Hound of Eden Omnibus

by James Osiris Baldwin

  “Of course. But try to make it substantially less than the prize. The fighter only gets five grand anyway.”

  It was a decent trade, and not one that was likely to set me back much. Dissuading people from pursing activities not in the best interests of paying parties was my bread and butter, and big-headed, testosterone and money-driven men weren’t usually difficult to convince. Strip away the tough-guy persona, and they had no plans or contingencies, only their fists and their fantasies of alpha-male domination. Their dreams of winning the big fight were generally short-sighted, and easily replaced by tax-free cash on the side. If that failed, inducing helpless terror was a sufficient substitute.

  Once my blood was drawn and sealed, Dr. Levental saw me and Binah out into the waiting room. His son was there at reception, shy and darkly handsome in his skullcap, and he glanced up at us and smiled as we passed by. At the door, I turned to face the doctor and offer to shake, but he pressed a second envelope into my hand instead. The elder’s face was graven.

  “There is one other thing,” he said. “This is the current address I know of for Moris Falkovich. You said my gossip on the subject might be useful.”

  “Yes.” I took the second slip, and stowed it with the first. “But not for me. I know people who are searching for missing children. Children with organs capable of performing miracles.”

  He frowned. “And you are helping them?”

  The imagery of my dream returned: a crowd of children, bodies red with blood, their eyes missing. Their sightless stares had not felt like an accusation; they had felt like a plea. They were waiting for us. “Yes. If I can.”

  The doctor nodded, his mouth a grim slash drawn under his beard. “I don’t like to speak badly of someone, Alexi, even if they have turned their back on my community. But Falkovich? If he is doing what I now believe he might be doing, he deserves whatever is coming to him.”

  Chapter 22

  Binah and I returned to Strange Kitty, and walked right into a raging hurricane of conflict.

  Jenner, Mason, Zane and Duke had their backs to the pool table, facing down Spotted Elk, Michael the Pathrunner, and a rag-tag collection of other people, some of whom I recognized from the convocation. The rest of the Tigers lounged, loomed, and leaned around the room. There was a heavy silence from their side of the clubhouse: this was their territory, and their leaders, and they were not impressed. Aaron stood off to the side in plain-clothes, rubbing the back of his hand nervously. Talya was seated at the bar, looking sullen in a sundress and sneakers, but Ayashe was notably absent.

  “You can’t just assume control of this investigation with a band of vigilantes and destroy potential crime scenes without keeping us in the loop!” Spotted Elk was holding a space of his own in front of the bar, voice raised. He was turning hoarse, like he’d been shouting for a while. “That’s not how it’s done, that’s never been how it’s done, and it shouldn’t be how it’s done!”

  “Then stop being such a panty-waisted wimp, get off your hands, and fucking do something.” Jenner had her arms crossed, boots planted.

  “The FBI has already arrested one suspect who might be involved, based on the forensic evidence–”

  “And they’re going to be too late.” Jenner switched to hands on hips. “It’s two weeks as of today, and you know as well as I do that every day that passes is another day for some son-of-a-bitch to be making more skin-flicks with our kids.”

  Michael saw me first, glancing up and across to meet my eyes.

  Spotted Elk took a step towards her, face flushed with rage. “You destroyed a key piece of evidence when you went charging in like a pack of wild animals. And now you think that you have the right to trample the changing grounds of the Ross family without oversight – a location which is, I might add, probably a crime scene – in the hope of ‘discovering’ something no one else has found? If Aaron hadn’t come forward… what are we going to tell the FBI if we destroy more evidence? That film could have been used to make mass arrests, Jenner. They could have found and arrested the man-”

  “We found the man. He’s permanently arrested,” Mason rumbled.

  “Only one is dead. His friends are still at large, and we have not even found one child,” Michael said. His calm voice pierced the hot tension like a flush of cold water. “John has the right of it.”

  “I can’t believe this.” Jenner threw her hands up. “So what are you going to do? Tell the FBI the location of a changing ground?”

  “I won’t break the covenant if we don’t have to.”

