“The truth.” He felt desperate to have her confession. Too desperate. It was dangerous, this desperation. “You have an ally in me, Alix.”
“Oh, Nick.” She put her hand over his. Guilt. What had she done?
Alix jumped up just then and engaged the jukebox—a noisy song he didn’t recognize. She pulled him to the space in front of the flashing machine, dancing, or more precisely, gyrating, all boots and pink bra straps. She was lovely in her own tawdry, trashy way. An uncouth confection.
Patrons had begun to fill the tiny pub, most drinking beer from bottles. Saturday night in Malcolmsberg. Some gave Alix dirty looks.
She was stalling.
So he was safe in here, then. The threat was outside.
Sir Kendall went to her and yanked her to his chest, held her, found them a beat to sway to. “We should go,” he whispered.
“No, we can’t.”
“Why? You can hardly expect me to ravish you here, my dear.”
She smiled a big, toothy, pink lipstick-y smile. “What about the bathroom?”
“I believe we’ve been over that.”
Again he suggested going.
“Just a little longer.” She kissed him.
He pulled away. “Is there something I need to know?”
She looked at him sadly. “No,” she said. “Just that…you are the shit, Sir Kendall. You’re the best. The most awesome spy ever.”
“What’s out there?” he whispered. “What’s out that door, Alix?”
She gazed up at him dolefully, silver-pink hair in her eyes, a sheen of sweat on her cheeks. “Nothing,” she said. And then again, “Nothing,” as though nothing was something to be feared.
She’d protected him last night, but couldn’t—or wouldn’t—tonight. He’d had quite enough; if there was something out there, he’d damn well face it.
He strolled casually over to where the barkeep presided and quickly settled their tab, tipping eighty dollars on top of what he’d given on the first round. The grateful barkeep assured him that they would always have Denali on hand for Sir Kendall Nicholas the Third.
She slipped in beside him. “One more dance.”
He bid the barkeep a good night and strode toward the door, ignoring the girl. He’d walked into dozens of ambushes in his life and had yet to be bested. He was actually relieved by the prospect of a physical confrontation with Hyko and his men; he’d prefer a gunshot wound to this vague unease and desperation.
She caught up with him, grabbed his sleeve. “Don’t,” she said.
He pulled his Baretta from his ankle holster and his backup from his waistband.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?”
She stared, wide-eyed. “No—you can’t—guns won’t…” Her look of pity filled him with dread.
Help?
Was that what she was about to say? Guns won’t help?
“I’ll be the judge of that.” He kicked open the door and walked out onto the dark sidewalk, turning slowly, taking in the entire area with a diffuse awareness. The street was quiet. He moved past a tree to the curb, stepping out between two parked cars, and then down the row of them. No movement. Alley clear. River-side of the street quiet. Just June bugs and lapping water.
He walked to his car and carefully opened the door. Nothing. He stepped away and used his remote to start it. No explosions.
And then he looked back at Alix, who stood right out in the open under a streetlight, mascara running down her cheeks in black rivulets, eye shining with an almost comic level of shock.
“Fancy that,” he said. “Seems there really is nothing out here.”
The girl seemed genuinely rattled.
“What did you expect?”
“Nothing.” She said this in an almost trancelike manner.
“Why the tears?”
“It’s just nice to have you here, that’s all.” She came to him, smiling strangely. “You’re here. And you know what? Everything’s going to be okay.”
He tucked the Baretta back into his waistband, but kept his smaller piece out. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning, that I want to make a promise to you, right here and now.” She wrung her hands. “I haven’t been the most upstanding person ever. If I’m honest…” she gazed up at the stars. Was she drunker than he’d thought? “When I look at my life, I’ve let a lot of people down, including myself. I treat everything as a game, and I do impulsive things without thinking them through, and I make excuses and let other people deal with my messes.” She looked him right in the eyes now. “But you know what? I won’t let you down. I swear it. I’m going to do right by you. I don’t know what that means yet, but I’m going to straighten myself out and devote myself to being the kind of responsible person you can count on in life—a true ally. I mean it. Right here and now, I’m vowing to take responsibility for what I’ve done and be your true ally. That’s my vow to you.”
