Fool Moon

by Butcher, Jim

  I jammed the rod at him and snarled, “Fuego.” I funneled my will through it, and to hell with what the Council thought of me killing someone with magic.

  Nothing happened.

  I stared in disbelief, first at Parker, and then at the blasting rod. My fingers went numb as I looked at them, and the rune-engraved ash rod fell to the ground, though I tried a clumsy grab to catch it. Instead, my weight came down on my torn foot, and the ripped muscles went into a sudden cramp that sent fresh agony up through my leg. It buckled and pitched me forward into the weeds and the mud. The last wisps of my shield vanished as I fell. My magic had failed me altogether.

  Parker laughed, a low and nasty sound. “Nice trick. Got another?”

  “One more,” I rasped, and fumbled at the jumpsuit’s tool pouch. Parker walked slowly toward me, confident, relaxed, and moving like a man thirty years younger than he. My fingers were aching with cold, torn from the asphalt, numb from all the pain and scrapes and bruises. But the handle of my Chief’s Special was easy enough to find.

  I drew it out, thumbed back the hammer, and pointed it up at Parker. His eyes widened and his weight settled back on his heels—not quite retreating, but not coming any closer, either. From three feet away, even down in the mud, it would be tough to miss him, and he knew it.

  “I didn’t pick you for the kind to carry a gun,” he said. The rain plastered his greasy hair down over his eyes.

  “Only on special occasions,” I said back. I had to delay him. If I could hold him in place, just for a few minutes, the cops would show up. I had to believe that they would, because if they didn’t I was dead meat. Maybe literally. “Stop where you are.”

  He didn’t. He took a step toward me.

  So I shot him.

  The gun roared, and the bullet smacked into his right knee-cap. It exploded in a burst of blood and flying chips of bone, and the leg went out from under him, hurling him to the muddy ground. He blinked once, surprised, but the pain he must have been feeling didn’t seem to register. He scooted back a couple of feet and stared at me for a second, reassessing me.

  Parker then drew his legs beneath him, and ignoring his ruined knee, hunkered down on his heels and rested his elbows on his thighs as if we were old friends, keeping his hands in plain sight. “You’re tougher than you look. We tried to catch you at your apartment, you know,” he said, as though I hadn’t just shot him. “But the cops were all over it. Police band said you’d gotten arrested, but I guess you got away. We paid the jailer to let us know when they rounded you up.” He grinned his snaggle-toothed grin and looked almost friendly. “Hell, kid. We were hanging around in a bar two blocks from the station for almost two days, just hoping to be there when they brought you up the steps. Drive-by.” He pointed his finger at me in a bang-bang motion, and let his thumb fall forward.

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” I mumbled. I was working hard not to give in to the shakes, the cold, or the darkness. I knew he was up to something, but there was too much to deal with— too much injury, too much exhaustion, too much blood on my hands. I squinted past him to see Flatnose and the woman still in the same spot, both of them watching me with the intent look of hungry animals.

  Parker chuckled. “And instead, everything goes to hell at the station. Gunshots, explosions, sounds like a war inside. Which was fun to watch. And then we see you stumbling out of the middle of it, right there in front of the cop station, with a cute little piece on either side helping you down the stairs. We just rolled out right after your ass.”

  “I hope you’re insured.”

  Parker shrugged. “Truck wasn’t mine.” He plucked up a long blade of grass and traced it over the ruin of his knee, painting it red with his blood before crushing it up in his fingers. “Most of my people are out by the lake tonight. They got to let off some steam during the full moon. Damn, but I want to take you out right there in front of all of them. You got a real badass reputation, kid.”

  “Can’t have everything you want,” I said. I blinked rain, or blood, from my eyes.

  Parker’s smile widened. “You know, kid. I think there’s something you don’t know.”

  In the distance, I could hear the sound of sirens speeding down the freeway toward me. Hot damn, I thought. I finally did something right. “Oh yeah?” I asked, daring to feel a satisfied thrill of victory.

  Parker nodded and looked off to one side. “There were two cars behind you.”

