by Kevin Wright
The angel nodded slowly. She was beautiful. Just how he would have pictured an angel to look. Long flowing blond hair. Tremendous sparkling blue eyes filled with sorrow and love, understanding. Around her neck was a black leather choker, an onyx pendant dangled from it. A white lace corset was practically painted on, along with the white mini-skirt belted about her waist. Below were her long, long legs, consumed by white fishnets and held tenuously by garters. She just stood there, smiling down upon him, angelic.
“Are you an angel?” Nathaniel rubbed the sleep from his crusty eyes. His eyes refused to focus.
The angel smirked. “Well, sugar, that’s one thing I’ve never been accused of before,” she said in a southern-belle accent. Her voice rang like wind chimes.
“My name’s Nathaniel.”
“I know,” she said. “People call me Pussywillow. Now.”
“Pussywillow? That’s a beautiful name,” Nathaniel said. “Have you come to take me away?”
Pussywillow nodded slowly.
“Does my son know?”
“No, but he will, sugar, he will.” Pussywillow smiled. It was a pleasant smile.
Chapter 27.
“NEXT!” THE TELLER YELLED.
Peter stepped up to the window. He shielded his sunglassed eyes with a gloved hand. Glancing left and right, he pulled Carmine’s envelope from his pocket and withdrew a hundred dollar bill.
“Uh, hi. I’d like one to Boston,” Peter said.
The teller glanced up. Something like recognition, or fear, seemed to flash across his face but was gone just as fast.
Peter peered through the window but didn’t recognize him.
The teller, for his own part, typed like a hurricane, face buried in the monitor of his computer.
Whatever. Peter glanced around the crowded platform. One of his mom’s favorite songs suddenly popped into his head. Buffalo Springfield?
“That’ll be twelve dollars.” The teller tapped on the glass. “Sir? Twenty-five. Thank you. Your change, sir.”
“Uh, sir, where do I get on?” Peter took the change and stuffed it in his pocket.
“Platform three, over there.” The teller pointed. “Next!”
Knifing through the crowd, Peter fought his way to platform three. Men and women in business suits milled about, packed tight, shoulder to shoulder, near to suffocation.
Peter glanced around, shifting from foot to foot.
Homeless abounded here, as well, hunkered down on the vents in the warm sun. Long coats were wrapped tight and hoods pulled up to fight off the morning chill. One of them stood, a long gray beard wisping from within his hood. Others rose, all graybeards.
Peter glanced down at the train tracks again and watched the mice crawling around. Suddenly, the mice all disappeared.
Peter slid his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. Waking up had been hell. He put the glasses back on, and as he did so, someone bumped him from behind.
“Pardon me,” the someone said.
Peter turned, but the crowd was too thick, and the person had moved on.
“Shit!” Peter said, patting his pockets for Carmine’s envelope. Pickpocket! Peter patted himself down then let out a long breath. The envelope was still there, secure in his inside pocket. He pulled it out and opened it, thumbed through it, and stuck it back in his pocket.
Brrrrring!
“Sweet Jesus!” Peter jumped, nearly slipping off the platform as something in his coat pocket started ringing.
Fumbling, he yanked it out. A cell phone? It rang again. Peter glanced through the crowd. “Whatever.” He pressed a button and held to his ear. “Hello? Hello…? Anyone there? You get one more hello then—”
“Pete? Pete, hey, listen,” said a voice … Familiar?
“Who’s this?” Peter cut off the speaker. “Whose phone is this?”
“Pete, if you wanna live, just do what I say,” the voice said. “It’s Ringo, remember?”
“Yeah.” Peter glanced around. “Who put the phone—”
“Sid,” Ringo said. “Now listen. You got to get out of here. This place is watched. And you been seen.”
“Look, Ringo, I’m out on the next train. Just a few minutes.”
“You’ll be dead in a few minutes.”
“I’ll be dead in two days, so what the fuck does it matter!” Peter yelled into the phone. Then he looked up and realized everyone was staring at him. “Uh, sorry.”
A circle of space dilated around him.
“Pete.”
“Look, I appreciate the warning, but I’ve got to go,” Peter said. “You take care, and thanks for—”
“They got your dad, Pete.”
Peter froze. “What?”
