Redemption Alley jk-3

by Lilith Saintcrow

  He knew what it feels like to lose one of your own. Only another hunter understands. We are here to protect, and when our protection fails sometimes we don’t pay the cost. Others, less trained, less equipped to bear the strain, pay what we should.

  And oh, God, it hurts.

  There was nothing he could really say.

  So he was quiet.

  I rested the chill of the bottle against my forehead. The thick brown glass came away spotted with flecks of dirt and dried blood. A sharp bloody stone lodged in my throat, with beer carbonation trapped behind it. My eyes were hot and dry.

  “He was a good cop,” I finally whispered.

  Leon eased himself up to his feet. The sun brought out highlights in his hair, made his copper charms shine. The amulets around his neck clicked as he shifted his weight, and Rosita’s blued-steel barrel shone with a fresh application of oil. “I gotta get home. Some things to clean up back there. You gonna be okay?”

  No. I guess so. What choice do I have? I made another one of those physical efforts to focus. It came a little easier now that I’d had some rest. “I’m not sure I’m done yet. Harvill might not have been the only bigshot involved. But I’ll keep digging.” Andrew. You shouldn’t have. Why couldn’t you have waited?

  He balanced on the balls of his feet. “Good fuckin’ deal.” A nervous glance toward the door. Galina was still humming downstairs. “Thought you were a goner, darlin’.”

  “I could have been.” Two steps behind an arrogant hellbreed and a stupid-ass set of Traders the whole time, and Carp paid the price. I should turn in my badge. If I had a badge. “Leon?”

  He grunted, a truly male sound, and took another shot of his piss-masquerading-as-honest-beer.

  I had to settle for two of the most inadequate words in the English language, words too pale to express what I needed to say. “Thank you.”

  “Aw, shit, girl. We all do what we can.” His shrug was a marvel of indifference. “Be cool.” I’m sorry, his eyes said.

  “You too, Leon. Get your truck looked at, will you?” Me too, I thought. I’m sorry too. I can’t call this a win. Can’t even call it a tie.

  “All right. Goddamn nagging.” He waved his beer can, slopping the liquid inside, and stumped for the door. Stopped halfway there.

  I waited, but he didn’t say anything else. Just squared his shoulders and walked away without a backward glance. Classic Leon.

  Then again, most hunters aren’t much for goodbyes. You never know which time will be the last. Better to just walk away and carry on the conversation the next time.

  If there is a next time. It’s superstition, but you take what you can get.

  I pushed the covers away. Someone had taken my boots off; they were in a puddle of stink right next to the bed. But I padded in sock feet across the room, stopping when my head started to spin or my legs threatened rebellion.

  The bedroom window overlooked the street. Galina’s humming stopped, and I heard low voices again. Leon’s question, her soft reply. Then his footsteps, speeding up. The door to her shop jingled a few moments later, and Leon headed across the street to his truck.

  My entire chest hurt, a pain that wasn’t physical. The copper in his hair caught fire. He got behind the wheel and the engine turned over.

  I lifted my hand to wave, found it full of the empty beer bottle. He wasn’t looking anyway.

  The air in the room changed imperceptibly. I lowered my hand.

  “Just like that,” Galina said. “Jill—”

  “He told me. It’s not your fault.” It’s mine. I was too far behind the game. Should have done something more, seen something more. The heavy weight of responsibility and disappointment settled on my shoulders.

  Galina sighed, the sound hitching in the middle. “I shouldn’t have let him go. I thought the danger was past.”

  It was and it wasn’t. “It was.” The carbonation crept past the blockage in my throat, I exhaled beer and the taste of failure onto the glass. Faint condensation swirled. “Sorry about your bed.”

  She was quiet for a long few seconds. Nerving herself up to it, probably. “It’s what it’s there for. Jill—”

  Christ, Galina, if you apologize one more time… “Did you say something about food? I’m starving.”

  “Coming right up.” Mercifully, she left it at that. “Theron brought you some clothes. He says your house is clean, no more hellbreed. I’ve got to call him and let him know you’re awake.”

