The Devil's Gunman

by Philip S Bolger

  “Waiting to kill you,” the Hellhound said, her eyes alight with malice and hostility. “You deserve to be punished, to be put in your place, weakling.”

  “Why do you think that?” I asked. “Who told the vampires the Patron’s mad at me? Smart money says it was you.”

  “You’re scared to use his name,” Trash said dismissively, malice darting across her gaze. “How fearful. How…mortal.”

  Amalfi growled, and I saw Trash’s eyes widen, the malice replaced by fear. I chuckled.

  “I don’t think you should call anyone a coward,” I said. “That makes her unhappy. I don’t think you want to do that.”

  Trash glowered at me, staring a smithy’s worth of daggers through my shower stall door.

  “Look,” I said. “I’m not Satanic Cesar Milan. I am not gonna waste a bunch of time trying to figure out your weird behavior. Either you’re going to tell me what I want to know, or Amalfi is going to kill you in some undoubtedly gruesome fashion. Let’s try this again. Did you tell the vampires the Patron is mad at me?”

  “He is mad at you,” she said, as convincingly as any teen insisting they’re holding the weed for their friends.

  “C’mon Trash,” I said. “Dogs don’t lie well. Don’t fuck with me.”

  She sneered. “You wouldn’t understand. You don’t understand loyalty. You call us subservient, but you never once spoke out, even when our master ordered you to do things you despised. You never raised the smallest objection. He used to joke with us that he could make you do anything, no matter how repulsed you were by it. I could smell your fear, yet you complied, because you are weak.”

  That hurt a little bit. Yeah, it was hard to execute orders to kill a family of five, but if I hadn’t barbequed a couple of grade schoolers, I would’ve been killed. It’s not like I had a lot of choice in the matter. But a little voice deep in the ragged shreds of my conscience kept telling me that my fear of dying fed my cowardice.

  I couldn’t decide if Trash was trying to get under my skin. Hellhounds usually weren’t that subtle, but the Patron’s guards were smarter than average.

  “Moral philosophy aside,” I said, “did you tell the vampires?”

  “Yes!” she said, exasperated. “We did! They’re predators, and they’re loyal to the Patron, not filthy mercenaries like you. They keep their oaths and pay their tribute. Our interests align. You cannot be allowed to live, and they understand this.”

  I was happy to hear it from the dog’s mouth, but I was more than a bit concerned. I didn’t know how far Trish’s and Tash’s claws extended into the Twin Cities underworld, and I doubted that Trash would tell me. And, the two Hellhounds’ involvement didn’t mean the Patron wasn’t involved. A master manipulator knew how to put degrees of separation between him and a target.

  “This has been fascinating, but I think we’re done,” I told Amalfi.

  “We’re not done,” Trash sneered. “My pack mate will be here soon, then I will be free, and I will lock my jaws around your weak human spine. Your flesh will be—”

  “Maybe you missed the breaking news,” I said, casually. “But your sister abandoned you.”

  “No,” Trash said, spitting a bit as she raged and ineffectually slammed against the shower stall. “No! She will return! Your days are numbered, Soren! Our master will hold you accountable! We are his favored servants, not you!”

  “You’re afraid of using his name, too,” I said. “I guess that shows that the things we’re so quick to judge in others are frequently what we despise in ourselves.”

  “If we don’t kill you, the vampires will, Soren!” she screamed almost incoherently, every word dripping with hatred as she slammed her arms against the sides of the shower, oozing blood from her wounds dripping all over the tile. “The predators of Hell will know your insolence! We will rend you limb from limb!”

  I stood up and turned to Amalfi as the Hellhound continued rambling. The doorbell rang upstairs. I turned to Amalfi.

  “I’m going to answer that, if you don’t mind,” I said. “Do me a favor and kill Trash, I’m done with her.”

  Amalfi grinned predatorily, and as I walked up the stairs, I heard a sickening tearing and a cut-off yelp. I should’ve been bothered, but I was more disappointed that I hadn’t made a play on words about taking out the trash. It’s always like that. You think of the perfect thing to say right after the best time to say it.