  “No, John. You DON’T break the covenant.” Zane said. It was the first time I’d heard him speak up in one of these arguments. “Changing grounds are secret for a reason.”

  “This is true,” Michael said. “We cannot release details of anyone’s territory, even when they are dead.”

  Jenner sneered. “So in other words, you’re not going to do anything. You throw a tantrum when we offer to go, and you throw the book down when I suggest you go to the FBI. So what are you going to do?”

  “We are living in America under American law!” Spotted Elk snapped. “Roving bands of hunters worked when this world was undeveloped, Jenner. It doesn’t work anymore. We need to leverage our allies and resources, or they will pick us off one at a time.”

  “Or they’ll take us out all at once because we’re sitting on our asses and not doing anything useful,” Jenner replied. “You really think that the FBI and the cops aren’t tied up with the mob? You think the Vigiles are our friends? What makes you think that their money isn’t what’s bankrolling this shit?”

  “Now wait just a second there,” Aaron said. No one but me seemed to hear him.

  “Because I’m not paranoid beyond reason,” Spotted Elk replied.

  “Witchhunters spent three hundred years chasing our asses down. You really believe that the Government arm of the Venator Dei is just going to make friends and let live?” Jenner’s eyes blazed. “You’d think being born into a tribe this lifetime would have taught you something about the authorities in this country.”

  Spotted Elk’s expression darkened. “That was a low blow, and you know it.”

  “I know it’s the truth. Me and my family saw plenty of what the Government had to offer in Vietnam.”

  “Stop this now.” Michael held his hands up, and moved from his place. “I’ve heard enough.”

  An uneasy silence fell. Spotted Elk ground his teeth, stepped back, and finally noticed me. Jenner followed his line of sight, and then turned back to Michael.

  “Both of you make important points. It is true we cannot break the covenant and reveal the territory of any person, living or dead.” The Pathrunner spoke intently, but with authority. “The accord with Federal law only goes so far. Changing grounds are sacrosanct, unless they constitute a crime scene. And this one may very well provide clues or evidence for the Federal and state police.”

  “Pathrunner, with all due respect-” Mason started forward.

  “Wait.” Michael turned dark eyes on him, and the larger man fell back. “What we can do is appraise the changing ground and then report anything we find to Ayashe, who will relay it to her organization. The three most senior representatives from the primary Waw-Ropor are here already. I suppose a compromise can be made, if I, John and Jenner go to the changing ground and make our assessment together. If we find anything unusual, we can report it to the authorities.”

  “So basically, exactly what we were going to do anyway, but you’re going to babysit us the whole time,” Jenner said. “Fine, whatever, but I want to stay here to plan a contingency with the club. I’m nominating that Mason to go in my place.”

  “Suits me,” Mason replied. “Ain’t like I never been bushwhacking before.”

  Spotted Elk looked less than thrilled, unable to meet anyone’s eyes as his lips twitched and his hands pawed restlessly in his pockets. “Very well. I accept this suggestion, but I need to go back to my home to get ready first.”


  “The changing ground is a three-hour drive from here,” Michael said. “Take whatever you feel you need to prepare yourself. Let us aim to spend an hour there, to return by ten or eleven p.m.”

  “About frigging time.” Mason rolled his eyes and pushed off from the edge of the pool table, shambling off into the house.

  As the circle broke, I stepped forward. “Might I suggest you line your trunk with plastic and take good gloves?”

  The Elders turned as one to face me, momentarily stunned.

  “If there is evidence, and you do end up taking from the changing ground, you don’t want any oil or fibers to get on it.” I shrugged. “Besides that, magical objects are often triggered by skin contact.”

  “We won’t be touching anything,” Spotted Elk said. “There will be no magical objects.”

  I sighed. “A Spook disappeared there. It suggests something happened.”

  “Cut Rex some slack. He’s a professional.” Jenner grinned as she joined me by my side. “Wanna go with them?”

