“Who then?” I asked.
“I just gave you a list. Take your pick.”
“What kind of drugs?”
“Pretty much everything that’s illegal or stolen from a pharmacy.”
“Anything else?” I asked.
“Running hijacked merchandise. Farm machinery. Lot of cars.”
“So you know more than you let on?”
“I got ears.”
“And the family talks around you?”
“I’m invisible except when the men get all horny and want to take off my pants.” Phaedra said this too casually.
I remembered the bills that had fallen from her pocket. “Is that where the money comes from?”
Her face reddened like I’d squeezed her neck with giant pliers. “Is that what you think I am? A whore?”
“A few minutes ago you were all but bragging.”
Her right eye fluttered like the wings of a wounded moth. “Quit staring at my eye.”
She covered both her eyes. “Quit staring at me. Stop it. I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
The shame washed from her to me. I put my arm on her shoulder. She rubbed her nose across the cuff of my coat. I slid my arm free and opened the center console. I took out a tissue and gave it to her.
She wiped her nose. “Let’s pretend we didn’t talk about that.”
“Sure.”
My fingertips and ears itched with a warning.
I checked the rearview. A red pickup truck gained on us. I looked to the front. On the right, a black pickup shot from behind the fence along the power relay station.
I didn’t need Phaedra to tell me who these trucks were after.
CHAPTER 23
As a vampire I have supernatural powers. The Toyota doesn’t. The two vehicles ahead were closing the trap. If I whipped around, at this speed the Toyota would flip over. I’d survive, but I couldn’t risk injuring Phaedra.
I reached for the H&K.
Phaedra grabbed my arm. “Stay cool. Stay cool.”
The black pickup bore at us suicide-bomber style. I couldn’t swerve out of the way and slammed the brakes to keep from colliding. My Toyota skidded on the wet asphalt, the tires screeching when they burned through to dry pavement.
The front end of the red pickup following me dipped as the driver rode his brakes.
The two pickups boxed me in.
Each of the pickups had a driver and passenger. I didn’t need a program to know they intended to knock me around. Four of them, one of me. Even without the H&K, the odds were in my favor—if I fought as a vampire. Phaedra’s presence complicated the situation. If I revealed myself as a vampire to these goons, no problem, as I would kill them. But Phaedra, what if she was caught in the cross fire?
As soon as the vehicles stopped, we were all out in a flurry of opening doors and starting the showdown. The black mouths of three shotguns and a pistol gaped at me.
I fixed each shooter in my mind. I could snatch my pistol and drop each one with bullets to spare. Those I didn’t kill outright I would finish off with my fangs.
Phaedra bolted from her seat in the Toyota. She moved so fast I didn’t realize what she was doing. Phaedra grasped a wiper arm on the Toyota, set a boot against the front tire, and hoisted herself on the hood.
Phaedra stood erect between the guns and me. She balled her fists and screamed hysterically. “Stop it. Stop it.”
The men drew back and lowered their guns, acting unexpectedly concerned about shooting her. Vinny, Gino’s friend who I met yesterday, waited by the door of the red pickup.
One man didn’t lower his pistol. The driver of the black pickup. His eyes burned with venom. Like me, his Mexican roots were obvious in his indio face. He had the lean hungry physique of a Tijuana alleycat. His neck appeared withered like his body had been drained of everything good and decent. Go to a crowd of a thousand people, look for the psychopath, and this was the man you’d pick.
A third vehicle—a blue Chevy Blazer—came straight at us from the direction of the hospital. The Blazer fishtailed and straddled the road, its front tires rolling into the weeds along the shoulder. A kid with a ponytail hopped from the Blazer and shielded himself behind the opened driver’s door. He drew a bead on me with his pistol.
A man with a thick face like the front end of a battering ram came out the front passenger’s side. Loose striped shirttails flapped from under the bottom of his jacket.
“Phaedra,” he shouted. His big chest heaved from exertion. He hustled between my Toyota and the black pickup. He carried himself like the man in charge. Two of the men clustered around him, psycho at his left.
“Uncle Sal,” she yelled.
