by Adam Connell
“How much did Sotto keep there?” Faraday said.
“Couple hundred.”
“Dollars.”
“Thousand,” Rook said. “Spilled milk?”
“It’ll have to be,” Faraday said.
“Lundin?” Rook said.
“Found in the trunk of a Dodge Coronet bought used sixteen years ago. Kinkaid’s body was in there with him. The car was parked across the street from Tattletail but I had Calder kindly move it. He didn’t look happy, Calder. He looked decidedly miserable. You’re my new Lundin.”
Rook looked down at the table again. His hands. All right, he thought. So that’s how things are. Everyone’s gone. Everyone but me. Rook the stalwart. Rook, you can always count on Rook. Gonna sell the fucking bar. He looked up at Faraday, said, “So who’s the new Kinkaid?”
“There is no new Kinkaid,” Faraday said. “There’s old Big Sir when he gets out in two years.”
Me.
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SEVENTY
Calder bought matching wedding bands so he could come and go as Tamm’s husband.
Tamm’s in a private facility in the Hudson Valley not far from Rockefeller’s Kykuit. He’d had Tamm transported from the city before anyone thought to look in on her.
Nobody knows what became of the teen healer Hoone had brought to the funeral service, that Kinkaid stole from Hoone later. I looked, too, can’t find him.
Calder is still feeling used. By Sotto, the Int, the mayor’s office. The twins had tried, Lundin had tried, even Kinkaid at the end. The sensation hasn’t lost any of its acidity, maybe never will. Probably never will. Rook and Faraday were the only ones who hadn’t, and Calder had no desire to stay for either of them.
New York City had molested him.
Westchester is okay, even Rockland County. But Calder won’t step inside the five boroughs again, he’d swear to that on a Bible.
He plans on avoiding cities the rest of his life, any city complex enough to have train-heavy mass transit. Call it the subway, The T, The Red Line, MARTA, BART, all of them. This is his yardstick. They all translate to congestion, confusion, contention. Washington, D.C.’s Metro.
Buses are fine. Buses are preferable.
He’s already visited Tamm twice, remembering to bring his ring. She learned a lot about him but gave him nothing. Both times Calder prayed that Tamm wouldn’t be there, for better or worse.
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SEVENTY-ONE
Faraday talking to Rook there at The Gossamer, about the twins? He was talking about you, Fish. Half of you. Not Attila. You. You, Piker.
Piker.
Piker, the smarter twin, but got nabbed anyway.
I said the name would be unfamiliar, it’s not the one the courts used. That was your real name, with the lawyers and judges. Piker’s how you’re known in our circles. What those with vocabulary call a moniker. Nickname.
You dumb idiot. You stupid moron, Piker. Those phrases are redundant but they apply. Haven’t you ever seen Forensic Files? Watched a CSI?
Faraday smelled you on Kinkaid when killing him. After his side of the contract was taken care of, he went looking for you. Attila didn’t wash the events with Sotto very well, not from you, not so Faraday couldn’t find it, cause he did. Made you write out a confession. Lamed you, viciously, for working with Kinkaid to oust him. Your memories, unfortunately, gone as well. Revenge.
Had his lawyer bring you to the police. Used his lawyer — like he could use any hack — steered you through the interrogation, confession, the plea, the system, to me. Revenge.
Stupid twins, ending Sotto on carpet. You may have cleaned it of his blood but carpet’s like sin, Piker. You may get forgiveness for the act, but the incident itself will always have happened, forgiveness or no. A carpet’s never entirely clean.
Then there’s the shovels you idiotically left near the grave. Sotto’s grave. Rough wood on those handles, like you mentioned. Your blood and skin flecks on them. Forensics. Idiots, the two of you. Especially Attila, but he’s not the one sharing my cell, is he?
Don’t be expecting Nan to come visit. Faraday meddled with her. Also found the pieces of paper she was hiding to remind herself of herself.
Attila wasn’t in the hotel when Faraday got you. Must’ve been out, I don’t know where. He won’t come visiting either, I’d wager. He’s intelligent enough to be out of the city. Out of the state. The country. Faraday’s a good dowser. Hoone’s way too good a dowser. Off the planet, maybe. International Space Station’s safest place for him. Even then.
So, now, hearing all the terrible things you did, do you think someone like that might feel the need to repent? Ask forgiveness? Atone? Killing Sotto. Faraday’s father. Mauling Faraday in the alley. What else? Spreading the truth about Emmie and Kinkaid at the funeral service. What else?
And how do you feel, Piker? Remorse, regret?
Nothing? You don’t feel any of these things?
I don’t care. I lied about your soul, wanting you to need absolution. I don’t care about your absolution.
What I was hoping, I was praying that hearing all of it would jar something, jog that treadmill between your ears, jostle some chimes.
But I see your memory’s still gone and you’re still lamed. I don’t want that. I want you to remember because I need your talents to rebound.
What I want, Piker, is when you’re released in ten years, eight years after me. You have to promise me something, and be able to perform. You’ll need your abilities back. And you’ll do it because you’ll owe me for restoring you.
