Cold Hearted: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode Two)

by James Hunter

  The Butcher shambled toward me, his movements slow but powerful. Yay, I’d saved the cop, sort of.

  Whoosh, the cleaver chopped down—I swatted at the Butcher’s wrists with the lamp, diverting the chop away from my body. The meat-hook flashed out in my periphery—I jumped back and swung the lamp in a loose arc, catching the creature across the knuckles. More blows followed: slash, stab, chop—an awkward kick, a vicious overhand hammer blow. I wasn’t in top fighting form, but I still was able to dance away each time. Deflecting or parrying here, dodging others outright there. My movements sharp and economical, no wasted energy.

  This guy was a tank, meant to take damage and deal it out in turn. He wasn’t fast and he wasn’t terribly skilled, but I certainly wasn’t going to take him out by playing a safe, defensive game. I needed a better weapon … There: a cross-body slash so friggin’ telegraphed it would’ve made Samuel Morse—inventor of the actual telegraph—proud. I slipped under his arm and thrust the jagged edge of the broken light bulb into the Butcher’s other wrist. I dropped the lamp and grabbed hold of the meat-hook, pulling at it with a jerk, expecting to come away with the pitted weapon.

  Yeah right. Like trying to pull the sword from the stone; not an inch of movement—the guy was strong as a bull and had a pair of forearms that would’ve made Pop-Eye spinach-green with envy.

  A brutal knee landed in my gut, I fell back and toppled over a felled desk. My legs flew out from beneath me—ass over teakettle I went—sprawling to the floor, now near the far wall and the bank of windows.

  In the debris next to me I spotted what may well have been my salvation, a saltshaker. Haha, salt—if this thing was some kind of poltergeist or spirit given temporary corporeal form, salt would jack its day up ten ways from Tuesday. I grabbed the shaker and bounced back to my feet before the Butcher could chop me up into little parcels of meat for the market. I circled left, my feet crunching down on broken pencils and shattered glass as I hastily unscrewed the shaker’s lid.

  The creature moved like an avalanche, rolling forward as he slashed and hacked at me with his cleaver—I ducked low, shot around his side, and scampered up onto his back.

  The Butcher bucked like wild, swinging his shoulders to and fro in an attempt to dislodge me, but I held fast. A jagged seam zigzagged up the back of the mask—I jammed the saltshaker in, and released my grasp, tumbling away and crashing into a bunch of busted office equipment. My leg collided with the metal edge of a desk, which gave me a charlie horse so fierce my whole leg tingled. Whatever—it’d be worth it when this jerkwad melted into a pile of goo.

  Any minute now.

  He turned around and pawed lazily at the back of his mask.

  Any. Minute. Now …

  After a moment he pulled free the saltshaker and dropped it to the ground with a tinkle. Guess he wasn’t a spirit. Guess this was pretty much where my lucky streak ended.

  What else did I have to work with?

  Not a friggin’ thing, so maybe a little tactical retreat was in order here.

  Except there was nowhere for me to retreat to. Maybe five feet to the rear was the bank of windows—three stories from ground level—and the Butcher loomed between me and the doorway I’d entered through. There was another door off to my right leading to the stairwell, but I’d never get there without having to tangle with Monster-Mash. I didn’t have a weapon, I didn’t have a way out, and I didn’t have a prayer—and the Butcher knew it. He was probably grinning like a lunatic beneath his mask. Pleased as a fly on shit.

  He lurched forward and I reacted, doing what I’d practiced a thousand times before: good ol’ Yoko Tomoe Nage, a variation of a Judo throw I’d learned years ago. Once upon a time, before I’d been a mage, a fix-it man, or an itinerant gambler, I’d been a dumb kid in the Marine Corps with a love for martial arts stationed in Okinawa, Japan. I’d spent years working at the art and I’ve had more than my fair share of chances to use those skills since.

  I shot inside his guard, grabbed hold of one beefy wrist in one hand and the fabric of his black apron in the other. His weight plowed into me like a linebacker sacking some unwary quarterback, but that was good, I could use that momentum against him. Son of a bitch was too big to ever try a static throw on, but rushing at me like a semi? He’d do all the work. Japanese Jujitsu—and to a lesser extent Judo—is all about redirecting force, not stopping it outright. He was bigger than me, sure, but he was already in motion, and I was just redirecting that motion in a slightly different direction. An object in motion stays in motion—this was applied physics at its most practical.