He watched her eyes. Was this her way of telling him she’d switched sides? Had she only now realized she’d been cut out of Hyko’s information loop? That she’d soon wind up on Hyko’s table? Hell, he’d be rattled too. As a Hyko operative gone rogue, she might have a day. Two at the most.
“Are you prepared to tell me everything?” he asked her. “We can’t be allies and I can’t protect you if you don’t tell me everything—this minute—beginning with what was going to happen to me out here.”
She shook her head, confused. “I have to think it through first and do it right.”
He grabbed her upper arm—just enough to focus her. “You don’t have time to think it through.”
“Yes, I do. Trust me, Sir Kendall, it’s all good.”
“Tell me.”
“There’s no danger, okay? We have all the time in the world now.”
He let her go. Fine, he’d force her to tell. But not while she was drunk—drunken subjects passed out too quickly. And even if you got information, the quality was typically poor. A hung-over subject, on the other hand—there was nothing better. So thin-skinned.
Tomorrow then. Sunday morning.
He didn’t have his tools. Fine. He’d break this one by hand.
“Home, then,” he said.
CHAPTER TEN
Paul stood in front of his motel room enjoying the warmth of the morning sun on his face, and the way the soft drone of crickets rose and fell in lazy waves of sound. Across the road you could see the mighty Mississippi, which wasn’t so mighty up here in Malcolmsberg, Minnesota. Such a peaceful Sunday morning. Maybe he’d take a walk, later, along the weedy train tracks.
Here in the fresh air and quiet, Paul felt hopeful for the first time in a long while. Maybe he was finally free of Sir Kendall. He’d ended the character, and he’d caused himself a lot of pain in the process, but somehow that felt right. Pain was just pain in the end. You just had to know the trick—the trick wasn’t avoiding the pain, the hurt. The trick is not minding that it hurts. That was a Peter O’Toole line from the movie Lawrence of Arabia. Paul had taken the sentiment quite to heart as a boy. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t have survived without that line. The trick is not minding that it hurts.
No sign of life from number nine, Tonio’s room. Not that Paul expected it; they’d gotten in well past midnight.
Paul wandered over to the little motel office to get a cup of coffee and find out where the nearest market was. The pretty blonde who’d checked them in last night told him there was a market right in downtown Malcolmsberg. Good. He’d be able to get a look at the little town and pick up some eggs, cashews, avocado, spinach, and other stuff for a breakfast power shake. They’d brought a blender, of course. No fighter worth his salt went anywhere without one.
Paul knocked on Tonio’s door. “She’s in the office, serving coffee,” he called through the crack when Tonio grunted. Tonio would want to know that she was there—he’d spent a good part of the night thinking of excuses to go talk to her. “I’m going into town.”
Paul jumped in Tonio’s car and headed up the road. Not a half-mile from the motel, Paul spotted the Red Owl. This was downtown Malcolmsberg? It was nothing but a few buildings across from the river. Paul parked and got out. Such a small town, but he liked how well-cared-for it was, with flowering plants hanging from old-fashioned light fixtures. The shops were tidy. The attitude of the place comforted him. A lot of the fighters in the league were into chaos music and horror movies and graffiti art, but he found carelessness and disorder of that sort disturbing and even threatening.
No big mystery—it was because of his mother’s carelessness that he found himself at the mercy of deranged stepbrothers day after day. She’d never even noticed his injuries. After his real dad died, all she’d ever noticed was the bottle. Guys who loved chaos and disorder didn’t get what a luxury order was, and how loving disorder usually meant they’d been safe as kids.
The shops had wooden signs instead of modern neon ones. It was nice, this place. He spotted a coffee shop just up the way. Bean Central. He’d go there first. They’d have real coffee, unlike the motel.
The boy behind the counter beamed at Paul. “Good morning, Sir Kendall!”
