by Callie Hart
“God, Sarah, stop. Stop. You're going to mutilate yourself, for fuck's sake. Garrett, have you got anything in your apartment that might be able to crack this open?” Garrett shakes his head unhappily. I try to think if I have something in my own apartment that might help, but nothing springs to mind.
I'm about to start hunting for a phone—mine is still at Pasha’s place. Fat lot of good it is to anyone there—to look up locksmiths, when there's a knock at the door. The three of us fall still, eyeing each other nervously. A mute, a nail technician in a scold's bridle, and a dispatch officer covered in blood. There's no way any of us can answer the door right now. It's too soon for it to be Pasha. I didn't ask what he was going to do with Lazlo, but we've only been back a few minutes and there's no way he'll be finished with the murderous bastard already.
The knocking comes again, louder this time. More insistent. “Pasha,” a male voice calls out in the hallway. “I know you're here. I saw the light from the street.”
Garrett's eyes flash warily. In a heartbeat he has Sarah’s knife in his hand and he's heading toward the door. “Don't. Don't you fucking dare,” I hiss, snatching the knife from him. “No more. No more violence. I'm fucking sick of it.” Garrett seems to wilt as I hurry past him headed toward the door.
I've seen far too many action movies to think that looking through the spy hole is a good idea. I’m not opening this door without seeing who’s out there in the hallway first, though. Cautiously, standing on my tiptoes, I peer through the tiny bowed piece of glass, and I'm flooded with relief when I see who it is. It's Archie, the Fox, complete with wild, crazy grey hair and silken waistcoat to match. He stares directly into the spy hole as if he knows I'm standing on the other side watching him.
“You again,” he says, arching his eyebrows. “Are you going to let me in, or am I gonna have to knock this thing down? I'm an old man, Zara Llewellyn. You want me dislocating my shoulder?”
Standing in the living room, halfway between the kitchen and the front door, Sarah is a living statue. She stands stock still, stunned, as I remove the chain from the door and turn the handle, letting Archie in to the apartment.
The man takes one look at Sarah and staggers, reaching out with his hand to steady himself against the wall. “Jesus, Mary, and fucking Joseph. What the hell's happened to her?” Archie doesn't even acknowledge Garrett. He walks toward Sarah, and gingerly touches the mask, running his fingers around its’ edge, as if he's looking for a seam or some sort of release catch.
“Lazlo wouldn't give us the key,” I tell him. “What are you doing here, Archie? I thought you were going to stay at the glen with the others.”
“Patrin and I hiked out about an hour after you left,” he tells me. “I figured the two of you were in for a world of shit and could use a little help.”
“You hiked out?” I try to do the math, calculating the distance they must have traveled in the fresh freezing cold snow.
“Yes, we're fucking idiots,” Archie agrees. “And Patrin complained that he was going to die of exposure the entire time, but we made it back to the parking lot eventually. How the hell are we gonna get this off without taking half her head with it? This thing looks fucking medieval.”
Sarah reaches up, taking hold of Archie by his wrists. Her touch is gentle, and it takes me a moment to realize that she still hasn't recovered from the sight of an old friend suddenly in her living room.
Archie told me that he used to come here to check on her, but he didn't say anything about him making himself known to her. From her wide, dilated pupils and the stillness in her body, I'm willing to bet she hasn't seen him since Shelta tried to kill her.
Archie pauses, looking down at Sarah's hands, and he hisses through his teeth. “Christ on the cross, Kezia,” he whispers.
My stomach rolls when I see what he’s cursing at. How have I not noticed before? How did I not notice that her fingernails are gone, for fuck's sake? All of them, removed. I nearly burst into tears when I see the bloody, raw welts at the end of each of her fingers. It's a horrific sight. I have no problem imagining Lazlo taking a pair of pliers to each of her nails and pulling them off one at a time.
Sarah tries to snatch her hands away, but Archie’s too quick for her. He grabs hold of her and cradles her hands in his own, angrily shaking his head. “I should have fucking killed him myself,” he growls. “Shelta made me swear to mind my own business. She forbade me from coming here. Forbade me from going after that bastard. Wouldn't even let me tell Pasha he hadn't killed Lazlo in the first place. If I’d just dealt with him back then, none of this would have happened.”
