The Parker Trilogy

by Tony Faggioli

  The Korean gang asswipes were of no concern. But Güero Martinez was a big deal, and if Ramon had told Güero anything about Hector—to hype him up a bit or prep him for a promotion in the gang, like he’d hinted he was going to do—then Hector had grossly embarrassed the acting leader of his own gang. Ramon might’ve ordered this without Curtis even knowing it. And using a rival gang to do the deed for some side deal would be the perfect way to cover his tracks.

  It was dirty, but as another round of punches dug into his chest and stomach, Hector smiled bitterly. It wasn’t dirty in his case. No. Instead, it was poetic justice. Because Hector had done this same thing to Hymie, hadn’t he?

  Hector’s whole body was hot, no doubt from all the adrenaline lacing his veins. The last homie, with fat cheeks, pulled him up by his collar and held him in place. The bulky guy was still whimpering away in the corner, his hands over his crotch, but the faces of the remaining three crammed into Hector’s vision.

  Three faces, inches away, with mocking sneers.

  “Okay, listen up, puto,” the homie in charge seethed. “We been sent to give you a message.”

  Gagging partially on a small pool of blood that had collected at the back of his throat, Hector painfully twisted his face against his wounds. “W-what?”

  The homie in charge wiped at his own bleeding mouth and licked his tongue over the lines of red that had filled in between his teeth before he continued. “You screwed up, bitch. You brought attention to someone who didn’t want no attention, you understand?”

  Hector wanted to answer but the world was going hazy. Instead he fixed his gaze on the lead homie’s eyes and squinted.

  “Yeah. I think you understand. The Big Guy says you owe him now, for embarrassing him like that.”

  “Tell Ramon I’m s-sorry?” Hector managed, loathing himself for saying the words, but desperate to save himself.

  The homie looked at him confused. “Who? No man . . . I ain’t talking the boss of your shit gang. I’m talking about The Big Boss.”

  The tall guy leaned down to Hector’s ear, and when he spoke the word, it almost sounded like a growl. “Güero.”

  Hector blinked and studied his face more closely when he pulled back again; no black eyes, no red eyes. Same with the others. They were all human.

  “We’re almost outta time, so I’m only gonna get to say this once. You listening?” the homie in charge asked.

  Hector nodded.

  “Güero says you owe him now, and you either pay up, or your friends, Chico and Bennie? They gonna get offed. And so will your ex-girl, the whore you shot who’s in the hospital.” He grabbed Hector viciously and pulled him so close they were nose to nose. “Look at me, puto!”

  Blinking to stay conscious, Hector did as he was told.

  “Now, just so you know,” the lead homie said with a smile, “Güero don’t make no threats he don’t follow up on, okay?”

  Again, Hector nodded.

  “And I promise you this . . . your girl? I’ll rape her a few times in that hospital bed before I off her.”

  The tall guy sniggered like an idiot. “He’s gonna do her before he does her.”

  There was a round of chuckles—even the bulky homie, who had finally managed to sit up in the corner, was laughing.

  Hector convulsed in rage, trying to rouse his body to fight again, but they forced him flat on his back.

  There was a commotion coming from down the hall. No doubt it had been agreed ahead of time that the sheriff on the take would alert his buddies after a certain amount of time, so it wouldn’t be obvious that this had all been planned.

  All three of his tormenters glanced quickly over their shoulders and then back to Hector.

  “Now. Also know this. The Big Boss is a man of his word. You do as you’re asked, your little pussy Vato buddies go untouched and your whore can go find herself another sancho, got it?”

  Hector grunted in rage, then reluctantly replied. “Yeah.”

  “Good. Here it is: you’re gonna get transferred to Corcoran, right after your arraignment. You know who’s there, right?”

  A wave of confusion hit him first and Hector realized that he no doubt had a concussion, because the cobwebs in his mind were thick and unmoving. Finally, it clicked, and when it did Hector had a sinking feeling. He nodded.

  “Say it, puto. Who’s there?”

