by S. A. Hunt
The edge of the coffee table bumped into Joel’s calves. He slipped the towel from around his neck and twisted it anxiously, bunching it in his fists. Bowker had walked him far enough that the cop now stood between him and the sofa, where the shotgun was hidden. The cop’s eyes wandered around the room, assessing the curtains. They were all drawn, the venetian blinds airtight. Whatever happened to Joel would be between them and them alone. “You wasn’t supposed to live.” The beats of his Southern-fried accent stretched luxuriantly, like Foghorn Leghorn. “Blood for the garden, son, it’s the Serpent’s job to thin the herd. And it’s our job to keep people out of his business.”
“The Serpent?”
“Their man. He does what they need him to do, we keep them safe from prying eyes. In return, they let us live.”
“Who is ‘they’?”
“Don’t be coy with me, boy. You know who I’m talkin’ about.”
“The witches?” Joel gaped at him. His hands sank and relaxed. The towel unfurled in front of his legs as if he were a matador in the ring with a bull. “You in cahoots with them witches killed Annie Martine? Marilyn Cutty?”
“I don’t know about any ‘witches,’ but they run this here town. They run everything. They always have and always will.” Bowker flicked the safety on the Taser. “And like I said, I hate to do this, but it’s got to be done. No loose ends, boy. Can’t have you runnin’ around tellin’ stories, you know.”
“Cletus, you call me boy one mo’ goddamn time and I’m gonna break your leg off and beat you with the tender end.”
“I doubt it,” said Bowker, firing the Taser.
At the same time, Joel held up the towel. Toro, toro!
Metallic confetti burst out of the Taser in a dazzling cloud of pink and yellow. The electric barbs tangled up in the terrycloth towel, tak-tak-tak-tak, and Joel charged forward through the weird shiny confetti, shoving with both fists. His knuckles slapped into Bowker’s Second Chance vest as if he were hitting the cop with shock paddles. Bowker’s feet cycled, trying to find traction, and he stumbled backward into the foyer, slipping on a rug.
Reaching behind the sofa, Joel scooped up the shotgun and pirouetted away. Bowker drew and fired his Glock into the living room in one smooth motion, shattering a window.
Darting through the living room, Joel burst through the door at the other end and came out down the hallway from Bowker. BOOM! A mirror hanging on the wall shattered, spraying glass all over him. He yelped and kept running all the way down to the end of the hall. BOOM! The glass in the back door imploded all over his hands as he wrenched it open. “Ohh! Jesus!”
The Glock barked again, flashing in the shadows. Joel shoved the storm door open and something punched him in the right thigh.
Blood spattered the screen.
Jumping off the back stoop, Joel’s knee gave out and he stumbled down the back stairs, dropping the shotgun in the dewy grass. Luckily, it didn’t go off. Cold air shrouded his wet body, raising goose bumps and wracking him with shivers. The backyard was only a narrow strip of grass running alongside a paved alley, and another house loomed behind a board fence. Joel staggered out into the alleyway, dragging the Weatherby by the barrel, crutching along on it, the gravel digging into his bare feet.
BOOM! Splinters exploded from the fence.
He threw up an arm to protect his face, running barefoot and half-naked into the night. Dogs barked in the distance.
“Police!” spat Bowker. “Stop!”
The lights came on in the house across the alley, cutting the shadows and washing away the hiding spots. Joel kept sprinting, his feet slapping on the alley’s buckled asphalt.
A gate in the fence. He hauled it open and BOOM!, a bullet thumped into the wood slats, almost tearing it out of his hand. He forged through into darkness again, this time watched over by squares of light on either side. An air conditioner grumbled in the shadows. Joel ran full-tilt across the gravel and grass, hurdling the AC unit.
When he landed, he paused, turned, aimed at the gate he’d just ran through. As soon as Bowker pulled it open, Joel fired a shell at him.
Buckshot roared through the gap with a deafening blast. Bowker swore out loud, flinching backward into the dark. Joel racked the shotgun, ejecting the empty casing against the side of the house. He turned and ran, exploding from between two porches into the sickly blue glow of a streetlight, almost slipping in dewy grass. He ran catty-corner left, throwing himself across the hood of a car Dukes of Hazzard–style. BOOM-CRASH! The windshield behind him imploded.