Sarah shakes her head. I'm sure there are so many things she wants to tell Archie, but with the bridle strapped to her face, she can only squeeze his hands. I already know what my friend would tell him. She’d tell him none of this is his fault. He wasn't to know what would happen. That he can't be held accountable for any of it.
A floorboard creaks beside me. Garrett’s making his way toward the two of them. Eyes on the ground, head still bowed, as if he’s being crushed under the weight of his own shame. He halts a couple of feet away from them, and Sarah looks down at her feet. Archie finally studies Garrett through narrowed eyes. “You had something to do with this? You're partly to blame?”
Downcast, Garrett nods. He slides his hand into his jacket pocket. I see a flash of silver in his palm, and then Archie's eyes have doubled in size. “It was you who took it?” he exclaims. I move a little closer just in time to see Archie pluck a silver dollar out of Garrett's palm. Not just any silver dollar. It's the silver dollar, the one Archie used in his cup trick the night me and Garrett went to the Midnight Fair.
Archie looks like he's about to fall down dead from shock. He holds the coin in the air, inspecting it on one side, and then the other, like he's checking for damage. “Bad luck to steal a coin from a gypsy, Boy,” Archie says. “But…” He pauses. “Better luck to return it to him.”
I remember Archie's face that night at the fair—the astonishment, clear as day, when he'd turned over all three of the cups and the coin wasn’t there. I’d thought he was playing another trick, expanding on the ruse. It hadn't occurred to me for one second that he was being genuine, and Garrett had palmed the coin while Archie wasn’t paying attention.
Relief pours off Archie as he slips the coin back into the small pocket of his waistcoat, patting the silver dollar once it’s been safely secreted away.
Garrett's just about as rueful as a man can get. He points a finger at me, nodding his head toward me at the same time.
“What? You want me to give it to her?”
Garrett shakes his head. Points at me again. I'm about to try and find him a piece of paper and a pen, when he holds up his hand, fingers pinched together as if he's holding something, and he rotates his wrist in a turning motion once, twice, and then a third time. Understanding flares in Archie's eyes. Garrett repeats the motion as to be sure, and then he points at Sarah's mask.
“Oh, well I ...” Archie says awkwardly. “Yes, right. I s’pose we could try,” he says. I only understand his discomfort when he reaches down the collar of his shirt and pulls out a single, thin black ribbon on the end of which dangles a small brass key. The very same key I traded with Archie for a question at the Midnight Fair. Archie had randomly declared the key lost back in his vardo, but it turns out that it’s been safe around his neck this entire time.
“No reason it should work,” Archie offers sheepishly, as he slides the key over his head and holds it out to me. “Luck's a strange creature, though. So are gypsy favors.”
I study my old college mailbox key doubtfully. I can't help but wonder why the hell Archie had the thing on a piece of ribbon around his neck, like it was a cherished family heirloom or something.
Whatever his reasoning, it’s worth a shot. I slide the key into the lock on the side of the scold's bridle, initially anticipating that the teeth of the key won’t fit. And they don't. Not really. The key’s a l
ittle too narrow, a little too thin, but as I wiggle it, angling it up and down, left to right, I begin to feel resistance. A pressure that intensifies as I slowly turn the metal to the right.
“It's no good. It's going to snap.” But then, out of nowhere, I feel an unexpected click and a release…
…and the lock to the hideous scold’s bridle pops open.
Thirty-One
PASHA
The Motel 6 on Drover’s a fucking shithole. I had the misfortune of visiting someone there once, and I vowed I’d never go back. Hookers, Johns, dealers, tweakers, pimps: an array of Spokane's finest, shadiest, most disreputable criminal elements are all represented amongst the Drover 6’s long-term residents. I’d rather be doing literally anything than heading back there right now, but I have to know for myself. I have to hear her admit it to my face. I need her to see what I've done to the man she loves more than her own son. The man she sacrificed me for. No matter that he was a lying, murdering pedophile.