  And something smashed down on my right hand, making it go numb, and sending the gun to earth. I looked up and had time to see another of the lycanthropes from the garage lift a lead pipe wrapped in electrical tape, and bring it down hard at me. The woman screamed and rushed toward me. She had steel-toed boots. Flatnose lumbered after her, and was content to use the barrel of his pistol as a dumb club.

  Parker just sat there, squatting on his heels, and watched them. I could see his eyes. My blood spattered onto his cheek.

  I don’t like thinking about what they did. They didn’t want to kill me. They wanted to hurt me. And they were good at it. I couldn’t fight. I couldn’t even curl up into a ball. There wasn’t that much spirit left in me. I could hear myself making choking sounds, gagging on my own blood, sobbing and retching in pathetic agony. I would have screamed if I could have. You hear stories about men who keep silent through all the torture and agony that anyone inflicts on them, but I’m just not that strong. They broke me.

  At some point, the mind says “no more” and it gets the hell away from all that pain. I started going there, to that away-place, and I wasn’t sorry to do it at all.

  I could dimly hear Parker shoving people off of me, once I stopped moving. He broke a few more of their bones, and they backed off with snarls of rage. He was walking on the leg again already, though my shot must have torn the joint to pieces. At his orders, they picked me up and carried me to another car, just lugged me along like a sack of broken parts. Duct tape went around my wrists and ankles, knees and elbows and mouth. Then they threw me in the trunk.

  Parker reached up to close the lid. I didn’t have enough energy to move my eyes. I just stared out, letting them focus wherever they would.

  I saw a face behind the wheel of a car going past on the access road—just a sedan, something that would blend in with all the other cars in the city. The face was young, strained, sprinkled with freckles, the hair red, the ears big.

  Roger Harris, FBI. Denton’s redheaded lackey.

  The sedan rolled by without even slowing, and Harris didn’t look over at me, didn’t break his surveillance. I wasn’t the only one, it seemed, who was being followed that night.

  Parker slammed shut the trunk, leaving me in darkness. The car started going just as the sirens began to arrive at the access road. My captors’ car bounced along and made a casual getaway, leaving me in an agony more thorough, sickening, and acute than any I had felt before.

  And, behind the gag, I started laughing. I couldn’t help it. I laughed, and it sounded like I was choking on raw sewage.

  The pieces had all fallen into place.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  There’s a point after which one cannot possibly continue doing complicated things like thinking and keeping one’s eyes open. Blackness ensues and everything stops until the body, or the mind, is ready to function again. The blackness came for me and I welcomed it.

  When I started to wake up, I smelled motor oil.

  That in itself boded ill. I was seated upright, and an upright metal beam pressed into my back. I felt something constricting my wrists and my ankles. Duct tape, still, perhaps. There was cold concrete floor beneath me. I was aching everywhere, and stiff. But there was something soft over me, a blanket, maybe. I wasn’t as cold as I might have been.

  My first emotion was a vague surprise that I was still alive.

  The second was a cold, nasty little shiver. I was a prisoner. And as long as I was, survival was by no means certain. First things first, then. Make it certain. Find out where I
was, devise a plan, and get my skinny wizard ass out of there.

  After all, it would be a real pity to die when I’d finally put tabs on who had gotten me into this mess—as well as who was responsible for the recent killings that couldn’t be attributed to MacFinn, and probably who had set him up as well.

  To that end, I opened my eyes and tried to get a look at my surroundings.

  I was in the enemy’s stronghold, the Full Moon Garage. It was dim inside, and from what I could hear, it was still raining without. There was a dirty, but warm blanket over me, which came as something of a surprise. There was also a little stand with a mostly empty plastic bag of what I took to be blood, dripping down a plastic tube that vanished behind me, out of my sight, and presumably ended at my arm.

