Wolf's Trap (The Nick Lupo Series Book 1)

by W. D. Gagliani

  He maneuvered his features so that his crestfallen look took control of all emotions. Gazing into his face was to see almost as much disappointment as a child whose Christmas had yielded not a single gift.

  “I’m afraid it’s not likely,” he whispered. “After the Valley I’m being reassigned to the East European branch, with all those Soviet countries suddenly in need of computer equipment. Well, it could be years before I return.”

  “That’s too bad,” Corinne said, and it was to her credit that Martin truly believed she was sorry. “I wish there was something…” She turned to her friend, who had become bored and whose attention had wandered to a counter display Stacey shrugged slightly—she was not an interested party, and Corinne could take care of herself.

  Martin let his eyes light up again. Hit by sudden inspirational thought! He deserved a freaking Oscar. “You know,” he began softly, drawing her into the conspiracy of his gaze, “you may remember that my, uh, interests are not too uncommon, and I think they can be, uh, accommodated even in unusual places. Like this mall, for instance.”

  Martin knew he was walking a tightrope. There was a good chance she would not consider even for a minute what he was suggesting, in which case he would have to settle for some yet-unfocused Plan B, which, in the few minutes since he had begun his charade, he fervently hoped would not be the case. Right here in this mall, this was the message he wanted to send. This was the kind of splashy communication he had sought, he had planned, and now that he was so close he was loath to give it up.

  Corinne Devereaux hesitated a moment, bringing her lips together in a straight line and refreshing her lustrous lipstick as she clearly thought about what he was saying.

  “I’m not—” she began.

  “On duty,” he finished for her. “Yes, I know. I just thought that maybe, since we seemed to hit if off last time, you might consider a bon voyage gift. With full pay, of course, and an incentive just like last time.”

  Martin knew that she could not remember him, but that very fact worked in his favor because it was likely her lack of memory embarrassed her in the face of such a polite repeat customer. He could see that she was thinking it over.

  Suddenly she smiled. “You have intrigued me, Mr.—”

  “Just call me Martin,” he said, smiling back.

  “You know, I don’t make a habit of this, especially on my off days.”

  “Of course, of course. I don’t blame you. I’m glad you’re willing to make an exception. Very glad.” He was a nodding fool, he realized, so he stopped.

  “Stacey, how about meeting in a half hour…where?” She turned to Martin.

  Inside, Martin jumped for joy. Talk about Fate. Nothing could have improved his luck in this venture, nothing at all.

  “Near the food court,” he offered, as if after a moment’s thought. “There’s a photo booth there that’ll be perfect for my going-away gift. Then we’ll need the washroom, and there’s one right there.”

  Corinne nodded, the smile on her face faltering for just a second. Martin knew exactly why, why she suddenly caught herself, and he timed his next comment to catch her before the rest of the doubt formed fully in her mind. “That is,” he said, “you’ll probably want the washroom to fix your makeup. I’ll be on the way to my plane.”

  “Okay, Stacey? A half hour?”

  Stacey suddenly looked nervous. “Are you sure you should be doing this?”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s an old friend who’s leaving town. Why not?” Her lips twisted into a wicked smile. “Plus, it’s kinda naughty.”

  Martin knew from his research that he had tapped into the woman’s carefully hidden wild streak. He knew that the illogical aspect of this encounter was exactly what had intrigued her, and he knew that he had won. Just like that, Jack, he had won and his plan had fallen together even better than he had hoped. He looked at her lips, a vision of mauve lushness, and he felt himself grow rock hard.

  In a moment, they had left Stacey at the counter and he was steering her to the mall entrance, after which they headed for the food court. Martin applauded himself for the careful planning and research that had gone into this scenario.

  “I don’t remember you all that well, Martin,” Corinne Devereaux began as they took the escalator. Martin luxuriated in the glow of her beauty and he noticed other men glance and then stare at her, for even in casual clothes, Corinne was stunning. Her lips drew many a look as did her figure, but she seemed not to notice.

