by Alex Archer
“No.” She didn’t need to get embroiled in the criminal investigation of something she truly had no solid evidence on. “But I do find that certain events in my life parallel the need to know more about what was in the cooler. I would never step on police authority, but I know a family who lost their child.”
“Oh, Annja, that’s a terrible thing. The organ did belong to a child. Oh, hell, that was classified information. But you won’t tell anyone, will you?”
“Never.”
“Do you think it’s related?”
“Probably not, but who knows. I’ve been reading articles about missing children who were dismembered for voodoo rituals. Terrible stuff. I’m wondering if there was anything odd or unusual about the evidence.”
“Hmm, well, I haven’t had a hand in the project. It might take some doing to suss out information since, like I said, Benedict has been protecting this one. But I’d do anything for you, Annja. Is it for one of your shows?”
“Not exactly. You run into any vampires lately, Daniel?”
“No. But really? Is that what you’re working on for the show now?”
Hell, she’d had to give him that one. He deserved it. And if she was going to get anything from the guy she had to make him believe he was helping not only her, but possibly the show. It was a huge lie, but she had no clue how else to proceed with this mystery, and felt sure the information might lead her to Garin.
He wasn’t answering her calls, and she’d tried him twice now. She wasn’t one to beg, or act like a rebuffed mistress, so she’d take this route and meet him in the middle, whether or not he approved. Of which, she guessed, he would not.
“Give me two secs, will you, Annja? Benedict takes a lunch break soon. I’ll slip into his office and see what I can learn.”
“Don’t do anything that would jeopardize your job,” she said, but hoped he wouldn’t take the warning to heart. “Just let me know if you find out anything unusual. Thanks, Daniel. You can reach me at this number for another hour before my flight leaves.”
“Oh, thank you, Annja! This is so awesome. I’m helping you with your research.”
“Yes, well, you’re helping me quietly, right?”
“Oh, yes. Quiet. Shh. I can skulk around with the best of them. I’ll call you soon, Annja. I have your number now. Yes!”
She hung up before another excited shriek made her question her sanity in calling the man. Daniel would prove useful. And sometimes useful demanded sacrifices. But she’d look into changing her phone number once she returned to the States. Wasn’t like she hadn’t had to do that many times before.
* * *
GARIN LOOKED OVER the pummeled man wilted in the chair before him. Very little damage to his face because the teeth had done the trick.
“The men’s club on Rossmore Road, not far from Hyde Park,” he said. “Good job, Slater. I do believe that was less than a minute.”
“He was a wanker,” Slater said. “Pretty boys always go fast. They don’t know what pain is, and when they experience it, they start crying for their mommies. Isn’t that right?” He lifted the man’s head by a hank of his hair, but he was out cold. A mercy, knocking him out. One Slater generally didn’t grant his subjects. “You need me for anything else?”
“No, that’s good. We’ll talk soon, I’m sure.”
“Always a pleasure.”
Slater strolled down the hallway to the washroom to clean up, and Garin checked his watch. It was ten in the evening. The nightclubs wouldn’t get rolling for another few hours. But a pool hall would be quiet this time of night. Which made for easier pickings when he wanted to catch someone unawares.
He pulled out his cell phone. Three messages―all from Annja Creed. She was trying to find him, and if he answered, she may be able to track him to London. He wasn’t stupid. But she wasn’t, either, and he’d probably be seeing her sooner rather than later.
That was fine. Because he expected her research on Bracks to parallel his, and maybe, just maybe, her pieces would fit into his and together they’d form a solid lead on the man. Because he knew the men’s club was only a front, a resting place for the man when he needed to do local business or chill with the boys.
On the other hand, he could get lucky and come face-to-face with his nemesis tonight.
* * *
“CALABAR BEAN EXTRACT,” Daniel whispered over the phone line. “Or, more properly, physostigma venenosum. It’s a perennial indigenous to an area in Africa called the Calabar region.”
The flight had started to board, but Annja needed to take this phone call from Daniel. “What is that?”
“The seeds are a natural poison. Black magic potion.”
“Black magic,” she said, thinking it sounded out of place, but then, why should that be so? Her research had alluded to voodoo. It was easy enough to associate the two.
“It’s used to paralyze a subject. And in that state of paralysis, they remain conscious. Annja, the extract was laced through the blood and organ of this child. Whoever gave it to the child may have removed the organ while the kid was conscious yet unable to move.”
Annja gasped.
“The child may have felt everything,” Daniel said solemnly. “It’s perfectly horrible. What are you working on, Annja? This doesn’t sound like anything for a television show.”
“I’m not sure anymore, Daniel.” She felt sick. At least she hoped the people who had intended to drink the blood would also be affected by the extract laced through it. “Was that it?”
“Yes, that’s the notation that Benedict circled and entered on the lab report for the police report. I’m sure Scotland Yard will investigate as soon as the report is turned over. Funny, this feels familiar. I feel as though there was something in the papers about this years ago. I should look into that.”
“Do that, please, but be careful. This is a police matter. Whoever did this to that child must pay. Uh, my flight is at final boarding, I’ll have to go. Thanks, Daniel. I owe you one.”