  “Curtis,” Hector answered in a hoarse whisper.

  “That’s right! Good boy! And when you get there? It’s simple,” he said with a huge smile. “You gonna kill Curtis, got it?”

  The cobwebs in Hector’s mind gave way to the wind of horror that swept through him and knocked him speechless.

  The sheriffs were coming up fast on the cell.

  “You understand?” the tall guy pressed.

  “Say it!” the homie in charge demanded.

  Despite himself, and with a sense of self-loathing that made him nauseous, Hector answered him. “Yes.”

  The cell door opened and there was an explosion of activity all around him as a half-dozen sheriffs flooded in and grabbed his attackers and pulled them away, one by one.

  The sheriff that had let it all happen stood over Hector and spoke into his radio for someone to get a medic to cell H215. Carrying out his acting job to perfection, he even turned to his buddies and said with concern in his voice, “Man. This poor guy is pretty jacked up.”

  It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. The world was full of liars and frauds and the worst kind of people.

  And now Hector was one of them; he’d just promised to kill the very man that The Gray Man had told him he had to save.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Father Soltera fell backwards under The Gossamer Lady’s charge and grabbed at her collarbones with both hands in an attempt to hold her fangs at bay as they scraped first against his right ear then at his throat below. Pushing her away with all his strength, he saw out the corner of his left eye that the goldfish was swimming frantically against her cheek. This close to her, Father Soltera could smell her hair—a mix of kelp and rotting meat—which made him gag.

  At ground level now, the wolves all around him looked like giants, their massive paws padding toward him ominously. One ran up and bit at the pant leg around his left ankle and he kicked at it desperately.

  Something crashed violently into The Gossamer Lady, knocking her sideways. At first, Father Soltera thought it was Michiko, but then to his stunned amazement he saw it was Ikuro, his face twisted in a remorseful look of desperation.

  No! Father Soltera thought.

  But it was too late. The wolves set upon Ikuro instantly, jumping on his back and smashing him face first into the mossy soil.

  Getting to his knees, Father Soltera looked toward The Gossamer Lady. She had landed on all fours and her back was arched as she dug her splayed fingers into the ground. She looked like she was ready to lunge at any second, the bird over her head beyond frantic, its desperate attempts to escape now only causing it to get more and more twisted in the strands of her hair.

  But nothing was worse than The Gossamer Lady’s eyes; they had gone a red so deep that it could only be the fiery glow of hell gazing at him now as she playfully clicked her fangs together and gave him a hateful stare.

  He needed help. There was no way he could defeat her on his own. Frantically, he looked around for Michiko. But his hope was smashed when he saw that she was many yards away, her swords flashing from left to right and back again in rotating arcs as she pivoted and attacked, trying desperately to hold the rest of the wolves at bay.

  The Gossamer Lady launched herself, up and over Ikuro and the wolves that were tearing at his back, before she landed on Father Soltera, again knocking him flat on his back. This time, though, she straddled his waist, squeezing her thighs against his hips as she pushed her pelvis against his.

  “Is this what you want, lover boy?” She smiled.

  “Stop!” Father Soltera screamed.

  “Why? Why sto
p, baby? My sister said you almost took her offer . . . that you really, really wanted to.”

  Her sister? Father Soltera remembered the beautiful woman with all the girls who had visited his bedroom, back in the real world. Could it be? Could they be . . .

  The resemblance now was obvious. The Gossamer Lady was just a—

  “Rotting, drowned, dead sort of version of her?” she spat, her eyes flashing with pain and hurt.

  Father Soltera said nothing. Instead, he gripped at her hands, which were digging into his chest and pinning him down.

  “I used to be as pretty as her. Until I came here and began to spoil. We all spoil here, Father. Like milk left out in the sun. It doesn’t take long to go rancid. You don’t realize it yet, but the process has already begun in you.”

  “Get off me!” he yelled as her nails scraped against his chest, tearing his shirt and burning his flesh.

