by Kirk Dougal
But I would do something this time.
“Can you unlock the door?” I whispered as I crawled forward. “Just push on the latch. I'll help you escape. I've got to help you get away from that bastard.”
The chittering stopped. One of the shadows moved closer, but still remained away from the door.
“Come on,” I said. “Just open the latch, and we'll all leave.”
I placed my hand on the door, fingers shoved between the bars. It rattled at the touch, and I glanced down before I gasped. The latch was on the inside where I could reach it. A heart beat later, the rusty hinges protested as I pushed the door open.
I staggered to my feet, shoving down the pain and nausea, and gripped the door for support. The black threatened to envelope my throbbing head, begging me to lie down again. I wanted to wait until my head was not going to explode with every movement. But Jack's face appeared in my memory, and I stepped outside.
A half-dozen small figures stood off to my right, most of them about Jack's size, but two of them were even smaller. I did not think any of them were wearing clothes.
“Come on, boys,” I whispered. “A couple of you older ones help me, and the rest lead the way toward the road. We're getting out of here.”
I remembered the man taking the car keys from my coat pocket after he hit my head, but we would find a way to escape, even if we needed to walk all the way back to the beltway. Two of the boys stepped toward me, and I let go of the door, reaching out for their help.
The door slammed against the jamb, bars rattling across the clearing.
The man barreled around the corner of the cabin, his voice raised in an incoherent shout. The hoe circled above his head. One swing caught the nearest boy and sent him tumbling across the ground until he slammed into a tree, but the next attack caught nothing but air as the other figures leaped back, his aim thrown off because of the fork I buried in his shoulder.
I grabbed the nearest boy and pushed him toward the shed, putting myself between him and the man. Fire raced down my arm as I touched his small body, but I ignored it, bracing myself as the man leaped for me.
But he did not swing the hoe. Instead, he grabbed the front of my suit jacket and pulled, jerking me past him and into the clearing where I sprawled flat. I whirled when I heard his scream.
The man was lying on the ground with several boys on top of him. Even from a few feet away, I smelled his blood as they raked claws across his face and chewed chunks of meat from his body. I leaped back in horror as one of the boys turned and charged toward me.
The sun chose that moment to blaze over the tops of the eastern trees, shafts of morning light shooting across the clearing.
The figure stopped a couple of paces away. Although it was the size of an eight-year-old boy, I questioned if it had ever been human. Its thin face was blanched white, except for where its chin and mouth were stained with blood. Black eyes sat deep in their sockets while bits of flesh hung from pointed teeth. Long fingers, topped by inch-long claws, reached for me before the sun struck it in the face. The figure shrieked, arm smoking as he threw it up to protect its eyes, and scrambled back into the forest, melting deep into the shadows. The others leaped off the man and joined it.
I waited a few minutes to make sure they were gone before I stepped forward, slowly dropping to one knee and grabbing the hoe from where it had fallen from the man's hands. But my attention remained on the trees where the things had disappeared. I glanced down when he coughed, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
“I tried to protect you,” he said before coughing again. “The bike, it's their trap, waiting for someone to stop and walk out of the sunlight. Like I did six years ago.” He paused, sucking in a breath through the blood filling his lungs. “They'll never let you leav...” His voice trailed off.
I stood and stared at my arm, blood pouring from the gash in the skin, ragged along the edges from pointed teeth. The injury would leave a scar, matching those on the dead man's face. I gripped the hoe tighter.
Chittering echoed through the woods, and a boy-sized shadow crossed between the trees in front of me.
Draghunt
I smelled the blood before I spotted the body.
The first copper I walked around was too busy to notice me as he bent over with his hands on his knees, puking on his shoes. I sidestepped the mess and continued into the alley behind him. Ahead of me a rumbling bass voice gave rapid orders with the assurance of someone who expected them to be followed. The speaker was a mountain of a man, taller than me and twice as thick, with a belly that rolled over his pants like the start of an avalanche. I cleared my throat, and he glanced over his shoulder at me.
“What's the dope, Ballas?” I asked while holding out my deck of Luckies.
“Jesus, Jerry!” the man yelled over my head. “Quit tossing your supper long enough to give me a heads up!” He grabbed one of the cigarettes and nodded his thanks. “I haven't seen you for a while. You been laying low?”
I lit my own gasper and shook my head.
“Nah. I was working a case on the south side. Took a little longer than I thought it would.”
Ballas tilted his head, and I followed him deeper into the alley.
“Good money in that part of town,” he said. “Not as much riff raff. What brought you back here?”
“I got the call from McGlinty.”
Ballas snorted and flicked off some ash.
“I'll bet so.”
When Mayor Jenkins had a problem he couldn't handle through public channels, he called Jerry McGlinty, his right-hand man and so-called political adviser. Keeping political allies in line, running the union vote, and the occasional greasing of somebody's palm was his bailiwick. He even regulated some of the more “special” work. But when a job was too nasty for McGlinty to touch, he called me.
