“Liar!” Michiko screamed, just before she charged.
La Patrona smiled victoriously, as if she’d properly baited her opponent, but the smile was short-lived. Michiko halted her advance on a dime, sidestepped to the left and swung her sword perfectly to strike the charging Addie, who thought she had an opening. The girl erupted in a ball of red flames and disappeared.
“How? How did you do that? You can’t send—”
“I can do many things, demon spawn. Having wandered your lands, I know its coordinates just fine. She’s been teleported there, and she won’t be back anytime soon.”
Her face going from shock to rage, La Patrona reached into her vest and flashed two small throwing knives in each hand, which she cast at Michiko with stunning accuracy. Three were deflected by Michiko’s sword, but the fourth found flesh, striking her in the left side. She winced and turned to strike at Tabitha, but it was too late. She had breached the right flank and was charging directly at Father Soltera.
Michiko grabbed the short sword in her belt, crouched and threw it sideways towards Tabitha. It struck a glancing blow off of her calf but that was all. Still, it was enough to at least slow her. But the move had cost Michiko two more strikes from La Patrona’s throwing knives, one to her left thigh and the other to her left shoulder. Four more blades came, but these Michiko deflected off into the trees with her sword.
“Run, tomodachi!” Michiko shouted. “Look for the stairs, just beyond a narrow river, underneath Japanese elm trees. Go!”
Father Soltera hesitated, not wanting to abandon her, but the look in her eyes was commanding, so he turned on his heels and began sprinting as fast as he could.
That was when Maggie Kincaid came to his mind, like a vast weight. Then? A vision of a room and three witches and evil men was projected, like a movie, against the dark green forest canopy around him. What it showed made his heart stop. Maggie was tied to a post. And Luisa . . . Luisa was on an altar, about to be . . . harmed. The witches were gathered around. They wanted her baby.
“No,” Father Soltera said under his breath.
They were drawing an incision line on her stomach.
“Noooooo!” Father Soltera screamed, falling to his knees immediately. He sucked air, then clutched in agony at his temples. But now, on his knees, he was eye-level with Tabitha, who had stopped not ten yards away to watch the vision, too.
The witches in that far-off place looked up suddenly. As if they saw her just as she was seeing them. Then one of the witches, the one that Father Soltera sensed had the most power, made a beckoning motion to Tabitha. “Come, child,” she said. “We’ve been waiting for you. Come.” And her words came in a raspy echo that seemed to vibrate in the air.
Tabitha looked at him and their eyes locked, for the briefest of seconds, before she looked to the woods beyond him. “Run to The Stairway and come to us,” the old witch said encouragingly. “Then you can drink all the blood you ever wanted.”
Gleefully, Tabitha abandoned all pursuit of Father Soltera, indeed she charged right past him and towards the woods beyond.
“Michiko!” Father Soltera screamed as he tried to scramble to his feet.
Father Soltera saw Michiko swiftly pull the blades in her body out with one hand, spin and hurl them at La Patrona, who stumbled backwards in the effort to fend them off.
Then, incredibly, Michiko spun again, this time casting a ball of iridescent light at Tabitha. It struck her square in the back but did not knock her over or vaporize her. Instead, it seemed to be another time warp of some kind. Tabitha, looking stunned and extremely frustrated, was reduced to moving in super-slow motion, her darting eyes the only thing that remained in real time. Her right foot was slowly rising from the ground, her left foot slowly digging in, her arms now looking as if they were pumping their way through wet cement.
Father Soltera scrambled backwards on his back, unable to banish the vision, still seeing Luisa screaming and crying for help.
“Oh, Father. My God. No. Please. No. Help them.”
Tabitha was struggling mightily to speed up her advance. To make her way to the same place he was trying to get to: The Stairway. The gateway out of here and back to the real world. If she got their first . . .
La Patrona hurled a throwing star at Michiko’s head, which barely missed, before producing four more knives. Again, two in each hand, balanced there between her thumbs and the bridge of her index fingers. Balancing, waiting.
