Level 26

by Anthony E. Zuiker

  chapter 78

  Dark hastily formed a plan as he rushed through the airline terminal, past the fast-food shops and bookstores and luxury-travel-item kiosks and public art displays. He would clear the terminal doors, throw himself into the back of a cab that would take him to the garage where he’d stashed his Yukon…

  No. Wait. Not his own car. It had a GPS unit. Traceable. He’d need to steal something. A car that wouldn’t be missed for the next twelve hours.

  Then he saw one of Wycoff’s men lurking by a rent-a-luggage-rack machine, right near the exit. There was no mistaking him. Dark remembered him hanging out on the Santa Monica Pier, circling around him like a seagull over bread scraps on the beach. He had a gray buzz-saw haircut. And somewhere around here was probably his friend with the missing fingers.

  No suit for this babysitter—not now. Dark assumed they had to be professional chameleons. The one had donned some average business casual—button-down shirt, short sleeves, pleated slacks. The very image of your basic cubicle jockey picking up his buddy at the airport before hitting the nearby titty bar for a few lagers and maybe a basket or two of spicy wings.

  Dark had no weapons on him. Nothing that even resembled a weapon. He’d left the gun he had behind in NYC—he was in too much of a hurry to check it and declare it as a member of law enforcement. He hadn’t counted on needing a gun the moment he stepped off a plane here.

  As he stood by the spinning luggage carousel, stalling until he could think of an exit strategy, Dark saw the Dark Arts operative with the buzz cut look in his direction, his eyes widening slightly.

  Apparently he had an excellent memory for faces, too.

  Sqweegel leaned forward and tapped Sibby’s chin with a bony knuckle. The walking was over; she had drifted off, despite her desperate attempts to stay awake.

  “The second method to induce labor is to drink castor oil,” he said, his breath hot in her face. “It causes spasms inside the intestines. Drink up.”

  He handed Sibby a small dark bottle, but she refused to take it. “No.”

  Sqweegel reached for a knife on the small table behind him. He pressed its sharp point into the corner of Sibby’s eye, right near the tear duct. She groaned, then caught herself. Don’t give him the pleasure.

  “Take it,” he repeated.

  She felt the point so sharply, it was as if it was already in past her eye, stabbing her brain. With trembling fingers, she took the bottle.

  “Now, drink it.”

  She opened the childproof cap, messing it up the first time, then pressed the bottle to her lips and drank. Some of the castor oil dribbled down her chin. It was like swallowing oily liquid metal.

  Sqweegel made a small chuffing noise, then flicked the knife’s edge down, away from her eye. She knew immediately that he’d cut her. The damaged nerves beneath the skin relayed the message in a burst of white-hot panic—even before it relayed the pain. She waited for the warm flow to confirm it.

  “Drink it,” Sqweegel said, “or I’ll cut the baby out of your cunt.”

  Now the blood flowed down her cheek, tracing the cheekbone and running to the corner of her lips. Drink the castor oil, not your blood. Because if you taste your own blood you’re going to be sick. And that might hurt the baby. Swallow it and forget it, and close your eyes and try to think of a way out of this nightmare.

  As the buzz-cut operative approached, Dark glanced down at the sliding metal scallops carrying the suitcases from his flight around an endless loop until their owners retrieved them. He also checked his peripheral vision. He could see the babysitter taking something out of his pocket, casually, as if it were nothing more than a pack of chewing gum.

  But Dark knew better. Buzz-cut would be using his fingers to flick away the protective plastic cap, freeing the business end of the syringe.

  Buzz-cut wouldn’t want a scene. He’d just want two seconds to jab Dark, depress the plunger, wait for the ketamine to work. Then he’d lead his drunk friend out to his car, where he’d give him a ride home, and boy would he be keeping him away from the little liquor bottles from now on….

  Buzz-cut was steps away. Syringe in hand, out of sight.

  Dark reached down and grabbed—more or less at random—a round fabric makeup bag with a rubber handle riveted to the top.