  So comfortable with her own beauty. So comfortable with the situation, alien as it was.

  “I was afraid of that,” he said. “I’m pretty average looking. And we both had a bit to drink. But I could never forget you, or your lips, or what you did with them.”

  This seemed to satisfy her. After all, if someone knew her specialty, then it was likely that she had encountered him during one of her many appointments.

  “I’m happy to know I was memorable,” she said with just enough humility.

  Martin sensed that she had closed herself off to doubt, even though she had great reason to doubt everything about him. But her hunger for an interesting situation and some quick cash seemed to eclipse everything else, including the letters. Martin cluck-clucked her in his mind. She really should have been more careful.

  They reached the food court, and Martin steered her toward the automated photo booth, off to the side. She looked at him, still doubtful. “Here, huh?”

  “Oh, yes,” Martin whispered, his voice full of lust. “It’s a perfect place for your specialty.”

  And damn it if he didn’t see the light go on in her eyes as she realized that what he suggested was, indeed, very erotic.

  “Martin, you dog,” she whispered back, suppressing a giggle.

  He held open the curtain as she stepped into the tiny booth. “One thing,” he said as she sat on the stool. He set his bag down and caught a glimpse of gray cloth.

  “Yes?” Her voice was deep and sexy and her eyes grew in the low light.

  “Would you put on more of that lovely shade of lipstick?” Her smile made his groin twitch.

  He stepped in and pulled the curtain closed behind him.

  It was nearly time for Stacey to meet Corinne, and Martin stepped out of the men’s washroom and quickly crossed over to the women’s, where, in a flash of gray cloth, he stepped through the door, key in hand, and turned the cylinder quickly, before anyone else could try to enter.

  She was in a stall. Even better. He stepped closer, quietly, until he stood only a few feet away from the stall door, far enough so she wouldn’t be likely to see his shadow. It had been a wonderful twenty minutes, a memory that would last him forever and that he would cherish. Martin breathed quietly, as he had taught himself to do as a child in the Institute, whenever he needed to pretend sleep or drug-induced relaxation.

  When Corinne opened the stall door after flushing, Martin leaped into the opening and shoved her forcefully backward until she fell onto the toilet.

  Before she could scream, or fight back, he was on top of her with one hand over her mouth—the smell of the fresh lipstick staining him was almost overwhelming!—blade held high in front of her eyes, which had opened even more widely than when he had spilled his copious seed deep into her mouth and down her willing throat only minutes before.

  “Quiet!”

  His voice was a hiss she couldn’t ignore, not with the sharp blade etching patterns in the air just in front of her delicate features. He could see her thoughts churning— what could she do to placate him? Somehow negotiate her survival?

  “Nothing,” he said in response to his own interpretation of the question there, visible behind her eyes.

  Such beautiful eyes.

  When he began his work, he enjoyed watching the life drain visibly from those eyes, and he wished he could be here to gaze in the eyes of him for whom this message had been so carefully composed.

  Only a minute or two later he was finished. He recovered the keys from
his pocket and, looking around for a likely surface, spotted the diaper-changing station. Martin smiled. He took the strip from his chest pocket and dropped it onto the hard plastic.

  Moments later, he melted into the back of the service tunnel, a flash of dark-stained gray. In his hand he clutched two small jars and his shopping bag.

  Martin knew he had just created Art.

  Now he would sign it.

  Chapter Four

  Lupo

  1976

  Nick headed for the shadowy area between the fence and the garage, ready to give his friend Andy a pounding. Hey, Andy was his best friend and all, but he was acting so weird today that he was asking for a good old knuckle sandwich! They didn’t fight that often, but occasionally a good tussle renewed their friendship in ways no one but them could ever figure out. Maybe it came down to respect, and how much could be earned by beating the other in the field of battle. Nick hoped he could figure out what was wrong with Andy and get back to the last hour or so of lawn work before his father decided to check on his progress.