Adrenaline shot through Paul. His mouth went dry.
Let it be, he told himself.
The boy cocked his head. “Sir Kendall?”
“I’m not Sir Kendall,” Paul snapped.
“But you—”
Paul’s pulse raced. “Sir Kendall is a made-up character. He doesn’t exist.”
The boy looked frightened. “Oh…”
“Never mind.” Paul spun and headed back out into the sunshine, raging at himself. The boy had probably been to Australia and seen the commercials. He was just being friendly. He grabbed onto a little tree growing out of an ornate grate in the sidewalk and leaned his forehead against its rough bark. Christ, he was no better than a lab rat! A lab rat conditioned by psychos.
You’re okay, he told himself. But he wasn’t okay.
So often when he heard that name—especially if he wasn’t expecting it—he’d find himself re-experiencing the terror of his childhood. He’d be right back there, a small asthmatic boy tied to a tree in the woods by Gene and Gary, kicked or shocked with their science kit stuff, forced to say old chap and other Sir Kendallisms. He’d be that helpless kid left bound and frightened in the woods, sometimes for the whole night. Mosquitoes biting him. Animals scrabbling nearby in the dark.
He could defeat the fiercest fighters on the planet, but he couldn’t seem to fight the effect of that name on him. How it plunged him into darkness.
Old Master Veecha would roll in his grave if he could see what had become of his star pupil.
Use it, Master Veecha would often say. Use it all. That meant taking everything that happened in life as a lesson to better yourself. But how was he supposed to use incidents like this?
Paul pushed away from the tree, disgusted. He turned and walked the length of the town, up and back, to calm himself. Church bells rang out under a warm sunny sky, and banners for a river festival fluttered from old-fashioned lamps. He’d gotten through worse things.
When he felt sufficiently calmed, he went to the Red Owl. The produce section was pathetic compared to the grocery stores in Los Angeles. Paul grabbed veggies, raw nuts, and a dozen eggs.
On the way back to the car, he noticed a chalkboard sign outside the local tavern advertising catfish sandwiches. Probably just caught from the Mississippi. Tonio was huge on catfish. Would they prepare the sandwiches to go? Tonio would be psyched.
The place was dark and empty inside, save for an old man hunched at the far end of the bar, and a bartender bent over a sink.
“Hey there,” Paul called to him. “Do you make those catfish sandwiches to go?”
The bartender straightened up and smiled. “Sir Kendall! Hey! How’s about a Denali?” He laughed and set up a glass. “Hair of the dog that bit you. What d’ya say, old chap?”
Paul stiffened, quelling the impulse to fly over the bar and go at the man to stop him from talking.
Calm, Paul whispered to himself. Settle. You’re okay, you’re okay.
“Sir Kendall?”
He was dimly aware that he was crushing his grocery bag. They’re not here, he whispered to himself. You’re okay now.
He was far from okay. Had the whole damn town been overseas to see the ad? Was some local Sir Kendall fan getting everyone interested in it? Could they be watching it on YouTube?
The bartender raised his hands now, seeming to sense Paul’s state of mind. Bartenders sensed these things. “It’s cool, man,” the bartender said. “No Denali. It’s cool.”
No, it wasn’t cool. The bottom of the bag felt slick. Eggs. He turned and got out, bee-lining down the sidewalk to the car. He needed to get out of Malcolmsberg. He slung what was left of the groceries into the trunk and slammed it with killing force.
It is never easy to slay your dragons, Master Veecha used to say. Never easy, always necessary. Paul squeezed his eyes shut tight. How could he slay a dragon he couldn’t even see?
A voice: “Sir Kendall! Sir Kendall!”
Paul turned to see a middle-aged man rushing toward him, carrying a shirt draped in plastic. A dry-cleaning bag.
“What a coincidence, Sir Kendall, I’d just stopped into the shop to grab something and I looked out and saw you here. Save you a trip tomorrow. See here, I replaced all the buttons. I think you’ll find this garment as pristine as the day it was made.”
The man lifted the printed plastic to show him a dark blue shirt.
