by Donn Cortez
But he hadn’t. He’d kept it from her deliberately. Because he was… angry?
Yes.
He found himself entering a casino, into the windowless gleam and flash of another world. The smell of American tobacco hung in the freon-cooled air, darker and more aromatic than Canadian cigarettes. The continuous, rolling chime of hundreds of slot machines sang mindlessly, hypnotically in his ears.
He’d never been angry at Nikki before. He hadn’t been angry in a long time; there wasn’t room for it inside him. The rage he felt every day was a vast, cold thing, heavy and hard and inevitable. Anger was a dim, guttering candle next to it.
Nikki was questioning him. Questioning him.
It wasn’t as if they hadn’t disagreed before. They had. But they’d both always had the same objective— to refine their methods, to make themselves better. Now…now Nikki was asking whether or not they should be doing this at all.
There was something else nagging at him, a very odd feeling just below the surface. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was, but it felt familiar, somehow.
He found himself at the bar, and ordered a dark rum, neat. He hadn’t had a drink in a long time either, not even beer, but it felt like he needed something.
The drink came. He took a sip, felt it warm his throat. It didn’t taste quite right for some reason; it should be sweeter.
He suddenly realized what felt so familiar.
The last woman he’d argued with had been his wife.
A deep, aching sadness opened inside him like a gaping mouth. He took another long, shaky gulp, and suddenly he could taste eggnog beneath the rum.
He didn’t try to hold it in, but he wept as quietly as he could. Just another victim on a barstool in Reno, crying over everything he’d lost.
“Hey, man, you all right?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” Jack blew his nose on a bar napkin. He didn’t feel embarrassed—embarrassment seemed like such an insignificant emotion at the moment.
“Lady Luck not on your side tonight, huh?” The man with the Yankees baseball cap was sitting two stools away, drinking a beer.
“Ladies in general don’t seem to be on my side,” Jack said.
“Yeah, I know what that’s like,” Baseball Cap said. “Don’t get me wrong, I like ’em just fine—they just don’t seem to return the favor.”
Jack signaled the woman behind the bar and asked for a Coke; alcohol now seemed like a very bad idea.
“So, she break your heart or your balls?” Baseball Cap asked.
“Some of each, I guess,” Jack answered. “Two different women.”
“Well, that’s a game plan for pain,” Baseball Cap said. “I’m Dwight, by the way.”
“Todd,” Jack said.
“Yeah, they sure know how to getcha, don’t they? Comin’ and goin’. Say they want one thing, and then complain when you give it to ’em. You know what they really want?”
“No idea.”
“Mind readers. Forget about what they say, they want you to know what they’re thinking. I’ll bet the Amazing Kreskin has the happiest goddamn wife on the planet.”
“Telepathy. Yeah,” Jack said. “That would solve a lot of problems.”
“That, and a rewind button. How many times you said something you wish you could take back? I know I have.”
“We already have a rewind button,” Jack said. “It’s called memory.”
Dwight laughed. “Yeah, guess so. Too bad you can’t edit it, too. Right? Go back to the master tape and remix it. Add some new tracks, erase all that bad shit you don’t want.”
“I’d kill for an erase button,” Jack said. He changed his mind about the Coke and waved the barkeep over. “I’ll have a beer,” Jack said. “Something dark.”
“But you know what?” Dwight asked. “Sometimes you get a second chance. Not a rewind, exactly, more like an overdub. That’s what I got.”
Dwight caught Jack’s flat look and grinned. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna get all religious on you. I’m talking about a second chance at success. A shot at fame. See, I’m in a band—well, I was in a band. Called ourself Tunguska—I was lead vocal. We started right here in Reno, did all right doing covers in clubs.
“Then we met this guy named Montrose. He had some money and wanted to break into the entertainment biz. He was pretty smart, so we took him on as manager. He fronted us enough to do a decent demo disc, even got us some airplay on local radio. Next thing you know, we got an offer for a recording contract from EMI.”