He half-ran, half-crawled toward a house, the shotgun clattering across the road, the night-wind curling around his shoulders and legs. Bowker’s pistol went off again, the bullet sparking off the driveway, close enough to bounce sharp little chips of tarmac off Joel’s legs. Between the garage and the house was a wooden gate. He slammed into it at full speed, throwing it open.
In the last second before he turned and shut it, he could see Bowker hustling across the road in that shuffling middle-aged-cop way, mincing and huffing with his elbows up.
Behind the fence was a belowground swimming pool, where a single security light silvered the water. Frantic and bleeding, Joel sidestepped into the corner between the fence and the wall. As soon as he did, Bowker tore his way in and lumbered to a stop next to the pool.
The gate flapped open in front of Joel’s hiding spot, covering him in shadow. “The hell you go?” demanded the cop, panting like a plowhorse.
Cradling the Weatherby against his cheek, Joel tried to stop breathing so hard and stay as still as possible. The alcohol in his system had all but burned off with the adrenaline, leaving him trembly but clearheaded. Warm blood trickled down his leg like a crawling spider. He was steeling himself up to close the gate and ambush Bowker when the officer turned and closed it himself.
“Ooo!” Joel screamed in terror, hipfiring buckshot into Bowker’s chest with a blast of thunder and fire. The black uniform shirt disintegrated in a blizzard of fabric and the cop toppled backward into the pool.
Blinking away the muzzle flash, his ears ringing, Joel stood over the pool with the shotgun pressed to his shoulder, the iron sight lined up on the man splashing and gargling in the water.
Fish in a barrel.
Click. Empty. The blast he braced for never came, making him stagger. He scowled at the shotgun in surprise as if it had offended him, and flung the gate open. “Be easy, pig,” he said, running back the way he’d come.
“I’m—gonna—get—” Bowker ranted with a mouth full of water, kicking and thrashing.
Running across the street, ducking back down into the shortcut between the houses, Joel saw windows shining in the dark. The impromptu gunfight had disturbed half the town. He didn’t bother locking the doors when he got back to Mama’s house; Bowker would kick the doors down and ruin the locks anyway. He ran into his bedroom, wriggled into the first shirt and jeans he laid hands on and a pair of boat shoes. Grabbed his cellphone, wallet, and keys.
Shotgun or wine? Shotgun or wine?
He left the Weatherby Upland lying on his bed and rescued the Thunderbird from the bathroom—no point in keeping the shotty; he didn’t have time to forage the house for the rest of the shells or load them.
In the foyer, the bedazzled baseball bat stood in the urn by the front door where Kenway had left it. He snatched it up.
“Bubba, you gotta come get me,” he said when Fish answered the phone. Joel shut the front door, almost stopped to lock it, thought better, jumped down the front steps, vaulting the fence with the cellphone in one hand and the wine and baseball bat in the other. The officer’s police Charger was parallel-parked on the street. No keys.
“What are—” Fish started to say.
Blood seeped through Joel’s jeans where the Glock had clipped him. His voice jiggled with every footfall. “I been shot. A cop came to Mama’s house and tried to murder my Black ass. I’m runnin’ down the hill right now.”
“I’m on my way
,” Fish told him. “Why is—”
“Because I was supposed to die,” Joel said breathlessly. The slope turned precipitous and he ran down the sidewalk past a row of angled town houses, moonlight showering through the mimosa trees. “I got hemmed up by a mufuckin’ serial killer last night, and—”
“A what?”
“Dude drugged me, strung me up in a garage with a dead guy. Little boy saved me. I got out.”
“The hell?” Fish was yelling. “Why didn’t you call me?”
Joel winced at the shock in his brother’s voice. “Didn’t wanna bother you. You got y’own thing goin’ on—”
“Didn’t wanna bother me? Are you insane?”