“They got your dad.”
“Who? Who’s got him?”
“There ain’t no time, Pete. Take a look around.”
Peter did. Nothing was different. “So?”
“So!? They’re coming for you! Seven of them!”
Peter looked around. “I don’t see anyone, Ringo, are you here somewhere? I thought I heard—”
“Redcaps, Pete! Run!” Ringo screamed, and Peter could hear him on the phone and somewhere close-by.
His jaw dropped when he saw them, coming for him, parting through the crowd, lions stalking through tall grass. No one seemed to notice, except when they bumped past, and only for a second.
Peter saw them, though, amber slit eyes glowing above long gray beards hanging from within the blackness of hoods, seven of them, from seven different directions, a half circle, crooked hunched bodies, twisted steel claws, the wake of people being pushed from their paths, footsteps ringing like sledgehammers on the concrete.
In the distance, the train roared.
The ground rumbled.
“Pete! Down here!” a voice yelled from below. “Quick!”
Peter looked down.
Brakes screeched like Godzilla.
“Are you nuts!?” Peter screamed.
“THERE’S A MAN ON THE TRACKS!” someone yelled.
“STOP THE TRAIN!”
“SOMEONE GRAB HIM!”
“HOLY FUCKING SHIT!”
“YOU GRAB HIM!”
“DON’T DO IT!”
“Jump down!” Ringo shouted from the tracks. “Shit!” Like lightning, he grabbed Peter’s ankle and pulled, as cold iron claws snatched across Peter’s face, and he was yanked tumbling down onto the tracks.
Smash!
In a daze, Peter felt the cold steel rail smash against his teeth; then he was lifted, hurled, onto the platform on the other side of the tracks.
The train’s brakes screeched close, sparks cascading in waves. Peter turned, reached out, and grasped Ringo’s outstretched arm, heaving him onto the platform as a redcap dove after him, growling, the train screeching, crash, flesh and steel smearing down the tracks.
The crowd continued screaming.
“Come on, Pete.” Ringo was on his feet, pulling on Peter’s arm, running. “Won’t stop them, just piss them off.”
Peter followed in Ringo’s wake, surging through the stunned crowd, down the stairs, and into the parking lot.
“Taxi!” Ringo pointed.
The clomp of steel boots changed to clangs as the redcaps gave chase through the parking lot, smashing cars aside.
“Hurry!”
Through the maze of steel, the duo raced to the street and dove into the open back door of a waiting taxicab. The door slammed shut as the rear tires screeched smoking, and a redcap hurled himself onto the trunk of the car, smash! The taxi’s rear end sank a foot, sparking along the street.
Iron claws punched holes into the trunk as the redcap crawled like a spider, arms splayed out, amber eyes glowing heinous in the early morning sun. Wind tore its hood back, and bright red hair, thick and viscous, coagulated bloody with dreadlocks, whipped like vipers.
“Sid! REDCAPS!” Ringo yelled. “Punch it!”
“God damn!” Sid spun the steering wheel left and then right, screec
hing the tires as the taxi veered. “Can’t shake the bastard!”
“Punch it!”
The redcap clawed its way to the rear window and smashed it in with one blow from its iron fist. Broken glass and wind blew through its beard as it tore at Peter with rusted razor claws.
Ringo screamed.
Sid screamed.
Peter drew the gun and blew its head off.
* * * *
“Now, easy there, buddy.” Salazar raised his hands up. “I can see plainly that you don’t like me, but we do have a deal. I have the contract right here. It stipulates the aforementioned articles of…” He popped open his briefcase and started moving his bags of heroin around, searching. He pulled the toilet-paper roll out. “Ah, here.”
The Gurkha, sitting in his wheelchair across the table, casted leg elevated, leaned forward and tore the briefcase from Salazar’s grasp. He slammed it shut. “I do not want opium in my business and home.”
The restaurant was empty, except for the Gurkha and Salazar and Elliot, who, eyes closed, stood in the center of the room breathing slowly. His sword was at his side.
“Contract?” the Gurkha said.
“Now see here, sir!” Salazar stood. “You signed a contract, and you will live up to it.”
“I signed no contract,” the Gurkha said. “I gave my word.”
