Dreams and Shadows (19 page)

“And I'm giving it to you. It wouldn't be much of a gift if it were easy to part with, now would it?”

Colby nodded, smiling weakly, something of an achievement for Harold to have gotten out of him. “Thank you,” he said. “This means a lot to me.”

“You're welcome. Now get out of here. I'm closing up. Go home.” Harold smiled.

T
HOUGH HE OWNED
a car, on days like this Colby biked to work. Austin is a city swimming in trees. In the spring, every neighborhood is swollen with oak and pecan, branches arching over cracked suburban side streets; bushes bursting from the grass, threatening to swallow sidewalks whole. It is a green oasis surrounding a dammed-up river the locals prefer to call a lake. From the air it looks like a city devoured by a creeping green, its buildings like a series of tall, thin, Incan temples, destined to be overrun by jungle, left forgotten, to puzzle future civilizations. Of course, come summer, that shade is the only thing protecting residents from the harsh, bitter scalding of an unforgiving sun and its hundred-degree afternoons, when the green full beard of spring gives way to the brown withered stubble of drought.

It was spring once again: with its early-morning mistings, evening thundershowers, and temperate afternoons; a beautiful patch of green between the depressing yellow-brown of winter and the intolerable yellow-brown of August. This was the time of year Colby loved most. It was still early in the season, when the days could get well into the high seventies, but the nights were a brisk, wintery forty-five. Austin weather was like that this time of year: dysfunctionally bipolar. It was a time of year trapped perfectly between two very different worlds. And Colby Stevens felt a certain kinship with that.

Colby owned a small house on the east side of the city, squarely in the section of town teetering between hipster chic and too poor to live anywhere else. There was nothing special about it, a rather plain, unremarkable house on an ordinary, unexceptional street. He kept it in good repair, paying a neighborhood kid to keep the lawn up so as to not attract unwanted attention. It was a bar code of a property, generic, ordinary, and anonymous. Just as Colby wanted.

Colby opened his front door, breathing in deeply through his nose. There was nothing peculiar. He laid his keys down in the bowl sitting on an entry table just past the foyer, giving a good look around in all the nooks and crannies of the room. Closing his eyes, he concentrated deeply. There was nothing out of place and nothing present that shouldn't be. Finally, he could relax.

He walked over to his bookcase, looked carefully at the shelf third from the top, and ran his fingers along four other copies of
The Everything You Cannot See
. The shelf was comprised almost entirely of books by Dr. Thaddeus Ray, filled in with a few other obscure reference manuals on the occult. Colby parted the four, splitting them right down the middle, sticking this new copy, his fifth, in between them. Then he sighed deeply, his only consolation being that Harold meant well.

“You have plans?” asked a voice from behind. Colby sniffed the air and immediately recognized the familiar scent of brimstone and gazelle musk.
Yashar.
He didn't bother to turn around.

“What did you have in mind?” he asked.

“Drinks,” said Yashar. “Lots of them.”

Colby nodded. “I think I can squeeze you in.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

S
ECOND
S
TREET
P
REDATORS

S
imon Sparks was an oozing slug of a man poured neatly into a three-piece suit. Well-dressed and impeccably coifed, he was like cheap scotch—just refined enough to seem classy to anyone who didn't know better. Mid-thirties, condo, job in finance, a sleek car that could be started by remote, a band of pale flesh around his left ring finger, and a gold ring tucked neatly into his front-right pocket.

Simon had a theory about women, and if you knew him well enough that he both trusted and wanted to impress you, he would lay it all out. “They're all broken,” he would say. “Every last one of them. Oh, it's not their fault. It's not biological either. I'm no sexist. It's societal. We do it to them; we break them down, bit by bit, year by year. With magazines and commercials and movies starring big-breasted bimbos who can barely get a line out of their mouths before spilling out of their dresses. Women look around them, see a media full of undeniably—and unattainably—beautiful women, and then they look in the mirror and see a collection of flaws too numerous to name.” Then he would take a drink. He always drank right there to let it all sink in.

“ ‘My hips are too big, my ankles too fat, my nose is too long, my lips are too thin, my hair too stringy, my breasts a little lopsided, my nipples are too large or too small or too brown or too pink.' And the worst ones, the very worst offenders of all, are the really, spectacularly beautiful ones. The ones who stop traffic.” He would take another drink right here, nodding, smiling, as if he were about to tell you one of life's biggest secrets. “The ones the nice guys are terrified to talk to and who spend all of their time getting battered to pieces by the cocky assholes who do. Those girls are kicked to shit and left hungry for any kind of attention.

“Those are the girls that do the dirtiest stuff. They'll let you do anything to them. They'll drop down and give you twenty and beg you at the top of their lungs to give it to them harder, give it to them deeper, and give it to them in any place you want. As long as you give it to them. And don't leave in the morning before getting their number. Because that's what breaks them. That's what they don't understand. They think that if they were prettier, you'd call them back. That if they had done it right, you would call them back. That if they were only interesting enough, you would call them back. But you won't. You will never call them back. Because pretty as they are, they are not worth the hassle with your wife.”