  As his body slammed into me, I dropped down, pulling him with me. I bent one knee and rolled onto my back while simultaneously bring my other leg up into Gigantor’s fat belly. I flexed and strained the leg stuck in his gut, pressing him up and away from me—bastard needed to go on a diet—and pulled him right over the top of me in an arc.

  I let go and gave one final thrust of my leg, propelling him, headfirst, through the air—he collided into the window behind me. Generally, throwing someone through a window isn’t as easy as it looks in the movies—but he had a lot of mass and acceleration working for him. Needless to say, the window didn’t stand a chance.

  I just lay there and watched him careen into the night air, arms and legs pin-wheeling, quickly swallowed by a swirl of white as he plummeted to the ground three stories below. The fall wouldn’t kill him, but it did buy me some time. My guess was that the creature would take a little time to regroup and maybe come up with a different game plan. Probably he’d come here expecting to find a weak, defenseless mage—easy prey. Finding someone with a little pep in their step, however, might make him change tactics. Worse long term—he’d be better prepared—but a real lifesaver in the here and now.

  Snow whirled into the room, white specks quickly sticking to my face, arms, and chest. Balls, was that cold, but it also felt damn good after my scrap. I slowly gained my feet and brushed the fresh powder free before trudging over to check on the officer.

  “Stop right there,” he said, crouched behind a desk, gun pointed steadily at my chest. “You just stop right there. I want you down on your face, you’re under arrest. Again. And no funny business, y’hear, I’m having a bad night, so just give me an excuse to shoot.”

  I sighed. Lucky, phff. “Yeah, okay,” I said, lying facedown, hands above my head in resignation. “But maybe we could hurry this along—that freaky, pig-faced guy will be back. I guarantee. Oh, and you’re welcome.”

  The patter of footfalls. The officer planted a knee in my back and slid another pair of handcuffs around my wrists, securing them in place behind me.

  “Seriously? I could’ve escaped, could’ve run off and let that guy turn you into a ham sandwich—I saved you and you’re still gonna cuff me.” It wasn’t a question, more like a statement of utter disbelief.

  He pulled me to my feet. “Sorry buddy … thanks for the save. I mean it—I have a wife and three grown kids who’d miss me. Even got a grandkid on the way. So thanks … but the rules are the rules, and so far as I know, you’re still one dangerous sonuvabitch. So let’s just get to Agent Ferraro—she’ll know what to do about all this.”

  I just sighed again—sometimes, even when you do the right thing, you still get the shit end of the stick.

  THIRTEEN:

  Team Huddle

  We found Agent Ferraro three levels down in a basement storage room—the scene was a bloody mess. One of the officers that’d checked me in earlier was in pieces on the floor, and I’m not talking about being some kind of emotional wreck. He was literally in pieces: body parts torn away and strewn carelessly about the floor while dark red blood marred the walls in long, jagged streaks. A young guy, still fit and trim and sporting the last remnants of late teenage acne. A look of shock permanently carved into his features—his eyes too wide, his mouth contorted in an unending scream.

  Messy. Ugly. Terrible. For a moment I forgot I was surrounded by a bunch of cops who
had me under arrest, and thought me a crazed serial killer. For a moment I was just among a bunch of people—all card-carrying members of the human race—good people, who were trying to do right in the world, trying to make a difference. For a moment I wasn’t an outsider with secret powers and hidden knowledge, I was just some guy looking on a stomach retching scene of unspeakable violence. Just a guy, feeling small and scared.

  Maybe my past had finally caught up with me for keeps—maybe I’d survive the night and Ferraro would lock my ass away for an eon. But whatever, I couldn’t change the past, because by killing all those monstrous freaks, I’d managed to save lots of people from ending up like that poor kid on the floor. Small consolation, but I’d take it.