  I opened the door and saw a man in a police uniform. The man was about my height. He was well into middle-age and had a sizable paunch that strained several of his buttons. The paunch was at odds with his massive biceps. He had a short, red crewcut and pale, blue eyes that regarded me with more than a little suspicion. His hand rested casually on his sidearm—he wasn’t drawing, just letting me know he was ready to, should I fuck around. In the background, the lights on his prowler twirled lazily, sending red and blue cascading over my lawn and the parked panel van. The odd-colored blood seemed to have disappeared. Whether a function of the blood or the house, I didn’t know, but I was grateful. I hoped the van hadn’t yet been tagged, but the fact that he was alone, without a drawn weapon, suggested my luck had held out…or that he was frightened. The look in his eyes suggested it was the former.

  “Mr. Soren,” the man said in a neutral accent. “I’m Officer Gunderson, Deephaven PD. May I come in?”

  “If you’ve got a warrant,” I said, trying and failing not to break into a smug grin, “I’d be happy to let you in. Do you?”

  Gunderson raised his right eyebrow. “This isn’t your first interaction with a peace officer, is it Soren?”

  “I don’t see how that’s relevant,” I said. “I’m just saying it’s my home, and if you want in, I need the courts to tell me why.”

  “I see,” he said. “I’m here about a noise complaint. Your neighbors reported the sounds of a fight.”

  “They did?” I said, feigning shock. “Hmm, that must’ve been somewhere else, I’ve been sitting around watching reruns. USA’s running Law & Order.”

  “There are shell casings on your front lawn,” he said, casually, not taking his eyes off me. “I’ll bet, if I pick one up, it’ll be warm.”

  “I am a recreational shooter,” I said. “I must’ve dropped those on the way home from the range.”

  Gunderson looked at me, his eyes narrow. He knew he could come in, if he wanted to, but just as I was sizing him up, he was doing the same with me.

  A lot of criminals think cops are stupid. That’s a mistake. Stupid people may make up the bulk of the police force in film and literature, but in real life, most departments recruit people a bit more mentally advanced than the average 80s high school movie bully. I didn’t know much about the Deephaven PD, but the days I’d spent fleeing from the Shakopee, Minneapolis, St. Paul, and Chicago police were enough for me to believe that most cops were competent, and therefore, dangerous. Cops, generally, are folks who are predisposed to use necessary violence to enforce their will. Not all of them are well-trained, but you don’t want to gamble on that.

  Gunderson had a really hard look about him, like he’d spent his twenties in a warzone or he enjoyed recreational bear-wrestling. I had little doubt I could kill him.

  But it would be tough. He was armed, and I was without a weapon. I could whistle for Amalfi, and she’d probably do me the favor, but if the guy’s bodycam was broadcasting back to dispatch, his death would be hard to explain to whatever infernal-owned judge I ended up prostrating myself before in the hope that my death on the inside wasn’t too painful.

  “I think something else happened,” Gunderson continued. “I don’t know what, but I think you’re behind it. You’re right; I don’t have a warrant, so I’m going to leave. But I’ll be watching you, Soren. Keep your nose clean.”

  I gave him a two-fingered salute and nodded.

  “Scout’s honor, Officer,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”

  I closed the door and watched him leave through the peephole. I turned arou
nd and saw Amalfi behind me. She was in her human form, still wearing her army fatigues, but her t-shirt and camo pants were drenched in orange blood, and chunks of gore were stuck in her hair, which had fallen out of its usual tight bun and was now a mess. In her left hand, she held a dog’s head missing its lower jaw, dripping ichor and lava-colored blood on the floor. Its lifeless eyes gazed into nothing.

  “Delicious,” she remarked. “I know many humans have a compunction against eating dogs, but I think you’re missing out. I’d offer you some of the head, but it will make a fine trophy, and I know how much humans like trophies.”

  “Gee,” I said. “Uh, thanks.”

  Amalfi handed me the head, which I held as far away from my body as I could without looking awkward.

