Into the Shadows (17 page)

That line of thought led to a conclusion that
chilled me. If Le Meur had pull with the cops, she could just as
easily have had the same influence in the court system or the DA's
office. If those detectives decided to detain me, I could be held
for at least three days on trumped up charges - long enough for Le
Meur to get me back under her control. Or, she could have me
prosecuted and I could spend a very long time in jail. When someone
has command over the good guys and the bad, people like me tended
to be fucked.

I called and left a message with the
ShadoWorks answering machine, telling Viggo about my situation.
Then, not really wanting to, I called Shawn for advice. He sounded
groggy, but I didn't care. I told him about my dreams, and about
two supposed detectives looking for me.

"I have dreams about big V sometimes too,
dude," he said with a sleepy voice, "but not totally intense like
what you're sayin'. Don't sweat it - they'll probably mellow out.
And you said you got a couple a' plainclothes checkin' you out,
too? Whoa, dude, that's kinda heavy. All I can say is call big V
and stay off the radar, bro. For a while, don't go anywhere you
normally do. Oh, and hey, dude, I'm gonna send you a couple free
tickets to a big show, and Glazefinger is in the line-up! Take it
easy, dude."

Shawn made good sense about being
unpredictable. I thought about getting a drink later at Keegan's,
but I didn't want to bring any unwanted company to their doorstep,
either. Just to waste some time, I cleaned my guns and then made an
early dinner. I still felt jittery, so I decided to go for a drive
around the city. I kept checking my rearview mirror; if those
detectives were following me, they were doing a damn good job of
staying out of sight.

I ended up in the crappy neighborhood I grew
up in. I drove slowly past my parent's old house; it was a shame
how shabby it looked. The tavern where my dad used to get hammered
before he came home to terrorize us was just a couple blocks away.
What the hell, I felt like tossing a few back, and maybe I'd run
into one of my dad's old drinking buddies and kick the shit out of
him.

The dive, still simply named 'Rizzo's Tavern'
after all that time, was about what I expected: small, dim, and
half full of middle-aged men who didn't want to be bothered. I sat
at the bar and ordered a drink from the bartender. He looked like
the gruff type who knew how to swing a baseball bat, and not from
playing the game. During my second Jack and Coke, I asked him if he
remembered Joe Beck. He frowned and said he used to know Joe, and
then bluntly told me that he never did like that asshole. That was
all I needed to know. I drained my glass, bought another round, and
gave him a bigger tip.

I was just easing into a calming buzz when a
woman sat down at the bar right next to me. Well, she was
technically a woman, but being tall and built like a heavyweight
power lifter didn't help her much. Just at a glance, she was plain
at best, and her starched blouse and suit vest made her really not
fit in. The red flags were flying. I knew it wasn't going to end
well.

Before the bartender came over to her, she
turned to me and asked, "Care to buy me a drink?"

"Nope, I don't, but here ya go," I said as I
slid a bowl of bar nuts in front of her. "That gorilla you call a
neck looks hungry." I didn't look at her reaction, or care what it
was.

"Have you always been a rude prick?" she
asked in a deeper tone.

"Nah, I'm learning as I go. Have you always
been female?"

I expected to have my drink slapped out of my
hands, or get punched in the head. When neither of those happened,
I looked over at her while I drained my glass. The bartender showed
up and asked what she was drinking. "Nothing; we're both done," she
answered him with her thick features set in a scowl.

"Oh, we are?" I said.

"My partner and I have some questions for
you, sir," she said to me as she flipped out a gold badge, and then
put it away just as quickly. "You need to come along with us."

"I won't have no trouble in my place," the
bartender warned.

"And you won't get any," I replied with a
sigh and slid off my bar stool. "Big Bertha and I can take our
conversation outside."

"I'm detective Dykowski," she corrected me as
she got up.

I stared at her for a second. "You're
kidding, right? Did you . . . nah, it's just too easy."

The brawny woman slapped her meaty hand on my
shoulder and growled, "Let's go, Mr. Beck."

I walked out trying not to tense up, but I
knew it wasn't going to end peacefully. I had no intention of going
anywhere with her and her partner. No matter the outcome, it wasn't
going to end well for me. My options were a body bag, imprisonment,
back under Le Meur's thumb, or, at best, a suspect on the run after
assaulting two cops. Needless to say, I sobered up pretty fucking
fast.

