When the Villian Comes Home

by Gabrielle Harbowy

  “Vernon Archer? The Vernon Archer?”

  Of all the voices he didn’t want to hear, this one might’ve topped his list. He sighed, prepared himself, and turned around slowly. Yet the face from his memory didn’t match the face staring at him. Dmitri Sokolov was older, rounder, his cheeks and forehead covered in spider veins. Back in the beginning, they had been partners. Back before Vernon decided to invoke his own shotgun clause and oust Dmitri.

  Three goblins, dressed like Old West gun slingers, escorted Dmitri. They may’ve dressed the part, but they slobbered and drooled. Hired muscle, real knuckle-draggers but nasty in a fight.

  “I see you’re keeping good company, Dmitri.”

  “These are my boys.” Dmitri snorted. “They’re dependable. Trustworthy. Loyal.”

  “Cheap, you mean?”

  “They wouldn’t leave me holding the bag against an eight-pack of Hooked Emperites.”

  “Are we reminiscing, Dmitri? Or is there something else you want to say?” He parted his jacket to reveal the SIG-Sauer on his hip.

  “You know how long I’ve wanted to meet you alone? No Kid, no special units? Just you and me.”

  “And three goblins.”

  Dmitri shrugged. “Now you’re worried that this might not be a fair fight?”

  “This is a fight?”

  “Wasn’t that always your philosophy? Have the fight finished before they even knew it had started?”

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “You think I’d help you, Vernon?” The goblins were flanking him. “The thing that hurts most, is that I would’ve stepped aside. Taken a buy-out. You didn’t have to backstab me like that.”

  Vernon drew first but Dmitri’s knife was already at his throat. Except now it wasn’t a knife. It had morphed into a black mamba. Christ, he’s fast, or I’m just slow.

  “We were friends, you son of a bitch,” Dmitri spat.

  Vernon wanted to tell him that he had no friends, which was why he now ruled half the Eastern Seaboard while Dmitri was slumming it at the Cage. The snake tongue tickling his throat convinced him to be quiet. Sweat beaded along Vernon’s neck and his heart beat quicker than it had in years. And yet, the speed of the world slowed, as if his mind was trying to savor the last moments of life.

  “His name is Sam Hurst.” Vernon gasped. “I need to find him tonight.”

  Dmitri blinked. “Sam?”

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  With enviable speed, Dmitri re-sheathed the snake-turned-dagger into the folds of his jacket.

  “Who told you about Sam?” Dmitri asked cautiously.

  “I need to deliver something. Tonight.”

  “To Sam?”

  “That’s right. You know where he is?”

  “I’m probably the only one who does.”

  “Where?”

  “At the Bone Factory.”

  “The cemetery?”

  “That’s right. Dead, gone, buried, six feet under.”

  “How do you know he’s there?” Vernon asked.

  “Because I’m the man who put him there. Under your orders. Funny how fate has a way of coming back around.”

  Vernon considered. LaFage had never said that Sam was alive.

  “Thanks for the information, Dmitri. I owe you.”

  “Anytime, friend.”

  Vernon pushed his way past the drooling goblins.

  “Hey, Vernon,” Dmitri shouted over the din.

  Vernon paused, but didn’t turn around.

  “Back in the day, I wouldn’t have been able to beat you. You’re nothing but an old man now.”

  Vernon left to Dmitri’s laughter.

  5

  “Take me to the Bone Factory.”

  Kid stared through the rearview mirror. “Boss?”

  “You heard me. The Bone Factory.”

  The night wasn’t even half over and already Vernon wanted nothing more than to be soaking in his oversized bathtub, listening to Enrico Caruso over his Ohm Model F’s loudspeakers.

  Instead, his back hurt like a son of a bitch, and his stomach twisted and churned. He crunched down a lactose pill even though he knew it was too late.

  One small favor.

  Kid let him out a block away. Heavy layers of fog muted the sounds of traffic, and vines smothered the buzzing street lights.