  The sky had gone pitch black. A void. An ending. This was an ending.

  Ikuro was screaming next to him as a second wolf began to bite and pull on his shoulder. A rapidly flashing blue light kept flickering through the air, illuminating the backs of the wolves and the side of The Gossamer Lady’s face, the yelps accompanying it revealing the source to be Michiko’s long sword, which had alighted and was doing its work against all the odds.

  “You . . . silly, pathetic man. You still think you’re better than that, don’t you?” The Gossamer Lady spat.

  “Better than what?”

  “Your pride is such a turn on, lover boy.”

  Father Soltera grimaced in revulsion. “What?”

  “You’re a superior sort of man, aren’t you? The kind who doesn’t need a woman. Or need to want one.”

  “I never—”

  “Oh, your God must really be at the end of his rope with you to put you here. You and your superior sense of self.”

  “Shut up!”

  “All this remorse and self-absorption. What? Just because you liked a girl?” she said with a smile, as the goldfish skittered from her cheek, up across her forehead and down the side of her other cheek, navigating the reef of her facial expressions. This close to her, Father Soltera could see that whenever it paused, it took time to feed on the dead bits of skin flaking off her face, its mouth opening and closing in nibbles and gobs.

  His heart swelled with emotion. “I don’t want to talk about this!”

  “Of course you don’t. Because even worse . . . gag . . . you loved her? C’mon now. Weren’t you only supposed to love your—”

  “My Lord Jesus, yes!”

  She recoiled a bit from the name and then scoffed. “Yes. That. So much for devotion. Because you’re special, or at least you like to think you are.”

  His frustration grew, because he knew she was right.

  She laughed. “Instead, you proved to be just as common as the rest of your ilk—ruled by your lust, in spite of your faith. Ain’t that right, baby?”

  She was grinding against him again, trying to get him aroused.

  More blue flashes erupted all around, but then came a cry of pain from Michiko. Ikuro, meanwhile, in the desperate thrashing of someone trying not to die, had managed to roll to one side and was grabbing weakly at one of the wolves that was trying to get to his neck.

  “Stop it!” Father Soltera yelled helplessly. “This has to stop.”

  “Father?” The Gossamer Lady said mockingly. “I’ve got news for you. Wanna know what it is?”

  “No! Shut up. Just shut up!”

  “You’re no better than any of them. No matter how much you pray, no matter how much time you spend in that silly book of yours, no matter what clothes you wear or how often you make yourself feel good with your little speeches of false hope every, single Sunday? You’re always, always, always just one inch away from the reach of my father.”

  Her eyes began to blossom with a red glow so intense that it was melting her eyelids and causing blood to dribble down her cheeks.

  And that’s when Father Soltera saw it: hell. The actual place. Empty. Lonely. A barren landscape of nothing but gut-wrenching loneliness with no end and no beginning.

  “It’s waiting for you, lover boy.” She giggled.

  “No! God, please help me! No!”

  A bolt of lightning flashed across the sky. For a second, he had hope that Maggie had come back somehow. Maybe to help them. Or at least to tell him that Luisa was okay, that all was well. So that at least he could be swallowed by hell with a final thought of relief.

  It wasn’t Maggie.

  But it was.

  He remembered the last seconds he’d seen her; she’d been flapping her arms, over and over, flapping her arms . . .

  Like a bird.

  It took every, single, bitter ounce of strength that Father Soltera had left to force his gaze away from The Gossamer Lady’s eyes and to the trapped dove in her hair.

  The poor creature’s torment was blatantly obvious. Neck craned, albino eyes darting frantically in every direction, its wings so constrained now that it looked as if they might break at any moment. Desperate dove. Loving dove. Black dove.

  But still a bird of peace.

  The next bolt of lightning didn’t need to flash across the sky, because it flashed across Father Soltera’s mind in the form of a stunning realization.

  Abandoning all attempt to defend himself, he released her hands and grabbed at The Gossamer Lady’s hair . . . and began to rip and pull at it like a wild animal, being careful not to get a handful of the dove.

