by Brett Savory
If one recorded the weather, Palermo believed, documented each snowstorm, each calm day, each rainfall, how much rain or snow fell on any given day, the temperature, and other variable factors, one might glean just a little of what events lay ahead. He’d learned this practice from his father. Not everyone could do it, but Edward and his father seemed to just have a natural knack for it.
There were no calculations, no formulae, no mathematical equations to apply to it. Palermo just recorded the weather in a journal in his own words, described it with whatever emotions it stirred within him. As he wrote, images came into his mind. Sometimes he recognized the events playing out in his head; other times, they were foreign to him, like scenes from someone else’s dreams. He then recorded those scenes in a separate journal. Palermo – as well as those under him – believed this attempt at reading the passage of time through shifts in the weather had successfully guided him in his decision making.
But this snowstorm was like nothing he’d ever seen before, had lasted longer already than any in recent memory, and showed no signs of abating. It had caused his dreams to darken, his visions of events to blur, become indistinct, shadowed. A white curtain dropping on everything.
The wind whipped the caboose, rocking it on its tracks. Nearly two feet of snow lay on the ground, which would make tonight’s Run more challenging… if Palermo decided to continue with it. Given what had happened with Henry Kyllo and his friend, Milo, Palermo thought maybe a cooling-down period of at least a day or two might be advisable. Although what might happen if the Run was cancelled was something Palermo didn’t want to deal with. Under his guidance, a Run had never been missed – one had happened once a night for as long as he’d been in control. Nearly thirty years now. Individuals occasionally missed a Run, and that came with a heavy price, but to cancel the entire thing? Palermo shuddered at the thought.
If no one showed up, would we all just disappear? Or would people defy the order, too scared to think of the consequences? Happier to face my wrath than… whatever or whomever truly runs the show?
What Palermo didn’t know was that upcoming events would render the question moot, anyway.
He finished writing his entries for the day – including as a side note the fact that he’d located Henry Kyllo through various intelligence sources earlier that day – sat back in the antique oak chair at his little desk, and closed both journals. The lantern light flickered briefly, a particularly strong gust of wind sneaking in through a small crack in the wall.
The wind died down for a few seconds, and Palermo heard boots crunching snow beside the caboose. Closer. Now the ring of metal steps. Palermo turned in his chair, waited for the knock on the door. When it came, it sounded thin, the latest gust whipping it from the knocker’s knuckles.
“Enter,” Palermo said.
The door opened just a crack, closed a little, opened again as the opener struggled to keep it from being ripped out of his hands. Snow blew in, dusting Palermo’s dark red Persian rugs and Sri Lankan wall hangings. To Palermo, the elephant was the most exquisite of animals and everywhere in the caboose sat statues, photographs, miniatures, and paintings of the creature.
“You’ll do well to close that door in a hurry, Marcton. Either in or out, make up your mind,” Palermo said calmly.
Another few seconds of struggling with the door and finally Marcton squeezed inside, the door battering him on the shoulder as he did so. The door slammed shut behind him. A final puff of fine white powder settled on the floor at his feet.
“Kendul’s here, sir.”
“I told you not to call me ‘sir,’ Marcton. You know my name; I expect you to use it.”
“Right,” Marcton said, uneasy in his own skin. “Well, he’s here, like I said. Shall I bring him in to see you, or will you go out to see him? Derek and Cleve patted him down already; I gave him some coffee. Warm him up.”
Then Marcton just stood there, head bent, chewing his lips. His thin frame shivered from the cold. He’d gone out into the storm – as always – wearing only a thin black T-shirt and loose fitting blue jeans.
“Send him in here,” Palermo said. “You get him, and only you come back with him. I don’t want Derek and Cleve in his company for too long, understood?”
Marcton nodded, swallowed, shivered harder. He turned toward the door in his heavy boots, the laces flapping behind him. He burst outside this time, rather than play push-and-pull with the wind. The door cracked on its hinges, nearly flew off, then slammed shut again, Marcton’s boots now thundering down the metal steps. Boots crunched on snow again, the top layer a thin sheet of ice driven through with every step.