  The Bone Factory stood at the end of the street like a skeletal cat ready to pounce. Extending beyond the building was the graveyard proper, ringed with a fungi encrusted stone wall. Razor wire was strung along the top; Vernon got the impression that the wire was positioned to keep people in, not keep intruders out.

  Vernon rapped three times with the knocker. He heard a slow shuffle and the left door ground open.

  An undertaker stood in the entrance, a lantern in one hand, a heavy tome tucked under his. Black ink stained his fingers.

  “Yes?” The undertaker spoke with a sibilant lisp.

  “I’m here to see someone.”

  The undertaker was dressed in a black coat, satin pin-striped trousers, and patent leather shoes. His eyes were black marbles sunken in a face seemingly molded of wax, and his lips a deep shade of red.

  “Of course, of course. Please, come in,” he lisped.

  Vernon stepped past the undertaker into the skeletal Necropolis. Though there wasn’t a hint of wind, the torches guttered in their sconces.

  “No electricity?”

  “Hmmm? Electricity? No, no. It upsets our guests, unfortunately.”

  “I see,” Vernon lied.

  “My name is Doctor Vanblud. I am the Undertaker of this institution. We don’t receive many visitors at this time of night.”

  “You receive visitors during the day?”

  “No.”

  Doctor Vanblud led him down the corridor of statues. He opened an oaken door and shuffled into an office stacked floor to ceiling with papers, binders, and leather-bound books. The doctor sat behind an old, beaten mahogany desk. He clicked on the green desk lamp and ushered Vernon to sit opposite him.

  Vanblud opened the tome, gave his finger a lick, and flipped the pages.

  “Ah, here we go.” He turned the book around and pushed it to Vernon. “All visitors must sign here.” Doctor Vanblud offered a quill.

  Vernon signed, dated, then printed his name in the ledger. He noticed the last entry was twenty years ago. The name was Dmitri Sokolov, checking in someone under the moniker Sam Hurst.

  “I’m looking for someone. A guest of yours.”

  “Do you know what plot he’s in?”

  “I was hoping you could help me. It’s urgent.”

  Doctor Vanblud took back the ledger, inspected the name, and raised his eyebrows. “Vernon Archer?”

  “Yes.” He smiled. His name was sometimes more valuable than any bribe or form of intimidation.

  “Interesting.”

  “I’m looking for someone. His name is Sam Hurst. I see he was actually the last person listed in the ledger.”

  “This is quite unusual, Mr. Archer.”

  “I know, it is. He may be dead, but I still have this package for him. I have to deliver it. Tonight. Now if you could let me know the plot—”

  “I don’t mean him. I mean you. It’s just that…” Dr Vanblud paused. “Well, most of our guests don’t come quite so…alive.”

  “I can be gone in a few minutes. I need to find this man.”

  He sensed the door opening behind him.

  “We already have a plot set aside for you.” Doctor Vanblud’s face cracked into an emotionless smile. “Are those your burial clothes? Usually our guests prefer something a little more…formal.”

  Vernon heard a shuffle behind him.

  “Does the name Vernon Archer mean anything to you? I’m a man o
f some renown, Doctor,” Vernon continued.

  “Renown is usually a nice way of saying butcher. You’ve had a plot reserved for quite some time. Now, our morticians are the best in the business but you may find yourself in some discomfort during the evisceration process.”

  “You’re not listening. Is this about to get violent?”

  “Oh dear me. I pray not. This is a house of the dead. Not a place for rabble-rousing and other disturbances.”

  “Call off your henchmen and we can discuss this like businessmen.”

  “I’m not in business.”

  “If this is a question of money—”

  “It’s a question of integrity.”

  Vernon kicked back his chair, reached for his weapons, turned, and aimed.

  Behind him were two perfect duplicates of Doctor Vanblud. So perfect that he wasn’t sure if they were the real ones and the man behind the desk was a fake.

  Each of the doctors was smiling. Both carried butcher’s knives, chipped and covered in past grime. Outside, he saw another Vanblud manning an empty gurney.

  “You don’t know who I am, really, do you?”

  “You are the occupant of plot A15.”