That was Simon Sparks. And Simon Sparks was once again on the prowl, once more hustling his wares in a walk-up Second Street bar too trendy to be open during normal hours on normal days. He made his way through the club, eyeing only the youngest and leanest of the night's crop. Few paid him much mind; even fewer met his exacting standards. And then he saw her.
Grace
.

She was five feet nine inches of lithe, firm, blond dysfunction. Her confidence was faulty and laid on a bit too thick, but her dress was tight enough to reveal just how flawless she would look naked. Simon eyed her up and down, trying to figure out exactly which of her features bothered her most.
Was it her lips? Her hair? Her thighs?
If he guessed right the first time, he could shave a half hour off winning her over. Women were tricky that way. They wanted to be thought of as beautiful, but they only wanted
you
if you thought they were
almost beautiful
.

“My name's Grace,” she said with a cute southern drawl.
Georgia. She was definitely from Georgia
.

“Simon.”

“What do you drive, Simon?”

“An A-6. You?”

“Tonight? Hopefully an A-6.”

Jackpot.
Simon smiled wryly and cocked a brow. “You wanna get out of here?”

“That's not how it works, Simon. First you buy a girl a drink. And
then
you ask her to leave with you.”

“What are you drinking?”

“Blue Label. Neat.”

Simon stuck a finger in the air without taking his eyes off her. “Bartender! Two Blue Labels!”

“Neat,” she said, sliding a hand up his thigh.

“Neat!”

S
IMON AWOKE STRAPPED
to a rickety chair in a dilapidated warehouse, hands bound together with duct tape, a sweaty sock taped firmly in his mouth. Groggy, he sifted through memories, trying to figure out exactly where he was. He remembered the blonde.
Grace. Grace was her name
. He remembered leaving with her, going to his car and letting her drive. Then he remembered drifting off in his seat, confused. “Oh, don't worry about that,” Grace had said. “Those are just the drugs kicking in.”

He looked around, frantic. The floors were stained with oil, smooth concrete marred with gouges from heavy machinery. The air was moist and rotten, like old death. And two shadows lingered just outside of the light.

“Look who's awake,” said the taller of the two.

Simon immediately began to cry. And to sob. He shook his head, jumping around in his chair, clacking its legs on the cement, screaming through the sock, “MwomwoMWO! Mweee! MWEEEHEHEHEHE!”

The taller of the two stepped into the light. He was a thin, gaunt mutant, balding despite his youth, with hair combed over the scabby, bulbous portions of his head. One of his eyes was cocked to the side, and his teeth were feral—sharp, crusty, and yellowed.
Knocks.

He smiled. “I'm sorry, Simon. I'm afraid I can't hear you properly beg for your life. Let me help you with that.” He walked over and tore the tape from Simon's mouth.

Simon immediately spat out the sock, heaving from the taste. “Please don't kill me!” he shouted.

“Why ever not?”

“Let me go. Please let me go.”

“There's no fun in that. Not unless we chase you and run you down. Dietrich!” He waved to the short shadow behind him. From the darkness it came, a malignant, twisted dwarf of a man wearing a sweaty red nightcap on a head two sizes proportionally larger than it should have been. The dwarf dragged a long tire chain that skittered, snaking across the floor.

“Please, God, no!”

Dietrich swung the chain across his legs, splintering his kneecap. Simon cried out.

“Please! Do whatever you want to me. But please, don't hurt my family!”

Knocks and Dietrich stared, dumbfounded, with jaws slack, eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“I'll get you your money!”

“Money?”

“I told Jorge that I'd get the money and I'll get it.”

Eyeing him up and down, Knocks sniffed at the air. “You're not lying, are you?”

“No! Of course not.”

“You really are afraid we're going to kill that cold bitch of a wife of yours?”

“Hey! Don't you dare!”

Dietrich whacked his splintered kneecap again, this time shattering it.

“Don't get sanctimonious, douche bag. Why else would you be prowling for southern tail, unless you had somehow convinced yourself you were entitled to it?”

“That's none of your business, you son of a . . .” He stopped himself, trailing off immediately into regret.

“Dietrich, I think perhaps you'll be killing his wife after all.”

“No! No! Please. I'll get you your money!” He was sobbing again. “I'll get you your muh-huh-ny.”

Knocks smiled and narrowed his eyes, motioning to Dietrich. “Knock him out.”

The chain cracked into the back of Simon's skull and the world fell immediately into black.

S
IMON AWOKE TO
the rising sun, sweat and blood pooling on the fine leather front seat of his car. His head throbbed, his knee screamed. But he was alive.
Thank dear, sweet, merciful Christ, I'm alive!
Through the morning dew glistening on his windows he could make out the cold, drab gray of an empty parking lot. Reaching back, his fingers tickled the gooey slop at the base of his skull. Everything about the night before felt like a fading dream.