  “That’d be good.” I kept my stiff back to her. Exhaled again on the window and watched the condensation fade, like a ghost. My head ached. “You got any coffee?”

  “I’ll bring some up to you. You know where the bathroom is.” Again, she hesitated.

  “Food, Galina.” I said it as gently as I could. “I’m not done yet.”

  “You got it.” She turned quick and light as a leaf, and was gone down the stairs.

  I tipped my head back, looking at the slant of the roof. Across the room, the mirror atop her antique cherrywood vanity held my reflection like a black stain. The plaster on her ceiling was in whorls, spiraling in and out.

  The tears trickled from my eyes and vanished into my filthy hair. Jesus. Carp, you asshole. Why didn’t you wait for me?

  When the pressure behind my eyes faded a bit and the smell of something good frying began to waft up the stairs, I tipped my head back down. The street was full of hot liquid sunshine, and there was light traffic. The Charger sat across the street, behind the empty spot that had held Leon’s truck.

  It was a fine-looking piece of heavy American metal. It needed a bit of work to get it into shape, sure, and Monty would roll his eyes when I asked to requisition the car. But there was no reason to let it go into impound.

  No reason at all. Except I didn’t want to drive it, now.

  I turned away from the window and hobbled on my stiff legs toward the other door. Galina had a shower in there, and I needed one. Then as much food as I could stuff into the bowling ball my stomach had become. After that, on to the next thing.

  And if the tears came when I was standing under the hot water, if I made a low hurt sound like a wounded animal, if I scrubbed at my flesh like it was an enemy with her pretty pink floral-scented soap, it was nobody’s business but mine. It was between me and the water, and the water wouldn’t talk. It would carry my tears along with the dried blood, the dirt, and the beer I vomited back up down below the city into the dark.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  It felt strange to walk into the precinct house again. Nobody said a word, but conversation failed when I appeared and turned into a tide of whispers in my wake. I stalked up to Montaigne’s office, ignoring the nervous looks and whispers both.

  Who among them was happy I was alive?

  Who wasn’t? Which one of them had a secret and an assault rifle? And access to a blue Buick? And a connection to Harvill?

  I might never know now, if he kept his head down and his mouth shut.

  Monty was out, so I stepped into his office and waited. When he stamped into view, armed with a load of paper and a scowl, I had to fold my arms and school my face. A relieved grin wouldn’t help him in this mood.

  He grunted. “Jesus fucking Christ. There you are.”

  “You don’t look happy to see me.” I stepped aside, let him lug his papers past me. “Are you okay?”

  He gave me a look that could have peeled paint. “I got to buy more Tums. I got a dead DA and two more dead cops—”

  I winced internally. “Leon explained it all?”

  He swept the door closed with his foot and dropped the pile of paper on his desk. “You see this? These are the forms I have to fill out. You burned down an entire goddamn airfield, Kismet. You’re a menace to property.”

  “It’s better than the alternative.” I didn’t mean to sound harsh, but each word was edged. Better than some sort of poison engineered from scurf taking over my city and a high-up hellbreed waltzing through.

  �
�Jesus, don’t you think I know?” He dropped down behind his desk and regarded me. “He saw something, didn’t he. Carper.”

  You could say that. “He got tangled up in nightside business. There was a connection after all.” I swallowed. Galina’s steak and eggs still weren’t convinced they wanted to stay down. “How much do you want me to tell you, Monty?”

  He considered it for a long thirty seconds, then reached down in his desk drawer. “You want a drink?” He brought out the Jack Daniels, amber liquid shaking inside the bottle. There was half of it left. Bully for him.

  Oh, Monty. I nodded, not trusting my voice.

  He actually rustled up two almost-clean coffee mugs, one with a badge in worn gold foil and the other with a picture of a disgusted-looking hippo on it. Both were probably from his house. He poured me a generous measure, himself a little less generous one, and we both knocked back without waiting.

  That way, I could pretend the slow leaking from my eyes was a result of the booze scorching my throat and uneasy stomach.

