“You got it.” Hearing my name coming out of his mouth made me feel unwashed.
“It’s a pretty name.” Cavagnolo paused to let the other men chuckle. “Goes with a sissy asshole who hides behind a girl.”
I was going to lance Cavagnolo’s head like a boil. I tried to nudge Phaedra aside, but she clamped onto my arm and stayed close.
“Gino’s truck is still at his place.” I pulled up beside Phaedra. “Lot of blood on his bed. Looks like someone cut him bad and hauled him off.”
The men tried to remain stone-faced but they shuffled like they felt razor blades under their feet.
Cavagnolo’s gaze focused to a point on the horizon. He kept quiet and his mouth curled into the makings of a scowl. His expression abruptly relaxed as if he’d made a decision. “That’s my problem. I’ll deal with it.” He motioned to Phaedra. “You, get home.”
She gave a rebellious shake of her head.
Cavagnolo cocked a thumb to the Blazer. “Now, darling.”
Phaedra looked at me over her shoulder. What should I do?
I gave her a gentle push toward the Blazer.
Cavagnolo said, “Cleto, help her out.”
The psycho clasped her arm with his bony, paw-like hand. For a second, the hatred in Cleto’s eyes morphed to pleasure. She jerked her arm loose and continued between him and her uncle.
Cavagnolo whispered as she passed. Phaedra turned subdued and humbled. He gave her a tender pat on the shoulder.
The kid with the ponytail came forward and helped her get in the front passenger’s seat of the Blazer.
Cavagnolo closed within arm’s distance to me.
Behind him, the Blazer pulled away and headed north.
“You and me”-he held up two fingers and pressed them together-“let’s go back into town and talk.”
“We can talk here.”
Cavagnolo didn’t reply. He walked to the black pickup and climbed in. Cleto drove. A guy in a light green jacket got into the backseat of the cab.
I remained standing.
Cleto gunned the engine of the black pickup. Cavagnolo lowered his window, hooked a thick arm out, and thumped the door. “You got tampons in your ears, pussy face? That wasn’t an invitation, it was an order.”
CHAPTER 24
Our parade convoyed back into Morada, the black pickup leading, me next, the red pickup close behind.
Up ahead, Cavagnolo started yakking on a cell phone. A quick look in my mirror and I could see Vinny in the truck behind me get his phone. He and Cavagnolo weren’t exchanging recipes. I reached under my seat for the spare pistol magazines and slid them into my pocket.
I was certain of Cavagnolo’s agenda. Break my legs. Ask me questions. Kill me. Dump my body into a deep hole.
I liked my agenda better. Whack all of his men if I had to. Ask him questions. Find out what I could about the zombies. Maybe I’d let Cavagnolo live if he behaved himself.
Cavagnolo turned left off Abundance Boulevard into the northern half of Morada. A block down the street the pavement ended and we drove over a dirt road.
The black pickup pulled into the setback of a large wooden shed painted white. Elkhorn Tools and Machinery was printed in crude letters above a bay door, partly open. Cleto parked in front of an office door to the left of the bay. A deer rack hung over the office entrance. I halted next to the black pickup.
The red pickup pulled ahead and stopped on the shoulder of the road. Vinny dismounted and went to the office.
Cavagnolo and Cleto got out of the black pickup. I followed.
Vinny held the office door open. Heated air gushed from inside. I wiped my feet on the jute doormat. The dingy room looked like every garage office I’d ever stepped into. Last year’s tool calendar hung from the wall. Piles of forms, receipts, and open binders surrounded a CRT monitor on a battered shop desk. Rusted transmission gears served as paperweights.
Cavagnolo continued through another door in the back of the office.
My sixth sense ticked the alarm. Out the corner of my eye, I saw the guy in the green jacket dart through the bay door. He bootlegged a baseball bat against his thigh.
Vinny stayed in the office.
The back door opened into a darkened storage room. A space heater with orange coils was fixed to a floor-to-ceiling post. The room smelled of oil, gasoline, and musty blankets.
Cavagnolo and Cleto stood beside the heater, their expressions calm and fixed on me.