“If you’re ever in London, I’ll take you up on that.”
Since she was heading to London, she figured she might have to make good on that offer.
* * *
WHILE FLYING ACROSS Europe, Annja surfed for information on voodoo clubs in London and found very little beyond some pseudoclubs that played on the idea and exotic allure of voodoo, but it was apparent they weren’t involved with real practitioners.
Of course, any genuine hits were likely secret societies, and one generally had to know who to ask for to learn more. She considered putting a call out on the archaeology forums she frequented, but then decided she didn’t want anyone to ask questions this time. Normally, she invited questions and suggestions regarding her research and expeditions.
She paged through a few new-age shops that sold gris-gris, voodoo spells and fancy incense burners and crystals. Aboveboard stuff, not genuine, nasty voodoo shops that she’d been in a time or two before. They gave her the chills. It was a dark and mysterious religion that Annja was forced to respect. She’d landed on the wrong end of a voodoo curse more than a few times.
Using a child’s organs to gain riches, beauty or extended life? It sounded horrible, but Annja knew there were desperate people who would pay for that kind of macabre fix. Again, her heart went out for those children. She couldn’t get it out of her mind that they may have been conscious when their organs or blood had been removed. Children had paid an unconscionable price.
The cursor blinked next to an entry for discreet vodou. Clicking on it brought up a black page with a single line of text in a red font that was difficult to read. It indicated, All your dreams answered if you can pay the price. A symbol, or veve, swirled two white serpents parallel to each other, fading on and off the page with a clever animated gif. No contact email, but there was an address. S
he tapped the keyboard. Probably a false lead, or another curio shop. But she typed the address into her cell phone. Just in case. She’d drive by when she reached London, and check the place out.
Meanwhile, she scrolled down to Garin’s phone number, and then tapped into the tracking program on her laptop. She’d set it up to track after her conversation with Roux. If Garin made a phone call, it should snap up the location and enter it into the GPS field.
And there it was, an address, which, checking the London map, placed him in Hyde Park right now. The man certainly wasn’t strolling around the gardens admiring the landscaping. Her best guess? A nightclub. If he was partying with women and the narcotics that tended to accompany his adventures she wouldn’t have a problem confronting him.
But if he were tracking Bracks, she would welcome the challenge of insinuating herself onto his trail.
The pilot announced their impending landing. She could make it to the address within an hour.
Chapter 19
Garin left the loud, grinding techno music in the London nightclub behind as he angled down a dark, narrow hallway. He passed by a few red doors, but didn’t want to know what was going on behind them. Really, he didn’t. It was either drugs, gambling, illicit sex or all of the above.
No one would ever catch him indulging in vices in a dive like this.
A stairway led him down a red shag-carpeted walkway with walls paneled in dark wood. Flashing back to the seventies—an era he had found innocuous and dull—he winced as the decor declined rapidly. Behind the next red door, he heard the clatter of pool balls on felt and knew he had found what he was looking for.
Bracks had a few hiding places. Some of which Garin was aware of. But this new one Slater had unearthed.
Garin grunted to himself and cracked his knuckles.
Adjusting his cuffs, and unbuttoning the top button of his starched Armani shirt, he opened the door with the upside-down number seven on it, and strode inside the pool hall. The two-story room was open to the balcony and again was furnished in early seventies wood paneling. There was even a cheesy stained-glass beer lamp hanging over each of the pool tables.
He wasn’t immediately noticed, and wouldn’t be remarkable, except for his impeccable clothing among the jeans and T-shirts. Eight or nine men were gathered around the half dozen pool tables in game, or tilting back glass mugs of beer and whiskey. A pair of bruisers stood by an old-fashioned jukebox that flashed bright neon lights, and chuckled over some ribald gossip. To top it off, a Bee Gees tune proclaimed he should be dancing.
Garin did not see the man he was looking for, but the stairway along the north wall, carpeted in more of the hideously matted red shag, led up to a door, behind which, he suspected, would be a good place for a business opportunist’s office. A man sat on the fourth step from the bottom, long legs stretched the length of the stair riser, crossed at the ankles. Steel-toed cowboy boots featured a white Día de los Muertos skull etched on the bottom of each sole. His eyes were fixed to Garin as he strolled the edges of the room.
Always wise to pinpoint the lookout, and vice versa.
Garin hadn’t entered carrying a gun because of the security check at the nightclub entrance. He didn’t need one. These men were lackeys. Well-built, a few of them, including the lookout, but he didn’t worry about the scrawny set bent over the table near the stairs, so that took three out of the equation. The odds were against him, but he’d never been an odds man.
Walking to the center of the room, he stood there a moment, taking in the energy, the foul cigarette smoke imbued in the ancient rug and the molding ceiling tiles. With a crack of his neck to one side, he then gave his arms a shake and clapped his hands together.
“Gentlemen!” Garin called. “I’m looking for Weston Bracks.” The room fell silent, except for the annoying falsetto still pleading him to dance. “Anyone have an address book or speed dial? Facebook friend?”