“I realize the circumstances of your health presently,” Salazar glanced at Bahadur’s casted leg. “I was also aware, however, of the circumstances of your health when you signed the contract. Didn’t think I knew, did you?” Salazar leaned back in the booth, his arms folded across his thin chest. “The chemo seemed to do the trick, eh? Or was it radiation? Lord Brudnoy’s a big fan of radiation. My money was on the chemo.”
“It was the love of my wife and family that gave me the strength to endure,” the Gurkha said.
“Yes, well, that is, very touching.”
“And I signed no contract,” the Gurkha said.
“But, as you’ll have to agree, the fact that you did not sign a contract, a binding contract, mind you, when you believed you would not be around to fulfill it does not entitle you to welch on said contract,” Salazar took a deep breath, “just because you had the misfortune of living and not signing it. Dark practice. Highly illegal.” Salazar pointed with his glasses. “Most impressive, though.”
The Gurkha raised an eyebrow.
“I am not dead,” the Gurkha said though gritted teeth.
“Precisely my point, my dear little Gurkha. You took a gamble signing the contract, expecting to die, therefore releasing you from it. It was only your sad misfortune that you pulled through. My regrets to you, sir. Now, about the contract.”
“I told you I did not sign a contract, and I am not bound by some rolled-up toilet paper with scribbles on it,” the Gurkha said.
Salazar sat back, aghast. “It’s shorthand. Besides, when I report this to Lord Brudnoy, he will not be pleased,” Salazar said. “In fact, I won’t report this. He’ll probably eat me. He hates welchers.”
The Gurkha nodded and raised his kukri. “I will kill you, now, Mister Salazar.”
“What?” Salazar scrambled from the booth. “Why’s this always happen!?”
“Easy, Salazar,” Elliot said. “He won’t kill you.” Elliot opened his eyes, saw the look on the Gurkha’s face, his kukri in hand. “I was wrong. RUN! Lien! Bahadur! Sit back. Put the knife away. You have to keep that leg elevated.”
The Gurkha grumbled, frozen in mid-stab.
“Mister Salazar, what Bahadur means,” Elliot began, “is that you don’t need a contract with him. He gave Lord Brudnoy his word. A man such as he can be bound by nothing greater than his word.” Elliot nodded at the Gurkha, whose gaze never strayed from Salazar.
“Ah, well, my apologies for … my rude outburst.” Salazar pawed at his briefcase. “I deal with a great deal of people to whom contracts and words of honor are broken as a matter of course—”
“It may be considered sharp practice to hold men to a contract that they have not signed,” Elliot said.
“Yes, well, I am a lawyer,” Salazar said, “and a lawyer’s practice, if not sharp, is dull and ineffectual, by nature. I am sorry if I offended you, Bahadur.” He straightened his tie. “I realize that with your leg in its present state it may impede your ability to perform the tasks required. But, that is not my problem. The problems of a war-weary gimp should be neither mine nor Lord Brudnoy’s problem.”
The Gurkha’s homicidal mood darkened.
“Bahadur and I have discussed the terms of the agreement,” Elliot said, “and it is I who shall fulfill them. It was for myself, that Bahadur watched the sword those forty years. Thus, the agreement is between Lord Brudnoy and I. I shall fulfill it.”
“That’s all well and good,” Salazar said, “but the contract, er, ah, agreement, stipulates that for every day of service rendered, an equal amount would be owed.”
Elliot glanced at the Gurkha.
“Just over ten years, Elliot,” the Gurkha said.
Elliot nodded. “Ten years, then.”
Benjamin Salazar raised a sympathetic eyebrow. “I hate to point out the obvious, Mister Speares, but you’re an old geezer,” he said. “And there’s no way you’ll last ten years. You could die of a heart attack tomorrow.”
“I will be by his side,” the Gurkha said. “I can still wield a gun and my kukris. My sons and grandsons as well.”
“Don’t even get me started on you, cancer-boy,” Salazar said. “Your sons have always been excellent in the past, very valiant warriors. But, they have families, other commitments more dear to them than Tara. They’d do their best, I am sure, but they could not be there always. I do this not solely for Lord Brudnoy. Tara is my home, too. She’s the home of hundreds. And she may be a shithole, but she’s the safest shithole in town. She’s been good to us all. A true sanctuary, one worth fighting for, worth dying for, maybe. Anyways, I aim to keep her that way, long after Lord Brudnoy’s gone. A lot of people count on her, good people, well, some.”