Sal? Had to be Sal Cavagnolo.
He waved his hands in a downward motion. Pistols disappeared under jackets. Shotguns fell across car seats.
Everyone relaxed a bit except for the psycho, who kept a snarl in his eyes.
Phaedra climbed down over the front bumper of the 4Runner. She kept repeating, “Gino’s dead.”
“How do you know?”
“We were at his place. There was blood everywhere.”
Cavagnolo glared at me like I was responsible for the bad news. “What were you doing there?”
She raised an arm in my direction. “We were looking…”
“I was talking to him.” He turned up the heat in his glare, thinking—wrongly, of course—that I’d wilt. “What’s your business here?”
“That’s between Gino and me.”
Cavagnolo’s eyes simmered with insult. He approached me. His men reached for their guns.
“Was he there?”
“No. Like Phaedra said…”
Cavagnolo cut me off. “I only asked if he was there. Otherwise keep your mouth shut.”
My fists balled up, ready to bash Cavagnolo’s meaty face.
“Uncle Sal”—Phaedra moved between him and me—“don’t be stupid.”
His lips screwed together in a way that told me she was one of the few—maybe the only one—who could speak to him like this.
“So you couldn’t find Gino. That doesn’t mean anything,” Cavagnolo said.
“Maybe he’s in Saguache visiting what’s her name,” Vinny chimed. “That chick Dirty Tina.”
I stepped from the 4Runner toward Cavagnolo. I kept my hands open and above my waist. Phaedra moved to stay in front of me.
Cavagnolo’s expression turned acid. “My nephew Gino had shit for brains for talking to you. Your name is Felix Gomez, right?”
“You got it.” Hearing my name coming out of his mouth made me feel unwashed.
“It’s a pretty name.” Cavagnolo paused to let the other men chuckle. “Goes with a sissy asshole who hides behind a girl.”
I was going to lance Cavagnolo’s head like a boil. I tried to nudge Phaedra aside, but she clamped onto my arm and stayed close.
“Gino’s truck is still at his place.” I pulled up beside Phaedra. “Lot of blood on his bed. Looks like someone cut him bad and hauled him off.”
The men tried to remain stone-faced but they shuffled like they felt razor blades under their feet.
Cavagnolo’s gaze focused to a point on the horizon. He kept quiet and his mouth curled into the makings of a scowl. His expression abruptly relaxed as if he’d made a decision. “That’s my problem. I’ll deal with it.” He motioned to Phaedra. “You, get home.”
She gave a rebellious shake of her head.
Cavagnolo cocked a thumb to the Blazer. “Now, darling.”
Phaedra looked at me over her shoulder. What should I do?
I gave her a gentle push toward the Blazer.
Cavagnolo said, “Cleto, help her out.”
The psycho clasped her arm with his bony, paw-like hand. For a second, the hatred in Cleto’s eyes morphed to pleasure. She jerked her arm loose and continued between him and her uncle.
Cavagnolo whispered as she passed. Phaedra turned subdued and humbled. He gave her a tender pat on the should
er.
The kid with the ponytail came forward and helped her get in the front passenger’s seat of the Blazer.
Cavagnolo closed within arm’s distance to me.
Behind him, the Blazer pulled away and headed north.
“You and me”—he held up two fingers and pressed them together—“let’s go back into town and talk.”
“We can talk here.”
Cavagnolo didn’t reply. He walked to the black pickup and climbed in. Cleto drove. A guy in a light green jacket got into the backseat of the cab.
I remained standing.
Cleto gunned the engine of the black pickup. Cavagnolo lowered his window, hooked a thick arm out, and thumped the door. “You got tampons in your ears, pussy face? That wasn’t an invitation, it was an order.”
CHAPTER 24
Our parade convoyed back into Morada, the black pickup leading, me next, the red pickup close behind.
Up ahead, Cavagnolo started yakking on a cell phone. A quick look in my mirror and I could see Vinny in the truck behind me get his phone. He and Cavagnolo weren’t exchanging recipes. I reached under my seat for the spare pistol magazines and slid them into my pocket.