Palermo knew that when Marcton came back with Kendul, he would not step in the holes already made by his boots, but would go out of his way to avoid them. Palermo never asked why. Just as he’d never asked why Marcton refused to wear a coat, a hat, or anything else that might help keep him warm in winter months. He respected his people’s privacy above all else, and never wanted to pry into their personal lives – unlike Kendul, who made it his business to know everything he could about his Hunters. But then Hunters and Runners had always been fundamentally different – always would be.
Palermo swiveled in his chair, picked up his journals, pulled open a drawer in his desk, and placed them gently inside. He shut the drawer and stood up, breathing deeply of the crisp night air. He glanced back at the door; the snow Marcton had ushered inside had already melted into his rugs, sunk into his wall hangings. Only a sprinkling remained near the foot of the door where a thin strip of the caboose’s original hardwood lay exposed.
He walked to the dresser next to his small bed, examined the framed photographs there, searching for one in particular, but not finding it. He frowned, tried to remember where the photo might be. It’d been so long…
Then he remembered. He reached across his bed to the tiny nightstand. Pulled out the top drawer, dug under some papers, his gun, and a bottle of whiskey. The picture he pulled out was not framed like the others. It was in terrible shape: burnt-edged, sun-faded, bubbled, and warped. A decade of neglect, both emotional and physical. Until last night, he had barely thought of the girl in the photograph. It was just too heartbreaking.
Palermo stood up straight again, back popping, fingers brushing the girl’s photo. Over the years, pain had settled into the creases of Palermo’s face, but when he touched the photograph, he felt a thin smile playing about on his lips, easing – if only momentarily – some of the heartache imprinted there. He still loved her, of course he did, no matter what had happened. He always would.
When the door suddenly flew open again, Palermo nearly dropped the picture, but caught it at the last second, thrust it deep into his coat pocket. Turned to greet his visitor.
Snow blasted in again, swirling around the caboose, creating little blizzards for the elephant statues peppered throughout the furniture surfaces.
Marcton escorted James Kendul, leader of the Hunters, inside, pulled a fold-out chair from inside the redwood armoire, snapped it open, motioned to Kendul to sit.
Kendul thanked Marcton, sat down, and sniffed. Once.
“Thank you, Marcton,” Palermo said.
Marcton nodded, shivered, and bounded out the door, slamming it behind him.
Palermo bent to look out the window, watched Marcton plod up the path toward the warehouse – careful, of course, not to step in any of the footprints already made. He watched Marcton knock at the warehouse door, shift from side to side as he waited for it to open. Cleve’s bulky frame filled the doorway, then Marcton was in.
Palermo looked back at his guest, sighed, pulled out his own chair at the desk, and plopped himself in it. The two faced each other. Old friends, occasional enemies.
“What are you doing here?” Palermo said. “Why now? Why not just send one of your boys?”
“Want something done right, do it yourself,” Kendul said. James Kendul was fairly short like Palermo, but built thinner, sleeker. Kendul’s crisp
blue eyes rarely left the person to whom he was talking. “You know that as well as I do, Edward.”
Palermo nodded. “So why now?”
“You know why.”
“Because one of your boys got killed in a Run? Goddamnit, it happens; not very often, but you know it happens, so–”
“One of mine saw him, Edward. Near the hospital this side of the tracks. Luckily, one loyal to me, one I can trust not to say anything about it to the others.”
Palermo thought of carrying on with the ignorance act, but knew it would be pointless. Kendul knew. Kyllo’d been seen.
“How long were you going to wait before telling me, Edward?” Kendul asked, anger rising. “How fucking long?”
“We knew it would happen again one day,” Palermo said, resigned, unable to look his old friend directly in the eyes. Palermo put his hand inside the coat pocket where he’d stuffed the picture of the girl. His fingers stroked the burnt edges of the photograph. “I just always wished it wouldn’t be on my watch.”
