Dead Things (21 page)

Never leaves the cab. Locked away from anyone who can see him. Sat on day in and day out. And has to endure this greasy fuck every day of the week.

I check my wallet. I’ve got a handful of twenties. I rub them quickly between thumb and forefinger and now they’re hundreds. At least until dawn.

I hand the cabbie a couple of the fake hundreds. “Changed my mind. Malibu. Head up PCH and up Kanan. I’ll give you better directions when we get there.”

His eyes light up as he takes the bills. Does his sniffing routine again. “Malibu. Can do Malibu.”

That’s step one. I concentrate, pull together my will, pull a little energy from the city’s pool, mix it with a little of my own, press my finger hard into the car seat. The radio up front sparks with a pop. So does the cabbie’s cell phone and the embedded GPS telling the dispatchers where the car is. He curses, waves away a small puff of acrid smoke.

“Problem?” I say.

“No, no problem.”

Don’t worry, buddy. There will be.

—

Traffic’s light up the coast. We make good time. I have him head up Kanan, cut over to Mulholland. Deeper into the hills that they call the Santa Monica Mountains. These people so need to see the Rockies.

The cabbie spends the drive yakking away about his big screen TV, all the women he’s slept with, how he’s a stud and a ladies’ man and god’s gold-plated jizz let loose upon the world.

I spend the drive wondering how I’m going to kill him. Because that’s what this fucker deserves. On the drive up I started to see tattered wisps of other ghosts in the back. A woman, a couple other boys. Younger than Brett. So far gone I didn’t notice them until we were up past Topanga.

The cabbie starts looking at me funny as we head deeper into the middle of nowhere. Really gets nervous when he starts hitting potholes. “You live out here? Nobody lives out here.”

He’s right. Not even the rich folk who can afford to rebuild their houses every fire season. With the wind and dry air a stray spark torches this whole area yearly. Kind of surprised it hasn’t happened, yet.

“Sure I do.” I hand him another five hundred bucks and he shuts up and keeps going. I look out the window at the stars. Still a lot of light pollution, but not enough that I can’t make out the constellations and a thin arm of the Milky Way. My eyes light on Orion. The Hunter. I like that one. That works for me.

“Stop here,” I say.

“What? There’s nothing here.”

“Sure there is. Cabin right over there. Can’t see it in the dark, though.”

He pulls over to the shoulder, dust kicking up in his headlights. “Get out,” he says. “Get out of my cab.”

I draw the Browning and tap it against the glass between us. “You first.” He can punch the gas, betting that I won’t shoot him since he’s driving. But there’s nothing but dirt and brush on either side. Not even a cliff he can threaten to drive over.

“Fuck you,” he says. Reaches for the glove box. I give the dead boy a wink and snap my fingers. The lock on the box fuses. He tugs, panicking. Finally gives up when I tap the glass again. He gets out. I follow him, leave the door open. To his credit he doesn’t run. Doesn’t cry, scream or beg. Probably thinks this is him taking it like a man. Probably thinks this is just another robbery.

I don’t do it this way very often. It’s dangerous without a circle and I don’t have the trappings that help me focus. But I don’t really need them. The magic works because you want it to work. And right now I really want it to work.

I have him face the car, get behind him. Probably thinks I’m going to shoot him in the head. Man, he should be so lucky. I flip out the straight razor. With one quick, practiced move, I slice a gash into his arm. He screams when I cut him, clutches his arm, spins around to look at me. His eyes are wide with terror.

“If you’re going to kill me, just kill me. Stop playing bullshit games.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m not going to kill you.” The thing about using another person’s blood to call the Dead is that I can use it to bring him into the spell with me. Sam gets a rare, ringside seat to my world.

The ghosts swarm in. Not many this far out in the boonies, but enough. Sam stares in horror at the assembling Dead. They’re all paying attention to him, to his bleeding arm. Leaving me alone. Licking their lips, vibrating with want.

I kick him forward into the backseat of the car. He lands on his knees, partway inside the car. Gets a good look at Brett. Lets out a high, thin shriek when he recognizes who it is.

I think back to the years I’ve spent preferring the company of the Dead over the living, of staying on the road and always moving. Vivian’s wrong. My life isn’t wasted. Let her handle the living, heal their wounds, mend their broken bones.