I was certain of Cavagnolo’s agenda. Break my legs. Ask me questions. Kill me. Dump my body into a deep hole.
I liked my agenda better. Whack all of his men if I had to. Ask him questions. Find out what I could about the zombies. Maybe I’d let Cavagnolo live if he behaved himself.
Cavagnolo turned left off Abundance Boulevard into the northern half of Morada. A block down the street the pavement ended and we drove over a dirt road.
The black pickup pulled into the setback of a large wooden shed painted white. Elkhorn Tools and Machinery was printed in crude letters above a bay door, partly open. Cleto parked in front of an office door to the left of the bay. A deer rack hung over the office entrance. I halted next to the black pickup.
The red pickup pulled ahead and stopped on the shoulder of the road. Vinny dismounted and went to the office.
Cavagnolo and Cleto got out of the black pickup. I followed.
Vinny held the office door open. Heated air gushed from inside. I wiped my feet on the jute doormat. The dingy room looked like every garage office I’d ever stepped into. Last year’s tool calendar hung from the wall. Piles of forms, receipts, and open binders surrounded a CRT monitor on a battered shop desk. Rusted transmission gears served as paperweights.
Cavagnolo continued through another door in the back of the office.
My sixth sense ticked the alarm. Out the corner of my eye, I saw the guy in the green jacket dart through the bay door. He bootlegged a baseball bat against his thigh.
Vinny stayed in the office.
The back door opened into a darkened storage room. A space heater with orange coils was fixed to a floor-to-ceiling post. The room smelled of oil, gasoline, and musty blankets.
Cavagnolo and Cleto stood beside the heater, their expressions calm and fixed on me.
I paused at the door, only long enough for my senses to sweep the room. Clothes rustled to the right on the inside of the door. If I had my contacts out, I could zap them all in turn and take my time culling their thoughts.
But not yet. They waited in ambush and I would turn the tables in less than a second.
I brought my reflexes to vampire speed. My senses magnified every detail. Dust motes floated like tiny gemstones in the glow of the space heater. The thick smells separated into layers that I could now taste. The metallic notes in the used grease. The difference in the tang between unleaded gasoline and two-stroke fuel. Horse sweat and dog musk on the blankets. The slick aroma of fresh gun oil. Human perspiration carrying the spicy scents of adrenaline, prosciutto, oregano, and garlic.
Cavagnolo and Cleto kept their eyes on me, betraying nothing.
The drumming heartbeats from those hoodlums told me what their faces weren’t saying.
Murder.
To my immediate right, around the corner of the doorway, human smells wafted strong. Lots of sweat and garlic. The goon with the baseball bat must be waiting there.
Nylon fabric rustled. Calloused fingers adjusted their grip. Nostril hairs trembled as breath rushed past them. A tongue rasped across dry lips.
I stepped over the threshold and snapped my arms to the right. A baseball bat swatted toward me.
I seized the goon’s hands where they held the bat and swung him around, using his momentum to yank him off his feet. I put my hips into it, jerked him around in a circle, and flung him into the shelves next to Cavagnolo.
The goon landed on his back, smashing through the wooden shelves. Dust, machine parts, and tools exploded though the air.
I brought my hand to my waist and snagged the .45 from its holster. Cleto tilted to his left and started to bring a sawed-off shotgun from behind his leg. By the time his shoulders turned square to me, I had already aligned the sights and aimed the pistol at his chest.
CHAPTER 25
Cleto froze. The sawed-off shotgun remained close to his leg. His eyes registered that I was an instant from drilling him with a volley of .45 slugs. One twitch of my finger and his sternum would be hamburger.
Cavagnolo blinked. His mouth gave no expression but astonishment showed in his eyes. Cavagnolo put his hand on Cleto’s arm and gave a quick pat.
Cleto bent his knees and let the shotgun settle on the floor. He stood straight and the hate in his eyes was hot enough to light a match.
“Wise decision.” I stepped to the side. “Tell Vinny to get in here. I don’t like anyone watching my back who’s not on my team.”