Kendul nodded, shifted his weight in his chair, glanced out the caboose window at the warehouse. The light from the top windows made the snow glow a dirty yellow. “We have to find him,” he said, brushing his hands once down the creases in his pants. “See exactly what he’s become. We on the same page here?”
Palermo pulled his hand from his pocket, gestured vaguely at nothing. “Of course.” Kendul usually made him a bit nervous – the same way Palermo made other people nervous – but he was determined not to show it. At least determined to try not to show it.
“You OK, Palermo?” Kendul asked, shifting the full weight of his gaze onto Edward. “You seem… distracted. More distracted than usual, I mean.”
Always with the little digs, Palermo thought.
“No, I’m fine, Kendul. We dealt with this situation before, and we’ll do it again. Let’s not make it worse than it already is by getting at each other’s throats. It’s wholly unnecessary and, frankly, beneath us.”
Kendul sniffed again. Twice this time. Looked away.
“I’ll be in touch,” Kendul said, then stood up, extended his hand. Palermo stood and shook it. Kendul moved toward the door. “And Edward,” he added, opening the door, letting the screaming night inside, “see what your weather visions have to say about this. I’m open to taking advice from any source willing to offer it up.”
Kendul stepped outside, his floor-length weathered brown trench brushing the lip of the doorframe. He turned around. Squinted against the snow and wind. “What’s his name, anyway, Edward? Not that it matters. But what’s his name?”
“Henry Kyllo,” Palermo said, unsure whether his voice had been loud enough to carry over the storm. “Been with us some time now. I had no idea how close he was, though.”
“Kyllo,” Kendul repeated, rolling the name around on his tongue.
Palermo nodded. More snow to sprinkle his elephants, more cold to freeze his photographs into place.
Kendul slammed the door hard, stomped down the caboose steps, crunched across the lot toward the warehouse’s back door.
Palermo rolled up his coat sleeves, caressed the tattoos there, brushed his fingers lightly over the symbols. They felt hot, burning beneath his skin. He made sure the photograph of the girl was still in his pocket, then put on his boots, wrapped a dark blue wool scarf around his neck, put his collar up, and stepped out into the storm.
* * *
“Good?” Cleve grunted as he opened the warehouse door to let Marcton back inside. But Marcton’s gaze was locked elsewhere, toward the street.
“Yo, dingus, wake up,” Cleve said. “I’m talkin’ to ya.”
“Yeah,” Marcton said, slowing down, squinting, still looking toward the street. “Fine.”
Cleve followed his gaze. “What are you so enthralled by, dummy? I swear to Christ you get more spaced out with every passing day.
Marcton’s expression changed, then. He went stonefaced. As he pushed past Cleve, stepping inside the warehouse, he said simply, “Company. Follow me.”
* * *
Hidden in the long shadow of a building across the street from the Runners’ warehouse, a man in a ratty, logoless baseball cap sat in a VW Beetle doing a crossword puzzle by the low light of a nearby lamppost. The tip of his cheap pen was chewed like a dog’s toy. The cigarette dangling from his lips was unlit.
On the passenger seat beside him sat a small spiral-bound notepad filled with the night’s scribbling.
When James Kendul walked out the front entrance of the darkened warehouse toward his beat-up old jeep parked on the street, the man in the car put his puzzle aside, reached inside his fake leather jacket, pulled out a crappy ninety-nine-cent lighter, and lit his cigarette. The ember glowed bright in the dark interior of the car when he inhaled, illuminating the steering wheel, the man’s lap, and part of the passenger seat.
He started the engine, put the car into gear, and rolled out of the shadows, snow crunching under the tires. The heater in the man’s car was broken, so every once in a while he lifted his hands from the wheel and breathed on them.
As Kendul pulled away, the chrome on the back bumper of his jeep flashed, momentarily blinding the man. Every time this happened, he had to refocus his mind, remind himself what he was looking at, or else, he knew from experience, the memory would fade and he would simply drive home, forget about the warehouse, forget about Kendul, Palermo. The whole evening would become a blank, with only his scrawled notes an account of what he’d been doing. But even those would soon cease to make any real sense to him.