Dwight shook his head. “And that’s where it all went into the shitter, man. This Montrose, he’d gotten us to sign contracts. And he was a lawyer, man—those contracts were air-fucking-tight. And when he and I stopped getting along, he invoked this clause that let him fire anyone he thought was ‘detrimental to the future of the enterprise.’ Makes me sound like a fucking Star Trek villain, don’t it?”
Jack smiled. It felt strange.
“So we got into this massive four-way fight—me, the band, Montrose, and EMI. And you know what? The band stuck by me. Montrose wouldn’t give an inch, EMI didn’t seem to care, I didn’t know what the fuck to do—but the band wouldn’t let me quit. Said they’d play in fucking airport lounges for the next ten years before they’d leave me behind.”
“That’s—that’s pretty fucking cool,” Jack admitted. He had a sudden flash of Djinn-X onstage, screaming his anger into a microphone.
“Yeah. We’re pretty tight. And that thing they said about airport lounges—they weren’t kidding. They’re on a tour in the Philippines right now, doing cheesy dance music in every Holiday Inn big enough to have a nightclub.”
“So why are you here?”
“TCOB, my friend—Taking Care of Business. I been working on the legal angle, and I finally got that lawyer fuck right where I want him. Turns out he was shuffling funds around in a way he wasn’t supposed to, and I can prove it. I showed him the proof, and he agreed to let us out of the contract. I’m flying down to Manila tonight to tell the guys, show ’em the release papers. Man, is that gonna be a party.”
“So loyalty pays off,” Jack said. “That’s great. Fucking great. I mean that.”
“Yeah, sometimes the good guys win, right?” Dwight took a last swallow and put down his empty beer. “And hey, I gotta get going if I’m gonna catch my flight. Nice talkin’ to you, Todd—hang in there with the ladies, huh?”
“Sure,” Jack said. “Congratulations.”
Dwight grinned, slipped off his barstool and was gone.
“Sometimes the good guys win,” Jack muttered. “Nice to know…”
“Hey,” the bartender said. “I think your friend left something behind.”
A white square lay on the barstool Dwight had just vacated. A folded envelope. Jack picked it up, opened it.
Inside was an airline ticket: one-way to Manila, leaving in seventy-five minutes. Plus a stub for a rental car—and what looked like a bunch of contracts.
“Fuck,” Jack said.
Jack left a message with the bartender and caught a cab to the airport.
He didn’t know exactly why. Dwight would catch another flight, his good news would wait another day. He could have left the envelope with the bartender, let her handle it. And why should Jack give a flying fuck, anyway?
Because those were probably the only copies that Dwight had, and there were no addresses on any of them, and bartenders lost things.
And goddammit, sometimes the good guys were supposed to fucking win.
“Yeah, right,” Jack said to himself, staring out the window of the cab. He had another flash of Djinn-X singing onstage—but now, he saw the rest of The Pack as the band. Road Rage sitting primly behind the drums, rapping out a carefully regulated beat. The Gourmet and the Patron, hooded figures in black plastic slickers, playing guitar and bass. Blood dripping off their instruments…
He was walking up to the ticket counter when his cell phone rang. He’d left the number with the bartender in case Dwight c
alled—and sure enough, it was him.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Todd! I hear I left a little something behind!”
“Yeah, you did. Where are you?”
“I’m just pulling into the airport. Gotta drop off the rental, but I think you got the stub, too.”
“Yeah, it’s right here.”
“Hey, I really appreciate this, man. Can you meet me in the Avis parking lot? I really need that stub.”
“Uh, sure. At the entrance?”
“I’ll flash my lights, just come on over.” Dwight hung up.
The Avis lot was across from the main terminal, on the main level of a parking garage. There was a fair bit of foot traffic, but it thinned out as Jack got farther away from the terminal.
Lights flashed in the back corner of the lot as he walked in. Dwight got out of a large Buick and waved as Jack approached.
“Hey! If it isn’t the Good Samaritan!” Dwight called out.
“I prefer Boy Scout,” Jack said. “Why’d you park so far from the front?”
“Just pulled into the first spot I saw,” Dwight said. He moved to the rear of the car and opened the trunk. “Hate to impose again, but can you give me a hand getting this out?”