LEADER

I walked out just as the sky was darkening.
Streetlights were already on. Dykowski's hand guided me to the side
street of the corner bar, where a stout man in business casual
clothes leaned against a nondescript Ford in a no-parking zone.

"Okay," I said as she and I walked toward
him, "what's this all about?"

"Among other things," Dykowski answered,
"it's about the disappearance of Sarah Wheeler. You do remember
Sarah, don't you, Mr. Beck?"

I stopped and turned my head to her. "Yeah, I
knew her enough to know she was a fucking moron, but that doesn't
mean I know what happened to her."

"So, you knew her fairly well, then,"
Dykowski said as she moved her big hand from my shoulder to the
back of my neck. She applied pressure on her grip when she asked,
"Do you remember any of the things she was supposed to teach you,
Leo?"

Alright, the situation was sure as shit not
mundane. Dykowski was basically asking if anyone had fucked with my
memories, like Viggo said some hemos could. And the steroid-ridden
bitch squeezing my neck was really pissing me off. "You two work
for Le Meur, right? Ya know, the first time I saw that skank she
had snot running out of her nose. And she was walking funny, like
she just came from a gangbang. Huh, maybe it wasn't snot after
all."

The grip tightened. "Actually, we work for
Mr. Riva, but we still -"

I stomped down hard on her instep. I don't
care if some people say it's a cheesy move - it fucking works.
Immediately after, I rammed my elbow back into her. I intended to
catch Dykowski in the solar plexus, but the foot stomp made her
hunch over a little. Instead, my elbow hit her hard in one of her
tits, but it was enough to make her stagger back a few steps.

A rubber bullet hit me in the shoulder. Even
with the protection of a leather coat, those damn things
hurt
. The guy, Cantrell, was standing in front of their car
and aiming his revolver at me for another shot if the first one
didn't make me give up. It didn't. I could have pulled my Ruger,
but it had live rounds and I didn't want to shoot a cop.

For lack of options, I charged at Cantrell. I
surprised myself with how fast I came up on him. By the look in his
eyes, he was surprised, too. He let off another shot, but was
unsteady from trying to assume a defensive pose at the same time.
The second rubber bullet ripped through my coat at the elbow, not
slowing me down a bit.

I speared Cantrell with enough momentum that
I took him off his feet, over the hood of his car, and smashing
into the windshield. Not waiting to gauge his condition, I cocked
my arm and hammered him in the face. I felt and heard his jaw
break. His head lolled. I rolled off the hood and into the
street.

Over to my left, Dykowski was wobbling on one
foot while pulling a small gun from a rear belt holster. In front
of me, Cantrell lay unconscious on the hood of his car, the safety
glass sagging under the weight of his torso. To my right, I
suddenly noticed three people moving up the residential street
toward us.

I looked back at Dykowski. Her.38 snub-nose
was pointed right at me. She wasn't going to give me a warning;
there was murder in her eyes. I dove for the cover of the Ford just
as she fired. I heard the shot ricochet off the pavement, and was
relieved not to feel the burn of a bullet wound that I was all too
familiar with. I silently thanked Viggo for my heightened
reflexes.

"Drop it, bitch," one of the three strangers
barked. Crouched against the car, I could only see two of them. The
one closest to me was still walking forward confidently. He looked
like a mix of races; black, white, Mexican. He had cropped black
hair and was dressed in nice but casual clothes. I figured him for
the leader of the trio. His hands were empty, but the long-haired
guy on the far side of him had a shotgun aimed past me, in
Dykowski's direction. I couldn't see her reaction from my angle,
but I hoped she wasn't stupid enough to try and shoot her way out.
Then again, I kinda hoped she was.

I heard the bar door bang open. The leader,
who stopped next to me, said to the curious patrons, "You should go
back inside, gents. This isn't over yet." A few seconds later, I
heard the squeaky door shut.

"Yeah, nice and slow," the third guy on the
passenger side of the car said to Dykowski. "Now kick it away." The
gun clattered on the pavement. I saw it spin to a stop in the
middle of the street.

