The Other Side: A Novel in the Alastair Stone Chronicles

by R. L. King

  “Come on,” Jason said. “Nobody’s gonna kill anybody tonight. Like I said, we just want answers. And Mickey, you keep those hands where we can see ’em.”

  “Awright, awright!” Toro’s gaze had never left Verity. “Do what they say, guys.”

  “Mickey?”

  “I said do it.”

  The gunman in Verity’s line of sight was shifting his attention between her and the gun floating in midair next to Mickey Toro’s temple. Unlike Toro, he looked terrified by what he was seeing. After a moment’s hesitation, he lowered his gun and put it on Toro’s desk.

  “Rest of you too,” Jason ordered.

  When all the guns except the one pointed at Toro were on the desk, Verity let the shield down. “Jason?”

  Jason removed the magazines from all but one of the guns and stuck them in his pocket, returned the other guns to the desk, and took up a position in front of the door with the loaded one. “It’s okay, V. You can drop it now. Mr. Toro’s gonna talk to us. Right, Mr. Toro?”

  Verity sent the gun pointing at Toro across the room to Jason, who pocketed it along with the magazines. “How about if the rest of you guys just sit down over there where we can keep an eye on you, okay?”

  Toro dropped back into his chair, letting his breath out with a loud whoosh, and nodded at his men. They grumbled, their auras still rolling with unease, but they all lowered themselves to the floor and sat with their backs against the paneled wall. All of them kept looking back and forth between Verity and Toro.

  “So you guys want to know about this Gary Woods bastard, yeah?” Toro seemed to already have recovered from his brief ordeal, though the odd anger still swirled around his aura.

  “Yeah. And David Ames, too,” Jason said. “We know you dropped Gary’s body in that dumpster. But why’d you drop David’s ID on top of him? Were you tryin’ to send some kind of message? And why’d you kill Gary in the first place?”

  “Hold on, hold on,” Toro said, holding up his hands in a stop gesture. “Let’s get somethin’ straight right now—I ain’t sayin’ I killed nobody. Maybe somebody saw me droppin’ somethin’ in a dumpster behind the Pussycat, maybe they didn’t. But nobody saw nobody kill nobody. You follow?”

  “Yeah, okay,” Jason said. “So why’d you drop his body there, and where’s David?”

  Toro snorted. When he answered, he looked not at Jason, but at Verity. “You should ask your girlfriend, kid.”

  Jason frowned, but he didn’t bother to correct Toro’s mistake. “What are you talking about?”

  “Lemme tell ya somethin’ you prob’ly didn’t know. David Ames was the scum of the earth.” His face twisted into a mask of disgust.

  “How so?” Verity asked. “And you said ‘was.’ You know he’s dead too?”

  “Oh, yeah. He got exactly what he deserved, and I ain’t cryin’ over it one fuckin’ bit.”

  “Little hypocritical, you talkin’ about scum,” Jason pointed out. “We know about you guys and what you do here. Extortion, prostitution, drugs—you’re some kind of real upstanding citizens.”

  Toro shrugged. “Ain’t sayin’ nothin’ about that either. But even if it’s true—it’s biz. If it was true—and let’s be straight, I ain’t sayin’ it is—we’d be providin’ a service, is all. I ain’t gonna sit here and debate it with you, so don’t bother tryin’. But lemme ask you this: what would you say if I told you there was a place in town where you could get anything you wanted, no matter how depraved?”

  Jason glanced at Verity and then focused back on Toro, his expression going hard. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean anything. You want it and you can pay for it, they provide it. And what if, say, their most lucrative line of business came from catering to…say…a particular kind of taste?”

  “Come on, spit it out,” Verity said. “What are you talking about?” She was watching his aura; whatever he meant, it legitimately disgusted him. His red-orange aura swirled with more of the anger she’d spotted before.

  “I’m talkin’ about little kids,” Toro said, clenching his fists on the desk. “Girls, boys—it don’t matter, long as they’re young. What if I told you there was a place that caters to sick fucks like that, right here in Vegas?”