“Insane—that shit is debatable.” Joel glanced over his shoulder, expecting the flashing lights of Bowker’s police cruiser at any moment. “Anyway, this killer is apparently on police payroll, and a boy in blue came to Mama’s house to finish the job.” At the end of the block, Joel cut right, running down the street. “I’m gonna hide in the park. The one down the hill where they do the farmers’ market. Come get me.”
“What on Earth have you got yourself into, big brother?”
“I’ll tell you more when you get here. Peace be on ya.” He slowed enough to slip the iPhone into his pocket and took off again, trading the Batdazzler to his free hand. As he ran, he thought about how he was going to climb a tree with the Thunderbird without breaking it.
9
In fact, Heinrich was not in a tree like Robin expected, but on the roof of one of the mobile homes in the rear of Chevalier Village, lying on his belly with a pair of high-tech binoculars. The night-vision optics turned the world in front of his eyes into shades of green.
“See anything?” Kenway Griffin lurked on the porch below, sitting on a rain-ruined dining room chair.
Whoever lived in the trailer either wasn’t home or had moved out—no car stood vigil in the driveway; the windows were all dark. Kenway took a drag off the Camel between his fingers, squinting in the smoke. “Hey, Tombstone, it’s kinda bullshit I didn’t get to go eat with them. I’d really like to be by Robin’s side right now, you know? And I’m the one that fixed the steaks to boot. Why didn’t I get a veto on this?”
“I need you out here, Sergeant,” Heinrich said quietly. “You have combat experience.”
“Need me for what?”
“They’re getting up from the table,” said Heinrich. “Cutty walked into the vineyard. Everybody’s following her.”
“What?” Kenway smashed his cigarette out on the stoop.
“Now’s our chance.” Heinrich crawled over to the edge of the roof and let himself down into the grass, landing with a grunt. “Come on.”
“Now’s our chance to do what?” asked the vet.
“While Robin’s got the coven distracted, we’re going to go into the house and kill the Matron.” Picking up a jerry can, Heinrich jogged toward the long dirt road separating the trailer park and the Lazenbury’s property. Kenway followed, tossing the Camel’s mashed butt into the night-wet grass and creeping after the old hunter. Across the dirt driveway, crunch crunch crunch. Shuffling into the grass, fingertips on cold earth, crouch-walking across the dark front yard. The jerry can swished and gurgled. The two men rested against the wall obscuring the front of the house.
“Matron? What’s in the gas can, anyway?”
“Gas.” The old man gave him an exasperated look. “I really don’t have time for a crash course on witches right now. Imagine we’re sneaking into the tower from Game of Death and we’re here to look for Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. Except instead of doin’ jeet kune do on him, we’re going to douse him in unleaded and set his ass on fire.”
“What the hell? From one to eleven, how high are you right now?”
“You mean to tell me you ain’t seen Bruce Lee in Game of Death? What kind of uncultured swine are you, Sergeant? I’m bringing you back to my place and we’re gonna siddown and have a movie marathon when this is over.”
“Never figured you for a cinema buff.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Heinrich said with a sideways glance and chuff of laughter, and crouch-ran along the wall toward the back door and the gas grill that still fumed with beefy-smelling smoke.
“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” said Kenway, following. “I watched Robin’s video. If these women really are witches, they are no joke. I think this calls for a sustained force with a clear plan of attack.”
“The Marines, sure. I’ll get right on it, Hurt Locker.” Heinrich glanced down at the glint of titanium under Kenway’s jeans leg. “Or, rather, Foot Locker, I guess.”
The vet sighed. “I’m beginning to understand where she gets it.”
Heinrich waved it away. “We need to get into this house, if they ain’t got all the doors locked up as tight as.…”
“A congressman’s Grindr account?”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Sounds dirty.” Heinrich made a face.
“It is. Trust me, Robin would appreciate the joke.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Heinrich tried the back door and Kenway felt a combination of dread and relief that it was unlocked. They crept inside.
Instead of the grimy, cluttered living space he expected of a bunch of witches, they discovered a brightly lit kitchen, sparkling clean steel and travertine. Instinct kicked in and Kenway took point, leading the other man through the nearest door in that hunched-over tactical way, rolling his heels to mitigate noise. Man, my hands feel so empty doing this without an M4, he thought, emerging into a living room.