Michiko glanced over at Tabitha and Father Soltera with grave concern in her face before being forced to turn her attention back to La Patrona. Michiko took her sword and spun it in swift circles, twice to her left side and twice to her right. As if trying to provoke the fight to a conclusion.
“I’m going to kill you, little angel,” La Patrona said with sneer.
Michiko lowered her chin and spat on the ground with contempt. “Promises, promises.”
Hector sat at a table in the corner of the cafeteria, not by himself but keeping to himself, as he contemplated a line in the book opened up before him. Sometimes it helped him to say the words out loud. They stuck in his head better that way for some reason. But in here, he wanted to keep the process more private, so he whispered them instead: “Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.”
He’d made the call to the LAPD’s Central Station as The Gray Man had told him to, and now he was sick to his stomach. The breakfast tray before him was stark and depressing, consisting of hash browns, two hard-boiled eggs, a slice of toast, a banana and a small boxed orange juice. He’d filled a Styrofoam cup with coffee, but it was so bad he’d only managed a few sips. It was too bitter, even with five packets of sugar, and was now trying to claw its way back out up his throat. Using his spork, he pushed around one of the hard-boiled eggs on his plate, mindlessly guiding it over the hash browns and down the curving length of the banana.
Detective Murillo had been in (Hector was hoping he would not be) and he listened carefully to the message (Hector was hoping he would call him crazy and just hang up). For a cop, he sounded pretty chill, until the call was nearly over. Then he’d pressed a bit. “What’s going on?” he said, his voicing sounding hesitant. But then, like a man who knew he didn’t want to know what he didn’t want to know, he’d just as quickly said, “Never mind.” Then he hung up.
What was getting to Hector now, more than the demons in the hallways or the creatures he was now beginning to see working the perimeter of the yard outside, was the feeling he had inside himself. It was a weight—no, a burden. Like an inner demon. The heavy burden of knowing that he’d taken another man’s life and—maybe even worse—the feeling that the burden was permanent. It was never going to fade away. It would be with him every morning when he woke up, the knowledge that, because of him, another human being in the world was never going to wake up again. The burden was a special kind of pain: pervasive and haunting. He was beginning to feel that it was going to be too much to bear. Period. But he had to try.
So, again, he repeated the words from Kahlil Gibran. This time, three or four times, not noticing that Curtis had come up behind him. “What’s that you sayin’, lil homie?”
Hector cleared his throat and answered sheepishly. “Just some stuff I read in this book.”
“Ah. My man, Hector. Always with the books, huh?” Curtis said with a smile and a shake of his head. Sitting down across from Hector with his breakfast tray, he somberly added, “Tell me something, lil homie: did any of those fancy-ass books of yours keep you from ending up in here?”
Hector shook his head. “No. I guess not.”
“Nope. They didn’t. Books are for rich folks who have gardeners and worry about getting oil spots from their car on the driveway. They ain’t us, Holmes. And we ain’t them.”
The bars over a nearby window were casting shadow lines from the muted sun outside across Curtis’ face. Hector took a good long look at him. His mentor. His leader. His left ear was missing a chunk from
the lobe which a little gangster over on Eleventh Street had bitten off while on the losing end of a fist fight. Under his left eye were three teardrops, back when such markings were fashionable and bragging about your kills was a badge of honor. Back before the Feds brought the same RICO laws into play that they’d used against the Italian Mafia in New York to start breaking up the LA gangs. Now, gang markings naming your affiliation or claiming your exact deeds were photographed, cataloged and documented. Like inked on rap sheets. And, as such, they were more frowned upon.
Curtis’ head was freshly shaved and his dark brown eyes, as always, were lying flat below his eyelids, which were darker than the rest of his face. His smile, which he had just flashed at another inmate walking by, revealed crooked teeth, one top front tooth covered with a gold cap. As he dug into his breakfast, Hector also noticed his hands. Over the knuckles of his right hand were tattooed the letters H-A-R-D in black. On the knuckles over his left hand, the letters L-U-C-K. Beneath each knuckle on both hands were the repeating card suits in color: a spade, a club, a diamond and a heart. He looked the same, in many ways, but still seemed different somehow.