I paused at the door, only long enough for my senses to sweep the room. Clothes rustled to the right on the inside of the door. If I had my contacts out, I could zap them all in turn and take my time culling their thoughts.
But not yet. They waited in ambush and I would turn the tables in less than a second.
I brought my reflexes to vampire speed. My senses magnified every detail. Dust motes floated like tiny gemstones in the glow of the space heater. The thick smells separated into layers that I could now taste. The metallic notes in the used grease. The difference in the tang between unleaded gasoline and two-stroke fuel. Horse sweat and dog musk on the blankets. The slick aroma of fresh gun oil. Human perspiration carrying the spicy scents of adrenaline, prosciutto, oregano, and garlic.
Cavagnolo and Cleto kept their eyes on me, betraying nothing.
The drumming heartbeats from those hoodlums told me what their faces weren’t saying.
Murder.
To my immediate right, around the corner of the doorway, human smells wafted strong. Lots of sweat and garlic. The goon with the baseball bat must be waiting there.
Nylon fabric rustled. Calloused fingers adjusted their grip. Nostril hairs trembled as breath rushed past them. A tongue rasped across dry lips.
I stepped over the threshold and snapped my arms to the right. A baseball bat swatted toward me.
I seized the goon’s hands where they held the bat and swung him around, using his momentum to yank him off his feet. I put my hips into it, jerked him around in a circle, and flung him into the shelves next to Cavagnolo.
The goon landed on his back, smashing through the wooden shelves. Dust, machine parts, and tools exploded though the air.
I brought my hand to my waist and snagged the.45 from its holster. Cleto tilted to his left and started to bring a sawed-off shotgun from behind his leg. By the time his shoulders turned square to me, I had already aligned the sights and aimed the pistol at his chest.
CHAPTER 25
Cleto froze. The sawed-off shotgun remained close to his leg. His eyes registered that I was an instant from drilling him with a volley of.45 slugs. One twitch of my finger and his sternum would be hamburger.
Cavagnolo blinked. His mouth gave no expression but astonishment showed in his eyes. Cavagnolo put his hand on Cleto’s arm and gave a quick pat.
Cleto bent his knees and let the shotgun settle on the floor. He stood straight and the hate in his eyes was hot enough to light a match.
“Wise decision.” I stepped to the side. “Tell Vinny to get in here. I don’t like anyone watching my back who’s not on my team.”
Cavagnolo called to Vinny. He hustled to the door, pockets jingling, pistol in hand. His blanched expression said: holy shit.
I motioned with my H&K for Vinny to get inside. He looked at Cavagnolo, who gave a quick nod and waved him in.
“Tell your man outside to stay cool,” I ordered. “We had a little accident, that’s all. A workplace injury.”
Cavagnolo told Vinny to use his phone.
I stared at Cavagnolo. “You do it.”
With an angry huff, he pulled a cell phone from his pocket and in a brief exchange told whoever was outside to sit tight. “It’s all okay.” Cavagnolo lifted the cell phone in my direction. “Anyone else you want me to call? Maybe send for pizza?”
“You can call the local morgue and make reservations if you’d like,” I said. “Might save some time later.”
Cavagnolo’s eyes could’ve spit poison darts. He dropped the phone into
his pocket.
I pointed to a spot by the space heater. “Grab a chair and sit there.” I motioned to the guy I’d thrown into the shelves. He moaned softly, and as he moved his legs, the broken shelves rained more parts on him. “The rest of you, help him.”
Cavagnolo dragged a folding chair from the wall. He opened the chair and swiped a hand across the seat to clean the dust.
I pushed a plastic chair into a corner opposite him. I picked up a clean shop towel and draped it across my chair. I sat and rested the.45 on my lap.
Cavagnolo took a seat, his knees bending slowly as if he were waiting for a signal to jump. His eyes remained on mine. This guy was king of the stare-downs but an amateur compared to me.
Vinny and Cleto helped the third guy to his feet. He gave another moan and staggered along.
“He needs a doc, Uncle Sal.”