  I wiggled my feet out from beneath the blanket. My legs had been duct-taped together above and below the knee, and at the ankle. My bitten foot had been wrapped in clean bandages, then covered in my bloodied sock. In fact, I found a number of clean bandages on various cuts and scrapes, and I could smell, faintly, as though my nose had been given a while to get used to it, the sharp, medicine smell of disinfectant. I couldn’t feel Murphy’s sawed-through handcuffs on my wrists, and found myself vaguely missing them. At least they’d been familiar, if not comfortable.

  So, not only was I alive, but I was in considerably better shape, after presumably several hours of sleep and medical attention.

  But that didn’t explain who had done this to me. Or why.

  I looked around the dimness of the garage. My eyes were now adjusted to it, but even so, there were pockets of shadows too deep to see into. An L-shaped ribbon of yellow light showed beneath the door to the manager’s office, and the sound of rain on the corrugated roof was a low, soothing roar. I closed my eyes, trying to orient myself, to determine what time it was from the feel of the air and the sound of the rain. Late afternoon? Early evening? I couldn’t tell for sure.

  I coughed and found my throat dry, but functional. My hands were bound, and I didn’t have any way of making a circle. Without a circle, I couldn’t use any delicate magic to free myself—all I had access to was the kaboom sort of power, which, while great against nasty loup-garou and other monsters, isn’t much good for getting rid of several layers of duct tape resting within half an inch of my own tender skin. Magic was out.

  Did I ever tell you about my dad? He was a magician—not a wizard, mind you, but a magician, the kind you see at old-fashioned magic shows. He had a black top hat, a white rabbit, a basket of swords, and everything. He used to travel around the country, performing for the kids and the old folks, barely making enough to scrape by. After Mom died during childbirth, Dad had the job of raising me all by himself, and I guess he did the best he could. He meant well.

  I was real young when he died (I refused to believe Chaunzaggoroth’s insinuations until I had looked into them further) of a brain aneurism. But I learned a thing or three about what he did before then. He’d named me after three magicians, after all, the first of which was Houdini himself. And one of Houdini’s first rules was that the means to escape was always within your grasp. Positive attitude. It’s a fact that a human being can escape from just about everything, given enough time.

  The only question was, how much time did I have left?

  The duct tape was strong, and it was fastened tightly—but it was also cheap, easy to transport, and simple to apply. Even though it was wound about me in multiple layers, it wasn’t the best thing for holding people, or else the cops would use duct tape and not handcuffs and manacles. It could be beaten.

  So I started looking for ways to beat it.

  A little writhing showed me that my hands weren’t fastened as tightly as they could have been. I could feel a sharp pain in my forearm, and guessed that was from the IV. They had to loosen the tape on my arms to get the needle into my forearm. I wiggled my shoulders, which set the wounded one to aching fiercely. The tape put pressure on my wrists and tore the hair from my arms with an audible ripping sound, and I clenched my teeth over this particular torment.

  It hurt, and it took me the best part of ten minutes, but I got my wrists and hands free. I ditched the IV needle while I was at it, imagining some deadly fluid flowing down the tube into my veins. Then I flexed my arms repeatedly and got them free.

  My fingers were numb, stiff, not really responding, but I started fumbling at the tape on my legs as best I could, trying to get tears started so that I could just flex my legs and get the whole thing to go at once. It took more effort than I thought it would, but I finally flexed my legs, thankful that the jumpsuit kept me from losing stripes of hair from my thighs and calves (if not from my ankles). My legs were much stronger than my arms, so snapping the layers of duct tape on them was a lot simpler and quicker.

  Just not simple or quick enough.

  Before I’d gotten out of the last loop of duct tape, there was a click-clack, and the office door swung open, accompanied by a murmur of low voices and a tinny din of old-time rock-and-roll music.

  I panicked. I couldn’t run—my ankles were still bound. By the time I got free and struggled to my feet, they’d be on me. So I did the next best thing. I whipped the blanket up and over me, snaked my hands back behind the pole, grabbing up the IV needle as I went and concealing it in my hand, and bent my head far forward as though I were still asleep.

  “I still don’t get why we can’t just put a bullet in him and dump him,” said a harsh voice with no nasal tone at all—Flatnose.