"Get up, man," the leader said calmly to me.
I stood and turned. Dykowski stood there nervously on the sidewalk,
favoring one foot. Over the roof of the car, I saw the third guy;
denim jacket, stocking cap, four-day beard, grinning while pointing
two pistols at her. Cantrell groaned and made a feeble attempt to
sit up. To Dykowski, the leader said, "I think you and Frank should
run along home now, Carla."

Without a word, she limped forward and pulled
Cantrell off the hood. He reeled like a drunk while she stuffed him
in the passenger seat. She glared at us as she came around the car,
leaning on it for support. The leader and I stepped back to let her
get in. Dykowski started up the dented Ford, rolled down her window
to see where she was going, and then gunned it around the corner
and out of sight.

I turned to the leader. "Let me guess -
neighborhood watch?"

He grinned. "Not quite. I'm assuming you're
Leonard Beck?"

"Leo, it's just Leo," I said with a sigh.
"What, you guys are following me, too?"

"No, we were following them," he replied,
pointing to where we last saw Dykowski driving off. "While we were
figuring out what those two were up to, we learned about you. It
turned out to be quite a coincidence." He turned to the other guys.
"Go get the car, fellas."

"What do you mean? What sort of coincidence?"
I asked suspiciously. "Who are you guys?"

After the other two walked past us, the
leader pulled out a business card and handed it to me. Shit,
another one; I was going to have to get a rolodex.

"This is my boss's number," he said. "A while
back, he told us that he was going to hire you." There was a chance
that the guy's boss was one of the people that Gwen mentioned.
"Everyone calls me Blake." He didn't extend a hand. "You should
know it if we happen to work together."

I looked at the card.
Trade Solutions
Import/Export
was the company name. Printed under that was
Declan McKenna, manager
, and then a phone number. "I doubt
your boss is still going to be interested in a security agent who's
wanted by the police."

"The police . . . You mean Frank and Carla?
Don't worry too much about them. I was told to take an interest in
those two since they seem to stay quite busy while off duty. And as
far as Mr. McKenna knows - and he stays very well informed - there
aren't any open cases on you." We both stepped aside when a
Cadillac pulled up in front of us. Blake opened the back door and
paused. "It might be in your best interest to give that number a
call. Have a good night, Mr. Beck."

I stood there under the glow of a
streetlight, absently watching the Caddy drive off. I held my
bruised shoulder, wondering what the hell I'd gotten myself into.
And, dammit, I had another hole in my coat.

TRAVEL

Driving home from my old neighborhood, my
phone chirped with a text message. '
Get home now'
, it said.
The number was from ShadoWorks. The Tuesday evening traffic was
light, so I leaned on the gas pedal and broke a lot of traffic
laws. I made it back to my house in record time.

I hurriedly unlocked my front door. Viggo was
sitting on my couch watching the TV show
'Supernatural'
when
I came in. "What a ridiculous program," he commented in his low,
rumbling voice. The irony of his statement left me speechless. He
used the remote to turn my TV off and looked at me with those
unnerving, pure black eyes. "I received your message. Yes, the
Doyenne does have strong influence with the local police and
judicial system. For your safety, we may need to speed up the wheel
of the rumor mill concerning your powerful affiliations."

Finding my voice, I said, "If you don't mind
me saying so, sir, I'd sure as hell appreciate it. I just had a
little incident, if you'd like to hear about it." When Viggo
nodded, I told him about the event outside of Rizzo's. When I
finished with the details, I asked if he knew either a Mr. Riva,
who Dykowski mentioned, or a guy named Declan McKenna. I had no
idea if they were hemos, normal yet important people, or just
dipshits. If my commander didn't know, he could find out.

"Riva is Dominic Riva, an Adept who is slowly
making a name for himself in the escort trade," Viggo said. It had
to be the same Dominic that Barnabus almost chopped into greasy
cutlets. "Mr. Declan McKenna is yet another numen -a creature of
the night. Like many of those of relatively advanced years, he has
spurned the abused label of 'vampire', and instead refers to
himself as a daemon. He is most notably the spawn of Jack Fletcher,
elder of the city's Outsider faction. Mr. McKenna otherwise busies
himself with being a covert thorn in the Doyenne's side. Does this
information help you?"