney said you need to get to the hospital as soon as possible. He said there wasn’t much time.”

  Hatcher said nothing. More thoughts started to bubble up, another layer of noise in the system. But before he could entertain any of them, a long black sedan screeched to stop near the curb. It looked very familiar. Two women piled out. They were trim, extremely attractive, and each sported a black cylinder in her right hand. Hatcher had seen cylinders like them earlier and suddenly realized what they were. Almost simultaneously, the woman snapped their wrists, the rods shooting out to full length. Telescoping batons. The shafts made whipping noises as the women slashed the air with them, the slicing sounds of a freshly cut switch.

  “I’ll have to get back to you,” Hatcher said, flipping the phone shut.

  STEPHEN SOLOMON GROPED FOR THE PHONE NEXT TO HIS bed with a heavy hand. He picked it up in time to cut off the third ring. He glanced at the blue digits on the nightstand clock. Somewhere in his mind he thought, You’ve got to be fucking kidding.

  He answered in a dazed voice, almost slurring.

  “Stephen! Good morning!”

  Solomon looked at the clock again. Who the hell considers this “morning”?

  “What’s that, Stephen? I couldn’t quite make it out.”

  He rubbed at his eyes. “I said, do you have any idea what time it is?”

  “I certainly do. Time for you to start earning your ridiculous monthly retainer.”

  “What is it?” He felt his wife stir next to him, mumbling about him being too loud. He turned away and lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “Did you get arrested?”

  “No, Stephen.”

  “Sherman, then? He knows he doesn’t have to answer questions.”

  “No. Nothing like that. There’s something I want you to do for me.”

  “Can’t it wait until morning?” He ran a hand through his hair, blinked at the glowing numbers on the clock. “Later in the morning, I mean?”

  “Absolutely it can. And it shall. But I need to explain it to you now.”

  Solomon listened, the side of his head sinking down into his pillow. He perked up after a few seconds, eyes popping wide.

  “Why the hell are you telling me this?” he asked. He shot a look back at his wife and dropped his voice several decibels. “Have you lost your mind? You know I can’t knowingly be a party to anything illegal. There are rules, ethics.”

  “Please, Stephen. You’re a lawyer. Your idea of an ethical dilemma is deciding whether to bill a client for the time you spend screwing his wife.”

  “This is beyond the pale. I’m hanging up now. We can talk tomorrow—later, I mean. I’ll just pretend we didn’t have this conversation.”

  “Speaking of wives, by the way, how’s yours? What do you suppose her reaction would be to knowledge of your multiple trysts with a certain irresistible female? Did you find the guest bedroom at my place comfortable? It certainly looked like you did. Hard to tell on video though. It doesn’t capture quite the same detail as film, the subtle facial gestures. Maybe I’m just old-fashioned. I’m sure the divorce lawyer she hires won’t be so picky when he’s taking every dime you have. Or do you think he’ll be generous out of professional courtesy?”

  Solomon sucked in a breath. That woke him up. The fucker had taped him? He slid his legs off the bed, eased his weight onto the floor. His wife rolled away, tugging her pillow down. Treading softly, he slipped out of the bedroom into the hallway.

  “Okay, goddammit, what do you want?”

  “I want you to hold on to something at your office and give it to someone when they show up.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes. And no matter what happens, you mustn’t tell him anything about me. Absolutely nothing. Not about me, not about my whereabouts, nothing.”

  “Demetrius, you’re my client. I couldn’t tell anyone anything even if I wanted to.”

  “Glad you feel that way, Stephen. Nice we’re on the same page. Then again, you made a solemn vow before God to your wife, so your word isn’t exactly bankable.”

  Solomon scratched at the back of his head. He turned and leaned back, peeked into his bedroom. “Jesus, did you really videotape me?”

  “Fail to do exactly what I’ve told you, and you’ll be sure to find out.”

  The lawyer said nothing. He thought Valentine had hung up, then he heard him add: “If you live that long.”

  HATCHER EASED THE PHONE INTO HIS POCKET, KEEPING his eyes on the two women. One was a stunning redhead, the other a sultry brunette. He’d seen them before, in the hospital. These were the women dressed as nurses. Women like that were hard to forget.

  He tossed a look back up the sidewalk. The two men were heading his way, moving at the same slow, deliberate pace. He chastised himself for not catching on sooner. That’s what they’d been up to, keeping him in sight until these two could arrive.

  One of the women, the redhead, stepped forward. She held the retractable baton like she knew how to use it.

  “You’re him,” she said. “You’re the one.”

  “That’s very flattering, but I think we should slow down. You don’t even know if I’m good in bed.”

  “You’re not going to see Valentine.”

  “Are you asking me? Or telling me?”

  The woman didn’t answer. Hatcher was about to ask her another question when she darted forward and flicked the baton across the side of his face. The move was surprisingly quick, catching him off guard. He stumbled sideways, then crashed back against the metal grating of a storefront. He pulled his hand from his cheek. A long, thin patch of blood started to drip from his palm.

  “Ow!” he said. The pain made him grimace. He sucked air through his teeth. “That kind of hurt.”

  The other woman moved quickly to his right, sealing off that flank. Without a word, she slashed her baton across the back of his leg. His body stiffened as his thigh seemed to ignite. Searing jolts exploded up the side of his torso, nerves screaming in protest. The leather-bound dagger dropped to the sidewalk with a muffled clang as he fell to a knee. He clutched the end of his hamstring. His pant leg was shredded. Blood oozed through his fingers.

  “Son of a bitch! Will you cut that out?”

  It was clear those batons were lethal, some kind of juiced-up version of the old cobra sticks. They were hitting him with probing blows, testing his defenses. The next one would likely be a coup de grace of some sort. The neck or temple, maybe. This was what his team used to call a Reaper Moment. He forced himself to think, to disregard the pain. They weren’t being distracted by his banter, they didn’t seem interested in talking. If their minds weren’t accessible, he’d have to deal with their weap
ons. He needed a paradigm for it, a defensive principle to latch on to.

  But first, he needed to avoid the next strike. To do that, he had to figure out how to see it coming. They were not telegraphing their moves, not in any way he could read. But both strikes had been delivered right after he spoke. He guessed that wasn’t a coincidence. They probably assumed he’d be expecting a verbal response. Striking while he was talking was too predictable, something he could anticipate. These women knew combat psychology better than most soldiers.

  Going for the dagger was out. It was too far and they were too quick. And it was too obvious.

  He held up a hand, taking a gamble. “Why don’t you just tell me what you want?”

  Before either was able to react, he lunged forward, bat tling through the pain in his leg, and threw himself at the redhead. He lowered his shoulder into her abdomen and drove her back across the sidewalk. He yanked on her legs and rammed her into the side of the black sedan. He heard the back of her head smash the passenger window.

  The woman let out a yelp. Her hands shot to the sides of her skull. Hatcher took note. Soliya had said they were almost impossible to kill. But apparently they could be hurt.

  Three moves, and quick. He knew every effective technique consists of three parts, and that each has a corresponding action. Balance, control, execution. With her weight back against the car, he pulled her arm across his chest and threw his own over it, pinning it against body. He grabbed hold of her wrist and spun, pulling on it, forcing her body to arc around his. Simple geometry. The circle she traveled had to be much faster than his, since he was turning in place. She slammed against the car, face-first this time, and he maintained control of her arm, barring it at the elbow.

  She had absorbed a hard impact, one that he felt vibrate through her bones. He was surprised she hadn’t dropped her baton, but didn’t have time to dwell on it.