Child of Fire (12 page)

So I ran. I passed one block, then another. As I started on the third, I looked back. All three were chasing me, and the tall one seemed to be gaining. That was fine. Wyatt and the fireplug were falling back, puffing and straining to keep up.

I rounded a corner and was suddenly sprinting right beside a police car. The fat officer sat behind the wheel drinking Mountain Dew from a two-liter bottle. The engine was off. He watched me run past but didn’t reach for his keys or the radio. Great.

In the next block, I nearly stepped on a thick black streak on the sidewalk. I jolted to the side at the last minute, running into the street to go around it.

The beer and pizza began to weigh on me. I stopped beneath a streetlight and waited for the scarecrow.

He didn’t keep me waiting long. And he wasn’t stupid, either. He ran straight at me, then dodged to the side as he passed, swinging that tire iron.

I feinted a lunge at him, then stepped away from the swing. It missed.

The guy slapped his feet on the sidewalk as he tried to stop himself. I charged him. He turned and tried to leap back. With a weapon and a longer reach, I’m sure he was hoping to avoid a clinch.

He feinted a swing for my head, then went for my ribs. I barely managed to get my elbow in the path of the iron. It glanced off my arm without any harm but thumped into my hip. That one hurt.

I grabbed the tire iron as he tried to pull it away. My grip was stronger, and I ripped it from his hand and tossed it into the street. The scarecrow backed away into the streetlight, right where I wanted him.

I spared a glance at Wyatt and the fireplug. They were still half a block away, puffing toward us.

The scarecrow threw a solid left jab followed by a long, hard, circling right. Both were respectable efforts, although neither connected. I ducked under his right and landed a hard left against his floating ribs. I felt something crack.

He woofed and bent sideways. I threw a right into his midsection and slid a left hook over his shoulder against his jaw. He dropped.

I turned toward Wyatt and his remaining friend. We’d been standing in the light, and they had seen the whole show. They stopped running. After a second of indecision, they started walking away. I watched them go for a second or two, then went back to the man I’d just beaten.

I’d known guys who thought winning a fight was
cause for celebration. They’d laugh and cheer and spread around high fives. I didn’t feel like cheering.

I took the guy’s wallet while he was coming around. His driver’s license said he was Floyd O’Marra. I also found thirty dollars inside. Good. Eventually, Annalise was going to want her plastic back. I decided to charge Floyd for the important life lessons I was teaching him. I pocketed the money.

“Damn,” Floyd said, rousing himself. “Where am I?”

“Look around,” I told him. “Tell me if you see anything familiar.”

He looked up at me. “Oh, hell.”

“How’s Harlan doing, by the way?”

Floyd didn’t quite know how to take that question. “He’ll probably live.”
No thanks to you
hung at the end of that sentence, unspoken but clear.

He started to sit up, but I shoved him back down. “Where do you work, Floyd?”

“Henstrick Construction.”

“What kind of construction do you do? What do you build?”

“Whore houses,” he said, sneering a little.

“Is that so? Where can I find me a girl? All this exercise made me a little anxious.”

“Outside of town,” he said. “A couple hundred yards behind the bowling alley. The Curl Club. Ask for me and I’ll get you a real warm welcome.”

He tried to move away from me. I pushed him onto his back. “Do you want to help your buddy Wyatt?”

“He’s my buddy, ain’t he?”

“Do him a favor. Tell him to keep away from me. In fact, you and him should hop in your truck and take a little vacation. Vegas or something. Go have some fun. Because if I see any of you again, I’m going to spoil your whole fucking day.”

Floyd had come around enough to start getting angry
again. He tried to roll away from me but winced at the pain in his ribs. He swore. “Next time I’m going to load that damn gun.”

I couldn’t take that lightly. I slugged him once on the nose. Not so hard that I’d break bones, but enough to make him taste blood. I held up his license. “Floyd O’Marra. 223 Cedar Lane. That sounds like a nice little neighborhood. Am I going to have to come to your house, Floyd? Am I going to have to burn it down? While you’re sleeping there?”

He swore at me again. He was still feeling defiant.

Damn. Floyd just wasn’t getting with the program. I couldn’t let this guy go after he’d promised to kill me. I knew very well how easy it was to get shot.