  Verity stared at him, her guts twisting. “Little…kids?”

  Behind her, she could hear the anger growing in Jason’s even tone. “You know this.”

  “Oh, yeah. We know this. Known it for a long time. But we can’t do a fuckin’ thing about it. And the cops can’t either—not that most of ’em even give a shit.” The disgust in his expression grew. “Listen—I got me a little girl, eight years old. She ain’t here in town—my ex got smart and left Vegas with her a while back. But the thought of those fucking bastards—” He shook his head and pounded his fist on the desk.

  “So why can’t you do anything about it? We know the cops are mostly corrupt, but you guys—if you’re tellin’ the truth about how you feel about it, how come you don’t—”

  “’Cuz we can’t fuckin’ find ’em!” Toro said, his voice rising in anger along with his aura. He gestured toward Verity. “We think the guy who runs the show is like you. Yeah, we know about that,” he said when Verity tilted her head in question. “Don’t know how it works, but we know it’s out there. And any time anybody tries gettin’ close to ’em, either they disappear or they just can’t find where they are.”

  “Okay, hang on,” Jason said. “This is bad, yeah. These guys definitely need to be taken down. But what’s this got to do with David and Gary?”

  “Was David connected with ’em?” Verity stiffened. “Was Gary?” Oh, God…he had two young daughters.

  Toro snorted. “You still don’t get it, do you?” He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, then got up and began pacing again. “Lemme tell ya another story. Few nights ago, one of our guys overheard some guy makin’ a phone call. Guy that’d been seen around town a couple times a year for a while. But this time, somethin’ about what the guy said led our guy to think maybe he was settin’ somethin’ up with this place. Guy was an idiot, talkin’ in public like that, even if he thought he was alone. Our guy called me, and we picked this bastard up. Figured we could lean on him until he gave up the location.”

  “But he didn’t,” Jason said.

  “Nope. Kept sayin’ he didn’t know. Maybe he didn’t—I heard this place moves around every now and then. But we got enough outta him to be sure that was what he was up to. No doubt about it. He was beggin’ for mercy at that point. Woulda given up his own mother if he thought it’d save his pervy ass.”

  “And that’s when you killed him?” Verity asked. “Cut his throat?”

  “I ain’t sayin’ I killed nobody,” Toro said, glaring. “Clean out your ears, honey. But suppose somebody went a little nuts, yeah? We get that way when we think about what those sick fucks were doin’ in their little pleasure hole. So maybe somebody goes a little nuts and their knife slips, y’know, after makin’ sure the guy ain’t never gonna do nothin’ to any kids ever again. With a baseball bat.”

  “Wait, are we talking about Gary or David?” Jason demanded. “It sounded like you grabbed David, but those were the same injuries they found on Gary.”

  Toro grinned, but it was about as far from a cheerful expression as Verity had ever seen. “Now yer gettin’ it, kid. We grabbed Ames. Tall, skinny guy, dark hair, mustache. Except after the knife slipped…he wasn’t Ames no more.”

  He shuddered. “Freakiest thing I ever saw. Like somethin’ out of a movie. Soon as he died, he just—changed. Got shorter and fatter and balder. All of a sudden we didn’t know who the hell we had anymore, and shit had just got a lot more real.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  The winery’s lobby was deserted when Stone shoved through the front door and paused to catch his brea
th. The lights were still off, though the roaring fire in the fireplace bathed the space in a flickering glow that was, under the circumstances, more eerie than cozy. Still, the temptation to sit down in front of it and take a few moments to warm up and dry off was overwhelming, but Stone resisted it.

  Instead, he hurried to his own room, intending to quickly change out of his wet clothes before he checked on Mortenson. He hated to take the time, but he was already shivering hard, and he wouldn’t be any good to anyone with hypothermia.

  He fumbled his key into the lock with a shaking hand and pushed the door open. Odd—he hadn’t left all those candles lit inside, had he?

  And then he saw her.

  “Hello, Dr. Stone. Or can I call you Alastair?”