“So,” Curtis said as he took a bite of one of his hard-boiled eggs. “What’d your defense attorney get you?”
Hector laughed. “Not much. The DA tabled nixing the death penalty for a full confession on his own. Yeah. My guy chirped about me being under the influence of alcohol and all that, which helped muddy the waters. But I’m thinking, ya know, a good attorney maybe coulda kept me from a life sentence.”
“Maybe. Probably not likely, though. You killed that dude and crippled Marisol, bro.”
Hector winced. “Don’t say that, man.”
“What?”
“Don’t talk about Marisol,” Hector said, anger flooding his voice. He still couldn’t process that part of it. Not at all.
Normally, back out on the streets, Curtis didn’t take well to being told what to do by a subordinate. But, again, Hector noticed he had changed. After looking like he was going to press the topic, he instead leaned back and fell silent. After a few moments he calmly said, “I told you we were going to have to square up on that.”
“Dude.” Hector put both hands flat on the table and took a deep breath. “I can’t talk about her. I can’t, bro. Not yet.”
Curtis looked him up and down. Hard.
“Please, bro,” Hector added respectfully.
Finally, the old Curtis flashed back. The older brother, sometimes even the father figure, something Hector never had, looked at him with both care and not a little bit of contempt. It was a look that said “I got you, but you’ve disappointed me” at best, “You’re pathetic and weak” at worst.
Unable to bear his gaze, Hector looked away and forced himself to choke down his breakfast. Because he did feel pathetic. And weak. But he didn’t care anymore.
“So,” Curtis said with a deep sigh, “I’m bringing you into the fold. You know that, right?”
“I was hoping so,” Hector answered quietly, “but I wasn’t totally sure.”
“Yeah. Me neither.”
Hector looked up, wounded.
Curtis smiled. “Just playin’, lil homie. Don’t get your panties up your ass crack, bitch.”
But it was a reminder of how cruel Curtis could be if he was mad at you. Joking about leaving a guy uncovered in prison was not cool, and Curtis had the sway to tell everyone to stay away from Hector if he wanted. That would leave Hector with no affiliation and the same death sentence he’d managed to avoid with the DA.
“Fill me in on the outside,” Curtis mumbled as he began peeling his nearly spoiled banana.
“I gave Burro the lead.”
Curtis laughed. “Pinche Burro?!”
“Yeah. I know. But he was hustling the hardest, every day out there. Like always.”
“Burro’s a grunt. Of course he hustles. He’s too stupid to be anything but a grunt, though. He challenge you?”
It was a trick question. That was old news that Curtis would know by now.
“Yeah. I beat his ass back into line. Then . . . this.”
“And what’s that mean to those that are loyal to—”
“I made Burro swear to leave Bennie and Chico untouched when I was going down for the shooting.”
“You don’t really believe he’ll do that, do you?”
“I figured maybe, as long as they backed off and let him be. When I was in court, I had a chance to speak with them both. Told them to stand down and lay low.”
Curtis smiled. “Because you knew, didn’t you?”
Hector looked down. “Knew what?”
“Shoooooooot,” Curtis said with a chuckle. “All them books you read, homie? You know what they don’t change about you, Hector? Not one bit?”
Swallowing hard, Hector looked back up at him. “What?”
“You are one ruthless bastard, my man. I mean . . . shit. Hymie proved that. You’re own cousin. Set his ass up to get straight-up aced. I mean, I was both impressed by that and . . . I dunno, man. That’s some chilling shit right there. I figured, ah, Hector’s learned some of his lessons from me a little too well!” Curtis laughed so hard that he rocked back and forth in his place at the table. “But then this: on the same night that you shoot your girl, you go and promote someone to take over the gang that you know I’m never going to accept—which means Burro’s headed for a ditch somewhere.”