Lazlo hammers against the trunk until we’re halfway across town, and then abruptly stops about a mile from our destination. Part of me revels in the thought that he might have passed out from blood loss, but the more suspicious side of me pictures him lying there, mind working overtime, plotting, planning what he's going to do when I finally open the trunk. The fucker's been beaten half to death and shot twice, though. If he thinks he's gonna be able to get the jump on me, then he's got another thing coming.
When I pull up in the Motel 6's parking lot, I'm stunned to see the truck I secured the Ski-Doo to back in the national park this morning sitting outside the reception office.
Taking a chance, I leave Lazlo in the trunk as I park the Mustang in a secluded corner of the lot and jog across the blacktop to peer in through the window. At the counter, a man stands with his back to me—a man I instantly recognize. I’d know him even from the back of his dumb shaved head. It's Patrin, talking to the woman behind the desk, who seems quite agitated. Unsurprising. Patrin has that effect on people. I can't hear what's being said and there's no way I'm going inside, so I turn away from the window and rest my back against the wall, waiting for him to exit.
Five minutes later, the bell on the door chimes, and Patrin steps out into the slushy, half-melted snow that covers the parking lot. I emerge from the shadows, whistling low under my breath, and Patrin nearly fucking shits himself. “Jesus fucking Christ, Pasha! What are you playing at? You nearly gave me a goddamn heart attack.”
I consider round-housing the motherfucker where he stands, but then I decide to err on the side of caution instead. “What are you doing here, Pat? You voted for me last night, and yet here you are, showing up out of the blue at the same shitty motel where my mother’s chosen to lay low.
Patrin crosses his arms over his chest. “God, you are so precious. Has anyone told you what a little bitch you are?”
“Nope. No one's ever been stupid enough.”
He ignores my barbed insult. “I'm here looking for you, you moron. I've been looking for you all afternoon. I asked your Korean dentist friend to run a search on the plates from the van Shelta took this morning. I figured, find Shelta, find you. And look! Surprise, surprise. Here we are. The dentist found the van’s plates entered into the motel's system.”
“Bullshit. Seo-Jun would never help you, and even if he did, this is all just a little bit too coincidental, don't you think? You could have just called me.”
“Yeah? You been paying much attention to your phone today?” Patrin snipes. I pull the device out of my pocket, and there on the screen, I see:
15 MISSED CALLS - PATRIN
5 MESSAGES - PATRIN
Well, shit.
The level of smug radiating off Patrin is sickening. “Apology accepted. Dick. No, your boy didn't want to help me. Apparently, a certain redhead threatened to report him to the Feds earlier on today, and now he's none-too-happy with you and yours. Took a while to persuade him it would be in his best interests if he gave me what I wanted.”
“So you hurt him?” Seo-Jun’s going to shoot me in the face if I ever try and speak to him again. Poor bastard’s had one hell of a day because of me. It's funny that Zara threatened to report him to the cops, though. There aren’t many women who’d blackmail a black hat hacker to bend them to their will. She really is quite something. Sounds like she made him her bitch.
“Look, if you don't believe me, go inside and ask that snotty bitch behind the counter what we spoke about. I described you to her in minute detail, down to the asshole expression you're always wearing on that stupid face of yours. I can't say she'll be happy to see me again, but I'll go back in there and prove it to you if I need to.”
All right, fair enough. Patrin might be a douche bag, and we’ve always been at each other's throats, but I have never known him to break a promise. By voting for me last night, he basically swore to serve me and pledged his loyalty to me. It is unlikely he’d go running to Shelta like this.
“Why the hell leave the clan at all, Patrin?”
“Archie and I came to find you. Cleo had a bad feeling. And besides. You made me a promise the other night, Motherfucker. Thought it might be best if I came now and cashed in on that before you ended up dead in a ditch somewhere.”
Fuck, I did make him a promise, and he’s never going to let up until I deliver on it. Luckily, the events of today have transpired in such a way that I've had an idea where Sam and Jamus are concerned. A good idea, at that.