  Denise from the front desk lounged on her side on his bed. She was naked, propped up on an elbow, holding a glass of wine between two fingers. She smiled, regarding him through half-lidded eyes. Her tongue made a slow circuit around her lips. “See anything you like?” she purred.

  “Er—” He’d expected the unexpected, certainly, but not this kind of unexpected. “Denise, I—”

  “I thought you’d never get back.” She took a sip from the glass, set it down on the nightstand next to another full one, and stretched out, putting her hands behind her head in an obvious effort to show off her twenty-two-year-old charms to maximum effect. “You look so cold. Why don’t you get out of those wet clothes—all of them—and let me…warm you up?”

  Stone shifted to magical sight. As he suspected, the red fog swirled around her, so thick he almost couldn’t see her through it. “Denise, please. You’re very attractive, and normally I’d be—er—happy to spend some time with you. But I’ve got things I’ve got to do right now.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said, still in her rough, throaty tone. She swung her legs around and stood up, coming over to him with an utter lack of self-consciousness and reaching up to shove his sodden coat off his shoulders. “The power’s out. It’s raining too hard to do anything outside. This kind of night was made for a little indoor fun.” She slipped one hand under his T-shirt, while the other began to work at his belt.

  He pushed her back, doing his best to be gentle about it. “Denise. Listen to me. I can’t stay. I just stopped in to change clothes. If you could just—go—” he finished lamely.

  “Come on…” she whispered, moving back in and pushing his shirt up as she tried to pull it over his head. “Just stay for a little while. Have some wine.” She stepped in closer, rubbing her body against him and trying to kiss him. “Don’t you want me, Alastair…?”

  “I—” He gripped her shoulders and tried to shove her gently back again, which was difficult since she was still doing her best to get his shirt over his head. Finally he just let her do it, since he’d intended to change it anyway and he needed his arms free. “Denise. Please. You don’t know it right now, but this isn’t what you want. You don’t want me, and I won’t take advantage of you.”

  “Of course I want you.” She leaned over and picked up her wineglass, stuck a finger in the swirling liquid, and then tried to poke it into his mouth while running her other hand around his chest. “I wanted you since you walked in yesterday. Don’t you think I’m attractive, Alastair? Don’t you want me too?”

  Damn, but her touch was distracting. She’s not in her right mind. She doesn’t really want you. He forced himself to picture the frightened look in Mortenson’s eyes when he’d pinned her to the wall to get the magical shield up, and any vestige of budding ardor died instantly. He pushed harder this time, and his tone was firm. “Denise. No. I’m sorry. You’ll thank me for this later. Just—put your clothes back on and go. Please.”

  He wasn’t watching with magical sight now, so it took him a second to register her shift in expression. In the space of an instant, the gauzy seduction was gone, replaced by cold, flinty anger. “How dare you…” she whispered. “Fuck you, you bastard!”

  Before he could react, she dashed the wineglass against the nightstand and slashed at him with the jagged edges. White-hot pain bloomed from his abdomen up his chest, leaving bright red trails behind it.

  “Bloody hell!” Stone yelled, using magic to fling Denise back onto the bed, where she landed in a flurry of splayed limbs.

  “Help!” she screamed, trying to scramble back up. “Help! Somebody! Rape!”

  “No!” Stone hurried forward, one arm locked around his bleeding side. This was getting out of hand fast. He’d have to stop her before somebody—

  Behind him, a tremendous crash echoed through the room, followed by a second one. He spun, trying to keep both Denise and the door in sight at once, and a cold that had nothing to do with the temperature rolled up his back.

  The door hung crazily on one hinge, slammed back against the room’s inner wall. A big chunk of it was gone. On the other side, bearded and glowering and clutching a two-handed axe, stood Bill Mott. An open rain slicker flapped over his plaid shirt and jeans.

  Stone took another step back. “Mr. Mott. This isn’t—”

  “What the hell, Denise?” Mott demanded, his face above his beard brick-red with rage. “You’re fucking this asshole?”