  “Stupid,” Parker growled, his voice like sandpaper. “One, we don’t do it without having the others here to see. And two, we don’t do it until Marcone’s had a chance to see him.”

  “Marcone,” Flatnose said with a sneer in his voice. “What’s he want with him?”

  Good question, I thought. I kept my head down, my body relaxed, and tried to think sleepy thoughts. Marcone was coming here?

  “Who cares?” Parker answered. “I made sure he’d live through the day. Either way, I wanted him here tonight. No skin off my teeth.”

  Flatnose grunted. “Chicago sees a lot of mobsters. Marcone’s just one more. But one call from him, and this wizard character gets a reprieve. Who is this guy, huh? The freaking governor?”

  “Always thinking with your balls,” Parker said, his voice calm. “Marcone isn’t just a mobster. Running Chicago is just his sideline, see. He’s got business all over the country, and he owns people from here to the governor’s mansion to Washington and back, and he’s got more money than God. He can set us up, take us out, have the police on our ass anytime he wants. You don’t screw with someone like that lightly.”

  There was a pause, and then Flatnose said, “Maybe. Or maybe Lana’s right. Maybe you’re getting soft. Marcone isn’t one of us. He doesn’t give us orders. The Parker I knew ten years ago wouldn’t have thought twice of telling Marcone to fuck off.”

  Parker’s voice became resigned. “Don’t do this, man. You were never good enough, even when we were young. The Parker you knew ten years ago would have gotten all of us killed by now. I’ve kept you in cash, in dope, women, whatever you wanted. So settle down.”

  “I don’t buy it,” Flatnose said back. “I think Lana’s right. And I say we off this skinny son of a bitch right now.” I felt myself tense and prepared to make a run for it, hopeless or not. I’d rather get killed trying to get away than trying to pretend I was asleep.

  “Back down,” Parker said, and then there was a scuffling noise of boots on old concrete. I heard a couple of grunts and an abrupt yelp, and smelled sour sweat and stale beer as Flatnose was forced to his knees less than a foot away. He kept making small noises of pain, thick with tension, as though Parker was holding him in some kind of lock. I forced myself to relax, not to just stagger up and start running, but I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my face.

  Parker snarled over Flatnose’s whimpers, “I told you. You were never good enough. Challenge me again, in public or alone, it doesn’t matter
—and I will rip your heart out.” The way he spoke the threat was eerie; not with the hissing, villainous emphasis one would expect, but in a calm, measured, almost bored tone, as though he were mentioning switching out a carburetor or changing a lightbulb. There was a rippling sort of sound, and Flatnose let out a howl of pain that dissolved into a string of doglike whimpers. I heard Parker’s boots move a few steps away. “Now, get up,” he said. “Call Tully’s and get the others back here before the moon rises. We’ll have blood tonight. And if Marcone isn’t polite enough, we’ll have a lot more.”

  I heard Flatnose make his way to his feet and shuffle off in a slow and haphazard fashion. He vanished into the office and closed the door behind him. I waited for a few moments, hoping that Parker would wander off and I could make my escape, but he didn’t. Dammit.

  I was running out of time. If I waited until the rest of the lycanthropes returned to the garage, I’d never be able to get away. The numbers would be stacked too high. If I was going to make a break for it, logically, the time was now.

  Of course, I was still bound. By the time I got my legs free, Parker would be on me. And I had just listened to him disable a man twice his size and threaten to rip his heart out. He’d meant it, too, I could tell. When I had looked inside of him, I had seen a dark and angry place, the source of all that power and force of will. He could tear me to pieces with his bare hands, literally—and what was worse, he would. I had to have a head start if I was going to run.

  I could make him mad, maybe. Antagonize him into going to get a baseball bat, or another roll of duct tape for my mouth. Then I could run, make a clean getaway. The one problem with that plan was that he might just rip my heart out on the spot— but nothing ventured, nothing gained. I didn’t have time to be picky.

  So I lifted up my head enough to squint at him in the semi-darkness and said, “You certainly have a way with people. You must have read a book or something.”