“I do,” I said. And maybe it wasn’t as simple as that, but I wasn’t exactly lying, either. I needed to believe Harpootlian, the same way old women need to believe in the infinite compassion of the little baby Jesus and Mother Mary. Same way poor kids need to believe in the inexplicable generosity of Popeye the Sailor and Santa Claus.
“It didn’t have to be this way,” she said.
“I didn’t dig your grave, Ellen. I’m just the sap left holding the shovel.”
And she smiled that smug smile of hers, and said, “I get it now, what Auntie H sees in you. And it’s not your knack for finding shit that doesn’t want to be found. It’s not that at all.”
“Is this a guessing game,” I asked, “or do you have something to say?”
“No, I think I’m finished,” she replied. “In fact, I think I’m done for. So let’s get this over with. By the way, how many women have you killed?”
“You played me,” I said again.
“Takes two to make a sucker, Nat,” she smiled.
Me, I don’t even remember pulling the trigger. Just the sound of the gunshot, louder than thunder. . . .
CHAPTER FIVE
FRIENDS OF
MR. CAIRO
So, there you have it. The supposedly fictional account of a supposedly fictional artifact from another universe that, according to Mean Mr. B, wasn’t at all fictional. An artifact that had somehow entered this universe and now four power-hungry bitches were scrambling to get their paws on it before one of the others did. It was a lot to take in, and mostly I thought it was bullshit. But I’d read the story, and then I’d passed out for twelve hours. I was finally awakened by the Hello goddamn Kitty iPhone on my bedside table chirping at me like a rabid canary. I sat up, glared at it, lit a cigarette, and considered tossing the thing out the window. I knew it was B, calling from one of his merry-go-round of blocked numbers. Pretty much no one else ever calls me. Finally, I answered it. If I hadn’t, he’d just kept calling back. Unless I turned off the phone, and then he’d only have sent one of his boys around.
“Yeah, what do you want?”
“Well, precious, good morning to you, too. You read the tale?” he asked.
“I did. It’s a load of malarkey. The Maidstone sisters, Drusneth, that Harpootlian, they’re all on a wild goose chase, and you know it. And I know you know it.”
“You can be very, very narrow-minded.”
“I have a headache,” I said. “I think whatever I ate last night didn’t agree with me. So, call back later. I need a whole fucking bottle of aspirin before I have to talk to you.”
There was a moment of silence. I took a drag on my Camel and stared at a water stain on the ceiling. Through the phone, I could hear another voice, faint but audible. At least to my supersensitive vamp ears. It wasn’t one of B’s fuck bunnies. Sounded like an older man, maybe in his sixties.
“Who the hell’s that?” I asked B.
“Another interested party,” he replied.
“Jesus on a pogo stick. How many people are mixed up in this foolishness?”
Another pause. More muttering in the background.
“I take it you don’t believe in the unicorn.”
“Or Santa Claus. Or the Tooth Fairy. Or Old Man Jehovah looking down on us sinners through his pearly goddamn gates.”
The water stain was getting as boring to look at as B was tiresome.
“Dude, even if I were to buy this whole ‘magazine from another world’ angle—and I don’t—it’s fiction. Or did you miss that part?”
Pause. Mutter. Mutter. Mutter. I caught “. . . move very quickly or . . .”
“Will you please tell whoever that is to shut the fuck up. He’s annoying me.”
“Your view of existence is sadly impoverished,” said Mean Mr. B. I didn’t bother asking him his name that day. I didn’t give two shits.
“Poor me,” I said, wondering if I even had any aspirin, wondering what the hell had been in the bloodstream of that girl I’d eaten the night before.
“The story is a fictionalized account,” he went on, “of events that actually transpired, over there, in their alternate 1935.”
“Right, and you know this how?”
He didn’t answer the question. “You can imagine, then, the influence that would be possessed by she or he or it who comes into the possession of the unicorn.”
“And you want me to get to it first, which you neglected to tell me—well, you neglected to tell me anything—”
“Yes, kitten.”