Some old Hanna-Barbera cartoon was on the TV—Snagglepuss, maybe, or Huckleberry Hound. Bonk, bang, crash, ka-pow. Vibrant colors made a riot of the dark living room as Kenway crept through. Bookshelf to his left. The lights were all turned off, but he could read the spines of old reference books by the glow of the blindingly bright TV—encyclopedias, wildlife bestiaries, bird books. Old novels.
“Exit, stage left,” shouted Snagglepuss.
Behind the sofa, Heinrich crouched to glance at the television and survey the room. Reaching underneath his coat, he slid something out from behind his back with a hiss of sharpened metal.
Silver gleamed in the cartoon glow. Robin’s weird dagger.
“Watch my back,” Heinrich breathed. He pointed at his own eyes with a V gesture and jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
That’s not how tactical hand gestures work, but whatever, dude. The veteran gave him a thumbs-up. Not for the first time, he wished he’d brought a weapon—at least the H&K 45 Compact he kept in the truck. But the old man had naysaid it. “Guns don’t work on these dead-ass hoes,” he’d said earlier at the Victorian house, screwing up his face and waving it away as if the mere suggestion stank. “Might as well bring a slingshot, for all the good it’ll do you. Knock all the holes you want in ’em, they’ll get back up and keep coming. You’ll be lucky if they don’t rip off one of your limbs for every bullet. You want to kill a witch, you need fire.”
Gasoline sloshed in the can as Heinrich made his way around the edge of the living room to a staircase set against the far wall.
Floating iron risers led them up to the second floor. Like downstairs, the walls were painted a deep, hearty blood-red. A wrought-iron banister separated them from a fall into the living room. The landing was a wide space with two cedar bookshelves and an array of knickknacks. In the center of the landing was a long, lonely corridor where doors led to three bedrooms and most likely a bathroom.
“Lessee,” Heinrich whispered. “Where you at, chick?” He pushed deeper into the long hallway, gas can in one hand, dagger in the other. “Stay here and be a lookout,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m going to check these bedrooms.”
With that, he opened the first door and disappeared inside. His flashlight played over the contents of the room.
From the hallway, Kenway could see Heinrich check
ing behind shelves, peering under the bed. It looked like the inside of a homestead lodge, with framed paintings on the walls depicting wildlife and mountain ranges, and there were bolts and scraps of cloth and half-finished seamstress projects all over the room.
This is bullshit, he mused, watching the TV downstairs play colors all over the second-floor landing ceiling. I should be out there with Robin. She’s all by herself.
Well, she’s got the Parkins with her. That Leon guy, he’s got a hell of a right hook. He can take care of himself, I bet.
Come on, he’s a fuckin’ English teacher, man.
So? Your old Army unit had a couple teachers in it, didn’t it?
True.
What was Chief Bangley, a history teacher? Social studies, whatever they call it?
Yeah, all right. All right! He rubbed his beard with both hands and rested his fists on his hips. Man, I must be stressed out of my mind. I’m out here arguing with myself while some guy I just met is sweeping rooms in an old lady’s house, looking for a witch to burn.
“Nope,” said the old man behind him.
Another door softly creaked open, the one down at the far end of the hallway, and Heinrich slipped out of sight again, fading into the dark. The second bedroom held the gray austerity of a nun’s quarters but it was messy, the bedquilt and wood floor strewn with clothes and dirty dishes.
What the hell are you doing, dude? Isn’t this breaking and entering? Do you really buy into this witch-hunting shit?
For real? After seeing what happened in Robin’s old house, with the demon thing? The video on the MalusDomestica YouTube page? You’re still having trouble processing this stuff? Are you kidding me right now?
Chills went down Kenway’s spine. Heinrich emerged from the bedroom at the end of the hall and went into the third and final bedroom, the one on the left.
Probably the cleanest and most ostentatious of the three, well appointed with baroque cherry furniture and silk fleur-de-lis wallpaper in an oceanic seafoam green. The curtains were spiderwebs of white, lacy gossamer.