  The short silence between us no longer had sharp edges. “Ballistics on the DA didn’t come up with a goddamn thing. It’s a clean gun. Goddamn.22s are like fuckin’ cell phones, everyone’s got one.” He set his cup down. “No more disappearances on the east side. The papers are calling Harvill a fucking saint and the airfield’s blamed on a propane tank explosion.” Monty rubbed at his tired eyes.

  Nice and neat. Everything smoothed over. “Bernardino’s car is parked out front. Stick it in impound.” I set my own mug down, balanced carefully on the messy stack of paper.

  “You sure? I mean, what with your car and all…”

  “I’m sure. I don’t want to clean the fucker out.” I licked the last traces of whiskey away. “Carp was clean, Monty.”

  “And Marv wasn’t?” He set his jaw.

  I opened my mouth to tell him the truth, shut it. He already knew. There was no point in putting salt on that wound. Instead, I looked past him, to the picture of his wife propped right next to a dormant computer monitor. “How’s Rosenfeld taking it?”

  A single shrug, his shoulder holster peeping out from under his jacket. “Dealing, I guess. The funeral’s Saturday.”

  Tomorrow. I nodded. Silver shifted in my hair. “I’ll be there. Anything else?” My cheeks stung, but I didn’t wipe at them.

  “Not much. There was a warehouse fire down near the railyards. The 3700 block of Cherry. Whole place was burned down. Some interesting wreckage in there, but not anything to go on.”

  “Hm.” I contented myself with a noncommittal noise. Cold air blew against my wet cheeks, drying them.

  “Other than that, quiet as the western front out there. No weirdness. Just garden-variety rapes, murders, and larceny.”

  “Glad to see everything’s back to normal.” I straightened. “Thanks for the drink. I’ll be in touch—I need another pager, too.” Since my last two have died inglorious deaths.

  “Jesus H. A menace to property.” He waved me away. “Go burn down something else, will you? I’d hate to get bored.”

  “Have a nice evening, Monty.” I turned on my heel and headed for the door.

  “Jill?”

  I stopped, one hand on the doorknob. The noise from outside—phones ringing, people talking, breathing, working—faded. “What?”

  I don’t know what I expected him to say. Why would he thank me? But at least he knew, now. There wasn’t the nagging doubt.

  It’s cold comfort. Sometimes knowing doesn’t help. Sometimes understanding doesn’t even help. It just drives the knife in deeper.

  He cleared his throat. “Glad you’re around. Now get the fuck out of my office.”

  A police funeral has its own etiquette. In some places, bagpipers play. Here in Santa Luz there’s the official ceremony, and then the wake, usually in the back room at Costanza’s Pub downtown.

  Hunters don’t go to those.

  Saturday dawned bright and fresh. I hadn’t slept yet, but I’d made sure I was wearing my tiger’s eye rosary and my dagger earrings. I’d hosed off my trench coat, so it was at least clean, if torn and a bit shabby.

  He had a full escort of blues, and they laid him to rest in Beacon Hill’s lush greenness, under the trees. I stood in the shadow of a century-old oak in the south corner of the cemetery, watching, my hand against the treetrunk.

  Monty was there, and Rosenfeld. Rosie’s hair was on fire under the fierce desert sun; she wouldn’t stand under the portable awning. The glitters of her dress uniform were sharp enough to cut diamonds.

  The scar puckered hungrily, tasting the tang of misery and grief riding the air. Mikhail’s headstone is in the northern half of Hill, where there was a good view of the rest of the valley, a light scum of smog lingering against the rising towers of downtown.

  I know that view like the back of my hand.

  There was Lefty Perez from Vice, and “Fuckitall” Ramon. Other familiar faces—Anderson, McGill, “Shooter” Kirby and Rice, all from the Vice Squad. Sullivan and the Badger from Homicide, the Badger’s gray hair pulled severely back, shoulders square. Carson and Mathers from Homicide too, and Frank Capretta. Some rookies, and some blues, all dressed their best. Piper and Foster, from Forensics. Other faces I put names to, matching them up slowly.

  I knew them all, and drew deeper into the shadows under the tree. The chaplain’s voice reached me in fits and starts, carried by the faint wind from the river, smelling of greenness and mineral water.