The smell of blood grew stronger as we walked, copper taste sitting heavy on my tongue with each breath. I swallowed and rubbed my arm, trying to stop the itch on my skin. I didn't like working around this time because it made things tricky. But McGlinty paid well, throwing in some extra cabbage for quick and quiet.
Then I saw him.
At least, I saw what was left of the poor bastard. One cheek was gone, and his scalp was torn back to the skull. Most of his shirt had been ripped away and revealed deep gashes on his body, though it was hard to tell how many cuts through the shadows and thickening slick of blood. What was left of the rest of his clothes were soaked as well, and even the wall beside him glistened under the flashlights. I didn't blame the flatfoot at the mouth of the alley. This guy was a damn mess.
“We're saved now, boys. The shamus has arrived.” Two of the uniformed cops off to one side laughed, but the third remained silent.
“Shut your pie hole, Jonesy,” Ballas growled. “Okay, Paul. Give him the tale.”
“His wallet says his name is Robert Diartello,” the quiet officer said. “He lives a few blocks away on 42nd Street. People in the upstairs apartment,” he gestured toward the windows above our heads, “heard a noise and the cans getting kicked over about midnight, give or take. The husband threw open the window to yell at whoever was messing around down here, but then they heard a scream. It rattled him, and his wife made him call us. That's why the stiff is so fresh.”
“Did he see anything?” I squatted next to the body so I could get a closer look. Ballas handed me his flashlight to shine up and down the dead man's body, and I took it, even though I didn't need it.
“Just somebody running away. The moon's bright tonight, but back in here it doesn't help much.”
I shivered at the thought of the moon.
“He was dry gulched,” Jones said. “Whoever done it probably stood behind these boxes and waited until some mug walked by and clobbered him.”
“Uh huh, just waited.” I shook my head. The disgust rose in my voice, despite trying to push it down. “Why'd he come down the alley? It's a dead end.” I gestured toward the wallet in the other c
opper's hands. “I'll bet there's still money in the skin.”
The quiet policeman nodded.
“Eight dollars.”
I pursed my lips, tumbling everything through my mind while I glanced around the garbage-strewn ground.
“Did you find any bindles?” I asked.
“No,” Ballas said. “We didn't find any dope.”
“So, our murderer waits here for someone to wander by in a blind alley and then leaves behind the lettuce,” I said. “Not very smart.”
“You think he came here to meet someone?” Ballas asked.
I nodded and leaned forward.
“Or he came here with them. It could've been a con gone bad, or he might be a button man, and the bump off turned around on him.”
The smell of blood was thick this close to the body, swimming around me in the air and crawling into my skin. My body stirred, but I fought down the urge. Whiskey mixed in with the blood, and then I caught a whiff of something else lying just being recognition. Whatever it was made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. I breathed in deep again, forgetting about the other men.
“Sweet Mary and Joseph,” Jones muttered.
My eyes popped open. I was leaning so far over, my face hung only a few inches from the stiff, the flashlight shining between us. I stood up and pulled my fedora down tight.
“You didn't find the cheek.”
It was a statement, but Ballas treated it as a question.
“No, it's not here.”
“Those jagged edges are teeth marks,” I said, nodding at the dead man's head. “The cheek's been gnawed of by an animal.” Jones stumbled away from us and lost his stomach. I ignored him but pulled out another Lucky to cover the odors clinging to my nose. “And that's not all,” I continued once the cigarette was lit. “You've got more like him in the county morgue.” I stared at Ballas until he nodded.
“Three. All in the last two weeks.”
“They all like this?”
The big policeman looked like he wanted to join Jones and be sick. Instead, he stood his ground and grunted.
“Some were worse. The second one had his arm tore off.” He turned and began walking toward the street again. “We never found it.”
Now I knew why McGlinty called me. Damn him.
*****
I pulled my Plymouth PB into a parking spot and killed the engine. A few calls floated down the street, mixing in with the occasional rumble of a car traveling on pot-holed streets. Somebody's moll was giving it hot to her old man, her high-pitched yelling peppered with swear words she wouldn't be saying at Mass on Sunday. A handful of people scurried down the sidewalk, hurrying from building to building, none lingering in the night air to smoke or gossip. Their voices were muffled, a hint of life in an otherwise muted city, holding their breath against the danger stalking in the dark. The police had not released any official information to the news hawks, but the people who lived down here were too close to the street to not realize when the man with the scythe was on the hunt.
And now I was hunting him.
After sleeping away the day, I had already been to two gin mills tonight and come up empty. Ballas let me know at least two of the other stiffs had also been drinking before they were killed, so I started looking for a trail in the neighborhood speakeasies. With no idea what I was searching for, however, I probably would have had just as much luck taking out an ad in the local rag.
I slammed the car door shut and hustled across the street, walking into the double wide, the walls of the alley far enough apart to allow moonlight to hit the concrete. I ignored the first two metal-clad doors before stopping at the third, its rust-streaked surface sporting the same dents and scratches as the others. I banged on it twice with my fist, paused, and hit it again. A thin piece slid back and revealed a slit in the door. I knew there was a matching opening down by my belly, and a shotgun was leveled at parts I'd rather keep attached.