  “I’m Vernon Archer.”

  Vernon started firing. He dropped two of the doctors. Damn, missed one. Which meant: a knife was coming for him. Vernon deflected it with his pistol and he realized the time for playing fancy was over. He shot the knife-wielding doctor four times, sending him sprawling onto his own gurney.

  That left the one doctor still at the desk. All Vernon needed was one.

  Vernon whirled, saw the doctor twisting for cover, but Vanblud was too slow. Vernon shot him in the lower back and dropped him.

  Vernon holstered his 220s. The doctor dragged himself along the floor.

  “Now, Doctor. You and I were having a conversation. You were going to tell me where I could find Sam Hurst.”

  “There are privacy concerns…”

  Vernon stepped on the doctor’s back. The doctor screamed, his mouth wide, forked tongue dancing.

  “I wasn’t always a businessman. Once, I did things a little less savory. A location. It’s all I need. Then we can be finished with this. Understood?”

  The doctor’s pale complexion had turned sallow. Vernon dragged him to the ledger.

  “Show me where he is.”

  “C54,” he gasped.

  “Show me.”

  The doctor flipped through the ledger, pointed to plot C54. Vernon followed the line over to the occupant name: Sam Hurst.

  “Thank you. If Sam’s not in C54, I’ll be back for you. Understand?”

  The doctor gave a sickly nod and Vernon released him to crumple beside the desk. Vernon left the necropolis through the rear double doors.

  Outside, the graveyard was organized in nice, neat rows with identical tomb markers. Nothing fancy, just a granite slab with an etched plot number. Vernon walked quickly through the yard. Plot C54 appeared no different than any of the others. Heavy crab grasses covered the ground, unmolested for quite some time.

  He retrieved a shovel from a freshly dug site and returned to C54 to begin digging. His sore back became nearly crippling. He tried to keep his enthusiasm high by concentrating on the results, not the details. Finally, after all these years, the debt to LaFage would be done.

  When the shovel struck wood, Vernon fell to his knees and brushed aside the last of the moist dirt. He dug out the locks, retrieved the shovel, and smashed the first lock open.

  Thump-thump.

  The body in the coffin was anything but dead. Vernon smashed the other locks, pulled his gun, and opened the lid.

  The occupant of plot C54 blinked and sat up.

  Despite being in a box for untold number of years, the man was quite rotund, with dark eyes set in a pock-marked face. He wore a white leisure suit with a black, perfectly pressed shirt.

  “Vernon?”

  “Doyle?” Vernon wondered if perhaps his body was reacting poorly to the Fields of Creams. Doyle Archer, his brother, had been dead for twenty years. Or should’ve been dead.

  “Damn, you look old,” Doyle said.

  “I am old.”

  “I knew you’d come for me. How long I’ve been in here? A couple of months?”

  “Something like that.” Vernon sat back against the earthen wall, suddenly feeling every year of his age. He smiled as if understanding the joke. He imagined Dmitri, somewhere, laughing his ass off. Laughing because there was no Sam Hurst.

  “Oh boss, Dmitri, he’s gone crazy. Bastard stuck me in this box.”

  “Did he now?”

  “He got the jump on me. Put a bag over my head, worked me over, stuck me in this hole. You can’t trust that guy.”

  “Doyle…it wasn’t Dmitri. It was me.”

  Doyle blinked, frowning. He never was very bright. Even after all these years, locked in a coffin, somehow kept alive, he had never touched upon the truth. Never even considered the possible betrayal. Which was why Vernon ruled the underworld, and Doyle had been trapped in a box.

  “You’re the only one who knows about the favor.”

  “The favor?”

  “That’s right.”

  Doyle processed the information, but instead of rage, he appeared saddened by the realization.

  “You did this to me? All you had to do was ask and I would’ve disappeared.”

  “No one disappears, Doyle. Look—I found you and it only took one night.”

  Vernon pulled back the blue slide on the Sauer to see the bullet in the chamber.

  Doyle’s gaze fixed on the gun. “So this is how it ends?”