  Buzz-cut made his move.

  Dark twisted and quickly lifted the bag up. The needle slid into the side of the bag.

  Then Dark smashed his forehead into the babysitter’s nose.

  The castor oil wormed its way through Sibby’s digestive system, and all that kept her from vomiting was the reassuring kick of the baby every few moments.

  “Spicy food,” he said next, after a while. “You’re going to love what I prepared for you.”

  Then she was forced off the gurney again and walked over to a small table covered in an off-white tablecloth—laced around the border, as improbable as that seemed. Is this what monsters used to entertain their guests? It didn’t seem right. Sibby almost wanted to laugh. But she couldn’t. Because the moment she did she’d start crying, and she wasn’t going to do that. Not in front of this freak.

  The aroma of harsh cayenne peppers and thick tomato sauce and greasy beans and congealed cheese made her immediately sick. She fought back a heave.

  Sqweegel was already plunging a fork into the mess—something that looked like an enchilada—and was cutting off a large portion with the edge.

  “Try. You’ll like.”

  He held the forkful in front of her mouth.

  Sibby spat in his face.

  The freak didn’t flinch. Instead, he stabbed the tines of the fork into her quivering lower lip. The spices mixed with her blood and burned.

  “I have a metal jaw spreader I could use,” Sqweegel said, “but that makes chewing difficult, and frankly, the food doesn’t reach the tongue effectively. You have to taste the spices for it to work.”

  She took the food into her mouth and tried to swallow it fast, but already his hands were on her face, working her jaw up and down. She wondered whether she had enough strength to snatch away the fork and bury it in his eye socket. Improvise from there. As his hands pressed into her face and jaw, she realized how strong he was. How fast. She was drugged, pregnant, and recovering from surgery. She didn’t have the reflexes to beat him. She had to think of something else.

  “Chew,” he said. “Savor. I worked hard on this dish.”

  As he ran, Dark reached up and touched his forehead. Blood. Didn’t know whether it was his blood or Buzz-cut’s—or both. Didn’t matter now. He was up and moving, and Buzz-cut was temporarily down, fumbling around on the luggage carousel, scaring the crap out of people who’d come to L.A. for a little sun and fun.

  Now Dark was clearing the large sliding doors, and he was propelling himself up the sidewalk, scanning the roadway for an open door. Any open door. Even a rental bus that would put some distance between himself and his hunter.

  Behind him, Dark heard a series of screams, followed by the crack of a gunshot.

  chapter 79

  Somewhere in Southern California

  It was later. Maybe a few minutes. Maybe an hour. Sibby wanted to throw up but couldn’t seem to muster the energy for even that. She hated being so weak. Inside, she felt like all fire and fury, but none of that translated to her useless limbs.

  And then this ghost-freak was standing in front of her again, hand extended, showing her a group of fat pills that look liked insect sacs resting in his palm.

  “Blue and black cohosh,” he announced, as if telling her tonight’s specials. “These are herbs that have been proven to induce labor. Try some and then we’ll check for dilation.”

  Sibby took the pills. Swallowed them with water, robotically. Then she snapped to life and whipped the glass at Sqweegel’s head. It made a bonking sound and fell to the floor and shattered.

  She knew it wouldn’t work, but she couldn’t sit there and do nothing.

  Sqweegel grabbed her
hair and yanked back hard, exposing her neck.

  She had to fight him with the only thing she had left—her mind.

  “That’s number four, my dear. But we don’t have to sit around waiting for those pills to kick in. No, no, no. Better to charge forward. Want to know what number five is?”

  “No. Why don’t you go strap on an apron and cook another enchilada, you pansy.”

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Step five is sex, of course,” he said, spitting out the word like a fourth grader trying to shock his classmates.

  “You’re not coming anywhere near me.”

  “But we’ve done it before,” Sqweegel cooed. “And, oh, how I’ve dreamed about this encore.”

  “That the only way you get any? Drugging your women? Tying them down?”