“You know where to take him.” Cavagnolo said this out the corner of his mouth as he kept his stare on me.
I raised the muzzle of the pistol. “Keep this among us.”
Cavagnolo’s eyes didn’t waver. Guess he was used to being on the wrong end of a gun. Pretty big-city attitude for someone out here in the boonies. “Don’t worry,” he said. “This is no sewing circle.”
Vinny and Cleto put the other guy’s arms across their shoulders and carried him out. I gave them a minute. “Let’s swap places.”
“What for?”
“In case your boys try something funny, I want the joke to be on you.” I got up and stood in the pocket of warm air by the space heater.
Cavagnolo sat in the other chair, moving carefully like he expected a bad surprise.
“I don’t care how you pay your bills,” I said. “The only reason I’m here is because of Gino.” And the zombies.
I would get to hypnosis but I wanted Cavagnolo to tell me things on his own.
He took a long breath and leaned back in the chair, the extended pause telling me that he had a lot of angles to figure out.
“What’s happened to Gino?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Is he dead?”
“I’d be surprised if he wasn’t.”
“Why’s that?” Cavagnolo asked.
I told him about the blood and finished by saying that I didn’t have a clue how Gino had been hauled away. “The trail went out the back door and I lost it. I can’t imagine how anyone could’ve carried a big guy like him for much distance.”
Unless Gino’s attackers-the zombies-had hacked him into take-out portions.
“Remember what happened to Stanley Novick?”
I expected Cavagnolo’s face to break apart in anguish. Instead he gave a smug grin. “Yeah, I remember. So what about him?”
“Maybe there’s a connection?”
“Or maybe not.”
A dead nephew and this was Cavagnolo’s response? Was he always this callous or was he hiding something?
Cavagnolo said, “What’s your beef in all this? Why do you care?”
Because of my orders from the Araneum. “I was hired to find out what happened to Barrett Chambers.”
“That stupid asshole? Good luck.” Cavagnolo smirked. “I’ll tell you what happened. That bum beat feet. He owes money from Cheyenne to goddamn Phoenix.”
“How much does he owe you?”
Cavagnolo chuckled. “Not one dime. I know his type. He’ll make more promises than a politician, but after you lend him money, he’s as hard to catch as a fly.”
“What if I told you he was dead?”
The mirth slid off Cavagnolo’s face. He held on to the glumness for a short moment, then went back to smiling. “Then I’d tell you the dumb ass ran out of luck.”
“Help me understand something,” I said. “Barrett is dead. As is your nephew, Gino. And there’s the late Stanley Novick. You don’t seem to be too concerned that these people are getting picked off like gophers.”
Cavagnolo let his eyes dart to my gun. “I am concerned.” He added, “There’s a lot about the business my nephew didn’t know.”
“Gino mentioned the possibility Stanley was murdered in a fight over turf. But he didn’t buy it.”
Cavagnolo asked, “Is there something about the way Gino was snatched from his house that completely rules that out?”
No.
“Any reason you don’t want my help?” I asked.
“Starting with the fact I don’t know you and you come across as a creepy-ass fuck, plenty.”
Cavagnolo’s cell phone chimed. He raised one eyebrow. May I?
“Go ahead.”
He dug the phone out of his pocket and answered. “Yeah. Yeah. Things are still cool. I’ll let you know when we’re done.” Cavagnolo closed the phone and kept it in his hand. “How much longer we chatting?”
“Until I hear what I need to know.”
Cavagnolo pasted that fuck-you stare back on his face.
We’d done enough regular talking. Time for vampire hypnosis.
We were alone. I thought of a way to cover the spell of amnesia.
I walked to him and pressed the pistol muzzle against his forehead. His only reaction was a quick grimace as if what bothered him was the feel of cold metal instead of the likelihood that a.45 slug was about to blow his skull apart.
“Close your eyes.”
“What for?”
I tapped the muzzle of the.45 against the front of his skull. “Do it.”
His expression stayed fierce even as his eyes closed.