  She screamed and tried to pull away from his reach, but it was no use. He had a good grip and he would die before he would let go. One strand of hair broke, then a dozen more. Pulling her nails from his chest, she grabbed at his wrists, but it was too late.

  The hole he managed to tear in the tangled net of her hair wasn’t big at all, but a trapped animal doesn’t need much room to see freedom. The dove bolted for the opening and broke free, just out of The Gossamer Lady’s reach as she screamed and clutched after it.

  Something in the sky did not like the idea of life in its midst. It recoiled, as if struck by something, and sound waves rippled across it in gray lines that tinged the black and even cracked it in a few places.

  The Gossamer Lady fell off him and jumped up like a child trying to catch a swiftly ascending balloon. “Noooo,” she cried.

  The sound waves were multiplying now, bouncing against the sky and back again, at a pitch he couldn’t hear—but one the wolves clearly could. They began to howl in agony, lowering their heads to the ground and clawing at their ears.

  The dove creased off hard to the right, going from black to gray to white, bright as a tiny speckle of the sun, its wings beating rapidly. Father Soltera realized that it was those wings that were causing the sound waves. The sound was waning, but the wolves had had enough. They fled back into the woods in droves.

  But not The Gossamer Lady. She turned upon him with death in her eyes. “You! I’ll kill you!” With a feral growl, she jumped at him as her dagger-like claws shot from her fingers.

  She never made it.

  Michiko’s blade cut her head clean off her body in mid-leap.

  Maggie was driving down Santa Anita Avenue, approaching Barrows, her attention fixated momentarily on the cement island that ran the length of the street, when everything she was going through hit her and she forced herself to pull over.

  This is crazy. You’re going to get her or yourself killed.

  No. Don’t you lose your nerve now!

  But I’ve just begun to build a life here. I’m starting over. I have a good job. Julie and I are having fun.

  Fun? Are you being serious right now? There’s a young girl in desperate trouble and you’re thinking about “fun”?

  She gripped the steering wheel and dropped her head. It had been a good while since she’d had this sensation—of the gears in her mind slipping at the sharp edges. In the past, she’d had the spirit of her dead grandmother there, somehow, someway, to
talk her through it. Maybe she still could? Maggie knew better, but she tried anyway.

  “Grandma?” she said in the feeblest of whispers.

  Nothing.

  She tried again and then a third time, but in her heart, she knew better; that lifeline to inside information was long gone—to a better, happier place. And that was a good thing. Such a blessing. For her grandmother.

  But for Maggie it just meant more debate.

  Look. I know Luisa is in trouble. I’ve done a lot—more than most would—to help. I have a good idea where she is, and this is when most reasonable people would call the police.

  But the police can’t be—

  Let’s not start that again. Yeah. Just because they couldn’t be trusted in the past doesn’t mean they can’t be now. I should call Detective Murillo. Or Detective Klink. I can tell them not to say a word to Hopkins but to get help to this damn warehouse.

  No. They may be too late, or things could go bad.

  Maggie chuckled to herself and said aloud, “Oh. And things can’t possibly go bad if I go in there alone?”

  Yes, they could. But at least you’d have some sense of control.

  Maggie sneered bitterly. You mean like I did before?

  And there it was: an avoided truth encapsulated in six words. Why now? Why deal with it here? She had no idea. But the truth was, here she was again, going up against a crazy person, trying to save someone. Last time it had been her sister; now it was Luisa.

  A tidal wave of frustration swept through her. “Why is this happening?”

  She knew it was a horribly selfish collection of thoughts to be having right now, but wasn’t this always what happened when you avoided the hard stuff? When you tucked it away and told yourself you’d deal with it later? All the “what ifs” and “maybes,” the guilt born like a stone that Julie was still in therapy over what had happened with Michael, over the choices Maggie had made for love and then her fateful decision to run. Again, she remembered them all. A gallery of people who’d been forced to make payments on her debt of avoidance.