But when they’re dead and there’s no one to speak for them, no one to collect on the debt their killers owe: that’s where I come in. The Dead have already paid for their sins. The living, not so much.

When I cut myself and use the silver cup, it’s just to act as a focus. Makes it clear to the dead that it’s
that
blood that’s okay to eat. And if you’re sacrificing something it doesn’t matter how it feels about it. It’s not like Odysseus asked the ram for permission.

“He’s all yours,” I say.

His screams echo in the empty air for a long time.

Chapter 20

I find a flashlight in the trunk and use it to pick my way through the trees and scrub brush with Sam’s desiccated body. Toss him down a ravine. He’ll be picked clean by coyotes inside of a week.

I drive the cab down into the Valley, snag the plates and wipe the seats and steering wheel down. Dump it in a parking lot. Stealing another car is stupid easy, but my options are a Corolla with missing hubcaps and a Hyundai with a cracked windshield. Though I can at least see the road in the Corolla, the clutch grinds when I switch gears. Nobody takes care of anything anymore. I want my fucking Caddy back.

I park the Corolla a couple blocks away and stagger to the hotel, dropping the cab’s plates into a dumpster. I want to take some aspirin, drink my tequila and go to bed. Waking up tomorrow is optional.

“About time,” Alex says when I open the door.

“You know,” I say, “if I’d been more on the ball I’d have shot you.”

“Good thing for me that you weren’t then, huh?”

He puts the book he’s been reading down and stands from the chair near the window. “Jesus, you took a pounding today,” he says. “Vivian let you leave the hospital like that?”

“Not really, no.” I sit heavily on the bed, pull the bottle of tequila out of its paper bag. Pop the top. Take a deep swig. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, I had come over to kick your ass, seeing as you almost got my girlfriend killed today. But seeing as somebody beat me to it, I figure I’ll give it a pass.”

“How fucking magnanimous of you. Last time I checked I wasn’t twisting her arm to come with me.”

“You could have asked me, you know. I’ve got people who are a little better equipped to deal.”

“I don’t think having a bouncer on our side today would have been all that useful. Unless he’s a particular strain that’s fireproof.”

He nods. “Point. But that’s not why you didn’t call me, is it?”

“You talk to Vivian tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you already know the answer to that question.”

Alex sits next to me on the bed, takes the bottle of tequila, tosses some back.

“You’re an asshole,” he says. “You know that, right?”

“So I’ve heard.”

“You honestly think that I’d put Vivian in harm’s way because of you? I’m not sure if you’re a narcissist or just fucking stupid.”

“Can I be both?”

“Sure, why not?” he says. He sucks down more tequila. “You have no idea how much you fucked things up by leaving, do you?”

“I’m getting an idea,” I say. I haven’t thought about Lucy’s suicide attempt since I left the hospital. Haven’t let myself.

“The fuck happened?” he says. “I don’t mean with your parents, or the shit with Boudreau, I’m talking about you. The fuck happened to you?”

“I left because—”

“I know why you left. I want to know why you stayed away.”

“Because it was easier than coming back,” I say. “Boudreau was the first person I killed. You know how many I’ve killed since then?”

“No,” he says.

“Me neither. I lost count. Most of them weren’t human. Some of them were just this side of dead already.”

I take the bottle from him, take another drink. Try not to wince, but this stuff is like drinking paint thinner.

“Vivian called me a coward tonight. She’s right. I stayed away because I was afraid of what I’d come back to. I was afraid of talking to Lucy, telling her the things I’ve done.”

“The things you’ve done, or the things you’ve done to her?”

“That, too.” Who knew I could fuck so much up by
not
being around.

“We all know this shit’s dangerous,” Alex says. “At least those of us who are paying attention. The monster under the bed’s real. She knew that. She would have understood.”

“There’s a difference between knowing about the life and living it. Lucy wasn’t wired for it and you know it.”

“What about the rest of us? You think we wouldn’t have understood? You’re a killer. Big fucking deal. So’s an exterminator.”

“Your girlfriend doesn’t quite see it that way.”

“Vivian’s tough, but yeah, she can be a little Pollyannaish sometimes. But come on. I get it.”