  “So you remember. We’ve done this before. It’ll be so much more interesting with you awake. Do please try to fight.”

  The freak moved her body again, half pulling her from the gurney before flipping her body over. Her pregnant belly wouldn’t allow her to turn all the way over, so she found herself in the uncomfortable position of resting her upper-body weight on her right hip.

  Then he was on her, over her, his fingers skittering up her arms. Cold metal brushed her skin. An instant later her hands were cuffed to the rails, her legs immobilized by the need to support her own body weight. Her bare feet pressed against the cold floor, her toes flexing at the concrete as if they could help her dig her way to freedom. She could do nothing else.

  Nothing but lash out with the only weapon she had left.

  “I fucked you and created this child,” Sqweegel said. “Now I’m going to fuck you and bring it out into the world.” Sibby heard the sound of zipper teeth grinding open.

  “Is that what you think?” she said, trying to pack as much mockery into the words as she could. “That you fathered this baby?”

  His hot, stinking breath was at her ear. “You know the truth.”

  “You’re just a boy.” She laughed. “You have no idea about the connection between a mother and her unborn child. I know this baby isn’t yours. It just isn’t a possibility. Because my body would have rejected anything having to do with you. It would have aborted itself in the womb. I would have flushed it down the toilet.”

  She looked over her shoulder. The freak froze in place, as if someone had hit his PAUSE button again. His eyes just stared at her through the holes in the mask.

  Then he tilted his head to the right.

  “Well, then, Mommy,” Sqweegel said. “How about I just fuck you and help the process along anyway?”

  “Wait,” Sibby said. “It’s happening.”

  “Oh, what’s that?”

  “No, the baby. It’s coming….”

  The freak in the mask looked at her suspiciously.

  But Sibby wasn’t kidding.

  Oh, God, now, of all times, and of all the horrible places on earth…

  The cramping was blinding and painful, like someone had wrapped a giant blood-pressure cuff around her stomach and wouldn’t stop pumping, pumping, pumping…

  “I suppose we should skip to step six,” Sqweegel said. “The stripping of the membranes.”

  Sibby was re-strapped to the gurney now. Her feet were apart again, legs stretched wide. Hands fastened at her sides.

  Sqweegel looked down at her, pulling a plastic rubber glove over his already-gloved hand. Was he being funny? Teasing, in the middle of all of his torments?

  “Stripping the membranes is when I separate the amniotic sac from the lower part of the uterus,” he explained carefully and slowly, as if he expected her to nod. Maybe even thank him for the explanation.

  “I hate you, you piece of shit,” Sibby gasped. The cramping was intense now, and she barely had the strength to whisper. But she kept on fighting, desperate to say something that would get her out of this. “You’re going to fry for this.”

  “Oh? Is that all, you think? I’m counting on Dark for so much more.”

  chapter 80

  Outside LAX

  1 P.M. PST

  Dark was down.

  Agent Nellis approached him carefully, gun pointed at the ground. The people around him were going insane. Airport cops on their way, most likely followed by a platoon of air marshals. This needed to end quickly, not messily, tied up in law enforcement bullshit.

  He needed to commandeer a cab. Dump the body in the backseat. Take it somewhere quiet for disposal. Orders from Wycoff himself.

  And Agent Nellis had about a minute to make all of this happen.

  Nellis knew he shouldn’t have taken the shot. It was very risky, doing something like that in public. Their MO was stealth, flying below the radar at all times. But the nose thing had really pissed him off. The needle deflection, sure, fine, all part of the game. But the goddamned head butt? His nose felt like it had been crushed with a cinderblock, then set on fire. And he’d be damned if he’d have to report back to Wycoff with a busted nose and a lame excuse about Dark getting away.

  He used his foot to flip the body around, prepared to take another shot if needed.

  And that was the moment Nellis realized he had made two other mistakes.

  He’d forgotten to check the ground around Dark for blood splatter. A shot like that would be messy.