  “I have to work on something else tonight,” I said, fighting the instinctive urge to glance at Spotted Elk. He was still fidgeting nervously, deep in quiet conversation with Aaron. “Something relevant to the investigation.”

  “And what would that be?” Spotted Elk said.

  Admitting my plan to visit Moris Falkovich was almost certain to cause another childish fight as pointless as it was ridiculous. I’d been twisting the wrists of freaks like Falkovich since I was in highschool. If he had the kind of security I couldn’t manage alone, I’d tell Jenner before I admitted anything to John Spotted Elk.

  I attempted a smile as the pleasant, cool certainty of impending violence settled through my body. “Research. One of my contacts has given me information that could result in a lead. With luck, we will make two breakthroughs in one night.”

  “Good.” Jenner slapped me on the back. “About time someone took some initiative. You look into that, while Michael and me go out back and discuss the location of the changing ground. Won’t we, Michael?”

  “You presume much.” Michael’s still face had taken a cold, arrogant cast.

  “I presume you’re going to help your Elder find twenty-one missing children, yeah.” Jenner gave him a stiff little grin.

  The Pathrunner grimaced, looking to Spotted Elk. When he saw that John and the other Fires were already heading for the exit, he turned on his heel and headed for the red door, his back straight, shoulders tense. Jenner followed him. Her hands were fisted by her sides.

  “I see.” I drew a deep breath, and looked back at the rest of the Tigers. The majority of them were dispersing. Duke, Zane, Big Ron and the mechanic-looking man had moved to the side and were now in a tight huddle of conversation. The only person still interested in me was Aaron, as he pushed through the milling bikers with a smile.

  “How was your meeting with Christopher?” He asked. “More productive than this, I hope?”

  “In theory.” I crossed my arms instinctively. Binah was still riding on my shoulder, silent, her purring having died against the wall of tension. “He was charming, and he was able to tell me a lot about the church, but very little about the couple. The children didn’t even really come up.”

  “Well, the police have already been through all that with him,” Aaron said.

  “Not you, I assume?” I arched an eyebrow.

  “Not a chance,” Aaron said. He shook his head. “Conflict of interest.”

  When I got to the bedroom to get ready for my night’s outing, I took the chance to read through the written information my doctor had passed to me. The one on Falkovich was just an address. The other one, my trade for Celso, went into a bit more detail. As I began to read through it, my heart sank.

  “GOD damn it!” With the luxury of privacy, I swore out loud and threw the slip down onto the floor, exasperated. Doctor Levental’s fighter was a man named Viktor Bravic. His opponent for the Saturday semi-final was Zane Salter.

  Chapter 23

  When one went to accost a well-known, expensive ex-Jewish surgeon at his place of residence, one did not expect to end up in Hunts Point. A prestigious title like ‘Pediatric Transplant Specialist’ generally conveyed a love of comfortable living somewhere east of Brooklyn: Colonial architecture, a well-manicured lawn, small fluffy dogs. Doctors tended to keep houses that were clean and respectable, at least by appearances.

  I forgot all about Zane and Celso when I pulled up in front of the house, checked the address, rubbed my eyes and read the number on the fence again to make sure. Moris Falkovich's house was a dump. He lived in a two-story white clapboard squeezed between a warehouse and a wholesale bakery in what was otherwise an industrialized wasteland. The strip of buildings – including the house – backed out onto a large, empty dirt lot with a lot of trash and rows of jagged concrete stumps that could be seen from the end of the driveway. There was a huge scrapyard across the street. It was desolate, cramped, and dismal. It was the perfect place to hide a monster.

  The place made my lip curl and my feet hesitate. The tiny yard and driveway had a short, white chain link fence that reminded me all too much of my family home in Brighton Beach. The yard was studded with old merry-go round horses impaled on poles. Their intricate details were blocked out by thick layers of cheap acrylic paint, each horse a different solid color. Their eyes were flat and lifeless, painted solid black.