He smirked, gauging how long it would take before he’d be in hand-to-hand combat. Five seconds?
“Who wants to know?”
The idiotic, but necessary, question. He flicked a glance to the man on the stairs, who now stood, fists coiled and arms arching at his sides as if preparing to quick draw.
“None of your damn business.” Garin twisted at the waist and thrust up his right arm to block the punch from behind. His attacker strained against his arm to push him off balance, but with a shove, Garin sent him tumbling to the floor at the base of a pool table.
Ten seconds. He was losing his ability to rouse a good fight. On the other hand, these men did not plan to disappoint. Turning, he gut-punched another bold attacker, sending him sprawling across an empty pool table.
He heard the swing of a pool cue through the air behind him. It missed his head by three inches. Garin growled, and grabbed a cue from a table, which happened to be decorated with skulls. He broke the white-maple stick in half, and outfitted himself with a worthy yantok, or short stick used for eskrima-style fighting. Spinning it and ending in a redondo, he challenged anyone to come forward with a lift of his chin. Two men charged. He swung the stick out in a forward strike, connecting with a shoulder, but it only slowed the one man. The other slammed him against a table.
Garin used the momentum, his body falling backward, and lifted his attacker with his legs, sending him over his head and sprawling across the table. Jumping high and landing on his feet, his palms on the table, he defied the man who spidered up to a crouch on the green felt. He swung at Garin’s face, missing. Garin grabbed his wrist and crushed it against the table, slamming the butt of the stick down on the back of his hand. Something snapped, either wrist bones or tendons. A painful yelp signaled surrender.
Garin pushed away, stick spinning in his fingers, and turned to face the next challenge.
Thankfully, no shots had been fired, which gave him hope he was fighting unarmed men. Didn’t make things easier, but taking bullets out of the equation did make for an equal fight and an easier grip, since blood tended to make the skin slippery.
Slapping a hand against one man’s face, he used the force of the blow to slam his head into the swinging fist of another one’s attack. The puncher cursed the fact he’d hit his friend, and twisted back on the defense, fists up, bouncing on his toes before Garin. The one he’d punched landed with his arms across the table, his jaw slamming the edge as he went down hard.
Donna Summer now crooned about love, and the music grew louder as fists met flesh, and bones took the impact and tendons crunched.
Garin ran up the stairs, turned and clocked his pursuer—one of the scrawny ones—up the side of the head with a fan flick of the stick. Blood spattered from the man’s mouth, and possibly a tooth, but tenaciously he clung to the stair rail, and grinning a crimson sneer, he gripped Garin’s ankle and brought him down hard on his ass. Some landings were more vicious than others, and that one crushed his tailbone up into his spine and made him groan. And in the process, he’d dropped the stick.
But he wasn’t out. The attacker dragged him down the stairs, and Garin padded each bumpy step with his forearms, cursing his judgment when his aggressor packed powerful strength in those lean muscles. When he reached the bottom, Garin grabbed the railing and kicked high, landing the man under the jaw. Bones cracked, and his assailant went down, his unconscious body tumbling into the next who would try to take Garin out.
Righting himself, and assessing that five were still standing―three groaning and one out cold―Garin wished he had a magical weapon like Annja possessed. Would be great if he could call a Glock out of the otherwhere and send a few rounds through bodies right now.
But the old-fashioned way with fists it would be. Besides, he was just getting started. The adrenaline was racing and his breaths were even and strong.
“Bring it,” he muttered.
Catching the swing of a p
ool cue across the back of his neck, Garin cursed himself for not being more aware as he stumbled forward, avoiding tripping over the fallen man. He collided into another who charged him, grabbed him by the face and slammed his cheek into the wall. Blood spattered Garin’s face. He let the man drop.
Turning, he swung, but a forceful block stopped his punch with an echoing smack.
The man who caught his punch cracked a tobacco-stained grin. And from behind, Garin’s left arm was wrangled. The two men worked in tandem, twisting his arms around behind him painfully. And when the bruiser from the stairs approached with a length of thick chain in hand Garin began to rethink the game plan.
* * *
PALM PRESSED FLAT to the red door with the upside-down number seven on it, Annja listened to the noise on the other side. She’d thought it was supposed to be an underground pool hall—one of those places you had to know someone to be invited into the fold, or better, work for a criminal underlord. What she heard now sounded more like a gym or boxing ring.
She smiled. If Garin was inside, that offered perfect explanation for the fisticuffs. And he would probably be alone, fending off more than a few.
For long seconds she vacillated about turning the doorknob. Garin would likely curse her out and wouldn’t thank her in any way. He’d insist he had the situation under control. And he’d find some way to make it look like it had been her fault if he received so much as a bruise.
How could a girl possibly walk away from all that praise and appreciation?
With an inhale, Annja opened the door and strolled inside, quickly assessing the situation. The ridiculous song “Disco Duck” quacked out over the speakers. A stained-glass beer lamp swung dangerously back and forth over the table, half of the glass dangling by the lead inserts. Lights from a jukebox flashed over a pair of men brawling, their faces blinking from pink to violet and revealing bloodied scowls.