  And he’d forgotten to reclaim his knockout syringe from the black makeup bag at the scene. Because if he’d taken a second to retrieve it, he would have seen it wasn’t there.

  Instead it was in Dark’s hand.

  And now it was stabbed into the meat of Nellis’s thigh and its contents would render him unconscious in about two seconds.

  One…

  Somewhere in Southern California

  Now was the part Sqweegel had been looking forward to ever since he’d first conceived it.

  Pun very much intentional.

  He measured her vaginal cavity—six centimeters dilated. He told her, but she didn’t seem to be listening.

  He turned toward a tray of new tools. One glowed with a faint blue light. But not yet.

  He slithered closer to her. The final step required just the right touch.

  He lifted a bony finger, rubbed it over a stick of butter a few times, then placed it on Sibby’s nipple, tracing its circumference. Round and round. Round and round.

  Oh, she bucked against her restraints. Moved her chest. Tried to break free.

  But he continued to rub round, round, round, round, anyway.

  She wanted to stop pushing. She wanted to forestall the inevitable. But he wasn’t going to let that happen. After a while he stopped to peer between her legs, and then retreated to the corner and bowed his head as if in prayer.

  To confirm practice makes perfect, log into LEVEL26.com and enter the code: delivery

  PART THREE

  the heavenly virtues

  chapter 81

  2:30 P.M.

  Constance Brielle found Sqweegel.

  She was reasonably sure she had, anyway.

  She’d traced the bird feather found at Dark’s house to its specific species: an Azores bullfinch, the rarest of its type. Not found, or legally sold, in the United States. It was also on the critically endangered list—only two categories away from total extinction.

  There was only one shop in the entire Southland area known for dealing in bullfinches; Constance found the name of the Woodland Hills shop—Neurotic Exotics—on a finch discussion group online.

  Neurotic Exotics, naturally, didn’t advertise that it sold critically endangered birds. Instead, Constance soon learned, bird traffickers used code names.

  Such as this one:

  Bullsore Finch, Arizona, $1,110

  After making a trip to Neurotic Exotics to confirm they sold “bullsore finches,” Constance met with Dark to tell him what she’d learned. The code was an anagram, simple enough for any bird fetishist to figure out.

  Arizona’s state abbreviation was AZ.

  Take the bull out of bullsore, and you’re left wi
th enough letters to spell Azores.

  Then simply add the bull to the finch, and presto…an illegal and highly desirable bird.

  The question was: Who’d purchased a “bullsore finch” recently?

  And had they paid with a credit card?

  Special Circs isn’t supposed to be able to look into the private financial records of American businesses. No law enforcement agency is, without a warrant. But since the introduction of the Patriot Act, there was a bit more gray area to these issues, and Constance liked to take advantage of the gray areas from time to time.

  There was a computer security expert named Ellis on staff; he was especially gifted at prying into credit card statements. People were often defined by what they purchased. It was a nice tool to have when profiling someone.

  “Ellis,” she said.

  “Connnstannnce,” he replied. He sounded a little giddy. Constance realized she might be the only female he had spoken to in the last few weeks.

  “I’m going to give you the name of a pet shop,” she said.

  “And I’m going to break the law,” Ellis finished for her. “I know, I know. Go ahead.”

  Constance gave him the name and address; she heard the superfast plastic click-clack of a keyboard. Soon they learned that a number of “bullsore finches” had been sold in the past three months, all to the same customer.

  “I guess you want me to check his account and get an address, right?” Ellis asked.

  “If you don’t mind,” Constance said.

  “Sure, but you’ve gotta tell me—is this about Sqweegel?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Ellis did some more superfast typing—too fast for even Constance to follow.

  “Okay, the guy has a PO box. But want to know the address on file?”

  “That would be great,” Constance said.

  “This is Sqweegel, isn’t it? Come on, you can tell me.”

  “Yeah, and I’m going to send you in after him alone once you give me the address. Come on, this is just background stuff. You know that.”