“Now, if the little lady can’t stop ripping off your shirt, I might have to suggest you go to Velcro instead of buttons.” The man winked.
Paul spoke through gritted teeth. “Is this some kind of a joke? ‘Cause I’m not laughing.”
“What?” The dry cleaner looked bewildered. “But…”
The man thought he was Sir Kendall. It was here that Paul recalled how the bartender had used the phrase “hair of the dog” —as if Paul had recently been in there drinking.
Paul’s gaze fell onto the paper slip stapled to the plastic bag, where he saw a familiar name. “What the hell?” He yanked the shirt from the man’s hands. The slip read, Sir Kendall Nicholas III, N3158 Highway KE. “There’s a Sir Kendall in town?”
The drycleaner stared at him.
“Is there a man in this town who says he’s Sir Kendall? And he looks like me? Is that what you’re telling me, here?”
“Yes, you—I mean, Sir Kendall…”
“A man calling himself Sir Kendall dropped off this shirt?”
The man backed away. Jesus, Paul was scaring him.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Paul said.
The man spun around and strode off as fast as his legs would carry him.
“It’s all right!” Paul gestured toward the shirt. “Thank you. Thank you for the shirt.”
Okay, Paul sounded crazy now. He felt crazy.
He swung into the car and gunned the engine, all thoughts of green smoothies and peaceful river walks gone. It was as if he’d descended into some blazing, maddening pit of hell.
And the devil lived just up the road—at N3158 Highway KE.
He sped off.
A good man wouldn’t pursue this; it could only turn out poorly. But on he drove, noting the numbers on the mailboxes.
He thought about the baleful Mexican music Tonio sometimes played, music that bled with pain and longing and melancholy. When Paul had asked about it, Tonio had called it cardenche, a style of song that took its name from a cactus pricker lodged painfully under the skin.
That was Sir Kendall—a pricker lodged painfully under Paul’s skin, impossible to ignore, driving him on and on. He just needed some kind of relief.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sir Kendall grasped the handcuffs tightly in his fists to keep them from clinking as he leaned in the entryway, regarding the back of Alix’s head. She lounged, as though unaware of him, on the conv
eniently sturdy, slat-and-framework faux Mission couch, reading the Sunday paper.
This morning she’d had another one of her heated conversations with the person named Karen, who seemed to have some authority over Alix. A superior? She’d taken the phone out into the back yard, thinking he wouldn’t hear, but he’d caught a good bit of it. Something had changed. It sounded like Alix was keen on taking responsibility for some sort of mistake. To Hyko? Did she think she could reason with Hyko? Christ, did she know nothing of the kind of man Hyko was?
Sir Kendall figured he could extract maybe 70% of the information he wanted before Alix realized she was being interrogated in any real way, mostly because she wouldn’t know she was giving him information. In the past two days, he’d catalogued her every expression, down to the nuance. Pleasure tightened a small muscle in her upper cheeks. Relief caused a slight lift in the direction of her gaze. She nodded repeatedly when something made her uncomfortable. She’d make an almost imperceptible adjustment to her neck when surprised, and tension hiked her shoulders. When she got an idea or had something to tell, her eyes would widen, as though she was looking for an opening. When she withheld information, she’d close her lips—a classic tell—and the outer corners of her eyelids would push in just a hair, faintly changing the shape of her eyes.
Of course she wore the ‘withholding’ expression whenever he spoke of his mission or of the future—no surprise—and he seemed to detect a bit of guilt in the set of her mouth as well. Conflicted agent. If he had more time he’d pull the information from her with more finesse. Or more to the point, if she had more time. Hyko wouldn’t leave her swinging free for long.
He stopped behind her and kissed the top of her head.
“Hey!” She glanced up at him, then back to the local section.
“Anything of note?”
“Nah.” She turned a page, bracelets jingling. Those infernal bracelets!
Lindy looked up from her doggie bed by the fireplace. Lindy had enjoyed a juicy steak bone this morning, courtesy of Sir Kendall.
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