  There was no blue Buick parked on the single strip of asphalt cutting through the rolling green. I hadn’t expected it, but it was a relief.

  Soft footsteps behind me. I didn’t turn around.

  “I should kick your ass,” Theron murmured.

  Just try it, Were. My hand tightened, loosened on the treetrunk, Mikhail’s apprentice-ring closed around the third finger. “Show some respect.”

  “Sorry.” And he was. “You gave me a scare, Jill.”

  It was my turn to apologize. “Sorry.”

  Silence. The chaplain stopped, then the recital began as the coffin lowered slowly into the waiting darkness.

  I duly swear myself to the service of the citizens of Santa Luz, to protect and to succor. I swear to act without fear or favor, to protect the innocent and to safeguard the living. I swear to be honest and true, to be a servant of the law, and to do my best each and every day, so that the citizens who place their trust in me are well and truly served by the power of Justice.

  I mouthed it along with them. Hunters have their prayer, I suppose cops are no different.

  A few of them said Amen afterward. Very quietly.

  My chest hurt, a sharp tearing pain. Something too sharp and smoking-hot to be grief loaded the back of my throat. My fingers tightened on rough treebark, I dropped my hand to my side, shook out the fingers so they were nice and loose.

  “Gilberto sends his regards,” Theron said softly. He stood so close I could feel the heat of his metabolism, but he carefully didn’t touch me. “He says he owes you a beer.”

  I nodded. “Tell him…” What, that he’s safe? That I watched him commit a murder and didn’t interfere? “Tell him I understand.” And that he’d better not get in the habit of killing people in my city.

  Rosie stepped forward. Neither of Carp’s ex-wives were here, and even if they had been Rosie probably still would have been the one to take the small shovel and scatter the first handful of dirt into the hole.

  I heard it clearly, small pebbles striking the roof of the coffin. A hollow sound of finality.

  “The warehouse on Cherry is cleaned out,” Theron continued, in a monotone. “No sign of scurf. We found an evocation altar downstairs in the Kat Klub. Looked pretty nasty.”

  “Leon told me.” I swallowed sourness. This morning’s breakfast had been a few mouthfuls of vodka, the sting relished before I hit the door running. “You’re good backup, Theron. Thanks.”

  He let out a sound that might have been a dissatisfied sigh,
smothered in respect for the dead sleeping all around. “Saul’s been calling. He’s pretty upset. I haven’t been home much.”

  Shit. But it was a Were’s tactfulness, asking me what I wanted him to say. If he and Leon had thought I was in serious trouble, or dead, Theron would have been the one to bring Saul the bad news.

  It would not have been pretty.

  I braced myself. “Neither have I. But I’ll get hold of him soon. Let me talk to him.” In other words, Theron, this stays between you and me.

  He absorbed it. “How close was it, Jill?”

  What do you want me to tell you? “Close enough. I can’t count this one a win.” I stared unseeing at the tableau around the open, yawning grave, a mound of dirt covered with Astroturf sitting neglected to one side. Rosie’s chin was up. Monty had his arms folded, his shoulders slumped. Sullivan looked down at the ground, Piper’s cheeks were wet.

  “City’s still standing. And that ’breed who ran the Kat Klub—”

  “She’s dead.” I said it too quickly, on a breathy scree of air. Carp, I avenged you without knowing. I wish I could do it again.

  Sometimes avenging isn’t enough. They don’t tell you that when you’re training. You have to learn it on your own. It is one of the lessons that makes you a hunter, not an apprentice.

  The service began to break up. The honor guard marched away to their flashing vehicles; the knot of uniforms and suits at the graveside fraying. Theron watched with me, in silence. Monty stayed while car doors slammed and engines started.

  So did Rosie.

  The chaplain, an unassuming, balding little man in a black suit, exchanged a few words with Monty, who neatly cut him away from Rosie. She stood in the sun, her hair throwing back its light with a vengeance, her hands knotted into bloodless fists at her sides. She stared at the hole in the ground, then lifted her head, scanning the cemetery’s rolling greenness.

  I made a restless movement. Theron was still, the peculiar immobility of a cat Were.