“I thought I was good at giving a beatdown,” he said, letting out a laugh that turned into a hacking cough. “Turns out I’m a pro at taking ’em, too. I’m a man of countless talents.”
“Wait here a sec. I’m gonna get our clothes and some wheels, in that order.”
Our clothes weren’t hard to find, dumped in a pile in the back corner with the contents of our pockets scattered around them. I got dressed fast, careful with my fingers as I buttoned my shirt. I poked my head out the side door, suddenly thankful for fresh air and sunlight. Angelo hadn’t lied: we were somewhere in no-man’s-land, a street lined with boarded-up foreclosures and empty asphalt, not a taxi or a bus line in sight. The Outfit had left us an accidental present, though. They’d only taken one car. The other, a sleek silver Mercedes, sat parked out front. I ran back inside and patted down the dead men, finally coming up with a ring of keys.
Nicky couldn’t walk on his own. I helped him pull his clothes on, both of us looking like we’d woken up in a Dumpster, and he leaned against me as we staggered to the car together. I laid him down in the backseat, keeping him out of sight; he was still a federal fugitive, and the last thing I needed was to get pulled over by some sharp-eyed cop.
“Hang tight,” I said, then gritted my teeth as I tried to hold the steering wheel, my wrists feeling like they’d been shredded by a cheese grater. “I’m taking us to Doc Savoy’s.”
Doc Savoy was the best off-the-books medical practitioner in Vegas. Technically he had a veterinary degree, not an MD, and he earned his civilian money working as a mortician, but he had decades of hands-on experience and he could patch up pretty much anything that ailed you. His “clinic,” the Rosewood Funeral Home, was the criminal equivalent of a Red Cross hospital: even when the city’s sets went to war, nobody touched Doc, and nobody started trouble within three blocks of his place. He never took sides and never asked questions.
But as I turned onto his street and saw the flashing lights up ahead, the black smoke billowing into the clean October sky, I knew things were different now. I felt like I’d swallowed a rock, feeling its weight down in the pit of my stomach.
“Keep your head down,” I told Nicky.
“Why? What’s up?”
I slowly rolled past a line of squad cars. Two fire trucks barricaded the parking lot. Teams trained hoses at a roaring blaze as the funeral home burned to the ground.
Cops held back a small crowd of rubberneckers, another waving a line of cars toward an impromptu detour, away from the fire. I spotted a familiar face in the chaos: Gary Kemper, stalking past the fire trucks and barking at somebody on his phone. I pulled over on the opposite side of the street and told Nicky to hang tight.
The detective turned on his heel as I jogged up to him, hanging up his phone without another word to the person on the other end. His gaze shot from my face to my mangled hand. “The hell have you been up to?” he demanded.
“Is he okay? Savoy. Is he okay?”
“He’s fine.” Gary nodded toward the blaze. “Somebody firebombed the place, but he and his assistant got out the back door.”
“Somebody,” I echoed.
“Let’s get on the same page,” he told me. “Yeah, we know ‘Doc’ Savoy’s real business. Have for years, but we figured he’s doing more good than harm and it wouldn’t be worth the time to put together a case on him. I’ve got him in protective custody now. These Chicago thugs don’t have a lot of regard for anyone who tries to stay neutral, do they? And what are you doing, Faust? I told you this shit needs to end. It’s not ending, it’s escalating.”
And it was about to get a whole lot worse, but I didn’t say that out loud.
“I need a favor,” I told him.
He blinked at me. “Excuse me?”
Showing was better than explaining. I led him across the street, back to the Mercedes, and pointed to the back window. He leaned in and his jaw dropped open.
“No. Uh-uh. No. Faust—”
“He needs a doctor, and he needs one now. Doc Savoy isn’t here, so that means a legit hospital. You need to help him get checked in without setting off any red flags.”
“You want me to help Nicky Agnelli get a freakin’ checkup? Do you even know how many charges he’s facing? I should cuff him right now. Hell, I should cuff you both.”