I lowered the pistol. I flicked the contacts from my eyes into the palm of my free hand. Cavagnolo’s aura glowed with a calm shimmer. I had sent one of his men to the doctor and now poked a gun into his mug. This man must have antifreeze for blood.
“Now open your eyes.”
CHAPTER 26
My hypnosis hit him like the lash of an electric whip.
His irises popped open to the diameter of my pistol’s bore. His aura gave a thousand-watt flare and dimmed to a steady red glow.
If I fanged him, I’d get into his subconscious that much quicker and deeper. This time of the afternoon, I could do with a blood refresher. All that testosterone fueling his Italian machismo would give me a nice buzz, better than triple espresso juiced with whiskey. But if Cavagnolo’s goons returned, finding me deep in the bliss of noshing on his neck, they’d get the drop on me. Supernatural or not, letting their bullets turn my torso into a sieve was not the way I wanted to end this case.
I opted to massage his hands between the thumbs and forefingers. His hands were big and hard as mallets. Scars crinkled his knuckles. Cavagnolo took care of business with a personal touch.
His eyes fell into the black trance. His breathing lapsed to an even, unhurried rhythm. In this state, I could order Cavagnolo to tie a noose around his neck and he would.
“Sal.” I waited for my use of his first name to draw him out. His eyes sparkled with a glimmer of recognition. I asked, “What do you know about the disappearances?”
Stems of anxiety grew from his aura. His breathing skipped to a faster cadence.
I massaged his hands again and repeated the question.
His aura and breathing calmed.
“It’s freaky as hell,” he whispered in a dreamy voice. “Stanley. Gino. Barrett. Gone.”
“Who’s responsible?”
“Don’t know.”
“Why are you keeping it quiet?”
“No choice. They can’t find out.”
“Who can’t find out?” I asked.
“My crew.”
“Find out about what?”
Anxiety blistered across his aura. “The work I do.”
“What work?”
“For the Feeb.”
FBI? Cavagnolo padded his wallet by ratting on his buddies? “You’re an informer?”
“Yes.” A storm of tendrils whipped from his aura. Even under this deep hypnosis, Cavagnolo knew what would happen if the word got out he was a fink. His men would treat him to a stee
l pipe massage followed by a dive into a wood chipper.
“What’s in it for you?”
“Plenty. I get to keep my ass out of prison. I get the cops to put muscle on my rivals. I get a government check regular as clockwork. Plus I get to pocket what I earn.”
Sweet deal if you discounted the getting discovered and murdered part.
“Let’s talk about Stanley and Barrett. What’s with them?”
“Somebody’s trying to scare us.”
“You scared?”
Despite the hypnosis, Cavagnolo managed a grin. “No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s the business. Drop your guard and you get filleted. We’d do the same thing.”
“Could it be another gang?”
“Maybe. Maybe it’s one of us gone psycho.”
I hadn’t thought of that angle. “Who?”
“Don’t know.”
Were the murders an inside job? Maybe in cahoots with the zombie maker? As usual, the more I learned, the further I found myself from the answer.
I didn’t want to ask the zombie question directly, not yet. The question would stay in Cavagnolo’s mind, and if someone else used supernatural hypnosis on him, he’d have no choice but to tell. I didn’t know what or who I was up against. The best strategy was to keep my undead tracks covered as much as possible.
I could plant subliminal commands but they wouldn’t last long. A couple of minutes for complicated orders. A simple instruction like wake up at a specific hour might remain until the next morning.
I let go of his hands and replaced my contacts. “On three, you’ll wake up.” I went straight to three and punched him across the face.
Cavagnolo fell from the chair and hit the concrete floor where he lay spread-eagle. He lifted his head from the floor and blinked. He turned onto his haunches and sat, looking groggy and confused. He rubbed his cheek and realized that I’d hit him. “You son of a bitch.”
“Quit jerking my chain, Sal,” I said, “or you’ll get more of that.”
“What the hell you talking about?” His eyes turned from me to the chair, clearly wondering how one moment he and I were playing cat-and-mouse chitchat, and the next, I had knocked his guinea ass to the ground.
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