  “This is how it ends, Doyle.”

  “But we’re brothers.”

  Vernon Archer shot him in the chest. The entry wound was small—no larger than the size of a quarter. But it was precise. Through the heart. Doyle tried to take a breath, and died.

  Vernon couldn’t draw his eyes from his brother.

  Vernon had fooled himself. Fooled himself into thinking that he was a businessman, a captain of industry. He destroyed people with money, with commerce. And if those methods weren’t successful, he pressed a button and that person would disappear. He didn’t have to fire guns or strangle enemies with his bare hands. He didn’t have to murder his brother.

  Vernon smelt the bitterness from the gunpowder. But he didn’t feel remorse. What scared him was that he felt nothing.

  Vernon stood, reached into his jacket and pulled out the box. He was going to toss it into Doyle’s coffin but thought otherwise and returned it to his inner pocket.

  Doyle didn’t need it now.

  Vernon flipped open his cell phone and called Kid.

  “I found what I needed. Come get me.”

  5

  Back at his office Vernon Archer changed into fresh clothing. He sipped from a highball. In front of him sat his personal ledger and the box.

  Vernon stroked LaFage’s entry out of the book. He closed it, melting back into his chair. The books, after all these years, were balanced. But he knew that some ledgers, like his own, could never be balanced.

  With the butt of his pistol, Vernon smashed the box until the joints broke. He knew what was inside even before sifting through the wood splinters.

  Nothing.

  RYAN McFADDEN is an Aurora-winning fantasy/SF author from London, Ontario. He has been nominated for two Auroras in 2012 for his work on the 10th Circle Project—a ten-volume shared world project (the10thcircle.com). Recent writing credits include Blood and Water (Bundoran Press, 2012) and an untitled anthology from Edge SF&F (due in early 2013). His website is ryanmcfadden.com.

  ROBIN REDBREAST

  Todd McCaffrey

  “Parolee Beaumont reporting in,” I said as soon as my call was answered. “No, I haven�
�t been drinking,” I said in response to the first question. “No, I haven’t left the state,” I said to the second question. The voice on the other end sounded familiar.

  “Goodi TwoShoes, is that you?” I knew he hated it when I called him that. Tough. He could change his last name—but he’s a stubborn Indian.

  “And what if it is?” Detective Inspector Paul TwoShoes asked gruffly. I sorta expected him to argue over “Goodi”—officially there was no such thing as the Global Order Of Detective Inspectors. Of course, the name fit like a...shoe.

  “What, did they drop you from the force?” I asked. “Is this all the work you can get now that all the big, bad evil-doers are behind bars?”

  “There’s at least one evil-doer not behind bars,” TwoShoes said. Yeah, me. Mean ol’ Robin ‘Redbreast’ herself. All one hundred and five pounds, five foot three inches of dangerous post-adolescent.

  “Is that so?” I said, sounding surprised. “Well I’ve no doubt you’ll be able to catch him just as easily as you caught my dad.”

  “I’m certain of it,” TwoShoes said. “As long as she doesn’t figure out some way to beat the ankle tractor.”

  She—meaning me.

  “Don’t worry, I’ve seen the error of my ways.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I’m at home, as your electronic gadget will tell you,” I said.

  “The lights are out,” TwoShoes said.

  Oh! So he was watching my place. Interesting. Not really a surprise but interesting.

  “I’m in bed,” I said. I lowered my voice and added a bit of a purr, “Wanna come up?”

  “I don’t rob cradles,” TwoShoes said.

  “Oh, yeah, you do!” I shouted over the phone. “I was in mine when you robbed me of TEN YEARS of my life!” I shouldn’t have lost my temper, I know it but—damn —how could he say such a thing?

  “Sorry.” And—dammit!—you know, but he really did sound sorry.

  “That’s nice, Goodi,” I said. “It’s a bit late. You coulda said that when they went for sentencing. When they sent me up for all my childhood.” My eyes were watering now as too many nights came back to me. “Do you know what they did to me for the first three months I was there? Do you know they put me in solitary? ‘For my own good’?”