I stomped on his hands, one after the other.

He howled. Lights started turning on in the houses around the block. I didn’t care anymore. He swore at me some more, and each word was a half sob.

It wasn’t a pretty thing. It wasn’t a nice thing. But I couldn’t have some guy running around after he’d threatened to shoot me. I’m not that brave.

I knelt beside him and lifted him off the ground. I knew it made his ribs hurt. I wanted him to hurt. I wanted him to get his thirty bucks’ worth.

“Shut your mouth,” I snarled at him. “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, you’re one word away from being a corpse, because the next thing I’ll stomp on is your neck. Get it? Keep away from me. Next time I won’t be such a sweetheart.”

This time Floyd understood. He nodded frantically, his eyes closed. I dropped him onto the sidewalk and collected his tire iron.

I walked toward the bar. The police car was still parked in its spot, but I circled around the block to avoid passing it again. My hip felt tender where Floyd had hit me with the iron.

On the way back, I saw another black streak from across the street. Damn. The town was full of them.

I pushed open the door to the bar and strolled in like an old friend. Sara’s mouth fell open. She backed toward the cash register, probably wishing she’d kept the door bolted. I dropped the tire iron on the bar. Loudly.

Bill was still sitting there. “Damn,” he said. “Not a mark on him.”

Sara lunged under the counter and pulled out a shotgun. The barrel was several inches too short to be legal. “Get out,” she said.

“I don’t care about you, Sara,” I said. “I don’t care what you’ve done. But I’ve come to Hammer Bay to do a job.”

“What ever,” she said. “Get out.”

She was scared, but not of me. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. “Does Wyatt buy meth or does he make it himself?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Please. You can’t tell me you don’t know what’s going on.”

Bill chuckled. “Sure she can. She’s a tough girl, but she’s a little naïve.”

I turned to Bill. “Which is it, then?”

“Wyatt buys it somewhere south of here, then sells it in the lot at his night job.”

“Are the cops clueless or paid off?” I asked.

“Paid off, I bet,” Bill said. “Considering.”

“What night job?”

Bill laughed. “The Curl Club. He keeps it low-key, though. I don’t think Henstrick has worked it all out yet.”

“Wyatt isn’t a customer there, is he?”

“No, he’s a bouncer, like Floyd and Georgie. Most of her boys work the club when they’re not working on job sites. Especially when times are hard.”

“Who is this ‘her’ you mentioned?”

“Henstrick.”

“Ah.” I felt embarrassed to have to be told.

Sara was getting impatient and I was done. I backed toward the door. “Thanks, Bill.”

He said he was glad to help. Sara asked me if what I’d said about Africa was true.

“Be sure to lock the door behind me.” I left.

If I had played my hand right, Sara would begin asking around, spreading the rumor. Annalise was going to have to go after Charles Hammer again, and Hammer would know we were coming. I wondered how much it would take to truly isolate him.

A police car was parked across the street. Inside I saw the silhouette of the same fat officer I’d seen earlier.

I heard a clatter nearby. I turned toward the sound.

Something low and gray moved out from the side of the Dumpster. At first I thought it was a dog. Then I saw the tinge of red fur. It was the wolf from the night before.

It stared at me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

The door to the bar opened. I whirled around and saw Bill limping toward me. He wore an eager, fevered expression.

“You’re here for something, aren’t you?” he asked.

I glanced back at the mouth of the parking lot. The wolf was gone. “Yeah. A couple beers and dinner.”

“Sure, sure. I understand. Listen, have you talked to Pete Lemly yet?”

“Who’s he?”

“Our local newspaper guy. He knows a lot of the local chess pieces, and how they like to move.”

The police car across the street started up and pulled away. Bill glanced over at it, noticing it for the first time. His expression grew fearful. “Oh, Lord. I gotta get.” He hustled back into the bar.

Apparently, I was not a person to be seen with.

I started walking. Two couples passed me headed for the bar. They walked close together as though huddling against the darkness, and when they laughed, their voices were too loud and full of strain.

I heard a woman scream. The couples heard it as well. They stood still, looking at one another as though waiting for someone else to make a decision.