  Ferraro, sat on her heels, hunched over the kid’s torso, seemingly lost in thought, her gun in hand, though resting on her knee. The other officers—six, not counting Ferraro, the dead kid, or the guy holding me in custody—stood around the room in pairs of two, guns drawn, eyes searching restlessly. Each officer scanned the room as though the office chairs, stacked against the far wall, might come alive and maul folks any minute. Good for them, man-eating furniture wasn’t outside of the realm of possibility.

  A female officer with short blonde hair pulled back into a bun cleared her throat as we entered.

  “What?” Ferraro asked, not bothering to take her eyes from the grisly scene.

  “Guests, ma’am,” the officer said, before resuming her scan. Ferraro swiveled, caught sight of me, and shot to her feet, a frigid glare on her face that probably should’ve frozen the blood in my veins. Thankfully, she spread that glare between me and the officer restraining me—as though she didn’t know which one of us to start in on.

  “I left you upstairs to watch him,” she said, finally settling on the officer, “not to go gallivanting around with one of the most dangerous serial killers this country has seen in the last two decades. You’d better have a damn good explanation, Officer, or so help me God, you’re going to work as a meter maid until you retire. Thankfully for you, that probably won’t be long,” She nearly growled the last part. Suddenly, I wasn’t sure whom I was more afraid of—the Butcher from upstairs or Ferraro. I felt like I had a way better handle on the Butcher; at least I had some clue what I was up against there.

  The officer was silent for a good long while, his eyes roving over the scene of carnage. “Shit, Larry,” he said after a little while, as though he couldn’t quite square the mess spread out before him. Then he rounded on Ferraro, eyebrows furrowed, gaze hard as a diamond. “Now you listen to me, Agent—I don’t care who you think you are, but your shit stinks just like everyone else. That officer lying in pieces on the floor was my partner, Larry Ravel, a good friend, and a good cop. So you just save your ass-chewings for someone who gives a damn. Now, get off your high horse, ma’am, and open up your ears, ‘cause we got some real trouble brewin’ here.”

  I couldn’t help but stare on in slack-jawed awe—usually I’m the underdog with the death wish and the sharp tongue. But here this guy was, not a lick of power, and still willing to stand his ground and shoot straight. If we lived through this, I’d have to take him out for a beer.

  “All right,” she said, donning a false smile. “Officer Harvey, is it?”

  He nodded his head.

  “You’ve got my full attention and apologies. Now, why don’t you tell me what happened before I die of a brain aneurism.” She rubbed at her temple with one hand.

  So Officer Harvey told the story. Apparently, he’d been watching me from behind the one-way mirror when there’d been some kind of commotion from down the hall, near the office cubicles. He’d checked it out and found himself confronted by the business end of a cleaver for his trouble. He went on to explain my timely intervention, and offered a brief recount of the event—though he totally left out my Doc Holiday reference, which kinda sucked. After he finished his tale, the room grew silent—Ferraro pressed her lips together and tapped thoughtfully on her chin.

  After a long pregnant pause: “This whole thing is your fault.” She had me fixed squarely in her death gaze. “Do you have an accomplice? What’s the story here—I have a dead cop and at least one psycho running loose … maybe even more than one. So you’d better start spilling it.”

  “What, accomplices? Are you kidding me? Someone’s gonna have to smack the crazy outta you—didn’t you even listen to his story,” I bobbed my head toward Harvey. “I saved this guy, threw some pig-mask-wearing freak-o through a window. As a very important side note—he’ll probably be up and moving around by now. Probably trying to figure out how to kill us all in the most unpleasant way possible, so high alert, code red, all that jazz.”

  “You think this is some kinda joke?”

  Ah yes, my blood officially formed ice chunks with that look.

  “No, you’re the one that must think this is a joke,” I said, “because you’re the one that isn’t taking me seriously. I told you something was coming, I told you it’d kill people, but you blew me off. And lo and behold, there’s something running around offing cops. So maybe you should get off your high horse and listen up, like Harvey said.”

  “Take you seriously? That you can do magic, that your murder victims were all scary monsters out of some bad fantasy novel? Harvey shut him up, we’ve got serious issues to deal with.”

  “Dammit, Ferraro—if you ignore me more people will die.”