“I don’t think so,” Jack said. “Be a little too easy to put me in that trunk, then, wouldn’t it?”
“Huh?”
“Come on. You think I’m that stupid? Think again.” Jack took his hand out of his pocket. The gun Nikki had picked up for him when they hit town had been expensive, but sometimes insurance was. “Keep your hands away from your body. You’re very convincing, you know that? That whole story you spun. Almost believable.”
“Look, man, I don’t know what you’re on, but I don’t want any trouble. Take my wallet, take the car, just don’t freak out.”
“Play it to the end, huh? Okay. Plenty of time for truth later. There always is.”
Dwight looked terrified. “Oh, man. You’re fucking crazy, aren’t you. Oh fuck, oh shit.”
“Step back, against that wall. Get down on your knees.” Jack moved closer, looked into the trunk. One large suitcase, one smaller one. Nothing else. “Empty your pockets. Slowly.”
Dwight pulled out a wallet, a key chain, a packet of gum. Jack patted him down to make sure that was all there was.
No weapons. No restraint devices. No drugs.
ID in the wallet said he was Dwight Holcomb from Oklahoma. Mastercard, gas card, video rental card.
“Where’s your driver’s license?”
“DUI,” Dwight said. “Don’t drive much anymore, that’s why I got the rental, I had to have a friend rent it for me—”
Jack opened the smaller of the two suitcases. Clothes, shoes, a toiletry kit. Two porn magazines. He rifled through the toiletry kit, but the most dangerous thing in it was a pair of nail clippers.
He tried to open the larger suitcase, but it was locked.
“The key’s on the chain,” Dwight said. His voice trembled. “It’s the little one.”
Sure. Dwight was going to wait until he was distracted, then pull out his key chain and unlock the suitcase so he could pull out—what? Another porn mag? Even if he had a shotgun in there, it didn’t make any sense that it wasn’t immediately accessible. Not if this was supposed to be a trap.
Nothing. There was nothing.
I’m losing it. Nikki was right, I don’t know what I’m doing. How could the Patron even find me, let alone stroll into the same bar? This is just paranoia, complete paranoia. I have to get back in the game.
“Uh—look, I’m sorry,” Jack said. “This was all just a misunderstanding. I made a mistake.”
“That’s—that’s okay,” Dwight said. “Can I stand up?”
“Yeah, sure, of course.” Jack slipped the gun back into his pocket. “I’m really sorry. It’s hard to explain—”
“You don’t have to explain anything,” Dwight said. “Everybody’s got weird shit going on, right?” He crammed stuff back into the small suitcase, shut it, picked it up and started backing away from Jack. “I gotta go. I gotta go.”
“Hang on,” Jack said. “Don’t forget this—” He reached into the trunk and grabbed the handle of the large suitcase. He pulled—
Blank.
On the ground. Hand stuck to something—
Blank.
Stun gun I’ve been hit with a stun gun—
Blank.
Hands cuffed. Chemical smell. Darkness.
Dwight closed the trunk, got back into the car and drove away.
“Do you know who I am?”
Jack opened his eyes blearily. His stomach lurched, and he thought he might throw up. All he could see was a bright circle of light.
“No,” he croaked.
“Sure you do.” Dwight’s voice. “Just like I know who you are.”
He couldn’t move. His arms and legs were spread-eagled. Tied to a bed?
No. A table.
“I’m your replacement,” Dwight said. “I’m going to be you.”
“You wouldn’t want to,” Jack said.
“Well, in the short term, that’s true,” Dwight said with a chuckle. “Right now, I definitely wouldn’t want to be you. But it’s not something you’ll have to worry about for long.”
“Why would you want to be me?” Jack asked. He squinted into the light. “Killing innocent people not enough, anymore?”
His own words seemed strangely familiar to Jack, and then he remembered: Djinn-X had said almost the exact thing at one point: Killing sluts not good enough any more, huh?—you had to go after one of your own. One of your own…
“Oh, I don’t mean that literally,” Dwight said. His voice was much more self-assured than it had been in the bar, and had lost that Midwest twang. Jack wondered if he could do other accents, as well. “Some of the targets you go after have a certain attraction, of course, but mostly I just want your access. Access is power, you know.”
