Into the Shadows (16 page)

The last thing Shawn told me before he left
was about the Deviants in town; the ones he knew about, anyway. Of
course there was Viggo, who he heard was turned into a hemo
sometime in the fourth or fifth century. I made Shawn tell me that
at least twice more. I didn't know shit about history, but I sure
as hell had a good reason to dust off my computer and do some
research.

And then Shawn listed other Deviants he knew,
or knew of. There was Barnabus, the Deviant faction emissary, who
started out as a settler and trapper in the early 1700's. Pedro,
who liked to lie about his past, was a mystery. I also knew of
Harlan the whacko vagrant, and Clara Page, who I guessed wasn't all
there, either. Then there was the one called the dog-woman, plus a
religious zealot named Michael who was a troop priest in WWII, and
a hermit called Roach who stayed down in the sewers.

Do any of them sound like people you'd want
to meet? Me neither.

MOOD

I didn't sleep well, or for very long. I
wouldn't have been surprised if I dreamt about Viggo, or even a
hoard of rats whose faces all looked like mine. That sounds creepy
- and it is - but it wasn't near as disturbing as the dream I did
have.

I saw a burning pyre in the darkness. Cool
night air was filled with the smell and haze of thick wood smoke.
Over the crackles and low roar of the flames, a scream pierced the
night. I moved forward. A woman was chained to a broken stone
pillar in the center of the pyre. She screamed again in pain and
fear, howling words I couldn't understand. Licks of flame set her
burlap clothes on fire. I smelt burning hair as her body quickly
charred. One last word left the tortured woman's melting lips:
"Viggo . . ."

I woke already sitting up in bed, sweaty,
breathing hard. I had a feeling the dream wasn't just some horror
scene that my brain made up. It felt true. It felt real. My heart
ached for my leader; the woman was something special to him. More
than the pain for his loss, though, I was filled with a seething
rage. I wanted to repay those who wronged Viggo, repay them with
pain and death. But how long ago was that? It was likely centuries,
a millennia, or even longer. That didn't seem to matter; I was
still so angry that my lip kept lifting into a snarl. My unfocused,
barely restrained anger made for a long day.

My first chore of the day was to retrieve my
Glock from the police lock-up. While I was there, showing
credentials and filling out paperwork, I wanted them to pull me
back in for more questioning about the Everett firefight. I wanted
the excuse to vent, to yell at them for anything I could think of.
They were all courteous and respectful. All that did was infuriate
me.

With it being a Monday, I knew John Crane
would be in his office at Silas Security. Normally, I would have at
least called him to see where I stood with the company after such a
long time off. However, my sour mood told me that I was more than
likely fired, even though the prick didn't have the balls to tell
me I was. I resisted the urge to go confront Crane about it, and
instead called Gwen.

She answered the business line with a
professional tone. I didn't bother with niceties, or even start
with a hello. "No more bullshit, Gwen; am I still on the books or
not?"

"Good morning to you too, Leo, and thanks for
calling. Would you like to start this conversation over with a
better attitude, or would you rather I just hang up on you
now?"

"Goddammit, I'm not in the mood for games
-"

Click.

I stood in the police parking lot and
bellowed profanities for a good two minutes straight. A raving
moron yelling at the cloudy sky, that was me. Just about the time I
noticed a couple uniformed cops watching me, it started to rain. I
got in my car, took a deep breath, and dialed Gwen again.

"This is Silas Security; how can I help you
today?" she answered.

"Alright, I'm calm now."

"No you're not, but at least you're civil
now," she said matter-of-factly. "So, what did you get into that's
got you ready to stab a puppy, or worse, be rude to me?"

"I didn't get into anything. It's just been a
bad day."

"Leo, it's not even ten in the morning
yet."

I closed my eyes and leaned my head back.
"Call it a premonition, okay? Look, I didn't call to talk about why
I'm cranky. Can we let that drop, Gwen? I am seriously not in the
mood."

"Fair enough, Leo. But if I find out you were
in some kind of situation and didn't call me, I will fill your
house with feral cats."