He’d brought up Marisol again, but Hector knew better than to challenge him this time. An awkwardness had joined them at the table, and Curtis’ eyes were a bit wild now as he went on. “Man, homie. You know what? Now that I think about it? Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe them books are teaching you up real good. ’Cause, I mean, that’s some stone-cold chilling shit right there, Hector. You a killer . . . planning even more killings . . . as you were getting ready to kill someone. Sh-eeeee-it!” He squinted at Hector. “Maybe I’m underestimating you, homie. Maybe I been underestimating you all along.”
Hector wasted no time. He knew better. Gritting his teeth, he looked firmly and seriously at Curtis. “I’m loyal. Always have been. I have never, ever betrayed you. Marisol was my only screw-up and I’ll make it right. I will. But even Hymie went down because we agreed it had to happen. That was my blood, man. But so are you.”
“Hector—”
“Nah, man,” Hector said, throwing his hands up in the air and half standing, his heart filling with a tidal wave of emotion. “Just do me, right now. If anyone is going to kill me, Holmes? Let it be you. Let the only person that probably ever cared about me in the world be the one to check me out of the world.”
A few inmates at a nearby table looked over but everyone else was lost in their own conversations. Curtis looked them off. When his gaze returned to Hector, it had softened. “Calmaté, Holmes . . . I get it. Stop with the drama. I believe you. Now sit down.”
Hector did as he was told.
Then, with the last bite of his banana, Curtis nonchalantly said, “Anyway, we’ll deal with the Burro situation later. Right now, we gotta talk about Flacco.”
“Flacco? What? Did his transfer to my cell get hung up or something?”
Curtis gave an alarming grimace as he looked around quickly, then leaned in close. “We got orders from up on high.”
A slow nod came from Hector. He knew that grimace and he knew it meant nothing good.
Curtis sighed. “Flacco’s gotta get aced.”
And there it was.
“Shit! What?”
“Yeah. I know. He did something to upset the big guy. I dunno what, and the whole thing sounds kinda shaky, but you know how it works.”
“When?”
“Tonight. After dinner. In the cafeteria.”
Hector held his breath. What was he going to do if Curtis asked him to do the deed? He needn’t have worried. When Curtis spoke next, his face was grim. “And it’s me that’s gotta do it.”
“You?” Hector said, feeling stupid for being surprised. Of cours
e, it was Curtis. This was it. This was the moment that Hector had been sent here to stop: Flacco’s murder.
“Unusual, I know. But some parley of some kind is in play, up top. I do this, I get more time, but another step up the ladder, too,” Curtis answered with a sigh. Then he said something odd that resonated with Hector instantly. No. Not with him, but in him. Hector felt the blue in his veins pulse ever so slightly.
“It ain’t pretty,” Curtis said, “but ever since that Güero guy showed up years ago it’s been getting uglier and uglier.”
At first, Hector was thrown off by his body’s response. He felt slightly nauseated, but he concentrated. The blue was pulsing now. This was important. Someway. Somehow. “Yeah. I know. Dude’s like some sorta mystery or some shit. What’s his story, anyway?”
Curtis cleared his throat and looked around. “Man. You don’t wanna know, lil homie. Trust. The shit this guy does . . . I seen it once, at a party over by a warehouse in Hollenbeck. End of the year party or some shit, celebrating our splits and stuff. Everyone was high on coke and booze, so it mighta just been that but . . . this is when he was first getting started, dig?”
Hector leaned into the story and nodded. “Yeah.”
“He’s showing off. Has some honey half naked on his lap, tossing bills around like he’s in a rap video. Then? He sees this damn cat. No joke—a black cat. It come up to him like they’re best friends and without even hesitating, do you know what he does?”
“What?”
“Picks it up and snaps its neck!”
“Nah!”
“I know, right? People flipped the hell out. Some thought it was funny, others were just straight trippin’. But this fool? He ain’t done. You know what he does next?”
“What?”
“He gets up. Puts the cat on a picnic table—now, remember, I’m watchin’ all this shit go down right in front of my face—and he starts blabbing some mumbo jumbo. Then? He waves his hand over the dead cat and up it pops, good as new.”
The Parker Trilogy Page 73