“—same as Shaker Lashly, and that’s what got him killed—chasing after this pie-in-the-sky nonsense, and what almost got me killed. Which, by the way, I’m still pissed about. You put me in the crosshairs of a bunch of lunatics because you believe in a transdimensional dildo with a fancy French name, carved from the horn of a unicorn. Which, surprise, you want for your own.”
“At least you have a firm grasp of the situation.”
I stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette. My mouth tasted bad enough without it, like something had crawled inside and taken a big ol’ dump. I could get by without the nicotine.
“B, aren’t you a little old to believe in unicorns?”
“Love, you’re a vampire, and a bleeding werewolf, who works for a man who runs errands for demons. Need I bother to point out the inherent inconsonance in that query?”
“I’m passing on this one. Find another sap.”
Pause Numero Très. This time, I caught “. . . need I remind . . .” and “. . . of the essence . . .” from the mutterer.
“When was our arrangement amended to permit you to pick and choose your assignments?”
Since never. Be a good doggy, Quinn. Don’t make me remind you what happens to bad doggies.
“You’re going to get me killed.”
Found my boxers. Found my jeans. Fell on my ass trying to pull them on without putting down the phone. I lay on the phone, staring at that water stain all over again.
“You’re already dead, love.”
“You know what I mean.”
Mutter. Mutter.
“I assure you, I’m endeavoring to prevent that outcome. Meanwhile, you’re to continue to play along with those two bolshie prats and try not to reveal that we’re onto them.”
I shut my aching eyes. I imagined B being eaten alive by giant rats. I imagined what a shotgun could make of his smug face. Neither fantasy made me feel any better.
“And when Drusneth sends another nasty after me?”
“Oh, that wasn’t Drusneth. If she’d meant to kill you, you’d never have left her cathouse. That was, in all likelihood, Harpootlian. Unless there’s another player who has yet to—”
“Wait. Riddle me this. If our Harpootlian bitch is from that other universe, what the fuck is she doing here?”
The mutterer laughed. It was a high, abrasive, slightly girlish laugh.
“Often,” replied B, “the hands will solve a mystery that the intellect has struggled with in vain. Carl Jung said that, kitten, and he was a wise, wise bloke. Which is to say, when you find out, we shall both of us know.”
“Why don’t you just have me kill the Maidstones and give you two less competitors? Also, Berenice’s zombie playmates give me the creeps.”
“Quinn, do you genuinely wish to be the woman with Squire Edgar Maidstone’s daughters’ blood on her hands? Now, stop asking stupid questions, stick close to Berenice, and let’s see what they’ll do next. I doubt the zombies will do you mischief. I’ll be in touch.”
I opened my eyes again. The water stain was beginning to look ominous. And no, this isn’t foreshadowing. Sometimes a water stain is just a water stain. Also, I needed something to break up all this dialogue.
“Ever seen a movie called The Maltese Falcon?” I asked Mean Mr. B.
“Curious matter, that,” he replied. “But, as I understand it, events in one universe very often, if not usually, parallel events in another. Doppelgängers. Overlapping individuals. Counterpart theory.�
��
“You’re beginning to fucking sound like Fox Mulder,” I told him.
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
Mutter. Mutter. Mutter.
“Very well,” B said. “Oh, and by the way. The full moon is upon us. Do take care not to dine on our clients while you’re riding the crimson wave.” Then he hung up.
But he was right. The next day was Valentine’s Day, all hearts and flowers and the full snow moon. It would kinda put a serious kink in B’s plans if I went loup and ate Berenice Maidstone. But it’s not like, back then, I had much control over the pooch in me, any more than it came when I called. It would be years before I figured out how that worked. I finished pulling on my jeans, then got up and went to brush my teeth. Which is when it occurred to me I’d lost the porcelain grill beneath Aloysius’ overpass. The day just kept getting better.
• • •
So, if B wanted me to play along with the Maidstone sisters’ plot, that’s what I’d do. Certainly, I desired no part whatsoever in the grand fist fuck that was inevitably to come of all the unhealthy and imbecilic intrigue looming large on the horizon. But I was over that barrel I’d signed off on all those months earlier, before the Bride and Grumet made me what I am today. Back when Mean Mr. B was offering me protection from the nasties and all the heroin I could shoot and still be useful to him (a fine line, by the way). I was screwed, damned if I do, et cetera.