Quickly, I explain what happened with Lazlo back in Rochester Park, and Patrin listens, frowning intensely as I go over the details of Sarah's rescue. Stoic, and stone-faced, Patrin doesn't breathe a word until I'm finished with the tale. “Wait, so your gadje shot Lazlo twice, and then proceeded to torture him?”
I grab hold of him by the arm, snarling as I pull him across the lot toward the Mustang. “If you call her a gadje one more time, I swear to God I’m gonna knock out every single one of your teeth. Do you understand me? You know her name. Next time you call her anything other than Zara, there's gonna be fucking trouble.”
“You’ve known this woman all of five minutes, Pash. I know you’re hot-headed, but this is fucking insane. There’s no need to get yourself this crazy so early in the game.”
“This is not a game.” It’s all I have to say on the matter. My stiff, brook-no-arguments tone must register as a warning to him, because Patrin doesn’t say another word about Zara, either. He remains closed-lipped until I pop the trunk on the Mustang, and Lazlo groans, trying to lurch forward, reaching to snatch a gun from me that isn’t there.
“Ho there, fucker!” Patrin’s already swinging. His fist crashes into Lazlo’s temple, and the bastard’s head ricochets off the side of the trunk, knocking him out cold.
Again, I remember Patrin getting lost in the tunnel again when we were kids, and Lazlo staying back to search for him long after the others returned to the clan. They were alone for hours down there in the dark. I could ask Patrin what happened while Lazlo had him down in that bunker, but it’d be a shitty thing to do. Patrin would never admit the truth for fear of appearing weak, and probing to see if he was sexually assaulted as a boy will only make him madder at me than he already is.
I see the expression on his face, though, the dark, raging glimmer in his eye, and his body language tells a story all of its own. He radiates hatred as he reaches into the trunk and scoops Lazlo out, like the fully-grown man weighs nothing at all. “Better get him into the room before someone sees,” Patrin grunts.
“This parking lot’s a revolving door for dead bodies. I wouldn’t worry too much.” But he’s right, though. It’d be less than ideal if we were spotted lugging a bloody, bullet hole-riddled corpse into the motel. Doesn’t matter that Lazlo isn’t actually dead. Not yet, anyway. The staff here probably keep their heads down and feign ignorance as long as the bodies are headed the other way, off the premises. They might be more likely to call the cops if they think that trouble’s brewing this early in the nigh
t.
I’ve readied myself for one of Shelta’s frosty, glacial, frankly hostile greetings, but when she opens the door and sees Lazlo slung like the piece of trash that he is over Patrin’s shoulder, the panicked sob she lets out fucking guts me. I’ve never seen her look so worried. Never. The bitch sat through my father’s entire funeral without so much as bothering to fake a little melancholy, and here she is, open-mouthed, hair wild, terrified out of her wits when she sees Lazlo on death’s door. “Oh my god! What happened? What have you done?” she screams.
I assume she’s going to hurl herself at me and pound on my chest with her fists, but she flies to Lazlo instead, cradling his head in her hands, bending down to get a better look at him. When she sees the hole in his hand, she looks like she’s about to pass out.
This woman is not my mother. She’s nothing like her at all.
“Get him inside, Pat,” I order. Shelta doesn’t look like she’s going to let us into the motel room, but Patrin doesn’t give her the choice. He barges past her, making it clear that he’s going to steam roll right over her if she doesn’t move, so she backs into the room, her hands clutched together in front of her chest.
Patrin dumps the unconscious man on the closest of the motel room’s two double beds and grumbles unhappily to himself when he sees that his jacket is stained with blood.
“Get out. You need to leave. Right now!” Shelta shrieks. “I’m calling the police!”
“The gadje police?” My voice is thick with mock surprise. “Now why would you go and do something like that, Mother? This is a Roma matter. This should be dealt with by a kris.”
“He’ll be dead by the time we can form a kris, you idiot. You shot him in—oh my god, you shot him in the chest?”
“That’s actually his shoulder,” Patrin offers helpfully. “He’s got a good few hours left in him yet, if he doesn’t bleed out.”