  “What the fucking Hell are you?” I asked, trying to ignore the bit of Hellhound entrails slowly sliding down the right side of my leg, as well as the gore all over her face.

  The look on her face faded a bit. “You really don’t know?”

  “If I did, I’d be able to call you by your name,” I said.

  “I’m a Chimera,” she said, as if she were explaining to me what a tree was.

  “Which is what?”

  “I’m a creation of gods older than most,” she said. “My kind are rare. I’m disappointed that you don’t know my race’s myth. There was a time when every human child feared the Chimera.”

  “I mostly feared clowns, spiders, and the weird feeling I got when I saw my cousin, Rachel, in a tight sweater,” I said. “I’ve never heard of a Chimera.”

  Her disappointment was momentary, but easy to see. Then her usual expression of confidence returned.

  “Well,” she said. “It is what I am.”

  “So, that’s why you’re not bound to Mimi and Jerry,” I said. “You’re not a creature of Hell.”

  She shook her head. “I have free will. I am a protector, not a predator. Chimera can only be one or the other. Mimi bested me in combat, so I swore myself to her, but she does not hold any special power over me.”

  “She’s ordered you to help me?” I asked.

  “She’s loaned me to you,” Amalfi replied. “I agreed. She and Jerry get more information about something that is important to them, and I get some additional training. And, I enjoy helping you.”

  “Why?” I asked. I had little idea why a monster I’d never heard of would attach herself to me and my cause of staggering around the supernatural without much direction.

  She shrugged. “I like you. You’re interesting. And you’re much more fascinating than guard duty. Plus…” She pointed at her stained teeth, still dripping with gore. “I don’t normally get to go out to eat.”

  As she stood there in all her glory, my phone started buzzing. I picked it up on the third buzz without checking the caller ID.

  “Nick, brother,” said Jerry Vinter, his Texas accent dripping like venomous honey over every syllable. “It’s time. Now,” Vinter continued. “I know you’ve got Amalfi up there. She’s got my permission. But enough fucking around. It’s time to take down the big boss.”

  “I’m sorry, I just—” I started.

  “Nick,” Vinter drawled. “I think I’ve been patient. I think I’ve been clear about the consequences. Let me say this one more time: you need to do this. The longer you draw it out, the more likely it is someone stumbles across our little plan, then suddenly you and I are crucified next to each other in the City of Dis. I don’t know about you, pardner, but I’d like to avoid that fate. Amalfi told me you’re already running into some minor problems, so I’d suggest you knock out the big one before the little ones overrun you.”

  I nodded, then realized I looked like an idiot, nodding at someone talking to me on the phone.

  “Yeah, I hear you,” I said.

  “Good,” he said. “You’ve got Amalfi to help you with the vamps. You’ve got the holy rifle. Summon the Patron and put one through his skull. It’s that simple, bud.”

  The line went dead before I could say anything else.

  I put my phone in my pocket and looked at Amalfi.

  “I guess plans have accelerated,” I said.

  She shrugged. “Then we should prepare. What do you need to eliminate the Patron?”

  This far removed from the event, I was pretty confident that my cowardice made me so reluctant to help Vinter. Vinter was his own man, and perhaps between his military experience and his time married to a demoness, he was confident in his plan. But, despite having shot, knifed, garroted, and blown up more than a few of the Patron’s problems, I was completely unsure about the Patron, himself. My cowardice, combined with my pragmatism, heavily influenced what I told Amalfi.

  My mind was racing.

  There is a point when you’re facing something really unpleasant and have access to a remotely sympathetic ear, that you’ll do anything to put the task off a bit longer. You appeal, you stand in the back of the line, you make some desperate, pathetic excuse in the hope that they’ll hear you out and stop whatever unpleasantness you’re dreading.

  I had an idea I thought might buy me a little more time.

  “Honestly? A day to myself.”