Cavagnolo called to Vinny. He hustled to the door, pockets jingling, pistol in hand. His blanched expression said: holy shit.
I motioned with my H&K for Vinny to get inside. He looked at Cavagnolo, who gave a quick nod and waved him in.
“Tell your man outside to stay cool,” I ordered. “We had a little accident, that’s all. A workplace injury.”
Cavagnolo told Vinny to use his phone.
I stared at Cavagnolo. “You do it.”
With an angry huff, he pulled a cell phone from his pocket and in a brief exchange told whoever was outside to sit tight. “It’s all okay.” Cavagnolo lifted the cell phone in my direction. “Anyone else you want me to call? Maybe send for pizza?”
“You can call the local morgue and make reservations if you’d like,” I said. “Might save some time later.”
Cavagnolo’s eyes could’ve spit poison darts. He dropped the phone into his pocket.
I pointed to a spot by the space heater. “Grab a chair and sit there.” I motioned to the guy I’d thrown into the shelves. He moaned softly, and as he moved his legs, the broken shelves rained more parts on him. “The rest of you, help him.”
Cavagnolo dragged a folding chair from the wall. He opened the chair and swiped a hand across the seat to clean the dust.
I pushed a plastic chair into a corner opposite him. I picked up a clean shop towel and draped it across my chair. I sat and rested the .45 on my lap.
Cavagnolo took a seat, his knees bending slowly as if he were waiting for a signal to jump. His eyes remained on mine. This guy was king of the stare-downs but an amateur compared to me.
Vinny and Cleto helped the third guy to his feet. He gave another moan and staggered along.
“He needs a doc, Uncle Sal.”
“You know where to take him.” Cavagnolo said this out the corner of his mouth as he kept his stare on me.
I raised the muzzle of the pistol. “Keep this among us.”
Cavagnolo’s eyes didn’t waver. Guess he was used to being on the wrong end of a gun. Pretty big-city attitude for someone out here in the boonies. “Don’t worry,” he said. “This is no sewing circle.”
Vinny and Cleto put the other guy’s arms across their shoulders and carried him out. I gave them a minute. “Let’s swap places.”
“What for?”
“In case your boys try something funny, I
want the joke to be on you.” I got up and stood in the pocket of warm air by the space heater.
Cavagnolo sat in the other chair, moving carefully like he expected a bad surprise.
“I don’t care how you pay your bills,” I said. “The only reason I’m here is because of Gino.” And the zombies.
I would get to hypnosis but I wanted Cavagnolo to tell me things on his own.
He took a long breath and leaned back in the chair, the extended pause telling me that he had a lot of angles to figure out.
“What’s happened to Gino?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Is he dead?”
“I’d be surprised if he wasn’t.”
“Why’s that?” Cavagnolo asked.
I told him about the blood and finished by saying that I didn’t have a clue how Gino had been hauled away. “The trail went out the back door and I lost it. I can’t imagine how anyone could’ve carried a big guy like him for much distance.”
Unless Gino’s attackers—the zombies—had hacked him into take-out portions.
“Remember what happened to Stanley Novick?”
I expected Cavagnolo’s face to break apart in anguish. Instead he gave a smug grin. “Yeah, I remember. So what about him?”
“Maybe there’s a connection?”
“Or maybe not.”
A dead nephew and this was Cavagnolo’s response? Was he always this callous or was he hiding something?
Cavagnolo said, “What’s your beef in all this? Why do you care?”
Because of my orders from the Araneum. “I was hired to find out what happened to Barrett Chambers.”
“That stupid asshole? Good luck.” Cavagnolo smirked. “I’ll tell you what happened. That bum beat feet. He owes money from Cheyenne to goddamn Phoenix.”
“How much does he owe you?”
Cavagnolo chuckled. “Not one dime. I know his type. He’ll make more promises than a politician, but after you lend him money, he’s as hard to catch as a fly.”
“What if I told you he was dead?”
The mirth slid off Cavagnolo’s face. He held on to the glumness for a short moment, then went back to smiling. “Then I’d tell you the dumb ass ran out of luck.”
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