I ran toward the sound. The woman, whoever she was, kept screaming. I sprinted around the corner and heard them following me.

About twenty yards ahead, I saw a woman standing on the far side of a Dodge Neon. Her face was lit by a fire in the car. She wore an expression of utter horror.

Then the fire went out. She staggered against a tree planted by the curb. A wave of wriggling silver shapes spilled out the back door, swarmed onto the nearest lawn, and burrowed into it.

I was just a few yards away when I felt that sudden
twinge
against my iron gate.

I slowed my pace. The woman brushed at her coat and then dragged a little girl from the backseat, urging her to hurry because it was already so late.

I stood ten yards away and watched her. Damn. Her child was gone, and she’d already forgotten. She noticed me and started to hurry. I had scared her.

The whole town was scaring me.

I walked around the block. By the time I reached the Neon, the woman and her child were gone. A black scorch mark on the sidewalk led toward the lawn, where the dirt was loose and shiny black in the streetlight. Another dead kid.

I walked toward the motel. At the last minute, I turned up the road and walked to the supermarket again. It took me an hour, but I eventually returned with a sack full of the last lean beef in the store. It was only
four pounds, but if Annalise wasn’t healed, it would be better than nothing. At least I didn’t run into that cashier again.

As I walked across the parking lot, I noticed that the lights were on in her room. I went into my room next door, set the food on the table, and thumped lightly on the wall.

She knocked on my door within a few seconds. I let her in, then went into the bathroom to wash my face. I hate the feeling of dried sweat on my face.

“How are your hands?” I asked her.

“They’re a little worse,” she said. “Not too much worse, but they aren’t good. I’m not sure what I should do.”

Neither was I. I finished washing up and joined her in the other room. She was tearing the plastic off a skirt steak. Her hands were stiff and awkward.

“What about the rest of the Twenty Palace Society?” I asked.

She stopped and looked at me. “What about them?”

I knew I was about to tread on a sensitive spot, but it had to be said. “What if you called for help? You—”

“I don’t need their help,” she said evenly. “I don’t need anything from anyone. I’ve been doing jobs like this since before you were born. Since before your father was born.”

“Okay. Okay. I get it. You’re a rock.” I noticed that she had set my ghost knife on the table. I picked it up and started cutting the meat.

It felt good to have my ghost knife again.

Annalise ate all the meat I cut for her. When she was finished, she held up her hands and flexed them.

“Better?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “But not healed. I’ve never had such a stubborn injury.”

“We’ve pretty much bought out the local market.”

“In the morning we’ll try to find a butcher.” She sighed. “The longer it’s been dead, the less potent it is for me.”

That kind of talk makes me nervous. Would she need to eat something alive soon? Maybe we should pick up a dozen oysters.

The door to my room slammed open. I threw myself to the floor. Someone shouted, “Police! Nobody move!”

Then I heard a gunshot.

“Luke! LUKE!” a man shouted. “Easy, now! Easy!”

I realized I was holding my ghost knife. I didn’t want the cops to have it, so I set it on its edge and pushed it through the carpet. It disappeared into the floor.

“Nobody move!” someone else shouted. This voice was young. I wanted to glance at them, but I held myself completely still. I didn’t need to see their faces. Not until they put away their weapons, anyway.

“Is anyone hurt?” the first voice asked. I recognized it as Emmett Dubois.

“I’m unhurt,” Annalise said. Her voice was cool and relaxed.

“Good, good, now don’t move.”

The fat cop knelt on my back and cuffed me. I was hauled to my feet. Annalise stood beside me, her hands also cuffed behind her back.

“I’m sorry, Emmett,” one of the cops said. He was the one with the seven-day beard. He’d apparently left his cigar in the car. I guessed this was Luke. “It’s that
smell
.”

“I know,” Emmett said. His voice was soothing, an older brother talking to a younger. “We’ll talk about it later.”

They made us stand by the window while they tossed the place. They found my clothes but not the ghost knife. Emmett Dubois seemed pretty interested in all the meat wrappers, but he didn’t ask us about it directly.

Then they took us to Annalise’s room and let us watch
as they tossed it, too. She didn’t seem to have brought anything of her own into the room.