I didn't acknowledge the offer or the light
threat; I'd heard them before. "Gwen, do you know if I still work
at Silas or not? I know you said I'd have to talk to Crane about
it, but right now I really don't have the patience to deal with his
long-winded shit."

"And I still don't know, Leo. After the
Everett incident, he was ready to give you a raise. Then you went
off the radar for a long time. In the meantime, there've been
inquiries by a few new potential clients for EP service, requesting
you specifically. Mr. Everett also called for the same thing; I
think he's hired a detail full-time, but still wanted you as
personal security. Crane wants a slice of those pies. If you set
out as an independent contractor, that'd be money out of his
pocket. Still, you know him, Leo; he's got as much pride as any of
you field employees, even Cordell. I'd say Crane will want an
apology for you walking away from the job with only an email.
Honestly, if you wanted to come back, he'd deserve one."

My lip curled again - an apology? If John
Crane knew half of what I went through, that fucker would be
apologizing to me. So what if Gwen was right? I sure as hell wasn't
in the mood to be sympathetic. Besides, she said something that got
my attention:
independent contractor
. I'd evidently gotten a
good reputation from the Everett contract, and was in demand with
at least a few people. And if I wasn't asked to work directly for
Viggo, it might be something to fall back on.

Instead of discussing apologies with Gwen, I
ignored her opinion and asked, "Who were the potentials that asked
for me by name?"

"Leo, you know that they're possible Silas
clients. Telling you would be like treason or something."

"Oh give me a break, Gwen. You may be a loyal
friend to some of the staff, but not so much to John or the
company. And, like you said, they asked for me personally, so Crane
probably won't get them to sign a contract without me anyway."
There was silence on the line. I pushed. "I just want to know who
they are. I won't do a thing with the info without talking to you
first, okay?"

She hesitated. "I don't know, Leo. Let me
think about it. I'll talk to you before the end of the week."

Pushing Gwen any further would have been
futile, and I probably would've started yelling again. I wanted to
keep what friends I had. It wasn't fair to put her in that
position, but I was feeling mean and selfish and cared less than I
normally would have. Sometimes, I was a real prick.

DOJO

I had to safely get rid of my pent up
aggression, but my dojo didn't open until the afternoon. I wanted
to get in a fight, but I wouldn't disrespect the dojo or myself by
looking for a victim there. For lack of alternatives, there was
equipment back at my place that I could vent on. I headed back home
through the rain, sipping from my flask and screaming at stupid-ass
drivers. That morning's dream and those awful screams haunted my
mind, keeping me full of dark emotions.

I gave the heavy bag in my basement a
beating. In fact, once I started concentrating on my punches and
strikes, I noticed the power and speed of my attacks. I was denting
the bag much deeper than normal, and my combinations were quicker
than they'd ever been before. I should have been wary of how I had
a greater capacity to hurt someone, but my grim mood had me
reveling in my newfound abilities. I made a duct tape target on the
bag, imagined it was Emmeline Le Meur, and pounded the shit out of
it until the leather split. As therapy goes, it was a temporary
fix.

It was a long workout, and I felt physically
drained afterwards. I dragged my sweaty butt upstairs, had a shower
and took a nap. No dreams plagued me, and I woke a few hours later.
I still felt surly, but not as aggressive as I did before. Since I
damaged my punching bag but still ad some anger to vent, I decided
to go to the dojo after all. I hoped that environment might balance
my mood a little. If nothing else, Phillip Aoki and his dad (I
always had trouble with his name), who both owned the dojo, were
always cheerful and infectiously mellow. I needed some mellow right
about then.

Back when I'd finished active duty and came
home, I joined the Aoki Dojo. I already had an instructor-qualified
black belt through MCMAP (Marine Corps Martial Arts Program), but
demoted myself to green belt for Phillip's classes. I don't really
give a shit about belts; I only wanted to learn katas and get back
in shape after the last time I was wounded. A little over two years
later I moved on to private instruction and individual training.
Mostly, I did practice drills and sparred with random students. I
faced off against Phil's dad a few times; I learned that the small,
older man could toss me around like a dead cat.