“I should've guessed,” a shadow said through the top slit. “You always bring trouble with you.”
I lit a cigarette.
“Maybe I follow trouble to keep a daisy like you safe. Come on, Charlie, I'm not here to bump gums with you.”
There was a pause before the man spoke again.
“Duck soup.”
I nodded my thanks. Armed with the password, I turned to walk deeper into the alley. I stopped when I heard the door open, my hand dropping to my coat pocket and the revolver inside. Charlie was my height, but he was so thin, it looked like his head would topple him over. I relaxed when I noticed the shotgun was pointed at the ground, not me.
“You going after this bastard?” he asked.
Like I thought, word traveled fast on the streets in this part of the city.
“Yeah,” I answered. “You know something?”
Charlie shrugged, his head wobbling on his neck.
“I know Big Lip Tommy used to come here for a snort every once in a while. I also know business is for nothing since people started turning up dead.”
Tommy Halton was one of the murdered men on Ballas' list of dead bodies, the one who had lost his arm.
“Was he here the night he was killed?”
“You'll have to ask Bud. I was dealing a game of high stakes in the back that night.” He stepped back and started to close the door again before he stopped. “Nail 'im for us.”
I nodded and walked another thirty feet into the alley before a stairway cut down into the concrete along the right wall and stopped on a basement landing. It was dark in the hole, but I knew the wall had slots cut into it between the bricks, and on the other side was at least one man with a Tommy gun ready to fill the area with lead if I gave the wrong password. I knocked on the door and waited for the slit to appear.
“Duck soup.”
The door opened and laughter drifted out on a bed of soft music. I nodded to the doorman and left my hat and coat in the checkroom before wandering into the main hall. Charlie hadn't lied. The joint was barely half full.
I went to the end of the bar where I could get a slant on the place. Two groups of men and women were having a good time, the laughter and music coming from them. Another dozen or so men were scattered throughout the room in twos and threes, the reason for their visit obvious from the quiet determination with which they raised their glasses and gulped down the contents. Except for the size of the crowd, however, no one jumped out at me as out of place.
The bartender brought me a shot of corn, and I knocked back a slug. It wasn't the best bourbon I'd ever had, but at least I knew I wouldn't be blind in the morning from somebody's bathtub gin.
“Thanks, Bud.” I took another quick drink. “Charlie tells me you were working the night Big Lip was killed. Was he in here?”
Bud stopped wiping down the bar.
“Yeah, he was in here.”
“Alone?”
Bud stared at me for a few seconds, before glancing toward the back booths.
“I think so,” he answered when he turned back to me. “We were packed that night, so I can't be sure. That was the last time we had a decent crowd in here.”
I pushed my empty glass toward him and laid a double sawbuck beside it. He filled it again and palmed the bill.
“Was there trouble?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Yeah, a couple of mugs got into it, but not with Big Lip. He was a little over the edge, but not that far gone. He was smart enough to know he'd lose privileges here if that happened.”
Several men from the closest party made their way to the bar, laughing and singing. Bud walked away to take care of them.
I picked up my glass again and took a drink. The killer's trail wasn't just cold. It was ten feet deep under lake front snow frozen. I didn't even know why the men were being bumped off. It was time to start asking questions farther up the food chain.
I finished my drink and walked toward the back of the club. The noise from the parties surrounded me for a few seconds, and then faded as I ke
pt going. A couple of the smaller groups of men glanced up as I passed by, but none of them tried to stop me. I did notice the last two were drinking clear liquid out of a bottle. I doubted that it was real hooch, especially when neither one looked me in the eye. They were the plants.
I was nearly to the back booths when a man stepped into my path. He was not much taller than me, but his suit bulged with muscles hidden from view. He held both hands at his sides, sausage-sized fingers curled into fists that made the calluses on his joints stand out.
“The bar's that way, bo. It'd be best for you to keep on drinking.”
“I need to talk to him, Knuckles. It's important.”
The other man frowned and reached out with one hand, grabbing my shoulder hard enough to make my arm go numb. I didn't have time for this bullshit. I needed answers, and fast, before the next body showed up. I let my hold slip a little.
The growl that rumbled through my chest made Knuckles blink, but he never let go.
“Joey, it's okay,” a voice said from the corner booth. “I'll talk with him.”
Knuckles squeezed a little harder for a second before he released my shoulder. After another blink, he stepped to the side so I could pass by.
There were two men in the booth, although I would've sworn there was only one when I was talking with Knuckles. I stopped at the end of the table and glanced at both of them.
“You seem a little out of sorts,” the one on the left said. His suit glistened under the lights, and he spun a gold ring on the middle finger of his right hand. Every revolution, it stopped with a deep purple gem on top. “But perhaps it is a good time for us to talk. Shade and I just completed our business for the evening.”
I turned to the man on the right and felt my pulse quicken. Shade was the highest paid, and supposedly best, freelancer in the city. I only knew him by reputation, in fact, I'd never known anyone who had met him before and was still breathing the next morning. I sniffed, testing the air in search of his scent.