He needed to get to a hospital. He could call Mallory from there. It seemed like the best way to keep out of trouble. Wives don't ask too many questions in the ER; they're just happy you're alive.

K
NOCKS HADN'T TAKEN
pity on the man—he wouldn't know how—but Simon's predicament had given him an idea. What Simon felt in that moment when he imagined his family being beaten to death with a tire chain was deeper and more profound a pain than Knocks had felt in decades. It was a true, heartsick terror that wasn't driven by survival, but rather longing. And love. The dread was palpable. Nuanced.
Delicious.

When you beat a man to death, the fear subsides the moment you stop hitting him. And after a while, your victim only wants to see it over and done with. Fear fades into acceptance and there's nothing left but to turn the redcaps on him to tear him to pieces and slake their caps. Knocks had spent years feeding this way, luring in sleazebags and horny hipsters with the promise of a tawdry backseat screw, only to beat them down in a dark alley or abandoned warehouse with a couple of his redcap friends. But that only lasted an hour at best.

Fear like that meant regular violence. Too regular. People got wary around that much crime. So Knocks waited only until the last possible moment, when his hunger could take little more. Then he would lash out and feed.

But there was something about having a worm on a hook, writhing and squirming in agony, that appealed to him. He wanted to see just how far this would go. So he let Simon go free with a warning, just to see what would happen. Then, whenever Knocks felt the pangs of hunger, he crept into the bushes around Simon's house, placing a phone call to Simon's home number. After a few seconds of heavy breathing, he hung up. Simon, terrified that would be the night they were coming to kill him, would turn off all the lights and huddle in the dark with his family, slowly losing his grip on everything he loved. Thus terrifying his wife and kids even more than the thought of them dying terrified him. And Knocks consumed every last bit of anxious panic.

He'd discovered the long game. And while police would later fish Simon's headless body out of Ladybird Lake—murdered by his Mexican Mafia creditors—Knocks had already moved on to something even more dastardly. There was no way to truly duplicate a Simon Sparks; he was a lucky break. But one night, while creeping around Simon's house, he'd noticed how deeply tormented Simon was at the thought of his wife leaving him over his behavior. Here was a man who spent evenings after work shacked up in some hotel with boozed-up college girls and strung-out strippers, terror stricken at the notion of his frigid, nagging wife calling it quits. It was counter to everything the guy stood for. But there it was. Love.

And that's when Knocks discovered the true frailty of the human heart. He remembered his own heartbreak from youth, when little Mallaidh the Leanan Sidhe snubbed him for that detestable Tithe Child. As the anger and bitterness welled up within him again, he wondered how hard it would be to string someone along—to create the perfect soul mate for a person, only to slowly unravel them over time, first breaking their heart, then their spirit, then even their will to live.

It turned out to be much easier and more rewarding than he'd imagined.

No longer willing simply to prey upon one-night stands, he turned his sights toward lonely outsiders, the invisibles of society, those souls passing unseen through the world, eking out a meager existence, cloistered at home on a Friday night with a stack of books, a cup of tea, a video game. Finding them would prove simple enough. They were everywhere. Though they felt alone, their population was dense and numerous, found in bookstores or movie theaters or working in the farthest, most isolated corners of large offices.

The trick was to find someone who had a hard time making eye contact. Those were the invisibles who felt they were invisible for a reason. They felt unattractive or unlikable, and they dressed the part, with baggy clothes, face-shadowing glasses, and only passing attention paid to their hair or makeup. Knocks began to spot them in even the most crowded rooms. A quick brush past them and he could feel the tingle of loneliness, the tickle of their yearning to be loved. And that's when he would strike.

L
IZZIE
A
NDERS WAS
a mess. In another life she could have been beautiful. But not this one. This was the life in which she cried herself to sleep, still thinking of herself as the ten-year-old girl who had pissed herself in gym class, earning the nickname Pissie, which stuck until graduation. The boys would tease her about being into water sports and the girls, far crueler, would get up and move whenever she sat near them. She'd skipped college and gone into data entry straight out of high school, making it a point to never look up from her computer.

It was a complete shock to her the day Knocks spoke to her on the bus. He was beautiful. Radiant. Pop-star looks and a thousand-watt smile. He said his name was Billy. He'd asked if the seat beside her was taken and never stopped talking after that. She tried to shut him down with silence, but every time she immersed herself in a book or looked out the window, he found something else to talk about.

It was as if he knew her already. Her every interest, her every dream. He was magical. The guy she cried herself to sleep thinking about, knowing that he couldn't be real. Not for her. Not for Pissie Anders. But there he was, and he wouldn't give up.

Their love affair lasted three magnificent weeks. On their second date, they'd made love on the floor of her studio apartment. By their fifth date, they were making love so much she would pass out from exhaustion. By week three, they were planning trips around the world that they would take after their kids graduated.