I wouldn't say the Aoki's were my friends,
but we knew enough about each other for mutual respect. They
weren't thrilled about some of my more aggressive tactics, but they
couldn't find much fault in their effectiveness, either. I could go
into detail about training regimens and other details, but who
gives a shit, right? I went at least once a week (normally), got
some type of workout and practice, then cleaned up and left. I
didn't get close with any of the other students. Most folks didn't
want to get too chummy with the scarred-up Marine who sometimes
forgot to pull his punches.

Phillip was in the lobby when I got there. He
greeted me with a smile and a handshake, and mentioned my absence.
I gave him the same bullshit as I gave to everyone else, and then
said I needed to pay my monthly dues. He went and got a ledger and,
after double-checking, told me I made an online payment that
covered the rest of the year. I mumbled some lame excuse of being
forgetful, all the while thinking that Barnabus had indeed taken
care of every detail. I owed him for that.

I asked Phillip for a class schedule, but
said I was only there that day for solo training. Hardly any other
students were there at the time, so I didn't have to worry about
distractions. I changed into my regular blue gi and went to the
empty advanced-practice room to work up another sweat.

It was a while later as I was working on
strike combinations when I sensed someone else in the big room.
Phillip was leaning against a far wall in a casual pose, but he had
a serious look on his face. "What?" I asked while catching my
breath.

He studied me for another few seconds, and
then asked, "Are you taking some type of supplements?"

"Huh? No . . . not unless granola bars and
whiskey are on the list. Why?"

Phillip cocked his head slightly to one side.
"Without some new performance enhancer, I'm not sure what could
explain what I just saw. You're more fluid, and you almost knocked
that practice dummy off its base."

Well, shit. My brain scrambled for a quick
excuse. Because of my shitty mood, I also took offense way too
easily that I was under scrutiny. "It's the first time I've been
here in a while, so maybe you forgot I'm faster than I look. Do you
have a problem with me getting better?" There was no way that I was
going to use an excuse - a lie - like steroids to explain my
heightened physical abilities; that shit was for cheaters.

"No, no problem; I simply noticed a dramatic
rise in your core power. But that's not the reason I came back
here. I wanted to tell you that two detectives have inquired about
you, twice now - a big man and an even bigger woman. They stopped
in last week, and then yesterday. They said you were involved in a
shooting, but wouldn't say more about it."

That info didn't make any sense to me.
"Detectives came here? I was questioned and cleared over a month
ago." When Phillip's eyebrows rose, I explained. "I was part of the
security detail at the attack on the Everett mansion. You probably
saw it in the news." Damn; more shit I did not need. "Did they
leave a number with you?"

"Actually, no; I found that strange, although
the man said his name was Cantrell." He took a deep breath and
pushed it out. "I worry for you, Leo, but I don't want to be part
of anything that would dishonor my father's business, or the other
students. I'm sure you understand that, yes?"

Thinking about it from Phillip's perspective,
I nodded and said, "I don't want to bring any trouble or bad press
to the dojo. I'll try to take care of it." I bowed to him and then
went back to the locker room to clean up. While I showered, I
thought that maybe I was wanted as a character witness for somebody
else's problem. I found out that evening how wrong I was.

RIZZO'S

I brought all of my guns to the range I
always shot at, hoping that emptying magazines would knock the edge
off my temper. In the back of my mind, though, I kept wondering
about the cops Phillip mentioned. Not focused on my aim, some of my
shots strayed. That, in turn, pissed me off all over again. It was
a vicious circle that I couldn't escape.

At home, I looked up all of the nearby police
stations and jotted down all of the desk numbers. I called each of
them and asked for a detective named Cantrell. None of them had one
by that name. Okay, someone was fucking with me . . . again. I
supposed it could have been some mundane thing, but I ruled that
out as wishful thinking. It obviously wasn't any of Viggo's people;
why would it be? Besides, they knew my number and where I lived. It
could have been Le Meur, who might've pulled some legal strings. I
tried to imagine the connections and clout it would've taken to put
detectives on my ass.