What I want, when you’re released, you’ll do one mean thing to Faraday. Not so nasty a thing will destroy him, but it must be truly awful. The act will have no context for Faraday as I’ll have been out and been his best friend for eight years then. Faraday won’t suspect you, you’re lamed.
My revenge. For Faraday always having assumed I was — at least partially — guilty with Saffron. Him thinking I was even slightly a sexual predator like that. Never completely taking my side.
You’ll agree to do this because I’m gonna help you recover.
During those eight years, it’ll cross my mind, out of the blue, your mission, and it’ll make me happy to know it. That something bad is in the mail for Faraday.
I’m a spiteful motherfucker.
I better tell it all to you again, see if it jars anything this time. We can keep doing this. We’ve got two years. I’ll put more emphasis on you, Piker, this time I tell it. Plus you’ll know who you are this time around. That’ll help.
Call me Ishmael.
Fuck that, call me Sir.
Sirs get the top bunk.
Lower bunks are for Fish. That’s Fish, Piker, cause you’re new.
I talk a lot.
###
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APPENDIX:
Summer Canonical Hours
Lauds: First daylight, not precisely sunrise.
[6 a.m. — 7:30 a.m.]
Prime: To start the day’s activities wholeheartedly. The sun is up.
[7:30 a.m. — 9 a.m.]
Terce: Midmorning. By this time of day, monks have been working for several hours.
[9 a.m. — 11:30 a.m.]
Sext: High noon. The sun stands at its peak.
[11:30 a.m. — 3 p.m.]
None: Rhymes with bone. Mid to late afternoon. Daylight begins to decline, shadows to lengthen.
[3 p.m. — 6 p.m.]
Vespers: Before and after sunset. Evening descends.
[6 p.m. — 8 p.m.]
Compline: Preparing for bed, going to bed, and sleeping.
[8 p.m. — 9 p.m.]
Matins: Darkness. The longest Hour. Ends at first daylight.
1st Nocturne: [9 p.m. — 12 a.m.]
2nd Nocturne: [12 a.m. — 3 a.m.]
3rd Nocturne: [3 a.m. — 6 a.m.]
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Author’s Notes
The girl Sotto took from the psychiatric hospital
and brought to the twins. The girl who can physically see the thoughts of others. Her peculiar, particular wild talent is known as enkepathy.
Big Sir is, obviously, a powerful telepath. He is also a Remote Viewer. These two wild talents combined make him very potent.
List of songs played at Tattletail, but not specifically mentioned:
“Love Action” by Human League
“Until You Love Me” by 4 Strings
“La La Love You” by Pixies
“The Love Cats” by The Cure
“Love Tempo” by Quando Quango
“Forced Love” by Sebadoh
“Love Plus One” by Haircut 100
“There’s Too Much Love” by Belle & Sebastian
“Genius Of Love” by Tom Tom Club
“Prove My Love” by Violent Femmes
“Stoned Love” by The Supremes
Add the list above to the one below (of songs already mentioned) to get a Tattletail Mix Tape/Playlist:
“City Of Love” by Persephone’s Bees
“Baby I Love You” by Aretha Franklin
“The Back Of Love” by Echo & The Bunnymen
“Best Of My Love” by The Emotions
“Give You My Lovin” by Mazzy Star
“Love You More” by Armin Van Buuren
“Love You Down” by INOJ
“For Love” by Lush
“Love Rollercoaster” by Ohio Players
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Acknowledgments and Thank You’s
To Paul Goat Allen. Since 2004 and Counterfeit Kings, Paul has been my tireless champion. I could write a book as long as Lay Saints about my indebtedness to him.
To Miguel Ibarra. For his fascinating and daring and wonderful cover. He’s on the Web at www.miguelibarra.com.
To Hector DeJean. My consigliere in all things publishing, and a true and loyal friend.
To Evan Gregory. My vigorous and industrious literary agent.
To Bob Schwager. For his eagle eye and insightful help. The man has 20/10 vision.
As is usually the case, all accuracies are theirs and all mistakes mine.
To Nadine Hom, Kristina Lew, and Alison Lew. Unique in their unwavering support and loyalty.
To Dr. Leslie Saland. For making some truly unbearable times bearable.
To my many fans. Who have waited, some patiently and some impatiently, from Counterfeit Kings till now. Eight long years. My thanks to all.
Most importantly, to my wife Jeannie Connell, my sister Barrie Connell, my mother Leslie Connell, and my father Thomas Connell. For their love.
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About the Author
Adam Connell grew up on Long Island and went to NYU to study English and American Literature. It was at NYU where he met his wife, Jeannie. They live in Westchester.
Connell’s first book, the cult hit Counterfeit Kings, was published in 2004.
Lay Saints is his second novel.
His third novel, Total Secession, will be released as an ebook across all major platforms in August, 2012.
Connell invites you to visit him online:
His Web site: www.adamconnell.net
facebook: www.facebook.com/adamconnellSF
Twitter: twitter.com/ - !/@adamconnellSF