“The Stalking Ground,” Jack said.
“Of course. It’s a very useful tool, and I think I could make much better use of it than you. I’m rather—inventive.”
“How’d you find me?” Jack asked. He was starting to be able to make out dim shapes beyond the light. Things hanging on the walls.
“I’ve been trying to trace the website’s physical location for some time. Impossible, as you know. But luck occurs when preparation meets opportunity—recently you started to access the site from remote locations, and you weren’t quite as thorough in your precautions. You should be ashamed—no one could ever find me through my remote connection. But I traced you right to the motel room you’re staying in. I watched. I followed. I dangled the bait.”
Jack could make out Dwight’s form, moving around behind the light. Heard a sound he couldn’t quite identify—metal on metal.
“Bait you couldn’t resist, could you? A sweet story about tribal loyalty, spiced up with a Big Bad Lawyer as villain. The perfect lure, even for someone as cynical and paranoid as yourself.”
Dwight’s face was suddenly inches from his own. He’d taken off the Yankees cap, and his bald head gleamed in the lamp’s glare. “Djinn-X, the webmaster,” Dwight said softly. “Well, you’re in my web, now.”
Jack met his eyes. “Go fuck yourself, Gourmet,” he said.
“You know, I never did understand your obsession with trust,” Dwight said. “A pack isn’t based on loyalty, it’s based on strength. The leader of the pack is always the strongest, the fiercest.”
He pulled back, becoming only a silhouette once again. “The smartest.”
“And you think you’re smarter than I am?”
“Of course. I’ve proved it, haven’t I? I found you, I maneuvered you, I caught you.”
“Should have looked in that fucking suitcase, huh?”
“It still would have taken you out—it was rigged with a hundred-thousand candlepower flashbulb and a capsicum grenade. Less noise than a firecracker, but you would have been blinded and chok
ing in a fog of pepper spray within seconds. Of course, the handle trigger is much more elegant; it’s wired to a taser capacitor that pulses every two seconds. I add a little superglue at the last moment to keep the target from disengaging—if you’d have checked under the back wheel you would have found the tube.”
“Guess you’re just two jumps ahead of me,” Jack said.
“More than that. I know why you’re here.”
“I don’t think you do.”
“The Closer, of course. You intend to hijack the delivery. Consume his power yourself.”
Jack said nothing.
“You see? You can’t outsmart me. I’ve eaten the brains of people brighter than you for breakfast.”
“Right,” Jack said. “You know exactly what’s going on, all right. I suppose you’ve figured out the access codes to the Stalking Ground all by yourself, too?”
The Gourmet sighed. “Sadly, no. But we have almost six hours until I have to pick up the Closer’s head—I think I’ll have the codes by then, don’t you?”
The light shut off. Overhead fluorescents hummed to life. Blinking back spots, Jack took in his surroundings.
He was in a kitchen. Spotless white tile walls, racks of gleaming stainless steel pots and utensils. Twotiered oven, large double sink, metal door to what had to be a walk-in freezer. And sitting on a counter a few feet away, an industrial meat-slicer, circular blade still flecked with blood.
“Interrogation isn’t really my specialty,” the Gourmet said. Jack saw what he held and realized what had made that sound he heard earlier: a pair of butcher’s shears, the kind used to cut through bone.
“But I’m a fast learner….”
Seven A.M.
Jack still hadn’t returned. Nikki didn’t know what she should do.
The delivery was scheduled for nine, on the nose. The handoff would take place in an elevator, just like Jack had suggested. The Gourmet would be alert for anyone following him, but he shouldn’t find the GPS unit until he actually cut into the head itself. He’d wait until he was someplace secure before doing that—more than likely, the same place he usually cut up brains.
But there was no telling how soon he’d do that. They had to track and corner him as soon as possible, which meant her and Jack in a vehicle a block away from the drop site no later than 8:45. So where the hell was he?