[Marnie Baranuik 02.5] Cold Company (5 page)

I passed the information along to Percy and Fryfogle once I'd choked down my fear and revulsion and steeled myself to act. Percy pretended to make a note in her book, but I knew it was for show. The pad had been placed in evidence; they already knew what she'd written.

If so, what did they need me for? Percy’s fractured but enduring curiosity gave nothing away.

Fryfogle made an unhappy noise. “This has been pointless.”

I didn't care that he had liked my wiseass remarks earlier, or that he was twice my size and armed, I stalked over and glared up at him. “If I was useless, I wouldn't fucking be here. Now, since you obviously can't see 'sand pile first pass' from the ass you've shoved your oversize head up, maybe you do still need my help, chuckles?”

“But there aren’t any dunes that we could find,” Percy said. “That note mean anything to you?”

“My love?” Harry asked, studying my face.

“Yes, actually,” I said, looking at my phone. “You should have just told me that when I got here, could have saved us twenty fucking minutes. Christ on a Cheez Nip.” I turned my phone to face them, showing them the app I'd loaded. “First boat to pass the end of the Welland Canal where the sand piles used to be is— oh shit. Was. Tonight.” I checked my Michigan J. Frog watch. “Over an hour ago. We’d better get a move-on.”

Percy turned away to bark into her phone and left Fryfogle to handle us. He did so by making a fairly effective human wall in the doorway between us and the hallway, trapping us in the apartment. Harry and I exchanged glances.

Harry calmly put his coat on, in no hurry. “Well, that’s a relief. Our job here is done, MJ. Well done, indeed.”

I scowled at him, shoving my feet into my socks and scrambling for my Keds. “What? No! Harry, we have to go help her! She could still be out there with him. Or maybe she shot him. Or maybe he overpowered her and she’s dead in the canal. Harry, I can still—”

Wes elbowed me sharply and made a throaty warning noise.

Harry spoke to Fryfogle with a twinkle in his eye, “Isn’t her enthusiasm just adorable?” He gave me a pat on the head. “No, dearheart, I rather think this is the responsibility of our fine officers of the law, is it not, Constable Fryfogle?”

“Exactly.” In case I was thinking of arguing with him, Fryfogle crossed his burly arms across his oak barrel chest and gave me a down-girl frown.

“You see? There is nothing left for the three of us to do in respect to Ms. McKnight. We must trust that in such a terribly important case, their team has everything in place for just such an eventuality.” He waved a pale hand at Fryfogle. “If you’ll excuse us, officer, we must away. To bed! To bed! An exercise such as this is so dreadfully draining on my pet.”

“No, sir, you’ll have to remain here a bit longer…”

“Good heavens, man, one expects to be treated with more consideration after such an arduous task. Look at her. She’s clearly addled by exhaustion.”

“Totally addled,” Wes added.

“Hey!” I squawked. “I'll addle your goddamned hat, Indiana Fuckpocket.”

Fryfogle looked for help over his shoulder. “I just think—“

“And I think, young man, that I prefer to have my evening meal while she is still lively and alert.” The fangs made their reappearance, a mere suggestion of tips behind his human canines as he smiled provocatively.

Fryfogle glanced over his shoulder uncertainly again, but the disgust factor won out, which is exactly what Harry intended. As the immortal swept forward, one cool, elegant pace at a time, Fryfogle retreated despite his imposing size. Harry sensed his vulnerability and seized upon the opportunity; my Cold Company dropped his chin and looked up through his lashes, letting his irises fade from ash through battleship to pure chrome. As the mesmerizing weight sank in, Fryfogle’s jaw gaped and his eyelids went slack.

We were in the car a minute later, ignoring Percy’s shout behind us.

***

Geraldi Park was a dismal attempt at a playground; it had decayed into a scrim of torn Astroturf, asphalt, and wood chips surrounding a few lonely rust-and-plastic swing sets with faded seats and flaking chains. Where sand dredged from the canal once rose in massive mounds, providing a generation of kids a sandbox Everest, overflowing public garbage cans now perfume the air in summer and fill with snow in winter. There wasn’t a car to be seen, including Harry’s rental; we’d parked on the other side of a small naturalization project full of indigenous trees. Half the street lights had been smashed by kids with too many rocks and not enough sense. The copious shadows offered the perfect cover for us to slink forward, even without drawing them around us by magic.