The decaying warehouse seemed to lean in at the man as he drove by it, tilting down toward him, its roof slanted at a curious angle. The rumble of his car’s engine lulled him, made his eyelids heavy. Fifty feet. A hundred. Flash of chrome. Refocus. Flash of chrome. Refocus. Concentrate. Remember…
A dream within a dream within the darkness – then suddenly jolted awake when two loud pops split the stillness. The man lost control of his car, tires spinning, careening to one side. He barreled into a parked station wagon. Metal crumpled, glass shattered. His car tilted onto two wheels – the other two useless, flapping strips of rubber on warped rims – then flipped over onto its roof not two hundred feet from where he’d started. Crashed against the side of a red-brick bank building. The tires spun. Snow fell, dusting the little car’s undercarriage. A beetle on its back, legs in the air, trying but unable to right itself.
Glass tinkled, then silence crept in as the wheels slowed down, stopped.
Kendul’s jeep disappeared around a corner up ahead.
The man in the car hung upside down, suspended from his seat belt, unconscious – and unaware that two of the men he’d been spying on earlier that night were approaching his car. One smiled; the other did not. One wore heavy winter clothing; the other did not.
Both were visibly upset about something. And each carried a smoking Magnum at his side.
E I G H T
Pitch dark. Absolute. Save for the tiniest sliver of light wriggling in under the back door of the warehouse.
The man’s baseball cap still sat on his head, though skewed – like the chair he was tied to, tilted at an uncomfortable angle. The man felt sweat drip from the band of his hat, trickle into the corner of his open eyes, stinging. He clamped them shut.
All around him, breathing; some of it short and quick, some deep and slow. Sounded so close, he thought maybe it was just in his mind. Until someone coughed lightly. Someone else wheezed.
The man moved his head around, looking for any sign of where he was, any shape in the darkness. To his left, he caught a glimpse of light, someone moving behind stacks of… stacks of what? He watched the light move closer, intermittent. Brighter, dimmer, brighter, dimmer. Crates of something. Warehouse, he thought. I’m inside.
Footsteps now, echoing around his head, mixing with the chorus of uneven breathing, and the light flitting closer, nearly upon him. A face swam out of the darkness. Round, pitted. Acne-scarred
. Breath like sulfur, puffing on him. The candle in this man’s hand was tall and thick, like its carrier. Built for war.
A voice from one of the crates: “Cleve, step back. Give him some fucking breathing room.”
Cleve grimaced, bared crooked, tombstone teeth. “Breathin’ room, yeah,” he said, and leaned back out of the candle’s light. Stood up straight.
His eyes adjusting a little more to the gloom, the man in the chair saw that the chorus of breathing he heard was made up of twenty-five, maybe thirty men sitting on large wooden crates of various heights – some stacked two, three high – in a rough circle.
He recognized a few faces in the crowd, men whose pictures he’d taken earlier that night – and other nights.
As the cobwebs in his head cleared, the man pieced together what had happened, how he’d got here: driving after Kendul’s jeep, trying to focus, concentrating as hard as he could on the task at hand. Flashes of chrome blinding him under each gas lamp. Two pops. Shot out my tires, flipped the car. Then, nothing.
“Shot out my tires,” the man said, enunciating as clearly as possible. He felt something sticky near the corner of one of his eyes, felt burning across his forehead, figured his face was cut up pretty badly.
Cleve just grunted.
The voice again from one of the crates. “Yes, we did. Cleve and Marcton did, anyway. You were… watching us.”
The man said nothing, just breathed.
“Why were you watching us?”
Again, nothing but a subtle shift of weight from the man in the chair, the click of tiny bones in his neck as he tilted his head to the side.
Edward Palermo jumped down from the crate on which he’d been sitting. Boots echoed, sharper than Cleve’s workboots. Cleve glanced behind him, handed the candle to Palermo, took a seat on a nearby crate.