“And if you do, he still has to go to an emergency room. Except I just saved him from the Outfit, and they’d love to get him back. The second the news of Nicky getting busted hits the radio, it’s not just the feds who’ll know about it. Chicago’s got ears everywhere. Do you really think these animals are gonna draw the line at shooting up a hospital full of innocent people?”
Gary chewed his bottom lip, looking for a way out. “So we keep it local. I’ll pull a detail from Metro to stand guard, and a total news blackout until he’s stable enough to be transferred to a secure facility.”
“Detective, these people are everywhere. They’ve got informants and insiders. They’re running wiretaps. This is a criminal organization with millions of dollars at their disposal. You gonna tell me you really, one hundred percent, trust all your brothers in blue? Look me in the eye when you say it.”
His gaze dropped.
“I’ve got some…suspicions,” he told me. “I mean, every squad room’s got a couple of guys on the take, the kind of cops who’ll look the other way for little things, but…”
“But you think some of your colleagues might be getting their marching orders from Angelo Mancuso.”
He gave me a weak shrug. “I can’t prove anything. Yet. But yeah, the city’s not safe for anybody right now.”
“Then you know what you have to do.” I pointed at the car window. “I think he’s bleeding internally. He’s going to die if you don’t help. And I don’t think you’re the kind of man who would stand back and let that happen.”
“Damn it.” He ran his fingers through his hair and let out a heavy sigh. “All right. Follow my car. Let’s do this.”
27.
We were halfway to Sunrise Hospital when Nicky went into a seizure. He thrashed on the backseat, spasming fingers clawing at the blood-smeared leather, his jaw clacking but no sound coming out.
“Hold on,” I told him, weaving through traffic behind Gary’s unmarked police car and leaning on the gas. “We’re almost there. Just hold on.”
We screeched to a stop outside the ER. I jumped out and waved my arms at Gary. “He’s seizing!”
Gary spun and sprinted to the doors, holding up his detective shield. “Metro,” he shouted, “we got a code blue out here!”
A crash team raced to the Mercedes, lifting Nicky out and laying him down on a rolling gurney. Gary and I followed them inside, the afternoon heat stolen away by the gust of air conditioning and the mingled aroma of antiseptics and bleach. He led the way through the crowd in the waiting room, softly asking an attendant for the nurse in charge.
“I’m Detective Kemper,” he told her. “The guy who just came through on the crash cart, and this guy here—I need ’em both checked in as John Does.”
The older woman, dressed in lilac scrubs, furrowed her brow. “That’s not something we normally do, Detective. We at least have to get insurance information—”
“I get that, I really do, but here’s the thing: they’re assault victims. Got jumped by a gang just a couple of blocks from here. The perps took their wallets and ID, meaning they know these guys’ names, and I’m worried they might come looking to finish what they started.” He lowered his voice. “Sooner they’re taken care of and shipped outta here, safer it is for everybody, get my drift?”
Her eyes widened as she glanced to the sliding glass doors, then to the crowd of people waiting for treatment. She looked my way. “I…think we can manage something. A room just opened up. Why don’t you come with me?”
Having a room ready didn’t mean having a doctor to go along with it. I sat in a windowless cell with teal wallpaper, about the size of a walk-in closet, dressed in a pa
per gown and dangling my legs over the edge of a padded examination table. The bubble clock on the wall, second hand crawling and minute hand refusing to budge, made me think of Emma. Nicky was the second person in my orbit who had landed in a hospital bed because of Angelo Mancuso. There wasn’t going to be a third.
Eventually the wooden door swung open and another nurse, a man in his early twenties with a peach-fuzz mustache and emerald-green scrubs, came in to sort me out. Splinting my fingers was only marginally less painful than breaking them in the first place. Then came the slow, laborious torture of cleaning the burns on my inner wrists, scrubbing the twists of scorched duct tape from my lobster-red skin. He coated them in an ointment that smelled like mint and felt like a coat of fresh snow, before wrapping my forearms in strips of tan gauze.
“What about the other guy?” I asked while he was working on me. “The one I came in with, any idea how he’s doing?”