The ship had already traversed Lock One and was well on its way into Lake Ontario; we could see her giant metal stern drifting away, the engines' hum still thrumming faintly through the ground. There was no sign of either Paula or her former captor, but I sensed that neither had come or gone yet. The air was steady, calm, and — to the Blue Sense — lacked the churned-up, filthy residue that violent acts leave behind.

Wes tapped my forearm and I Felt the familiar signature of Paula in the dark as she arrived on foot: terrified but resigned, moving stiffly among the potholes and old chunks of broken asphalt that passed for a street. She went to a damp park bench and sat, plotting, heart hammering.

When, not three minutes later, a car pulled into the empty lot, Paula could have easily taken down his plate number, but it didn’t matter anymore. Not to her. I could feel her nausea from fifty feet away.

The cops would be right behind us. I waited to hear sirens, but maybe they weren’t going to do it that way. Maybe they were already here. I let the Blue Sense yawn open in my mind, took off my gloves and summoned psi to my will, seeking the telltale signs of other humans nearby. I felt nothing.

Wes peeled away from my side; I wanted to ask where he was going, but I didn’t dare make a sound.

And then he was standing in front of her — the Faceless Man — and she could see him clearly for the first time. He was a plain, masculine form in the late twilight. Thick brows, a slightly off-center cleft to his chin, dark eyes, and a hint of grey hair at the temples under his baseball cap. He wore dark gloves and a khaki windbreaker, and could have passed for a soccer coach out walking his dog, or maybe an office manager stepping out for a sandwich. He looked like anything but the monster Paula and I knew him to be.

A mask. A damned good one. Terrifyingly good, I thought. Had she seen this man before? Had she stood by him in the grocery store, smiled at him casually, struck up a conversation about the rising cost of cauliflower? Is that where he got attached? Is that where he picked her?

When she pulled out the gun, it felt like anticlimactic overkill, and seemed to have no effect at all on his easy forward stride. All she had left to do was to squeeze the trigger and disappear into the night; her finger tightened and her wrist began to shake as she got off the bench and faced him. “You shouldn’t have come.”

“You don’t need the gun,” he said benevolently. “You’re safe now. Master’s here.”

“I have to shoot you.”

He laughed at that. “You didn’t come here to shoot me. We both know you didn’t.”

“I have to shoot you,” she repeated flatly.

He seemed average, harmless. Twenty feet away, now fifteen, now ten, moving at a casual stroll, like he was on the beach in Maui. At her mercy, just a nice guy with a half-smile tugging at his lips. Gone was the stiff, military stance she’d felt behind her blindfold, gone was the hardness in his voice. “That isn’t what you want, baby. Tell me what you want.”

“You never called me baby.” She frowned, hand tightening on the gun. “That’s what you called the bad girls. You called them baby, not me.” Paula cupped her free hand under the other to steady her quivering grip. “You called the other girls baby.” Realization lit in her eyes. “Just before you killed them.”

“I’d never do that to my good girl,” he soothed. “And you are my good girl, aren’t you?”

“You used to ask them, ‘What’s my name, baby, what’s my name?’ like some bad porno,” she accused, and a hysterical laugh bubbled from her throat. “Just before you hacked them up.”

“That’s terrible,” he chided. “Why would you want to believe that?”

“They found the bodies. So many bodies. That’s fact.”

“No, sweetheart, the fact is, you feel like you no longer belong. You’ve been lost. But I found you. You knew I would, didn’t you? You hoped I would come.” His eyes took on a dark, oily gleam that was closer to malevolence than mirth. “Every single night, you expected me, waited for me. You watched and listened for me, didn’t you?”

I felt her trying not to nod. Hating him. Terrified by her agreement. Hating the truth.

“And I didn’t disappoint you, did I?”

Paula shook her head mutely. I reached out to touch Harry’s arm, needing him for comfort, but he was gone. My Cold Company had melted back into the shadows after Wes. My bare fists clenched.

“You’re so cold. You’ve been cold since they took you from me, from your place, where you belong. That nice, warm place.”

Paula’s teeth started chattering as though on command.

“What do you remember?” he asked. “You never saw me hurt anyone.”

“Saws. Electric saws.”

I knew she had heard them. I knew she still heard them, at night, when they jerked her from her dreams. I swear on the biggest Hershey's Kiss in the world that I will never, ever watch a home improvement show again.