“This is different. You wouldn’t understand.”

“I think I’ve earned the right to say fuck you, so fuck you. That’s so much horseshit and you know it. Like you’ve got a monopoly on nasty shit.”

He stands, staggers a little to the table, grabs his keys. “Leave,” he says. “Take your fucking emo pity party somewhere else. Get back on the road and run. It’s what you’re best at.”

He leaves me alone with my thoughts and most of the tequila. I drink one to drown out the other.

—

“Wakey-wakey,” Tabitha says and pulls the sheets off the bed. I flail upright, blinking. I have no idea what time it is. Everything hurts so much I don’t know where the hangover ends and the concussion begins.

“Jesus fucking Christ, does everybody have a key to my room?”

“I said I was your girlfriend and they gave me one at the desk,” she says.

“Glad to hear security’s such a high priority here.”

“I flashed some tit, too. I think that helped.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Dragging your ass out of your pity party.”

“I’m not having a pity party.”

She picks up the empty bottle of tequila from the floor. “Señor Sauza here says otherwise. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up before you throw up on the bed.”

“But that’s so sexy,” I say and let her lead me to the shower.

The hot water helps, but not much. A hot shower doesn’t do much for the kind of beating I’ve taken. It’s almost noon. I pull on a clean change of clothes. Last set in my bag. Everything else is in the Caddy. I’m going to have to go shopping. I fucking hate shopping.

“All right, I’m up, I’m dressed.” The coffee’s gone cold enough for me to chug some down without burning myself. “And now I’m caffeinated. So spill. Why did you drag my ass out of bed instead of jumping into it with me?”

“You mean besides the fact that you smell like a three-day Tijuana bender? Alex has been trying to get hold of you. Asked me to bring you over to the club.”

Guess he didn’t chew a big enough hole in my ass last night, he wants another go at it. Telling me to get out of Dodge and I’m taking him up on it. Soon as I get another car I am the fuck out of this town. I’ll square things with Santa Muerte later. She’ll probably kill me for not taking out Griffin, or worse. But fuck it. I don’t care anymore. I struggled with that for a long time last night. I came here to find out what happened to Lucy. Who killed her. Now I know and I can’t do a fucking thing about it.

I can’t bring her back and I don’t know how to take out Boudreau. For whatever reason he’s got a big enough hard-on for me to bait me here. That reason alone is enough to get me to leave.

“And he thought I’d show up?”

She shrugs. “I think he wasn’t sure so thought I’d be able to convince you. What happened? You two have a fight? Those look like fresh bruises,” she says, ignoring me. She traces a finger along the edge of a particularly nasty one on my cheek.

“Something like that.” I tell her about yesterday’s fun at the warehouse. Her eyes go wide as I tell the story.

“Jesus. Is Vivian all right?”

“Yeah, just pissed off at me. The old guy’s in the hospital.” I show her the goose egg on the back of my head. “That’s where I got this. Got nailed last night with a sap.”

She winces. “Who—uh, who did it?”

“That Griffin guy who owns the warehouse. Guy’s an asshole. Should have killed him years ago.”

“You knew him?”

“Met him once. Wasn’t fun.” I tell her about Griffin, about Boudreau. And I can’t seem to stop. It all comes pouring out of me. About Lucy, the night fifteen years ago, Santa Muerte. I tell her everything short of the cabbie last night. That might be a bit much this early.

She doesn’t say anything until I finally peter out. “No wonder you tried to kill yourself with cheap booze.” I almost flinch from that, remembering what Vivian told me about Lucy’s suicide attempt. Was it so bad that she couldn’t take it anymore?

“That’s why I’m maybe not looking my best right now.”

“It’s, uh, a lot to take in,” she says.

“Look, I’m sorry. I’m not the best guy. Ask anybody. You really don’t want to hang around me. Sooner or later I piss everybody off. Or get them killed.”

“That’s not fair,” she says, her eyes going hard.

“Sorry?”

“You don’t get to make that decision,” she says.

“I—”

“No, you don’t. I get what you’re saying. And maybe I even believe it. I know there’s a lot I don’t know about. But there’s a lot you don’t know, either. You made bad choices. We all make bad choices, sometimes. But you don’t get to make mine for me.”