“Still in the operating room, as far as I know.” He secured the gauze in place with a tiny metal clasp. “Now, we need to see about keeping you overnight for observation. I’m worried about infection—”
“Nope,” I said, tugging off the paper gown, my good hand already reaching for my shirt. “I’m checking out, thanks.”
“Sir, you have serious burn damage to your wrists. This isn’t like a mild burn from touching a hot pan, okay? You could be facing all kinds of health complications. If nothing else, if you don’t get long-term treatment and possibly reconstructive surgery, you’re looking at extensive, permanent scar tissue.”
I looked down at my wrapped wrists as I pulled on my shirt. Feeling them throb like I’d plunged them into a bucket of ice water. I’d gotten hurt because I’d been careless, shortsighted. Because it had taken me too long to get my head right and realize what I needed to be doing in the first place.
“I earned these wounds,” I told the nurse. “Let ’em scar.”
Jennifer was my priority now. I had to meet up with her, get right with her, and come up with a battle plan. As I emerged from the ER waiting room and into the fading light of the late afternoon, though, I had a voicemail waiting for me. Caitlin.
“Hey,” I said, calling her back, “sorry I’ve been out of touch. Had a run-in with the Outfit. What’s going on?”
“Ecko. We found out where he’s been hiding.”
“Gimme an address. I’m on my way.”
* * *
I called Jennifer on the road. She wasn’t picking up—I tried not to worry, which just made me worry more—so I left a message to bring her up to speed. My second call was to the twins.
“Danny!” Justine chirped. “Where are you? Where’s Nicky? We’ve been looking all over.”
“We got bushwhacked. Nicky’s hurt pretty bad. You two need to get over to Sunrise Hospital right now, okay? Look for a detective named Gary Kemper, he’ll help you out.”
The Gentlemen’s Bet was on the way. I pulled into the parking lot and swapped the stolen Mercedes with my rental car. Canton’s top hat still sat in the backseat, the black silk brim murmuring hints of a mystery I couldn’t begin to unravel.
The address Caitlin had given me was on West Dorrell, a modest apartment complex across the street from a strip mall. Down in the lobby, floored with imitation black speckled marble that made me think of a bowling alley, Caitlin sat on a padded gray vinyl bench by the elevators. The woman beside her, weeping into her hands and held tight in one of Caitlin’s arms, wore a rumpled pantsuit with a damp sleeve. A snakeskin attaché case leaned against one of her feet, forgotten. Caitlin’s gaze darted to my splinted fingers, but she didn’t ask. Not the time for it.
“I was only gone for three days,” the woman sobbed. “I should have been here.”
“And if you had been here, you’d have likely suffered the same fate.” Caitlin’s arm was soft, reassuring, but her eyes were hard as chiseled stone as she beckoned me over with her other hand. “Daniel, this is Rebecca. Her husband, Alfred, was one of my prince’s subjects.”
I glanced over my shoulder, making sure we were alone in the lobby. “Cambion?”
She nodded, sharp. “She returned from a business trip, only to discover that Damien Ecko had moved into her lodgings. He had evidently been making his home here for a few days now.”
“He killed him,” Rebecca whispered. “Why did he do that? He never hurt anybody. We kept a low profile. We followed the rules—”
“Shh,” Caitlin said, stroking her hair. “Sometimes there isn’t a reason.”
I tilted my head at Rebecca, studying her with all of my senses. Nothing special about her, human, no trace of magic in her veins, just another civilian sucked into the crossfire.
“What I don’t understand,” I told her, “is why he let you live.”
“He said…he said he’d just gotten a call from his friends, giving him his next assignment, so he had to leave in a hurry. Then he asked what I’d do if he let me live. I said I wouldn’t call the police, I promised—and he…he laughed at me. He said he knew about the hound, and calling the real police would probably do more good.”
I looked to Caitlin, a question in my eyes.
“Cambion living within my prince’s borders,” she said, “and mixed couples, all have my card. In the event of an emergency, they know they’re to call me, not the local authorities.”
“He said he wanted me to make the call.” Rebecca swallowed hard, steadying herself. “He wanted the hound to see what he’d done, because that way she’d pass a message on to someone named Faust.”