“Wet noises,” she said with a gulping sob. “Horrible smells. Burning bone. Then no more screaming. No more. Don’t you say I don’t know what I know.”

“They told you that you must have heard such things. You don’t sound so sure. What do you really remember? What do you know?” His words built like bricks around her heart, coolly walling her up to suffocate in chilled silence. His face was calm, his eyes soft and reassuring, expecting the answer he wanted to hear.

Her hesitation was painful to watch. I held my breath, wanting to go to her, to shake her. The Blue Sense flared once in warning, and I tried unsuccessfully to psychically withdraw before Feeling her tilt towards surrender.

“Master is warmth,” she breathed.

His smile was brilliant. “Good girl. Let me warm those chilly bones,” he said, opening his arms invitingly. “Put the gun down. Master is warmth.”

Paula wavered uncertainly.

“If you’re a good girl,” he promised smoothly, “I’ll warm you right up. Head to toes. That’s what you’ve been craving. That’s what you want more than anything, to finally be warm again. I can make that happen.”

She let her hands fall until the weapon brushed her thigh, dragging her arm down heavily, a superfluous weight that no longer made sense. His smile widened. It was a nice smile, full of warmth and security, a smile that did not quite make it to his eyes. Warning buzzers were blaring in my brain. Must do something. Must do something.

He murmured as he got closer, “That’s my good girl. All the way to the ground. Then we can have orange juice and talk about how much you’ve missed me.”

Paula’s knees weakened, and when she set the gun down on the asphalt by the garbage can, she lowered herself down with it, shaking uncontrollably as she knelt. The tears came next, in surrender or in release; I couldn't tell which, and she didn’t care either way. His hand, settling at last on her hair, stroking down the back, then coming to the crown to start again as he circled her slowly, meant she was back where she belonged, for better or worse.

His mouth was suddenly near her ear. “There now, are you feeling warmer?”

And she was. Relief swept through her, causing a single massive shudder that made him chuckle.

The laughter died quickly. “Are you prepared,” he asked, “to come home?”

The hard voice. His body changed subtly, squared off against her, like that bull preparing to charge again. “Are you prepared,” he asked, “to accept your punishment?”

The memory she had blocked came back in a wild rush — her legs strapped to the table at the ankles, the tire iron swinging over his head — then with it, her sense flooded back — Master is pain! Master is pain! — and in a sickening, lurching moment of clarity, she reached for the gun.

It was gone.

Two things happened, then; he cocked the gun, and his hand tightened in her hair.

Oh, Dark Lady. I vibrated on the edge of movement. The cops are too late. I have to do something. I have to do something now. No gun, no weapon, no Wes, no Harry. Where the Hell did they go?

“I wanted to believe you,” he whispered in her ear, and put the gun to the back of her head. “Bad girl.”

“Bad boy, telling lies to his pet.”

Harry’s voice, pushed forcefully over the empty space with an immortal’s vocal magic, seemed to swim around the pair, startling the killer into hyper-alertness; only after his audiomancy had made a proper impression did Harry step from the shadows. My Harry does love good showmanship.

“He had the dump site all picked out, Paula,” Harry continued, his pace a casual advance of preternatural grace. Wes was a step behind him, a silent specter in sneakers.

The gun swung in their direction, and for a butt-puckering second, I thought one of them was going to get shot; the shock drove me from my bushy cover with a sound that was more horrified squeak than battle-cry. Once I had the killer’s confused attention, however, I had no moves to back it up. I stood there and pointed at him sternly, as if to say aha! and then added lamely, “That’s all I got, Harry, you go ahead.” I wiggled one finger at the bad guy. “Do your vampy thing, there, like you do.”

When the gun didn’t go off at any of us, Harry cast me a chiding glare, and from the disappointment coursing through our Bond, I knew I was gonna hear about it later. As long as there was a later, I was good with that. Besides, I didn't have my favorite bullet-removal pliers with me in case Wes or Harry drew fire; the TSA wasn't keen on bringing hardware in checked luggage, and I hadn't planned on anyone getting shot.

Harry glided toward the murderer another step. “He never had any intention of believing you, Paula. Or forgiving you. You disrupted his plans and broke his control.” Harry's chrome-flecked gaze turned back to the standing figure. “Isn't that right? It's all right, Sergeant; I, myself, am not fond of having my control tested by a wayward habitué. In a sense, we are kindred spirits.” He laughed, and Wes shot me a look that was equal parts confusion and disgust.