“What are you saying?” Elliot asked.
“I have another proposal for you,” Salazar said. “It ties into the second part of the first contract.”
“And what would be the benefit of saying yes to another contract?” the Gurkha asked.
“I have information about Nathaniel Reynolds, Peter’s father,” Salazar put on his glasses, “and the leech who abducted him.”
* * * *
A shiver still ran through his body, not just his hand or his arm, but his whole body. Feels tingly. His heart was racing, no saliva, he felt … he felt good, strong.
“Pete? Peter, you okay?” Ringo asked. “Pete? Pete!”
“Jeeze, that was loud.” Sid wiggled a finger around in his ear. “He okay? What the hell’s he smiling about? Hey, Pete, get a grip!”
“Hmmm? I’m okay.” Peter shook his head. “Did I … did I hit him?”
“You could say that,” Sid muttered.
“You blew his fucking head off.” Ringo sat back, looking pale.
“Blew my fucking window out, too.”
“The redcap done that.” Ringo rubbed at his leg.
“Insurance don’t cover redcaps.”
“Shut it, Sid,” Ringo said. “You okay, Pete? He get you?”
“Never shot anything, anyone, before,” Peter said. “Guess I shot at … at Billy Rubin, I think. On top of the Jade Palace? It was loud, you know? Different, though, if you actually hit someone. I mean, I thought I’d feel bad, or awful, or something, but I … never mind, forget it.”
“Pete, number one,” Ringo said, “you’re scaring the shit out of me. Number two — Hey Sid, slow down, would you? Redcaps ain’t some-ones, they’re some-things.”
“Hmm, what?” Peter asked. “Thought ghouls didn’t come out during day.”
“Redcaps ain’t ghouls, Pete,” Ringo said. “They’re some other kind of monster. Mean, creepy little bastards, like Sid, here.”
<
br /> “Screw you!”
“Strong, too,” Ringo said. “They get those iron claws in you, you’re done.” Ringo lifted his leg onto the seat and showed where his pant leg had been shredded. Blood spurted out of his shredded ankle, and then again, and again. “Oh, shit.”
“Artery!” Peter rifled through his backpack and yanked a tee-shirt out. “It cut an artery, man. Here, hold this on it, tight. Tight! Never mind, I’ll do it.” Peter wrapped the shirt around Ringo’s crimson leg and squeezed. “You got any diseases?”
“Tons.”
“Great. You’re gonna need stitches, man. Hey, hey, Sid, we need to get to a hospital fast.” Peter ripped off his belt. “So, when’s the last time you had a tetanus shot?”
“He ain’t getting blood on my seats?”
“Shut up and drive,” Ringo said. “Tetanus shot? Don’t know. Look, I don’t need no hospital.”
“Hey, you guys mind grabbing some eats?” Sid asked. “Cha-Chi’s, maybe?”
“Sid, shut the fuck up.” Peter wrapped his belt around Ringo’s leg, just below the knee.
“Hey!”
“We need a hospital.” Peter cinched his belt tight. “Now!”
“I might miss my shows,” Sid said. “Why don’t you just fix it? You’re the doc.”
“I’m not a doctor!” Peter said, then to Ringo, “You need to go to the hospital.”
“Alright, alright,” Ringo said, “but you got to stay, whoa! Hey, slow down, Sid.”
“I did.”
“Pete, you got to stay in the car. Someone … someone’ll see you if you go inside. Easy, Sid, quit spinning.”
“Deal,” Peter said. “Here, lie back.”
“We going in circles?” Ringo asked.
“Probably.” Peter held tension on his belt; the bleeding had stopped. “Here, put your leg up now.”
Ringo collapsed across the seat, and Peter’s lifted his leg onto his lap.
“He still bleeding?” Sid asked. “Tourniquet? Or hold it out the window? Fresh air?”
Ringo and Peter ignored him.
“So, how’d you find me?” Peter asked.
“You kidding?” Sid asked. “You’re practically a celebrity! Everyone in town knows who you are! Doc who saved Lord Brudnoy!”