My skin crawled. I already knew the answer, but I had to ask the question.
“What was the message?”
She looked up at me with wet, red eyes, her cheeks stained with tears.
“He wrote it on the wall,” she said. “I…I watched him leave. He had a truck.”
“A pickup truck?” I asked.
She shook her head. “N-no. A big—a big truck. A semi, with a trailer. I watched from my window. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t move—”
Caitlin pulled her close and murmured in her ear. Her other hand reached out, jangling a ring of keys at me. She tossed them over and I snatched them out of the air.
“Now listen to me,” Caitlin told Rebecca, counting out a stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills and pressing them into her trembling hand. “We will take care of everything. You are to find a hotel—a nice one—and get yourself a room for the night. Buy any clothes or toiletries you need on the way. Stay put, and I’ll call you in the morning.”
“But…but Alfred’s body—”
“Will be dealt with. As will his killer. Your union with your husband made you a part of our court, Rebecca. Alfred can’t protect you anymore, so Prince Sitri will. Your silence, your loyalty, and your obedience will earn you great rewards. We’ll take care of you now. Do you understand?”
Rebecca nodded, silent.
“Good,” Caitlin said. “Hell prevails.”
Rebecca’s gaze dropped to her feet. “Hell prevails,” she whispered.
Caitlin patted her cheek. “Go.”
Rebecca fumbled for her attaché and stumbled out of the lobby. Caitlin didn’t say another word. She just tapped the elevator button, her back straight as an iron rod, as I stood beside her. The brushed-steel doors rumbled open. She pressed the button for the third floor. The doors closed, penning us in.
“Are you all right?” I asked her.
Caitlin spun and threw her fist against the elevator wall. It hit with the sound of a cannon, steel buckling as the cage jolted on its tethers. She turned, facing the doors again, and took a deep breath.
“No,” she said calmly, “I am not ‘all right.’”
Every instinct told me it was a good idea to keep my mouth shut right about then. Instead, I put my hand on the small of her back.
“Did you know him?”
“We crossed paths occasionally. Not the point. Daniel…I am charged with the protection of my people. I am my father’s left hand on
Earth. This world is a hostile and frightening place, and they count on me, they trust me, to shepherd them. I swore an oath of duty to keep them safe. And today Damien Ecko made a liar out of me.”
The elevator chimed as the doors rolled open. We stepped out into a stubby hallway lit by dim, dusty overheads, the walls lined in bubble-patterned wallpaper that might have been fashionable in the sixties. Brass numbers clung to weathered oak doors. Caitlin glanced left, then right, leading the way up the hall as she hunted for the right apartment.
“Here we are,” she said, stopping at 332. “You might want to prepare yourself. I suspect this will be…unpleasant.”
I turned the key in the lock, and we stepped into Damien Ecko’s house of horrors.
28.
I’d smelled something faint out in the hallway, something like the odor of garbage left out on a hot, sunny day. As the door swung wide, the full force of it choked the breath from my throat. The stench of human decomposition, of rotting meat and leaking bile, a body coming apart under the teeth of nature. Flies were everywhere. I batted one away from my face as we stepped inside, the fat black insect buzzing past my ear. I put one hand over my mouth and struggled to keep my stomach from revolting.
Broken furniture, a shattered coffee table, a framed picture of Rebecca and a smiling man lying in the debris. All the signs of a home invasion—Ecko had forced his way in and gone ten rounds with Alfred, bouncing him off every piece of furniture in the cozy living room. I wanted to imagine Alfred had died in the fight, but I knew he hadn’t been that lucky. And there, painted on the wall above a couch with shredded upholstery, waited Ecko’s message.
“Faust. Lighten Your Heart.”
Caitlin wrinkled her nose as she took in the wreckage, shutting the door behind us. Then she looked at the wall, and I felt the temperature drop.
“I know,” I told her. “He’s here because of me. It’s not your fault this guy got killed. It’s mine.”
The Castle Doctrine (Daniel Faust Book 6) Page 17