  Officer Harvey gave me a rough shove and pulled up on my cuffs—a sharp pain lanced up into my shoulder blades. “Sorry, but you heard her, buddy. Better to work together in a crisis,” he whispered in my ear.

  Ferraro turned back toward the officers fanned throughout the room. “Okay, we’ve got one, maybe even two perps on the loose. They are armed and dangerous—take extreme caution when dealing with these individuals. Use deadly force if necessary. There is a blizzard, which means these assailants are trapped somewhere in this building. We will break up into three teams: Adams, Rodriguez, Fallen, you’re team one—you’re going to secure the basement then move up to ground floor and clear the building perimeter. I also want your team to try and get the power back up. Those breakers have to be down here somewhere. Jansen, Moody, and Gorski, you’re team two—help team one get power going, then you’ve got the second floor. Harvey, you’re with the prisoner and me. We’ll head up to three.”

  “We’re splitting up?” I asked, the incredulity in my voice thick enough to choke a horse. “That’s a terrible idea. Haven’t you ever seen like, I dunno, any horror movie ever? Let me just recap: blizzard, power outage, monster. If everyone splits up, everyone dies. The practical thing to do would be to hunker down in a room with one entrance and wait until morning.”

  “You done?” she asked, folding her arms under her breasts, clearly unamused.

  I just nodded.

  “Good. Now, here’s what you need to know. The people in this room aren’t a bunch of stupid, drunk college-kids in some B-horror movie. We are law enforcement officers—sworn to uphold the laws of this country and dedicated to protecting its citizens even if it’s costly. There are killers out there somewhere—killers who could escape and murder more innocent people. So we don’t have the luxury of ‘hunkering down’ and playing it safe. Now, if you’ll stow it so we can get to work.”

  Whew, that was one gutsy gal. I’ve run into trouble more times than I can count, but it’s always as a last resort—I’ll be the first to admit I’m no hero. Sometimes I act against my better judgment and do ridiculously irresponsible and dangerous things that some might consider heroic. At the end of the day, though, I’m a pragmatist, who’d much rather steer clear of gunfights, monsters, murderers, or life-threatening situations of any sort. That shit’s for the birds.

  Ferraro, though, was a friggin’ Amazonian warrior princess and it elevated her in my book. She wasn’t just a cop hounding my trail, she was a genuinely good person—maybe a little rough around the edges and kind of unlikeable, but gen
uinely good nonetheless—trying to make the world a better place. I’m not one of those people, but the world would sure be a better place if there were more people like her in it.

  “Everyone switch to channel two,” Ferraro commanded, followed by a flurry of movement as officers adjusted radios at their hips. “Team leaders, I want radio checks every ten minutes. Everyone stick together—no one had better take a piss without battle buddies present. Check?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “If you spot a perp, I want a radio call, ASAP—call for backup, no one play at being a hero here. I want to see every one of you walk out of here alive. All right, let’s move people.”

  The groups split up, squads one and two moving out to check for the breakers, while our team headed up. Ferraro in the lead, me in the middle—still cuffed, of course—and Harvey bringing up the rear, one hand holding his weapon, the other holding the cuffs securely behind my back.

  Bang, Ferraro kicked open the door into the stairwell, ducking through—in one arm she held a flash light, in the other she had her Glock. She pivoted at the hips: right, up, left, flashlight beam cutting a swath across the poorly lit stair shaft, her gun muzzle following her eyes. She sidestepped, batted at the door, and cleared the backside. The whole process took seconds, her movements were natural and well rehearsed—would’ve made any Jarhead combat instructor beam with fierce joy.

  “Clear,” she called. Harvey nudged me forward, and shut the door behind us. We climbed a couple of flights of stairs and exited into the office space where Pig-Face McGee and I had tangled. Ferraro cleared this room too before ushering us in. It was cold as hell in here; snow had piled into a small bank in front of the busted out window where I’d given the Butcher his impromptu flying lessons. The temperature in the room had easily dropped fifteen degrees since the last time I’d been in here. I just stood there and shivered as Ferraro glanced around, surveying the scene with a meticulous and well-trained eye, seeming to note and file every detail.