  He stalked toward the back of the garage. The window was as dark as ever, half covered by odd-sized sheets of paneling and plywood and Sheetrock his father stored upright in front of the car. Only a corner of the window was actually uncovered, otherwise the garage was an airless, dank cave.

  For a second, it seemed to Nick that Andy was looking at him from inside the garage, standing just beyond the light and staring through that little opening in the corner.

  But, no, the garage was locked. Nick had locked it himself earlier that same day. His father hadn’t gone anywhere. The garage was old and homemade and no one had ever bothered to put in a side door. There was no way Andy could be watching him from the inside.

  Outside, below the window’s slightly rippled glass, stood a pile of leftover lumber and sheet metal, stuff that Nick’s dad had used for various remodeling and upgrading projects. It was killing the grass, here in the shade of the garage, and Nick was painfully aware that when the stuff eventually got used or tossed, he would probably either have to reseed the grass or lay some new sod. His father would never leave a patch of dead grass in his yard like that, and Nick was a built-in work crew. Now, as he approached the stack, he remembered that he’d seen a rat slip behind it and disappear not too long ago. He’d at first thought the gray-brown critter a squirrel, but the whiplike tail certainly bore little relation to a squirrel’s fluffy appendage.

  And squirrels don’t usually squeeze between stacks of lumber, he reminded himself. At least, not when there’s a fence and a bunch of trees nearby.

  No, this had been a rat, and now it made him wonder if sticking his nose back there was such a good idea. Rats were uncommon in this area of town, but what if this one pioneer had a family?

  For a second, Nick hesitated. The sound of the mower behind him brought him back. He had to do this quickly, before his father decided to see why the mower seemed to be standing still. Nick knew that if he choked the mower’s engine, his father would notice the silence and come to make sure Nick was moving on to the next phase, the raking and bagging of mown grass and willow leaves.

  Then he was standing next to the pile of odds and ends, and he heard it shift—could have sworn he did—as something underneath changed position, and then he was approaching the dark tunnel between the garage and the fence, acutely aware that the rat and his cronies, if they were hiding under the lumber, could now attack him from the rear. But he had to find out what was up with Andy, and he had to do it now—without delay, without chickening out.

  The strip of ground between the garage and the fence was dead. Nothing could grow there in the darkness except some weeds and all sorts of elaborate spider webs. Nick brushed a web from his face and stepped forward. There wasn’t much space, but Nick’s father had resolved to use it wisely, stacking yet more scrap wood and several empty crates along the length of the strip. The shadows came not only from the Lupos’ garage, but also from the fence four feet away and from the Corrazzas’ garage. The crates and stacks of leaning wood gave the area dark angles that, together with the long shadows of the garages, seemed impenetrable even on a bright day. It was like a forty-foot-long cavern, and Nick shivered a little at the thought of entering—Jungle Expert or not.

  Another web brushed his lips and chin, and he spit convulsively to get it off. Fuckin’ spiders! His foot squelched in a pool of black slime, water left over from the last rainstorm mixed with who knew what else, and Nick wasn’t about to check. He pulled his sneaker out of the mess by pure force and tried to step over the puddle with the other.

  Andy, I’ll kill you for this!

  The mower was still cranking away back in the yard where he had left it, but the sound was somehow muffled and seemed to fade with every step he took.

  It’s like another world. An image out of Arthur Conan Doyle’s Lost World popped into his head, along with scenes from both movie versions. Maybe the rats grow to the size of horses here. He swallowed hard. That Andy really was a fucker.

  “Andy, get yer ass out here!”

  Nick heard a shuffling coming from ahead, maybe ten feet into the cavern. He had given up thinking of it as anything but a cavern, even though if he craned his neck upward, he could still see a slice of sky between the overhanging eaves of both garages.

  “Look, Corrazza, this isn’t very funny. I’m gonna get in trouble pretty soon, so get out here. Okay?” Nick added.