  The cold wind had turned to pelting rain. I ran from my car to the shelter of the porch, my hand on the butt of the pistol under my jacket. When the wind turned right, the gusting rain carried the smell of something unpleasant, wrong, a sick sweetness that stood out against the normal rusty undertone that pervaded all of these older parts of New York. It smelled like meat left out for too many days in the weak winter sun. I was glad that I’d left Binah behind, but the gun was looking like a bad decision. I drew the knife instead, turning it back along my arm.

  The front door was loose, banging with each shift in the storm as it blew down the street in waves. I reached for the handle: from the back of the warehouse next door, something rattled and banged, loudly. I threw myself around the concrete retainer separating the porch from the yard, pulse hammering in my throat. A long, tense minute passed, but no one rounded the yard, no shoes sounded against the pavement. Warily, I rose, and sniffed. Nothing, no one was out there that I could see, but it had put me off wanting to try the front door.

  I went back out into the wall of rain, jumped the flimsy chain link gate dividing the rear from the front, and dropped down to the mud on the other side. The empty lot was very dark, lit only by the low reddish clouds. Here and there, old children's toys were scattered like rubbish. A sour feeling pressed at the back of my throat, and I turned the knife around on the way to the back door, blade facing out. It was locked, but the deadbolt was old and easy to slip. I bumped it carefully, pausing after the handle turned to see if anyone had heard the knock of the knife hilt against the bump key. No one responded. I opened the door and slid through in a wary crouch, only to back out half a second later as the stench of decaying meat, old piss and rotten food slapped me so hard that my eyes watered. "Jesus Christ."

  It was warm inside, and lightless. GOD help me, but I wanted the gun. The knife felt tiny, useless, as I pulled my cap off and pressed it over my mouth and nose. I slipped back inside, letting my eyes adjust before heading deeper into the house.

  The kitchen was the source of the smell. The counters were piled with dirty dishes, many of which had slipped to the ground and shattered amongst empty mac and cheese boxes and crumpled cling film. There was a dog bowl half full of rotten food, and the room reeked of animal urine, acrid and suffocating. Microwave meal trays and empty plates had been thrown against one of the walls, the overflow from trash bags tied to the cupboard handles. My boots crunched on broken porcelain and glass from one end of the room to the other. There was a short hall leading to the den, where the fetid odor of death and feces gathered in a grim, stagnant clo
ud.

  The den was where I found the fluffy dogs: two Pomeranians. One had its skull crushed along the floor in a long smear of dried gore, recognizable only by its fox-like fur and drumstick legs. The other dog hung over the back of the shabby sofa like an abandoned accordion. Something had not quite pulled it apart into a distended mess. Blood was smeared in double tracks across the ground, a ten-fingered trail from the sofa to the stairs and up. The bloody trail continued up to the loft landing and around the corner.

  The door at the end was closed, smeared with black and red. There was no hiding my approach – the floor creaked under my weight as I stepped forward and tapped the door hilt with the handle of the knife. No static, no explosions, no trappings of a ward that I could see. I was beginning to regret not bringing any of the Weeders, but the dead weren’t dangerous in and of themselves – merely disturbing.

  I took a moment to steel my stomach and my nerves, then turned the knob and kicked the door in, flashlight held up, the knife held low. The door swung in and crashed off the wall inside. A wave of putrefaction roiled out from the room into the hallway. Whoever, whatever was in there, it was extremely dead.

  Moris Falkovich – I presumed it was Moris – hung motionless from the exposed rafters of his attic bedroom: a large space with a huge bed in the center, a door leading off to some smaller room on my right. His face was swollen, a livid, eyeless lumpy sack close to bursting with old blood. Empty orbital sockets stared straight at the entryway, boring into me. A thin whine was growing in my ears, a chorus of tiny drills that grew louder and more insistent over seconds of time. Then I saw her, smelled her. Another hanging, another death.

  My mother.

  No. No! I locked my teeth and focused on the real, the man. Moris was small and thin, with a deeply recessed chin and a hairy, bony pigeon chest. His mouth was open. It was full of black things, crawling. My vision cut, chopped, blurred: I saw my mother hanging in his place, her dress limp, her blue eyes bloodshot and bulging.