I tarted up with a fresh coat of concealer and stuck the contacts back in. Like I said, I’d lost the false teeth, but that was something I’d have to worry about later. Meanwhile, I’d keep smiling to a minimum around all those not in the know. Anyway, it was not as if I’ve ever been big on smiling, and got to be even less so after going vamp and loup. I dragged a comb through my hair, which really only made matters worse, so I grabbed the Slytherin wool cap. Fortunately, almost all the mutilation the gaunt had done was healed up by then. I grabbed my gear, pausing to pop a fresh clip in the Glock and make sure the crossbow was in working order.
Ah, and I forgot to mention this earlier, but—though I’d called the landlord—the front door of the house still had a hole in it, and the door to my apartment still had to be propped up. Thank you, Father douche bag Rizzo. I’d have worried about being robbed, if I’d had anything worth stealing. I’d have worried about being murdered in my sleep if . . . well, you know.
I called Berenice Maidstone, and she told me she’d ditched the warehouse on Kinsley for a place above a deli on Atwells Ave. She’d decided it was wisest if she kept moving, a target in motion being harder to hit and all. Probably not such a dumb idea. She gave me the address, and I told her I was on my way.
That afternoon, the Econoline decided it was a good day to be a pain in my ass, and it took me about ten minutes to get the rust bucket’s engine to sputter to life. The tailpipe coughed out a puff of black smoke, and I wondered if this would be the day the PPD pulled me over for driving a vehicle that belonged in a junkyard, not on the road. I was shifting into drive when I noticed the herring gull watching me from atop a streetlight.
You gotta understand, it was a suspicious seagull.
I stared back at it, showed it my middle finger, and the bird gave me a dirty look, spread its wings, and flapped away. I was jumpy enough without suspicious seagulls watching me from streetlights.
I was halfway to Berenice’s deli hideout when I glanced up through the dirty windshield and saw the gull again, wheeling not far above the van.
Great. I was being tailed. By a goddamn seagull.
See, it’s not all that uncommon. Lots of nasties employ birds as spies. Being airborne, they’re obviously perfect for the task. Plus, they work cheap. Pigeons, sparrows, crows, and especially seagulls, which are sort of the punk-ass weasels of the whole avian kingdom. There’s no job too sketchy for a gull, and herring gulls are the absolute worst. Also, they have the best command of English. Anyway, I had no idea who’d sent this one to keep its beady yellow eyes on me, but whoever had done it, I had no intention of leading the gull straight to Berenice Maidstone’s hidey-hole.
I turned down a side road, and the bird followed.
I drove in circles, all the way around Brown three times, and the bird followed.
This was not a terribly bright bird, even as gulls go. Clearly I’d caught on, and if it’d had half a brain, it would have given up the chase and tried to pick up my trail again later.
I drove over to India Point Park and pulled in near a giant heap of snow the plows had dumped in the lot. About five minutes later, the gull landed on the lowest limb of one of the pines between my van and the cold, dark waters of the bay. At most, the bird was five and a half feet above the ground.
Whoever had hired this gull, they should have asked for references.
It did an absolutely lousy job of pretending not to watch me. I opened the door and walked slowly towards the water and the thin rind of ice along the shore. The bird stayed put, still as a stone. Right up until the moment I reached out and snatched the creep off the limb. Then it squawked and began frantically beating its gray wings. It pecked at my hands with its hooked beak. And sure, that hurt. But after the previous day’s pummeling at the hands of a night gaunt, getting pecked wasn’t much more than love taps. I had a firm hold around its bony yellow legs, and in a few seconds more, I’d wrapped my right hand firmly around its neck. It screeched and squawked loud enough people could probably hear it a mile away.
“Stop that,” I growled, and the bird managed to squawk even louder. So I thumped its head against the trunk of the pine tree, twice, and it shut up.