  There was no answer, but he thought he heard the same shuffling, as if Andy were crouching behind one of the crates and had suddenly decided to scurry to hide behind another, farther back toward the front of the garage. Maybe slither was a better word. Then he looked down, suddenly wondering if he should worry about snakes. Were there poisonous snakes in the Midwest? He wasn’t sure, and this was no time to find out—not with bare ankles.

  Okay, two more steps, and if that little turd doesn’t give up, I’m gonna go back to mowing the lawn. And fuck ’im!

  The air was stale back here, almost suffocating. Nick realized that he was breathing hard and tried to slow his panting, but he didn’t seem to be getting enough air.

  I been reading too much weird stuff. He shook his head, wondering how much time he had before his father found him back here, acting like a weirdo and too afraid to walk next to his own garage. He took one step, then a second, then was about to call out to Andy—idiotic jerk!—that he had better things to do with his time than play this stupid game, and then he felt something furry…

  (slick like wet fur and it tickled and made his hair stand up as it caressed his right calf)

  …clamp onto his ankle.

  Nick jumped straight up and out of the thing’s grasp and heaved himself straight back in one backward leap that took him past the corner of the garage.

  Well, not really past, since he clipped his right shoulder on the sharp corner and fell straight down, landing on his butt back where there was some sunlight, one foot still mired in the black pool of gunk, his jeans streaked with cobwebs and his shoulder flaming up into a dull, steady throbbing pain.

  He eyed the darkness intently, as if waiting for something—the snake, the mutant rat, the whatever it was back there—to spring at him while he lay helpless.

  But nothing sprang.

  “Fuck!”

  Behind him the lawn mower sputtered and died.

  Probably out of gas.

  Then he heard the same shuffling sound coming from just on the other side of the first crate in the hellish little cavern, and he furiously backpedaled his arms and legs, ignoring the pain in his shoulder and scraping his back on the grass, until he was another five or six feet farther away from the shadows. He jumped to his feet and staggered back to the dead Lawn Boy as if it were some sort of protection against whatever stalked him. Nothing else moved, and there was no sound from the side of the garage.

  Still ignoring the pain in his shoulder, Nick turned to check the mower. He caught the movement from the corner of his e
ye. It was just a flash, but he swiveled his eyes and focused on the fence, and there was Andy, about thirty feet away. Near the back end of their property, still on his own side of the fence.

  “Hey, you little fucker!” Nick shouted, not even remotely thinking about his father’s reaction if he were within earshot. “What the hell you doin’?”

  Andy just stared at him. Again. Just like before, barely blinking and with no expression on his face at all.

  Nick made to take a step in that direction. Teach that little asshole a lesson…

  But something stopped him. He reached up with his left hand and grasped his right shoulder, which still throbbed from smacking the corner of the garage. What stopped him was the knowledge, full and unconditional, that Andy had been nowhere near the dark space between the garages, that he couldn’t have caused the sounds Nick had heard, or grabbed his ankle, or any of it. It just was not possible, unless he had an accomplice—and Nick was Andy’s only accomplice. Ever. So Andy hadn’t been responsible.

  “Uh, look, Andy,” Nick began. But the other boy was gone again.

  Nick heard the back door of his house clattering open, so he bent over the mower to check the gas level. His father, coming to see if he was done.

  A brief lecture about wasting time, then a thankfully retreating back. A turn to the left just inside the door— good, going to the basement,, out of the way for a while. Nick relaxed, but only for a moment.

  After mixing more fuel, Nick started on the lawn again. He hoped his father wouldn’t notice the small area left undone near the corner of the garage. No way would he do that area today. Maybe next week, when things weren’t so strange.

  He resolved to catch Andy later and, if necessary, beat the truth out of him.

  Now he had to finish the lawn so he could trim the front hedges before dusk. The rest of the afternoon, Nick studiously avoided even looking at the darkness next to the garage. But the whole time he felt someone’s eyes on him and was always aware of where he was in relation to the garage.