  She too took a step back, in a different direction than Stone had. She scrabbled at the bedspread and pulled it up in a vain attempt to cover herself. “No! Bill! It’s not like that!”

  “I fucking well see what it’s like!” Mott was screaming now, all shreds of reason gone from his eyes. “Give you one chance, and you’ll just screw everything with a dick, won’t you, you little whore? Everything but me, anyway! But that ends today. I’m gonna fuck you, then I’m gonna kill you, and then I’m gonna kill this skinny English prick.” He raised the axe over his head with both hands, fixed his mad glare on the terrified Denise, and lunged forward.

  Stone, momentarily forgotten, grabbed the axe with a telekinetic hold and yanked it backward.

  Mott was unprepared for the sudden halt to his forward momentum. He jerked up, teetered on one massive hiking boot, and then fell over backward, crashing to the floor. As soon as he lost his grip on the axe, Stone used the spell to fling it out into the hall through the ruined door.

  Denise hurried forward with a fearful glance toward the stunned Mott. “Don’t let him hurt me,” she begged Stone. She moved toward him, but tripped over her makeshift cover. It dropped away from her as she staggered and fell forward.

  “Get in the corner,” he ordered, shoving her toward the part of the room farthest from Mott, who was already leaping back to his feet.

  Denise flung her arms around Stone’s shoulders from behind, pressing herself against him in full-blown panic. “Oh, God,” she sobbed, “please don’t let him hurt me!”

  Stone tried to shake free of her grip—movement impairment notwithstanding, having a naked woman pressing herself against his bare back when he was trying to deal with two hundred and fifty pounds of enraged mountain man made for a definite split in concentration—but she had him with the strength of a drowning woman fighting desperately not to go under. Add that to the searing pain in his side where she’d slashed him and he knew he’d have to handle this situation fast. At least nobody else had shown up yet.

  “Alastair?”

  Oh, bloody hell.

  He heard the new voice just as Mott lunged toward him, arms up and charging hard. He tried to fling himself sideways, but Denise’s weight threw off his balance. He barely got a shield up in time to deflect Mott as he and Denise went over and crashed to the floor behind the bed.

  Stone pulled himself up to his knees so he could see past the bed, and still Denise didn’t relax her grip on him. It was starting to slide up now, dangerously close to his neck.

  He barely noticed, because at that moment two other things happened that captured his attention.

  Edwina Mortenson appear
ed in what was left of the doorway, wide-eyed, her shocked gaze taking in the scene. “Alastair? I heard—”

  Mott screamed—a keening, agonized shriek as his flailing limbs took out the table and the artful little nest of candles Denise had arranged on it. They tumbled to the floor, rolling in several directions, but the one he was clearly most concerned with was the one that had landed on his chest. The tiny flame caught his wild beard and flared.

  Stone, finding new strength as all around him the carpet, the bedspread, and the drapes began to ignite, leaped to his feet, dragging the panicked Denise along with him. The smoke alarms were already going off, but so far the fire sprinklers remained dormant. “Edwina! Run! Get out of here!”

  He snatched up his coat and tried to throw it over Mott to put out his blazing beard, but the man was flailing in full hysteria now as his shirt caught fire as well. The room filled with the smell of cooking flesh and burned hair.

  Denise screamed again and let loose of Stone’s neck. He had only a second to be relieved about that before he realized what she intended to do. “No! Denise!” He lunged for her, forgetting for a moment as the smoke began to grow thicker that he could grab her with magic, but he was too late.

  She snatched up one of the chairs with a strength borne of panic and flung it through the window. It erupted in a tinkle of shards, and she immediately tried to scramble through it.

  Stone remembered his magic then, gripping her telekinetically and dragging her back before she ripped her unprotected skin to shreds on the window’s jagged edges, but the flames, fueled by the sudden influx of oxygen, flared higher, engulfing the bed and the drapes.

  Coughing, he grabbed his smoldering coat and put it around Denise’s shoulders, throwing an arm around her and pulling them both down to a crouch. “Edwina!” The smoke was already so thick he could barely see through it.