“Who you working for?”
“What!” the bird screeched.
“Who. Are. You. Working. For?” I punched each word into the chilly air.
“What!” the bird asked again, and I thumped its skull against the tree a third time.
“What do you think you’re doing!” it demanded.
“Getting ready to bash your tiny brains out.”
“Fuck you,” it cried out, then pecked my left wrist extra hard. I shook it, and the gull stopped pecking and blinked at me stupidly.
“People lose teeth talking to me like that. But since you don’t have any teeth, I’ll have to improvise.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the bird squawked. “I was just flying around, looking for scraps. Yeah, right. That McDonald’s over on—”
I shook him again. Harder than before. In a comic book something cute like “bopple-bopple-bopple” would have been scribbled over the gull’s head.
“B knows I’d spot you,” I said. “Also, not his style. And I hear Drusneth doesn’t do business with any birds but crows and ravens. So the list of suspects is getting short. Kinda like my fuse.”
I narrowed my eyes, wishing I wasn’t wearing the hazel contacts, because I’m a whole lot scarier without them.
“Shove off,” the herring gull told me, trying to sound tough, but only sounding dazed from having its head bonked against the pine.
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s go for a ride, Jonathan Livingston Fuckmuppet.”
“Why, why . . . you can’t do this!”
“Blow me.”
Which is how I wound up driving to a deli on Atwells with a seagull in my van, its beak, wings, and legs securely bound with duct tape. Just when you think this shit can’t get any weirder. . . .
• • •
...shit inevitably gets weirder. Shit gets weirder squared. My van had just puttered over I-95 and beneath the concrete arch where Atwells Avenue begins—that vaulted concrete gateway with its huge, dangling, welcoming bronze pinecone, La Pigna, that most people mistake for a pineapple. The gull was making noises you wouldn’t think a bird could make, what with its beak taped shut and all. I was noticing how the sky was growing darker, the clouds lower, and that we’d probably have more snow before sundown when I was no longer driving on Atwells. I had no fucking idea where I was driving.
There was nothi
ng even the least bit familiar about the narrow single-lane strip of blacktop stretching out before me. But I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. Of that much I was absolutely goddamn certain. Very tall structures rose on either side of the road. I won’t call them buildings, because I have no idea what they were. The architectural love child of H. R. Giger and M. C. Escher. That’s as close as I can come to any sort of accurate description. Here and there lights seemed to burn from vaguely windowlike recesses. Every now and then, the not-buildings seemed to move, which I did my best not to notice.
All right, I thought, don’t you freak. Not like this is the first time someone’s pulled this sort of total skull fuck on you.
The seagull made a muffled sound that I’m fairly certain was a laugh. I told him to shut the hell up or I’d be selling his feathery ass to the owner of a Chinese restaurant I knew who wasn’t too particular about where he got his “chicken” and “duck.”
I stopped in the middle of the road. The sky no longer looked like snow. Looked more like . . . never mind.
Something seemed to detach itself from one of the not-buildings, sort of rolling from the structure, and it lay in the middle of the road—a few feet in front of the Econoline—for a minute or so. It looked sort of like an oyster-colored Volkswagen Bug, only covered with spiky bristles needle thin and long as my arm. I was about to shift into reverse. Maybe whatever portal I’d driven through was still open. Total bullshit, but a girl can hope. That’s when the hairy Volkswagen unfolded itself, rising on ten or so stilts that I guessed were supposed to pass as legs. It just stood there, blocking my way.
I drew the 9mm and aimed at the windshield.
“I get the message, whoever you are,” I said. “I’m impressed. So let’s drop the theatrics.”
I want to say that bristly thing in the road looked like a spider. Because it did. Only, somehow, it truly looked nothing at all like a spider. Nasties love paradoxes and tend to trot them out whenever the opportunity presents itself. Show-offs.
The creature sort of leaned forward, tilting a bit towards me. No sign of eyes, a mouth, nothing. Just those crazy granddaddy long legs and spiky hairs. Then there was a high keening noise, which I assumed it was making.
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