  She raised an eyebrow, the obviously human gesture amusing me. “A day to yourself?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Since the ranch, I’ve been running ragged. The only times I got to sleep more than four hours, I was recovering from stab wounds. I’m being asked to take on a Duke of Hell. I think I deserve some me time.”

  “So, you’re going to sleep all day?” Amalfi asked, skeptically.

  “No,” I said.

  “Then why do you need time off?” she asked. “You can sleep as much as you want tonight, then wake up tomorrow and get to work. It’s pretty straight forward.”

  “Okay,” I said, mentally backpedaling. “But, what if I need some time to savor what I have, in case it goes wrong?”

  Amalfi sighed. “Vinter may be unhappy, but I see your point. You’re scared something might go wrong. If you want to take a day…I won’t report it. I’ll say it was prep. Vinter believes heavily in preparation. Now, what do you really want a day off for?”

  My mind raced, and I remembered a prior engagement, a connection to reality, I still had.

  “I’ve got a date. With Collette Zhang.”

  Yeah, I was planning to use a date with the first women since my wife I’d had any feelings more complex than lust for to cower out of assassinating a devil, hoping I could come up with another reason not to kill the Patron during that time. Maybe I’d get hit by a bus or God, Himself, would descend from the heavens and offer me absolution.

  Judge me. I don’t care. If I thought throwing my mother under an Amtrak train would’ve persuaded Vinter to lay off the “Let’s assassinate a major force of Hell” plan, I would’ve calmly explained to Mom that the third rail would fry her before impact, so it wouldn’t be that painful.

  Amalfi nodded once. “Very well, Nick Soren. Have your day and your date. I’ll see you in 24 hours.”

  She walked out the door, using her magic to get clean as she went. The blood and gore evaporated with a snap of her fingers, leaving her walking off looking like a normal human woman.

  I shut the door behind her and breathed a sigh of relief. I’d bought a bit more time.

  Unfortunately, it was only one day. I elected, in true procrastinator’s fashion, to not worry about it and to try to get some sleep, in the vain hope that maybe, just maybe, my goddamn back wounds would stop hurting.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Nine: Nick’s Date

  I think the worst thing about my old life was the Grand Canyon-esque abyss between the front I and the missus used to put up and how we really were. I don’t know if I ever loved her. I told myself I did, but I had the emotional depth of a kiddie pool, so it’s hard to know how genuine my feelings were.

  I know she didn’t love me. That became clear when I showed up in the basement and found out I was slated to be a tribute to a devil, so she
could get a small raise or a bigger quarterly bonus or some fucking stock options.

  We used each other in ways that got us both ahead, got us a little more money. We satisfied our shallow urges in a weird kind of codependence. I think we needed each other more for the creature comforts our money provided than for any kind of intimacy. Sometimes we’d fuck, but we never made love. Our marriage was a tribute to Mammon, a show of exclusivity and luxury not sanctified under any other religion, despite the professional photos we had showing her beaming in a white dress and me cheesing it up in a tux.

  I suppose, in hindsight, it was inevitable the marriage would end. If it hadn’t happened because of a misspoken ritual, it would’ve been over 100,000 dinnertime arguments and social frustrations. I’d watched that kind of slow bleed in many failed relationships, where people were too arrogant and blind to realize they’d failed, and it never ended well. I’m not saying it was better to end in ceremonial murder, just quicker.

  Given all the lessons I’d learned in service to the Patron, I occasionally wondered if I’d ever love anyone. I liked the idea of having someone to share my life with. I think part of me thought that having someone to care for would give my life some meaning.

  I know that sounds like the kind of sappy shit that makes a guy call in to Delilah after Dark and ask her to play a favorite Spice Girls tune (I did it once, and she played a Phil Collins track instead). But the thing about reintegration—about finding yourself back with more than a thread of mortality—is that you have to try, because this pounding desire at the bounds of your mind screams about how great love could be, if you could find it. No matter what I did, no matter what fears about vampires, devils, police, or crazed gunmen crept in, as soon as I was a bit lonely, that screaming part of my mind—perhaps the animal drive to reproduce—perhaps the soul of love, immediately lit up.